The Princess and the Psychopath

“And if you want another kind of love, I'll wear a mask for you… ”—Leonard Cohen, I'm Your Man

“Gimme that, Parkinson.”

“Sod off, Malfoy.”

Pansy Parkinson was not supposed to say things like that to Draco Malfoy. Since they had been eleven years old, it had been quite clear to them that one day they would have to get married, because they were both from very respectable, rich families, and worthy only of each other.

The problem was that she had no desire to marry him. Even now, after they had graduated from school and she was now expected to become Mrs. Draco Malfoy, she couldn't quite make herself go through with it.

It wasn't just her, either. Draco didn't want the marriage anymore than she did, but they could find no honorable way out of the informal arrangement that had existed between their families for years. Deciding to try and make their friendship into something more, they had agreed to spend time together, but that was not turning out as planned. Snogging hadn't gone well as both felt as if they were kissing a sibling, and when they tried to skip straight to the shagging by taking off each other's clothes, they hadn't been able to get past undoing a few buttons.

So that was how they came to be sharing a flask of firewhiskey in the library at Malfoy Manor staring morosely into the fire. “Look, Pansy,” Draco said, sighing as he watched her tip the flask enviously, “let's get one thing straight. We're going to have to get married eventually, right?”

“Right,” Pansy said, nodding emphatically and handing handed the flask to Malfoy. “Our parents would be horrified if we didn't.”

He accepted the silver flask and took a pull of the liquor—well, perhaps sip was a better description. “So we just have to find some way to get over this unfortunate lack of attraction problem.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes, words slurred. “I mean, I don' get it, Pans. You're lovely. Why can' I want you?”

Pansy stared at the fire, thinking. “Dunno, Draco. You're a right handsome bloke, but kissing you is about as exciting as History of Magic.”

He snorted. “This isn't good, Pans.” He handed the flask back to her with a dramatic sigh.

She was sprawled on a chair, legs bent over the side and swinging idly as she sipped more of the vile substance. “Maybe we could jus' get married an not have any kids,” she suggested helpfully.

Draco shot her an unfriendly look. “I don' bloody think so,” he growled. “Don' think m'father would like it if I were to marry without furthering the Malfoy line ,” he said in a chilly tone reminiscent of the elder Malfoy.

“He's in Azkaban, Draco,” Pansy reminded him.

Draco snorted and passed the flask back. “Not for long.”

“Tha's wha' you said a year ago,” she reminded him, taking another drink of the whiskey. It was horrid tasting and incredibly vile, but drinking it warmed that cold pit in her stomach that had formed when Draco had laughed when she'd tried to unbutton his shirt. No, she thought, taking another swig and wincing. He'd giggled .

“I hear things,” Draco said, trying to sound important, but his bloodshot eyes and reddened cheeks ruined the effect.

“You can' hold your liquor,” Pansy said with a superior sniff, ignoring the fact the room seemed to be spinning when she was fairly certain it wasn't supposed to.

“Shuddup, Parkinson,” he snapped. “That's not a nice way to talk to your future husband, y'know.”

Pansy stood up, disgusted. “Bugger off, Draco.” she said, swaying dangerously. There seemed to be two of him, and she shut one eye in order to see him better, but that only made her dizzy. To add insult to injury, she probably looked ridiculous, and Pansy hated to look ridiculous. She figured her lipstick was smudged, too, from their horrid attempt at kissing.

He peered up at her with a sleepy stare. “Where y'goin? Don' leave me ‘ere alone,” he whined, slumping down on the leather sofa. Any other witch would have found him delectable—blonde hair tousled, shirt partially unbuttoned, the long, lean lines of his body highlighted by his tailored grey slacks – but as always, he left her completely unmoved, and it infuriated her.

Why can't I want him? Why can't he want me?

“I'm goin' to find the loo,” Pansy informed him loftily, turning around and walking towards the hallway/foyer. She was a bit unsteady on her feet, but she managed to make it to the door and toss her dark hair for good measure. That was a silly move—her head spun even worse than it had before, and she hurtled out of the door, giggling as she hit the wall.

Pansy was not all that familiar with Malfoy Manor, but she had visited with her parents before and thought she remembered a half-bath located somewhere near the kitchens. She didn't think to cast a lighting spell, however, and was practically fumbling through the dark until her fingers encountered a door knob. Opening it, she nearly tumbled headfirst down a set of stairs, grabbing the railing to keep herself from falling.

“Oops,” she said, giggling. In her rational mind, Pansy knew that there was no reason she should be going down the stairs in Malfoy Manor, because whatever was down there was most assuredly not the loo. Ah, well. She'd only wanted to find the loo to check her lipstick, anyway.

Of course, the inordinate amount of firewhiskey she'd consumed wasn't helping her mental state. Not much was concerning her at present except having a bit of a cry and forgetting she was to spend the rest of her life with Draco Malfoy, her best friend who had no more sexual interest in her than he did in a field mouse, and vice versa.

When she managed to reach the bottom of the stairs, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the scene before her, and her hands flew up over her mouth. Two men were down there, backs facing her, looking at a…thing…on the floor draped in a black… something .

“I don't know why we have to do this,” the first voice said, a hint of a Russian accent in his speech.

Antonin Dolohov, Death Eater. Pansy knew of him, even though she'd never admit it in polite company.

“Because, mate, we get the jobs everyone else is too important to do.” It was the second man speaking now with a deep, raspy voice, as if he had eaten broken glass for dinner. Hint of a Scottish accent.

That would make him Walden Macnair. Death Eater. Another person Pansy would not normally acknowledge. They might have served the Dark Lord, but they were…well, they weren't Death Eaters like her father and Lucius Malfoy. They were hired muscle, to hear her father tell it, sent to do unpleasant task like murder people and get rid of…

Pansy gasped, her drunken brain belatedly figuring out what it was on the floor beneath the covering.

The two men spun around, wands out, and Walden Macnair laughed. “Well, look here, Dolohov. It's Draco's little fiancée.”

Pansy scowled at him, chin lifted. “Not Draco's anything,” she said, but in her slurred voice it sounded something like “Ndrcosnthn”.

Deciding the young woman was not a problem—it wasn't as if she didn't know who they were, even though she'd pretend she didn't—Dolohov shrugged. “Look, Miss, why don't you just go upstairs and—”

Pansy giggled. “Did you just call me miss?” Dyajsclmemiss ?

Dolohov threw his hands in the air and looked at Macnair as if to say, “ now what ?”

Macnair tossed Pansy an irritated look, and she stuck her tongue out at him and giggled, walking around the dank, dark room as the two men conversed in low tones with animated gestures and much cursing.

“Is that Lucius?” Pansy asked, suddenly horrified.

Macnair snorted. “Aye, a'course. We've brought Lucius Malfoy down to his own dungeons to kill him and throw him in the river.” He crossed the floor and caught her by the arms, pulling her towards the stairs. “Come on, girl. You don't need to see this,” he said as Dolohov pulled out something that looked suspiciously like a hacksaw.

Her eyes went wide, and she looked up into Macnair's cold blue eyes. “Who—”

He shook his head, and tugged her to the stairs. “You don't need to know.” He threw a look over his head to Antonin, who was humming slightly as he went to move the tarp. “You okay here, mate?”

“Da,” the Russian murmured, waving a hand as he knelt down with the strange implement. “You go, take care of the helpless little girl. I'm fine. I will see you back at the Inn, yes?”

“I'm not a helpless little girl,” Pansy said, indignant, but Macnair tightened his grip on her arm.

“Princess, to men like us, you are,” he said, and there was a flash of something in his eyes as he swept her up and carried her up the stairs.

Pansy giggled. “You're strong!” she said, feeling dizzy. “Why didn't you just carry that body—”

“Shut up!” Macnair hissed at her. “Just be quiet, hear?”

“You sound more Scottish when you're angry,” Pansy informed him, giggling louder. She kicked her feet delightedly. Draco could never pick me up. He's too scrawny .

“You sound more idiotic when you're drunk,” he snapped, and she squeaked in indignation as he found a door and pushed it open. It was the library, but Draco was nowhere to be found. Obviously, he'd scuttled off to bed the moment she'd left, leaving her alone with two Death Eaters and a dead body! What a prat.

“Bloody Draco,” Pansy muttered as Macnair deposited her on the leather couch.

“Not a nice way to speak of your fiancé,” Macnair said, peering out of the drapes. He was obviously waiting for someone to leave before he left the vicinity. He stood looking out of the window with his arms crossed, a scowl on his face.

Pansy regarded Walden Macnair seriously. She was in that stage where the slight giddiness of alcohol wears off and leaves one with the desire to talk . “He's not my fiancé yet, you know,” she said, and then decided to tell Macnair all about her and Draco's dilemma.

He tried not to listen, although his apparent indifference did not stop her drunken ramblings. He tried to stare out window and ignore her rambling, but he couldn't help listening to her as he waited for Dolohov to reappear. What was taking that psychopath so long? He knew he shouldn't have left him alone with that body, he just knew it.

Of all the bloody assignments to get stuck with, we get this one. If I were rich like Malfoy or this Parkinson brat, I wouldn't have to do “body removal” detail. Just because Narcissa gets a bit carried away in her quest to get Lucius out of Azkaban.

While he admired Narcissa's dedication, the woman had made a bloody mess of it all. The man wouldn't be able to get Lucius out of prison if he were dead , now, would he? Meaning she'd have to find some other poor bloke who'd end up tortured and dead under a tarp. Lovely Narcissa was willing to torture them, but get rid of the body without magic, as she was required to do since the house was on magical watch?

Never.

So he and Antonin would be right back here, in the rain, hacking a body up so it could be unceremoniously dumped in the river. Again. Great.

“And I don't really think it's fair that Malfoy thinks I'm unattractive, even though I'm not at all interested in shagging him either,” whined Pansy in the background.

Macnair narrowed his eyes and turned back to her. “Where did you get whatever it was you were drinking?” he asked her. Not to mention, what had Malfoy been drinking that he wouldn't want to shag her ? She was a perfectly gorgeous young witch, even if she was a bit thin. Still, she had pouty lips and gorgeous dark hair, and had Lucius' brat not learned all women were the same when the lights were off?

Pansy pointed one perfect, manicured nail towards the flask lying abandoned on the sofa where Draco had been last seated. “But you don't need to put it away, Macnair,” she said gravely. She gave him a sloppy smile. “I'm not gonna have anymore.”

“You're right,” he said, crossing the room and picking up the flask. He drank the rest of the firewhiskey before he gave into the temptation to strangle her. Dolohov had his hands full with one body, and there wasn't enough time before Narcissa returned to dispose of another.

Although if she kept yammering on, he'd certainly attempt it. After all, she was a lot smaller than the bloke in the dungeons.

Pansy watched him drink the liquor, eyes wide. “You don't take sips like Draco,” she said stupidly.

Macnair nearly choked. He leered at her, the action immediate and uncontrollable. “I bet I don't do a lot things like Draco, lass.”

She giggled. “Like what?”

He stared at her, wondering if she really was that inebriated or just a bit slow.

When Macnair heard rain start hitting against the windowpane, he groaned loudly. With Lucius in Azkaban, the Malfoys were on the Ministry's “watch” list, and any magic used within the grounds of the Manor, including Apparitions, was traced and monitored.

Because of Pansy's little interruption, he'd now be trudging the six miles in the rain to the inn where he and Dolohov had rooms. He ignored the fact that Antonin wouldn't be done with the body yet and that they probably would have been stuck in the rain, regardless if she had interrupted or not. However, she was a convenient target for his ire.

Stalking over to her, the firewhiskey and the anger in his blood warming him simultaneously, he hauled her up and shoved her against the wall. “Like fucking , girl. That's what I meant.”

She tossed him a slow smile, something dangerous glinting in her dark eyes. “I wouldn't know,” she said, putting her arms around him. “Draco's never fucked me. I told you that already. Weren't you listening?”

“No,” Macnair said, his body stirring. She was irritating as fuck, but she was pressed against him and had her arms around his neck, and her skin was soft. She smelled like some flower he couldn't name, and he kept saying to himself, this is stupid, what are you doing ? But he didn't move away from where he had her pressed up against the wall, and he was only a man, after all, and his cock stirred at the contact.

She rubbed her breasts against him, looking up at him with drowsy eyes. “Maybe I won't like it with anyone ? Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm some frigid bitch that can't enjoy sex.”

“How the fuck should I know?” Macnair growled. There he stood, in the opulence of Malfoy Manor with Draco fucking Malfoy's fiancée in his arms, wondering if the world had indeed gone mad.

“I think Draco's handsome, but he makes me all cold inside.” Pansy looked at him, wondering how she'd ended up in this position with a Death Eater when she'd started the night with intentions of shagging Draco even if it killed her. Surely it was the liquor . And surely the whiskey was also responsible for the strange things she was feeling low in her body as he pressed against her.

“Does he now?” Macnair said in a low voice, his hands finding her body of their own volition, wrapping around her waist and pulling her ever-so-slightly against the cradle of his thighs.

“Yes,” Pansy breathed, her fingers on his shirt. She started unbuttoning it, her lip caught between her teeth as she gazed up at him with languid eyes. “I've never wanted to do this,” she whispered, leaning up to press her mouth against his neck. “Not with him , anyway.”

Macnair hissed, fingers tightening on her skin. “You should stop this, girl,” he told her, though he pushed his erection against the heat between her thighs and made no move to stop her nimble fingers from their task.

“But I'm afraid it will never happen again,” she said against his skin, tongue coming out to lick his neck. Her little teeth nipped him and he growled, low in his throat. She pulled back to gaze up at him. “I'm afraid I'll never have the chance to do this with someone and like it. And you want me,” she said, something like wonder in her voice.

Macnair didn't answer, but he didn't move away, either. He continued to watch her warily, wondering why he could endure endless bouts of Crucio , lop the heads off of cute, fuzzy animals and eat a steak afterwards, but he couldn't push one angsty, spoiled brat of a girl off of him.

Of course, Crucio hurt like fuck and the animals weren't nubile young women unbuttoning his shirt.

She finished taking off his shirt, her long, pink nails scouring down his chest. Macnair was not a tall man, but he was still taller than her. His dark hair was shorn so close to his head he appeared bald, and his blue eyes were cold, frigid, like the winter's sky on a sunny day. He looked nothing like Draco, and maybe that was why her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry.

He didn't look entirely pleased with her, and that did remind her of Draco, so she narrowed her eyes and pulled his shirt off his shoulders. Her eyes went immediately to the Dark Mark on his forearm, and she stared at it, entranced.

Her fingers moved over it, tracing the skull and the snake with the lightest of touches. “Why did you get it?” she asked him, voice low. The act of touching that sinister representation of what he was caused shivers to race down her spine. She felt herself growing wet, and her breathing was erratic.

She suddenly felt a bit more sober, though she still swayed slightly on her feet.

He watched her tracing his Mark, blood heating under her touch. She was nibbling on her bottom lip—her very pink, very soft bottom lip, with the faintest outline of some shimmery gloss still visible. “Because I'm a bad, bad man,” he said in a low voice, eyes narrowed threateningly.

She looked up at him and her tongue came up to slow lick at the glossed lip. “Really?” she breathed in a soft voice. Leaning forward, she caught his arm and with her tongue, she traced the path her fingers had taken, sucking lightly on his sweat-salty skin.

He hissed, head falling back a bit at her attentions. His hands went up to grasp her head, dark hair silky-smooth between his rough fingers. “You should stop that,” he said gruffly. His hands tightened in her hair. “I don't play nicely, princess.”

She bit his skin, hard enough to leave teeth marks around the sinuous twisting serpent on his skin. “Maybe I don't want to play nice. And I'm not —” She ran her hands down to the waistband of his trousers, tugging with a playful look up at him—“a princess. And I'm tired of playing nice.” She scoured his hard stomach with her nails, entranced by the muscles under her fingers.

He knew she was drunk and feeling dejected about whatever her problems were with the Malfoy heir, but as he watched her take off her shirt and stand before him in a skirt and a lacy black bra, he couldn't think of what else he could do.

He stepped up close to her, hands going to curve around her upper arms. “Last chance to run away, pretty Pansy,” he said, leaning his head down.

“I don't want to run away,” she said, excited. How strange, that the aristocratic, beautiful Draco Malfoy could not pull a reaction from her, but one was so easily incited by a vicious Death Eater with a broken-china voice.

“Good,” he said, kissing her roughly.

She responded immediately, moaning and opening her mouth under his. Pansy had been kissed before, but never with such vicious intent. Her hands fisted on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His hands removed her bra, calloused fingers making her shiver as gooseflesh broke out over her body as he touched her. He spent a moment teasing and pulling her nipples, eliciting a wild moan from her. He muttered something that sounded like, “fuck,” and fell on the leather sofa, pulling her into his arms so she was seated on his lap.

“Mmm, you're so hard,” she said, wiggling against him. Pansy would never usually say anything that coarse, but the whiskey was still burning through her blood and she was giddy from this unknown desire and his touch. She had meant his body as a whole—he was hard and firm beneath her on the sofa; she felt the muscles of his thighs and shoulders straining against her fingers, her legs, and shivered.

Macnair laughed, fingers moving to her skirt. “Take this off, and I'll show you how hard I am, lass,” he said, smirking.

“Okay,” she giggled, climbing off him and unbuttoning her proper grey wool skirt. She pushed it off her hips and stood before him in bright blue silk panties. “I thought maybe Draco would like them, but we didn't get this far,” she said, giggling again.

She fell on her knees and starting working the buttons of his trousers. Her fingers brushing against his hard cock was a delicious torture, and he was helping her by the end, in a hurry to feel her silky hair against him.

When his erection was freed, she gasped and looked up at him through her lashes. Macnair was leaning back on the sofa, eyes half-closed, biting his bottom lip. He was staring at her with a look of pure lust on his face, and Pansy tossed her hair and smiled. She had never done this before, but she rather thought it was one of those things it was hard to do wrong; rather like shopping.

She grasped his cock in her hands, purring slightly. Leaning down, she ran her tongue up the length of it and smiled against his flesh as he hissed. Looking up, she saw he'd put his hands behind his head, and he smirked down at her.

“Don't stop now, girl,” he said. His raspy voice was dark with lust and she felt an answering surge of wetness between her thighs at the sound. Leaning down, she swirled her tongue around the head before taking him in her mouth.

He moved one hand to her head, tangling in her hair as he guided her movements. She found a rhythm and became bold, swirling her tongue and applying the slightest bit of pressure with her teeth.

Macnair watched her, forcing himself not to come, not to end this unexpected tryst so soon. “Come here,” he growled, pulling her off him. She rose shakily to her feet, and he took care of her knickers by simply tearing them off her body.

He pulled her back onto his lap, and she kissed him again, sucking on his tongue. They were both panting by the time he managed to get himself inside of her; she was tight, and hot, and he thought he might howl with the pleasure of it.

Walden Macnair was fucking one Pansy Parkinson, virginal pureblooded would-be fiancée of Draco Malfoy, on Lucius Malfoy's leather couch in the study of Malfoy Manor. If that wasn't surreal, he wasn't sure what was.

Pansy winced at the momentary pain of his entry—he was hardly gentle— but he started sucking her nipples and she soon forgot about it. She tried to put her hands in his hair, but it was too short, so instead she dragged her nails over his body instead. He liked that; she felt him throb inside of her, and then his fingers went down between her legs to rub her clit.

“Aye, ride me, that's it,” he moaned, hips lifting off the couch to drive into her. He watched her moving on him, her head thrown back, as he teased her clit. “You're going to come for me, Pansy, aren't you? Going to come on my cock?”

“Yes,” she gasped out, her nails drawing blood on his shoulders. He rubbed her clit harder, fingers slippery with her arousal.

“Come for me, now.” He felt her muscles contract around his cock as she did so, and he growled his pleasure into her neck as he spilled inside of her, unable to stop it.

They remained entwined on the couch for a moment, both panting in repletion. His arms were loosely wrapped around her back as he caught his breath. Pansy pulled back first and looked at him, her eyes peaceful. She didn't feel at all drunk anymore, but she did feel bloody wonderful . “Where are you staying?” she asked him, fingers moving over his harsh face. He was handsome, she thought whimsically, especially now when he was smiling slightly at her. He had a nice mouth; full and soft, and his chin was not in the least bit pointy.

“An inn, six miles from here.” He looked out towards the rain that still fell outside, and sighed. “I suppose Dolohov has finished by now.” He easily moved her off him, setting her next to him on the couch before he stood up to fix his trousers.

She watched him, liking the pull of his muscles as he stretched, and her breath caught. “You're bloody,” she said, and there was a dark knowledge in her voice and a throbbing excitement as she saw the half-moon marks her nails had left on his skin.

He looked up from buttoning his pants, and his eyes went to her thighs, smeared with blood. “So are you,” he said, voice husky with an answering darkness. They met each other's gaze, and a flush climbed high on his cheekbones. “Get dressed, quickly. Narcissa will be home soon.” He tossed her his shirt.

Pansy pulled her skirt on and pulled his shirt around her, rolling up the sleeves. It smelled like him—something primal and male, rough and uncivilized. Just like him.

He pulled out his wand and summoned his cloak from the dungeons, and wrapped her in it. “We can't Apparate,” he told her, moving quickly towards to the door. “You want to come with me, it's a six mile walk in the rain.” He looked down at her feet, shaking his head. “You got any shoes, there, princess?”

Pansy laughed. “They're four inch heels, Macnair. I won't be going far in those.” She shrugged, the idea of walking through mud not entirely appealing, but she'd be damned if she'd let him vanish into the night. She had plans, and Pansy planned to use them to get what she wanted. Smiling, she tucked the flask into the pockets of his robe, patting it. Her lucky souvenir.

Macnair sighed. “Figures, with my luck,” he said, but tugged her to the door. “Come on, then.”

She followed him into the night, into the rain. When they'd walked far enough away from Malfoy Manor, she pulled the hood back and let the rain fall on her head, drenching her dark hair. She turned to him, figuring she was an absolute mess, but didn't care at all.

“I like the rain,” she said, laughing.

She still felt drunk, but now it wasn't from the whiskey.