Work Text:
+++ 1 +++
He cowers in the corner of a great hall, in a great house.
His house.
He pries his eyes open, and forces them to… look.
No blood seeps between the slats. No bodies litter the floor.
There is only a great, empty hall. With great, silent shadows.
No screams.
He slinks away from his corner and quits this room quickly before the phantoms can follow.
In the corridor, nothing is… leaking.
But there may be eyes. Eyes that follow him. Track him.
Judge him.
Eyes he cannot meet. Was not allowed to meet. Even looking at the floor, he can feel the disgust in Abraxas’ eyes. Hear it in his aspirating delivery.
He can hear —
{ “Son, you must prepare yourself to face the worst kinds of filth. Mudbloods, blood traitors, every abomination befouling our world. They will expect to be on a level. They are not.
{ “Do you understand?”
{ “Yes, Father.” }
He remembers now.
This is the house where he brought *her.*
He remembers the awkward, impossible twist of her in his arms when they’d apparated here.
Here. To this house.
He can almost feel her.
Kissing his cheek, then his other cheek. Smoothing his hair.
{ “Stop that. You know I hate—“ }
Kissing his grimace, his hard mouth, until he’d groan.
He is not tried, convicted, locked away. Not this time. He is *free.*
No blood.
Only a slow, thick flood of guilt.
+++ 2 +++
*She* is here. Somehow.
A moving, breathing Granger. She has found him. Found him out.
She has found him where he’s tripped on the garden path, and fallen, and stayed.
He is not entirely certain he wants to see this apparition.
That’s a lie. He would see her in any form. Come then, come and take your vengeance. Hate me, hex me, it’s not like I would defend myself. Rage at me.
But the apparition does not rage.
She moves, toward him, and breathes, to deliver only a quiet judgement, from a height.
She speaks.
In Granger’s own voice. Her lips move as well.
“This—“ she indicates his sprawl across the stones, “is not very… flattering.”
The apparition would play games. He remembers this game. He will play.
“So the winner is here to collect the spoils. Is that it?”
“Well, you *are* spoiled… and I *am* here.”
“I am not convinced of that. Is this Hermione Granger, conquering hero and wit, or some… joke?”
“The *joke* has fallen flat.“
She eyes his prostration again, but her fingers worry the hem of her jacket, her limbs are stiff with tension. In spite of that tension, she is adorable.
And he *knows.*
He knows how to drive away that tension, how to leave her loose-limbed before him.
He remembers that.
“I’ll leave then,” she is saying. “The same way I came.” And she turns to go.
He barks from the horizontal. “I should never have given you that Portkey.”
“Take it back, then, if you don’t want me here.” She holds out the necklace with a hint of—
Is that anger?
But it fades, and is replaced by something else. Something like… concern?
Concern, a mechanical thing. It has never been directed at him, though he can mimic it *well.* Things must be worse than he thought.
And that gets him up and on his feet.
“You found me,” he says, and tries to move.
“You sent me away,” she says, and tries to break his fall.
He collapses *at* her, thinking, as he does, that this must be the *real* Granger. She feels quite real as she all but drags him inside and aims him toward one of the nearest couches. Quite corporeal in her thready jacket and awful muggle pants.
She could be a Polyjuice poser, though…
And he should do *something* about that. He fumbles for the wand that is not there. It’s not there. He—
{ winces at the *snap* }
holds out his empty hands to her, but—
{ *winces* }
A poser would have stolen the Portkey, and he should do *something* about that but he is falling and he pulls her down with him, and he no longer cares if she is actual- or Poly-Granger because she feels wonderful and smells delectable, just like Granger’s fruity soap. Oh, this apparition is *adept.*
Altogether, a good way to go, he thinks.
+++ 3 +++
He wakes with a start.
He is, at least partially, still on the couch, tangled in an afghan. She is not there, not even a revenant in her stead.
Except.
The afghan smells like her, and he is—
Frantic.
He searches the house. Every floor. Every room.
Wheezing.
He checks again.
No blood. No bodies.
No Granger.
{ “You found me.” }
{ “You sent me away.” }
He *had* sent her away. He had sent her back to that stupid, vacuous Weasley boy and his stupid, weaselly father with the muggle obsession (hmm… must rework *that* particular recrimination).
There had been reasons.
There was Abraxas. Always Abraxas, a living death, living in his head. ‘So you think you’ve come to your senses, do you? Now that you have debased yourself with that mudblood. You think you will be touching Narcissa, now?’ No, Father, I certainly will not be touching Narcissa, now.
There had been the certainty of very limited time with the fearless little…
With *her.*
It had been *difficult* to send her back. To push her away. Honestly, did she even feel for the Weasley boy? Look, Lucius, look and see. But all he could see, when he looked inside that busy, busy brain, had been his own hot gaze.
It was not as if he could keep her. After all, she had wanted their coupling to ‘mean something.‘
Mean something with *him?* The Death Eater who seduced her and read her mind?
Ridiculous.
She had struggled furiously in his arms, one last time.
{ “If you’ve been reading my mind all along, you would know just who seduced whom.”
{ “Don’t, Hermione.”
{ “Get out of my *mind*!” }
She had all but spat at him.
{ “I can’t — I won’t — and *now* you are thinking you’ve been only the… dalliance, the fling, the… extra curricular. When, in fact, you’ve been the…
{ “… entanglement.”
{ “Oh, stop it! Stop dissembling.”
{ “I will not. Dissembling is my specialty.” }
And *that* had gone precisely nowhere. She had wrenched and contorted herself out of his grip.
And left.
And he let her go.
He let her *go.*
But now she’s come back. Hasn’t she?
He’s not sure.
+++ 4 +++
It is difficult to keep track of the time.
He tries counting the hours, then the days. The portraits begin counting for him. Forward. Backward. Sideways. For their own amusement. The grandfather in the library does not chime the twelve, or the six, or any hour. No house elf tends its silence.
But there’s Abraxas, hissing his incessant timekeeping. In his dizzy, throbbing head. Perhaps he’s been screaming the hours.
She hasn’t returned.
Perhaps she’s heard the screaming.
He should go *home.* To Narcissa’s open arms. Well, they would be closed arms, now. And Draco, where would Draco’s arms be? Hanging loosely at his sides, no doubt.
He *did* find Draco. Found him, retrieved him, and ensconced him firmly back at headquarters— no, no. Home. Back at home.
What else did he do?
He ran. He ran away.
In the clinch, he ran like a coward. The notorious Second ran from the battle. ‘You retrieved your son but lost your wand, is that what you’re telling me? And where is this *replacement* wand?’
{ *snap* }
{ *wince* }
Narcissa’s apathy is… startling. She’s turned away, legitimately perhaps, and guided Draco with her. But, legitimate or not, it is startling.
There had been hints before now. Hints of judgement. And coming from the House of Black, it had been… startling.
{ “What did you *do,* Narcissa? What is this bargain you’ve struck for Draco’s indoctrination?”
{ “What did *you* do, locked up in prison? You couldn’t protect him. You’re as demented as your guards, Lucius. I did what was necessary.” }
It’s so quiet here.
No screams.
If Abraxas had only applied himself and caused some *real* damage, there would be sounds. Sounds like —
Screams?
A real wound to make real sounds. Something incurable. Something like —
{ “No, Father!” }
If she comes back, he might hear *her* sounds.
Those little cries.
Those devastating little cries she’d make when he —
When she would twist and thrash —
When he would press her down —
Her hair a dark cloud where he could bury his face.
He hears *something.*
A sound like screams.
The scent of blood.
Carved into skin.
And it would be *good,* somehow, her arms around him, wrapping him up *tight.*
But they are not.
And she was not—
Moving. She was—
Still.
+++ 5 +++
He sees Abraxas again.
It *looks* like Abraxas. Abraxas on his deathbed, perhaps.
He tries some kind of dismissive gesture, tries to run his fingers through his hair. He tries, but his fingers *stick* in the tangles.
A grimace sticks to his face.
Deathbed-Abraxas reflects the grimace, and the gesture, in the many, many, *countless* ballroom mirrors.
And he doesn’t want to think about how he got in *here,* with so many shiny, shiny surfaces.
Or when.
How long has he been this way?
Days? Months?
Years?
He’s *not* counting.
He is wearing… What *is* that? A filthy, *filthy* nightshirt. He can’t stop looking, now.
Can’t *keep* looking. At the not-Abraxas, not-ghost gaping at him.
No wonder Granger took off on her broomstick, er, Portkey. She must have smelled the filth, no, no. *She* would have smelled the dastardly *deeds* all over him.
What had she found him *for,* precisely? What had she expected to find?
Reformation?
And *that* is no rabbit hole this filthy, wand-less, nightshirt-garbed, *Malfoy* should ever trip and fall into.
He coughs out a maniacal laugh. Then another. The third is… well, not a laugh at all.
But look — his cane is here, and it is *repaired,* complete with replacement wand. See, Father? Repaired and good as new.
{ *snap* }
{ *wince* }
He can’t exactly crucio himself, but those silver fangs are nice and sharp. Sharp enough to *cut* skin. And a *twist* would tear flesh well enough to wound.
Well enough to make an incurable mark? Well enough to leave a scar upon the scar? To learn just how deep it goes?
He breathes, deliberately, and, carefully, so as not to disturb Abraxas, takes a peek upstairs, at the mental gymnastics.
There is a certain hysteria in finding that he looks like a prison reject.
There is a certain trepidation in the knowledge that *unhealed* gashes, observed by any family member, would deliver him straight to St. Mungo’s, or worse.
There is also a certain degree of arousal.
He wonders if *she* would do the honors. If she would squeeze him tight in her little palm and pull with a brutal twist.
With her *rage.*
His knees thud on the burnished floor. And under the nightshirt, he is hard.
He’s got a good *grip* on the snake’s head with one hand, and —
He can see her mouth, that smart mouth, open for a cry. Those hips, perfect in his hands, perfect to hold her down while he pushes in, and in.
She would flash those dark eyes for him, dare him to work harder for it, and he would. He would work harder —
Her fingers would fumble at his shoulders, her sharp, little nails scraping down, and down, until they’d dig in there, right *there,* into his sinistral forearm.
And she wouldn’t stop digging, and tearing, and *raging*—
Wouldn’t stop as he writhes, wouldn’t stop as he cries out.
Wouldn’t stop until he’d *force* her to stop. Until he’d force her to take him. To take —
And she would be so —
Will it make you cry, Hermione, if I bleed? Will it make you want to touch me again?
And he’s contorting on the ballroom floor, climaxing from an apparition, now as dim as the room itself.
His arm drips.
+++ 6 +++
She *had* known.
She had known what was about to happen. Known he’d seen it in her eyes, if not yet in her *mind.*
She had known and had the courage of her convictions.
{ “I want to give you what you want…” }
If she knew what I wanted, he’d thought, she wouldn’t make that offer. But he had been… curious.
{ “And what do I want?” }
He’d held her gaze until she became fully aware of his proximity, aware that *she* wanted. How she wanted. What she wanted.
{ “I want all your secrets, Miss Granger, especially the ones you’re afraid to write in your little diary.” }
She’d narrowed her eyes, then, just a bit. Opened her mouth, just a bit. Then closed it. Analyzing, categorizing, *managing* every little thing. Did she even know she did that?
It was stunning, really, how she had failed to recoil, to hold her ground. How would he ever keep from destroying her? By tormenting her muggle stand-ins, of course. But later, later.
{ “Kiss me.” }
And she had, right there in the corridor, no charms or concealment, blushing furiously.
And the only possible response, once he’d towed her into the shadowy vestibule and away from Hogwarts’ sight-lines, had been to kiss her back. Kiss her thoroughly. Give her *notes* on kissing. Kiss her *enough.* Enough to make it *blatant.*
Enough that when he pressed into her, through her uniform skirt, the answering whimper had been… perfect.
About the stand-ins. Well…
No one had ever tried to dissect his facade before, carefully constructed as it was.
No one would’ve dared. They would’ve suffered the consequences. There were always consequences. Then, out of nowhere, the little mudblood, piercing and dissecting, flaying away.
He cannot bring himself to heal the fresh damage to his forearm. It seems he has developed tender feelings for it. He will clean and bandage it only. Perhaps in the bath, where it will leak and slowly turn the water a cloudy carmine.
She isn’t coming back.
Perhaps he’s only dreamed her.
There is no one else here. No one else to curse him, cut him, rage at him.
No one to take revenge.
Except ghosts.
+++ 7 +++
When she comes back, she finds him half in and half out of the bath.
He wakes to the sight of her crouched over him, wearing that look of *concern.*
He glances down at the grimy porcelain and gives her an apologetic little shrug.
“I washed up for you.”
She *doesn’t* look him over. Exactly.
“Um… thank you?”
“You came back—“
He hauls himself, too enthusiastically, to the edge of the tub, where he teeters a bit.
“I waited. I waited a *long* time.“
“It’s only been one day, Lucius.”
“No, it’s been longer than that.”
Hasn’t it?
He’s been counting.
When they stumble into the bedroom, his knees are only intermittently functional. She’s holding him, guiding him, an arm around his waist, a firm little grip on the clean nightshirt she’s put him in.
He doesn’t fight the helpless grin spreading out all over his face.
She’s come back.
When she tries to sit him on the bed, he collapses into it, still grinning.
“What must you think of me, Granger. Wallowing here, no… servants, not even a fire.”
“You are not… well,” she says. “I will make the fire.” And she’s drawing the duvet up and tucking it.
*Tucking* him…
“Hmm… You are so… maternal?”
She glares. Stops the tucking.
“You have lost none of your overall offensiveness.”
“Stop. You’re making me blush.”
She has withdrawn her wand, and crossed to the fireplace, where, as promised, she is making those sparks catch. Quick and efficient.
“They don’t know where you’ve gone,” she says, over her shoulder. “They think you’ve left the country.”
They?
“I *have* left the country.”
“Oh, right. Yes…” Her eyes dart to the windows, the expanse of coiffed lawn—she doesn’t know where this house is. He isn’t sure where it is, either. Only where it isn’t.
“You went to the *manor* looking for me?”
That can’t have gone well. But, still. Bold, impressive. Considering everything. Everything …
Headquarters.
Bella shrieking.
{ “Call him, Lucius!” }
The mark *burning.*
Hermione cursed, carved, unconscious.
He’s lost focus in the flames. It’s as if he’s never heard the crackle and fizz of a fire before. As if it’s a new sound, without any connotations or associations.
“I’m here, Lucius. Right here.”
“I know where you are,” he says, too quickly. But she is here, back at the foot of his bed.
“You think I’m not tracking you like a… You think I can no longer track you? I have never *stopped* tracking you. I’m having this crisis of conscience just for you, you know.”
“Is that what this is?”
(Oh, good question, brightest witch. Good question for the wreck of the family Malfoy.)
He is so *tired.*
The manor is cold, but no colder than this house. He isn’t shaking. His teeth aren’t chattering.
She is soft in his arms when she climbs under the covers. Soft and *warm* and corporeal, and he just holds her, holds her *tight* against the stealing chill.
+++ 8 +++
“So tell me all about your happy Weasley home.”
He’s propped up in bed. Daylight is streaming in through the east windows. She’s coming at him with a steaming cup.
“Drink this.”
One eyebrow checks it out. “Potions, Alice?”
“Just drink it.”
He takes a gingerly sip, mimics regurgitation.
She crosses her arms over her chest. He takes another sip.
“You are… bossy,” he says, and swallows. “In the domestic sense. So how *is* young Ronald?”
She narrows her eyes.
“Why don’t you just look, like you’ve always done? Use legilimency, and have a good, long look.”
Well, this is… something.
“I admit, I used to spend a *lot* of time inside your head. I went there again and again. It became rather compelling, and illegal, I suppose. But … I looked to see what you wanted, so I could… deliver on the promise? It’s what *I* wanted.
“I can still feel the remnants of your thoughts, you know…”
“Even now, when you’re… in pain?”
“Well, my ‘pain’ has brought you here. And there, you have the circuitous, some might say torturous, path that has brought me what *I* want.”
She looks at him. Stands there in her sweater and muggle jeans, with her hair dancing about and wafting strawberry soap, and frowns at him.
“Will you refrain from the legilimency for today?”
“I will. For today. But.
“I need to…know. I want to…” He groans. This sounds so desperate, hopeless. So weak. Not at all the feeling of being inside her mind.
He remembers.
He remembers letting himself look, really look — all that awe, confusion, desire and trepidation. Of course, for the ego it never failed. And never failed to make him *want*…
“What is it you need to know?”
“Something, something…”
“True?”
“Yes. That. Show me that.”
And he’s up and walking at her, stalking her across the room, backing her right up to the tall dresser — all those little handles. He doesn’t feel weak at all.
“Show me, Granger, show me something *true.* Use your nails. Your teeth. A knife.”
Her strike, when it comes, doesn’t cut him, doesn’t leave him bleeding out on the floor.
She’s drawn her wand just as quick as you please, dimpling his neck, firing off her curse.
And he *is* on the floor. She stands over him, just like she had on the garden path, and he laughs. A soft, guileless sound.
“You need to be *punished,* Lucius?”
“Hmm… Well, I was hoping to keep that under *wraps* a little while longer…”
He tries to prop up on his elbows.
“Perhaps this is where I confess, my dear Miss Granger, oh brightest of bright lights. Before you found me here, I spent some time, um, imagining us being positively brutal with each other.”
He holds out his bandaged arm, as punctuation. Or evidence.
“No, I won’t let you heal it for me. It will be my *scar.* My muggle mark, if you will. Don’t heal it.”
He sits up, warming to his topic. “I *needed* you to look for me, you see, to find me, find what is *wrong* and repair it, with, with…”
“Me —“
“Yes.”
“You want to use me to… rehabilitate yourself?”
“Hmm… I’m looking forward to the old Azkie. I should do my proper penance, don’t you think? This time I’ll do it right. I’m so remarkably fit, you see. I won’t even hold my own in a *fistfight.* So, there you have it. I’m sure Narcissa will sign the paperwork, post haste…”
He checks to see how much of that she’s bought.
She studies his face. Then his bandaged arm. His face again. His color is high, right on the edge of feverish.
“What have you done with Lucius Malfoy?”
“He is… under re-construction?”
+++ 9 +++
“Get back in bed.”
She is standing and urges him to do the same. He does, but a little too slowly.
“Are you going to curse me again?”
“Is that what you *need?*”
But she doesn’t wait to discuss. “I’m going to clean *that,*” she says, and points to his arm. “Then, I will re-bandage it. Then, get you more to drink. And eat. There is a kitchen here, did you know? A functional kitchen.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do say.”
And off she goes, all professional healer-like. When she returns, apparently from said kitchen, she brings what looks like an entire muggle hospital of accoutrements.
He watches as she unwraps his bandage and oh, the ritual, the sting!
“You are enjoying this.”
Honestly, he doesn’t know which is better: the pain of *cleaning,* or watching her *work.*
He tries his old friend, flattery.
“You do have healing skill, Hermione. You are careful. And controlled.”
“From the king of control, that is quite the compliment.”
And his ego, or the ghost of his ego, tugs on his sleeve for inclusion in the conversation.
“Oh yes, I *am* careful. Exceedingly controlled. My father taught me everything he knew. And more.” Oh no, no! Don’t go *there*…
“Not so careful with *me.*”
“Exceedingly careful with *you.*”
“Then, why send me, so carefully, away?”
“Think about it. Meanwhile, on a closely related topic: You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Which question?”
He waits. Not long. She knows the question.
“Alright,” she starts. “Ron is…” and her eyes focus past him, at some far point.
He is acutely aware that she still cradles his arm, now freshly bandaged, and that it rests across her knee. And that her palms are warm, almost hot, like the wound.
“Ron is… young,” she is saying. “Like a child, sometimes.”
Well, now. “Too young for you.”
That was quick, and earns him a warning flash.
“Too young for… for what he’s lost. What we’ve lost. We are all children.”
“I see. So we have concluded that you are… a child.”
“You *know* that I am not."
“Mm…” He resists the *strong* urge to look her over. “You *were.*”
“So were you. Once.”
And *that* is really, truly, nowhere he wants to go.
“What I *meant,*” she says, “is that after you, in particular, he is like a child.”
“You were making a comparison, then.”
"You mean, sexually?"
"Are you *deflecting*?”
She glares, and unceremoniously drops his arm.
It would take only the slightest downward motion with that arm, the briefest of rotations. But he doesn’t slip his hand under her knee. He doesn’t *yank* her up onto to the bed and *take.* Doesn’t *give.*
He doesn’t.
She doesn’t need legilimency to watch his internal battle, or check his hesitance.
And just that fast, she is up and away from the bed, gathering up the bandages, basins and assorted medicinal whatnots.
“I will be back,” she says, and pauses long enough to point with her free hand. “Stay there!”
Bossy Granger is splendid, he thinks, as he watches her go. Just what the healer ordered.
And no apparition. She is real. And really here. Now what? He can’t just keep her in the dungeon. Can he?
He knows the risk she’s taken to come here. But why? Why did she come? Is she truly finished with the young weasel? She seems disinclined to deliver him her rage (perhaps with the right provocation…). She has been *changed* by the war, too. The rage may be there but no longer on the surface. It has been dulled by grief.
Why the desperate tangle of his thoughts? His thoughts of her, the filthy, filthy mudblood. He wants to untangle those thoughts by pressing her into…
{ “Father, of course, they are muggles — filth. I understand. But were muggles not *useful* to us, once?”
{ “That was a long time ago, Lucius. We have other ways to position ourselves now. And *you* must position yourself to join with the House of Black.” }
He was to be the Slytherin success. He was to succeed Abraxas, succeed with Narcissa. He was to *succeed* — not that other thing. He was to succeed in positioning the mighty, maligned House of Malfoy. Any means to an end.
{ “Riddle is a means to a very specific end, son. Remember your priorities.” }
Then, they had been marked, and Riddle… no, ‘Voldemort,’ and then not even that, because just a whisper of the name, just a thought, would bring the pain, and the *orders.* Bring *him.* And then, he had marked Draco, all while cooing promises to disgraced prison inmates. He had even commandeered the *manor.* It wasn’t difficult to take personally. Especially when he —
{ *snap* }
{ *wince* }
No.
+++ 10 +++
She is gone.
The fire is down to embers. The daylight dimming to dusk.
No, no, no!
Wait.
She was heading down to the kitchen, to rummage for eats. Yes, he is certain that’s what she said.
How long could that take, even done the muggle way?
How long has he been *out*?
He doesn’t scream her name as he tears through the halls. He doesn’t care if the portraits laugh as he stumble-leaps down the stairs, through one dark corridor after another until, of course, that light could only be coming from the kitchen.
And there she is.
At a stove, her back to him while she stirs… something.
He tries to control, to maintain, to be *himself.* But he can hear his own wheezing breath, can see it luffing his hair from his face in rhythmic exhalations. He can’t quite steady himself against the doorway.
She must hear the… wheezing.
When she turns around, the steam from the—whatever it is—curls around her, curls her hair, wets her shirt, and he can’t —
“I told you to stay upstairs,” she says, but her scolding tone drops away because he’s coming at her.
“I thought you were a ghost,” he says, and keeps coming.
She sidesteps the stove, but he’s already got her by the biceps, maneuvering her, pressing her back against the tall cabinet.
Holds her there. Looks —
“You are not a ghost…”
“No. I am not.”
And he’s still trying to untangle those thoughts.
“You smell like her. You feel like her. You are *impertinent* like her. As if you *are* her.”
“I am, Lucius.”
But he only tightens his grip, pulls her forward then *heaves* her back against the cabinet.
He looks into her, but not into her *mind.* Yet.
He is flushed and sweating. And aroused.
He steps back and releases her arms. She slumps a bit, but only leans forward, into him. Just like… before. She has always leaned into his touch.
He remembers.
Now her forehead presses into his collarbone and he can breathe — he can turn his face into her wet curls and breathe *her.*
“Tell me why… why you came back —“
But his voice twists and strangles in his throat—
Because she’s got a good, tight *grip* on him, and she’s giving him a viscous squeeze. Just like —
“Yes, Hermione. *Yes*—“
He doesn’t want to laugh. He doesn’t have any *control* over the sound that comes out, but —
“Go ahead. Get rough with me, Hermione.”
“Like your… fantasy?”
He sucks in air through his teeth.
“Or *yours.*”
She grips harder and *pulls.*
“Again, Hermione. Hurt me again. Or I’ll hurt you. Either way, someone is going to hurt here.”
“I’d say someone is already doing that,” she says, but she *twists* her grip, nice and mean.
He cries out.
It’s so good. Better than his fantastical session in the ballroom.
It’s better because he can look down and see her *working* him, working him right over his nightshirt.
Better because he can see her flush with her efforts, see her showing her teeth as she *concentrates.*
Her grip loosens only to start up a rhythm, a perfect rhythm. Perfect for him.
He braces one hand on the cabinet and reaches down with the other to hold her arm, hold her still so he can push into that tight, little fist. Again and again and—
And he is gasping for it, gasping for her.
“You need ‘something ‘true,’ Lucius? Here is—“
And he is spattering all over his belly, all over the nightshirt, *through* the nightshirt, into her hand.
Spasming *everywhere.* Jerking, shaking with it. *Wheezing.*
He leans, or falls, against the cabinet, against her.
And still, she’s trying to work every last drop, while her other arm is around him, holding him, whispering, “Lucius, Lucius…”
Maybe she *can* make him pay.
+++ 11 +++
“Will you kiss me? Like *before?*”
“Release me, first.”
She does, and he gasps for *that.* The cotton clings, and stings. Maybe there will be… abrasions?
She is looking up at him like, like he has something she wants.
A kiss.
But something else.
There *is* something else. Beyond the duty, and the ‘truth.’ Some spark there for the shaking, sweating *person* nursing a crisis. Perhaps she *can* haul him out, light the way — oh, sweet Salazar, Lucius, that’s ripe tripe, even for you.
And it feels like a reach, like climbing out on the farthest limb, but he steps back and gives her that arch, overcooked, one-sided smirk, the conceit that always made her *flush.* Right before she’d pick it apart.
And she flushes right on cue.
So he walks her right over to that obscenely large table, right past the—whatever it is—boiling over on the stove (and snuffs the flame from under *that* fire hazard).
“Up here.” He pats the table.
And up she goes, arranging herself just so, presenting herself for kisses. And he can do this. He will do this. He will slide up the outside of those thighs, squeeze those hips under all that denim.
Give her those soft kisses, tilt her down—fingertips to the occipital—and press dry lips to her forehead, her smooth cheekbones. Hear her little cries when he reaches her mouth, tastes it, licks her teeth.
He… shudders.
*She* is there. Right in front of him. The little mudblood. Lean and fifteen and never been kissed. Sweet sixteen and demanding it. Seventeen and… Eighteen and shell-shocked…
{ “I want to give you what you want.” }
He breaks out in a fresh sweat, growls into her mouth, her sweet, wet—
“I can give you what you *need,* Lucius.”
And he feels something twist itself inside, something desperate and needy and *uncontrolled.*
She is trying to caress his face, smooth his hair, but he pushes her hands away only to reach her — the crazy zippers, the sweater, the pants. Why must they be so bloody tight? But he can ask about muggle fashion later.
He peels the jeans from her accommodating hips, jerks them over her knees, tugs them all the way off.
And she is utterly, gloriously naked.
She… smiles. Leans back a little, bracing her arms against the table, offering…
Spreading her legs. Just a little.
He takes a step back.
“Show me.”
She blinks. But her mouth is parting. Her legs are parting…
She’s reaching down, with *both* hands.
She’s *showing* him.
And he can’t.
He should.
He *wants* to—
Taste every inch of her. Top to bottom. Sideways. Every way. He wants to taste where her fingers are…
But, not now, apparently.
Because he’s bending her backward over the table. He’s pinning her down at the shoulders, driving against her, at her, *through* her.
Shoving so hard.
And she’s arching up for it. For him.
He growls and spreads her open, rolls her open with the heels of his hands, and slams against her, hurts her, needs her.
Like a crazy person. And isn’t that apropos? ‘Yes, Lady Malfoy, we’re here from St. Mungo’s. For your husband?’
But he has her gripped so tight, so good. So perfect.
He moans, “you, you, you,” right into her curls, and drives them right across the table with a thrust.
And another, and—
He tries to stop, before they both slide right over the *edge.* Tries to stop long enough to look.
And she looks back, panting. They are both panting.
“I’m afraid the king of control has… left the building,” he says. “Do you still want *him*?”
“You know what I want.”
“Say it, then.”
But he’s yanking up his nightshirt, taking the raw, dripping matter in hand.
“You want this. You want me inside you.”
She is nodding, nodding yes, yes.
And it hurts, but it’s so bloody good. It’s bloody *and* good.
Pushing in and in, and—
She whines and takes it.
He watches her take it, watches and—
Leans over her, covers her, holds her wrists down, growls.
“What makes you cry out, now, Granger? Does Weasley make you scream?”
He doesn’t get an answer to that, doesn’t expect one. But she’s shaking her head. No, she’s *tossing* her head, thrashing.
He holds her down and shoves in again.
Gives her a brutal thrust.
“He’s left you so… *tight.*”
She moans and clenches even tighter.
“Do you want… more?”
She is looking up at him, eyes wild. He can’t even imagine what he looks like, he feels like he’s about to ignite.
“Answer me.”
“Yes, yes. Please…”
“Why?”
Her face is wet. Her eyes are glistening, leaking, but she meets his gaze, holds his gaze.
“Because you… because you sent me away.”
“I didn’t — I didn’t!” Just bald faced lies, now, Lucius? Well.
“You didn’t find me fast enough.”
She whines and tries to *move* underneath him.
“No! Be still.”
And she tries, but her knees are sliding up, and up against him, against his ribs.
He snarls, and holds her down.
“You *want* it.”
"I want…”
“This—“
And he hooks his arms under those knees and lifts them up, spreads them *wide,* as he grinds up, and in, and—
“*Take* me.”
“Yes!”
“Take *this* —“
She cries out. She quivers and clenches around him. Coming and crying, those perfect cries. Almost screams.
“Yes, that, that — all of that.”
And he pushes in deep. Holds it there. Feels…
But he can’t see. He needs to see her. See her feeling this. He blinks away the wet, pushes away his hair, so he can watch… watch her convolutions peak, then stutter right down to a sated, gleaming smile.
“You won't get away from me.”
"No, I won’t.”
"Even if you *want* to leave me.”
“I don’t.”
"Even if you..."
And he can feel her there, still clenching so *tight.* Gripping him. He can feel her everywhere. And he can’t remember when he last felt this, *ever* felt this, this anguish and this hunger, burning him from the inside out, and it hurts, it *hurts,* and he realizes he’s coming, he’s coming violently, jerking, spilling and spilling into her, crying out and crying into her mouth.
When he finally stops shaking and tries to… no, not separate. That hurts, too. But when he tries, she whimpers into the tangle of his hair, won’t let go. She has him wrapped up *good.* So he peels them both, together, off the kitchen table, slides an arm under her knees, picks her up and carries her upstairs. He can do this, too. He *is* doing it. He doesn’t apparate them. There is a relief in the doing of it.
And she is loose-limbed in his arms.
+++ 12 +++
It is yet another thought he doesn’t want to have.
She is here. In his bed. Not the dungeon.
She’s fed him (it was soup), and forced another potion.
{ “Drink it all, Lucius. I want you to be… *well.*”
{ “But I’m feeling so *much* better already.” }
And he’d given her a bright, lascivious grin, and a squeeze to the hip he had been stroking.
Abraxas hadn’t made an appearance during their *vigorous* kitchen sex. Hadn’t hissed abasements, in either ear, about consorting with a dirty mudblood. In fact, since *her* arrival, Abraxas hasn’t made his ghostly presence known at all.
It makes Lucius want to…
Breathe.
But he doesn’t want to think about it. Any of it.
Only her.
“Lucius. I’m right here.”
“Hmm… You keep saying that.” He tucks her in closer. “But, yes. Yes, you are.”
“Where were you, just then?”
They are both looking out, from the warmth of the bed, to the windows of the morning room, where the dust is dancing on pitched beams.
He doesn’t need legilimency to see, to know she is being cautious, gentle with him, yet quite ready to parse and peruse whatever he might say.
“Will you tell me, Lucius? It may be helpful, important. For you. To be… better.”
He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what that means for *him.* He doesn’t want to know. Or is that just obstinance?
Merlin, she’s going to persist. She’s turned completely toward him, resting on her haunches, palms to her linen-covered knees. Waiting.
He sighs. Here goes.
“You recall, I thought you were a ghost.”
“Yes, I recall,” she says pointedly, encouragingly.
“Hmm… alright. My father. He *is* a ghost. He lives in here.” He taps his temple. “And I’ve been seeing quite a lot of him.
“This is — “ He shakes his head. “I do *not* want to see him, or hear him, or think about him. I would *like* to forget him.”
But he can’t forget. He can’t forget Abraxas’ look of annoyance, because Abraxas annoyed would become Abraxas disgusted, then Abraxas angry, and…
{ “Yes, son, you will find muggle blood hidden here and there, *if* you go looking for it. This is occasionally necessary. You don’t want to sire something like, well, like Narcissa’s sister. The House of Black would never stoop to the necessity, and look where it’s gotten *them.* We do what we must to make our place, to keep our place.” }
… Abraxas more *physical*…
Like a thumb, a single thumb, pressed into the soft muscle under Lucius’ smooth chin, the nail slicing that distinctive half moon shape, while the rest of the *fingers* would have closed around the back of his neck, and pushed…
{ “Do you know your place, Lucius?” }
He would not have been able to answer or even nod. Abraxas had always known how to keep him fully and utterly *immobilized.*
{ “Do you understand how to restore our name to its place and influence?”
{ “I believe so, Father.”
{ “You ‘believe’ so?” }
And in his present delirium, in his head, he thinks he can hear Abraxas bellowing, ‘You have restored precisely nothing, failed at everything. No wonder Riddle is done with you.’
And he wants to cry out, ‘But, Father, it’s Riddle, it’s Voldemort, who is done.’
Isn’t he?
Lucius isn’t sure.
But here is a soldier from the opposition. Here, kneeling in his bed, wearing his shirt, soliciting confessions. She clutches his arm. Perhaps to keep it *still.*
He searches her face, his expression just to the left of suspicious.
He isn’t sure.
But, he will play.
“We thought what we did, about muggles, *to* muggles, was righteous enough. It was the way things were done.”
“Did you? Really?”
He shrugs. “It was the way things were done. After all, we didn’t start it—“
“Oh, you’re speaking historically.”
“Yes. Historically.”
She takes back her hands. Studies him. Considers.
He perseveres.
“Why *did* you trust me, Hermione? With the things I’d seen, the things I’d done. To mud— muggleborns. You knew about it. You must have. How could you have trusted me? I tortured your surrogates, you know.”
“You *interrogated* muggleborns, *specifically?*”
“I am, I *was* considered adept in that skill.”
“Muggleborns who looked like me?”
“Yes, those especially.”
(The tormentor and lover of the tormented.)
“You see, the idea is,” he starts, unable to stop. “Once they have past the point of fighting back, once they know there is no point, then you may proceed to *extract* whatever information might be useful.”
“Learned helplessness…”
“Mmm… We all learn it somewhere, don’t we?”
And that just hangs in the air for several moments.
“So, there will be no more muggle torture?”
He leans forward, his eyes bright with possibility. “Not if I have you.”
He draws two slow fingertips along the side of her thigh. Watches the long muscles contract.
“Would you *like* to be interrogated for information?”
+++ 13 +++
“No, Lucius. I don’t want… I can’t play at that.”
And of course she can’t. Of course that was wrong, all wrong.
Completely off the mark. Tone deaf.
But perhaps she will give him *something.*
“I won’t forgive you for Bellatrix. I won’t forgive you for doing nothing, for *being* there, for any of it. I can’t forgive you.”
And except for that nasty little curse earlier, this is the closest she’s come to articulating her rage.
Not an attack, exactly. She is unable. She is stuck in the mire of her grief. It goes beyond the loss of her friends, although that wound alone is deep enough. It goes straight to the loss of her parents.
And now, he *must* look inside her mind. He must *know.* He must see her obliviate them, watch her disappear from her parents’ lives, feel the awful courage she needed to do it. Then the way she had to numb herself up real good for the fighting, because that’s what was *necessary.*
The way she is still numb much of the time.
She knows he’s in there, looking. She has learned to identify the intrusion, the uninvited guest peering through her mind’s eye. But she makes no attempt at occlumency. She *feels* her pain. She *gives* it to him.
“You don’t forgive me?” he says softly. “Hermione, *I* don’t forgive me.”
She frowns. “Forgiveness is not what I came here for.”
“Then what?”
No answer, except—
She crawls across the bed to him and folds herself right into his arms, as if she fits there (she truly does). As if canoodling with Lucius Malfoy were the most natural thing in the world (it truly is not).
But this is not canoodling. She curls into his chest like she plans to climb right inside it. Pushes her face into his neck and proceeds to soak his shirt with silent tears.
So he pets her, holds her tighter, holds her helplessly. Dips into the storm-cloud of her hair, and murmurs.
“Oh, sweetheart, stop, now. Stop crying.”
“No!”
She sounds a bit pouty and very… *young.*
“Who is going to take care of you, now?”
Again, tone deaf, he thinks. But she only looks up at him with her bleary eyes.
“You,” she says. “*You* will.”
Oh, the certainty of it.
The very idea. The twisted tug of it.
Her good, healthy muggle home with good, healthy familial bonds.
Why, in all the wizarding world, in all the whole wide world, would she seek comfort from *him?*
Not when *he* can still feel Abraxas pushing him down.
{ “Your mother should be doing this, son. But perhaps it’s better this way…”
{ “No, Father. *Please.*”
{ “Hush, Lucius.” }
Still, after all the years, after all the strokes and nuzzles had become shoves and slaps, after Abraxas had forced him and told him it was *necessary,* after he’d cried and Abraxas had laughed and told him he had a *lot* to learn, and that there would be many lessons.
There had been *many* lessons.
He shudders.
“I… don’t think I can help you.”
“But you can.”
She seems wholly convinced of it.
“I have determined, you see, that I am irrevocably damaged.”
“Irrevocably?”
He has to laugh out loud. From that confession, she takes issue with the *immutability* of his damage?
For all her certainties and bravado, she is alone with all of it. Well, alone except for the boy wonder and Weasley (his upper lip twitches, involuntarily, for the latter).
There are things the brightest witch is supposed to do. Supposed to feel. Supposed to *be.*
And the brightest witch has had to put away childish things.
Now she looks up at him, just like… a child. Closes her eyes in that confounding *trust* that only makes him *want*…
And he is pushing the curls from her face, placing soft kisses to her temple, to the corners of her eyes.
Kissing away those tears. Kissing her lashes, licking, licking all that salty goodness up until her breaths become sighs that he can catch in his mouth.
All the sighs. Every, last, one.
“How old are you right now, sweetheart?”
“How old do you want me?”
“Oh, any age, every age.”
“*How* do you want me?”
(Any way, every way.)
“I want you right here. Just like this.”
And he slides his arms up underneath her, so he can cup her head in both hands.
Really *cradle* her.
He can do this. What could be better than giving her what she needs?
“I am going to take such good care of you,” he lies.
He’s a fraud. In his head, at least, there’s no pretense, only the realization that it’s true.
But he can’t think anymore. Can’t breathe.
He readjusts, but only to bring her closer. He rearranges her, in his lap, lifts her up and presses her against his chest, guides her arms around his neck.
“Don’t let me go,” she cries. But it’s a soft, performative complaint. When he settles her down against him, she gives a little whimper-sigh. Well, now. Not entirely filial, then.
“Never,” he says. “Never let you go.”
“Oh… I want, I—“
“Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“You. I want you. I’ve always wanted you to, to *have* me, to—“
“Hmm… I see. You like me. Is that it?”
She stops stuttering and… smiles. “Yes… sir. *Mr.* Malfoy.”
He *twitches.*
“What do you like about me, Miss Granger? Tell me.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
She groans. Squeezes her eyes shut.
Breathes.
“You… your, your mouth, the way it… when you… just the one side… I can’t!”
“You *can.* What else?”
“Your, your… theatrics.”
“Hmm… And?”
“Your, your eyes, the way they get *heavy* when I look at you, and… and the way you move…”
“Here? The way I move *here?*” He pauses the downward trajectory of his fingers along her spine.
“Um, yes— oh! I meant the, the way you move across a *room* but—“
“Keep going, Miss Granger, or I’ll stop.”
“Oh— oh, your voice, it’s… it’s the theatrics.”
“You *like* my theatrics—“
“Your voice is, it makes me…”
“It excites you?”
“I want to hear you say my name… and, and your hands—“
“You want me to touch you.”
“Yes—“
“And I want to touch you. So much that I followed you. I tracked you to your… your muggle home to watch you dream, watch you touch yourself, abuse yourself.”
“Oh… That’s how you knew, what I wanted.”
“Well, even without legilimency, I know a *few* things, if I do say so myself. Give me your hand, Miss Granger.”
When she does, he lifts it to his lips for a quick kiss, while underneath her, he’s wedged a knee up, between hers, to spread those thighs open. He flattens her hand and lays it in the space that remains.
“Show me what you like,” he says, pressing her hand in.
She whines, but starts to move, spreading her fingers, searching, finding the right spots, the perfect little slots to *work.*
“Oh, that’s it, sweetheart. So good.”
“I want— uh, be good for you. Show you—“
“You are, you are. So good.”
Under his hand, he can feel the delicious rotations of her fingers, all the places where she pulls back, curls around, presses in.
But she’s slowing, slowing. And, she stops.
She looks up at him, then down at his hand. Looks at his shoulders, down the curve of his bicep. She’s looking him over. She looks down at his hand again. So he flexes it for her.
“Something I can help you with?”
She nods. Vigorously.
He flips them over. Fast.
So fast the breath is knocked out of her, for a moment. She gasps, then…
Giggles.
He… considers. Takes his *time* considering.
“Now, *where* can I help you? Here?”
And he leans down and nuzzles her shoulder, then places his teeth for a *bite.*
“Oh, no— Lucius!”
“No? Here, then.”
He gives one nipple a nice, wet swipe, then a little tug.
“Yes— no— uh!”
“Yes, no, yes, no — this mouth is strangely indecisive.”
And he drags his right thumb across that mouth, along the curve of her upper lip, then back along the lower.
“How about *here,*” he says, and pushes his thumb inside.
She hums, closes her mouth around it, good and tight.
“Well… if you can’t *decide* where…”
He slides his other hand between her legs. Just holds it there.
“… then I’ll have to decide *for* you—“
She’s whining, whining all around his thumb, so he twists it, presses it further into her tongue.
And rocks his left hand, flat, into her sex, uses his fingers to spread her open.
She whimpers, *whimpers*—
“I’ve decided,” he says. “You need more help *here,*” and he pushes two fingers inside.
Right inside that tight, wet—
*Tight*…
“Umm… help like *this*—
And he twists those fingers. Twists them in *deep.*
And she clenches right down on them, gripping them, gripping him.
She’s sucking his thumb, she’s *milking* it, and fumbling, grabbing at his wrist.
And he’s so hard, dripping, leaking all over her thigh, where he’s kneeling, and he needs to, needs…
Well… traction.
He tries to extract his thumb. She *bites* down.
He snarls.
“Give!”
She does, coughing and sputtering in her empty mouth.
Crying— “No!”
“Shh… it’s only so I can give you more.”
He maneuvers between her legs, shuffles forward to push her thighs further apart with his knees.
Give her more.
Push those fingers back in, deep. Curl them *up.*
Spread her saliva on his right thumb to his first two fingers, and work her with them, work those puffy little slots, like she *showed* him.
Like he *remembers.*
And she’s planting her feet, grinding up for those fingers, all those fingers.
So he adds another.
And she wails, pants, tosses those wild curls.
“You, you… open, for, you—“
“Umm... I’m going to open you — for me.”
He thrusts deep, with those three fingers, and holds them there, just holds.
She’s trying to arch up.
“Tell me you *want.*”
“I want it! I waited so long—“
“No longer, sweetheart.”
“Please!”
“Say yes for me.”
He *spreads* his fingers.
“Say it—“
Twists, *shakes* his fingers.
She gasps, and mouths ‘yes.’
And he works her, keeps working her, works her with *both* hands.
And she takes him and takes him, and clamps down so *tight.*
And he thinks he must be doing *something* right because she’s squeezing him so, so… *perfect.* He thinks maybe he *can* take care of her, maybe it’s not a lie.
And now she’s screaming and screaming and *he’s* shaking and shaking and shooting all over the floor before he can stop it.
Before he can think.
Or breathe.
Or *control.* Anything.
+++ 14 +++
Eventually, the frenzied look in her eyes… stills. Somewhat. Enough. Though he is not sure what it’s enough for.
“You had a … climax.”
“I’m afraid so.” He tries for a sheepish grin.
“You came from my, from just *me.*
He shrugs.
“So, you’re saying…”
“I’m not saying a word.”
She laughs, and it feels so light, so free, like her nimble fingers on the smallest buttons of his waistcoat.
Like… before.
{ “That’s very erotic, you know.”
{ “What is?”
{ “You. Dressing me.”
{ “Not *un*dressing you?”
{ “Well… *that* goes without saying…” }
And she had dropped the buttons and fasteners and stepped *nimbly* out of his grasp.
{ “You had better dress yourself, then.” }
But then he had pouted and beckoned her back, and she’d ended up on his knee, having to *un*fasten all those hooks and eyes…
And now—
Now, this is the third day he’s awakened—awakened from actual sleep—to find her in his bed. All soft and languid and acquiescing to his manipulations. And the bed smells more like her than his despair.
She’s fed him, forced yet another potion.
And he can’t quite place it—that potion. He wonders, he can’t imagine, what Severus could have been teaching them.
Severus…
No—
He can’t—
Remember.
He *won’t* remember.
He can’t—
Remember… this room, this bed. This—
Why is he here? Has he slept here? Why is it… stifling? The fire is just embers. Is that why he’s shivering?
Shuddering.
How did he get here? He can’t quite remember…
He escaped here. That’s it.
Escape. Hide.
Hide out.
Run *away.*
But there were ghosts here. No, just Abraxas. And Abraxas is everywhere, isn’t he?
But then *she* came, the ghost of his little mudblood. She came and held him and cursed him and hurt him and loved him and *concerned* at him and he had ravaged her on a kitchen table, and fallen all over her, fallen…
Have there always been bright shots of red through her hair?
Her mouth is moving. She is speaking… *concern.*
“You miss him,” she is saying.
And he can’t. He can’t speak this *confession.*
He can only cover his face with his hands.
“Don’t hide your grief from me, Lucius.”
He allows her to tug *one* hand from his face. Allows her to uncover *half.*
Then he curses, and drops the other hand.
She would like his confession.
He would like his mask.
But he will try.
To breathe.
“I killed him, essentially. Did you not know? I followed my orders. I delivered him. And he was… strangely willing. Regardless, it is my fault.”
His voice sounds as flat and still as a muggle photograph.
“And I never told him…”
“Told him… what?”
“That’s the worst part of it, you see. When I was in school, my father, Abraxas, he was rather a dreadful legilimens. Crashing about up there and kicking things over and Merlin, he *wanted* you to be *aware.* He wanted you to fear it, and then, well, then he enjoyed your fear.”
“That sounds a lot like—“
“It does, doesn’t it? It sounds quite a lot like Bella.”
She *breathes.*
“So Abraxas *saw* you and…?”
“He did. He learned all about my dalliances as prefect. But when he saw Severus… well, you’d think he’d seen me with a—“
“Mudblood?”
“Mmm… And he stopped it…”
{ “No, son. You will *not* carry on with that sorry, half-blood *toy* of yours. Do you think there is *anything* that pathetic *creature* could do for your position? For our position? Do you?” }
Oh Father, if only you could see me now.
“He berated me mercilessly, and more, then forbade us, forbade me. I had to *end it,* cease and desist, cut ties, or cords, or ribbons. But not before first spreading the guilt around.”
{ “You think you’re the only one with a father like that? Let me assure you, paupers from Spinner’s End and purebloods from old money are *equally lucky.* And if you breathe a word of this, if you even *think* about it…” }
But he hadn’t.
Breathed a word. Or a thought.
He had kept as silent as the proverbial tomb.
“Once I left, he suffered through the remainder of school, still tormented by those self-righteous…*animals.*”
“Gryffindors…”
“Alright. Gryffindor animals.“ He forces a tight, conciliatory smile.
“Severus became a smart, if excessively brooding, young adept, loving and losing, in the way of the world.
“But when I first met him, before anyone could question whether the Slytherin prefect was protecting Snivellus, or whether I was protecting him properly or improperly… You know, they always haul out propriety when it suits political aims. And I’m afraid I know whereof I speak.”
His eyes were so black.
So bleak.
Only a little frightened.
{ “Is *this* what you like?”
{ “Everything, everything you do.”
{ “Good. That’s good. Just like that.” }
And Severus had started whining and Lucius had just been learning exactly how to hold him, even as he pushed him down, and shoved him inside the prefect’s dorm.
{ “I thought… I thought you didn’t want me.”
{ “That’s what you thought? If you ever doubt me again, I will do exactly *this.*”
{ “Uh— !”
{ “*This.* You will take this?”
{ “I will, I *will*—“
{ “You will take it the way I give it?”
{ “Yes. Please don’t stop, please—“ }
He had always needed to keep Severus begging, pleading, always on the edge, because that was what he, Lucius, had always known, what *he* had taken, and given.
Abraxas had never been that gentle with him, nor he with Draco.
“It is not your fault, Lucius,” she is saying.
And there is something, something just behind his eyes.
There is a sound, a choking or a wailing or—
“Oh, Lucius,” she says, and wraps her arms around him, holds him. Trusts him. She had come to him trusting, from the very beginning. Facing him down in that dusty bookstore.
+++ 15 +++
“I never stopped it. Never stopped *him.* I never knew that was an option, for… me.” He can’t bring himself to say ‘coward.’
“You were a child!”
“I was. But then I wasn’t.” He stops, and *realizes.*
"Lucius?”
He can never atone for his failures.
He can never restore the family name.
And he will never be the Slytherin success.
It was supposed to be his utimate objective, his lesson, his raison d’être. Except.
Except he had never succeeded. His failures are three for spectacular three, no doubt with more to come.
Only the facade had been a success, and that only temporarily (thank you, Hermione, o master deconstructor). What remained? A Death Eater with a well-fitting mask and a penchant for muggle torture.
“I have never given much time to introspection… No time, in fact.”
"And right now you are scuttled by grief..."
"I have admitted this."
"Good," she says, nodding as if to close this very open subject.
“And now, I suppose *you* want to go back to your *infantile* Weasley. Maybe you came to find me because *you’ve* been ‘scuttled by grief,’ too. I suspect you didn’t bargain for what you found here.”
She glares at him, for quite some time. Glares at his *infantile* jabs.
He sags.
“Hermione, we’ve both been scuttled, but we both know that *you* are patching yourself up even as we speak, and you’ll be back on course with everything you want, and everything you want from *me*…”
It is *almost* a question.
She considers it.
"Do you need to be punished, Lucius?”
He coughs a laugh. “I suppose that is something else I need to… consider. Again.”
“You do that,” she says, and reaches for something at the bedside. “In the meantime…”
“Oh, no. Not another potion. I am completely healed. Do you not see? Strength has returned to mind and body.”
She snorts.
“I can attest to the latter…” She lifts her eyes *slowly* back up to his *face.*
He grins, and shrugs.
“As to the former: What day is it?”
He makes only slightest hesitation. “It is the day when I will make violent love to you in this bed.”
She considers it for a lovely moment.
“I will be amenable to that. But, do you remember being here with me *before?* In this bed, in this house?”
“Yes, yes, I remember, Hermione. I remember all of it.”
“Do you remember sending me away?”
Oh, that.
He looks down at the duvet, and seriously examines its embroidery, the gradations of its velvet fibers.
“Yes,” he says to the covers. “Of course. I remember. That was… highly regrettable. I’ll not do it again.”
He does remember. He remembers the cruelty of it, and afterward, the bizarre sensation of *regret.*
{ “What I mean is, *I* should probably not be seen with a— with someone of your… blood status—“
{ “Oh! Now, it’s my ‘blood status,’ is it? Someone as *pure* as *you* shouldn’t be seen with a mudblood? Is that what you mean? Or, maybe you are suddenly thinking of your pureblood *wife!*” }
She had been glorious, but he had to let her storm off. He had to.
“I had some notion, ill conceived, that I had to ‘prepare’ you. For Ron, or whichever frightened youth you might ultimately choose.”
“Or was it because you hated any Weasley just that much?”
“Hmm… do you remember trying to figure out how to make Ron ‘fit in?’ You wrote about it extensively in your diary, your muggle diary which you never destroyed, by the way. If Ron didn’t fit in, Lucius Malfoy would have been even less fitting. For you. However well we may have fit together… in other ways.“
He reaches for her, but she pins him back with a look.
“It seemed like the right thing to do,” he says, and then has to laugh at himself saying those words.
“I blamed my failures on you, did you know that?”
She shakes her head.
“Especially the prophecy. It was a lie I told myself. But it was you who lit the flame for me, started my… my questioning, started this cascade of… confusion… and, *and* re-construction.”
He watches her dark eyes light up, the way they always have when he delivers her an unfeigned, full-on smile.
She crawls over to him, and pushes him down into the pillows, palms to his clavicle. She swings her leg across to straddle him and holds him there, looking down at him, shining that brilliant gaze all *over* him.
She *hasn’t* gone. She is truly here.
But for how long?
He still needs to learn why she came back.
He looks up at her, at the glistening portals of her eyes, the lush thicket of her hair, the sharp angles of her shoulders and the curve of her waist. Her perfect hips. Her deft fingers kneading his pectorals.
All of it, a mask to protect against the stealing chill.
“You are not irreparably damaged,” she says.
"No?”
"Those who are irreparably damaged have far less… insight.”
She eyes his bandaged forearm. “I can’t say you’re completely healed, though.”
“Ah. Incompletely, then?”
“A work in progress.”
She lays down, covers him. Gives him her weight, her softness. Tucks her curls into his neck.
“Will you go back to the manor? Will you come back *here?*”
“I don’t even remember coming here in the first place, or precisely why I came. But I can make a sad little guess.
“So, hold on to that Portkey, if you would.”