Performance Art
by Teka Lynn

Warnings: Quasi-incest, exhibitionism, voyeurism, art vandalism.
Notes: Written for the Pornish Pixies Livejournal Community, answering to Judyhazeleyes's request ("Pansy/Narcissa screwing in the Malfoy's bedroom, with a portrait of Lucius watching the entire thing.") Thanks go to Morgan D. and Ptyx for betaing and lovely commentary.

The world is a room with a bed and a window. Once there was much more to the world, but that was a long time ago, when life had three dimensions.

Outside: through the window, dead-cloud grey sky over white snow. Spiky black tree branches poke halfway through the view, jabbing diagonally up from the right of the frame. There might be more tree beyond that stray branch, but Lucius has no proof.

Inside: white room, white sheets. White hangings over the bed, but the drapes are looped up and over. No secrets here. And whiter on white, Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black) on Pansy Malfoy (nee Parkinson), Pansy on Narcissa. Even when they're not physically present, they press on Lucius' painted retinas like afterimages. They curl around each other in his memory, mouths slobbering with bites and kisses, hands reaching and grabbing and caressing, red imprints and purple or green bruises on their pale, pale skins.

Not much else to look at, except the show. Freedom of movement frozen in the frame. Wizarding fixative. No rambling through ancestral halls for him. Lucius can't leave. He's spelled to silence unless spoken to.

They've kept the Master of Malfoy Manor waiting. Hussies.

Pansy enters, demure in dark robes. Curtsies deeply to Lucius. "Father," she says, in her unexpectedly deep voice. Husband Draco buried deep in the snow these seven years. Pansy dances on his grave sometimes, her dark footprints the only marker. No one loves a failed Death Eater.

Pansy feasts on life these days. Two widows, throwing themselves with red eyes and black crepe upon the Ministry's mercy. Merry widows with considerable cashflow and info, greasing the Ministerial palms with Lucius' Galleons.

Round-faced Pansy gazes round-eyed at Lucius, who can only stare back. "Dearest daughter," he replies, coating the words in honey and hemlock. "What a pleasure to see you."

Teeth-bared smile, one incisor a bit crooked. "The pleasure's all mine. Or will be." She drapes herself with would-be artistry across the bed--his bed--with one chunky ankle revealed as the robe rides up, shackled by the strap of her spiked heel. Lucius has felt that heel on his surface, winces at the memory of heel thudding down on canvas that close to his right eye. She didn't mar his face, but he can still feel the patched-up hole like a missing tooth.

She runs her finger up the robe, the dark purple shifting lighter as the nap of the velvet rubs the wrong way. Down again, smoothing out the trail. Pansy draws patterns on her dress, a web of lines leading to the nexus of her cunt. Curves her fingers down until the material draws tight against her crotch, then slides them up again. Shifts herself to a better angle, hikes her pelvis up and arches back. Pansy's fingers dig into the velvet, pressing the lining of the robe up against her no-doubt-knickerless vulva.

Exhibitionist hussy.

Lucius, once again, damns his lack of a physical body.

If he could smell, Lucius would be able to smell the almost-salt, almost-musty, almost-fishy but-not-quite any-of-the-above scent of Pansy's fluid that's no doubt seeping against the fabric of her robe. It's a fact that he can't even remember smells properly. And he remembers enjoying this particular smell considerably, in life. Nothing like burying his face in his son's wife, feeling her hair tickling all over his face, his tongue flicking along her clitoris as she bucked roughly into his mouth, her fingers jabbing into his scalp and ripping his hair. Lucius can't quite remember the taste either, although Pansy Malfoy (nee Parkinson) once remarked that her father-in-law had eaten her out a damn sight more often than her husband ever had. Lucius had laughed and told her that Draco had never had a proper appreciation of fine dining.

The damp can't be doing the velvet much good, Lucius thinks. If she rubbed her juices on him now, it would ruin his paint. A few odd smudges in his lower-right corner are testimony to that.

Pansy's never been a groaner and she's not now. She sort of huffs through her nose, which is now wrinkling a bit as she clenches her facial muscles, getting into it more. Despite unkind remarks, Pansy's never really been pugfaced, even as a child. Give a girl a round face, big brown eyes, and a small nose, and people will say all sorts of things. The Gryffindors called Lucius "the Albino" in his first two years. Anything for a would-be laugh.

She's going to ruin that robe, scrunching it up like that. Lucius can almost feel it scruff against his own palms, even though he can't really remember textures either. The material must be chafing her inner thighs, reddening them where he used to slide his hands in long slow caresses, then scratch and pinch sharply once he'd relaxed her enough to catch her off-guard. She'd jerk away, self-righteously appalled. Petty bourgeois foolishness.

She doesn't jerk away from anyone like that now. Maybe he taught her something after all.

Narcissa, on the other hand, trained herself to a frozen heart as the expression in her blue eyes shifted from outraged to pleading to glazed indifference over the years of their marriage. Warm hands, cold heart, sharp teeth. He rather liked the teeth, though it's been a long, long time since he's felt them on his flesh. When she stopped hissing and biting and simply let him do what he pleased, he knew he'd lost. No fun to chase that greyhound body after she stopped running. Might as well sleep with a corpse. His daughter-in-law, though not as conventionally beautiful as his ice-wife, at least had some heat left.

She's still heating up. Lucius knows how long it takes Pansy to orgasm; it takes her a while, particularly if, as he suspects, she's putting on a show for him more than working for her own pleasure. But showing off for him does give her pleasure of a different sort. She's whispering her mantra now, over and over, each word huffed and slurred, each word aimed at him: "You want it. You can't have it. You want it, you can't have it, you want it you WANT it..." and just the thought of his painted impotence makes her breathless, if he's any judge. Her unpainted lips curl back, she stares straight at him with her brown eyes boring into his grey, her hips buck and legs kick against the white-sheeted bed with one limb curled against the side for better balance, her pale, plump fingers curl and clench against the plum-dark fabric of her dress.

Enter Narcissa, on cue, leading lady following ingenue's opening act. She pauses, poses in the doorway, one black-sleeved arm up against the side, almost high enough to touch the top. She turns her head to the left to view the bed and Pansy writhing self-consciously on it, then swivels it again to look straight in front of her and into Lucius' eyes. Narcissa bites her red-painted lip, lowers her gaze to the white-marble floor, sighs. She's swathed neck to foot in her black silk dressing gown. The thing has no warmth, she must be freezing underneath. Skin pimpling, nipples rising, but no outward expression. That's Narcissa.

Narcissa, incapable of an unbeautiful movement, walks to Lucius' marriage bed and seats herself, avoiding a flailing heel. She doesn't look at Lucius again, but generously offers him an uncensored view of Pansy. Smooth white bed sheets wrinkle underneath Narcissa's aristocratic bum as she shifts nearer to the girl. Pansy, diligently working away at tormenting Lucius, at first seems unaware of the other woman's presence. Narcissa leans forward and carefully captures Pansy's ankle. Pansy, startled, jumps (not from sexual pleasure) and opens her eyes. The sneer on her mouth turns to a sugary smile--whether genuine or for Lucius' benefit, Lucius doesn't know. Narcissa unbuckles the fragile strap around her daughter-in-law's ankle and lets the spike heel drop to the floor, then unfastens the other shoe. Pansy sits up and wiggles her bare toes. Her feet are red in the spots where her shoes pressed against the skin.

Lucius is forgotten, so it seems. Pansy, in apparent spontaneity--but who can tell what's real and what's staged?--scoots over to Narcissa and hugs her. Narcissa's arms go around Pansy, her white hands seeming to glow against the purple robe. Pansy buries her face in Narcissa's shoulder. Lucius hears her mutter something indistinct. Lucius sees Narcissa's posture droop ever so slightly from its usual ramrod straightness as she gathers Pansy more closely to her.

The two women pull back, their faces in profile. Unidentical mirror images, plump Pansy and slender Narcissa come together, eyelids closing in symmetrical synchronisation. Mouths open, one painted and one pure. Meet. Lucius can only try to remember what it was like kissing them, when he troubled himself to kiss them. First a light greeting kiss, and a pause for breath. Then deepening, they pull each other in, breasts pressing together, Pansy sliding one leg over Narcissa's as she wriggles to get closer. Pansy's hands slide up from the small of Narcissa's back to bury themselves in that ice-blonde hair. The hands undo various pins and knots and ribbons that have kept Mrs Malfoy (senior)'s hair in its careful coiffure, and Narcissa's hair loosens and waves down to her lap. She shakes the rest of it loose and lets it lie, now looking younger than her own son's wife and twice as innocent. Pansy, who wears her own hair in a tight-waved bob that was popular in Grindelwald's day, looks old enough to be her mother now.

They stretch out on the bed together, Narcissa carefully pulling her hair out of the way, and kiss and cuddle. One breast falls out of Narcissa's loose dressing gown. She pays it no mind, but Pansy coos--there's no other word for it--and rolls the nipple between her finger and thumb. That's guaranteed to get Narcissa going. She rubs one bare foot up and down Pansy's leg, rumpling the abused robe still further. Pansy giggles and kisses the other woman's neck, shoulder, and breast.

Some of the lines in Narcissa's face soften and fade as she smiles down at the girl. Lucius knows both he and time put them there, and wonders whether he should be jealous or appreciative that Pansy can take them away. Pansy won't win out over the years, of course, but for the moment, Narcissa looks almost...tender.

Of course, Narcissa has had far longer to work on her acting ability than Pansy has. She could give master classes on the art of seeming to be what she is not. A merry widow indeed, debauching her daughter-in-law in front of her husband, in his own bed.

They kiss and cling, and Pansy, showing more eagerness with Narcissa than she had performing for Lucius, gasps for breath when she has a moment, then nuzzles. She coaxes Narcissa into sitting up, loosens Narcissa's sash and helps his wife struggle out of her flimsy robe. One of them gets Narcissa's hair caught and both tussle a bit until it's freed. Narcissa scoops her hair up in her hands and makes as if to tie it up again, but Pansy shakes her head no no no, and Narcissa relents. They giggle again and Narcissa kisses Pansy, with oddly affectionate formality, on the forehead. As she and Pansy snuggle, Lucius' wife meets his gaze. She flushes, freezes. Pansy catches Narcissa's sudden stiffness, turns to watch Lucius in her turn. She gives him an evil brown-eyed glare, curls her lip, then, childishly, sticks out her tongue. Then she takes Narcissa's face in her hands and whispers something Lucius can't hear. Narcissa nods, a single jerk of her head, stiff as a golem.

Pansy smiles evilly, bends down, flings a well-aimed shoe at Lucius. He can't help flinching. That one hit just below his chin. Didn't leave a hole, but flecked some paint off. Ouch. That girl missed her calling as a Beater. A shame for her that she has no head for heights.

Pansy smirks.

Narcissa turns away from her husband, royal ice-queen again. Naked, she lies down on her stomach, her hair veiling her to the hips. Pansy, after casting one last venomous glare at Lucius, bends over her and runs her hands in long, slow, sensuous strokes along Narcissa's smooth back. Lucius can almost remember how experienced those hands are. His wife doesn't seem to have any complaints; she shifts and sighs as Pansy kneads along her spine, starting from shoulder blades to follow every dent and ripple down to her hips. Pansy shuffles around, impatiently tugging at her robe when it gets caught on her knees, and kisses Narcissa's feet, sucking a toe into her mouth and nipping lightly. Narcissa yelps. Pansy licks and kisses up one leg and down the other. Narcissa kicks, nearly clocking Pansy's head, rolls over, sits up, grabs Pansy.

Lucius really regrets not having a body at this point.

Another yip, this time from Pansy. Lucius can't see Narcissa's face, turned away from him and leaning over Pansy, but can imagine the small, pleased smile crooking the corner of her mouth. She's evidently decided Pansy's overdressed--a conclusion Lucius himself had come to far earlier--and swiftly pulls the velvet robe over her head. Pansy sputters, shakes her head and tries to put her carefully spell-waved coiffure back in order. Narcissa laughs, actually laughs openly. Her ferret-sharp teeth gleam.

"Mother!" Pansy snaps. "It does come undone at the back!"

"I'm so sorry, my love. I couldn't wait." Definite amusement in her blue eyes. A stray lock falls across Narcissa's face. She shakes her head impatiently and ties her hair back in a long ponytail with the silk sash of her dressing gown.

Pansy cocks her dark-gold head to one side. "Prove it."

"Certainly will." Narcissa catches Lucius' eye again, freezes for one sharp moment, then puts on her haughtiest I-don't-care-about-you mask. "On the condition you refrain from addressing me as 'Mother'," she concludes. Lucius leers. Narcissa gives her husband the cut direct and settles back against the bed like a self-pleased cat. She'll be licking her arse next. Or Pansy's, at least.

Pansy herself does not dismiss him with such apparent ease. Lucius' daughter-in-law contemplates his portrait, her eyes narrowed. He tries to guess her thoughts. Probably along the lines of Shall I continue to call her Mother and have my fun with him, or shall I call her Narcissa and please her? Pansy, after due reflection, appears to make up her mind. She mock(?)-pouts and reaches behind her, groping. "Done." Pause. "What are you waiting for, darling?"

No answer. Pansy, puzzled, cranes her neck trying to peer over her shoulder. "Narcissa?" She can't see that the other woman has crawled around behind her--Lucius admires the way his wife's breasts hang and sway--and is grinning at her in a distinctly feral fashion. Narcissa lunges, grapples Pansy from behind, bites her neck. Ice-queen turned to hell-cat. Pansy squeals, hitting a note nearly high enough to scratch Lucius' frame.

Narcissa expertly rolls her daughter-in-law over as the girl kicks and squeals with laughter. She pins her down, planting kisses down Pansy's torso. Lucius watches with keen interest as they appear to forget his presence. His wife seems entirely focused on her lover, relentlessly moving southward. Pansy spreads her legs obediently, tangling her fingers in Narcissa's hair.

Narcissa dives.

Pansy, ordinarily not a screamer, screams. Her warmup in front of Lucius must have been more effective than he'd thought. She locks her legs around Narcissa and yanks mercilessly on her hair. Narcissa is too intent on licking Pansy to pay attention to trivialities. Lucius' view is infuriatingly blocked by Pansy's legs--did she do that on purpose?--but he's pretty sure Narcissa's managed to sneak a finger or two inside. Pansy, during her exhibitionistic displays, regaled Lucius one time with tales of how Narcissa slid up her thumb and pressed in *just* the right spot, timing it with a good flick of the tongue. The memory, she said with a lascivious grin, kept her up half the night.

If Lucius is any judge, the memories Pansy's making right now may give her insomnia for the next month.

Narcissa slides her hands under Pansy's backside and hefts her up a bit. Lucius has a marginally better view now. Really, if they want him to see things properly, they could move him closer to the bed instead of leaving him on the wall across the room, he thinks crossly. He can see Narcissa tucking her chin down, getting into the spirit of things and into Pansy.

Pansy clutches at whatever she can reach of Narcissa, her head, her arms, her shoulders. Narcissa mumbles and moans something, perhaps about how good Pansy tastes, maybe something about her tongue going numb for all Lucius can understand. Whatever it is, her recipient responds favourably. The bed is solidly built, but so is Pansy, and the way she's bucking around makes him fear for his poor bed's life.

Can't be much longer now. Lucius' daughter-in-law grips his wife's shoulders so hard she'll leave bruises tomorrow. She wraps her legs even harder around Narcissa and squeezes. Narcissa flings her arms as high up around Pansy as she can and clutches in response as Pansy throws her head back and shudders once, twice, then collapses.

Pansy moans, rolls her head to one side, eyes squinched closed. When she opens them again, she stares straight into Lucius' eyes. But she doesn't see him. Whatever is in the forefront of her mind right now, it isn't he.

Narcissa casually wipes her mouth and chin on a spare bit of bedsheet, then crawls up behind Pansy. The girl reaches around and pulls Narcissa's free arm snugly around her, just under her breasts. Narcissa kisses the top of her head.

"Mother..."

"Stop that."

"Narcissa..."

"Better."

"You didn't even get a look-in! That's not fair to do it all yourself."

Narcissa strokes Pansy's hair, mouth quirking. "Not even if I enjoy it? Don't worry. I'll get my turn later."

Pansy squirms pleasurably. "Promise?"

"Could I stop you? Anyway, it's more fun in our own bed." She gives Pansy a little squeeze.

Pansy rolls over, her back now to Lucius. "Why do you never want me to do it to you here? Because of...him?"

Narcissa sits up and reaches for her dressing gown. "Why should I worry about him? He's only a painting." Her tone is offhand, even bored. "And our bed is more comfortable. I know you like it, but the mattress on this one is a disgrace."

Probably because Pansy's ruined it by playing rumpy-pumpy at all hours with him, Lucius thinks. Even said to himself, the witticism seems weak now.

Somewhere, during the lovemaking of Lucius' wife and daughter-in-law, they forgot about him. As though he hadn't ruled their lives with his will and hand and tongue for years.

Narcissa wipes off Pansy's thighs with more bedsheet, then stands up, wrapping her dressing gown around her. She doesn't seem to feel the cold. For once, she might be genuinely warm. Her hair trails down her back as she lets it down and uses the sash for its proper place around her waist. It waves behind her like the cloak of a queen as she walks to the door. She pauses for a moment to look over at the played-out Pansy and smile at her. She doesn't look once at Lucius. It's as though he didn't exist.

Pansy lies alone for a while after Narcissa leaves the room, lies naked with one finger in her mouth like a child. She says nothing to Lucius.

He says nothing to her.

Eventually Pansy pulls her robe back over her head, without bothering to unhook it properly, and wanders out with rumpled hair and bare feet. Her shoes lie, alone and discarded, on the white-marbled floor.

It will give Lucius something new to look at, until his wife and daughter-in-law return and entertain him once more.

Written by Teka Lynn
August, 2004

All rights to the characters and setting are held by J K Rowling and whoever else holds them, including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Warner Bros. This fanwork was created solely for fun and has no legal or financial connection to the Harry Potter novels.