Hello, welcome to my newest Harry Potter fic, another Lumione story. I really don't care if you don't like this pairing, I really don't care at all. Any flame or troll reviews will be ignored entirely. Congratulations.
Anyway, I hope that those of you who do enjoy this pairing enjoy this story. It's not nearly as tragic as my other Lumione fic, but there will be some heartache. You can't have this pairing and ignore everything that the two character have gone through in their lifetimes, especially in the last few books, what with Lucius's incarceration and Hermione being tortured in his house.
The entire plot of this fic was inspired by a joke I have with a friend about the idea of Lucius or Draco attempting to use muggle items like toasters or microwaves, etc. At first this was going to be a rather lighthearted one or two-shot, but as I began thinking over the plot it expanded into a true story. It really shouldn't be more than ten or so chapters, though.
I hope you enjoy this first chapter, and if you do, please review.
Chapter One: Burnt Toast
Hermione awoke to the smell of burnt toast, something she hadn't smelled since she and Ron had shared a flat together. Every morning they'd have the same argument over whether or not setting the toaster to six would simply toast the bread faster just fine or make it burn no matter what. To be honest she hadn't even wanted the little yellow toaster, it had been another "muggle gift" from Arthur, when they could both use a quick charm to get the job done. But somehow, despite magic and logic and arguments, it managed to survive where their year long relationship failed and inhabited a small corner of her counter space even after Ron was long gone.
So to smell burnt toast after over a year of its complete absence immediately sparked her curiosity. Had Ginny stayed the night again? All she could remember of last night was the Solstice Ball at the Ministry and everyone drinking too much. The rest was more than a bit fuzzy. Perhaps Harry had a little too much to drink and sparked another spat with Ginny-
Then she saw it, her silver dress pooled on the floor and beside it a baby blue dress shirt, and she remembered everything. With a hand clasped over her mouth, her eyes and her mind retraced her steps from the previous night, or rather very early that morning. She spotted her shoes beside her bedroom door, slightly ajar, and his dark outer dress robe strewn over her reading chair. And through her slightly ajar door she caught a glimpse of him, shirtless in her kitchen, prodding at the toaster that no one had touched in a year and running a frustrated hand through his long hair.
"Lucius…" His name escaped her mouth in the form of the quietest whisper and tears came to her eyes as she scrambled from her bed to close her bedroom door as silently as she could manage.
She took a seat in the reading chair, feeling the silk of the robes beneath her bare legs and against her back, it felt just as it had when she danced with him. Her head swam from both her blossoming panic and the beginnings of a hangover, heavy tears dangling precariously on the edge of her bottom eyelids. She needed a moment to wrap her head around all of this. She glanced at the bathroom door, perhaps a shower would do her good.
She stumbled over his shirt and cursed herself for not preparing a hangover drought as she nearly lost her footing, her head pounding with every movement. When she finally managed to get to the bathroom she cringed at the cold of the tiles against her feet and cringed even harder when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Squinting through the light coming in from the open window she could see that her hair had managed to turn itself into a natural disaster in only a few hours. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and lipstick was smeared all over the side of her face. There were light bruises and bite marks on her neck and collarbone, a couple on her shoulders.
Her face burned at the sight of them, so jarringly obvious against her pale skin, undeniable evidence that last night had indeed happened. Shuddering at her own stupidity she turned away from the mirror and caught sight of a little bottle sitting on shelf above the toilet.
Continuing the disastrous theme of the day, she shuffled over to the shelf, stumbling over the plush rug on the floor and kicking it to the side. She swiped it from the shelf and eyed the dark liquid within it before removing the stopper and taking a small sniff. Her eyes lit up when she realized what was within the little miracle of a bottle.
"Hangover drought…" She nearly wept, with relief this time, and downed it immediately, ignoring the bitterness against her tongue. She allowed herself a moment as she sat on the toilet lid and ran her fingers through her hair. A little sigh escaped her as she sorted through bits and pieces of last night. The entire thing had been such a mess and here she was living in the aftermath, dealing with the cleanup.
She hadn't even wanted to go, but she hadn't been given a choice. That, even more so than what had happened, was what irked her the most. Being an employee at the Ministry meant that she was required to attend all Ministry-held functions. Including the Winter Solstice Ball. It was a bit different from the Yule Ball that had been held at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament, mainly in the amount of alcohol served and the lack of Yuletide charm. And rather than a bunch of giddy school children all gathered together for one sparkling winter night, it featured a crowd of bedraggled ministry workers and high profile members of wizarding society tossing thinly veiled insults and passive aggressive comments back and forth like handshakes and hellos.
She had hated it before she'd even known that she was required to attend. She had hated it even more that very night as she let Ginny do her makeup. She remembered her near breakdown when she discovered that Ron would be there. "It's like Christmas last year all over again, Ginny!" She'd cried.
Sighing, Hermione got up and turned on the shower to as hot as she could stand it. She stood beneath the streaming water, staring into space, for a good fifteen minutes before actually making a grab at the soap. Slowly, as the hot water and hangover drought soaked through her, she began to think a bit more clearly, and as the lemon scented soap ran over her skin she felt something resembling peace for a moment.
But then came the time to face the facts.
She could hear Harry's voice in her head as she opened up her brain to the next chapter, "You've really made a mess of things, 'Mione."
"I know…" Came her whispered reply.
False confidence was a mask she'd worn more than a few times over the last year and she wore it well. It was like putting on a scarf or a pair of sunglasses. Subject changing and centering focus on things like her career. There were, of course, the persistent ones. The ones who couldn't seem to let go of her faded relationship with Ron or her experiences in the war, the ones who asked too many questions and delved into places she wished they wouldn't. They picked and chipped away at her like an archaeologist would a relic, unlocking all her secrets. Goodness, she wished they wouldn't.
Ah, but then there were the absolute disasters. The tsunamis she'd run into only once a year if she was lucky. The first tsunami after the war had been Draco in Flourish and Blotts only two months after everything was over. He'd been running around like a madman, hood pulled up, grabbing parchment and pens and bottles upon bottles of ink. Anyone who caught sight of his face had sneered at him, pushed and shoved him, refused to move out of his way and then dared him to lay a finger on them. Until he ran, literally, into Hermione.
He had looked quite a bit like her reflection in the mirror. Dark circles and an expression of pure fear. The two had slammed into each other and he'd dropped all of his things. She'd reach out to help him on impulse but he only slapped her hand away. "Don't help me," He'd hissed, "After all, this is the perfect world you've always wanted, isn't it?" He grabbed her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her sweater to reveal the scar that she so hated. "Now we're all on equal footing in the mud."
She'd cried for hours afterward. It had bothered her for days, for multiple reasons. The tables were turned but he still got under her skin. The tables were turned but it still wasn't fair for everyone. But, like always, she'd gotten over it. She wondered, as the water poured over her and the last of the soap melted away, how she would get over this.
Eyes closed, she couldn't bring herself to get out yet. She still had to face what came next in the story, she still had to finish what she'd started last night, even if she wasn't sure where the end was because it hadn't even arrived. Would it ever?
Ginny had assured her that everything would be fine. She and Harry had walked in with her, had sat her down at their table beside Luna and Neville. The two couples talked and she listened, waited, watched the world around her revolve as she sat still. Half an hour passed and nothing happened, but she knew better than to let herself be swayed by a false sense of security. The tidal wave would most surely come.
And it did.
Unfailingly.
It, He, her watery enemy, surged through the doors and into the ballroom. He looked well, the thought came a little too bitter for her liking, she couldn't let him sink her ship. There had already been too many holes to patch. He came, sat down, maintained politeness with her, too her surprise. He even asked her how she was doing, how her work was going. She ran with that, the talk of her research and her position in the ministry, it was the safest of territories that she could wander through. It was uncontested, familiar, constant.
Drinks came around and the conversation shifted. It drifted down a volatile path of marriage. Arrangements for Ginny, Luna giving her advice, in her own Luna-ish way, because she'd just walked down the aisle a few months ago herself. She let the couples talk, listened to their plans of dates and venues and dresses and invitations until they all blended together.
For a second she'd thought that perhaps she was being a bit too paranoid, that perhaps now she was safe to sit and comfortably enjoy tuning out the dull talk of all her female friends turning into housewives. She couldn't quite help the little twinge of jealousy she felt, though. With no blood family since she'd altered her parents' memories, and now no true adoptive family save for Ginny and Harry since her breakup with Ron, she'd been lonely. Work, despite her passion for it, was not only her excuse but had also become her distraction. Up until recently this had worked well enough for her, but for some reason in the last couple of weeks loneliness had set into her bones and that night it struck a nostalgic chord in her as she watched her friends laugh and drink together.
At one point someone mentioned the holidays and Hermione realised, suddenly, that she had no idea what she'd be doing this year. If Christmas was being held at the now-renovated Burrow this year with all the Weasleys, she was uncertain that she could attend. Last year Christmas had come only a month after she and Ron had broken up. It had been held at Grimmauld Place because the Burrow hadn't yet been entirely rebuilt. She'd gone, quite reluctantly, at Harry's request more than anything. He'd said something like 'not being able to handle the fire of so many redheads in such a confined space and that he needed her help.' So she went, and thoroughly regretted it. The Weasleys were still as warm as ever, but there had been so much tension from the very moment she'd stepped into the house that she wanted to turn around and leave immediately.
The shrieking portrait was thankfully gone but in its place came the aftermath of a shattered relationship and an overbearing who was desperate for Hermione and Ron to make up. Everything she did that night was manipulated by Molly so that she was constantly in the company of Ron, right down to being placed right across from him at dinner, which was exactly the opposite of what either of them needed.
The breaking point had come when they'd both found themselves trapped beneath magical mistletoe, unable to get out until they kissed. She'd suggested that they just do it and get it over with so she could go home, but Ron refused, which resulted in an argument so terrible that Molly herself came to disenchant her own trap, apologizing to Hermione as she lead her to the door in tears.
If Christmas this year was to be anything like last year's… There was no way she'd be going.
More drinks came and eventually it was time to dance and the table was suddenly deserted save for a semi-sullen Hermione and a drunken Ron. For the first few awkward minutes they said nothing, only stared at each other for a moment and then down into their glasses. Hermione's second and Ron's fourth. When they looked back up, the tidal wave question came crashing down.
"Wanna dance, 'Mione?"
She remained silent for a few seconds, trying very hard through the alcohol to come up with a non-confrontational way of saying no. She failed. "I…. I just- I'm sorry Ron, I'm just not ready. After everything that's happened I think it would be best if-"
Ron's mouth dropped open before twisting into a snarl. "Not ready?" He threw his hands up, "It's been, what, a year now since we broke up? This is so like you. You've always been like this, you know. You wouldn't even have sex until we'd been dating for six months after the war because you 'weren't ready'."
His voice rose with every word until most of the people around them were staring during the last embarrassing sentence he'd half-yelled out into the ballroom.
"Ron!" Hermione hissed, mortified, "Can you please quiet down? This is not the place to be screaming about our sex life from a relationship that ended a year ago."
"Yeah, that ended a year ago yet you still won't even dance with me." He stopped talking to down what remained of his fifth glass, "But I don't know why I'm so surprised given that you've always been a frigid bitch."
Hermione tried to rationalize with herself, telling herself that it was just the alcohol talking and that he didn't really mean it, that they were both drunk and on edge but she just couldn't. And before she could have stop herself, a year's worth of loneliness and spite boiled over and she grabbed her glass and threw the rest of her drink in his face before storming onto the dance floor, weaving between couples, as Ron chased after her and yelled more obscenities.
She opened her eyes and turned off the water, grabbing her white towel from the hook and wrapping it around herself. It felt rough against her skin, coarse like Ron's alcohol-drowned words, and she could tell that the drought hadn't quite defeated all of the hangover quite yet. She thought back to the silk robes on the chair as she dried off and slipped on a her bathrobe, remembering the way they felt the very first time she'd touched them.
She'd been too flustered to pay any attention to where she was going once she'd made it across the room and away from all the dancers, all she wanted to do was get as far away from Ron as possible. She was aiming for the main doors, long since closed to keep the chill out once all the guests had arrived, behind where a few people were still standing and chatting. She panicked for a moment when she looked back and saw that Ron was still following her. Head low, she was nearly running when she smashed into a wall of grey silk.
She looked up, startled, muttered apologies pouring from her lips before she even realised who it was that she'd literally run into. Her heart flopped in nervousness when she saw that face, framed by white-blond hair as always, silver eyes just as startled as her own. Memories of the Department of Mysteries flickered through her head.
Tired, drunk, and embarrassed, she muttered "I'm so sorry, " one last time and tried to dart around him and make another dash for the door when Ron's had clamped down on her arm and yanked her backwards so hard that she nearly fell.
"Ah-hah! I've finally got you!" She heard him cry triumphantly from behind her.
She turned to Ron, still in Lucius's looming shadow, feeling like a fox trapped between a lion and a wolf. Ron opened his mouth to let loose upon her and she opened her mouth, ready to defend if at all possible at this point, but before either of them could speak Lucius did.
"Excuse me, , I know your family is rather prone to neanderthalic behaviour and it's clear that you've had quite a bit to drink, but yanking women around by the arm and chasing them through formal functions bellowing like an ape is rather frowned upon in what is now the twenty first century. This might have passed, say, a few thousand years ago, but in these times that's grounds for arrest. Do I need to call over one of the aurors?"
Ron's face reddened nearly to match his hair in a mixture of insulted anger and perhaps slight embarrassment before he slurred out his reply, "Call the aurors on her! S' threw her drink in my face!"
At this Lucius's eyes flickered to her own face, slightly reddened in embarrassment as well, and he raised his eyebrows. For a moment she thought she saw thinly-veiled amusement beneath the questioning glance, but all she could bring herself to do was look at the floor and shrug.
"Then perhaps you should go home and change your shirt, ." Lucius said, "And gather up some intellect along the way, if you're at all capable of it. With how I just saw you treat her, I can imagine why , or any woman, would do such a thing."
There was something rather dark in his voice as he drawled out the quip about Ron's lack of intelligence, and normally Hermione would've defended him, breakup or not. But she could only continue to stare at the floor as Ron's sweaty hand released her arm and left her with goosebumps. She heard him stomp away, muttering, and waited until she could pick out his footsteps to look up. She could hardly look Lucius in the face as she bleakly thanked him and made a final attempt to get passed him.
Yet another hand fell on her arm, but this one wasn't sweaty with anger and it didn't yank her backwards. It was a simple gesture to stop accompanied by an oddly uncharacteristic, "Wait!" From Lucius.
She remembered, as she'd turned to look at him, the lump in her throat and the hysterics that she somehow managed to keep beneath the surface. Perhaps a glimpse of them had shown through in that moment when their eyes met, though, for his own gaze softened and for a second he was unrecognizable to the man she'd fought in the department of mysteries or the shadow of him that wildly ran searching for his son in the final battle. But maybe it was just the alcohol corrupting everything again, both in what she saw in him and in what he displayed, for it was then that she noticed the glass in his hand, half empty.
There had been an odd moment of silence between them before he spoke, "I do believe you owe me for saving you from the red-headed, walking disaster of an ex." He said, but there was something akin to mirth in his voice, or at least that's what she thought she heard. "Won't you sit with me for this last drink?" He asked, "I'd quite like to know what it was like to have the honor of throwing your drink in a Weasley's face."
All she'd wanted in that moment was to run, to dash out the door to the apparition point outside, but she didn't. In her mind he was right, she did owe him for chasing Ron away, and so she agreed.
She followed him to his table where they sat alone and she began her story, in the end not only telling him of Ron's comments but of Christmas at Grimmauld Place, the breakup last November, the mistletoe argument. He was a strangely good listener, with his light interjections of sarcasm, the occasional laugh or question for clarification. One last drink turned into three more for both of them and before long the tables had turned and she remembered how the conversation had drifted to his ex wife and Draco. Narcissa had divorced him after everything, it turned out, and he'd been under house arrest until last May, one year after the war.
"One year in my own house felt very similar to one year in Azkaban," He'd said, "The manor had been nothing more than a shell for so long already. The Dark… Voldemort," She remembered the way he shuddered at the name, nearly wincing as it escaped his lips, and the pause that came after, as if by instinct he were waiting for the consequences for saying that monster's name. When they never came, he continued, "Had ventured through every inch of our house, had invaded it entirely, roamed the very halls that I was forced to then wander for months with no taste of fresh air or unrestricted sun on my skin. Never have I so badly felt the calling of the outdoors since I was a child. My house was a giant Azkaban cell and my wife was the dementor sent to suck the happiness from me, what little remained anyway…"
He'd stopped there, swallowing, eyes closed for a moment and he took another swig from the glass, as if to remove the bitter taste in his mouth that those words and memories had left. Then he'd stared at the table for a good minute before asking her to dance, and this time she accepted the offer to do so.
Dance they did, for what might have been minutes but felt like hours, for what very well could have been hours, but everything melted together and she was lulled by his odd grace- even when drunk- and the silk of his robes, the way his unbound hair tickled her cheek when he rested her head on his shoulder, the smell of alcohol on his breath mixing with cologne and her perfume.
People had surely stared, she realised now, but she hadn't noticed their eyes at all last night. Through her over-emotional drunkenness and alcohol and nostalgia-spurred need to end the loneliness that plagued her, there were even blurred glimpses of her friends. Luna and Neville dancing together, oblivious to anything but each other. Harry and Ginny watching her and whispering to each other in uncertainty.
What she didn't remember was asking Lucius back to her apartment but it had obviously happened because here they both were, the morning after. Now he himself was all she had left to face.