Nothing could have prepared her for the night that followed. She was in the kitchen with her mother helping to put the final touches on dinner when the doorbell rang.

"I've got it," her father said from the living room. Neither of them paid much attention, figuring he would handle whoever it was.

"Careful, Hermione, that's hot," her mother said.

"Yes, Mum," she smiled, lifting the steaming pan. She walked into the dining room, knowing her mum was right behind her with the rest of the meal. She set it down, breathing the lovely smell of shepherd's pie, and turned to help the other woman.

"Gerard?" her mother called. "Are you still at the door?"

"Yes, dear. Someone's here to see Hermione. A Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione froze.

"Oh, bring him in," she heard her mother say. She tried to find her voice, tried to shout a vehement no, but shock and fear closed her in. The world seemed to tremble with a fright that was almost palpable. Lucius Malfoy, in her house…a hater of muggles and muggleborns…in her house…a man who ought to be in jail, a man who, if his book was truly a memoir, had done things much worse than murder.

And there he was, sedately following her father into the dining room. Again he was without his robes, though not entirely; they were draped over his arm, and that ridiculous cane tapped idly, agitatedly, on the carpeted floor. It occurred to her that it had been all too easy for him to find this place; the layers and layers of wards she'd applied before the war and never removed would have been woefully ineffective had danger ever strayed into her parents' home. She had boarded the train at 12:35, gotten off at 13:55, and it was now 18:15. It had taken him less than six hours to find her.

"Hermione?"

Her mother's voice brought her back. She felt like she was quivering with adrenaline, but it must not have shown. Not to her parents, anyway. They looked perfectly delighted. In contrast, the slight sneer in Malfoy's eyes indicated that he saw everything.

"Shall we…talk outside?" she finally managed, forcing her voice into a stable, emotionless question.

"Oh, that's not necessary, dear," her mother trilled. "We can go in the other room if it's private."

She felt faint. It would be good to get her parents out of the way, but it was a very small comfort to be alone with him. This afternoon had been different. She had the upper hand, he was disarmed and on the defensive – but now, they were equal and there were two muggles for him to exploit. She had no chance if the purpose of his visit wasn't benign.

"No," Lucius said, his voice oddly placating. "I do not wish to interrupt your dinner. I need only a moment."

Hermione could have screamed when her mother spoke next.

"Have you eaten, Mr. Malfoy? You are more than welcome to join us."

Lucius looked down for the briefest of moments, concealing something that flashed across his face. Probably disgust, she thought. When he raised his piercing eyes, his expression surprised her. It was calm and aloof, but marginally warmer than before. It might have been amused. Perhaps he was thinking of how much it would discomfit her if he accepted.

"I thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Granger, but I must decline. I have my own family to dine with when I am finished speaking to your daughter." He turned his eyes to Hermione. "Outside, then?"

She nodded. Movement betrayed how little control she had over her fear; her muscles were weak, shivering, and she was sure that as she followed him down the hallway, her eyes fixed on his long, perfectly trimmed blond hair where it rested along his broad back, she was not walking straight. She felt like she was following Hades to his domain, and it wasn't Elysium that awaited her.

Hermione couldn't shake the image. Hades, if he existed, would be a man like Lucius. Cold, beautiful, full of judgment, and clever…oh, so clever. As Hades had tricked Persephone, so must she be sure that Lucius Malfoy did not trick her. Not that she believed his aims were the same.

She closed the door behind her and found herself in the small yard of the home she had grown up in. She felt suddenly self-conscious; her mother's azaleas were wilting, the shrubs overgrown, the grass browned and patchy, and the concrete stairs were cracked. Her parents weren't getting any younger, but they could afford to hire a landscaper, for goodness sake.

"If you will kindly emerge from your coma, Miss Granger, I require something," he said sharply. His voice cut like a new blade.

"What on earth could you need from me?" she returned, substituting disdain for composure.

Pure unadulterated annoyance made a muscle in his jaw clench. "During your heroics this afternoon, you robbed me of my wand. I should like it back."

Her mouth fell open. A fresh wave of shock and fear swept over her. She remembered taking his wand, but thought that she'd thrown it back at him, along with the start of his second dirty story. Her head had been so jumbled, though, that maybe…

Oh, God. She had kept it. She had taken his wand from him. It was in the pocket of her coat. He would kill her for it.

"I'm not stupid. I won't just hand it over," she spat, sounding stronger than she felt. Damn her neighbors; they were out, two houses down. She couldn't pull her wand. He, however, wouldn't give a fizzing whizbee about her neighbors if he wanted to harm her.

"If you won't, I will go purchase another…" his voice lowered, "and I will not be happy about it."

"Are you threatening me?"

He sighed, genuinely disgusted. "Girl, I do not have time to counsel you on the nature of threats. It is what you believe it to be. Now give me my wand."

"No," she dared, her voice not as firm as she wanted it to be. The fact that he was here, here, still scared the shit out of her in a way that would never have been present in the wizarding world.

His face turned hard and dangerous. "Then I will have yours."

Her eyes widened as he took a step forward. She had to stun him, her neighbors be damned. That was a mess that could be cleaned up. However, if Lucius got a hold of her wand and used it on her, as his eyes said he would, she would be the one they'd be cleaning off the brittle grass. She reached into her pocket, tried to yank it out, but in her panic the tip got stuck in her shirt. He was upon her too quickly; he wrenched it out of her hand and pointed it at her.

She froze. He was less than a foot from her, imposing in his cold fury. The wand did not like him. It gave off an angry red spark at his touch but he held on. He would not be bested by a muggleborn's discordant wand.

"Now," he said, as if he were talking to someone of vastly less intelligence than himself, "retrieve my wand."

His demand was not followed by an 'or else.' But she would take it how she pleased, and she pleased to label any encounter that involved him pointing a wand at her face as threatening.

Swallowing, Hermione backed toward the door. He didn't move; he was sentinel of stern power. He was so like his protagonist in that moment, detached but exacting, always in control, dominant even in the submissive task of recovering the wand she had taken from him.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She hastened to get inside. Her heart was throbbing. He might not keep her wand, not once he had his own back, but there was still no guarantee that he wouldn't hex her into next Tuesday. She had only the blind hope that he knew better. He might have; his less attractive habit of cursing her and her filthy bloodline had been completely absent in their trio of interactions. She ran up the stairs and into her old room, where she had tossed her coat without much thought. Her hands trembled as she extracted his wand from the pocket.

It felt wrong in her hand. It didn't react to her the way hers had demonstrated its incompatibility with him, but holding it felt like trying to write with her left hand. Wrong, unwieldy, inexact…she shuddered and left the room. Her feet carried her back down the stairs and out the door.

When the screen had clicked shut, she held the wand out to him warily. There was nothing else she could do, not in this situation. He took it in his left hand. And then, to her complete shock, he held her wand out with his right. At first she was too stunned to move; surely he was bluffing, he'd hex her, or laugh and pull away when she reached for it.

He whistled a minute later, two notes, high then low, like one might whistle at a dog. She saw his hand wave the wand slightly. His arrogance brought her back. She grabbed her wand and this time she kept it out. Never again would she worry about muggle witnesses in his presence.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, in that syrupy, condescending way of his.

"Get out of here," she said frostily. "And don't ever come near my parents again."

"You are no doubt aware," he returned, "that if I or anyone had wished to harm them, it would already be done." He surveyed her, sneering. "As it is, they are vastly more agreeable than you."

"Only because they don't know you, Malfoy."

"And you think you do?"

His question, quickly fired, caught her off guard.

"I know what I've read," she recovered. "And what I've seen."

He smiled and it was treacherous. "What you've read, indeed." He moved forward, closing the small gap between them, invading her personal space with ease and intention. Her wand poked firmly into his chest. He didn't seem to feel it at all.

"I will hex you, Malfoy," she warned, her voice firm and tremulous at the same time. He was too close and the violent desire for him to leave made her feel claustrophobic.

"Yes, but tell me…did you like what you read?" His voice was low, silky, devastating…and strangest of all, it was actually interested.

Hermione breathed and tried not to look at him. His eyes were so intense, so goddamn smug in their own knowledge. Her fingers itched to flick the wand and curse him. But at the same time she knew she wouldn't.

"Of course you didn't," he murmured, so close that his breath tickled her cheek. "Such tales are too sordid for prim little Gryffindors."

That got her; she looked up, straight into his eyes, a retort ready on her lips. It promptly died as she was pinned in his gaze. He had been waiting for it, banking on it – as Hades had banked on the pomegranate.

"Ah…" he almost sighed, so much taunting conveyed in one long syllable. "I see." He leaned in closer. Her hand jerked on her wand. However, the jinx she wanted to throw deserted her when his tongue dipped into her ear. She gasped and closed her eyes. The hottest, most incongruous sensation she had ever felt bombarded her; she thought her knees might give out.

What the hell was wrong with her? She couldn't breathe. Ten seconds of the hot, wriggling tip of his tongue and her brain was turning to mush. A fierce slice of lust shot through her abdomen. He knew it, too.

As swiftly as he'd advanced, he retreated, his teeth scraping her earlobe. She nearly fell forward, not realizing that she had been leaning on him.

"Good day, Miss Granger," he said, as if no unpleasantness or innuendo had transpired. And then he walked away.

She had to sit down, but she refused to collapse onto the steps before he was out of sight. When he was gone she lowered herself and breathed, just breathed, until her mother poked her head out the door and informed her that her dinner was getting cold.

Two nights later Ron surprised her. He wasn't due back from training for another three weeks, but sheepishly informed her that he'd snuck out for the evening and Harry was covering for him. She was happy to see him, very happy, and wasn't at all surprised when the end of dinner found them reclining on the couch kissing.

She had been impatient for his presence, anxious for his lips and hands and body. What he gave her was good – it was always good – but a dark corner of her mind whispered that it was not as good as what ten seconds of Lucius Malfoy's dangerous serpentine tongue had done. She had thought about it again and again, turned it around in her mind, trying to understand what and how and why…

His brief flirtation, edged in terror, had wrought a desire in her that was awful in its power. Perhaps he had just found a new pleasure spot on her; after all, no one else had ever done exactly what he did to her before. She tilted her neck back and Ron kissed her, let his tongue stray briefly to the spot behind her ear, and she took the opportunity.

"Ron…try…in my ear…"

He obliged. It felt good, but not the same. Damn it to hell, it was not the same.

Ron loved her as best he could, pushing her to a sweet, muted orgasm that made her sigh. It made her sigh, but it did not make her scream. As she lay on the couch, a tangle of limbs with Ron, that blonde prince of hell flashed into her mind.

She exhaled heavily, clutching Ron's warm body. He was like a life preserver in that moment, but one that held her up when she wanted to drown – because she knew with a terrible certainty that he – Lucius, not Ron – could make her scream. And that knowledge would always be with her, whether she saw him again or not.