WC: 1,164

Written for:

- QLFC Round 7: Once you have received the 'translations' it is then up to your team to decide amongst themselves who will write for what pairing prompt. / Evil Genius (Lucius/Hermione)

i
Carmine

Voices bounced off the decorated walls of the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, mingled with the tinkling sound of dainty piano music and an occasional interlude of haughty laughter. A vast buffet table was spread out in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, the plates refilling themselves as quickly as they emptied.

But Lucius Malfoy wasn't hungry for Cauldron Cakes and miniature Pumpkin Pasties and pizza rolls. In fact, he wasn't hungry for anything—not anymore. He abhorred these Ministry parties, events which had become quite a regular occurrence since Kingsley Shacklebolt was instated as Minister for Magic. Minister Shacklebolt had a desire to bring everyone together under the same roof, to ensure that work wasn't just serious and stoic. To show that there was a fun side to the Ministry.

The idea made Lucius's lips curl; he longed for the days when Cornelius had been in charge. The old Minister had been all too easy for Lucius to manipulate; all it took was a bag of galleons in the right direction, and Cornelius would do whatever he asked for. Kingsley, on the other hand, was all too familiar with Lucius's shifty ways.

After all, the new Minister had battled Lucius personally in the Department of Mysteries, not that many years ago.

But such things were in the past. Lucius had been given a new chance, and was lucky to have kept his job. So here he was, forced to join in with these sickening parties. He spent most of the evening sitting in the corner, just a few metres away from the fireplace that he would shortly use to escape when the time was right. He preferred to remain withdrawn, and ignored everyone who passed him, which wasn't really that difficult—nobody in their right mind wanted to speak to Lucius Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, anyway. If he was lucky, he would be spared a narrow, sideways glance, or maybe the echo of a vicious mutter about his undeserved freedom.

These parties were always the same—except for the night when Hermione Granger made an appearance.

Lucius almost didn't recognise the little Mudblood who had been one of Draco's school rivals. She wasn't a girl anymore; she was a woman: dressed immaculately in dress robes made of dark red chiffon, the bodice was tight around her waist and torso, accentuating her delicate curves. Her skirt was long and full, drifting around behind her with the elegance that fabric such as chiffon did. A thin band of gold satin was wrapped around her waist, and she was wearing gold jewellery to match. Her hair, which Lucius remembered to be bushy and unruly, was sleek and smooth, and twisted up on the top of her head in an elegant fashion, secured with a gilt butterfly. The wings of the golden butterfly slowly flapped as Hermione moved around the atrium, greeting her co-workers.

Lucius had known that the Mudblood was working at the Ministry now, but frankly, he hadn't given her much thought—until today. He found that his eyes were unable to stop following her around the room, and when she vanished from view, he felt a longing in his chest, a desire to seek her out immediately. What had this silly little girl become? How was she having such an unwanted effect on him?

Lucius needed to find out.

ii
Rose

It was easy to corner Hermione when she left the party. Silly Mudblood girl, she wasn't all that accustomed to using the Floo Network (and Lucius wondered if her bad experiences with the Ministry's network made her nervous). So, instead, she took the visitors exit and ventured to the surface of London to make her way home.

He figured that she was looking to apparate somewhere privately, but she took a little too long to find somewhere appropriate. She was in a secluded alleyway when Lucius advanced on her.

She whirled around at the sound of him clearing his throat, her brown eyes wide. Lucius resisted the urge to smirk—she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "Don't fret, Miss Granger," he purred as he stepped towards her. "I just wanted to offer you a compliment. You look exceptionally beautiful this evening."

Hermione held out her left hand as if to ward him off, and Lucius spotted the silvery glint of an engagement ring on her finger. He grabbed her hand suddenly, admiring the dainty ring, which was inset with a Gryffindor ruby. "How sweet," he murmured, allowing her to snatch her hand back. "Who is the lucky boy? Did you go for the Chosen One? Or, perhaps..." he paused, his lip curling, "the Weasley."

"I don't think that's any of your business, Malfoy," she replied, trying to maintain a haughty air to her tone. Lucius could see right through her, however—her bottom lip was quivering, and she couldn't maintain eye contact. She was nervous, and he relished in that.

"Don't be scared of me," he continued, creeping closer. Before long, Hermione was backed up against the brick wall of the alleyway, and Lucius was mere inches away from her. He could smell her rosy perfume, mixed with the undeniable aroma of fear-induced sweat.

"I'm not scared of you." Her voice was determined, and Lucius had to commend her for trying so hard to remain impassive.

Before she could continue speaking, Lucius lunged forwards and crashed his lips into hers, swallowing the small noise of shock she made. He grabbed her hands, interlocking their fingers, and pressed them against the wall so that she couldn't push him away. For what seemed like hours, he kissed her hotly, passionately, relishing every moment. When he pulled away, her pink lipstick had smeared across her cheek, and her eyes looked defeated. "What are you doing," she whispered, but he noticed her eyes were focused on his bottom lip. What was this?

What had changed?

iii
Scarlet

Scarlet was the only word that could describe the days, weeks and months that followed.

Lucius was used to shades of blue. Narcissa emitted ice and snow, and she loved in cold tones of cerulean and grey, her touch as harsh and wintry as he expected. Making love to Narcissa was like trying to thaw out an ice sculpture, and trying to draw any passion from her was impossible.

Narcissa was harsh: she was winter; she was frozen. She was nothing like Hermione.

Hermione loved with a fierce warmth that Lucius could only imagine came from the heart of Gryffindor himself. She cried and moaned and yelled his name as they thrashed around in the sweaty satin sheets, uncaring that her hair was sticking to her face and her body was covered in a sheen of sex-induced perspiration. Her nails raked angry red welts down his chest and back, and her lipstick left stains of evidence on his neck and face, the scarlet colour mingling with his pale hair.

Hermione was vibrant, hot, passionate, and she was nothing like Narcissa.