"Good evening, Lord and Lady Parkinson."

(He greets them in the most humble voice he can manage, which is saying little for Lucius Malfoy. He still is able to sound gracious, however, and without his pretty but dull-minded wife clutching his arm, he appears languid and relaxed. Everything, from his manner to his elegant dressrobes, exclaims "prowling jungle cat".)

"I am pleased that you could attend."

(And he can tell from their slightly frenetic and overly-done show of fawning in response that they are pleased as well, grateful for the tolerance displayed in regard to their daughter, uncomfortably relieved that they haven't been shunned on account of their only child and her attitude towards the youngest Malfoy.)

"Ah. And Miss Parkinson. Also delighted."

(Her parents take this as their cue to leave, possibly to make room for Lucius Malfoy to give Pansy a sound tongue-lashing in the way that she probably desperately needed. They shuffle off, leaving their dark-haired, oddling-eyed daughter in Lucius' faux-annoyed, slippery wake. She curtseys, bowing her head respectfully so that the tiny diamond barrett in her hair catches the light and glints.)

"Charmed, Mr. Malfoy."

(This is something she says like he's a book she's been reading for years, over and over again. The jokes are the same and she's memorized every punch-line, but she laughs anyway, and her eyes sparkle like baby-blue oceans with chocolate-dark centers.)

"That is quite a lovely ensemble you are wearing."

(He knows that she knows why he says this. She is wearing a two piece gown, shimmery blue-green like the sea; it bears a scant portion of her midriff, the tiny belly-button ring shining on her taught stomach. The dress is made of a gauze that changes hue with the shifting light, overlaying the blue satin body. It is a beautiful dress and it makes her look ethereal. No courteous man could help but place a compliment on her attire; but Lucius only paid the compliment because it was due and it was gentlemanly of him; because he knew that all he really wanted to say is in his eyes, smoldering, just waiting to lock her gaze. But she tempts him further:—)

"I only wear the finest to your soirees, Sir."

(And now her eyes were glittering with her own devilishness; a sly smile slices her lips, and they shimmer like petals of garnet in the light. He's torn between memorizing every fractal of this image and laying a gloved hand to make crimson her cheek. Instead, he leans close, brushes his lips against her ear, and whispers:)

"You know how I hate satin."

(And, because at the moment no one is looking, he lets his left hand slip deftly to her waist; he tugs on the ring, and then presses his fingers to her hip. He feels her shiver, only so slightly, and he smells at once the excitement that pools under her skin, hears at once how her breath and heartbeat quicken.)

"I do."

(Her breathing slows to a stop as his hand is brought upwards to cradle the side of her neck, fingering the small silver, diamond-encrusted chain there. And she remembers how she used to come to the manner and go with Draco to his room, how when Draco threw her on the bed, kissing her roughly, she stared up at the ceiling and knew somehow that he was watching.)

"Do you wish to anger me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

(But she does dream— did. Before her fantasies became real. She dreamt of him, sizzling and heated, burrowing his anger into her alongside his love, like a double-edged sword.)

"Oh, but I think that you do."

(His breath is hot on her neck, and already he is imaging her, naked, pearly flesh lit by moonlight, perfect breasts expectant as she lies on the bed, the silver jewelry glinting on her head and around her throat.)

"I happen to like satin."

(This is a lie, she hates it just as much as he does. It is only half luxurious: it looks smooth and shiny but scratches her skin and makes her uncomfortable. She hates the way everyone complements her, how she looks like a goddess in satin, when she knows that she looks better without it, better without anything at all. . . .)

"How unfortunate. It should be silk or nothing."

(And now her devilish smile is mirrored in his own face, but not on his lips: in his eyes. Cold and silver-grey, they now gleam ferally, sparkle like precious gems, emanate with their own mischievous light.)

"I suppose it will just have to be nothing, then."

(And he murmurs again how much he hates satin, and she purrs in agreement, because the only thing she likes about satin is how eager it makes him to rip it off her.)

A/N: It's just something I wanted to try. Hope it turned out well enough.