Work Text:
CHAPTER 1: Forgetting
Lucius Malfoy is not the same man who was carted off twelve long months ago. He is different, altered.
Modified.
Azkaban will do that to a wizard.
There are things, Lucius thinks, when he *can* think. Things that have been jumbled, twisted, up there in the grey. Things turned inside out. Some things seem to have disappeared entirely, leaving blank spaces where the things should go.
What *are* the things? Lucius doesn’t know.
A Kiss will do that to a wizard.
And not just any wizard, this wizard in particular. Before they were displaced, replaced, and dismissed from duty, Lucius is certain the Dementors had planned to Kiss him thoroughly. Not completely, but enough.
Enough to make him *less.*
Modified.
Now, Lucius is free, in a manner of speaking. The philosophical counterpoints may be debated later, but let us say, for now, he is indeed free.
From Azkaban.
And for that, he can bloody well thank his Lord and master. The same Lord and master who has taken him down a peg. Well, several pegs. The same Lord and master who relishes in Lucius’ degradation at every opportunity.
So Lucius has liberty, but is far from liberated. He may no longer serve as the Right Hand, but he still bears the Mark of servitude and wears the longest of sleeves.
Lucius will endure, just like always, and for the same reasons. Not for family so much as name, and not for name so much as the idea of name.
He is aware of all this—his deliverance, his demotion, the spate of orders that just keep coming, the desperation to restore his *place.*
He is aware of the misplaced memories that refuse to speak.
Yet, something *does* speak. Right here in the middle of the Alley. It speaks in a certain voice.
A mudblood voice.
Like the mudblood who stood at his prison cell, and *viewed* him. A mudblood with the audacity to grip the bars *intimately,* and speak his *name.*
His *given* name.
As if they *knew* each other. As if he would know any mudblood. Well, carnally, perhaps, but Narcissa had put a stop to all that— his embarrassing little muggle fetish.
But here is that same mudblood. She accosts him in *public,* stands in his way, dares to speak his name in that same *familiar* manner.
What if his Lord and master sees? Or hears?
“Lucius, Lucius, it’s me,” she keeps saying, until he is incensed and exasperated.
“How dare you address me! Move aside.”
She performs a little two-step stumble backward but she doesn’t step aside. Her eyes widen, then narrow. Is she actually taking his measure? The audacity!
He raises his cane.
“Lucius, don’t you *recognize* me?”
There is a frozen moment, he with his arm raised to strike and she with her look of befuddlement and incredulity, and perhaps a *little* fear. Too little, though…
But, fear. He can wrangle that.
He lowers his cane, seats it in his palm and *leans.* Delivers his coldest smile.
“You would take these liberties with *me*?”
Her frown deepens further, and again—the audacity—as she tilts her head toward him, and attempts a whisper.
“Lucius, it’s *Hermione*—“
As if that explains it all.
Of course, it is Granger, the mudblood he had to hear about every night from Draco. But this is a little temptress, not the scraggly smart-mouth who had bullied his son.
And there is a part of him that is doing nothing but making excuses, even while the mudblood is still frowning at him in that annoying, proprietary —
Another part of him is thinking how long it’s been since anyone has looked at him like that— *ever* looked at him like that.
And yet another part is aware of the parts that are missing.
He wonders if he had a past illicit liaison with her. How did he conceal *that* from Narcissa?
He is out of practice.
And he is out of practice with the subtleties. So, what to do now, with this mudblood in the road?
“Normally,” he drawls, “I leave the actual snatching to others, but I could bring you in myself. We could begin your *interrogation* without delay… No?”
It’s just the slightest caress to the inside of her wrist, just enough for him to feel her pulse racing, and she yanks her arm back, and finally, steps aside.
He huffs, and puffs (a little), and now that his path is cleared, he takes off, unimpeded.
And if there *are* any foolish onlookers—blood-traitors all—they can be snatched up, too, right along with the mud—
He tries, but fails to *place* her, or place her as anyone other than Draco’s know-it-all classmate. Not very all-knowing, he thinks, to do something so foolish as approach him, like this, in public. He can’t quite place it, find it—find *her.*
Is she one of the things that is missing?
He stops and turns to watch her depart, but she is not departing. She is standing where he left her, staring after him. Watching—
So he retraces his steps until they are again face to face. And once they are, she doesn’t cower in the least.
“I will speak with you,” he says, by which he means he will *allow* a conversation.
“Let us begin with your precipitousness. How did you know I would be here?”
“I didn’t—“
“Why did you ‘visit’ my prison cell?”
“*Your* prison cell? Did you think I was only there to see you?”
“Oh— so you ‘visited’ *all* the Death Eaters in Azkaban?”
“I was—“
“You were what?”
Cursed filth.
“I *was*— only there to see you.”
A blink. A stare.
An unspoken question— why? Why would *she* visit *him* in prison? And now she’s leaning in for another whisper.
“Take me to your rooms.”
“What?”
“Your rooms off Knockturn.” She sighs—the impudent little— “You took me there once.”
“I did?” That seems highly unlikely. “Show me, then. Show me where.”
She frowns again.
“Well? Lead the way—*if* you know it.”
Ah, goading does the trick. She turns on her schoolgirl heel and leads—marches—down the stairs and up, past the dim storefronts, along the hidden passage, right up to the hidden door of his rooms.
At least she doesn’t produce a key and neutralize the wards.
“Alright, Granger.” He shuts the door. “If you think I’m going to ask you to sit—“
"Did they Kiss you?”
He glares.
He hums.
“My dear, when you ‘check in’ to that dank palace, anything can happen.”
“That’s no answer.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
And now, a stand-off.
And, he has a brief flash of a— a something… a parry, she — side-stepping, elegant in her wand movements, and he — *something*…
And it’s gone.
He fumbles, reaches for it again—the something.
The missing thing—
And it’s— he’s—
Tugging, toying, with a— with a dizzy, dizzying curl. It has a convoluted mind of its own — it *bounces back* then settles decidedly in the palm of his hand.
It feels *good* there.
Her knees draped casually across his lap. So warm—
Speaking low, conspiratorially.
“Tell me what you did in school today.”
“This and that. I studied *hard.*”
“Hmm… Why so hard?”
“Because I kept thinking of you.”
The mudblood’s eyes are closed, her mind filled with these — these —
*Not* memories. Not.
Ridiculous.
He takes a three-quarter stance, and waves a hand in the musty air.
“So there was a… flirtation, what of it? You wouldn’t be my first mudblood, dear. Just ask my wife. If you are insinuating that we had *more*—“
“I’m not insinuating—“
“—Fantasizing, then. Projecting, more like, and not very well, either.”
“Who am I, then?”
“You are… you’re Draco’s little nemesis. Yes, he bored me to *tears* with his… complaints about you. Apparently, you stole his academic thunder.”
“You truly can’t remember! You— you took my—“
“Your virginity?” A weak little twitch at his upper lip. “How delightful.”
She slaps him.
He sees it coming. The strike is not hard, but strangely compelling. He imagines her doing it again.
She does it again.
But he catches her wrist on the upswing, straightens her arm *out,* bends it *back.*
And smiles.
*Holds* that tensing arm to the long curve of her spine. Her hair, he can almost—those curls— sweet, fruity and—
He breathes *in,* presses his mouth—*through* the curls—to her ear.
“So where do you *imagine* we conducted our little trysts?”
“At your other house,” she says, bluntly. “The one with the *Pensieve*…”
No. He releases her, turns to the straight-back chair and sits, hard. To steady his pureblood knees as well as for something to *do.*
“I see… And you just, what — carried on while I was starving in prison?”
“I visited you there.”
“Yes,” he sighs. “I think we have already established that. More than once.”
She stands in front of him. She *looks.*
“If you don’t believe my mind — your own legilimency, take me to your Pensieve. Look at the memories directly.
“I will help you if you will only ask.”
CHAPTER 2: Pensieve
When she sees him strolling Diagon Alley in the sun, Hermione thinks, for a moment, that some errant time spell has been cast, a Time-Turner run amok. Lucius—and it *is* Lucius, it could be no other—walks the cobblestones with that familiar, lofty gate, almost a strut.
Almost like the Lucius of *before.*
The Lucius before Voldemort’s return, before the Order, and the Prophecy, before Azkaban— *her* Lucius.
Before the *fall.*
But Hermione Granger is too bright for that. Too bright for this, or any, age.
Still, it hadn’t been the brightest of ideas, even for *her* Lucius, especially for her Lucius. And she’d sworn never to return to Azkaban, let the tabloid press and their moniker be damned.
At her first visit, Lucius had been clearly suffering, by turns combative, morose, and self-loathing. By her second visit, he’d been almost unrecognizable. Certainly unrecognizing, calling her first a litany of muggleborn epithets, then nothing at all. When she’d left, he had become mute in his cell, unmoved and unmoving, seemingly catatonic.
After that, Hermione began collecting memories, unknowingly, or perhaps knowingly. Knowing that she may want—*need*—them in some future day.
A day like this one, when Lucius, hurling threats and invective (“Do you have any *idea* the risks I’m taking here?”) grips her by the arm and apparates them, badly, to the house with the Pensieve.
The house where he used to bring her. The house where he—
Where the Pensieve is kept in the library but they’ve apparated to the study—and she is fighting the nausea, and he is clearing his *throat.*
“You may unhand me now, Granger.”
She extricates her nails—fingers, her *fingers*—from his forearm, and the spinning stops.
“I take it this is the house where you *believe*—“
“Yes—“
He takes a cursory glance around the room.
“So when did it start, this grand and gruesome affair of ours? Did I rob the cradle or, hmm…” He looks her over. “A little nymph like you probably accosted me in some dingy Hogwarts alcove.”
There *had* been an alcove.
It had been dark but not terribly hidden.
She remembers a bizarre mixture of fear and desire — someone might find them, see them. What would they say? She couldn’t keep up with the sensations.
{“You are more… *interesting* than my son has led me to believe.”}
And Lucius had *smiled.*
A smile that said that he *knew* things, whatever *else* he was, he didn't just *pretend* to know things.
And maybe he wanted to know *more* things, she had thought, in a wave of hysteria. Maybe, if he wanted someone with information, she could take advantage of that and give him someone.
*Someone*…
He had raised his eyebrows, then, and looked her over, slowly, appreciatively. It had been just like being touched, caressed.
And those had been Lucius’ fingers stroking her pulse point.
{“Have you ever been kissed by a man before?"}
{“No, but—“}
Lifting her chin.
{“Then perhaps someone should show you how it's done.”}
And she had told no one, not even him—*especially* not him—how many times she had touched herself to the memory of his mouth, his scent, the soft drag of his fingers just above her collar.
She had told no one. Until there was more to tell. Much more.
Lucius is staring.
*This* Lucius. The Lucius who doesn’t remember the dark alcove, who doesn’t know when it started.
“I was in my fourth year.”
“My, my. So young and impressionable—“
“I made an impression on *you.*” She gives him a *look.*
*He* looks unperturbed. “So you say. But what *kind* of impression?”
“A positive one.”
“Hmm… And what form of lovemaking did we favor? Gentle? Rough? Perverse? All three? According to Draco, you never shut up in class, so I suppose you gave me directions the entire time.”
He catches, and releases, her striking arm *again.* “I see. You had to slap me around first. A pattern is establishing itself.”
She tightens her fists in frustration — but refrains from *swinging.* “You have no idea.”
“I have *every* idea.”
“No, you truly don’t.”
“Do *you* have any idea what I *do* to little mudbloods like you?”
“Show me. I’m not afraid of you, Lucius.”
“No? Then perhaps you’re not so very bright after all, little Miss Mudblood—a mudblood *and* one of Potter’s Posse—this *is* a catch. I mean, a *snatch*…
"… *and* … if you keep squinting like that, we’ll need to get you to a healer.”
We?
Now, he’s gathering himself, making the motions—a slight tug to his perfectly tailored waistcoat, taking up that cane.
“This has all been… entertaining, but I have *actual* things to do. Duties, missions—“
“No!”
His brows take joint offense.
“You and *I* do not have the type of relationship where you can tell me what I can or can’t do.”
“How do you know?”
He sniffs. “Because I know *myself.* Now, if you won’t share your… ‘precious memories’—yes, the ones you are clutching to your underdeveloped chest…”
She realizes she *is* clutching the vials in her charmed handbag.
She realizes that he has lingered here, in the *wrong* room, bating her, because he doesn’t *know* the right room, the room that holds the Pensieve.
But *she* knows.
And she will take him there. She will take his hand (warm and dry) and walk him—drag him if necessary, to the library.
For the proof.
And the Pensieve is there, in the cabinet where she remembers it—and where he doesn’t—and it presents itself at the reading table for her memories.
For a moment, she hesitates to select one, weighing several vials in her hand.
Lucius watches her indecision, taps his toe several times. “Well? Pick one.”
She does. She releases the memory and it spills across the surface of the Pensieve.
“There,” she says, and steps back from the device. “Look, Lucius.”
He looks—
Another dark corner, this one above and behind the stacks in Flourish and Blotts. Sinking into an overstuffed sofa, Hermione and Lucius, and quite comfortable with the proximity, cheerfully antagonizing over a book propped on Hermione’s lap.
Lucius looks at her selected passage and grins, stretches his arms across the back of the sofa. Hermione launches into a treatise, gesticulating with one hand and balancing her tome with the other. She makes a noise—a snort?—and tucks her ankles beneath her canted hips. Her knees nudge his thigh in the process and threaten to precede her into his lap. He leans back further into the pillows and doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“And what about your school mates?” he inquires, mildly. “Not my son, of course. He has no discernible taste. But what about that den of Weasleys? There are so *many* to choose from. Or I suppose you could just have them *all*—“
“Lucius!” She giggles and pushes ineffectually at his chest.
He indulges her, *encourages* her, especially when she abandons his chest to push a single, platinum strand from his cheek with a single, bold finger. A delicate familiarity, almost intimate, and more so when he catches her finger, curls it with the rest of her contracted phalanges and cups her fist in his palm.
“What do you want to *do* with those Weasleys, hmm? Show Lucius, and he’ll tell you if you’re doing it right. Darling, come up here.” He pats his lap, as if she isn’t halfway there already—
Before Lucius has a moment to protest, another memory comes—
He is carrying her now, and there is a bed. It is … this house. His bedroom.
"Lucius—“
"Don’t fight me—are you going to fight me now?”
"That wouldn't arouse you?"
He cocks an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that. But let us discuss *your* arousal…”
She swallows. “I don’t—“
He grimaces, shakes his head once. “That's not what you wanted to say."
"Lucius—“
"Shh," he says, and he lays her down on the elaborately dressed bed. “You wanted to say something else. You wanted to *tell* me something…”
She opens her mouth and— sits up. Tries to—
And he stops her with two fingers to her sternum.
“You want to *beg* me, open to me. You know you should never *surrender* — but you *want* to surrender to my touch, to *this* touch —“
She flails and reaches for his forearm, his hand where it holds her, just above the clavicle. A hint. Or a… *reminder.*
"Oh, my dear,” Lucius inhales sharply. “Those idiots, they are idiots to let you walk away. To let you get anywhere,” he says, and starts stroking slow lines up and down her chest, inside her shirt—her opened shirt, between the open plackets.
"Mm. You are…” He shakes his head again. “Go on, darling. Tell Lucius about all your dreams and desires. The things you don’t dare write in your muggle diary. The things you want me to—“
She closes her eyes, and relaxes—no, she just—goes loose under his hands. Drops further into the duvet.
"Yes! Give me that. Give me your *mind* again.”
CHAPTER 3: Prowler
Forgetting.
It's so easy to do— for days!
Besides, there are orders to follow. There is anarchy to spread, suffering to inflict, interrogations to… enjoy.
Not that he’s enjoying anything. Anything at all.
But he *is* free. Except in his own house, which has been commandeered for headquarters. Except from his family who have conspired in his… absence.
And he *is* less— less driven, less obedient. Less himself? Perhaps it’s the demotion. The commandeering. The conspiring. The Dark Mark on his son. The new vow his wife cannot break.
The mudblood.
The mudblood. Granger, who… stood in his way, who showed him… *things.* Missing things.
Forgotten things. Twisted things.
No.
She had just stood there, afterward, in his library, with the Pensieve still hovering upon the table, still clutching her silly handbag, with her silly vials.
And silly lies.
“This is what you wanted me to see? That you desire me?”
“You don't want to believe it.”
“That you desire me? Of course I believe it.”
“No, you don't want to *admit* this.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
He had taken *proper* offense, but she had just kept going—
“Lucius. Look at me and see the *truth.*”
He *had* looked. Her eyes had been *right there,* her’s and no one else’s. Pleading, desperate, so wide, so dark in the unlit stacks.
“You don't *want* to…”
“I *want*... exactly what I will *get.*”
And those *things,* those ‘memories’ had twisted, melded, *melted* under the heat of— what? Desire?
“Yes! Remember, Lucius.”
“Hmm… You think Lucius doesn't know what you want right now,? You think he doesn't know what you *desire*?”
And Granger had narrowed her eyes *more,* if that was possible.
And he had released her arms, dropped them. He hadn’t even realized he’d been *gripping*…
“You were right about the Kiss, my dear. They *did* enjoy me, those empty-headed wraiths. And before they were done…”
“But you’re not— you’re not *that* Lucius Malfoy.”
“But I *am.* Just not *your* Lucius Malfoy.”
But he had been Lucius in the tilt of his chin, the triumphant flash of his eyes —
“You — that is how you looked when you held the *Prophecy.*”
“Did I.”
The triumphant look had stayed for a moment longer, just a moment— then a *shudder* he couldn’t control.
“You thought that would stop me, didn't you, that ‘magic word’?”
“I don’t *want* to stop you—“
She hadn’t looked away, just kept meeting his eyes, steady, unflinching.
“You don’t?”
“If you can’t do it out of anger, Lucius, do it out of —“
“Yes?”
And he had sounded flippant, right on the edge of hysterical. And she had been persistent, right on the edge of … persistence.
*Her* Lucius Malfoy. What would that look like? Like her fantasies? Her little *concoctions*? Her memories?
The idea is undeniably … intriguing, if unwieldy. Not because of her lack of pure blood, he’s had dalliances with muggle and mudblood alike, though he can’t seem to remember a single one. He’s certain Narcissa has issued ultimatums on the subject, but he can’t remember those, either. Maybe the ‘affair’ constituted intelligence gathering on his part, and schoolgirl infatuation on hers. Sounds like something he’d do. She *is* one third of Potter’s Platoon and should know *something.*
So he goes back to her. He finds the little *subject* and stops her, like she stopped him.
“Show me,” he says, holding her wrist a little too tight, a little too long. “Show me more memories.”
He apparates them back to the house with the Pensieve (he remembers which room it’s in). He ignites the fire, offers her liquor, wonders about her age, and pushes a glass of water into her hand, instead.
“I will have more of your… details. You have your vials in there?” He points to her purse, the same ratty thing as last time.
She nods.
“You may sit down, if you like.”
She sits. In the armchair by the fire.
He smiles just as sharply as he likes. “So tell me more about why you think we—“
She raises her eyebrows.
“Then perhaps you will explain how we— how you *believe* we met.”
She purses her lips. Looks at the *rug.*
“Hmm… if not *that,* then tell me how you… *attracted* me.”
A glare, an affront, and Lucius feels the need to grin.
“Did you think you were my… *type*?”
And now *that* is a blush, enough of a blush that she turns away, and he doesn’t want that.
“Granger—“
She swivels back around but can’t quite meet his gaze. “There are certain things I’m not… *comfortable* with…”
He looks her over again. She is long-waisted, lean but fit in her muggle clothes— impossible not to appreciate that sort of thing. Her hair— it makes him think of an angry storm-cloud, one that catches accents of seemingly every hue… he wonders if those curls… are they wiry or soft? Would they be *heavy* in his hand?
She is tugging on one now, rolling and twisting the strands around her finger.
“I *see,*” he says.
“Do you?”
He shifts his weight, props an elbow on the back on the opposite armchair.
What is she not *comfortable* with? She seems all too comfortable.
“Draco… used to go on, and *on*—“
“It has nothing to do with Draco,” she says. “Well, not directly, I—“
“Did you save *that* memory? Our first…. *meeting*?”
“No. *You* did, though.”
And she’s up, and over to the library cabinet. She’s showing him the hidden compartment, filled with vials and vials of memories.
*His* memories.
“Sweet Salazar!”
“Yes,” she says, and selects one of the glass ampules. “I believe this is the one.” She pops the stopper and pours the contents into the fluid surface of the Pensieve.
Hogwarts, night. Lucius hauls Draco through a darkened corridor. Lucius makes an angry admonishment, Draco grumbles.
There is no one else in sight as father and son approach the main entry, except for a very fluffy feline that has darted out from the shadows and is following closely at Lucius’ heels.
Lucius pauses, watching the cat weave back and forth between his ankles.
“Watch out, Father. It’s McGonagall.”
Lucius snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous, Draco. That’s not Minerva’s coloring.”
Outside, they walk toward the apparition point. Lucius with the cat keeping pace alongside, Draco bringing up the rear.
When they reach the ward’s edge, Lucius stops to pick up the cat, who immediately settles into the crook of his arm.
“Do you think the school will miss its cat tonight, son?”
“There’s no ‘school cat,’ Father. I don’t know where that thing came from.”
Lucius hums. “Well, hold on, then,” he says, offering his arm for apparition. The cat curls its tail possessively across the offered elbow.
“Ew,” Draco says, and retracts his hand. He reaches for his father’s forearm instead, which the cat immediately shields with its prehensile furriness.
“Father!”
“We don’t have all night, Draco.”
Finally, Draco finds a spot, holds it, and they apparate. All of them.
The memory dissolves and a moment later, reconstructs itself.
Malfoy Manor, apparently the same night, according to the mantle clock. Lucius relaxes in his wing chair. The cat prowls his crossed ankles, then hops up to his lap, balancing nimbly on one thigh, and proceeds to knead his lap at large.
Lucius has thrown his newspaper aside — or did the cat just bat it away? — and stretched his arms out to indulge the felid performance in front of him. When the furry tail smacks him in the face, he grins broadly, cocks an amused brow, and pets the fuzz between its ears, strokes its undulating spine with the back of his hand.
“You’re going to mark me, mm?” Lucius says, when the kitty drags its whiskers along his jawline. “Well, consider me *marked.*”
After several more pirouettes, the cat settles against his chest and *nods off.*
As in, takes a cat-nap.
“Father, why is that mudblood sleeping in your lap?”
“Shh, Draco. She was a cat just a moment ago.”
True, she had been, but the magic is gone and the cat is Draco’s schoolmate, still dozing in Lucius’ lap, with her head on his chest.
“I *knew* it!” Draco says. “Those idiots, playing around with potions. Just tonight, they —“
“Will you lower your voice, Draco?” Lucius pulls a strand of his hair from Granger’s *teeth,* where the cat had been *chewing*…
“But Father, it’s disgusting. And she’s, she’s *purring*—“
Lucius smiles beatifically. “She is, isn’t she?” He absently twists one of her curls around his finger.
“I’m going to *torment* them tomorrow,” Draco says with glee, and clenched fists. “All three of them.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“But Father —!”
“Go to bed, Draco— Well, *hello,* Miss Granger. You look fully yourself again.”
Granger gives a strangled cry. She pushes off Lucius’ chest, tumbles off his lap, stands on shaky legs. She looks around the study to determine her location, looks down at herself to check her… *species.*
“What happened? Harry— and Ron— and oh, no! How did I? Does Draco know about —? I’m *sorry,* Mr. Malfoy—“
Lucius re-crosses his legs and begins to slowly and painstakingly pluck the cat fur from his shirt, his trousers, his chin.
“Miss Granger, I am having some difficulty parsing your… questions. But I will tell you this: My relationship with my son is such that it is necessary to always know what he is *up* to.
“I will also make some observations: While you are obviously a bright light in your Potions class, I am certain that I wouldn't have *caught* you *practicing* were you at the top of your game tonight.
“And, while you are a smart little *student,* you are surrounded, at least partially, by bullies outside of your House and imbeciles inside of it, and that means you almost certainly need someone to… *talk* to."
She snorts.
He gives the slightest *hint* of a smile.
"Finally, I am not my son, Miss Granger, and by that I mean, my son is not me. Do not look at me as though he is.”
She flares her nostrils.
She *searches* him again. Looks around the study again.
"Thank you… sir, for…”
"Yes, yes. Now, shall I apparate you back to your dorm before curfew? Or will you be changing back to a cat at midnight?”
CHAPTER 4: Inappropriate
“You were an amusing feline, I’ll give you that,” Lucius says, after he has taken to the library sofa and settled there.
After he has collected himself, composed himself, recovered himself—with some effort, it seems, and Hermione is unsure whether that effort is a positive or negative.
“One can only *hope* any further Polyjuice misadventures have remained within your own… species.”
She makes an indeterminate humph. Yes, another barb, but does he *remember*?
“Do you have any recollection of it, Lucius?”
“Of what? You pawing my lap? I do *not.*”
He crosses his legs at the knee and makes an exhibition of picking and brushing at the fabric there.
Then a performative sigh, and a few more swipes at his knee. “So, tell me more, about… ‘us’.”
“Ask me questions.”
“Granger—“
“*Interrogate* me, Lucius.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
And it feels like she’s about to take a blind leap off a high cliff. “How *would* you… interrogate me?”
This gets her a slow, pointed look, with a *spark* behind it.
“You wish to know the method, the execution, or how it would… *feel*?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it just as fast.
“I might have killed you,” he says, conversationally. “By accident, of course.”
“Of course. You might have. But you wouldn’t, and then, I would *owe* you…”
“A transactional bargain? Oh yes, you *would* owe me. A *lot.* What’s more interesting, though, is the way you keep returning to this subject of interrogation.”
“Do you remember something about it?”
He looks at *her* as if she’s lost her mind.
“I *remember* the interrogation I conducted—*yesterday,*” he says. “And *that* mudblood didn’t fare too well, either…
“I *remember* that *you* are an accomplice to Potter, and at least partially responsible for the fiasco that sent me to *prison*…
“And I *suspect* that our ‘affair’ was most likely—*very* likely—your attempt to spy on me. From the beginning.”
“It was not,” Hermione lies.
She stops her approach right there, in front of his sofa. She stops before *revealing* that yes, she had thought to trade her… weakness for his secrets. And she stops before falling to her knees and pleading…
Please *remember,* you horrid man—
He lowers his voice— *softens* it. “So, you plan to fix me, is that it?”
“Yes,” she says to the carpet.
“I know a lot of magic, Granger, and I don’t know *anything* that could fix—“
“Oh, are you a healer?”
“Are *you*?”
He glares.
She glares.
And looks away.
She should *turn* away but she can’t. She doesn’t purse her lips or grit her teeth, she just—
“Lucius, I think your memories weren’t *stolen.* I think they only let you believe they were stolen… as a punishment, to make you *less.*”
He stands, quickly, forcefully, and takes the step which separates them.
“You think so? And are you The Dementor Whisperer, too? I mean, in addition to your other accolades?”
Everyone *knows* that Death Eaters have escaped from Azkaban. Everyone knows Voldemort’s Second is among them. Perhaps some know that Voldemort’s Second may no longer *be* Second. Hermione certainly hasn’t noticed that whether he be Second or twenty-second, he is just as striking, as daunting, as formidable as always.
And his arms are just as strong, his chest just as well-knit, his skin just as warm when she slides her arms up and around…
"Do you remember this, Lucius? *This* touch?”
He stays where he is. He gives her the one eyebrow, but he stays right *there*—
“It seems inappropriate, to say the least."
"Why?"
"Because mudbloods don't *touch* their…”
“Their *betters*?”
"Do you *doubt*—“ He reaches up to *extricate* her hands from his *nape.* “Do you doubt my ability to control myself when faced with your—keep struggling, Granger—your naive attempts at seduction?”
He holds her arms outstretched from her sides, but that only forces the two of them closer, flush, in fact.
He drops her wrists.
“You think I’ve never slummed with a muggle before?”
And she colors—
And he grins, shows his pretty teeth.
"Are you *blushing*?"
"Yes."
“But, why?”
"Because I believe I know what you're thinking.”
“That you’re going to try and slap me again?”
He takes a step back and holds up both hands to mimic claws. “Or *scratch* me…
“Or…”
“Or?”
“”Hmm… I—“
"You remember something?”
She tugs on his sleeve, and he lets her. He lets her give him a little twist and a little shove toward the sofa. He sits, and she sits with him.
“There is… *something,*” he says.
“Yes?”
He looks at her, looks her over, slowly, carefully. Then his eyes stutter and drift, across the room, past the reading table and the dim corners. Then they lose focus altogether.
“You used to confront me… in the beginning—“
“Yes.”
“And you chose a dress, for a dance, for the Yule, or—“
“*You* chose it.”
“And you cried—“
“Yes.”
“And you kissed me—“
“*You* kissed *me*—“
“Hmm… I don’t—“
“You *loved* me.”
“Stop—“
“Lucius—“
“Is there something you want to *tell* me, my dear? Something you… *owe* me?”
His voice is low. It is calm, conversational. It's just that his eyes are not.
She kisses him. It isn't hard, or particularly wet, but she kisses him, and he is *humming* while she does it, and she is thinking that’s the reason she's trembling, the reason she's *clutching* at him and —
“Granger—“
"Yes?”
And before she can lean in, or wind up, or *anything,* he *hauls* her in for another kiss, pulls her across the sofa and at least halfway across his lap.
And this time she can kiss him properly, this time she can show him what it’s like, what she likes, how *much* she likes, show him what kissing Lucius Malfoy *is*—
He groans and *shudders*—
She pants into his *mouth*—
And she tries to hold on, to press in, show him how *much,* but she is twisting and slipping —
But now she’s up in Lucius’ arms, he’s hauled her the rest of the way— and he’s *gazing* down at her—
Without anything but the *glint* and the *delectation* and all the flashes of memory *slippage*— How can he manage this at *all* without the memories?
It should be possible to stop thinking of him, stop *feeling* him as *her* Lucius, the Lucius of *before*— but she can't, and —
“I take it you like that.”
"I like that. I like —“
"What? What else? Show me what we did together, Granger.”
There’s a voice that is telling her that this is a dangerous question, a *difficult* question. That something could go very *wrong.*
Of course, it’s not a *question* at all. And besides, she doesn’t want to listen to that voice.
“You called me Hermione,” she says.
CHAPTER 5: Persuasion
Lucius is trying to piece together the events of—
Of everything.
Had there really been so *much* Granger in his life? Narcissa notwithstanding, would he have really shown such terrible judgment?
Would he?
He *is* partial to cats…
Still, there there are blank spaces everywhere, occluding everything. No, not *everything.* He—
He can remember his name, and his father’s name. He can remember his wife and son. He can remember yesterday’s mission, he can still see the *face* of the… *subject.* He can remember that he is a wizard. Of course, he can remember these elemental things about Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.
He can remember almost everything, in fact, except the confounding Granger, and her confounding memories.
The way she *smells*—sweet and fruity and some other undefined scent that is, well, *her.* Annoyingly, incontrovertibly mud-bloodingly *her.*
And the blank spaces are only partially, *questionably,* filled with still *more* mud-bloodiness.
Apparently.
This is... well. This is a problem, obviously, but there is something—
He wonders, idly—*somewhat* idly—just how valuable she might *be* to the Dark Lord. Enough of a *gift* for a reward? A reinstatement?
She ought to know enough about Potter’s Plotters to give over some of those plots. Some juicy details, the inside scoop, or—
Perhaps *he* could wring the goods from her *himself,* and deliver them, himself, to his Lord and master, who is even crazier this time and would be… *over-zealous* with a self-righteous mudblood like Granger.
Lucius can be over-zealous. He’s been over-zealous before. Just yesterday, in fact, no—
He doesn’t have the heart for that now. Not right now, when—
What *does* he have the heart for?
— when she is sprawled so *trustingly* across his lap. Like she belongs there. Like she’s been there before.
Like she’s *familiar.*
And it all began with her in his lap, didn’t it? Supposedly. Sure, she was a cat, then. But now—
She is—
Herself. And familiar with his lap, his embrace, his *mouth.*
No one should taste like—
No *mudblood* should taste like—
Not at all like those muggles that he— that Narcissa— all those others that he really can *not* remember. At all.
He’s frowning at himself. At the blank, twisted, untrustworthy spaces. He would *like* to have memories of lovers to call on in this moment.
And he’s not paying attention to the way she is—
He is not—
Well, he is, but—
Her longing—
So much—
For him, all for him, and there's no getting around it— there's no way to escape the realization that there *were* no *other* mudbloods, no illicit muggle liaisons, dalliances, or affairs. Just—
Just *her.*
What does she want?
What does she like?
Why does he care?
She looks—
“I’m so happy about this…” she says, and he can see the smile in her eyes.
“You are?”
He is twisting that curling strand, the one she toyed with before. It is soft, and weighty.
He slides in deeper. Takes a handful. Squeezes. Tightens. Twists.
She… *smiles.* Closes her eyes. Smiles again.
“Hold me, Lucius,” she says, as if he’s not.
He kisses her. Again.
She lets him—
She lets him *in.* Lets him *see*—
Outside, under the Clock Tower. Just the two of them, in the dusk.
She wears her frilly party dress. She twirls in it once, performs an awkward little half-curtsy.
“I’m here, Mr. Malfoy,” she says. “For my kiss.”
He cocks his chin. And an eyebrow.
“You *promised*!” It’s almost a pout, a gorgeous, girlish pout.
“Did I?” He grins, and makes a quick, appraisal of her… frock. “It’s very nice. Come here, sit with me.”
She comes closer, more hesitant the closer she comes.
He tilts his head to indicate the spot next to him at the fountain. She stares at it for a moment, before she pivots and sits.
“So. Tell me why you're not dancing—or something—with your Durmstrang date.”
A narrowing of her eyes.
A pull of the tendons at her throat.
“Or," he says. “Tell me why you want to lie to me right now."
And *that* makes her eyes widen, sets her brows aloft.
But he strokes her temple and tugs one of her tendrils, and she closes her eyes and tilts her face *up*—
Anticipating…
And now she’s struggling to push upright in his *uncomfortable* lap.
“Take me to your rooms, Lucius,” she says.
He blinks.
She keeps pushing and slides right out of his arms, to the floor and pops up, quick and yes, cat-like.
She reaches for his hand.
He refuses it.
“So this is how it was, mm? You snap your fingers, wave your wand and— wait. Is there some obscure potion involved?”
Her eyes… *dip.*
“You don’t appear to *need* a potion, *Mr.* Malfoy.”
He ignores that.
As much as possible.
“So you dose *all* the Death Eaters with your Muggle poison and snap! — they become lapdogs, or more accurately, “Tomcats*…?”
“*You* liked my ‘Muggle poison.’ Before.”
One hand is on one hip, and her backbone threatens to slip, no—
“You really are a little know-it-all, aren’t you?”
“Well, I know more than you right now.”
And *that* gets him up and moving. It’s only a step. But she steps back. He steps forward, she steps back, and their pas de deux ends when she attempts yet another strike.
“So this is how it was between us? You attack me and presumably have your way with me—*if* you’re lucky. No, no — I will not release your *troublesome* little hand. Struggle if you like, Granger—“
Her ‘attacks’ are ineffectual but… compelling. Her struggling is… quite arousing, no, *definitely* arousing. Antagonizing her is… amusing. He can see the appeal. She is quite… Her memories are…*His* memories are—
Quite—
No.
“You tried this with all your classmates’ fathers, did you? — Ah, I see — you *like* to struggle. Alright, then. *Here*—“
And he twists the arm he’s been gripping—her striking arm—bends to scoop under her knees, around her back, yes, he will bloody well *carry* her. Like her memory —
Just like—
“I *remember* where my rooms are, you little—“
But she’s wrapped *both* arms around him. Not struggling at all, she’s *shoving* into his neck, turning into him, *pressing* into him as he apparates them upstairs to his rooms.
Like she wanted.
And now—
Does she want him to toss her on the bed? Push her to her knees? Sweep her across the threshold, bridal-style?
Why the deliberation? He should just… *proceed.* Sweet Salazar, he can decide whether to *gift* her or not *after.*
She doesn’t let go when they reach the bed, so he sets her down rather gently, if he’s being honest about it.
“This is what you want? What you… remember?”
“Yes, Lucius,” she releases him enough for him to see her… see her *smile.*
“You want me, mm?” He raises one brow.
She… giggles, like a — well, like a fourth-year with a penchant for potions.
Would that be sixth year, now?
“And you’ve *had* me, too. For *years,* to hear you tell it.”
Her hands are so warm, caressing his face, creasing his eyebrows, folding his hair back over one shoulder, then the other.
“You want me to be *your* Lucius. I don’t know if he’s—“
What? Stolen? Lost? Modified?
“I’ll help you,” she says.
And he feels the need to praise her for knowing how to — what, exactly? He refrains — it’s a strange feeling.
The zipper on her sweater glides right down, and he sits up to disengage the slider with both hands.
He lifts the hem of her muggle tee and takes a quick peek at her curvaceous navel and the slope of her ribs.
He hums appreciatively.
“Can’t one of your Weasleys service you properly?”
At that, she lifts her knee, plants her foot on the bed, braces her palms on his shoulders and *flips* them.
He coughs out a laugh. From his *back.*
“No,” she says. “They can’t — *he* can’t. It’s just the *one* Weasley.”
“Oh?”
“Was— *was* the one Weasley.”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“I can say you look lovely astride your classmate’s father.”
She just hums and smiles.
And leans down to touch his beard, stroke the stubble.
He rumbles. It’s almost a purr.
“This is… new,” she says.
“Oh, this? A style I took up while staying at that North Sea resort.”
She knuckles his chest.
And proceeds to unbutton his shirt. Button by button, by prosaic button.
And then she sets to work on his trousers.
“No, *let* me,” she says. “To see if you remember. To *make* you remember.”
It’s a persuasive… argument.
But maybe he wants to forget right now, forget the sensation of prison poltergeists making a *meal* of him— well, a salad at any rate. Tossed.
But she’s— she’s very *persuasive,* very *hungry* or more accurately, *thirsty.*
She sighs, but it’s with pleasure, with thirst, and there’s a part of Lucius, a loud and *increasingly* erect part, that wants to take that thirst and let it lead him toward all kinds of warm, wet, depraved things with—
“You’ve done this before, with— ngh— with Weasley—“
She comes up for air, her kitten tongue swiping her upper lip. *Kitten*…
“With *you,* Lucius. You *taught* me—“
CHAPTER 6: Fantasy
He is not the Lucius of before. But he is still Lucius, still himself.
And Hermione considers it a success when he allows, if not encourages, her to put her hands on him. And when he loses control — when he cedes his desire, he cedes it all over her tongue.
Perhaps he *could* be *her* Lucius.
Again.
If he can remember…
Or perhaps with some *training*…
She is grinning, stupidly, and still wiping, swiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You enjoyed that.”
She’s still grinning. “Um hmm.”
“And we did that often?”
“Um hmm.” She *licks* the back of her hand.
“You really *are* a know-it-all.”
“I am not. You had to show me, you… *taught* me.”
“So you’ve said. And am I to understand that this is not part of Hogwarts’ curriculum—where do you think *you’re* going? We’re not done here.”
Of course, she’s only sitting up, not going anywhere. How could she, in the face of… that face?
And how could she, when he’s holding— no, *gripping* her forearm so—?
He lets go.
And leans back.
And there he is, sardonic Lucius again, with the eyebrow ascending dangerous territory.
“Just because you *forced* me to lose my… *composure*…”
I want to do it again, she thinks. But instead she climbs up beside him, and pushes into the crook of his arm.
“So what else did we do together? I mean, besides trade sex for secrets.”
She says nothing. She can’t—
She can only press into him and shiver when he strokes the back of her bare arm.
“Also, I was wondering, are *all* of your Gryffindor classmates so talented and…*bold*—?”
She opens her mouth.
Reconsiders.
Hauls off and *smacks* his chest. Once.
He shakes his head. Once.
And tsks. Twice.
And *allows* her hand to stay, right there where it’s perfectly *trapped* in the hollow between his pectorals.
He even strokes that hand, his fingertips grazing the knuckles, tapping the wrist at its blistering pulse. Tracing the tendons, curling around the shallow bones.
“That’s *right*…” he says, as if learning it anew. “You *like* to struggle, don’t you?”
And he grips her wrist, twists it back, and slams it into the mattress. Holds it there.
“Turnabout is fair play, Miss Granger.”
And the flash of his grin. That devastating curl—
Both of her arms go up—up and up above her head—both of her hands in his one. High, almost too—
Taut—
“You may struggle, if you like—“
She *arches*—
He hums.
Dips down to her neck, applies his *mouth*—
“What I *really*want to know is…”
Applies his *teeth*—
“… not what we did together so much as what we *didn’t* do — your secret fantasies, my dear. Show me those.”
“I, Lucius—“
“Do you *want* me to … *restrain* you like this?”
“Yes, Lucius.”
“Umm… and do you want to slap me now?”
She whines, and offers a weak, twisting flexion that is — completely ineffectual — against his grip, which is *unbreakable,* and not at all painful. And his other hand, the palm sliding underneath her shirt to sit perfectly around her waist.
“You want me to do this?”
“Yes, Lucius. All of it. What you want.”
“What I want…” he repeats the words, as if he’s just now remembering the concept.
He *groans.* Grips her tighter.
Looks into her. Stares.
She goes *loose.*
Goes back.
To the beginning.
To his stares.
Always staring.
Lucius would stare as if the act of meeting her eyes was a challenge. And she would stare right back. See me, she’d say with her eyes, I dare you.
And she would be saying something, anything — important or inane, it didn’t matter what — and he’d arch that brow and … there are ways to make stares more compelling, more demanding, and *inexorable.*
She’d imagine that smile against her temple, along her neck, her… and that *mouth*... She’d think about that and she’d flush because it was him and it was a fantasy and perfect and people would just think she was blushing because of something, anything more… *appropriate.*
She’d loiter near the Potions classroom, near McGonagall’s office. She’d even slip downstairs so she could just *be* there. Perhaps she could stumble, or trip, even, by accident— oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy! And he would look down at her sprawl and grin his knowing grin and offer her his hand.
Perhaps someone would see her little performance, that is, her *accident.* Draco, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be… delicious?
You see, you little ferret, she’d think. I may be a filthy mudblood, but I am a filthy mudblood who *interests* your father, the purest of the pure. I intrigue him. I make him linger in shadowy corridors. I make him threaten me with a kiss.
And had he not kissed her? Oh yes, he had. He’d kissed her in the corridor, he’d kissed her in the courtyard. Asked her about kissing. Taught her about kissing. About waiting for, and wanting to be kissed.
And kisses were just the beginning. All the scandalous things she’d imagined him doing…
Finding her in the stacks and just *taking* her, right there.
Admitting her to his rooms at the Ministry, where *somehow* she’d have possessed the bold audacity to just show up and …
‘You’re naked and exposed in my *office,* Miss Granger.’
‘I — I know. I *know.*’
‘Anyone could... knock on that door.’
‘Could they?’
‘Anyone could see you naked here, for me... Anyone could see all the filthy things I want to do to you.’
And he would arch that brow and grin that grin, and she would—
She would—
“Yes, but I never did this to you? These were your schoolgirl fantasies, yes?”
“Yes, no. I—“
And then Hermione is on her *belly*—
Lucius is growling—
And biting the back of her *neck* and growling—
“I— uh— I know something about feline nature to find this quite… promising," she says, and grins into the pillow.
She is quite immobilized, but if she can turn her head, just a little— “You liked cats well enough when I *was* one.”
“I like cats,” he says, through clenched teeth.
“Now, let us return to your fantasy— the bookstore, the library. What happens next? Someone sees us? Do you *want* them to see us? No, no—keep your head *down,* Miss Granger.”
"Yes, Lucius—“
“Good. Very good.”
And it's good that it's her *cheek* pressing into the silk sheets—
That the knee between her legs doesn’t intrude with *crushing* force—
That the rumbling growls coming from that marvelous chest are just that *fervent*—
Hermione closes her eyes, and *waits*—
Until his hands are hot on her hips, his thumbs sliding over the ridges of belt loops and seams.
Until his fingers find her bare skin. So warm… She *wants* so badly, inside—
And it’s not enough—
She is spreading her thighs wider for him.
To give him the perfect spots for those fingers—
To press, and pinch, and twist.
“Look how ready you are for me. You are, hmm…”
She whines.
“So, in your bookstore, I’ve got you against the bookshelves, in the dim and the dust. What happens next?
“Tell me—“
Like he *knows.*
Like *her* Lucius.
Finding the perfect spots…
“Lucius, your *fingers*—“
“Yes, *inside* you—“
“Oh— ngh!”
Pushing in with two, thick—
Hard—
*Hard*—
And there’s barely room to move underneath her muggle denim, but he moves, his right hand splayed open, rocking those fingers just so. With his left, pushing in, and in, with perfect, shallow thrusts—
As if he remembers.
What she likes.
“So *this* is what you used me for, mm? To reach all the… places no one else can reach?”
“Don’t stop— please!”
He stops, the bastard.
“No—!”
He hums. And hums again.
“So… in the library, do I make you come?”
He leans over her, hisses at her ear.
“Tell me—“
*Shoves* in.
“Yes— ah! You, you tell me you want me to— to think of you— all day— at school.”
He chuckles, the bastard.
And twists his fingers.
She gasps, and he does it again.
“More?”
“Mnh—“
“I won’t make you *wait* for me—“
“You won’t?”
“I *will* have you. Right here, right now— in the… Restricted Section.”
And he works her faster, sharper.
“Oh please, I—“
“You can take it—“
“Yes, yes—“
“*Take* my fingers—“
She pitches and rolls and pushes *into* his fingers—
*Grinds* in—
“That’s it— that’s *it,* and you’ll get more than these fingers, a lot more, just as soon as you—“
She gasps and sobs and goes rigid.
He *growls*—
Pushes *in,* curls *up*—
And she grinds and grinds and *clenches* around his fingers—
*Hard*—
Clamps down on his terrible, devious digits, like—
Like she used to … *before*…
“Oh, *very* good—“
She will keep them.
Inside.
He makes a strangled huff, and tries to pull out—
Tugs, gently.
“You may *release* me, now.”
“No—“
Lucius laughs, softly, and slowly, slowly extricates his fingers.
He pats her open fly. “Granger…”
“*Hermione.*”
“Hmm… kitty cat?”
“*Cradle* robber—“
“*Mudblood*—“
“Death Eater—“
He slumps at that. “Yes…”
He slumps and rolls away. “Touché, my dear.” On his back, he stares at the ceiling— no, he stares at nothing.
“Perhaps, they— my Dearly Demented Ones — will track me down and— finish the job?” He gives her a bitter smile. “The Dark Lord quite likes them…”
Hermione hauls herself to her earnest knees.
“We will not tempt them back with *those* thoughts, Lucius. They will be afraid to come for you.”
“Easier said than done, my dear.”
Then he looks at her, poised and kneeling above him, and the rueful expression falls away. In its place, something mischievous and truly sparkling.
“I do remember something…”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I remember how much I despise your muggle-wear.” He waves a lazy hand in her direction. “Now take those off so I can see precisely what kind of trouble I’m getting into.”
She stands and begins peeling off layers.
“And I *do* regret every moment I didn't molest you *properly* — in the library or anywhere else…
“…*Hermione*…”
CHAPTER 7: Memories
What kind of man had he been, before? What kind of wizard, to carry on with a mudblood like Granger?
For *years.*
To take her kisses and her little sighs, her provocations and her queries. Her blatant *persistence.* Her willing mind, her demanding mouth.
What was offered.
What he took.
And according to the record—her memories and his—he had taken her virtue *and* her time. He had turned on the charm and kept it turned on. And she had returned the favor, hadn’t she? With her bold eyes and her cloud of fruity hair.
Charming, it was—it *must* have been, until… well, until the thing with the Prophecy. That unfortunate thing. He remembers *that* all too clearly.
He can see her in the Ministry, with Potter and her crew from the Order, fighting, firing off curses. He can hear her scream when Sirius attacked him. And after that—
There was—
Nothing *charming.* That is certain.
And, in return for her innocence, Granger had received what, precisely?
This is important, he thinks. Perhaps a *something* for the… reinstatement?
And just how might he broach *that* topic? He is definitely out of practice. Oh by the way, Granger, just how much did I pay for the prize of your maidenhead? With *all* of my secrets, or only some? Did I spill the *entire* Riddle playbook—?
That would certainly earn him more than one Granger Grimace. Perhaps he will get a real pummeling. She can embody his darkest, mud-bloodiest desires *and* perform the Dark Lord’s work at the same time. Take him down a few more pegs. Take him the rest of the way down.
There’s a thought.
An *interesting*… thought.
At least he hadn’t brought her to the Manor and deflowered her in front of his father’s censorious portrait. That would have been… *bad.*
Still, what kind of wizard… what kind of pureblood… what kind of Death Eater would… with *her*?
For *years.*
That doesn’t sound like him—
But how does he *know*?
When he can’t *remember*—
What he doesn’t know.
There are some things he does know. He knows he doesn’t want to give her to the Dark Lord— even for reinstatement. He knows he doesn’t want to return her to the Weasley boy. He doesn’t want to give her back at all. To anyone.
She has pursued him, worried him, tugged on his sleeve, kissed him with abandon. She has blossomed in his arms, under his hand, around his fingers.
She has shown him *things.*
He wants more.
He wants more of what he has forgotten, what has been twisted and taken away.
He doesn’t even think of her blood status anymore, really, and that definitely doesn’t sound like him. But it must be him. And he *wants* — what he had.
Before.
He wants everything that has made *this* with *her.* He wants the year of flirtation and seduction, the months of bold requests, and the days of bolder demands. He wants to feel her— again. And again after that. He wants to hear her, her cries and her sighs and her antagonisms.
What kind of pureblood *is* that?
Apparently, the kind who has Granger, right there, in his house, in his rooms, naked — *wonderfully* naked. Naked and peering at him with *worry.*
“Where did you go, Lucius?”
That *worry.* What a strange thing *that* is.
“You must be cold,” he says, “standing there in your… altogether.” He pulls the duvet back and pats a spot. “Here—“
She rubs her sinewy triceps for a moment longer, then hops to the spot. Presses into him. Like she fits there. Like she *belongs.*
Like she has belonged, tucked underneath his arm, for *years.*
“So, how did we… leave things? When I departed for the… Resort?”
“Oh.” She considers this, and assumes a position conducive to… *talking.* She folds her legs underneath, and her knees graze his thigh, and that’s conducive to… No.
*Talking,* is what it’s conducive to.
“I had tried,” she says, “tried and failed to wrestle some kind of information from you, about Vo— about the Dark Lord’s plans. And you *did* warn me about the Prophecy, and your orders. And there was a terrible skirmish there, in the Department of Mysteries… do you remember that?”
He sighs. “Yes. Unfortunately, I do remember *that.* A thing I would truly *like* to forget, the Dementors left intact.”
He looks down at her knee against his thigh. Such a pleasing assemblage of cartilage and bone.
She follows his gaze, and pushes her knee into him further. He wonders if she has always leaned in to him. He thinks—he wants to think—yes.
“And, are we different now — am *I* different than I was… before?”
She thinks about this, briefly.
“You were more, um… well, you had become quite philosophical about… pureblood doctrines.”
“That would be *your* influence, I suppose.”
She doesn’t deny it. “At times you were quite poetic—“
“Who, *me*?” Lucius claps his hand to his mouth.
She snorts. “Verbose, let’s say—“
“Let’s not.”
“Also, you were not so relentless in your teasing, before.”
She turns to him and cocks one eyebrow.
“And you once told me that I needed to get control of my *face* — so that I could control my thoughts and defend myself — apparently from *attacks* of legilimency…
“Like *your* legilimency.”
He doesn’t reach into her mind right then, no matter the backhanded invitation, no matter how inviting it is. He just continues to stroke the length of her thigh, down and up, and watches the long muscle flex for him.
He stops at the join of limb and hip, right there, where his thumb fits perfectly to the hollow.
“Perhaps if, at the first, I had not been so much … *myself*…”
“No, Lucius—“
“Why not?”
“If you want me to be *myself,* you have to be *yourself.* All of yourself.”
He thinks ‘yourself’ means to be *her* Lucius, the Lucius of before, who loved her, and— And he *decides* he *wants* to be that. He *wants*…
“Do I lose control with *you*?” He *winces.* “No— Don’t answer that.”
And there is *something* which suggests that he should *keep* control. She has already responded to his… direction. Perhaps he is just that sort of person. For *her.*
“You are trying to — was I some sort of precisian to you?”
“Do you want to be?”
“I don’t know. Let’s find out. Hit me.”
“What?”
She tries to rear back, but he holds her firm, flailing and all. Honestly, the flailing is arousing all by itself.
“I can’t—“
“Of course you can. It’s perfectly clear you don’t need *permission*…”
She stops flailing, and he stops holding her. She sags a bit onto her knees, her face a theatre of anger, confusion, and guilt.
That linkage is exactly right, he thinks. He leans back, throws his arms open, like an offering—or a cruciform.
“Think of it this way, if you slap me hard enough, perhaps everything will fall into place.”
He smiles.
She slaps him. Hard.
And again, with the *back* of her hand.
Then she looks down at her upturned palm, as if it had been spelled and slapped Lucius on its own.
She looks from her hand to him. “Is it working?”
“Not sure,” he says, grinning. “Do it again—“
She does.
“Again, Hermione.”
The *crack* is loud in the empty house.
*Crack*— *crack*— *crack*—
“More, Hermione. Light me up—“
*Crack*—
She is wild with it now, her eyes flame, her strikes frenzied. Some miss the target altogether. She makes a staccato grunt with each slap, her hair a turbulent shadow, like seaweed in surf.
“Yes, yes, yes.” He is laughing. “Give me some marks, so I can *remember* this—“
She makes precise hits, now. Now and now and *now*—
And he groans, sucks the blood from his lip.
She is straddling him, panting, her knees pressed to either side of his ribs. Hectic color dots her cheeks and blooms across her chest.
She looks feral, violent, powerful.
Beautiful.
Distressed.
He jerks, spills a little.
Shows his teeth.
“Oh, Lucius. Why — *why*?”
“You see, it is *good* to act out your frustrations, Miss Granger.”
"Oh, well,” she says, archly. “I feel *much* better now… ‘Mr. Malfoy.’ But…”
She makes a deliberate, decisive sigh. “But, I would like to go back to—“
"To the wizard currently doing his very best to restrain himself from climbing inside you, so he might *find* you?”
She frowns.
“Hmm… That was crude, I—“
“Don’t… *restrain* yourself, Lucius.”
“Right. Yourself, myself. I get it. It’s just…”
Her eyes roam his face—wincing at the split lip—then slide lower, becoming darker as they go.
That’s right, Granger, you are naked and perched on my … belly. You just gave me a lovely thrashing, and now you’re going to—
“Do you want to know what else you taught me?”
“Well, *yes.* Yes, I would.”
“Shall I show you?”
“Um hmm…”
He is caressing her breasts. He strokes underneath, appraises, thumbs both nipples.
She arches for that, flexes in his hands. Makes a little cry, arches again.
“Ah, perhaps I didn’t do this often enough, before,” he says, and *squeezes*—
She throws her head back. She actually—
Arches *into* his hands.
“And this was all mine. Before—“
“Was and is, Lucius.”
He strokes down, around the curve of her ribs, *seats* his palms at her waist—his thumbs almost meet at the soft tip of her sternum.
“I thought there were others, that I had some sort of… predilection, some trail of muggle indiscretions. But there were no others. There was only you.”
He thinks he’s allowed to say this, to have this, for himself, and why not? Especially when she’s urging him on, and on. And he thinks he can remember, as she presses his palms to her chest and locks those legs around him tight, good, smart— very smart. Her looks, her smiles, her dares, the truths she’d wrung out of him.
His hands drop to her hips, and grip her there, guide her as she rocks—slides, really—she’s so wet, so *sweet*—
“Sweetheart…”
He can lift her up with his hands, raise her up with his thighs, get her *up*—
He can drive her *down.*
“You want me inside, hmm…?”
She swallows a little cry. “Yes, Lucius—“
“Let me see—
“Show me—“
And she’s whining and whining but she’s reaching down, spreading herself wide—
Showing him the glistening, pink, pulsing *heart* of it.
“Look, *look* at you—“
And he’s groaning and groaning but he’s pushing in, pushing *up* and in—
She’s trembling on his canted thighs, she’s tossing her head and *shaking*—
“No— don’t move those fingers.” He covers them with his own thumbs and *holds* her open—
Holds her wet, swollen, soft …
So *soft*—
“More? You want more?”
He’s only part way in, so he gives her more. Pushes *up* and in—
“Here, take it all—“
He releases her hips, or more precisely, he allows her to move, to take him, take it all—
It’s almost unbearably—
*Soft.*
She had a twist, the muggleborn—he *remembers*— a little fetish she must have revealed to him at some point, let him *play* with it—
The very idea.
And here he thought it was *his* twisty issue.
“Little mudblood, hmm…?” he says, and it’s clear that the words still work — like a cue, or a *spell*—
She squeezes her eyes shut—
Makes a strangled cry. She *bucks*—
And takes him deeper.
He pushes up— pushes deeper.
So, now this puzzle has new pieces. New shapes, new flesh.
Tight, soft pieces.
The puzzle—
And perhaps it’s not such a surprise that she takes him so perfectly. After all, she knew precisely how to touch *him,* good teacher notwithstanding.
And it’s not a surprise when she urges him to hold her tighter, push deeper, be just as rough and vicious as she needs, and just as greedy as he is and was and will be.
And when she clutches at him, tilts her hips up, trying to change the angle, he changes it for her. He slides his arms up to cup her shoulder blades, pushes her back and down, until he is looming over her—and still inside.
He changes the angle, slowly, making her gasp, and then whimper.
Making her writhe. So—
“Shh… Be still.”
She tries. Tries—
“Here—“ he says, and he grips a handful of her soft fragrant curls.
He braces his weight on his other hand and *gives* himself to her, one long *push* after another, one desperate *drive* after another—and he can do this, he will—just a little more—
She's sobbing into his mouth—
The little mudblood—
He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his mind go, lets the memories come—
She’s laying him out in Flourish and Blotts. She’s a *child,* really, and his retorts fall flat—
She’s in the Hogwarts dungeon, trying to hide her Time Turner from him, all while arguing doctrine and flirting adorably—
She’s asking him for intelligence, bargaining for it. She’s almost grown—beautiful. He gives her nothing, really—
And she’s fighting Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries. He wants to kill Dolohov—
He can *remember*— Everything about her scent, the feel of her in his arms, the very *thought* of her hands on him. It’s all there, somewhere in the mess of his memory.
Somewhere between the burn and the slide and the utter denial, and how it was, in fact, exactly what he wanted.
And he's staring at the memories, at nothing, at all the things turned inside out. Because it's all bound up, now, with the mudblood, with *Hermione’s* cries, *Hermione’s* taste, with everything Lucius knows how to *do* to her.
She’s holding him so tight, so perfect. Her short little nails are tugging and scratching at his shoulder blades. Her kitten tongue—
Kitten…
She makes a high pitched grunt with each of his thrusts.
And the sound makes him—
Well, he can’t possibly get any *harder*—
“Don’t stop, oh please, Lucius, please, please—“ and that sounds *lovely* but—
He can’t possibly go any *deeper.*
He tries, though—
And she throws her head back—as much as he allows with his fist in her hair.
She arches high then flexes sharp and hard, and she stays that way, making no sound, squeezing him tight, tight.
So tight—
Not whining, or crying, screaming, or—
“Breathe, Hermione—“
And then he can’t think anymore, he can’t remember…
Think— or—
She shudders, clenches again.
And he comes and comes. And buries himself as deep as he can.
*
“You must explain how we’ve *managed* this,” Lucius says when he can *think* again. When he can think and *speak.*
“I mean, my family, your friends, your… *curfew.*”
“We managed it in secret, Lucius.”
He pulls her closer. They are still in his house with the Pensieve, still in his bed. The sun lingers on the horizon and gives them the day’s last light and heat.
Lucius thinks again, and thinks some more. And, to be *completely* honest, the thinking—and the *remembering*—makes his head hurt.
Keep it secret—
How can one keep secrets from the Dark Lord, anymore? Riddle is paranoid, relentless, sticking his wand in everyone’s business…
It's been less than a month since the final plan has been laid out. Since the Dark Lord called Lucius to his own great room—in his own house, to praise and insult him in equal measure, to *tease* him with the possibility of reinstatement while making ugly little comments about ‘his mudbloods’—plural. Perhaps this is the source of that particular Dementor fallacy. It would be just like those fetid creatures. It would be like Riddle, too.
“We must hide from the Dark Lord, from utterances of same, from *thoughts,* even…”
“I won’t hide from him, Lucius.”
“Oh, no? Shall I say his name, then, and bring him knowledge of us?”
She slings her arms around his neck and buries her face there. “No, no,” she says, and it’s sounds small, and sad.
He strokes her back, and tries to keep the hysteria from his voice. “I’m afraid the Dementor’s Kiss is a curse that no one can break.”
"All the best curses are…”
“Yes.” He smiles, in spite of the gloom. “Even if that Kiss was only a peck on the cheek, and not *complete* catatonia.”
He nuzzles her hair, and again breathes strawberries.
"I am in the *business* of such things, I’m afraid. The casting of 'unbreakable' curses. And the fact that a gaggle of *guards* managed to come up with such a creative… effect that I can’t so much as… well. I will need to be much, much more… careful.”
She pulls back to give him one of her measuring (judgemental?) looks.
“But, you *have* remembered some things. And you have a *lot* of memories saved… downstairs, with the Pensieve.”
“I may never get them back, Hermione. Inside my head. In the right order.”
He strokes the path beneath her eyes, as if tears are already falling.
“I’m just— I’m sorry about everything. Your trial, and—“
“Oh, *that* farce. You didn’t miss anything there.”
“And prison. Seeing you like that was—“
“Yes. They had just worked me over when you showed up.”
“Oh, Lucius—“
“Truly, I didn’t know a person could endure that kind of… it’s *worse* than a Cruciatus. They take and take, they *try* to take…”
“Your soul.”
“*You.* They tried to take *you* from me.”
“I don’t think your soul is lost, Lucius.”
“Agreed,” he says, and tilts her face to his. “My soul is here.”
And he kisses her, slowly, deliberately, as if he’s researching the source. Or making a memory.
And he’s *not* the scion and patriarch, protector of heir and family. Not here, with her. He’s not Second to the First. No, he’s *more* than that, not *less.*
“I don’t know what the Dark Lord can see, really, how *far* he can see. Perhaps it will be better, for *you,* if we discontinue…”
“Discontinue?” She seems dumbfounded. Also angry. “Better for *you,* you mean.”
“Are you questioning my poor planning—?”
“Yes, I *am* questioning it. And that’s not a plan, it’s barely an idea.”
“Yes, yes, alright. Just calm down. Let us devise another plan.”
###