Title: The Wand-Maker
Word Count: 3000
Summary: A wizard without a wand is nothing, but Lucius' new wand may be more trouble than it's worth.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Written to answer shiv5468's 600 Friends prompt. Thank you, calmingshoggoth, for beta'ing.
Lucius and Narcissa were bound by ritual, contract, tradition—that is to say, "appearances," for neither Blacks nor Malfoys divorced—and love . . . of their son; it had been years since affection had held them together. Narcissa, who had never forgiven her groom for pledging himself to the Dark Lord without consulting her, had, after her fourth, much wished for but ultimately false pregnancy, refused Lucius his share of their bed and never seemed to miss his presence there.
Despite this, she had always known with whom her husband was sharing intimate moments.
"Discretion, Lucius," she counselled, "and care. You may not be able to get me with child since your Marking, but it wouldn't do for you to impregnate another."
He wasn't so careless as to take her words as anything other than a threat, and it galled him that he never knew with whom she took her own ease.
"Be thankful for that," Rodolphus had told him, the one time Lucius had complained.
Given Bellatrix's "affection" for the Dark Lord, Lucius had understood something of Rodolphus' vehemence.
Life had not unfolded according to Lucius' plan, and, despite the fact that the Wizengamot had released him after his master's fall, he was bitter about it—and wandless.
A wizard without a wand is nothing, he thought, striding forth from the judgment chamber, chafing under the restriction that had been placed upon him.
Oh, his judges hadn't been harsh; they'd not forbidden his purchase of a new wand. They'd merely expressed their . . . concern: "You will find it difficult, given your association with Voldemort, to find a wand-maker eager to receive your business."
His judges had made it plain, however, that he was not to seek a wand outside of Britain, which meant that there was only one wizard to whom he could apply for a new one.
Ollivander will never permit me to step foot in his shop!
Draco's Wizengamot-ordered apprenticeship with Mr Ollivander had gone well, so well, in fact, that he'd worked up the nerve to request a favour of his master; Lucius was as surprised as his son to learn that Ollivander had agreed to grant it.
"—but for you, Father, Mr Ollivander says that 'the wand will not choose the wizard'."
His new wand was nothing like he'd expected. Whereas his elm and dragon heartstring wand had been rigid and perfectly attuned for the casting of hexes, his new wand seemed completely unsuited to him in every respect. A paltry nine-inches of hawthorn with a unicorn tail-haired core, the damned thing was disappointingly flexible and should have chosen a wizard interested in purification and cleansing spells. Given who'd selected it for him, Lucius was not surprised to discover his inability to cast curses with it. Further, since taking possession of it, he'd been plagued by a surfeit of virile energy that he could not spend, not even through his frequently applied and vigorous self-ministrations.
It had never been necessary for Lucius even to contemplate seeking the professional, erotic services of a witch, but, since his trial, he found that those bored society matrons with whom once he'd been intimately acquainted had no longer any desire for his "discreet" company. He was certain that he'd go mad from frustrated passion if he didn't find relief soon, so, mortified but resolute, he set off in search of someone more interested in gold than reputation.
Obviously, such a person could not be his wife. Unfortunately, such a person could not be a whore, either, no matter how expensive, as Lucius' wand reacted violently when he approached any witch of tainted virtue. This held true when he, after several infuriating months, at last forced himself to seek relief in the Muggle world.
Muggle prostitutes had no interest in him, either; worse yet, they laughed at him—and his Galleons—for Lucius had been so eager that he'd forgotten to exchange his wizarding currency.
It was because of this embarrassing circumstance that Lucius felt, at long last, compelled to approach Narcissa.
"You've never displayed a sense of humour before," she remarked, when he found her in her bedchamber. "I find it tiresome."
Enraged, Lucius drew his inadequate wand and cast a spell that would melt even the icy loins of his negligent wife.
Narcissa laughed, as well, as a shower of rose petals burst from the tip of his wand.
"DAMN IT!" he shouted, storming out of the room, more aroused than he could ever remember feeling.
"—broken! What kind of wand have you given me?"
"Mr Malfoy," Ollivander replied, "I assure you that there is nothing wrong with your wand."
"What good is it if I can't make it work?"
With a pointed glance at Lucius' mid-section, Ollivander retorted, "Perhaps that's a matter for a Healer?
It wasn't the sort of revenge Lucius had expected, but it was thorough.
It's going to kill me, he thought, deep in his cups in the library. Useless books! Can't explain any of this—no curse upon the wood, no spell at all! How? How has he done it?
To take a wizard in his prime and render him effectively sexually useless—that was subtle revenge, indeed, and Lucius couldn't work out how Ollivander had managed it without the aid of magic. A spell, a curse, a hex—he could have found a way to remove any one of those things.
The charlatan's more clever than that. It is the wand itself, isn't it? He chose this . . . this useless stick for me for that very reason, didn't he? Lucius thought, waving his wand in front of his face. He . . . he's teaching my own son how to do this to the unsuspecting, but even Draco wouldn't be able to tell me how to fix matters if I could bring myself to ask him.
Written into his son's contract, of course, was a codicil forbidding him to share any of the secrets of wand-making.
The Wizengamot has a sense of humour. "Hur—rah," he hiccoughed.
Lucius, brought low as he had been, had still had enough pride to see to it that Draco had not been in the showroom when he'd confronted Ollivander. Witches—women—might laugh at him, but he would never give his son reason to find him ridiculous. He had, of course, found it trying to discover the Lovegood girl present, but she, just as had the other witches with whom he'd attempted to engage in conversation or otherwise, hadn't paid him any attention at all.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!
Several unfulfilling, inebriated days later, a letter from Draco arrived:
"I've been reading the most fascinating book, Of Wands and Wielders. Luna showed it to me, and I think you might find it interesting, as Mother recently wrote explaining how intrigued by wand-work you've become since my apprenticeship began. Mr Ollivander apparently believes himself to be in possession of the only copy, but Luna remembers seeing an edition of the book in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts. Surely, given your donation to the reconstruction fund, you might be able to borrow the book, even if Granger's now in charge of the Restric—"
Lucius didn't read any further—or even pause long enough to consider the disturbing intelligence that his son was on first name terms with his fellow apprentice—so great was his gratitude to Narcissa for her discreet interest in his affairs.
No, not interest—she doesn't wish me to appear ridiculous to Draco, either.
Casting a sobering charm, he made for the school at once.
The Headmistress wouldn't deign to greet him, but Horace Slughorn oiled himself into Lucius' presence to offer himself as an escort to the library.
A "guard" is more like it, Lucius thought in irritation, gazing as impassively as possible upon Hermione Granger while Slughorn hovered nearby.
Her reception of him was bizarrely cordial.
"I believe we do have a copy of that book. Follow me."
Lucius did so, more conscious than was decent of the curve of Granger's hips and the swell of her backside through her astonishingly inappropriate, tight robes.
You'd have anyone, even a Mudblood, wouldn't you?
A glance at Slughorn, lumbering alongside him, told him that the Slytherin Head of House was beset by the same sad loss of scruples.
Granger stopped at the door to the Restricted Section, unlocked and opened it, and then turned. "Thank you, Slughorn. I'm certain I can manage from here."
"Oh, well . . . I say—"
"Goodbye," Granger interrupted, gesturing for Lucius to walk on before shutting the door in Slughorn's face and wrinkling her nose as if in distaste.
It was adorable, and Lucius couldn't help but tease. "One would think, Miss Granger, that you would wish—"
"I do have other matters to attend to. If you'd just follow me?"
Bitch, Lucius thought, grinding his teeth and obeying her. Adorable, pert, officious . . . bitch.
Having to follow Granger up a winding staircase in the corner of the room was almost torturous, but Lucius endured it. He liked the view, and he knew that each step brought him closer to what he hoped would be the answer to his increasingly pressing difficulty. So pressing was it, that Lucius surreptitiously reached to adjust himself, just as he reached the landing—and Granger turned to regard him.
"Oh, really," she said, sounding disgusted as her gaze dropped. "Of Wands and Wielders isn't that sort of book!"
It wasn't lost on Lucius that Granger didn't look away from his groin, and, pleased by the unexpected female attention, he began stroking himself. "Perhaps what I'm more in need of is a librarian," he replied, enjoying the way her cheeks pinked in response to his words—and by the fact that she hadn't looked away.
"Wh—why do you want the book, anyway?" Granger demanded, her eyes widening.
Noting the clenching and unclenching of her hands, Lucius smiled. Perhaps what I truly need is a curious librarian—a curious, virginal librarian.
Granger had to be a virgin; why else would a swot like her be staring at him in such fascination? He didn't care if she was a Mudblood; she was the only witch who had shown interest in his prick for months, and he meant to collect on it if he could.
"Miss Granger," he whispered, his tone purposefully seductive, "have you, perhaps, neglected one significant area of your education?"
"Stop that. Don't speak like that to me."
"Eyes up!" Lucius ordered, noting Granger's hesitancy and changing tactics. "It's rude to stare."
Scowling, Granger retorted, "No more rude than doing that in public!"
"Doing 'that'? 'That'? Come now, what am I doing?" Lucius asked, rubbing a thumb slowly up and down what he knew had to be his visible erection.
"Y—you're . . . ."
"The word you want is 'masturbating'."
"I know what the word is!" Granger hissed, her eyes now once again following the movement of his hand. "It's . . . big—I mean, I don't need any word of yours!"
"Liar," Lucius said, lazily pushing open his robes and unbuttoning his trousers as Granger backed into a bookcase, never once looking away. "I think you do need it, and badly. Funny, that," he continued, pulling his prick free of his smalls. "I would have thought that by now the Weasley boy would have shown you the dictionary."
Granger licked her lips but remained rigid and unmoving against the shelf.
"No? He's not a lover . . . of words, your Weasley?" Lucius asked, taking one step forward.
"Don't you . . . talk about . . . about Ronald . . . that way."
Lucius took another step forward, feeling rather smug to have reduced Granger to breathlessness with so little effort. "What would you prefer me to talk about?"
"Oh . . . oh just be quiet," Granger insisted, surprising Lucius by falling to her knees and swatting his hand away before seizing his prick and sucking it into her mouth.
There was an abrupt plop! as Granger pulled herself off his prick and looked up at him. "We could do that."
Lucius was shocked to hear it but recovered well, pushing the robes-hitching Granger into the bookcase behind them and thrusting himself into the most welcome, clenching heat he'd ever known.
Several books, disturbed by the rocking of the shelf, fell upon his head and shoulders, but Lucius didn't care. He kept pumping himself into the vise of Granger's body, marvelling at how enthusiastic and strangely uninhibited her response was.
Perhaps Potter owns a "dictionary," he thought, before all he could do was feel.
Triumph and pleasure—the feelings rushed through his body in wave after ecstatic wave. He was going to come. He was going to come inside a woman for the first time in almost a year!
There had been no awkward leave-taking with Granger; it had been more like an efficient drumming out. Disheveled and breathing heavily, his deflowered librarian had shoved Lucius away, summoned his book, and pointed at the stairs before taking herself off.
That had suited Lucius, who, never one to enjoy the afterglow, had almost immediately begun to feel, if not regret, then chagrin for his behaviour—and also the need to study, for he was certain he had just "repaired" his wand.
A quick survey of the text told him that he was correct: With any wand designed for the pure of heart, there were difficulties in store for a wielder who didn't "measure up." Those difficulties, it seemed, could be eased should the "wielder know himself to be accepted by an innocent, for this will resonate with the wand."
Lucius was so pleased by the effective "resonation" he'd achieved with Granger, as well as with Ronald Weasley's neglect of his fiancée, that he sent the ridiculously under-sexed boy a dictionary—after casting a spell that underlined every term relevant to pleasure and added a compulsion component to perform them. It was a hex he'd never made use of before, but it was with great relief that he cast it.
Of Wands and Wielders had revealed that, once a wand had attuned itself to its user, that user might cast whatever spell with it he chose.
His task completed, Lucius found himself sincere in his hope that Granger would finally know the joy of words on a regular basis—and that put him in mind of Narcissa.
A slow, feral smile overspread his features.
It's time to begin "taking my ease" at home.
Eleven months later, Lucius found himself tasked with holding his infant daughter, Druella, while his radiant wife, now having recovered her figure, slipped into yet another elegant gown in preparation of an upcoming charity gala. He hadn't much about which to complain; Narcissa was happy, his son, engaged—the Lovegood girl was a pureblood, at least—and both of his wands were in good working order. Still, Lucius found himself rather impatient to be playing nursemaid.
"There are house elves for this," he said to Narcissa, as she emerged from her closet wearing robes with which he was familiar.
Intimately familiar, he thought, forcing himself not to gape. "What did you do?"
Narcissa smiled. It was the brittle smile of her mother, a Black smile, a smile that carried with it the certainty that one was in complete command of oneself—and one's husband.
"Don't you mean 'Miss Granger'?" she asked, her smile transforming into a satisfied smirk.
"You . . . you did that to me. You did that. To. Me?" Lucius demanded, his voice furiously low.
He didn't wish to wake Druella, but he couldn't quite contain his rising anger.
"How dare you play with me like that? You're my—"
"Wife. Yes, so I'm aware, and no, I had nothing to do with your wand problems. I merely corrected them," Narcissa said, taking their daughter from Lucius. "I did give you the opportunity to do so first, of course."
"When did you know?"
Narcissa settled Druella into her cradle and turned to gaze at Lucius impatiently. "Do you really think that matters now?"
"Oh, almost at once, but it was a pleasure to see you struggle for so long. If you'd consulted me, I might have been moved to help you, but then you were never one to trust me with important matters, were you?"
Lucius allowed his clenched fists to relax; he'd grown used to seeing love in his wife's eyes, and throttling her seemed counter-productive to ever seeing it again. "I have apologized to you for accepting the Mark repeatedly, Narcissa. I had no idea what it would mean for us—for our family—when I took it."
"I know that, and, obviously, I've forgiven you. Didn't I cure you? Do we not now have our daughter? Aren't I wearing these scandalously snug robes?" Narcissa concluded, before grinning in a manner Lucius had rarely seen.
There. It's there again, he thought, relishing the light in his wife's eyes. "Narcissa, I'm . . . overwhelmed. I don't know what to say to you," he admitted, taking her into his arms.
"My darling, you have your wand back. You may as well make use of it. In fact," she continued, in between placing light kisses on his throat in a line that led up his jaw to his mouth, "I insist . . . that you . . . do."
"Oh, that feels—oh! Granger."
"What about Granger?" Narcissa snapped, her gaze hardening as she attempted to pull away.
Lucius didn't permit it, but he was hasty in his tale of what his actions had been in the wake of Narcissa's curative exercise in the Restricted Section.
It took some time for her to stop laughing.
"That would explain it, I suppose," she said, once she'd calmed herself.
"What would it explain?"
"Why the wedding is being moved up, of course. Luna was just telling me about it the other day."
Lucius snorted. Narcissa giggled. They held each other a bit more tightly, and then Lucius was pleased to feel the pad of his wife's thumb rubbing lightly over his prick.
"I never wish to speak of Granger again, my husband," she said, nipping his chin a bit too hard for a love bite, "and I believe you have a wand to wield—wield it now."
Lucius could find no reason to disobey his wife's welcome command.