Narcissa stands in front of her wardrobe’s vanity, hands resting on her husband’s shoulders as she watches their reflection in the large mirror. Lucius sits, an antique goblet held in hand. The concoction inside is a slowly bubbling brown, thick and dark like mud. Polyjuice Potion, fresh from the cauldron.
Lucius had brewed it himself, had spent the past month ensuring its perfection: every step executed with precision, equipment and ingredients the very best money could buy. They deserved nothing less, he’d told her, slicing knotgrass in the Manor’s lab. Narcissa had agreed.
Now, she reaches up and plucks a strand of her own hair, Lucius lifting the goblet expectantly. They both watch as the golden blonde falls in a gentle curl, mixing into the potion with Lucius’ help. The liquid shifts: dark brown lightening, morphing to an off-white cream, the top glittering with an iridescent sheen. Pearl like, Narcissa thinks, pleased.
She watches Lucius assess his work.
“This is a testament to my love for you,” he tells her, catching the eye of her reflection. Narcissa smiles as he brings the goblet to his mouth, hands tightening their hold on his shoulders as she presses a kiss to the back of his head.
No sooner has she pulled away than the Polyjuice takes effect. It’s slow to start, subtle. She watches in the mirror’s reflection as Lucius’ grey eyes shift to a light blue, the shape rounding, eyelashes darkening. His nose follows, thinned and shortened as his cupid’s bow grows more prominent. His jaw softens, his silver hair taking a more yellowed tone. Beneath her hands, the body shrinks: broad shoulders narrowing as inches are taken off her husband’s height. Narcissa pulls her hands away; watches, transfixed, as Lucius quickly fades from sight, the body left in his place a replica of her own.
“Oh my,” she breathes, gaze trailing over the sight in front of her. She is beautiful, she’s always known that, but it’s different when you’re faced with it like this, she thinks. Her fingers flex, the urge to touch itching beneath her skin. She eyes the way Lucius’ robes pool around him now. “Let’s get you dressed.”
Lucius picks the outfit: a simple little négligée made from soft, baby blue material, its hem detailed with white lace. “I’ve always loved how you look in this,” he tells her, slipping it over his shoulders. Her shoulders. Narcissa isn’t sure how to think of it.
She watches Lucius admire his reflection, two of herself staring back at them. Narcissa’s gaze is stuck on the way Lucius caresses himself when in possession of her body: hands resting at her waist and stroking slowly across her hips before moving up again, toward the curve of her breasts. There is an unmistakable heat pooling in her stomach, breath quickening and adrenaline burning beneath her skin. She meets his gaze in the reflection, and there, at least, she recognises Lucius: the glint in her double’s eyes one she’s seen mirrored in her husband a million times.
There’s no warning. One second Lucius is looking at his own reflection and the next Narcissa is face to face with herself, doppelgänger so close they’re breathing the same air. A hand settles on the dip of her waist, above the thin material of her night robe, Lucius leaning closer, in. Warm breath hits the exposed length of her neck, the hand on her hip squeezing lightly.
“You know you want to,” Lucius says, but it’s her own voice: a perfect copy, as if it’d come from the same mouth; the only giveaway the knowledge she has of her husband’s speech patterns, the way she can see Lucius in the smirk her replica wears. Her breath hitches as lips press to her neck, soft and damp and slow.
Lucius is right: she does want to. They both do. Had both been eager, interested when they’d first approached the topic; a throwaway comment morphing to something more. Her eyes flutter shut, her hand reaching to tangle in her double’s hair as it would if she were with Lucius. But she isn’t, not really.
Her touch elicits a hitch of breath, the sound familiar and yet foreign in another mouth. Narcissa swallows it: mouth meeting her own as she pulls Lucius to her, her lips soft to touch, sweet. She groans at the taste of herself, her tongue licking its way to more, her insides burning as if she’d swallowed fire.
“Bed,” she groans when they break apart, the single word panted against skin, out of breath, already.
“Hedonist,” Lucius says in her voice, his mouth kissing along her collarbone. A line is licked up her neck, teeth grazing skin. “Narcissist,” he hisses, mouth right below her ear. Narcissa knows he’s made an effort to parrot her diction.
She shivers. “We have that in common,” she says, pushing Lucius—herself—back against the headboard.
She straddles him, robe discarded, a pair of knickers the only thing left on.
It’s strange, having your own weight beneath you. Your own body. Narcissa leans forward to kiss herself, Lucius lifting to meet her. Feminine hands settle on her waist and run along the flesh, inching up, the pad of a thumb brushing over her nipple and making her moan. She’s wet already, energy thrumming through her. She feels almost shaky with it.
“Here,” Lucius murmurs, her double’s head dropping just a bit. He pulls her closer, hands falling away in favour of his mouth. Narcissa gasps as a tongue licks across her breasts, as her own mouth sucks on a nipple, teeth grazing the skin. Lucius alternates between the two, his hands massaging what his mouth can’t reach, and Narcissa grinds down against her double’s leg, desperate for some kind of friction.
The way her replica laughs is all Lucius, that haughty, breathy chuckle going straight to her cunt. “Look at you,” comes her voice, deeper than she’s ever heard it. Lucius pulls back to see her flush. “Desperate already. I wonder how many times you’ll come for yourself in an hour.”
She shivers, nudges his shoulder and bends to kiss herself again. Lucius’ hands lower as she licks down her double’s neck, his fingers edging the hem of her underwear, teasing; the action habitual and yet barely familiar when done by her hand.
Narcissa tries to remember her own sensitive spots to target, obsessed with the effect they have on Lucius, the way he reacts with her body. She bites at the base of his neck and listens to the hitch of breath, bunches the négligée in her hand and pulls, kissing a line down her double’s chest once the skin’s exposed. She’s been with women before but it doesn’t compare to the feel of her own skin under her mouth: silky-soft and salty beneath her tongue.
She spends some time there, admiring her own breasts, revelling in the way Lucius, in her body, reacts to the attention. It’s new to him, she can tell, the way her body feels pleasure. She flattens her tongue against a hard nipple, pinches the other between her fingers and laughs as he jolts, the sound soft, airy, underpinned with something wicked.
It’s a short-lived victory. Lucius gets her back by pressing two fingers against her clit, rubbing her as best he can with their position. Narcissa tenses, eyes fluttering shut as she rocks against it.
“More,” she groans, shifting so Lucius has a better angle. He doesn’t argue, two fingers slipping inside of her with ease, the pad of a thumb rubbing at her clit. She gasps at the feeling. At the distinct difference. Her own fingers are thinner than Lucius’, smaller, the sensation not dissimilar to when she does this to herself, but not entirely the same, either. A different technique, Narcissa thinks, arching slightly as fingers hook inside her. It really does feel as if she’s fucking herself.
“You look gorgeous like this,” says Lucius. Narcissa’s hips stutter at the sound: her voice, almost a pur. Warm with affection. “Needy,” it continues, a soft coo. “Wanton.”
Distantly, Narcissa knows Lucius is making a conscious effort to sound exactly like her, is letting her live the fantasy. Her cunt clenches at the thought, heat building. Her thighs shake, straining with the effort to keep herself upright when all she wants to do is give into the call of pleasure. It burns through her, erodes her grace and leaves desperation in its place.
“Come for me,” Lucius says, the pace and pressure of his hand intense, unrelenting. His spare hand clenches around her hip, pulls her forward. “Narcissa,” he says, “come.”
She does, eyes shut as her own voice talks her through it, body shaking as it lights with pleasure: overwhelming, all consuming. She’s panting, chest heaving from the high, a quiet whimper caught in her throat as the hands of her double fall away.
When she opens her eyes, it’s to the sight of Lucius’ lying back against the pillows, fingers in her mouth as she sucks them clean. Narcissa stares, mesmerised, as a pink tongue licks the length of a finger, long hair splayed around her replica’s head like a halo.
Lucius smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her. “Switch,” he says. It comes out breathy, distracted, aroused. A flicker of accomplishment lights Narcissa’s chest.
A hand taps her hip and she obliges, shifts so she’s the one lying on her back and Lucius is the one on top. He urges her legs to open and settles in the space between, Narcissa’s stomach muscles clenching as he wandlessly summons the hair tie kept on their bedside table, realisation of what he plans to do dawning on her. It makes her skin go tingly in anticipation.
Lucius looks down at her as her replica’s hair is tied into a loose knot. “You’re not going to want me after this, are you?” he murmurs, teasing. He settles against the mattress, drags a palm along her calf, up her thigh. Watches as she twitches in excitement. Lips press against her navel. “First taste, and all that.”
“I’m hardly addicted to myself,” Narcissa answers, still catching her breath. She doesn’t miss the quiet snort. “You have some use—”
The word cuts off, morphing to a moan as Lucius dips forward and mouths at her cunt through the flimsy fabric of her underwear, surprise mixed with the knowledge that it’s her tongue making Narissa buck upwards, into the pressure. She swears, voice loud, and Lucius pulls away smiling.
Narcissa glares. “If you tease me now—” she warns, but it’s unneeded. Hands hook in the hem of her knickers and pull, Lucius shifting to remove them, the fabric discarded as he wastes no time in getting started.
Narcissa can’t look away as Lucius’ version of herself kisses along her inner thighs, one hand curled around a leg as Lucius nips at the skin. It does something to her, the sight of herself between her legs. The knowledge of what’s going to come next. It makes her gush and clench and go crazy with need. She hadn’t quite expected this level of attraction when they’d discussed the topic, but it’s undeniable now: the desire real and heady and overwhelming.
Lucius tightens his grip and tugs her closer, the gentle heat of his breath making her cunt clench. He looks up so Narcissa is met with her own eyes: wide and blue and glittering with arousal. She shivers at the sight.
It’s met with a feral grin, Lucius flashing a wicked twist of her mouth before he leans in, seeking Narcissa’s clit immediately. Her leg twitches, her breath hitching as a tongue slides over the sensitive nub, her hands fisting the sheets as Lucius sucks, licks, kisses; the knowledge that it’s her mouth driving Narcissa embarrassingly close to the edge for a second time.
It’s what Lucius is going for, she realises. He really must want to see how many times she can come in the hour. Pleasure thrums beneath her skin, makes her body burn white-hot. Anticipation, excitement. She struggles not to close her eyes. Wants to see herself between her own legs, hair pulled back as a mouth licks over her cunt, one hand holding her down while the other inches forward, two fingers slipping inside with ease and drawing a low, guttural moan from her.
She rocks with Lucius’ rhythm. Basks in the onslaught of pleasure. Lucius works with a clear intention to drive her mad with desire – has always revelled in breaking through her careful control so all that’s left is this: raw arousal and want. A tongue flicks against her clit, licks down the slit and laps at the wetness. A third finger slips inside her, the sounds that fill the room wet and filthy.
Lucius makes eye contact with her now, too, her mirror image looking at her as it pokes a tongue out, the tip of it pressing at Narcissa’s clit intently. She tries to remind herself that it’s not a perfect copy, that Lucius’ mind is still inside, but the lines are blurred, her head clouded by arousal, by the heat that’s pooling low in her stomach, growing stronger with every flick of tongue, every twist of a finger. It doesn’t help that she’s aware of every difference, every touch compared to the memory of her husband’s body.
She takes hold of her replica’s hair, grip undoing the knot as she uses it to bring Lucius closer. Lucius hums in answer, the vibration of it making her back arch, her hips buck. It’s followed with a particularly clever hook of fingers, a tongue lapping at her clit, and Narcissa can’t hold on any longer. She loses herself to her second orgasm, this one stronger than the first, her mind cloudy, disoriented with pleasure as Lucius continues to lick and suck, fingers buried deep in her cunt until she all but begs him to take them out: oversensitive.
She’s panting, heartbeat loud in her ears. When she looks down across her heaving stomach, it’s to find Lucius’ version of herself looking a mess: hair disarrayed, cheeks flushed pink, eyes blown with lust and chin shining with her own slick. It makes Narcissa’s whole body flush with want.
She doesn’t think. “Up,” she says, an urgent need obvious in her tone. “Up.”
She reaches down. Tugs at Lucius. There’s a flicker of confusion before realisation hits, and then Lucius is scrambling to obey, most of his grace gone in the unfamiliar body. He lifts up, shifting so knees settle on either side of her head. Narcissa winds her arms around thighs and pulls, desperate, her tongue dipping beneath the folds of her replica’s cunt and licking at the wetness there. A moan escapes her as she tastes herself, the bittersweetness intoxicating.
On top of her, Lucius has taken hold of the headboard to steady himself, small, surprised sounds escaping as Narcissa works her tongue across her replica’s clit. She knows it’s new for him, feeling pleasure like this. From this. She revels in it, in the knowledge that the sounds he makes now are what she would have made, years ago, the first time this had been done to her.
Having your own body above you is equally as strange as having it beneath, she thinks, distantly, as she sucks at her double’s folds. She loves the taste of herself on her tongue, would tell Lucius that maybe he had had a point before if she had any desire to remove her mouth. Lucius presses down against her, négligée bunched around her double’s waist as he chases his orgasm. The legs on either side of her head are quivering, slick and spit coating her chin as Lucius drips, his arousal obviously matching Narcissa’s own.
She can tell when Lucius is close. Can spot the signs: the hissed swears, the way thighs jerk, clench around her, any hint of elegance forgotten. She slips two fingers inside her replica’s cunt, much like Lucius had done to her, and smiles at the responding groan, the string of obscenities spat as Lucius rocks against her. She hooks her fingers, thrusts once, twice, three times, the rhythm matching that of her tongue. She makes sure her eyes are wide open when Lucius comes, wants to see as much of herself in the thrall of orgasm as she can.
Lucius shifts to give her a better view, and Narcissa watches, mesmerised as her replica succumbs to pleasure, face flushed and hair darkened gold with sweat. The body above her pants, cunt clenching around her fingers as Narcissa leans to lap up the wetness.
It doesn’t take long for Lucius to fall to the mattress beside her, oversensitive. “Cissa,” he pants, as if her name was Merlin.
Narcissa grins as she twists to kiss him; the taste of herself on herself making her groan. “Try for three?” she says, expecting the arched brow he gives her, the mix of disbelief and intrigue.
She’s nothing if not ambitious.
“Did you enjoy it?” she asks him later, once Lucius has returned to his own self.
They’re in bed again, the sheets changed while they’d showered. Narcissa is lying half across his chest, looking at him as her finger draws absentminded patterns against his skin. Lucius looks at her like she’s gone daft.
“What do you think?” he asks her.
She smiles, a gentle laugh bubbling in her chest. “Did it feel different?” she adds, curiosity rearing its head now that her mind is clear, her body sated. “I mean—” She cuts off, waving a hand toward the lower half of him.
Lucius’ mouth twitches. “You’ve no bloody idea.”
Narcissa’s smile widens, chest vibrating with a quiet hum. She shifts again, hand reaching to tuck pale-blonde hair away from Lucius’ face. “There’s still a cauldron of Polyjuice to use,” she says, the proposition clear in her voice. “And you do have a lot of hair.”
She plucks a strand for good measure, uncaring as it falls discarded on the mattress.
From the look Lucius gives her, Narcissa can guess what their future plans entail.