And. FUCKING CALL ME!
Percy still has his school prefect badge, tucked under a sheaf of official papers. He takes it out sometimes in his breaks, watching the magically controlled light bounce off it, highlight the engraving on its cold hard surface, reflect the white of his teeth. A cruel gleam, one that slices into his fingers as he polishes it in the mornings.
Lucius Malfoy surveys his kingdom. Not the leagues of land in France, Russia or England that his family has administered for centuries; not the mansions, villas and chateaux where a Malfoy’s word is law. No: this is his kingdom, won with his blood, sweat, and insomniac scheming.
The Ministry of Magic was the opponent he had fought; the Ministry of Magic was the battleground on which he had struggled, and now the Ministry of Magic is the cowering loser over which he, Lucius Malfoy, stands victorious. At the heart of all genius is selfishness, after all.
But there is one more conquest to make – and his name is Percival.
Percy closes the drawer quickly and clatters to his feet. “Mr. Malfoy,” he says slowly.
The picture of his family seems to glower at him even as he says the words, Arthur glowering on his desk – the disapproval is palpable. The piles of unopened owls from Molly and Ginny and Ron seem overly conspicuous now, an imperfection on the otherwise uncluttered and polished surface of his desk.
“I should say – Under Minister Malfoy,” he corrects, eyes flicking downward. “I do apologise, sir.”
Lucius is staring; at the pale skin flushing into a shade of rose; at the down-turned eyelash; at the fingers playing nervously with each other. He is staring, and Percy shifts out of perspective until he is all that Lucius sees. He is all that there is.
And then that treacherous voice forever obsessed with power whispers insidiously – Percival is not all there is. He is all that is left, that is left unconquered.
But his eyes do not leave the delicate fingernails, meticulously cut; they do not leave the soft pink flesh.
His eyes have a weight on Percy’s flesh, marking him with his stare. He shivers – and looks down again – not the normal thing for him. There is something about Lucius that discomforts, displaces. Lucius’s presence makes the walls of this office strange, his handwriting on a tossed-aside parchment that of a stranger, his very skin seem to shift uncomfortably over his bones.
He is surprised as well that Lucius would take the time to see him, to stand in this office and regard him coolly as if he is the intruder.
For some reason, Percy’s throat is dry when he asks, “Is there something you wanted, sir?”
Take your time, a little voice instructs Lucius; look not at him, but above. Above all, avoid eye contact.
The legacy of years of Malfoy superciliousness: this seeming coldness, this deathly mask.
He looks around the office: stark, plain, neat. The very reflection, the idea, of that hand now stamped in his mind. Puritan, yet not without its softness, he drawls to himself, and in the same tone, addresses Percival:
“I came, Weasley, to remind your Highness to prepare that report on the coup in Romania.” His voice, harsh with sarcasm and perhaps desire, shocks him, but his is not why he gasps. Percival has lifted his head, and for one second they look at each other.
It seems now that his analysis of the pale flesh before him is grossly incomplete.
Percy is quite sure he cannot feel the tips of his fingers. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand behind the cover of his chair; smiles, does not stop, does not stop until he feels a drop of blood strike his unscuffed shoe. And his mouth is working; “I typed out that report three days ago. The inter-Ministry owl system must be down,” and he can even discern a note of concern in his voice, a note of defensiveness – and yet, a breathless quality too. That is the only real emotion nestled among the sham.
Raising his eyes to look at Lucius Malfoy; the casual attitude of his body, the curve of his fingers around the ubiquitous silver cane, Percy thinks that Romania has never felt so far away.
Percy blinks slowly. “I am most apologetic for the inconvenience, sir,” he says, and the next few words to tumble out of his mouth of their own volition. “What can I do to make up for it?”
No way to answer this without slipping up, without wrenching off the mask and revealing the raw desire – lust – beneath.
He must set the cane onto the ground and must lean on it. [This is the prelude. How many times has he taken recourse to this trick, how many men and women has it invited into his bed?] He must rake his eyes over Percival’s body, carefully, consideringly, and slowly, slowly. Never stumble, ungainly with desire. And now he must murmur: “Why Percival Weasley,” always the full name, always, “– that sounds like a proposition.”
And now he must raise his eyebrow, and await a response.
His lips unstick from each other, a silly slack expression before he pulls up his jaw, takes a breath, dares to move his hands, clamped to the back of the chair with his own drying blood.
Of course, it is an easy answer: no.
No, Mr. Malfoy, you misunderstand me completely. I was no thinking of reach out and wrapping my fingers around your tie and making love-
No. Fucking. a cold and hard-edged and emotionless word, one which resembles the only sort of act possible between two such as them.
But of course, Percy has never taken the easy path.
His mouth pulls into a smile but he is not quite bold enough to meet is eyes, and he says, “I am a man of my word, Mr. Malfoy.”
He can tell that Percival wants him. In his rejection there is no disgust, no outrage, only cowardice; by no means is Lucius Malfoy blind to Weasley’s attempt to control himself, the straightening of the spine and the squaring of the jaw. He wants me as I want him, only his mother never brought him up to grab a man’s tie and fuck him.
And that, indeed, is where Malfoys are different from Weasleys.
With his customary grace, he places his cane and briefcase on a nearby filing cabinet, loosens his tie, and takes several steps closer to his prey. By this time Weasley has his back to the wall, and there is nothing for it but to grab the fearful ninny by the collar and kiss him.
The ball’s in your court, Percival.
The shock of Lucius’ lips immobilises him for a moment; it is like watching someone else stretch the fabric of his tie, brush his fingers against the too-pale skin of his neck. There is a muffled gasp, but it is neither Percy nor Lucius but the photograph of Arthur and Molly on his desk. He reaches out with fumbling fingers and knocks it on its front, never breaking contact with Lucius.
Percy opens his mouth ever so slightly and is somewhat ashamed to feel the reddening of his cheeks, the warm blood flowing to the surface of his skin which makes Lucius feel all the more cool to his touch. His fingers slide down the soft fabric of his shirt unsurely, perhaps a little needily – he cannot help it. It has been so long since those silly adolescent games he and Penny used to play, the nervous touches and the edgy laughter, nothing at all like this.
Lucius, if he were less occupied – less absorbed – at the moment, would have broken into a smirk; of course, Percival Weasley, a novice! He would have, quite possibly, tried to imagine Percival with a girl, fumbling clumsily, uncomfortably.
But fortunately, Lucius is robbed of every faculty but that of sensation. Percival – blushing initiate that he is – is warm, so warm!, to the touch; the boy is trembling, sighing and humming with a mixture of nervousness and desire. As if in Percival Lucius has met his own antithesis; warm, soft, unsteady. But also as if Lucius has the power to move this bashful young man into uncharacteristic fits of desire.
Nothing arouses Lucius more; a thrill of power, of lust, surges through him, and he is nearly lost.
Percy’s fingers click against the glinting coolness of Lucius’s belt buckle, typically ornate and typically Malfoy – and in that moment of skin connecting to metal, Percy wonders abstractly what he is doing. A thin sheen of sweat coats his upper lip, his collarbones, his breath is coming quickly, and he is quite sure Lucius can hear the pounding of his heart through the thin layers of flesh and fabric. He breaks away and smiles, perhaps a little self-mockingly – he had never imagined that he would be one for asking redundant questions.
Slowly, he lowers his head and kisses Lucius’s chin, his jaw line, the delicate neck – he can feel Lucius’s every breath under his tongue – and places a gentle reminding pressure on the belt buckle; a question, an admission of need.
And Percy knows, with his mathematical precision and his carefully pressed shirts and his secret curving smiles, that there are many kinds of power.
Lucius Malfoy is not a bad career move.
Lucius Malfoy simply takes off his shirt, and smiles.