Well, here it is. Sorry about the delay. Know that I am also working on The Radiant right now, but this took precedence, as so many of you really, really want this pairing! (I had fun writing it, but I'm not sure that this pairing could sustain itself for something long term.) Anyway, here you are, you deviants. It's shorter than Pt 1, but it could probably stand alone. Read Pt 1 to know the slight back story, and to know where Draco is during this whole debacle.

He noticed her hair, firstly—long and hot blonde and falling in light waves, right down the spine of her back.

He was reminded of Narcissa, and yet he wasn't.

He was reminded of himself, and then he wasn't.

He stood at the edge of the fire, and around him was a maelstrom of activity—the pale flurry of limbs, the toss of hair, the smell of green and sweat, but he stood in the centre of it like the eye of a storm, tall and firm and sinewy. He didn't dance. He didn't sweat. He simply watched.

He was on this land because he had sponsored this land, had handed money hand over fist to the bumbling, idiotic government, and so here he was, amidst people far younger than him, far lither than him.

But he wanted to participate.

And so he participated—plaited his hair back and then wound the telling white-gold of it up under a swath of material, covered his eyes with a wide facemask, left his house only in a loose pair of cotton pants and a looser cotton shirt.

He would never admit to anyone that he enjoyed being barefoot, that the soles of his feet luxuriated in the cool emerald of the damp grass.


Lucius Malfoy stretched, cat-like, his arms held up over his head, fingers interlaced tightly. He felt the ligaments between his ribs extend, his spine lengthen and elongate. He savoured each tight crack of his vertebrae.

She was standing at the edge of the fire, and he was struck with how close the hem of her skirt was to the flames, the material hovering so near to the sparks that he was momentarily afraid that she would ignite, brighten up into incandescence.

He could almost see the sparks at the ends of her hair.

She was willowy, tall, fragile-looking, and for a moment Lucius saw Narcissa standing there—except Narcissa would have had her arms crossed over her chest, her chin tilted downward, her eyes surveying everyone and everything with an alarming awareness. Narcissa had been like a bird. This woman was not so—she was observing, but with a dreamier air, something softer than Narcissa had ever been.

He became flesh hungry.

If the young women around him knew who he was, they would have been all over him, their hands brushing across his chest, his thighs, their breasts pressing into his back as they hissed into his ear. But he was anonymous for the night, the telltale mane of hair hidden, the fading tattoo hidden beneath the long-sleeved shirt. And so he would have to pick his own entertainment for the night, and he wanted her. He wanted to run fingers through the blonde pubic hair that sat soft between her legs, wanted to smell her.

He would take her there, in public, for everyone to see—if need be. Everyone would be lucky to see them, two inverse shadows of each other, white hot and light and long and beautiful. He could grab her by the slender neck, pin her if he needed to, make marbled fingerprint bruises across her throat as he held her beneath him, held her to take his thrusts.

She stood with her back to him, hadn't noticed him—but he would make her notice.

Lucius moved, stepped up behind her, silent and swift. He stood close enough behind her that she would be able to feel the radiating heat of him in just a few minutes, but far enough behind her that it would take her just that amount of time to realise that he was there. It was a gross invasion of her personal space. It was delicious.

He stood behind her silently and he saw her move, just slightly, turning her head to the right by an incremental amount, and in that moment he knew that she knew he was there. Maybe she could smell him—salty, aroused—and he exhaled purposefully, bathing the back of her neck with his warm breath.

The nape of her neck was pale, her hair pulled over one shoulder, and the skin glowed luminescent in the light of the fire. When he breathed on her he saw the little light hairs along her hairline stir softly, and then her skin reacted, rising up in goosebumps, and he had the urge to swipe his tongue across the crenellated skin.

And so he did.

She only exhaled quietly.

Lucius was partly intrigued and partly offended at her less-than-stellar reaction. So he wrapped hard arms around her slender waist in one silent and swift movement, pulling her the remaining distance back to his body.

She didn't react.

She didn't even jump, didn't move, didn't try to bat him away—he was surprised at this, and it made him harder as he realised that maybe she would be willing.

She was still staring ahead, but he felt the length of her fingers feel along the skin of his forearms, pulling lightly at the hairs there, as though she were probing at him, trying to figure out who he was from just this one touch. Her skin was hot beneath the clothing of her shirt, her skirt, and she was so slender that he was sure he would be able to snap her in half if needed.

He stepped back, and he moved with him. He stepped back again, and she moved with him. She still looked ahead, but she laughed, and it was a sound that he knew and that he didn't know—something light and airy and also old.

He was reminded of Narcissa, and yet he wasn't.

He wondered if she could smell him, smell something on him, because she wasn't fighting, seemed to be acquiescing despite not even looking back to see his face. She didn't seem like the wanton type—had only been standing at the edge of the fire, surveying quietly. He had watched her gently shake off prospective mates, men who had wanted to dance with her.

He wondered what it was about him that was taming her.

She suddenly pulled sharply on his arm hair.

Or maybe not taming her.

Lucius hissed and dug his fingernails into her stomach and hips, taking four more steps backward, bringing them directly to the edge of the woods. She moved pliantly with him, her feet not quite matching his movements, and when he had brought them to the line of the trees, he made his move.

He turned her around, pressing her into his body, his large hands coming down to palm her buttocks—not rough enough to be boorish, but strong enough to be proprietary and to communicate his intent.

She was pretty below the mask—a full set of pale lips, a defined and angular chin, clear and incandescent skin. She appeared unaffected but for the galloping pulse point that he could see in the long and swan-like column of her neck, and as Lucius tracked his eyes across what little of her face he could see, her tongue flicked out—nearly nervously—and wet the centre of her bottom lip.

He wanted to use the length of his fingers to grab at her chin and tilt her head back to examine her more thoroughly, even to run a finger inside her lips, trace along the edges of her teeth.

He would allow her this one chance.

Lucius grabbed at her chin and pulled her face to look at his own eyes. He dipped a thumb pad into her mouth, could nearly taste her own saliva on his tongue, and he watched as her pupils dilated just that touch of too much—from fear? From arousal? He would soon be able to tell.

"Yes—or no?"

His words were gravelly in the thick hot of the night, his voice low with want. He usually never gave women choices—he took what he wanted, and most of the time the women he wanted were completely and pliably willing. If they weren't, they became so by the time he was done with them. He was shocked at himself for even allowing her a chance to get away.

She looked at him for a long moment, the darkness of her pupils haunting and sweet and deep, and he became so hard he wanted to interrupt her silence.

Then she brought her own hand up to his throat, cupping under his chin with the last three fingers of her right hand, pressing her thumb into the muscles of his own neck. He was surprised at her audacity, despite her not having spoken a single word to him yet.

And then she did open her mouth, her thumb still pressing almost uncomfortably into his pulse, her lips shining in the night light.


Lucius barely had time to register that he seemed to know her voice, light and high and syrupy, before she leaned forward, pulling at his neck at the same time, and kissed him.

She kissed harder than he had expected, slipping her tongue deftly into his mouth.

He wouldn't be overcome by a slip of a girl, and so he grabbed harder at her buttocks, relishing the slightness of her ass under his heated palms, yanking her hips into his body, pressing the now-hard length of his arousal into her soft body.

She didn't make a sound, but instead exhaled into his mouth.

He pushed her to the ground.

How he must have looked in that one moment—the light from the fire sparking behind him in the distance, his legs strongly apart, his hands planted firm on his hips, looking down—tall and sinewy—at her awkwardly sprawled body, her legs bent at odd angles, her body resting on her elbows.

She was looking up at him—not afraid, but discerning, and that was when he broke his Viking-like stance and came down over her, winding a strong hand in her hair, tilting her head back even as he held her pinned to the ground.

She inhaled sharply as he settled between her legs, webbed together as they were by the stretched material of her skirt. Lucius sucked hard at her neck as he began a rough rocking motion, grinding his pant-covered erection right between her legs.

He was methodical, exacting in his mock-thrusts. He could feel the heat of her even through the material of his pants, of her thin skirt. And something must have awakened in her—something primal in nature—because she tilted her hips up before she could even say anything, her body reacting to his.

He laughed harshly against the delicate skin of her neck, relishing in the bruises he was creating there, and he continued his grinding motion.

When Lucius detached from her neck, it looked almost as though she had been beaten, grabbed by the throat. He had made his mark up and down her creamy skin, even bitten her in some places, and she had gasped the whole time, her fingers dug into his shoulders.

But he wanted more—more of her taste. And he didn't usually bother—not with his one-night stands—but he wanted to—

He reared up and moved down her body, and in one quick movement grabbed her hips, holding them to the ground, running palms up beneath her skirt, feeling for—

"Nothing," he said lowly and then smiled almost smugly up at her, his hands still grasping onto her bare hips.

She had a look on her face that was thoughtful—it was nearly as though she was about to speak to him, but then he roughly bunched her skirt up around her waist, and lowered his face between her legs without any preamble.

His hands knifed inside her thighs, forcing them open as he grunted happily at the taste of her. She was saline, real—Lucius slathered his tongue back and forth across her clitoris, looked up at her in the darkness to see her reactions.

She had propped herself up on her elbows, was staring down at him, her mouth damp and open, and even in the quasi-dark he could see the flush staining its way across her cheeks, the way her chest was heaving softly.

He curled his fingers into her soft and slim thighs, sliding his tongue inside of her, inhaling her scent. She was breathing in deep pulls, and as he slid his tongue back out of her and layered it across her clitoris again, she reached a hand down to grab at his head, tilted her hips up towards his face.

He liked the taste of her—she tasted young, and good, and Lucius realised that it had been a long, long time since he had so enjoyed going down on a woman as he was enjoying it now—the soft crenellations of her, the deep smell of her, the sensation of her wetness thick across his tongue. He almost made a sound of pleasure as he licked at her, but stopped himself in time.

He didn't like to show his own arousal—it seemed like weakness.

He didn't let her come. He pulled back, knowing how frustrating it was for her, but he had only just wanted to taste her.

Before she could say anything, he had pulled his pants down just enough to free his cock, had tugged her shirt down just enough to show her nipples, and was positioned over her, pinning her slight form to the ground with his big body.

They met eyes briefly, and then he moved forward firmly, his jaw almost dropping at the tightness of her.

She shivered below him.

"You always took what you want," she whispered into his ear, and his brow dove as he frowned, as he realised that she was speaking as though she knew him.

Before he could question her, she did a most unexpected thing.

She reached up and undid the cloth holding his hair in place, pulling open the plait so suddenly that he didn't even notice—dug her long fingers into the mass of creamy white gold before he could yank her hand away. She sighed softly as the curtain of blond fell about their faces, the smell of his hair male and not quite dirty but deep and unique.

He was shocked at her audacity, at the feeling of her delicate fingertips delving through the mass of his hair, feathering across his scalp, each finger like a separate antennae of sorts.

Lucius realised that he had just been unmasked, essentially—his hair was so unique and so telling and that was why he was so vainglorious when it came to it—and so when her fingertips slid underneath his real mask to lift it off of his face, he snapped at her fingers with his sharp teeth but didn't punish her in any other way, knowing that she would have already guessed his identity.

He wanted to slap her for unbinding his hair, but his eyes were already dropping halfway at the firm way she was kneading his scalp, scraping fingernails over the hot skin. He shuddered slightly—not enough for her to notice, but enough.

So he brought his hands up her body, intent on unmasking her and seeing her true identity, but before he could, she beat him to it, slipped her fingers under her eye mask, pulled it off.

Lucius looked down at Luna Lovegood, and realised that he hadn't seen her in almost ten years.

It was as though a flash of some sort of bright light hit him all at once—he could see her in his mind's eye, that little pale smear of a girl, like a brush-stroke of watercolour, that light and upturned face. He always thought that she looked like Draco, had once wondered what kind of children the two of them would produce if they ever were together. During the war, she had become a Valkyrie, that white hair whipping around her head like his own hair, that wand held uncompromisingly, steadfastly. She fought against his sister-in-law, held her own against Bellatrix—Lucius had been amazed even in his battered state, even then.

But he hadn't seen her for years—he was amazed that he even recognised her—and he found that there was something unmistakable in her features, that even with years between the last time he had laid eyes on her and now, there was still something essentially her across the patterns of her face.

She had lantern eyes.

They didn't speak—Lucius for his slight shock, and Luna because she was smiling slightly up at him, those silver eyes scanning his face contentedly.

He recovered enough to realise that he was still completely inside of her, and that she was still as wet as she had been before—she wasn't alarmed or trying to push him off of her, and that made him believe that perhaps she had been aware of his identity far before he had her own identity pegged.

That irked him, made a sort of anger burble up inside of him, through the length of his cock, up the cords of his neck.

No words were exchanged in the moments where Lucius made his decision, chose to keep his cock in her—not that there had been any real back and forth in his head, not that he had really considered pulling out of that sateen tightness between her legs. She was so hot. She was scalding him, hot and tight and wet, and he wasn't going to let any shred of decency get into the way of him and that tightness. He didn't care a damned whit that she was young enough to be his daughter, that it was probably more appropriate for his son to be deep inside of her, ploughing her through the tall grass.

Lucius Malfoy held Luna Lovegood by the throat, and thrust deep into her again.

His hold was strong enough to keep her stationary under his hips, and so her body was made to accept his movement, and she reacted instinctively, curling her neck, tilting her head back, and then—then she surprised him by winding her arms around his neck, coiling those thin fingers in the pride and joy of his hair.

He grunted in response, not bothering to yank her arms off of him. Usually the missionary position irked him because of its closeness, its forced intimacy, but with her it was intense, erotic. She was staring at him steadfastly, her eyes unblinking.

He liked the intensity of her stare—he had used that stare, too, glaring down Death Eaters, terrorising—

Lucius slid his hands under her back, curling his fingers over her shoulders from underneath her body, holding her firmly in place for his brutal thrusts. He was amazed that her slender body didn't break, that she could take the cruel power behind his movements, that she could accept all of him into her—every last inch, every part—without even grimacing, with her hands still wound into his hair.

It was amazing—that he felt more like an animal with this little light slip of a girl than he had felt in years, that she was the one hooking her legs up around his hips and wordlessly encouraging him to go deeper, and that he was so hard he knew that when he came it was going to drain him completely.

She slid a hand from around his neck to trace down the flat and thick muscles of his back, down the sacral spin, across the tops of the globes of his ass, and her fingers came to rest between the buttocks, almost teasing him with a seeming deviance.

He retaliated, slid one of his own hands between the tight wedge of their bodies, used their combined sweat to help ease his way, slipped his fingers between her labia, manipulated her clitoris until her airy veneer was cracked and she was making a yelping sound below him, gasping, digging her fingernails into the meat of his buttocks.

In his head, Lucius was yelling at her to come, to come, chanting a sort of mantra—come, come, come, come—because he wasn't going to last much longer, and so his finger movements became more desperate, more erratic, and with the last jagged motion of his pointer finger she cracked open completely, tossing her head back and letting out a completely animalistic and unreal sound—not like he had heard her make before, not in her usual mellifluous tone of voice. She almost snarled up to the sky, and when she looked back at him, the narrow look of want in her eyes was enough.

Lucius held himself inside of her and came in thick, warm spurts. He didn't want to pull out—this fucking had deserved a hot and cradled ending, and so he came inside of her and hoped that she was on some form of birth control and then shuddered as his entire body tensed and flexed with the power of his orgasm.

He always tried to keep silent during orgasm. He turned his face to the dirt so that she would not hear his muffled and choked bays.

He didn't allow himself to fall onto her, but she kept her legs locked around his waist, her hands running through his hair in large, firm strokes, and it felt so good that Lucius didn't detach and get off of her as he might have with another woman. Instead, he rested his weight on his forearms above her and let her touch him, savouring the feel of her hands on his head and the wetness between her legs.

Eventually her hands slowed and he moved out of her with a slight exhalation of breath. As he sat back onto his heels, he looked at her bent and open legs, the way she still propped herself with her elbows, the smile on her mouth and the quietness of her eyes. He felt a calm knowing that his semen was somewhere deep inside of her, and that feeling surprised him.

Lucius pulled his pants on fluidly, re-braiding his hair and hiding it again, slipping the mask onto his face.

"Do you need help?" He spoke the words carefully, surprised that he actually meant them, but she shook her head gracefully, looking as though she was laughing at him, and for some reason that made him smile.

"Go back to the party," she said, her voice so sweet he could taste the viscosity of it, and he looked down at her for a moment before inclining his head slightly.

As he turned to leave he thought that he quite liked the taste of Luna Lovegood.