Thanks to everyone who reviewed my first chapter! Thought you all might enjoy another little slice. This chapter is kind of...well, foreplay, shall we say. Special thanks to my beta StoryWriter831. Hope you enjoy!
Head Over Heels In Hate With You
...
Why, oh bloody why, had it been him, of all people?
If only it had been someone else—anyone else. Anyone but Lucius bloody Malfoy.
Insufferable, intolerable, intolerant, insolent pig.
Death Eater.
Yes, he would always be a Death Eater to her, just as she would always be a Mudblood to him—to all the hypocritical self-serving Pureblood supremacists still rife within the Ministry. Spouting rhetoric about "equality" and "progress" whilst still jealously guarding their Old Boy's Club, tooth and nail. She knew all too well what they thought of her being admitted into their ranks—he, most of all. He'd taken little enough trouble to hide his sentiments on the subject.
With a bitter pang, she remembered overhearing his snide comments, after her appointment to the board six months earlier. "I see the DIMC is fulfilling its obligations to the Mixed Representation Act," she'd heard him remark to one of the officials as she passed them in the lobby, his silken voice edged with an elegant sneer. "How admirably efficient, killing two birds with one stone in the shape of Miss Granger. A muggle and a female."
It had stung badly—perhaps worse because of the element of potential truth behind his words. Why should the Board trouble itself to appoint two minority delegates, when they could get away with one?
She was certain he'd intended for her to hear him, and she'd stopped in her tracks, turned to him, and bestowed on him her sweetest smile. "Such a great shame you are not eligible for election, Malfoy," she'd said, in deliberately dulcet tones. "You could definitely fill up a quota for wand-restricted, magic-reduced, advisory-only, former Death Eaters."
He'd looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled her right there and then, and she'd sashayed off with a rather triumphant skip in her step.
From then on it had been all-out war between them; she, flaunting her position over him at every opportunity, he using his influence to thwart her work at every turn... And she'd enjoyed it, their vicious sparring, the pitting of their incisive wits—most especially the heady sensation of power when she asserted her superiority over him, gleefully rubbing his supercilious nose in his diminished position and magical impotence. She could almost taste his wrath.
But then. Then.
It had happened.
One month ago today.
If only she hadn't...hadn't loved it so much. If only she hadn't felt so damned satisfied...completed. Until that moment, the moment he bent her over his desk and thrust himself into her, she hadn't realized anything was missing from her life. She had thought she was happy. Well-rounded. A little sexually frustrated maybe, but nothing that couldn't be assuaged by a quiet moment in bed, with a certain acquisition from a Naughty Nymphs catalogue, and a choice Vibrato spell.
How wrong she'd been.
Oh, if he only knew the chaos he'd caused in her head, his own would probably explode with the swelling.—Night and day, asleep or awake, she was haunted by the memory of that night—of him. Pounding mercilessly into her. Stretching and filling her. Making her sob with helpless pleasure, crying out for him, again and again...
It was driving her to distraction. She was almost tempted to Obliviate herself, to remove the tormenting vision from her brain once and for all.
But she couldn't. The memory had become like an opiate to her—an incredible, indelible, guilty pleasure. One which she replayed nightly in her head, her fingers frantically rubbing herself into a desperate climax, until her brain was saturated with dopamine, her body flooded with endorphins, and she lay shuddering and panting in the darkness.
Damn that blond bastard, was her customary closing thought, before she dropped off to sleep.
And then dreamed of him.
…
Hermione threaded her way down the long Ministry corridors, avoiding eye-contact with all the other home-heading workers. She didn't stride anymore. She scurried. Furtively, surreptitiously, always on the look-out...
She saw him often, but she never let him see her—no, she made absolutely sure of that. Their paths could not help but cross frequently: the nature of their respective positions within the Ministry guaranteed it. But Hermione always managed to slip away if she glimpsed him sauntering down the corridors; or, if she found herself in danger of being accidentally cornered, she would quickly Disillusion herself until he had passed by.
I simply MUST get that bigoted bastard out of my head, she thought as she hurried along, her eyes fixed on her feet. I won't let that prick mess up my life. He's nothing to me—nothing. A dark wizard. A Death Eater. A Slytherin. A Pure-blood supremacist. A Malf—
"Ooof!" She collided with something at once velvety and solid, ricocheting her backward. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn't shot out to pull her back upright, and in that very second she knew—she just knew—knew beyond all doubt—who it was.
His touch, his scent.
"Miss Granger." His voice, drawling and elongating the syllables of her name.
"Ms," she corrected, immediately wrenching herself out of his odious, revolting, unbearable hands. His skillful, supple, dexterous hands. "Watch where you're going, Malfoy," she spat, her stomach churning with a sickening complexity of emotions. A month and a day ago, she would have held his gaze challengingly. Now, she avoided it at all costs.
"But I am watching, Miss Granger," Lucius replied in a maddeningly suave voice. "I'm watching you. You see, I've been looking for you."
He had? She gulped. There was a long, laden silence. Hermione stood, rooted to the spot, in an agony of indecision. She longed to look up into those gleaming, silver eyes. But she had a distinct impression that if she did, the game would be entirely up. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she finally managed to rasp.
She heard him breathe leisurely in, leisurely out. "I want to give something to you, Miss Granger," he said in a worryingly smug tone, "—or perhaps I should say, return something to you."
He took a step towards her, deliberately breaching the barrier of space she had installed between them. Hermione fought to stand her ground, though her body seemed to be liquifying, her knees particularly. "I don't want anything from you, Malfoy," she hissed at him.
She made to push past him, but he quickly grasped her left wrist and jerked her tightly up against him. "I'm afraid I must insist," Lucius growled softly. His tone was delicately dangerous, and—she couldn't help it—her eyes snapped up to connect with his.
At that moment, her heart seemed to lurch to a stop. She couldn't breathe.
He knows! she thought wildly. It was there, in his eyes, etched in silver. How can he know? How is it possible? Somehow she managed to tear her eyes away from his riveting gaze—but succeeded only to drop them as far down as his curving mouth. She swallowed rapidly and drily, several times. "What—what is it?" she croaked.
With the subtlest of manoeuvres he had her pressed against the stone wall, his arm resting next to her head, the long sleeve of his robes entirely concealing her from the hurrying passers-by. "That's for me to know, Miss Granger," he murmured in her ear—literally, she could feel his mouth brushing her skin, making her shiver—"and you to find out presently. First, I suggest we remove to somewhere a little more...private."
She let the implications of this sink slowly in. Her heart had started up again, but now it was going far too fast, thudding erratically like a runaway coach-and-four. He was too close, much too close...Oh god, that scent...so...so damned...narcotizing...Her lips felt numb as she spoke. "How do I know you won't hurt me?"
Lucius smiled down at her. And made no answer.
Something exquisite fluttered inside her.
So. He had something on her, did he?
Her blood surged through her body, swirling around its most sensitive points. For the first time in a month, she felt as if she were coming alive, awakening from some deep, dull hibernation. She was in for a battle. A battle of wits. "Alright," she heard herself say. Bright sparks of light were flitting and dancing through her. She tingled everywhere. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment for twenty-eight torturous days. "When?" she said. "Now?"
The smile deepened, the silver eyes glimmered. "Now."
…
It was an opulent and luxuriously-appointed reception room—Hermione would give it that—but really, the Slytherin-centric colour scheme bordered on gratuitous, and the overuse of serpent motifs in the soft furnishings was frankly vulgar. She sat perched on the edge of a green damask chaise-lounge, facing an oppositely-stationed Lucius, who lounged gracefully back on an oversized, green leather chesterfield.
Lucius was scrutinizing her impassively, and Hermione felt her cheeks glowing. She was dying to speak—well, to insult—but no way was she hazarding the opening gambit. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together, waiting.
"So..." he drawled at length, "it would seem that little-miss-Mudblood—"
"DON'T call me that!" she interjected furiously, but he ignored her and smoothly continued, "—that little-miss-Mudblood—darling of the Ministry, mistress of all she surveys—has been a very naughty little witch. Quite...insubordinate." He slanted one eyebrow, and gave her a significant smirk. "Tell me, my dear, did you enjoy having a Pureblood wizard inside you? I'm fascinated to know...did you feel somehow...cleansed?"
Hermione leaped to her feet, wielding her wand in her clenched fist. "You disgusting—you utter—you unmitigated—" she sputtered, trying to find a suitable word to describe the man.
Lucius merely crossed his booted legs and chuckled urbanely. "Oh, do cool your cauldron, Miss Granger, I beg you," he said lightly, making a directive gesture for her to sit back down. "You're so deplorably easy to pique, did you know that?"
Seething, but reluctant to prove him right, Hermione resumed her seat. "Just tell me what you want, Malfoy," she snarled, "before I hex those Pure-blood parts of which you are so proud right off."
He smiled at this, and Hermione was distinctly reminded of a tiger. A very large, white tiger. "Very well, Miss Granger, I shall cut to the proverbial chase. I believe that these,"—he reached into his robe and pulled out a scrap of lacy material—"belong to you."
Well, would you look at that, Hermione thought incredulously. My knickers. What an abominably cliché piece of incrimination.
He tossed them onto her lap with a precise flick of his wrist. "I've had them independently tested and verified, of course."
"Of course," she replied, desperately fighting an overwhelming urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Or was it to burst into hysterical tears? She wasn't quite sure, and thankfully the feeling passed.
Again he reached into his robe, this time producing a small, sealed scroll. "Are you familiar with the archaic, though not obsolete, system of barter, my dear?"
"Yes," she gritted through clenched teeth.
"But of course you are," Lucius said, with mock-chagrin. "Forgive me, Miss Granger, for a moment I forgot what an insufferable little swot you are."
"The point, Malfoy," she huffed.
"The point—ah, yes. Well, my dear, I should like to engage in a barter with you."
"You mean a blackmail."
Lucius shrugged. "Call it whatever you please, provided I get what I want. This scroll,"—he waved it at her— "of which I'm sure we both know the contents, in return for...hmmm..." He paused, ostensibly giving the matter serious thought. Then, as if he had a sudden bright idea—"Ah! A place on the board should do nicely, I think."
She gawped at him. "You're not allowed—"
"Not my problem, Miss Granger," he overrode her protestations.
"But it's impossible—"
"Nothing should be impossible for so enterprising a witch as yourself," he replied silkily.
She stared at him and was dismayed by the steeliness behind his silvery gaze. He really means it, she realized. Shit.
Hermione eyed the scroll, now resting in his lap. The jewels of his rings sparkled tauntingly as he lightly drummed his fingers upon the sealed paper. So much for a battle of wits, she thought. He's stitched me up like a kipper.
She took a deep breath. "Fine," she muttered.
Lucius's smile widened rakishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your reply, Miss Granger. What did you say?"
"I said fine!" she repeated loudly, wrathfully.
He clapped his hands sharply, once, then rubbed them together with exaggerated relish. "Good!" he said, sitting up straighter. "I'll have your word on that if you please—oh, nothing too onerous, just a regular Debtor's Oath will suffice."
Gritting her teeth, Hermione performed the wandwork and grumblingly made her vow. Great, she thought, now every single board meeting is going to be spent trying to ignore his detestable, gloating face...
At the completion of the ritual, Lucius stood and presented her the scroll with a derisive flourish. Hermione immediately Incendio'd the roll of sealed paper, and then, flushing every invented shade of scarlet, she did the same to her knickers. Relief washed over her as she destroyed the last traces of her transgression—relief, but also something else. Something uncomfortably akin to...disappointment.
"I hope you realize, Malfoy,"—she said his name as if it tasted particularly unpleasant—"that once you're elected to the board I'm going to dedicate every waking moment to getting you expelled off it again."
Lucius's eyes glinted and his mouth curled at the corners. "I would expect nothing less from my little-miss-Mudblood nemesis."
Hermione prickled, but refused to rise to the bait. "Right. Well, I won't take up any more of your time," she said, more glumly than snarkily, making her way over to the huge, black-granite fireplace. "Your reflection might start getting jealous."
She was just about to take a handful of Floo powder when Lucius's unexpectedly-near voice her made her jump. He was standing right behind her, though she hadn't heard him follow her. "There was just one last thing, my dear," he murmured.
And before she could so much as twitch, let alone grab for her wand, Lucius had pulled her roughly back against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her and pinning her own to her sides. His silky hair spilled over her shoulder and his breath was hot on the bare skin of her neck as he spoke. "I forgot to mention that I don't intend to allow you to leave until I have fucked you senseless, Miss Granger. Quite senseless. You see, I've never heard anyone squeal so delectably as you did, that night when I had you over my desk, disguised as my beloved wife. Your level of enthusiasm was truly...invigorating. Indeed, I've thought of little else over these last several weeks."
Hermione gasped. A flame had blazed up inside her at his touch and was spreading like wildfire through her entire body, burning her up, melting her down. Huh, she thought dizzily, disjointedly. Well, it's nice to know I wasn't the only one...
...
Poor little Hermione! Don't you just feel so sorry for her? No? Me neither! XD
WARNING: Smut glorious smut in the next chapter (is that a promise, I hear you ask)...