Punishment in Two Acts

Punishment in Two Acts

Act 1: Wrath

“I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath die end. I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow.”—William Blake, Anger

“So you have failed me once again, Lucius.”

The man who was bound by leather straps on a wooden cross slowly raised his head, blonde hair hanging in his patrician face that was marked by dirt, bruises, and fresh, red blood. He choked something out, but it was incomprehensible to the cloaked and hooded man who stood watching with dark fury in his scarlet eyes.

“I am certain that at this moment you wish I would have left you in Azkaban,” the Dark Lord hissed, “but I believe you have failed too spectacularly to earn my mercy, Lucius, do you not agree?” He walked slowly around the man bound before him. “And leaving you in Azkaban would most certainly have been a mercy.”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed at Lucius’ continued silence. “I ask questions, Lucius, and I expect them to be answered.” He murmured “Flagello”, and a long line of fire appeared from the tip of his wand. Stepping back, he slashed his wrist until the long fire-whip sliced through the air, cutting across Lucius’ body with a loud crack.

Lucius sucked in his breath and arched back against his bindings, against the rough wood of the contraption that held him. “Yes,” he bit out through the pain lancing through him, “yes, my lord. I do not deserve your mercy.”

Voldemort inclined his head. “Indeed you do not, Lucius. You were given a reprieve, the first time, when you denied me and blamed your loyalty on Imperio. This time, I am not in a mind to forgive you so easily, my slippery friend. You are valuable to me but you are not above punishment.”

Voldemort continued to walk around him, and reached out to touch the smooth wood of the object upon which his senior Death Eater was bound. “Do you know what this is? It is a Muggle torture device. Quite the amusing contraption, I thought. Apparently, some Muggle saint was crucified on one, and it shares his name. Delightful, don’t you think? To share your name with the very thing that killed you?”

He completed his circle and stood once more in front of Lucius. “I do not intend to kill you, Lucius.” He reached one hand out, and trailed one long, cold finger down his Death Eater’s cheek. Lucius shuddered beneath the touch, his head jerking back as if he were trying to escape the caress. The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed menacingly.

“You think to shrink from me?” he hissed, fingers tightening around the collar of the tattered robes Lucius still wore. He pulled roughly—the robe had been through rounds of Lestrange’s Crucio and tore easily under the Dark Lord’s strength. Lucius was now naked from the waist-up, and the Dark Lord caught him under the throat, tilting his head up and jerking it to the side roughly.

“You see this, Lucius?” he said, voice quiet in his rage. He took his wand in the hand not wrapped around Lucius’ throat, and traced it lightly over the Dark Mark on Lucius’ forearm. “I branded you. You are mine. There is no escape for you, Lucius. Have you forgotten what this mark upon your skin means? Shall I remind you?”

All Malfoy could manage was a nod, with his throat in the grip of the Dark Lord’s hand, squeezing the fragile bones of his neck like a vice. “Don’t you think he needs to be reminded?”

This was addressed to someone in the shadows; a figure wrapped in a cloak and hooded as was the Dark Lord. Without the benefit of distinctive glowing eyes, however, the figure’s identity remained unknown.

The figure inclined its head once; damning Lucius with a simple gesture to suffer.

“As I thought. Incenera,” Voldemort murmured, and the tip of his wand sparked with fire.

“Look at me,” the Dark Lord said, and his fingers tightened cruelly on his neck, causing Lucius to choke but turn his slate eyes to his captor all the same. “I wish you to remember this time to whom you belong. Watch, so that you do not forget in the future.”

Voldemort simultaneously released his vice-like grip on Lucius’ throat and lowered the wand to trace the Dark Mark on the skin of his forearm. “Scream, Lucius,” he said softly, eyes burning red like the wand he pressed to his acolyte’s skin. “Scream.”

Unwilling to disobey, and drowning in a haze of pain, Lucius Malfoy screamed.

“You will never again betray me, will you Lucius?” the Dark Lord commanded, tracing the Mark slowly, the smell of burning flesh filling Lucius’ nostrils and almost gagging him.

“No,” Lucius screamed, eyes screwed shut in pain. “No, my lord, I shall not.”

“You will never again fail me, will you?” he continued implacably, the tip of his wand moving over the Mark he’d burned on Lucius’ flesh years ago. “Never again will you forget the feeling of my Mark upon you.” His voice was cold and merciless, unmoved by Lucius’ obvious suffering.

“No,” Lucius moaned, eyes closed. His body bucked against the wood of the St. Andrew’s Cross as the wand finished its path across his skin; over the sinuous bend of the serpent, spilling out of the mouth of the skull. Screams fell from Lucius’ mouth. The figure in the cloak sighed, and the Dark Lord smiled in his pleasure.

Voldemort stepped back, arms crossed, nodding in satisfaction. The Dark Mark glowed red on Lucius’ burned skin, were before it had been a cold, flat black. Lucius was shivering in pain, his body covered in sweat. “I expect that you will prove worthy of this honor, being marked twice by my hand. Is your lord not generous?”

“Yes,” Lucius gasped, eyes still closed, trembling against the wood. “Yes, my lord, most generous.”

“My wrath with you has been exorcised, Lucius. You will leave this room with my forgiveness. You will never again be given such mercy. Do not disappoint me.”

“No, my lord. I shall not.” Lucius’ voice was tired from his torture and the branding he’d suffered, but there was an underlying edge of steel that Voldemort recognized.

“Good,” Voldemort said, and turned to the figure that waited in the darkness. “He is all yours, my dear. I know you are angry with him, as well, and you shall have your chance to claim your punishment before he is released.”

Voldemort hissed something into the shadows, and Nagini slowly appeared, slithering over the stones to the door where her master stood waiting. They conversed in Parseltongue for a moment, and then the Dark Lord turned to the figure that waited in the shadows. “When you are finished, you may unbind him. Nagini will remain here, to report to me that he has been properly punished for his transgressions against you. Remember the spell I taught you.” Voldemort disappeared out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Act II: Lust

“Alpha in her blood; and when the woman lies, you don’t believe her…”—Tori Amos, Lust

Nagini hissed as if giving permission to the figure in the cloak to begin.

“Who is there?” Lucius demanded, a bit of his usual imperiousness returning to his tone with the Dark Lord’s departure.

“Merely another you have wronged,” a low voice bit out, “merely another whom your failure has impacted.” The voice was husky, trembling with anger.

“Lestrange?” Lucius narrowed his eyes—all he could see was the figure in the dark, clenching and unclenching hands that were too delicate to belong to a man. “Is that you?” He figured it was Bellatrix, although how his being tossed into Azkaban affected her he was unsure.

The person raised its head, and the voice came again—low but definitely feminine. “You think you have not wronged me?”

Lucius barked a laugh, but there was no amusement in the sound. “Only when I tried to keep you from acting like a madwoman in the Department of Mysteries,” Lucius snarled, his own anger at the Death Eaters’ failure to follow his orders swirling in his veins. “I went to Azkaban for you, you bitch. This is how you repay me?”

“Your crime is that you went to Azkaban.” The figure’s breathing was escalating, rapid and shallow.

Lucius was not quite sure he understood these cryptic words, or that the woman speaking to him was even Bellatrix—he’d not known her to be so subdued before. He was tired, aching from his wounds and dreadfully aware of the singed skin of his left arm. “I am not aware that my brief incarceration affected you,” he snapped, closing his eyes and pulling uselessly against his restraints.

“Damn you, Lucius,” the figure hissed suddenly, “you don’t even know who I am? Foolish man.”

A horrible, awful idea sparked in his mind, and he gaped at the figure as she stalked purposefully out of the shadows, pushing the hood off to reveal a head of dark, golden blonde hair.

“Narcissa?” he gasped, horrified. “What are you doing here?” The very thought that his wife had watched while the Dark Lord branded him…something dark pulsed within him, swirling heady and thick in his blood.

“You heard the Dark Lord,” she said, eyes cold as they rested upon him, a strange look of satisfaction on her face as she walked towards him. “I’m here to punish you.”

“Punish me? I believe the Dark Lord and my fellow Death Eaters have done an adequate job of that,” he snapped, “now get me down from here.”

She raised an elegant brow—even in this chamber that reeked of blood and pain she remained cool and icily composed. “Oh, no, Lucius. I mean to have my vengeance before I do that.” She reached down and picked up something from the floor—he widened his eyes to see she was holding a whip.

He sneered at her—a gesture he would never, under usual circumstances, turn on his wife. “Narcissa,” he drawled at her, “there is no way you will be able to hurt me with that thing.”

She actually stomped her foot, turning furious eyes up at him. “You think not? Oh, I don’t know, Lucius. I am so angry I think I could even cast the Cruciatus on you. Do you understand what happened, when you went away? Can you possibly think about that for a moment, about what it meant to me, your wife?” She was almost spitting, she was so angry.

She stepped back, raising the whip, and he saw she was panting in her anger. “I want to know, Lucius, how you could be so stupid as to get caught!” She brought the whip down, but it did not come close to hitting him.

“You’ll have to step a bit closer, darling,” he bit out, hands clenched on his leather bonds. “If you actually mean to hit me with that thing.”

“Oh, I do,” she snarled, the feral look in her arousing him in a way that was completely inappropriate for the situation. “Rest assured, Malfoy, I want to hit you with this quite badly.”

“Then step forward, wife, and try it again,” he drawled, watching the ire spark in her lovely dark blue eyes.

“Don’t you dare give me that tone, Lucius Malfoy!” She snapped, trying again. The whip barely brushed by him, just the tip hit against his leg. “I was left with our son, who had been tormented by his classmates—”

“Which he no doubt deserved, the little prat,” Lucius muttered, wincing as Narcissa shrieked in outrage. “Do try harder with that, Narcissa. I am quite eager to quit this place and return home.”

“Shut up!” she yelled. Panting, she moved up to him and narrowed her eyes. “I will have Nagini fetch the Dark Lord and have him teach me how to whip you,” she growled. He sighed.

“Put the tail over your back. Careful, now. You need to angle your wrist and slash downward.” He sneered at her, his lips twisted in mockery. “If you can manage, you might even make me wince.”

She brought the whip down with such force it sliced his lip and nearly missed his eye. “Merlin, Narcissa!”

“I told you I was angry!” she screamed, bringing the whip down again. “You left me! You left me to face them all—their scorn, their anger, their hatred. They laughed at me, Lucius! They mocked our son, they laughed at us.” Tears of anger were pouring down her beautiful face as she lashed out at him, both verbally and with the whip, but presently her strength gave out and she dropped the whip.

She walked up to him, staring into his grey eyes with a terrible, awful rage in her own midnight blue gaze. “They laughed at me, Lucius,” she said again softly, “and you were gone. They came to the Manor. They went through our things. They questioned Draco! He wouldn’t tell me what they said. He won’t speak to me, Lucius. You left me with a fifteen year old boy who didn’t understand why the father he adores is in Azkaban. You left your wife to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives. You failed someone else besides the Dark Lord, Lucius! You failed me.”

She reached up and smacked him across the face; her palm stung and the band of her wedding ring caught his cut lip. His head snapped back under the force of her blow, and he looked back at her with a narrow-eyed gaze.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he growled.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” she gasped out, and caught his head suddenly in her hands. “Lucius…” she stared at him a moment, and then leaned up to press her lips to his bruised and bloody mouth.

He groaned, hands flexing as she pressed herself against him. “Narcissa,” he gasped, realizing that it had been weeks since he’d seen her, weeks since he’d touched her… “Free me from these bonds.”

She shook her head, pulling away from him and casually wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. It was marked with his blood from their kiss. When her eyes met his, they were no longer tormented. With his blood on her mouth and the primal gleam in her eyes, she resembled her mad sister Bellatrix more than she had ever had before. “I have one thing left to do,” she murmured, and pulled her wand from her robes. Waving it, she repeated a spell in a slow, almost halting manner, as if it was one she had never used before.

The St. Andrew’s Cross tilted sharply, until Lucius found himself on his back and the entire thing supported by a slab of stone several feet back in the room. His wife approached him, and she was tearing at her clothes until she stood before him in nothing but a pair of red knickers. Her hair she unbound and let it fall like a golden wave over her shoulders; her skin was creamy and perfect, such elegant perfection looked out of place with her and barely leashed fury.

“Narcissa, lovely as this is, I would prefer to wait until we are home, in our own bed, before-“

“I do not care what you prefer!” She had something in her hand that looked like a smaller version of the whip. She held it up and smiled dangerously. “I used to ride, when I was a child. I may not know how to use a bullwhip, Lucius, but I do know how to use a riding crop.”

“You were adequate with the bullwhip,” he bit out, and she smirked before smacking him on the chest with the riding crop. He winced as the leather bit into his chest, leaving a dark red mark.

“Be quiet. I do not care for you to speak. I shall have my vengeance from you and then we will return home.” She traced the tail of the riding crop down his stomach, to the bulge that pressed against his trousers. She raised a brow.

“I well remember you liked pain, Lucius, but I had forgotten how much,” she purred, rubbing the riding crop over his cock. “Or, could this be from the Dark Lord’s brand? Did your body shiver with lust while he branded you?” Walking over to him, she leaned down next to the inflamed skin of his forearm.

“No,” he choked out, feeling the press of her breasts against his flesh.

“A pity,” she purred, tongue tracing the welts on his flesh lightly. “I did,” she said, finishing her caress to look him the eyes.

“You did what?” he said, hands aching to grab her, to force her down onto his straining flesh.

“I felt pleasure when he branded you. Does that mean I am mad like my sister, Lucius?” She smiled as she stepped back, her hand brushing over her sex lightly.

“Yes,” he choked out, eyes rapt as he watched her. “It means you’re a sadist, Narcissa.” He closed his eyes briefly as she tugged at her clit. “I know the signs well.”

“Mmm, so be it.” She stopped and walked over to him, pulling at the buttons on his trousers and freeing his straining erection. Stepping back once more, she lightly hit him with the riding crop on his cock and he twitched beneath her.

“My stallion,” she said in a sarcastic voice, “my pureblooded stallion.”

He would have smiled if lust wasn’t raging through every pore of his body, battling for supremacy with the pain. “Then I suggest you come ride me,” he growled, and she threw her head back and laughed, but climbed up on top of him.

At the feel of the wet silk of her knickers against his cock, he groaned. “Untie me,” he snarled, bucking against her.

“No,” she whispered, rubbing against him, eyes closed. She was all around him, the softness of her skin a torture and a delight. Of all the torments he’d suffered, not being able to grasp her hips and shove her down onto him was indeed the worst.

Her breasts were rubbing against his chest, her nipples hard as pebbles against him. “Untie me,” he said again, voice quiet and urgent.

“No, Lucius,” she said, leaning up and divesting herself of her knickers in a truly talented display of agility. She straddled him, but did not take him inside of her—rather she moved up and down over him still, teasing them both with her wetness.

“Damn you,” he snarled, twisting underneath her, “end this or untie me now.”

She stopped moving, sat up, and casually backhanded him again. He must have anticipated her blow because he snapped at her hand with his teeth like an animal, catching at the smooth skin of her palm and trying to bite. He managed to nip at her enough to hurt.

She squeaked in surprise, and they looked at each other. Years of marriage had never dulled the furious passion between them; indeed, marriage had provided yet another playground for the battle of wills they had engaged in since the moment they met, on the terrace at some boring wizard party neither could remember.

They were both breathing hard, his face was bruised, lip cut and still bloody. She was naked on top of him, torn between her lust, her fury, and her fear. “Goddamn you, Lucius Malfoy,” she whispered.

“I’m already damned, Narcissa,” he said hoarsely, the truth of his words shining in those mercurial eyes.

“Then so am I,” she said, and in one smooth movement she leaned down and braced her hands beside him, kissing him wildly. “And so help me, I do not care.” She shifted her hips and took him inside of her, and they both moaned.

He bit at her lips as she bucked on top of him; their mating was primal, fierce, and they were both racing for completion in mere seconds. He was in such pain, but the feel of her around him was heaven; she was so angry, but the feel of him inside her was a relief.

When she came, she cried his name. His release was silent, but his indrawn hiss was music to her ears.

She rested her head but a moment on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear. She climbed off him and dressed, wrapping her hair back into a neat chignon and murmuring a spell to return the St. Andrew’s Cross to its normal position, away from the stone slab that it had rested upon. She looked at him when she was dressed—at his mussed hair, his bloody face, the welts on his chest from the whip, the riding crop, and the sting of her nails. She smiled at the sight of his unbuttoned trousers, and ran a hand down his chest in a possessive gesture.

She looked up into his eyes and smiled. “Now I’ve marked you again, too,” she said, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Untie. My. Bonds.” It was a snarl, his voice as coldly commanding as ever, and she felt a tingle of fresh desire rush through her at his tone. His autocratic nature had always been a terribly arousing part of his personality to her.

Waving her wand, she released the bonds, wondering if he would rush at her once he was free. Weakened from his ordeals and their voracious passion, he slumped to the floor, unable to stand on his own. She watched him but made no move to help as he struggled to stand.

Finally, he stood before her; a furious vision of angry eyes, white-blonde hair, and abused flesh. He rubbed his wrists and shoved his hands violently through his hair—blood caught on the pale strands. It was a gruesome sight, and it made Narcissa smile.

“Where is my robe? I do not wish to return to the Manor in such a state,” he snapped, eyebrow raised as he glared at her.

“Too bad, my proud Death Eater,” she said, walking up to him and grabbing his arm. He leaned slightly against her weight, but she remained quiet. “Your robe is in tatters, and I’ve set it up so we shall Apparate right into our suite so you may bathe. You look a mess,” she said, and smiled as he growled at her. “A violently attractive, beautifully bloody mess, but a mess all the same.”

She turned to the serpent that watched them with lazy eyes. “Tell the Dark Lord thank you, Nagini, and I have had my vengeance.” The snake moved into the shadows, hissing as if in assent.

Lucius’ voice was cold when he spoke, devoid of all emotion. “You are vindicated, then? Your wrath has been fully sated?”

She smiled up at him, wand ready. “Yes,” she murmured.

He nodded. “A shame,” he said, and as they prepared to Apparate he leaned down and nipped her ear. “I do believe I have a whip in the dungeons.”

Her laughter echoed in the silence of the chamber as they vanished.