the better malfoy

by natasha_x

Chapter 1: chapter 1

It started innocently enough, over tea and a disagreement about Transfiguration technique, of all things.

Lucius sat reclined on the velvet settee in their drawing room, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a look of regal boredom etched into his sharp features. “You’re good, my dear,” he said, swirling his tea with lazy precision. “But you were always more flair than form. You rely too much on instinct.”

Across from him, Narcissa closed her book with a sharp thud. Her brown eyes flicked up, narrowed. The sunlight pouring in from the tall windows struck her hair just so, catching both the pale gold of her top layer and the inky dark strands hidden beneath, making her look like she’d been dipped in moonlight and shadow.

“Flair and instinct are why I don’t fumble my wandwork like certain others who lean too heavily on theory,” she replied coolly. “I was the better duelist at Hogwarts. Still am.”

Lucius tilted his head, amused. “You? Better than me? Darling, the only thing you bested me in was enchanting my attention.”

A pause. Her gaze sparked. “Careful,” she said, standing, the silk of her dressing gown whispering over her legs. “Flirtation won’t save you if you’re wrong.”

His eyes sharpened. “Is that a challenge, Cissa?”

“Oh, it’s much worse,” she purred. “It’s pity. I’m giving you a chance to back down.”

He set his teacup aside slowly. “Outside. Now.”

—

They stood at opposite ends of the secluded garden. Wands drawn, breath steaming slightly in the late spring air.

The rules were never spoken. There were none. No Unforgivables, perhaps. But everything else? Fair game.

“You’re not warmed up,” Lucius called across the garden, watching her roll her shoulders with that deliberate grace that always made his mouth dry.

“I don’t need to be,” she answered, dark lashes low over her eyes.

The first spell struck the ground near her foot—a warning shot.

She didn’t flinch.

Her reply was not a warning.

Lucius barely dodged the whip-fast bolt of blue light that licked past his shoulder and shattered a garden statue behind him. “That was a perfectly acceptable likeness of your mother,” he said, returning fire with a smirk.

“Exactly,” she snapped, and sent two spells in quick succession, forcing him into a defensive arc.

What began as flirtation turned fierce.

Lucius moved like a shadow—sharp, controlled, elegant. Every flick of his wand precise, every shield timed to the heartbeat. He was cool calculation. Centuries of pure-blood discipline, polished by war.

Narcissa was fire and instinct. She weaved like a dancer, her magic moving through her fingers like silk made lethal. She fought with her whole body—wand slicing, feet shifting, hair flying as wind whipped up from the energy building between them.

They were equals, and it was intoxicating.

The garden’s hedges blackened at the edges. A marble fountain cracked in half. Sparks flew between them as their spells collided midair—white-hot tension crashing into hotter pride.

“You’re slowing,” Lucius said, sweat dampening the edge of his collar.

“I’m measuring you,” she shot back, teeth bared in a grin.

“Measure this—” he pivoted and launched a hex that wrapped around her like smoke. She twisted—dispelled it with a vicious counter-curse that howled as it tore the spell apart midair. The force of it slammed into Lucius’s shield and sent him staggering.

He laughed, breathless.

She stalked forward. “Still think I rely on flair?”

Lucius tried to circle, wand up—but Narcissa was already there.

With a final, stunning burst of light—red and gold twisted with silver—she sent him crashing to the ground, pinned by an invisible force. Her wand tip lowered slowly, breath ragged, her cheeks flushed.

She stepped closer, straddled him on the garden stones, and looked down, triumphant.

He blinked up at her, lips parted. “You planned that.”

“I always plan,” she said, leaning down until her hair spilled over her shoulder and brushed his face.

He reached up and touched a lock of it—the golden and the black mingled between his fingers. “I underestimated you.”

“You always do.” She tapped his chest with her wand, light as a kiss. “That’s why I win.”

A beat.

Then he surged up, hand closing around her wrist, pulling her down into a kiss that was far more savage than sweet. She responded instantly—biting, greedy, victorious.

They didn’t make it back inside for quite some time.

The garden remained scorched for days—a battlefield turned love nest.

And neither of them ever admitted to losing.

Chapter 2: chapter 2

The sun was lower by the time they made it back inside. Lucius had a small cut above his collarbone—barely visible, but Narcissa had seen it as they passed the tall mirror in the corridor and murmured a healing charm without breaking stride.

He didn’t thank her. She didn’t expect him to.

Now, she sat on the velvet settee, legs crossed, one hand draped over the arm like a queen surveying her kingdom. Her hair had come loose in places—the two-toned locks messier than usual, with a few strands curling from heat and sweat. It made her look wild. Beautiful. Dangerous.

Lucius stood at the drinks cabinet, pouring two glasses of firewhisky. His shirt was untucked. His wand was still holstered, but his fingers twitched with the echo of spells that had scorched their garden and singed his pride.

He passed her a glass and sat beside her—not close, not far. Somewhere between détente and desire.

“I believe,” he began, voice calm and rich, “you hit me with a Reducto charm disguised as a Disarming Spell.”

She didn’t look at him as she took a sip. “I believe you tried to use Incarcerous in the middle of a romantic duel. So.”

Lucius exhaled through his nose. “Romantic, was it?”

Her brown eyes flicked sideways. “It was foreplay.”

He turned toward her slightly, resting one arm over the back of the couch. “That’s what this was? Not an attempted murder with extra style?”

“Lucius,” she said, tilting her head and giving him that unbothered smile—the one that made his stomach twist, “if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have missed.”

Silence.

Then: “You didn’t win.”

“I pinned you.”

“Only because—”

“I pinned you,” she repeated slowly, enunciating each word like a challenge. “Flat on your back. Hands empty. Looking rather stunned, if I recall.”

Lucius leaned in, close enough to smell the burned grass still lingering in her hair. “And how long would you have lasted if I’d used that tripping hex I created in seventh year?”

She raised a brow. “The one you tested on Rodolphus that made him fall down a flight of stairs?”

“I perfected it,” he said, smug. “I never got the chance to use it on you, because you refused to duel me during N.E.W.T. prep.”

“Because I was busy winning the cup for Slytherin. While you were setting people’s shoelaces on fire.”

“Creative tactics.”

“Childish nonsense.”

They were close now—too close. That heat from earlier simmered just beneath the surface, humming like an echo in the air between them.

Narcissa placed her whisky glass on the table with a soft clink and slowly shifted to straddle him again—her dressing gown slipping slightly off one shoulder. She let her hands rest on his chest, fingertips trailing over the healed cut she’d mended earlier.

“Let’s settle it properly, then,” she said in a near whisper.

Lucius’s breath caught. “Another duel?”

She tilted her head, the picture of innocence. “No. Chess.”

His groan was part frustration, part arousal. “You are unbearable.”

“And undefeated.”

He caught her wrists suddenly, gently, firmly. “You always play dirty, Narcissa.”

“I always win, Lucius,” she corrected, and leaned down to brush her lips over his ear. “You love that about me.”

His grip on her tightened—but only to pull her closer. “I do.”

They stayed like that—tangled and breathless and slightly bruised, with the garden scorched behind them and the night waiting outside.

Because for Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, there was no sweeter love language than a duel with just enough danger to keep the flame burning.