It was quiet at Grimauld place.
Hermione woke up, sweaty and panting, the dregs of yet another nightmare receding into the shadows that seemed to pervade her very existence these days.
The candles at her bedside flared to life at a thought, and not for the first time, she wished for electricity. Candles were wonderful, but they seemed to bring everything around her to life, and that was something Hermione didn't want right now.
She would prefer the harsh, cold, lifelessness of a fluorescent lamp.
Shivering at nothing at all, Hermione pulled herself out of bed, and into a robe. It was a habit now. Professor Snape was trying to wean her off of Dreamless Sleep, which meant many days a week she would have nightmares, wake up, go to the library and read; either till it was a respectable hour to be awake, or till she fell back into a fitful sleep on the couch. Again.
Briefly, she considered brewing her own stores of potions, just to spite Snape, but instantly felt regret. He was trying to help her, after all.
Who'd have thought? Hermione Granger, prissy know-it-all, was an addict.
To Dreamless Sleep, no less.
Quietly, she made her way down the stairs. It wouldn't do to wake anyone else up, but that was assuming everyone else was asleep. She sighed. The rest of the lot were far too easily excitable, and she'd be quicker hexed than asked questions, were they to think they were being attacked.
The war ruined them all. Both sides.
They had all lost so many, that it was a wonder there was something left to live for. Months and months on end it had lasted, till there was so much blood spilled, it was not hard for anyone to notice that mudbloods and blood traitors and muggles and half-bloods were the same damn people as the purebloods. Just a little difference.
In the end, it all came down to blood.
An oh, how it had flown, till the cobblestones on the streets were stained and grassy hillsides shone with an unnatural crimson shade; till robes and hands and faces were splattered, and rivers were sullied. It was everywhere.
Hermione held back the tears, and the frustrated scream she wanted to let loose. Her throat was hoarse and her eyes were dry. She had no more tears left to cry.
Grimauld had become a sort of safe house and refuge for the order; now that the war was done. So many had died, and so many were orphaned. They all played their parts, and they all did what they had to do.
Only, they won in the end, and their war crimes were turned into heroics, while the other side suffered the punishment.
Hermione snorted, and pushed the door to the library open. A fire was dying in the grate, with just enough light to wash the room with a dull red. Hermione shivered, and shook her head, trying to dislodge the morbid state her mind had taken on. It was best to forget.
She padded over to one of the mismatched set of arm-chairs that had permanently found their places in front of the fire. It didn't surprise her to see one of the five chairs occupied. What did faintly surprise her, was that Malfoy Sr. was slumped in it, fast asleep; it was not like him to be anything but poised and perfect when he was in company.
She took the opportunity to study him. His face, usually cold and emotionless was now relaxed, as if it was the first night he had slept in a long time, and devoid of nightmares. So many times they had found each other in this very library, unable to sleep, unexpected company, though not more than a few words were said between them. There was no need to talk; they all suffered from variations of the same nightmare. Malfoy had been devastated at the death of his family. That one day, when the news arrived, was the only time they had seen any emotion that suggested he had a heart under than icy exterior.
Voldemort had not taken the news of his right hand man's defection lightly. The retribution was swift, and gruesome. She remembered the look of pain, so intense, on his face when they brought him back what was left of his family.
He still wore Draco's ring on his own finger and the wedding bands on a chain around his neck. They'd lost 3 Aurors and Charlie Weasley that night. Voldemort had taken the time to destroy the group protecting Narcissa and Draco personally. He left Bellatrix to play with the traitors; Hermione knew that it would have to be the worst kind of torture, and slow death.
A fourth Auror of the group was left alive, though not unharmed, to convey the message to Lucius and the order by extension. Lucius had not returned the memory to the Auror, instead keeping it in a glass vial, she expected, somewhere in his room, or on his person. The Auror, who had been reduced to a gibbering wreck by then, had not asked for the memory returned.
Hermione contemplated the man with an open book resting on her knees. He was more of a mystery than Snape was. No one really trusted Lucius Malfoy, of course, but Snape had vouched for Lucius with his life. It was only logical to think that Lucius considered the murder of his family in such high transgression that he would willingly help in bringing down his former master; and therefore it was logical to think that he actually loved his family to such a great extent, and therefore, it was only logical to think that he was capable of loving anyone other than himself.
Lucius Malfoy was capable of such unconditional love. That realisation had shaken many of them. The quiet determination Malfoy had exhibited, plotting and planning and carrying out the slow but eventually guaranteed victory for the Light, was something wholly unexpected. Hermione was rather relieved that his expertise and intelligence was on their side. She didn't want to think otherwise. His gold had been generously, if not selflessly, distributed to help the Order with supplies, not to mention his less than obvious trade routes.
He was a very resourceful man.
Ron had once commented that Malfoy had yet again purchased his way out of a war, but Hermione disagreed. He had gotten his revenge and been there when the Dark Lord fell. He had been there when Harry had fallen with him. He had been there when Ron had died at the hands of Bellatrix.
Hermione had seen the look of intense satisfaction, almost maniacal, on his face as he tortured and killed his family's murderer.
Hermione had also been there when he sank to his knees in the aftermath of it all, among the bodies of his comrades and friends, in the rain that had started, as if to wash everything away, to start anew, for the dawn of a new day, finally free.
She had seen him cry.
At that time, Hermione was sobbing helplessly over the bodies of her two best friends, one almost a brother, and the other almost a lover.
It was almost natural to find him tugging her away from them, holding on to her, while she screamed and cried and beat his chest about the unfairness of it all; to find herself clinging on to him while he quietly led her away, letting the others take care of the mess.
When she awoke in the hospital wing, she wasn't sure if she had imagined it all, till she saw him sitting, lost and vulnerable, by Snape's bedside. She knew then, without a doubt, that she trusted him.
Unwillingly, a tear slid down her cheek, and a quiet sob escaped her lips. She stared down at the pages, not caring if her tears splattered on them. Tomorrow, she told herself, tomorrow would be better.
Cool fingers touched her shoulder, and Hermione jumped, turning to see the pale face of Lucius Malfoy staring down at her; with something akin to sympathy.
It was her undoing.
Memories flooded to the surface of her mind, memories she had refused to willingly dwell on for so very long. Something shifted in Malfoy's demeanour.
Quietly, he settled himself back in his chair, and just looked at Hermione. There was no verbal invitation, just the completely open look on his face, which had her getting up from the chair, and seeking comfort in his arms.
There, she wept, and he soothed.
For how long she sat there, she couldn't remember, but she was lost in the feel of his fingers in her hopelessly tangled hair, and the rise and fall of his chest, and the very smell that she had come to know, as Lucius.
It startled her, to know that she recognised the faint cologne, a touch of whiskey and something that was completely unique to him. Months of working at his side, with research and spell craft, training and learning; there was a bond, something like friendship, but not quite.
Hermione's fingers trembled as she ran them lightly over the material of his shirt, and ventured to touch the skin at his collar. One of his own snapped up, and stopped her hand from moving any further.
She could feel his gaze on her, and raised her head, to meet his eyes. There was no mockery there, but only a mild curiosity, and something else she couldn't place. It was very hard to look away, and Hermione was too tired to try.
"Ms. Granger," he murmured, his breath warm on her face, "what are you doing?"
"I'm not sure," she whispered, half expecting him to throw her onto the floor or laugh at her, but nothing happened. She turned to stare at their hands, wondering if she should remove hers from underneath his.
As if reading her thoughts, he shifted the hand trapping hers, and she found their hands twined together. Her eyes snapped up to his, a small frown betraying her confusion.
Her confusion melted away at what she saw. A tiny smile graced his lips, and inevitably, she could do nothing else, but observe it.
Hermione pushed a little away from his chest, and pulled her hand free. He didn't stop her, but his face became emotionless once more.
It was therefore, a great surprise for Lucius when she settled more comfortably against him, but with a full view of his face. "I wanted to see you smile," she offered as explanation, and this time, Lucius' lips obeyed her on their own volition, if a tad surprised.
Lucius watched in wonder, as her hands came up to frame his face, and her fingers gently explored, tracing the curve of his brow and the sharp angles of his nose and chin.
"Your eyes," she whispered, "they turn most wonderfully warm when you smile like that."
Lucius didn't know how to respond to that. It had been so long since anyone had said a kind word to him, let alone touched him with such reverence, as if he was something precious.
"You are young, yet, Ms. Granger," he spoke, glad than his voice was steady, "and far too trusting."
To his continued surprise, she laughed lightly; he liked the sound. Then she grew serious again.
"I trust you."
"Do you really?" he couldn't help but trace the lips that had said those words.
"Yes," she breathed, and he brought both hands to hold her face and neck. Her eyes closed at that, and he was reminded of how young and vulnerable she was. He didn't deserve this attention, even if it was fleeting.
Her eyes flew open, and belatedly Lucius realised that he had spoken that last thought aloud.
"I trust you," she said simply, and touched her lips to his, in a chaste kiss.
"Foolish girl," he said hoarsely, and picked up where she left off.
He teased her lips, nibbled at them, and soothed them with his tongue. He demanded access and devoured her mouth as if he were dying of thirst, and all the time, Hermione followed his lead, matched him every moment, and they battled for dominance.
Molly Weasley closed the door to the library quietly, and retreated into the hallway. On second thoughts, she warded the door to be opened only from the inside, and set off to make tea.
There was so little happiness around at this time, that she couldn't begrudge the little that those two had picked up, even if it was fleeting.
Knowing Hermione, it was anything but fleeting. And Lucius? Molly paused in preparing the tea things, and leaned on the counter.
Lucius was a hard man, but he had proved his loyalty till the very end. Molly had half expected him to turn tail and destroy the order, Unbreakable Vow be damned, but he had surprised them all.
And he had surprised her yet again.
Molly sighed, and resumed her task. She had expected Ron and Hermione to get married and live happily, but that all ended on the battlefield. She lost many sons. Ginny was still lost without Harry; Arthur and she were still coping.
Everybody was coping the best they could, even Lucius Malfoy.
Besides, she would hex him gladly if he hurt Hermione.
Chuckling to herself, Molly laid out the tea and started up on breakfast as she felt the first stirrings in the upper levels of the house. The twins would be down soon, raising up the dead and bringing down the roof. Molly had learned that boys with empty stomachs were raucous and more capable of mischief than when they had their tummies full.
Lucius and Hermione slipped into the kitchen a little while later. If they were a bit flushed and guilty looking, Molly didn't say anything.
Everyone was entitled to a bit of happiness.