Chapter 19
The crisp white sheets felt alien against Petunia’s skin. She stirred, a confused frown knitting her brow. “What a weird dream…” she mumbled, turning over in the enormous bed. “Me marrying a freak? And my face… changed? And then Dolores Umbridge was there… blergh.” Shaking her head, she swung her legs out of bed, the familiar urge to get ready for her part-time job at the greengrocer’s nagging at her.
Still half-asleep, Petunia shuffled towards what she assumed was the bathroom. She fumbled for the light switch, her hand meeting empty air. Instead, soft, golden light flickered from above, illuminating the room – not with a harsh fluorescent glare, but with the gentle glow of floating candles. Petunia blinked, then her hand found the cool, polished surface of a mirror.
Her breath hitched. Staring back at her wasn't the reflection she knew – the sharp angles, the thin lips, the horsey features she'd always resented. This woman was delicate, petite, with an almond-shaped face framed by soft blonde hair. Her eyes, wide with shock, were a bright, startling blue. The faint scent of lilies and something spicy hung in the air.
A slow wave of dread washed over her. This wasn't her small, cramped apartment. These weren't her floral-printed curtains. And this… this wasn’t her face.
Before the full terror could grip her, the bathroom door swung open. Leaning against the frame, a smirk playing on his lips, was the man from her… dream? No. The man from yesterday. Rabastan Lestrange.
“Ah, you’re finally awake, wife,” he drawled, pushing himself off the doorframe and strolling towards his wardrobe, a heavy, ornate piece carved from dark wood. He pulled out a black shirt, the fabric whispering as he moved. “Last night, you were wild, I must say. Muggles have a way to party.”
Petunia was frozen, her mind racing. “Wait a minute…” she whispered, the reality of it all crashing down on her with the force of a rogue bludger. “It wasn’t a dream?”
Rabastan chuckled, not turning to face her as he began to unbutton his trousers. “Which part do you mean was a dream? The part where you thoroughly enjoyed playing with Black and Potter and giving them nightmares in the years to come? Or the part where you befriended my sister-in-law and my best friend’s husband in a drunken state at our wedding?”
A fragmented montage of blurry images and slurred words flashed through Petunia’s mind. A tall, dark-haired man with glasses, his face contorted in anger. Another man, gaunt and pale, his eyes burning with hatred. And then… laughter. Loud, boisterous laughter shared with a woman with wild, dark hair and a man with impossibly long, platinum blonde locks.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “No, no, no. Did I really get drunk with that crazy-haired witch? And that wizard with the long hair called me his… best friend? Did this really happen?”
Rabastan turned, a sly grin on his face. “Ah, yes. Poor Lucy. I wonder what Cissy will do to him once he wakes up.” He closed the distance between them, his hand brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from her face. A shiver ran down her spine. “Since you and I are now married," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, "I suppose we could enjoy ourselves.”
He snapped his fingers. The air shimmered, and a small figure with large, tearful eyes popped into existence. It was a house-elf, dressed in a tea towel.
“Second Younger Master, what could Winky do for you?” she squeaked, bowing low.
“Breakfast in bed, Winky,” Rabastan commanded, his eyes never leaving Petunia’s.
Panic clawed at Petunia’s throat. She needed to escape, to think, to process this utter madness. When Rabastan moved closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes, she blurted out, “I think I need to use the loo.”
She practically dove into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her and leaning against it, heart pounding. Her cheeks burned with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. “Petunia Noel Evans,” she whispered to her unfamiliar reflection, her voice trembling, “what have you gotten yourself into?”
Meanwhile, in another lavish guest room, the specific long-haired blonde wizard in question was indeed stirring. Lucius Malfoy groaned, stretching out on the plush queen-sized bed. “Merlin, I had a lot to drink yesterday,” he muttered, his head throbbing. Then his eyes widened as he became aware of the silken ropes binding his wrists to the ornate headboard. “Wait, what’s going on here?”
The sound of rustling silk made him crane his neck. Standing at the foot of the bed, a vision in lace and bare skin, was his wife, Narcissa. She wore a knowing smile that didn’t quite reach her cool, grey eyes.
“Lucius, darling,” she purred, stepping closer, her bare feet silent on the expensive carpet. “Did you have fun last night?”
Lucius’s eyes widened further, a cold dread creeping up his spine. He knew that tone. He’d heard it before. And it always preceded a punishment he’d rather not endure. He swallowed hard. “Cissy, darling. You know you’re the only woman for me.”
Narcissa raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, Lucius, I believe you. I absolutely believe you I’m the only woman who would ever be carrying the Malfoy name in this lifetime. However…”
The tip of her wand, which had materialized seemingly from nowhere, tapped lightly against his abdomen, tracing the contours of his still-defined abs. “Must you make a friend with a Muggle? And above all, she is my best friend’s wife now. And to be honest, I don’t see how she would become your partner in crime so you could torment Rabastan.”
Lucius’s desperation grew. “But darling, why am I the only one getting punished here? Didn’t your crazy sister announce that she liked Petunia as well? She was practically offering her a spot in our inner circle!”
Narcissa’s smile widened, but it was sharp, like shards of ice. “Oh, don’t worry, my sister will have another kind of punishment. You, on the other hand, will have my punishment.” She straddled him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
Lucius closed his eyes, a silent plea escaping his lips. “Merlin save me.”
Narcissa’s laughter was soft, but predatory. “Merlin can’t help you now, darling.” And with a final, mischievous glint in her eye, she began her particularly inventive form of marital discipline. The sounds that followed were a mix of protest, pleasure, and the distinct crackle of magic, a fitting symphony to the chaotic aftermath of a truly memorable wedding.
Petunia, having finally gathered her wits, emerged cautiously from the bathroom. She’d washed her face, the cool water a small comfort in the chaos of her mind. Peeking around the doorframe, she scanned the room, hoping Rabastan had vanished.
No such luck.
He was seated at a small, round table near the window, a steaming pot and plates laid out. He looked up as she entered, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Ah, wife, you’ve finally decided to grace me with your presence.”
Petunia swallowed hard. She felt like a trapped animal. Hesitantly, she walked towards the table.
“Have a seat,” he gestured to the chair opposite him.
She sat, her posture stiff and awkward. Rabastan, she noticed, was trying to subtly hide the way his gaze kept lingering on her. There was a flicker of something in his dark eyes she couldn’t quite decipher, a spark of…attraction? The thought was both unsettling and strangely thrilling.
He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So, wife,” he began, his tone shifting to something more conversational, “I guess this is the time for the two of us to get to know each other. Don’t you agree?”