Chapter 2:
The Lies That Lurk in Kisses


"Oh! Might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever."


"But green would look lovely on you, Draco,” Narcissa Malfoy insisted. Her hand, gentle but firm, lay on her only son’s broad shoulder, as the only son in question ran his fingers over a swatch of black cloth.

“Don’t kid me, mother,” Draco drawled coolly. “I understand you are upset, but my clothes have always been tailored black. I can not change loyalties on a woman’s whim – a lady’s whim,” he corrected, inclining his head slightly, as Narcissa looked most murderous.

“Honestly, Draco, one would think you have none of the Malfoy manners,” Narcissa hissed softly. “I tire of black.” Not that she had to wear it – it was Draco who always had and, now that she realized a little change might be good for him, he seemed to be bent upon having his own way. Not that he ever wasn't. “This is not the Dark Lord’s time, anymore, and I absolutely feel –”

“Mother!”

The word was sudden, his intonation sharp as it was not very often, and Narcissa fell silent. She had made a mistake there, she knew – it was, in his eyes, almost a crime to remind him of the Dark Lord’s days. He had been tortured more than once, and he had kept it from her – still thought she did not know. She never would have, either, if he had not, at rare times, talked long in his nightmares – and, when the black cloud had withered at Harry Potter’s hands, the Malfoys had been almost been reduced to nothing.

Reduced to nothing, but only in the eyes of the “good” lot – as far as the wider masses were concerned, the Malfoys still reigned supreme because they had the money and, when all is said and done, money makes the mare go. Every, single time.

“I only meant,” she tried again, after a moment, and this time her voice was calmer than it had previously been. “That perhaps you should... try to mingle in society. It would do you good, Draco.”

“Excuse me?” His tones were cool. “You know how large the Malfoy estate is – Father no longer looks after it, and if I spend my time in worthless company, we will be in rags before you can say the word ‘galleon.’” Money was important, to him. To her, too. Not more than each other, though - though he would never admit it.

Narcissa sighed. “Very well, Draco,” she said, drawing herself to her full height. There was a dignity about her; and, even when she trailed off in thought, as she did now, she was beautiful to look at. But then, she was a Black and to the Blacks, beauty came most naturally – it was no big deal. “I will leave you be, if that is what you want. Shop what you want to, but don't forget to return home in time. You have a meeting with the head of Greengrass Industries, at seven.”

Ah yes, he had nearly forgotten that. Mincent Greengrass was a man to be reckoned with, owner of the Greengrass Industries, a string of factories that produced some of the most well-designed cauldrons in the Wizarding World. Draco, who had only recently bought one of the Greengrass factories, wished to buy another – his eventual aim was to drive, with clever strategy, Mincent out of the wider market, but the man need not know that. Need - and would - not suspect that, either.

“Do not worry about me, mother,” he said smoothly, flattening out a crease in his robes. “I will be in time for the... meeting.” He seemed to savour the word, and Narcissa looked up sharply at his intonation – but her son had turned away and, with a sharp glance at his back, she withdrew from the shop, her shawls of gold tassels wrapped protectively around her slender frame.

Once alone in the shop, Draco stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He had yet to work out a strategy to overwhelm Mincent into selling off his new factory – there was the Imperius Curse, but Draco would not stoop to that, not (at least) where business was concerned. He stood there, a slight frown on his face, until a tall saleswitch with bright green eyes and red hair came up to him, and placed a hand on his chest.

“You asked for the black coat, Mr. Malfoy,” she said in a voice that could - for a lack of a better word - only be labelled intoxicating.

“What are you doing?” Draco raised an eyebrow, and pushed her away. “Don’t touch me, woman.” There was something insolent, even mocking, about his tones - it was as if he believed that no woman on Planet Earth could resist him; and he probably did believe that - but she only grinned and, lifting both hands, placed them on his shoulders - one hand, on each. The world seemed to tilt, then, and Draco saw her eyes as if in a dream, almond-shaped and deep, dark green, alight with fire and beauty.

“Do you want the black coat, Mr. Malfoy?” she purred, stepping closer.

His vision was blurred, a thick, concentrated sort of unreality, and he noticed, as if in a dream, that her robe was pale, pale green, its hem woven with cords of gold that were pretty to look at; and the cuffs long, flowing cloth stitched with deep emeralds. “Get... away...” he managed to splutter, but she only pulled him closer to herself, leaned against his chest; and kissed him, full on the lips.

Stacked in neat folds, the cloth in the shop carried its own, special scent, and the effect of it seemed to multiply tenfold, now. It rose, swathed the air, until he felt it explode into sound that filled his ears and mind and heart, washed over him in waves of delicious music, the rhythmic, living tunes of the sweet birds he could listen to in the gardens of the Manor.

The kiss felt like fire, or the scorching sun, but it was delicious, almost intoxicating. The world titled once more, and Draco grabbed the saleswitch by the shoulders, and kissed her back. She did not let go of him either, and the heat and the scent became dizzying to the point where they were unbearable, but he could not let go - he must kiss her, it felt good, too good; and not just that -- he felt like his life depended on this moment, like he would collapse if he let go.

The saleswitch stepped away. “Sweet dreams, Master Malfoy,” she said softly, very softly. “You were too easy.”

He did not hear her. He only heard the growing melody of the birds, the unbearable heat of the shop, and then the world swam in front of his eyes like the remains of an old memory he could not grasp at, and he crashed to the ground, sweat dribbling down his forehead.

*

[] References:

+ "What lies lurk in kisses." - Heinrich Heine.

+ "Oh! Might I kiss those eyes of fire -" - Lord Byron, Imitated from Catullus; to Ellen.