There was an old and battered cuckoo clock sitting on her fireplace mantle. Lucius inspected it without interest, just something to keep his mind off the fact that he had cried into Hermione Granger's chest and that he was now sitting in her house with a cup of tea.
The tired woman smelled of rose water, out of place in the dingy world of Knockturn Alley.
"It's quiet here," she answered softly at his inquiry. "People do not bother me, and I like it that way."
Lucius could understand the urge to disappear; unfortunately he was far too rich to simply leave and his efforts in ending his own life had sadly been unsuccessful. He wore long sleeves as they were best at hiding the scars.
"Dare I ask," said Lucius, brushing a long lock of pale hair from his broken eyes. "Why you did not spit on me when you chanced upon where I sat?"
Her eyes glimmered.
"I should ask you the same'" she shot back, but quickly regained her subdued air. "I'm tired of the ghosts the war left behind. Sometimes I wonder if Tom Riddle came up to me... would I forgive him for what he did? I am not certain anymore."
A fool, Lucius decided and sipped his lavender tea.
A/N: Prompts are the chapter titles.
