Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

She, Vigilante	By : alecto Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Ginny Views: 9002 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money off of Harry Potter.

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- 1-She, Vigilante
- 1
She, Vigilante

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When Ginny saw Lucius Malfoy striding down the street in Knockturn Alley, she was somewhat surprised. He was so rarely seen in public—only at special openings, at the request of the Minister of Magic, at the opera—not in the street, certainly not in Knockturn Alley, certainly not alone and walking with his cloak swirled around his feet.

She had been browsing the tarot cards at The Starry Prophesier when she had seen the white-blond head go by. At first, she had believed that it had been Draco, but the length of the hair had alerted her otherwise. And Ginny had always been a curious girl—curious to learn new hexes from her brothers, curious to experience men before her other friends, curious to let loose from the Room of Requirement and fight during the great battle. And so, curious, she had darted out of the store just in time to see him go into Wizarding Supplies.

Ginny frowned.

She had not seen Lucius Malfoy in seven years, not since she had been sixteen and fighting in the war. Then, he had been a broken man, his hair stained with blood, his eyes panicked as he had searched for his son. She had not hated him then, had only been disdainful. But he had been haunting her ever since

He was the figure who appeared the second-most in her nightmares. Ever since he had given her that diary, Tom had been the first. But Lucius Malfoy—he was real, flesh and blood, and he would appear in her dreams, smiling like a shark, dressed like Charon, holding out bad things to her.

She shuddered a little. Time had done nothing to stop Lucius Malfoy. Because of the quick thinking of his now-separated wife, he had escaped prison, had been placed on probation for five years, and now had even more notoriety than he had before. People loved the idea of a “reformed” criminal, and Lucius Malfoy had been the topic of many a newspaper article, particularly in the women’s magazines. He was still on the good side of the Ministry, lauded for his accounting and arithmancy skills. Somehow, the war had only brought him good things. Except for his separation, she supposed. Narcissa was living in France while Lucius stayed in the Manor in Wiltshire—if the rumours were to be believed.

Ginny rolled her eyes. What a fucking ponce he was. She hated the very idea of him, of his tailored clothes and his ridiculous hair, the way he strode, the way he acted as though he owned everything. It infuriated her. She had come out of the war with a brother gone. He had come out of the war with his family intact and his honour restored.

It wasn’t fair.

An odd feeling welled up in her—something animalistic and yet calm.

So when she stepped out of the shadows as he left Wizarding Supplies, she didn’t know what she was angling for.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

He frowned.

“Miss Weasley.” He frowned deeper. How odd to see her in Knockturn Alley—but then again, the youngest Weasley had always been a bit of a dark horse. He supposed that it was from the influence of Voldemort at such a young age. Or maybe it had been growing up the runt of the litter in such a disgustingly large family. Whatever the reason, he felt the urge to take a step back from the largeness of her gold eyes. “What a pleasure.” The tone of his voice made it quite clear that it was not, in fact, a pleasure.

“Ditto.”

Her plebian response made him shudder. “Is there anything I can do for you? I’m quite busy.”

Ginny cocked her head to the side. She was an interesting looking slip of a thing—lithe and tall, coming to his chin. She had only been sixteen when he saw her last, and now she had to be at least twenty-three, twenty-four. Her hair was clearly not brushed, and she wore no make-up. He looked down at her body with a disdainful glance. She was wearing denim trousers, clunky lace-up leather boots, no outer robes. He looked back at her face and shook his head slightly.

“Well?”

She still didn’t answer him.

Lucius rolled his eyes and turned to walk off.

Ginny would never really know what struck her in that moment, but the odd feeling she had been having since she saw him took vicious hold, sinking its claws into her gut.

“Impedimenta.”

The jinx was spoken lazily, as though she had only deigned to do it. Catching Lucius fully in the back, it struck him hard. He froze, though not of his own accord.

Ginny froze, too. She hadn’t really expected the jinx to take hold. She would have assumed that a man as prolific and versed in the dark arts as Lucius Malfoy would have had had some sort of safeguard—something woven into his clothes to prevent such a thing. But no—her jinx had immobilised him. It was said that the intent of the caster affected the power of the spell. Perhaps she had underestimated her own intent.

He was still holding his cane, and she snatched it away in a panic, pinning it under her arm. It was heavy. She shivered to think of all the havoc it had wreaked on innocents, of all the awful things it had helped him do.

Lucius could not speak, but she could feel the anger radiating off of him. The power of it made her skin prickle, the hair stand up on her arms. He was so very angry with her. And now she had a frozen Death Eater in the middle of Knockturn Alley, and she didn’t know what to do.

And so Ginny did the only thing she could think of.

She touched Lucius’ robes, and Apparated.

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When they landed in Ginny’s flat, the jinx was already wearing off of him. She could tell by the way that his eyes rolled in his head, flicking around before settling on her, the pupils huge and quivering with rage. She ran into her kitchen, grabbed a heavy wooden chair, and ran back out to the living room, where Lucius was standing, affixing her with a stare so full of undiluted anger that she stopped dead for a single moment.

She regained herself, and sat him down in the chair after stripping off his outer robes and throwing them behind the couch. His wand was placed on the other side of the room.

She levelled her own wand at him.

“Incarcerous.”

The ropes burst out of her wand, thick and snake-like, and wrapped around his shoulders, his wrists, his legs.

Lucius Malfoy was bound to a chair in her living room.

“Oh, shite,” Ginny swore. Something about seeing Lucius Malfoy bound in her living room brought the whole situation crashing down on her head. This was very, very real, and she had manufactured the whole thing. And for what?

Lucius inhaled, having regained motion of his body, and Ginny could sense that he was going to speak.

“No, shut up, shut up,” she cried, rushing forward.

There was a look of almost-amusement in his eyes.

“Look what you’ve done, Littlest Weasley. You’ve captured a Death Eater.”

“Shut up.”

He smirked.

Ginny circled him, reinforcing the ropes with every strengthening charm she could think of. She wouldn’t have put it past Malfoy to know several non-verbal spells, and she wanted to make sure that there was no way he would be able to break free.

During the time she walked around him, she breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. She had done this for a reason, obviously. Something deep in her subconscious had urged her on, and now it was up to her to figure out what. To figure out why.

She came back in front and looked down onto him.

“I’ve thought about this moment for many years,” she murmured.

He looked disinterested. “How sad for you.”

“You were an integral part of my early life, unfortunately.” With every word she spoke, she regained her initial, odd courage—the thing that had caused her to attack him in Knockturn. “And I’ve often thought about what I’d do if I had you at my mercy.”

He didn’t answer. He only continued to stare at her with that infuriating, insolent stare.

“And here I have you. I was presented an opportunity.”

He thought that she looked a bit mad. There was something slightly unhinged about her bird-like movements.

“And now, you’re going to sit and listen to me.”

That was when he laughed up at her.

“Really, Miss Weasley? This is your revenge? Come, come. Just let me go and we’ll forget all about this little debacle.”

He looked so smarmy—the same figure, the same face that she remembered from her childhood. Something unnamed and wonderful and awful rose up inside her again, and she gave into a baser instinct. She released.

Ginny reached her hand back and hit him as hard as she could across the face.

That moment—she would remember it forever. And so would he. Lucius’ head snapped to one side with the impact. Because of that, Ginny didn’t get to see the initial look in his eyes, and that was one thing she regretted.

By the time he had moved his head back to meet her gaze, he had set his eyes into hardness.

The mood had changed—immediately. There was no more levity in his face. He instead looked incredibly calm, icy.

“Am I mistaken, or did you just lay a hand on me?”

Ginny had heard that voice before—when it dropped low and deep and very, very calm. Even now, as she stood before him with all the power, a very large part of her curled up in terror at Lucius Malfoy’s Death Eater voice.

“You’re not mistaken.” She tried to match his tone, but fell short.

“Miss Weasley. I’m not sure you understand the ramifications—”

He was interrupted by another blow to the face, this time to the upper lip.

“—Fucking blood traitor scum!” He let the words loose into the thick air of her living room. She had broken the glassy façade of politeness and ignited the fearsome layer underneath. “Listen, you little cunt. You have no idea about what you are about to do—”

Ginny landed her third punch directly in the centre of his mouth, and this time, the hit had consequences. His lower lip split open, and as his head moved with the force, a fine, pink mist of spittle arced in the air.

The second time Lucius Malfoy laughed at her, it was a more terrifying sound. He spat out a stream of pink spittle in her direction, his hair hanging in his face.

“You think I haven’t experienced something like this, littlest Weasley?” His voice dropped in pitch. “I have felt things that you haven’t even dared to have nightmares about.”

Ginny levelled him with a long look.

“Are you provoking me on purpose?”

Lucius wanted to smile at her naiveté. She hit hard—not just for a woman, but for a person. He had known Death Eaters who hadn’t hit as hard as her, and he had the feeling that she hadn’t even begun to truly try to inflict pain yet. But a few hits to the face, as distressing as they were, were nothing compared to things he had suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord.

“You’ll never know, will you?”

Ginny squatted down beside his chair, and he noticed that she made sure to keep a great enough distance between herself and his body—enough so that he had no chance of head-butting her, or even spitting at her.

Smart bitch.

When she spoke, her voice had finally reached a pitch that was on par with his.

“I don’t much like your attitude, Lucius.” As she said it, she reached a hand up to brush the hair out of his eyes, and he made his move, lunging at her, snapping perfect lines of white, glistening teeth.

Pink saliva flew out of his mouth onto her floor.

She spun away from him with a strength and a grace he had not known she had possessed.

“I was both a seeker and a chaser, after all,” she murmured at his expression. “I can tell when you’re about to move, and in what direction. It’s all in the hips.”

He was silent.

She moved back from him and sat down on the couch. The two of them sat, looking at each other, for a long and heavy minute.

“You fucked up my life.” Ginny spoke the words not with panic, not with frenzy, but calmly, coolly. Her gaze was even, her tone matter-of-fact. She didn’t want to delve back into the past completely. She had done so much work to leave it exactly there—in the past. She wasn’t going to let a bigot like him affect her so much that she relived that past. She only wanted to mete out a punishment—hard and fast and cruel. She wanted to be unthinking.

Lucius blinked lazily. The cut on his lip was stinging, and so he ran a tongue over it, tasting his own pure blood with relish. “Perhaps.”

That was the most infuriating response of all. She gritted her teeth and lifted a booted foot, bringing it down onto his shoe as hard as she could.

Lucius let forth a muffled expletive through the clench of his jaw.

She let him right himself, and stared at him again.

“But don’t you wonder how much more boring your life would have been without that, Ginevra?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Without what?”

“The diary. How mundane you would have been without the Chamber of Secrets. Just the youngest Weasley.”

“Shut up,” she said, her voice calm and almost cheery, and he wanted to flinch at the mettle he heard there, behind the chirrupy sweetness.

Still, he pressed on.

“You would have only been just the youngest Weasley. With my help you were something feared.”

She lunged upwards and hit him in the nose, this time. When Ginny had turned fifteen, Charlie had taught her how to throw a punch, using his rough palms as targets. Eventually, as her blows got to be too much for his hands, he let her loose onto hay bales and then planks of wood. She had retained those lessons, even all these years later—her muscles remembered the actions. Lucius Malfoy was the target.

“You could have become his consort, little Weasley.” Lucius knew his voice was thick and muddy through the broken nose and the blood, but he wanted to see how much she could dole out. There was something fantastic and beautiful about the way she was hitting him—her arm muscles poised and strong, her blows completely unfiltered and unadulterated. She was not coddling him, as so many members of Wizarding society tended to do because of his status and his stature. She was not scared of him. She was angry. She was pure in her rage, and jaded Lucius had not seen an emotion so strong as that for a long time.

He smiled at her.

Ginny felt a surge of hot, cherry rage flush through her veins. He was supposed to be the one who was scared. He was supposed to be the one at her mercy, the one who had lost control. She hit him again, and then again, the blows messier and looser, but still hard. One glanced off of his cheekbone. One split open his other lip, and the blood dribbled down his chin.

When he smiled at her again, there was blood between his teeth. He tried to laugh, caught his throat on the blood, coughed out, spraying her with a mist of his blood. His pure blood.

She hated that laugh. And so she began to strike him in earnest, in shrieking anger. Her blows landed on his ribs, his thighs, the sides of his head, his stomach, the one hitting his groin causing him to finally yell out in pain and anger. When her hands became tired, she stood back and lifted a foot up, undoing her boot.

“You. Are so cavalier. You. Are so bigoted. It was your ilk that killed my brother. And it was your ilk that killed my friends. And you don’t care, you awful, awful person.”

“I care.” He wasn’t sure why he said it.

“Don’t lie.” She screamed out the last word, bringing the boot to the side of his head.

Lucius gasped at the hit. He had been trained to school his responses to pain from his years in Voldemort’s service, but it had been so long since he had been thoroughly beaten. He had half-expected her to have picked up her wand by now, but she showed no signs of tiring. And her boot—heavy wooden heel, hefty leather. The hit made him see silver floaters in the air.

“You dirty, dirty man,” she cried out, clouting him in the ribs with the boot, now. She maybe cracked one—he felt immediate and sharp pain, the blooming of it causing him to sweat, to inhale.

The boot landed in his stomach, and Lucius struggled to breathe.

He tensed, expecting the next hit to land again in his groin.

The hit didn’t come.

He looked at her. She was holding the boot overtop of him, her hair snarled and wild around her face. There were droplets of his blood on her shirt and her neck, and her breathing was frenetic and uneven. She looked—

She looked beautiful.

And she felt good, and bad at the same time. She felt more alive and more thrumming than she had in months, and yet she was disgusted with herself for perpetrating more violence.

The boot fell to the floor.

Lucius looked a mess. Both of his eyes were already starting to swell and discolour. His nose was obviously broken, and was still slowly oozing blood. Both of his lips were split, and the blood had made its way down his chin and had stained his shirt. There were the beginnings of bruises at his temples. He had sweat through the collar of his shirt. And there were other bruises, too, farther down his body, bruises that he would discover one day at a time for weeks after.

Ginny brought a hand to her mouth and licked his blood.

Lucius had always reacted well to violence. He knew that part of it was psychological—the body coming down from the fight or flight decision, the testosterone racing through his blood. But part of it was the blood, the bruising, the cadence of hand against skin and bone.

She stood very still, her fingers still in her mouth. Lucius was taken aback by her oddness, though he didn’t show it. While she had been easy enough to provoke, he still had the feeling that he would never know what she was going to do next.

“It’s still not enough.”

He wanted to ask her what she was talking about, but she had bent, quickly, and with fingers that were far nimbler than he had expected, she had undone his belt.

Lucius froze.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

Ginny snarled and ripped open the fastenings of his trousers.

“I said don’t touch me,” he yelled at her, and any other woman might have been frightened at the force and gale of his voice, so terrifying in its anger, but Ginny only grabbed him by the hair so tightly that he hissed, and spat in his face.

“Shut up.”

“You fucking cunt.”

She didn’t reply to the base insult. She had shoved her hand into his trousers and had grabbed his cock, and Lucius made a cruel sound in the back of his throat as though he were about to try and spit back at her.

Her hand tightened.

Her skin was so damned hot. Her palm was scorching him, even as she pulled it back out of his pants to spit into it, pushed it back in, wrapped around him again. He had been partially hard from the adrenaline of the violent situation, but now his body was crying out, and he struggled to keep from thrusting into her hand.

“If you don’t let go of me right—”

She interrupted him, squeezing his cock so hard that he saw stars. “You were docile during the beating, but this upsets you?” She squeezed again. “You fucked up man. Good. I hope you remember this for the rest of your life. I hope you remember this every time you try to fuck another woman.”

Ginny pulled her hand out and yanked his trousers down to his mid-thigh. Lucius flinched at the abrasion of the wool along his skin, and watched her, silent, with hard eyes.

“I’m going to fuck you now. This is your deliverance.”

“Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” she repeated, shucking her own trousers, bending to spit on his cock. Her saliva got on his stomach and his thighs. He flinched.

“You’re vile, you disgusting whore,” he said. “Get your filthy saliva off of me.”

She laughed, throwing her head back. “You’re about to have a lot worse on you.” She grabbed his cock again, working the spit around it.

“I don’t want this,” he bellowed.

“Too fucking bad,” Ginny said. “I didn’t realise that this was the thing that bothers you the most. You seemed too calm during that beating. But this—” she palpated his cock. “This upsets you.”

He refused to make a sound for her.

“Why does it upset you? Because I’m beneath you in society and you don’t want me touching you? Because you’re turned on by me?”

“I am not,” he hissed.

“Liar.” She was inches away from his face, his bloody, messy face. “You liar.”

She stripped off her knickers, swinging a leg over him. Lucius kept his eyes on her face. He didn’t want her to think that he was enjoying her body.

Ginny looked down between their bodies, causing her hair to fall, like a curtain, between them. She lurched out of the way as soon as she felt his body begin to move, dodged his head-butt easily, and simultaneously shoved him back by the forehead and lowered herself onto his cock.

The moment their bodies joined, they both made sounds at the same time. He shouted something unintelligible and then looked furious with himself. She mewled into his ear, breathing through the pain with weak breaths.

He was thick. She had been wet, excited despite herself from the beating she had given him, but even with her own arousal, it still burned. She wasn’t sure that her body could recover from it—ever. He was stretching her in ways she had never experienced. And even as she breathed out, shakily, he instinctively shoved his hips up into her, forcing himself farther into her body.

“Oh, fuck,” she sobbed, grabbing at his bloodied hair so tightly that he tensed up.

“Is that Pureblood cock too much for you?”

His question would have been much more effective in riling her if he hadn’t had sweat on his brow, hadn’t been gritting his teeth so hard that she expected them to crumble to dust. She could feel him hot and twitching and hard inside of her, and she knew that he was struggling not to come.

Ginny smiled a shark’s grin into his face despite herself and clenched her vaginal muscles. Lucius groaned through his teeth and his head flinched. He muttered something under his breath, and she caught the word tight.

She slapped him across the face. He jerked, narrowing his eyes.

They sat still for a moment. She let her muscles relax around him, slowly taking him deeper and deeper into her body. Eventually she felt the soft cushion of his testicles against her buttocks, his wiry, thick pubic hair against her labia. She had taken him all the way inside of her.

Lucius looked as though he wanted to moan. His throat was jumping with the electricity of his pulse, and there was a high flush across his cheekbones.

Slowly, she rolled her hips.

Air whistled out of his mouth from between his teeth.

She moved again, and this time she was the one to cry out.

He was so rigid inside of her, forcing apart tissue that had not been touched in so long. She was the one fucking him, but he was the one intruding. He was an intrusion, thick and hard and so hot that she was afraid they were going to combust, blaze. As she moved, his pubic hair chafed against her soft lips, and the head of his cock pressed inside of her, making her vision swim with silver stars. He was good. He was so good.

They stayed quiet as she moved tentatively, Lucius staring at her with undeterminable eyes, Ginny staring right back. It was unnerving. It was too much, not enough.

Then he spoke.

“You deserved it,” he hissed. “You deserved that first year at Hogwarts.”

She ripped at his hair. He flinched.

“Your family should have been exterminated,” she growled back. “Your inbred, disgusting, cowardly family.”

He snapped his mouth at her and in return she tightened her muscles around him.

“Oh,” he mumbled, and was struck silent at the way they fit together.

“I wanted you to die. I fantasized about killing you,” she whispered into his ear.

“I did the same with your family,” he choked out. “Your doltish, stupid, bumbling fucking family.”

“Shut up.” She spat in his mouth, and he pushed the saliva back out, letting it slide down his chin. She caught it in her palm and smeared it up his neck. “Shut up.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you.”

She moved against him, both of them falling silent.

He had never felt a woman so tight. She was so tight that it was taking all of his self-control not to come inside of her with every roll of her hips. She was so hot, so wet—he would never, ever forget this feeling. Ever. Ginevra Weasley was a blood traitor, but her cunt was so well made that he was afraid he would be spoiled for every other woman. Even as he looked down, he was transfixed by her smooth, wet labia, the way his cock had stretched her so far apart that he was sure that she would be spoiled for every other man, too.

He grunted and tilted his hips, and he sunk so much farther into her that she shrieked. He could feel the head of his cock hitting her cervix, and knew that it was so deep it was uncomfortable for her.

“Fuck me,” she murmured, and it was so quiet that anyone else might have missed it. But Lucius heard it, and moaned out, letting his head hang back with the pure pleasure of it. She was more than willing. She was begging him for his cock. He wanted nothing more than to get her flat on her back on the floor and mount her, rut her like an animal, his blood flinging all over her face and her neck and her breasts. But he was bound, and so he planted his feet flat and pushed up into her again.

She pressed her body closer to his, her muscles keeping him inside, his hot flesh carving her open.

In their frenzy, neither of them noticed that their foreheads were touching, that the blood from Lucius’ face had transferred to Ginny’s face, that she had his rich, red blood smeared all over her cheek and her neck.

She tore at his shirt, buttons flying. Her own shirt was pulled over her head, and he stared at her swaying nipples.

She was bucking her hips into him again and again, her hands gathered in the hair at the nape of his neck, her forearms braced on his broad shoulders. Every move she made created a thick, wet sound that echoed from between their bodies—she was so turned on, so wet, so wet that her arousal was coating his cock, his inner thighs, the firm sac between his legs. He was meeting her movements, using his feet as leverage to push up into her with every forward motion she made, his thighs trembling.

Ginny could feel him shaking against her own thighs. She could feel the desperate twitching of his muscles. His eyes were wide and almost terrified, the pupils so dilated that his eyes were dark. He looked otherworldly and it was frightening. Every time she snapped her hips he let loose a deep, rough grunt, a sound that looked as though it pained him to make. His mouth was open and gasping and mouthing unknown words to her.

She was making kitten sounds with every one of their combined movements. They were dancers, they were athletes, they were working together toward one dire, hot, pinpoint of a goal, and as her stomach trembled, as her fingers shook, she knew that when they came it was going to be frightening. It was going to drain them of everything—the hatred, the cruelty, maybe even the past.

She was going to let him come inside of her.

“Lucius,” she whispered, and all of a sudden their movements became sloppy and fast like electricity. She relinquished her mind and let the baser parts of her body do their work—her hips, moving by themselves, grinding into him, her lips, whispering of their own accord, telling him how hard she was going to come, how deep she was going to let him come into her.

The pleasure was gathered between her legs, moving cautiously like an animal, and then it snapped, arcing upwards, up her throat, across her cheeks, through her eyes, and then downward, into her thighs, her calves, her feet. She thrust herself into him, tilting her head back and letting loose a cry so loud and so long that she sounded like a crow, a cat, an animal herself. She couldn’t even move for the pleasure—it was holding her tight and immobile in its iron hot grasp, and she could feel her vaginal muscles holding him so far inside of her she was sure that she had turned into a hand, a fist. He was never going to be able to get out of her. There was a hot wetness between their bodies, between her legs, leaking down his cock, on his balls, on the chair, on the floor—everywhere. She pressed her breasts into his chest and let her head fall forward as she felt him start to come.

He bucked his back as best he could, letting his spine slip forward. He knew that he was making sounds—odd, animalistic sounds—but he couldn’t help it. She had come all over his cock, and it was so wet that with only two more haphazard strokes of her hips, he was coming into the tight clenching of her.

“Fuck,” he yelled, his head tilted back. “Fuck!” His semen was bursting out of him in almost painful ropes. He could feel it disappearing into her, being brought up into her hot body. That thought made him weak, light-headed. He was still coming—so much semen. He hadn’t known that he could have so much semen come out of him. He was sure that he was filling her to the brim. He was coming so hard that his vision swum, and then it was dark.

.

---

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Stillness.

He was still alive, it seemed. His wrists were aching, begging to be released. Every part of him hurt.

He blinked.

She was on his lap, still, her head tucked into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and she was sobbing softly.

He wasn’t going to ask her what was wrong. A part of him wanted to, but he dismissed it. Instead he took a sticky, shaky inhalation, and she looked up at him.

She looked magnificent. Her hair was snarled, and his blood was on the tips. And there was more blood—across her lips, her brows, her cheekbones, her neck. She looked like a pagan goddess, like she had been in battle, like he had beaten her. Her bottom lip was chapped, swollen. Her eyes were swollen, too, red and wet. As he looked down her body, he saw that their sweat had combined with his blood and had painted both of them an odd, streaky pink.

Ginny moved.

She slipped off of him, and both of them made protesting sounds as his softened cock slid out of her. Lucius flushed and looked away from her, his mouth hard and embarrassed.

She slid her fingers between her legs, and brought the same fingers up to her face, looking at his thick, white come. As he turned back to look at her, she purposefully and firmly streaked his semen down her chest, between her breasts.

Lucius swallowed.

“Let me go.” His voice was rusty and it hurt to speak.

She hesitated.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

She believed him. He sounded exhausted.

“Do you want me to—”

“Don’t,” he said. “I’ll heal myself.”

“What?” She didn’t understand.

Of course she didn’t understand. But he wanted to get home and look at himself in his mirror, softly press a fingertip to every bruise and every laceration she had given him. He wanted to savour it, remember it.

He felt the ropes disappear and then he rolled his wrists, gasping at the pain of the blood rushing back into them. She was standing away from him, her back to the wall, still naked, still painted with his blood and now his semen. She was holding her wand.

There was nothing to say to each other. They had both just done something very bad, unspeakable—he was separated, but still married, and she was engaged to Harry. There was nothing they could say to each other.

He pulled up his trousers, grunting as he bent over. As he fastened his belt, she had stepped forward, holding his outer robes.

Wordlessly, he took them from her, not breaking eye contact. He knew his face looked a mess. He couldn’t even open his right eye.

“I’m not sorry,” she said suddenly.

He looked at her, pulling on his robes. There was a long moment. Then—

“Good.”

She handed him his wand, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

He took it, and prepared to Apparate.

“Goodbye, Ginevra.”

She exhaled an odd, sighing laugh, and he could see her hands shaking as she reached out, pushed his hair back from where it had congealed in the blood and stuck to his face.

He blinked.

“Goodbye, Lucius.”

And then he was gone.
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She, Vigilante