He refuses to be ignored, doesn't he? Lucius, that is. So here he is, refusing to be ignored.

This one's a little different. This one's very naughty. Lucius is very naughty indeed. If you're looking for redeemed Lucius, you won't find him here, although I will allow him a touch of ambiguity from time to time. But, no, this is a Lucius who likes to manipulate and plot and taunt and take. This is Bad Lucius. This is supremely Arrogant Lucius. And this is very, very Sexy Lucius.

I've written it from his point of view. It's almost stream of consciousness.

A little background: It takes a slightly warped time frame. Hermione and Ron are imprisoned in Malfoy Manor while the Dark Lord uses it for his purposes. Now, this may be a variation of what happened in Deathly Hallows, or you can see it more as an AU where Voldemort's powers have lasted longer than that time frame allowed and Ron and Hermione have somehow been captured. Warning: Lucius really isn't very nice to Ron here.

Now look here, my dears. After you've read this, pop over to Amazon and search for the other me, DEMELZA HART. If you buy my book 'Spontaneous' - and then if you're extra nice and write a review - I'll be so pleased that I'll update incredibly frequently. Yes. I've resorted to bribery and corruption, but who cares. It's a tough world out there, the world of publishing, and you're the people who know me best. Trust me, you won't regret it. It's a stonkingly hot read. And the main man is oh so similar to a few men we know all too well. Yours for only 49p or 78 cents. Straight to your Kindle, phone, PC or tablet. THANK YOU! Mwa mwa!

And now ... over to Lucius. Watch out. Gird your loins. LL x

It's a wonderful thing, magic.

One can use it to contrive the most delightful situations. For example, picture the scene:

I have in my – how to put it? protection, shall we say – two people, a man and a woman. You may know them. They are associates of that mewling spawn, Potter. They're currently being held at the Dark Lord's pleasure. In my house. In my dungeons. (Yes, I have dungeons. They tend not to be advertised. People are more interested in the Queen Anne furniture and Jacobean tracery, but yes, we have dungeons. And they do come in handy on occasion. Now is one such occasion.)

The man is in one cell, the woman in another, adjacent, separated by a wall. Now, depending on the enchantment to each individual, this wall can be perceived as solid stone or glass, and it can be rendered sound-proofed or not, according to the individual's … requirements.

Do you see what I'm getting at? Rather fun, don't you think?

I have engineered it so that the woman believes she is simply in a cell of four thick stone walls. She can neither see nor hear anything in the adjacent cell.

The man, on the other hand, can see and hear everything going on in her cell, yet he cannot touch or move through the barrier. It feels like glass to him, clear, flat, hard and cold. But he can hear through it – every sound and whisper and murmur she makes.

And as for me? I can see what I want, when I want. For now, I have entranced it so that I can see and hear into either cell. Say, for example, I was to somehow find myself in the girl's cell, I would be able to see the man beyond. If in the man's cell, I can likewise see and hear everything.

Why, you ask? Allow me to tell you.

I find myself faced with a dilemma. A quandary. Yet one which provides its own solution, and certainly its own satisfaction.

They have been prisoners here for three weeks, nearly four, I lose track. We have been told to bide our time, to keep them alive, to keep them coherent. Why, I have asked myself frequently. After all, what are they to us? It is not them we seek, but him – Potter – the half-blood runt. Instead we have him, Weasley, a befreckled flea and … her. Granger. Muggle-born. (You see how I become tolerant in my old age? I haven't used the other term in a while. I impress even myself.)

But she is the quandary.

Damn her.

It happened almost immediately, and came as something of a shock, I admit.

I noticed her.

She drew my eye. Not deliberately. No. She lacks the self-awareness for that.

Damn her.

If she were more self-aware, more imbued with the self-conscious arrogance of youth, I may not be presented with this predicament. But she is so entirely unencumbered by vanity. Never have I seen someone so effortlessly at ease with their own being and place in the world.

Damn her.

She draws my eye. After all, there is little else of any interest to draw it at the moment. My wife … no. Her withdrawal of affection is unequivocal, and I have humored her by withdrawing mine.

But one does have needs, and one does have urges.

And my urge, currently, is Granger.

I want her.

And I will have her.

Surprising, you may say. A Pureblood desiring a Mudblood. (Oh, a slip – forgive me. Old habits die hard.)

I confess to finding it disturbing. But she is so very … unaware. Unaware of her own beauty – yes, even her … especially her.

Unaware of me.

As of yet.

That will change. Of course.

Why not simply take her, I hear you say. Force myself on her. She is already bound within magical wards. I admit, it would be easy enough.

Yet that does not appeal. I have never been one for violence. Too messy. In any case, victory will be so much sweeter if there is complete capitulation. Beyond capitulation: if she desires me. If she wants me, cries out for me, begs for me.

And he will watch, of course. She won't know, but he will watch. He will watch her shame. And his. (You see where the magic of the wall comes in? Such fun.)

They are kept separately, taunted with the occasional glimpse, tormented by the occasional curse and sound of pain. Not inflicted by me. No. Like I said, violence does not appeal. But there are plenty more who are more than willing to humour the Dark Lord. I prefer to remain out of earshot at those times. I concede its efficacy, but admit to finding physical torture distasteful. I have never been one to derive pleasure from it. Not from that. And torture can be exacted in different ways, after all. Mental torment … now that can be very useful. And pleasure can be found in so many different ways, after all.

Pleasure with her … that is my current preoccupation. I want it. I want her. But how to ensure her compliance? Seduction will be difficult, one would think, given the circumstances.

But I begin anyway.

I notice she has not eaten for over a day. Her food is returned intact. Stubbornness, I assume. I have a plan. I have acquired some strawberries. Big, fat, ripe and red, their juices fit to burst out. I put them on a plate and make my way down to the dungeons. To her cell. Weasley, the worm, is next door. He will see.

I knock. (After all, one must remember one's manners.)

There is, predictably, no reply. It matters not. I go in anyway.

She is sitting, slumped, her hair hanging over her face. Her long legs are curled under her but when I enter she is startled and stretches them out as she looks round. Her eyes are cold with loathing. When thinking of what is to come, I find it stupendously erotic.

'Miss Granger,' – politeness appeals to her, I imagine – 'I notice you are not eating.'

No response. She turns away.

I approach with the plate of strawberries and place them in her line of vision. She refuses to look at them.

'Miss Granger, you must eat.'

She does not turn round. Her stubbornness is at once infuriating and enthralling.

'Come. Try some.'

'Not from you.' Words at last. Her voice oozes hatred. My cock stirs.

'I wish to ensure you eat.'

'Why?'

'It is in my interest to maintain your well-being, clearly, but also …' I let the phrase dangle there deliberately, tempting her curiosity. It works. She turns a furtive gaze on me. 'I do not like to see a fellow human suffering.' Oh, I am good.

She sneers. 'I didn't think you considered me a fellow human.'

Partly true, I concede, but feign otherwise with an overly concerned furrow of the brows and a slight catch of the tip of my tongue on my teeth. So sensual, I find. 'Miss Granger … of course I do. What do you take me for?'

'A duplicitous, prejudiced murderous Death Eater.'

'But not a monster?' I query with a touch of vulnerable hesitation.

She shoots me a glare. 'The monstrous can be well-hidden.'

'Well-hidden? How do you mean?'

'I mean that it can lurk beneath an otherwise attractive exterior.' Ooh, progress. I confess to being a little surprised. I thought my associations would have dulled my obvious physical attributes in her eyes. Apparently not. I allow myself a little glow of pride.

'An attractive exterior? Are you referring to me, Miss Granger? I'm flattered.'

'I meant … I didn't say that … you were … I just meant …' She gives up, flustered. How delicious.

The conversation has enthralled me so I have almost forgotten Weasley. I look around. He is sitting with his back to us, leaning against his wall, which I, and he, see as glass. I give him a little smirk. He turns away with a sneer, and I focus back on his woman.

I pick up the plate and hold it out to her. 'Come now. Look how ripe and succulent these are. How can anyone resist? Just a little bite.'

I take the reddest, roundest strawberry I can find and hold it before her. She tries to ignore it, to turn away, but I note her eyes dart briefly to it.

'So good, isn't it? After all that endless bland, tasteless nothingness … just one little bite. Think of it. Think of how your taste buds will explode, your mouth will revel in the tangy sweetness – think how the juice will soothe and coat your dry throat. Hmm …?'

She glances again, her eyes now fixed on the fruit. And then the clincher. Her tongue – oh, that tongue – darts out to dampen her lips. I am as hard as rock but impress myself with my cool exterior.

I edge it closer. 'Come on … come on … open, just a little …' I open my own mouth in an attempt to induce hers to do the same.

It works. She opens and the strawberry nudges her lips. I press further, and her lips part around it, as plump and ruddy as the strawberry itself. I'm hypnotised by the sight but manage to keep myself in check. I allow myself a slight curl of a smile as I feel the fruit push further in, until her teeth rest around the tip.

'A little bite, Miss Granger.'

She looks at me, briefly, her eyes heavy with capitulation, and her neat little teeth sink through the firm flesh, breaking through. I feel the leak of anticipation oozing from my rigid cock and suck in a breath. When she has bitten down fully, I pull the fruit back. A little dribble of juice sits at the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, I lift a finger and catch it. I hesitate, then edge it towards her lips. To my surprise and glee, she opens. I slip the finger in. Her tongue flits along my finger, firm wet warmth. My smile deepens. I do not withdraw my finger. And then, suddenly and with complete equanimity, she closes her mouth around it and sucks.

Oh sweet, sweet bliss.

My finger is absorbed into the wet nest of her mouth, her cheeks pull in around it and her tongue twists about it. Has she forgotten herself? It doesn't matter. I want it to go on. I cannot remember a moment of such sensual perfection.

But then she seems to come to her senses. Her eyes, which have closed in concentration, dart open and she pulls back, opening her mouth and relinquishing her hold on me.

'You are hungry, it would seem, Miss Granger.' My voice cannot entirely hide my wonder at what has just transpired. Every inch of my body craves her. But I'll wait.

I must wait. The art of seduction – especially under these circumstances – is a precise and patient one. That is enough for today.

I place the bowl of strawberries before her. She has turned from me again. With my finger still damp from her sucking, I leave her, locking the door behind me.

But I don't go far. I turn to the left and let myself into the cell next door. Weasley is sitting slumped with his back on the glass separating him from her. I can see her beyond, eating the strawberries slowly and delectably.

'Mr Weasley,' I say, as if greeting an old friend. Ha! The irony!

'Don't fucking call me that.'

'Very well … Worm. Is that better?'

He practically snarls at me.

'Worm … yes, I like that. It has a particularly base quality about it, both in meaning and sound, don't you think? It suits you very well.'

He attempts to spit at me but it doesn't reach. He is prevented from attack by invisible bonds and wards. The glob lands a few feet before me. I come closer, nimbly avoiding it.

'Anyway, Worm, I'm sure you saw that little interchange between Hermione and me. She is a hungry girl, indeed. Once she had my finger she latched onto it and sucked for dear life. I can feel it now.' I hold up the finger and study it. 'Her lips pulled in tight, her tongue … oh, her tongue … what a little slut she could be – firm, agile, wrapping her way around me. Gods, I can imagine only one thing, of course: what it will be like when she has that succulent mouth of hers wrapped around my cock. Perhaps you can tell me?' I kneel down beside him and query insistently. 'Does she – how does one say in common parlance? – give good head? Does she love going down on a man? Is she a good little cock sucker?'

Surely he'll try for me again, but he manages to rail in his fury and turns away.

'Hmm, Worm? No answer? Then I assume you don't know. Have no fear. When she sucks me off, I'll ensure you have front row seats. You'll find out then.'

And I leave him.

So there we have it. Plenty more where that came from. And it just gets ... well, you can imagine. My mind works in - quite frankly - filthy ways. Don't forget the goodies by Demelza Hart. After all, it's nearly Christmas. You deserve some treats. More very soon. Don't forget to join me on facebook - Laurielove. I'm so excited about this one and getting inside Lucius' wicked mind! LL x