Lucius Malfoy's quill flew furiously across the parchment in front of him, his brow furrowed in concentration. He stopped writing and threw it to the desk in disgust, a blot of ink marring the parchment where it landed. What was she doing? He knew she was just outside the bloody door - the heavy wood was too thick for him to hear her, but he could sense her. Her presence, and his awareness of it, was a constant source of irritation for him of late. Sometimes even in the dark of latest night he couldn't find a comfortable position for sleeping, knowing that she was lying just down the hall. He closed his eyes and his breath hissed between his clenched teeth, exasperated beyond what he would have thought possible a year ago. She was his son's Mudblood wife, and now necessity dictated that he have her. And he did not deny that he wanted her - he hated the way that she managed to make him, once the powerful right hand of the Dark Lord, feel ridiculous in his own skin, and he wanted to possess her, to demonstrate his ability to overwhelm her, to show her that his power, while dormant, was as strong as ever. He didn't doubt that he could please her, but he wanted to impress her. It went without saying that Hermione would dismiss him as ignorant, arrogant or simply impossible with a roll of her eyes and a toss of her hair, and he was loath to admit that particular desire even to himself, but it gnawed at his mind.
There was no choice, he reminded himself. Draco must have an heir. Lucius growled under his breath. In the post-war world, so many tried to dismiss the notion of loyalty to blood as a forgotten relic of a bygone era, but those who mattered – remembered. To this point, he had been able to brush the unspoken accusations aside with a flick of his well-manicured hand – after all, it was Draco who had wed the Muggle-born, and Draco was of a different generation; one which had been taught that purity of blood was less important than more modern notions. Draco was dismissed as eccentric. Lucius, on the other hand, knew the importance of blood and crest well. He slammed his palm against the top of his desk in frustration, hating her for daring to be born to Muggles, daring to cross the ancient magic that put each of them here, daring to make him have to reflect upon any of this, to replay moments of their acquaintance like a pensieve, daring to make him enjoy the show.
As soon as the shock had worn off of the formal announcement of their engagement, Narcissa had insisted on a party to celebrate the union, and while Draco begged her to hold separate parties for he and Hermione, Narcissa stood adamantly firm in her resolve to make them appear not only as a couple, but a couple in love. Despite his appeals to his mother's social sensibilities, and then failing that, his out-and-out pouting, Narcissa asked Hermione to tea the very next week to discuss arrangements. As the four of them sat, Draco and Lucius rather uncomfortably, in the drawing room while Narcissa prattled on about evergreen arrangements and the menu, Hermione had remained pale and quiet, not at all disagreeable, but only as polite as was necessary. Lucius was a bit chagrined - the firey girl that Draco had described to him after much heated questioning about the pairing had been opinionated and outspoken, even if her passions did lie in frivolous topics like house-elf welfare and the benefits of Muggle medicine. Lucius had been required to be on his best behavior to avoid suspicion of late, and he had been privately thrilled at the opportunity to scheme afforded by Draco's indiscretion, even if it was something as nondescript as an arranged marriage, but if Draco had confided that Hermione had recently been quite vehement in her protests to him regarding their predicament, now that she was seated in the Malfoy's drawing room, she was anything but. Lucius had been primed for argument, but the young woman seated in front of him seemed too polite for protestation, and he had been lulled into quiet disappointment instead. In fact, Hermione's only contribution to the planning was a blushing insistence that she be allowed to add several names that had been conspicuously omitted from the guest list – a small concession to which Lucius didn't bother to protest, and even raised a long finger to quell Draco's irritation at the prospect of Weasleys on the grounds.
Draco heeded his father's silent warning, but glowered at her nonetheless as Narcissa obliviously added the names to the list. Draco had recently informed his father that Hermione had been romantically linked to the youngest Weasley boy before the announcement of the engagement, and Lucius idly wondered if it was jealousy or simple animosity fueling his son's annoyance, but Hermione continued to wring her hands in her lap, met no one's eyes, and if she noticed the show of emotion, she ignored it well. With the arrangements settled to his wife's satisfaction, Lucius had bid farewell to the two of them, and he sent them back to Hogwarts for the last week of classes before the holidays. Before they left, they received pointed instructions to at least try to appear more pleasant when they returned to the manor on the following Saturday for their celebration.
When the day arrived, they both seemed to have begrudgingly complied with his request, although their enthusiasm was still quite below the excited buzz that filled the halls of Malfoy Manor. Since his incarceration, the home that had once hosted the most lavish of gatherings the wizarding world had ever known had been lonely and empty except for the master of the house and his wife. The house-elves and the staff were delighted to be entertaining on such a grand scale again. As evening set upon the house, the activity became nearly frenetic, and Lucius escaped to his chambers to dress for the festivities. As he entered the room, Draco was lounging against the heavy satin pillows at the head of the bed, the curtains surrounding the canopy pulled back allowing him to watch Narcissa as she laced Hermione's corset tightly. Normally, he would have been irritated by the invasion of his personal space by his entire family, but the scene amused him too much to give it much thought..
"Draco," his father admonished good-naturedly, "it's hardly proper for a gentleman to see his betrothed in such a state of undress, especially in mixed company." Lucius didn't try to suppress the smile that rose to his lips as he noted his son's grudging interest while watching Hermione struggle to breathe under his wife's practiced hands, or the color the the admonition brought to his face.
"Please, Father," Draco dismissed him, never taking his eyes off of Hermione despite his embarrassment over being caught admiring her. "My betrothed doesn't have the sense to be modest, and her lack of innocence is no secret to anyone."
Narcissa guided the bodice of Hermione's velvet gown over her shoulders and then expertly began to guide tiny velvet buttons through the eyelets at the back. Hermione threw a pained glance over her shoulder at Draco's response. Her wild hair had been tamed into sleek ringlets that she reached back and gathered in her hands as Narcissa reached the top of her bodice. Narcissa pushed the last button into submission, and Hermione released her hair, letting it fall about her back and shoulders. She turned to Narcissa and kissed her lightly on the cheek before facing Draco and his father. The satin of her black skirts made a pleasant swishing noise as she turned. "So what do you think?" she asked them warily. Lucius was pleased to see her making an honest effort toward countering her previously melancholy demeanor. A milky opal necklace, the Malfoy family heirloom which Narcissa had insisted Draco give to Hermione for Christmas, sat against her pale skin above the black velvet of her bodice, and while Lucius's face remained stoic, he gave her a satisfied nod. Draco watched his father's reaction carefully, and then did his best to mirror it exactly.
"Now," Narcissa interrupted the moment, clapping her hands briskly, "I need my Malfoy gentlemen to get themselves dressed. "
Draco and Hermione excused themselves, each retreating in the direction of their bedrooms, and Lucius scanned the dress robes that the house-elves had meticulously laid out for him.
"Such a sweet girl," Narcissa murmured as he began to dress. "I believe we'll make a lady of polite society out of her yet," she added with an air of apprehension.
"Yes, Cissy," he replied, "despite her parentage."
"Without a doubt," Narcissa agreed, shedding her daytime robes. "Worth, however, the Malfoys becoming blood traitors?" she asked over her shoulder, disappearing into her chambers.
"I am not a blood traitor, Cissy," Lucius growled, loudly enough that she could hear him between rooms.
"No," Narcissa sniffed, returning with her gown in her hands. "Our son is. And that is your doing."
Irritated with her implication, Lucius laced his boots in silence while Narcissa fussed before the mirror. He helped her to dress and dismissively bestowed upon her the expected admirations before they made their entrance downstairs to greet their arriving guests.
At precisely seven o'clock, a trumpet fanfare sounded regally, and all eyes turned to the top of the marble staircase, where his handsome son appeared with his equally handsome bride-to-be. An appreciative murmur raced through the crowded room. Lucius saw Hermione's smile flicker momentarily as her eyes played across the faces of the guests. Arthur and Molly Weasley had indeed made an appearance, and also the youngest Weasley daughter on the arm of Saint Potter himself, but she managed to smile serenely as she descended the staircase on Draco's arm.
As they reached the bottom of the stairs where their parents waited, Lucius raised his glass. "Viva l'amour," he offered by way of a toast to the couple. All around the ballroom, guests followed suit, and his words were echoed in a jumbled murmur.
"Viva la bonne société," he heard Hermione mutter under her breath.
Lucius chuckled mirthlessly. "Indeed," he answered, softly but sharply, from the corner of his mouth, and Hermione blushed deeply, obviously embarrassed that her sarcasm had been overheard.
Lucius watched the evening unfold with satisfaction. He'd sorely missed these soirees. The food was without rival, Draco insulted only a few members of the wizarding elite, and excellent wine flowed freely. As the area of the Malfoy Manor ballroom which had been set aside for dancing crowded again and again, Hermione never seemed to be without partner, which elicited a jealousy in Draco that amused Lucius. Had he not known Draco's true manner as a spoiled and possessive man-child, he would have sworn under oath that it appeared Draco cared for the girl, which suited the situation well. It was late in the evening when he tapped his only son on the shoulder in the midst of the whirling guests.
"May I, Draco?" he drawled softly. He didn't miss Hermione's sharp intake of breath, but Draco shrugged obliviously and moved aside, handing his lovely fiancée to his father and making his way to the nearest house-elf serving champagne. Taking Hermione in his arms, Lucius was astounded by how lightly she moved on her feet. They waltzed in silence for a moment before he spoke.
"Miss Granger, you are indeed a lovely sight this evening," he murmured, and she raised her eyes to him. He could feel her heart pounding through her dress.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," she answered, her eyes searching his warily for his intentions.
There, he thought, was a gleam of the mind that so enticed and enraged his son. "Please, call me Lucius," he insisted. "After all, you are to be family."
"And you may call me Hermione," she countered after a moment's thought. Quite unexpectedly, she added, "This really is a lovely affair. Thank you for welcoming my parents so graciously into your home - it must be difficult for you to do so." The coolness of her tone was unmistakable, but her face gave no indication of her distaste.
Lucius felt a rare pang of uncertainly as he briefly met her brown eyes, which by her tone should be swimming with venom, but he could still read nothing below the thin veil of apprehension – there certainly might be more to this young woman than he had anticipated. "Hermione," he drawled smoothly, softly, "your contempt is indeed well-placed. But I had hoped that you and I would be able to be civil to one another."
"Civility, Lucius," she answered, her face still a mask of tranquility to the observer who could not hear the edge her voice had taken, "is most certainly in the eye of the beholder." She paused thoughtfully for a moment before she continued. "I do not forgive your putting Draco and I in this position. I could learn to enjoy the position that the Malfoy name affords me, but I will never forget what you are."
"Indeed," Lucius murmured, raising an eyebrow. It took great mastery of his senses to keep his breath from catching audibly in his throat. It unsettled him that he could fool himself into believing that it was fear that he saw briefly cross her face, but it would have been more reasonable to call it animosity. He marveled at her control and decided to carefully test its limits. "To be sure, you'll be afforded privileges that you certainly would not have had as a Weasley." The barb was well-placed and she flinched, barely but perceptibly. She looked away from him and he continued. "However, it will do you well to remember that I am a force to be reckoned with in the wizarding world, and I can either be your happiness, or its undoing."
"You were a force to be reckoned with, Lucius," she retorted. "Now, you're twice disgraced and soon to be kindred to a Muggle-born." She spat the word at him like a curse, the expression on her face finally cracking into a smug, ironic smile. When the song ended a moment later, however, she curtsied politely to him and then calmly made her way to the corner where Draco stood discussing something probably inane with a small knot of his mother's acquaintances. She whispered something curtly into his ear and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and when Draco approached his father to make their apologies a few moments later, Lucius was less satisfied than he would ever dare admit that he had not taken that particular match very convincingly.
A polite rap on the door broke his reverie, and before he could respond, the latch clicked softly and the door opened.