Keeping Up Appearances

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story DOES contain some dialogue taken directly from Goblet of Fire. I felt that this was necessary to remain true to my story, which is set during a scene contained in the novel. I am NOT claiming to have written those portions of the dialogue. Beta by PureBloodGryffindor.


Keeping up Appearances
By Kirixchi

“This event may attract Muggle scrutiny. Please dress accordingly.”

Narcissa Malfoy wrinkled her aquiline nose at the golden ticket she held in her hands.

She hated Quidditch.

She hated dressing like a Muggle even more, but an invitation had been issued from the Minister of Magic himself. Regardless of how often her husband Lucius referred to Fudge as “That pompous fool” in the confines of their home, publicly the Malfoys had an image to maintain.

Resigned to an unpleasant afternoon, Narcissa turned her attention to getting ready. Lucius had selected an outfit for her to wear: a trim, nubby tweed sheath with matching jacket, netted stockings, spectator pumps, and a wide brimmed cream and navy hat. In spite of her pique, she had to smile at the finishing touch: a neatly folded slip, bra, and knickers. They were unnecessary, of course. If any non-magic folk happened to glimpse her underpants they wouldn’t live to tell the tale, but Lucius Malfoy was nothing if not thorough.

In spite of her abhorrence for all things Muggle, Narcissa eyed the scraps of fabric with curiosity. They were far less substantial than the foundations she wore under her wizarding robes. The bra was little more than a wisp of lace fitted on a pair of curving wires. The knickers were even more curious: a triangle of cloth with nothing but a string in the rear. She picked them up, letting the garment slide through her fingers as she tried to discern the type of fabric that they were made from. It looked like silk, but was oddly warm and textured, almost as if they were crafted from skin. Confused, Narcissa slid the knickers over her hips, and examined them in her mirror. Illogically, Narcissa felt more exposed after she pulled them on, although she felt certain her husband would appreciate the effect.

After struggling into the bra, slip and stockings, she eased the dress over her head and fastened its zip with a sweep of her wand. The jacket and shoes were on a moment later, and she went to meet her husband and son.

Narcissa’s son Draco had never looked so excited. He was actually fidgeting - shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he darted glances up the stairs. His pale, pointed features melted into relief when he saw his mother approach. With barely a word of greeting, he started toward the door.

Lucius demonstrated more patience. He waited at the bottom of the steps, looking effortlessly delectable in a Muggle suit. His only concession to the wizarding world was the silver knobbed cane that he held tucked under one arm.

Lucius noticed his wife’s appraisal and returned it. “You make that outfit look almost passable,” he drawled. It was meant as a compliment, and Narcissa accepted it with grace.

“Thank you, dearest.” She replied, moving to his side. “Dreadfully uncomfortable, of course.”

“Of course.” He smirked, then hooked her arm beneath his own and led her out the door.


The Malfoys were among the last to arrive via portkey at the Quidditch pitch, arriving only fifteen minutes before the start of the match. They had to hurry to reach their seats. Tottering in high-heeled shoes, Narcissa struggled to match the long-legged strides of her husband and son.

“Prime seats, this way!”

Narcissa groaned when the usher directed them toward a steep and seemingly endless flight of stairs.

“Top Box!” the witch called in a monotone before examining their tickets. “Top box- straight ahead and up as far as you can go.”

Narcissa puffed a sigh of annoyance, but fell into step behind her son.

Lucius heard the sound. He turned, amusement plastered on his handsome features. “You don’t look excited, dearest,” he teased, knowing very well that Narcissa had accompanied them under duress.

She glowered back. “I hate Quidditch.”

Lucius tutted and lifted his chin, an unreadable expression glazing his eyes.

Narcissa frowned and followed.

They had just reached the final flight of steps when she felt it: something cool and slick had rubbed between her legs, almost like a thick tongue sliding across her cleft. It made one heavy pass, and was gone.

She missed a step.

What was that? A dull panic jolted Narcissa’s mind as she tried to account for the sensation. It was entirely unlikely, surrounded by a throng of wizards, that her experience was accidental. She tossed her head around, staring at empty and unfamiliar faces as her pulse began to race.

“Is something the matter, darling?” Narcissa felt the weight of a grey-eyed stare and she looked up into her husband’s gaze. Narcissa saw nothing in his expression but a vague concern, mingled with a more pronounced impatience to get to their seat.

“N-nothing, Lucius.” she answered quickly, and hurried after him once more, all the while straining her nerves for any sign that the sensation would happen again.

They had reached the top box before it did. Narcissa had just arrived at the row of plush purple chairs when she was assaulted by sensation again. This time it was not a lick, but a vibration. It began at the tops of her thighs and hummed upwards, spreading slowly toward her womb.

Narcissa’s breath came out in a soft pant, and she dug her fingernails into the chair. Who…? What…? Her mind and heart were racing again.

The knickers.

Narcissa felt a bit of her panic abate as she realized what was going on. This was Lucius’ doing! She felt a bit of her composure return at the thought, then groaned faintly as the vibration abruptly stopped, replaced by another lick of the phantom tongue.

Panic, mixed with the first faint stirrings of euphoria mixed in her body as she noted her husband turned squarely away. He and Draco were speaking quietly as they waited to take their seats, and he was absently twisting his Snake-headed cane in his hand.

The intensity of the licking had increased, swamping her nerves with such thick, drugging pleasure that it was nearly impossible to drag her mind away. Focus, Narcissa, she commanded herself. Focus. Somehow, she found the will to obey.

“Lucius!” she panted, and he turned, looking at her with impatience.

“Yes?”

Her eyes widened when his face betrayed nothing.

“You…you…” she repeated dumbly, but the tongue had become fingers now: long, broad fingers that stroked deep into her body and teased her clit. “I…”

Lucius arched an eyebrow.

“I need to use the lavatory!” she managed in a burst, and started to move to her feet.

“What-now? Don’t be ridiculous dearest- the game is about to begin.” His tone brooked no refusal. Looking past him, into the seats, she saw that the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, had already arrived. Lucius and Draco were moving swiftly toward him, and Narcissa had no choice but to follow miserably in their . H. Her nerves were straining under conflicting impulses - the sensual yearning to wallow in pleasure, and the intellectual imperative of saving face. Narcissa lofted her chin toward the clouds and held her expression fixed. She forced her legs to move, one foot after the other, denying as best she could the thrilling hum between her thighs.

\"Ah, Fudge,\" Lucius said as they finally reached their seats. He held out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. \"How are you? I don\'t think you\'ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?\"

\"How do you do, how do you do?\" said Fudge. He smiled and bowed his head.

The vibrations grew harder as icy fingers explored her sex. Narcissa twisted her hands in her skirt, gritting her teeth as she managed a bow.

\"And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mr. – well…” The actions of the knickers continued. Their enchantment was apparently stronger than she had first suspected, for the movement spread beyond the area covered by the cloth. A whispering touch, like the raking of ghostly fingers, traversed the skin from her ankle to her thighs, then rubbed the pearl of nerves between her legs with an fervour that nearly made her moan aloud.

Narcissa felt like a tightrope walker teetering on the edge of a wire. It was only with the strongest discipline that she was able to hold her features in check, cheeks drawn, nostrils narrowed, lips thinned, so that her expression was as if a horrible smell were under her nose.

\"You know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?\"

At the mention of the Weasleys, a flicker of her consciousness returned. The tension between her husband and the redheaded man was almost palpable. Narcissa was achingly aware of it as she stood between them. The tension jolted through her, like electricity arcing between electrodes. She was caught in its charge. The excitement and tension crackled and swirled around her, adding and changing the curious pleasure that was already coursing through her veins.

She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes praying for enough control to reach her seat. She focused on the purple chair a half row down, lunging toward it, and nearly collapsing into its upholstered depths.

Abruptly, the touching stopped.

Surprise, mingled with disappointment seized Narcissa as she straightened in her seat.

Her eyes returned to Lucius. Once again, he was turned away. He was fighting with the Weasley patriarch. She could read the tension in Lucius’ posture, and in the agitated manner in which he twisted his cane in his hands.

She closed her eyes, letting the roar of the crowd wash over her. Narcissa should have been glad that the unasked-for intimacy had ceased, but she could not help being touched by a vague disappointment. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Between her legs, her sex was swollen and throbbing with unfulfilled lust; she could not resist the urge to rock forward in her seat, forcing the crotch of the knickers to rub the yearning flesh.

The action was wholly inadequate, and yet she could not bear to sit still, and so she continued, as subtly as she could, shifting restlessly in her seat as she worked the sodden garment against her skin.

Distantly, she heard the roar of the crowd. Her eyes were still heavily lidded and unfixed, but she turned them toward the pitch. The mascots were being presented.

The Bulgarians and their Veela mascots were presented first.

Narcissa would not have noticed their arrival, save the sudden, overwhelming sensation that blossomed nearly concurrently with their arrival. It was as if a hundred tiny tongues were suddenly lapping at her slit and then, as soon as she had overcome the first barrage, a hundred tiny mouths had taken their place, licking and sucking every nerf hef her body into a fever of anxious desire.

She whimpered faintly, but the sound was lost in the roar of the excited crowed. Her nerves were nearly spent, so that they registered the events around her only in flashes of sight and sound; the men around her scrambling toward the Veela on the pitch, a rain of golden coins, the players taking the field.

Narcissa sprawled wantonly in her chair as Ludo Bagman began to call the game. The mouths and tongues and fingers were working in unison now, forcing her toward an almost fevered pitch of desire then slowing again, as if she were riding on a pendulum between extremes.

\"Theeeeeeeey\'re OFF!\" screamed Bagman. \"And it\'s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!\"

Narcissa barely heard the names, it was as if the pitch were very far away, and she was lost in a world of her own as Bagman called out, “Troy!” Thrust. “Mullet.” Lick. “Moran!\"

First goal.

Behind her, the Weasleys were on their feet. The Veelas were sulking. Snug in her chair, Narcissa felt the impression of six giant hands moving across her bottom. They squeezed and pinched suggestively, forcing her to sit straighter in her chair, and she felt a little twinge of terrified anticipation as they explored her arse and cleft.

The illusion of a finger was inside her again, thick and long- and damnably still. She gritted her teeth in frustration as it refused to move, and made a little wail of protest when her efforts to grind against it were for naught. There was simply nothing to move against. She was still at the mercy of an unseen puppet master, and she arched her back, pouting slightly, giving whomever was watching the show that they were no doubt expecting in the hope that it might inspire his charity.

The touching stopped again. This time, several minutes passed. Narcissa’s fingers twitched in annoyance, as she resorted once more to shifting in her seat.

Was it over?

Narcissa rubbed her hair away from her forehead. Her skin was damp and flushed. Blood was pounding in her temples, and every nerve of her body was screwed in almost unbearable anticipation as she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Narcissa’s gaze drifted through the box, observing everything as though through water, distant and distorted. Bagman waved wildly. The Weasleys joked with each otheHer Her husband had removed his gloves.

Lucius Malfoy’s fingers were long and tapered and pale. Even his wife was so used to seeing them encased in leather that their bareness seemed a form of nudity. She found that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his hands. Hypnotized, she watched as they moved to trace the contours of his silver-tipped cane.

It was warm this time, like liquid dripping over her flesh in rivulets of pleasure. Ten individual points of heat were raking across her skin, melting her as surely as if she were made of wax. She noted, with alarm, that they grew hotter as they stroked toward the cleft between her legs. In her mind, she saw demon fingers, glowing and flickering like tongues of flame. They burned hotter and hotter and hotter. Just when she thought she would crumble into ash, it changed.

Ice.

Narcissa exhaled in a gasp as the fingers turned suddenly cold. They swirled in a neat figure eight around her pearl, and then moved away once more, sweeping down the inside of her leg to her ankle, and up again on the other side.

The cane was laid across Lucius’s lap, his elegant digits sliding over its ebony shaft with excruciating slowness: up, down, up, down…

At last, she understood. It was Lucius. He was using the cane to control what she felt.

Narcissa felt a surge of relief and then, just as quickly, of dread. She knew, at last, who was controlling the game, but she was also painfully far of how far her husband would be willing to go.

As if sensing the scrutiny, Lucius suddenly looked up. His mercury-coloured gaze drifted between Narcissa’s eyes and the walking stick that rested on his knees. A guilty smirk of confirmation hovered on his lips.

“Enjoying the game, Narcissa?” he asked in a smug tone, and one bare finger slipped inside the serpent’s mouth, rubbing in small circles until they found the raised nub at the back of the serpent’s throat.

Narcissa shuddered as Lucius’s touch echoed deep inside her body. He had found her most sensitive spot, causing her eyes to clench as he wrung sensation from her flesh.

She shivered, knowing from the smile on her husband’s lips that he was not yet disposed to mercy. She was dangling on his line, a fish to reel in and let away on slack.

“Lucius.” she growled in warning. Her voice was no more than a murmur in the crowds. She wanted to reach for him, but Draco was in the way, and so she could only watch as he continued his deliberate attack: Flick, thrust, stroke, hot, cold, dry, wet.

\"Foul!” Narcissa was jarred by Bagman’s shout, which followed a collective cry of outrage from the Ireland spectators. \"Dimitrov skins Moran - deliberately flying to collide there - and it\'s got to be another penalty - yes, there\'s the whistle!\"

“They can’t do that!” Draco catapulted from his seat, unintentionally knocking the cane from Lucius’s hands and sending it sailing to the bottom of the box - straight to the feet of Arthur Weasley.

Time seemed to freeze. Narcissa watched with eyes the size of saucers as the cane turned end over end, smacking sharply on the back of a chair before clattering to a stop in front of her husband’s most loathed rival.

Beside her, Lucius stiffened and lunged forward with an almost animal ferocity, snatching at the wayward cane. He was too late. Weasley had already spied the errant stick, and had bent over to pick it up.

Narcissa sat absolutely still, frantic at the thought of what would happen next. He can’t pick it up. He wouldn’t. He won’t. She insisted in her mind, but then he did.

Unfamiliar hands closed around the ebony length of the cane, and she felt their echo on their legs. These hands were smaller and rougher. They were warmer than Lucius’s hands. The fingertips were calloused.

Narcissied ied to ignore the touch, tried to suppress the wild, flutter of excitement that dripped through her body at this stranger’s touch. No, not a stranger, she reminded herself. Arthur Weasley. Lucius’ most hated enemy.

The warm, stubby fingers twisted sharply on the lacquered body of the cane, and moved upwards, feeling their way over the polished surface and then over the intricate head. The touch was firmer than Lucius’ had been, less expert and practiced.

Her husband had known exactly how to control the sensations he sent whirling through Narcissa’s body and had wielded his weapon with predatory glee, but Arthur Weasley had no such opportunity or it. t. He was an unknown. This uncertainty, combined with the thrill of taboo was almost enough to send Narcissa careening once more beyond the bounds of her self-control.

I mustn’t.

Narcissa forced herself to breathe. She willed her mind to concentrate on something other than the feeling of Weasley’s fingers pushing through her juice-soaked folds, probing her: now hot, now cold.

I can’t.

She was dimly aware of Lucius arguing with Weasley, and then of her husband’s eyes scorching her skin. She was more aware than ever of her body’s treacherous desire to betray her.

“It’s mine!” she heard Lucius snarl, and she didn’t know if he was speaking of the cane or her, and it didn’t matter because - Oh, Merlin! - the mouths had started again, licking all along the inside of her, up and down her legs.

“Don’t want me to get a look at it, eh?” Arthur was talking, but she barely heard. Her sense of touch overwhelmed her ability to see or hear to the extent that it was no more than a murmur from far away. “Not something you wouldn’t want a member of the Ministry to see, I reckon. Not with the Minister right here?”

He began inspecting the article in earnest. Narcissa felt her heart in her throat as he turned the item over in his work-worn hands, and then began twisting the head where it connected to the column of black.

Lucius’s wand was inside the cane. She assumed that he had charmed it to open for no man but him, because it held firmly closed. The only thing that Arthur managed for his efforts was to make a cool, wet stroke move between Narcissa’s thighs, and in spite of herself, she released a sigh.

The temperature dropped. Although the sky above the Quidditch pitch remained resolutely rosy, Narcissa saw the clouds gathering in her husband’s eyes, and felt the stthatthat was about to break.

He had heard.

“Give it back!” Lucius hissed, plowing past the other spectators to Arthur’s seat.

Weasley was unperturbed. His fingers probed the snake’s mouth again, searching, exploring, seeking whatever it was that his enemy so clearly did not wish for him to find. He pinched a fang between his fingers and his thumb and Narcissa felt the digits close around her clit.

It’s Lucius’ fault! It’s his fault! her mind screamed, but she didn’t bear to smile or grimace or even close her eyes because she knew that the thought of Arthur’s touch would only stoke his fury. The fingers on the tooth were twisting now, milking pleasure from her unwilling body in bright, quick bursts.

\"Levski - Dimitrov - Moran - Troy - Mullet - Ivanova - Moran again - Moran - MORAN SCORES!\"

Narcissa watched the pitch with empty eyes. If she could only find the quaffle, if she could will herself far away…

A second pair of hands joined the first:Lucius’ hands.

Cool, silken fingers, unmarred by labor latched around her upper thighs. One of Arthur’s palms moved lower, bending around her left knee, while his other fingers continued to tease and torture the bud between her legs. They were pulling in opposite directions.

Four hands moved over her body, twisting, stroking, pulling. The men fought for dominance, and the power of their struggle reverberated through Narcissa’s form. Her nerves sizzled beneath the touch, sparking with an energy that continued to build and grow, even as she denied its release. She felt, irrationally, as if she was swelling with the force of it, as if need and desire and passion had pooled inside of her until she was full, and now it was pressing her outward like a balloon. She was stretching, bloating, aching, keening…

I’ll die. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill us both!

Fingers were inside of her; first one, then two, and finally fistfulls, fighting for control. They raked her raw. The twinge of pain was the only thing that grounded her to the world as thick, delicious pleasure swamped her senses. She was swelling, tightening, breaking…

She knew it was too late, even as she tried to stop it. Narcissa had reached the acme of what she could endure. She was poised at the top, like a muggle rollercoaster, hanging in mid-air for the moment before the fall.

I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!

Arthur Weasley’s hands gave way at the same instant as Narcissa’s self control.

Lucius’s broad palms squeezed the snake’s head. His elegant, familiar fingers slid once more into the opening, and Narcissa felt her body burst.

\"IRELAND WINS!\" someone shouted. \"KRUM GETS THE SNITCH - BUT IRELAND WINS -- good lord, I don\'t think any of us were expecting that!\"

The crowd surged to their feet, as Narcissa collapsed into her chair. The pleasure that she had been trying to contain exploded. Convulsions of ecstasy rocked her form as every muscle in her body convulsed its final release. “Oh, yes!” she sobbed in relief. “Oh! YES. Oh! Fuck, FUCK, YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!”

She was writhing in her chair, riding out the shudders of delight. “Yes.” she panted in articulately with each fresh quiver. “Yes, yes, YES!”

It was a long time before the blackness receded. The din of the crowed had grown softer, and the occupants of the box were twisted in their seat. They were looking at Bagman, she noted in relief, somewhat flustered to discover that she was sprawled, legs flung wide, in the middle of her seat.

The Irish players were trudging toward the box, and she righted herself, patted at the loosened tendrils of her hair and readjusted her hat.

Behind her, she heard Fudge address her husband. “I say, Malfoy, I had no idea your wife was such a Quidditch fan!”

“She’s new to the game,” he drawled in acknowledgement.

He gave Narcissa a feline smile. “You did seem to enjoy yourself, darling.”

She shrugged then mimed a yawn. “It was okay.” she baited, “but I can’t say that I liked it.”

Lucius’ expression dimmed. “Really, but you-?”

“Just keeping up appearances, dear.”

THE END