Okay, so let's all pretend we have no idea why there's usually an update for this story shortly after I've written something for my Hermione/Eric Northman fic. We'll just blame Alexander Skarsgard. 😉
Chapter Three
"Get out."
The brunette stirred, lifting her head to look up at him. Blinking sleepily a few times, the woman looked around the room, trying to get her bearings. "What?"
Lucius frowned, shaking his head. He'd hoped that when he emerged from his bathroom, freshly showered in naught but his coziest dressing gown and ready to fall into a undoubtedly fitful slumber, she'd have left. Or he'd have been calmed enough from his own anger at how little this had done to appease his current, awful, infatuation, that he'd at least let her sleep and ask her to go in the morning.
But then, of course, she'd screamed her fool head off near the entire time. Either she'd had a much better time than he, or she was a very skilled actress.
Rumbling out an irritated sigh, he stepped into the room, rubbing a hand towel over his damp hair. "You heard me. Let's not pretend you didn't know what this was when I picked you up in that pub. Now we're done, be on your way."
"You're a shit, you know that?" she—oh, of course, he'd not even gotten her name—spat the words, but didn't bother trying to reach for her clothes. "Can't at least let me get some bloody sleep first?"
His frown deepened as he stopped before her. Bending at the waist to put his face close to hers, he said in a hissing whisper, "You were only here to slake a desire for me, a task at which you failed. Get out."
She uttered a sound of disgust as she got up from the bed and started pulling on her knickers. "Really? I failed? Seems to me you came pretty hard, but then what do I know, I'm just the slag you were shagging, right?"
Lucius simply shrugged, refusing to seem bothered by her words. He was a little, though—there was a kernel of truth in her assertion. But he knew perfectly well the cause of that. "Only because you remind me of someone else."
Whether it was the coldness of his tone, or the very clear insult of being told he'd enjoyed her only because he'd been thinking about another woman the entire time, she fell quiet. Gritting her teeth as color flooded her face, she continued dressing in silence.
He preceded her out of the room and down the staircase. Taking the liberty of going so far as to open the front door for her, he made a show of perfect composure as he waited for her to exit the house.
But . . . he wasn't completely cold-hearted, though he knew near everyone who'd ever met him was under impressions otherwise. He did also wait to see that she successfully hailed a taxi before he slammed shut the door.
Exhaling sharply, he met the domineering gaze of his father in the portrait that hung in the foyer. Grey eyes narrowing, he sneered at the face that, in Abraxas' younger years, had been so like his own—the face that was so like his son Draco had grown into bearing, too. Damn Malfoy family resemblance.
"Oh, shut up," he groused at the painting, turning on his heel and heading back up to his bedroom.
This was madness! An entire week had passed since Miss Granger's little flub . . . well, a week and one day, as it was now sometime around the wee hours of Saturday morning. An entire week, and still he found himself plagued by sordid imaginings of her. That was why he'd just had that dreadful woman here! He'd never been the sort of man to have one-offs, but he thought perhaps the root of his problem wasn't Hermione Granger and some taboo temptation she presented, at all, but rather simply that he'd gone far too long without the intimate company of the fairer sex.
He hadn't set out to 'see to that,' no. He'd simply stepped into that pub for a drink or two . . . or five, and there she was. Yes, she had a similar hair color to that damnable girl, but that was where the similarities ended, the two looked nothing alike—and he actually thought he preferred it that way. That hadn't stopped his mind from throwing pictures of Miss Granger at him every time he shut his eyes.
Groaning miserably, Lucius all but flung himself backward onto his bed. As she'd unzipped his trousers and slid her hand in to stroke him? Her face watching his expression. When he'd thrown her down and buried his face between her thighs? Her hands grabbing his to guide them up to her breasts. Her eyes looking at him over her shoulder as he gripped her hips and slammed himself into her.
Hers, hers, hers . . . . Madness!
Uttering a sound like a growl, he threw his arm over his eyes and tried to will his body and his loathsome, treacherous mind to sleep. Honestly. If he didn't know any better, or if this were simply a different time, he'd dare to think something truly mad . . . like that he'd been bewitched.
It only made this shameful situation all the more stinging that it seemed she didn't share this affliction. He still felt certain that if he saw some sign that she was so affected, his mind would let this horrible fascination leave him. But no, no! She'd always emitted a certain dose of fear and respect toward him, the kind he tended to expect from most he crossed paths with, anyway, and that hadn't seem to change one iota.
Every now and again this past week, he'd even been certain at times he was being followed or watched. For some bizarre, unnamable reason, he thought sure that when he turned to find the culprit, she'd be the one staring back at him. Yet, each time there was no one. His imagination was really running away with him these days.
God, he felt cursed.
Hermione bit into her lower lip, holding in a sound of anger at herself as she hung up her mobile, mid-dial, for the umpteenth time that night. No, no, no! She was not going to stoop that low. She absolutely was not going to call up one of her exes for a one-off!
Thinking simply hanging up was not enough, she turned it off completely and shut up the device in her desk drawer. No. Not Viktor—though if anyone was capable of taking her mind off, well, everything for several hours, pro athlete Viktor Krum was certainly the one at the top of the list—or Ron, or Cormac. She was not that desperate! Stomping across her dorm room, she threw herself down on her bed and muffled a frustrated scream against her pillow.
She was trying to go at this from a purely psychological standpoint. She'd not had sex in a good few months . . . perhaps that was why she was suddenly so taken with this stupid notice of all things Lucius Malfoy. His gait as he strode across the dais, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he seemed to sport a bit of a five o'clock shadow every Wednesday—the notice had caused her to think back and realize this was a weekly occurrence—lending to a completely unnecessary realization that his routine was likely to shave Sundays and Thursdays.
Perhaps that was why she was climbing the bloody walls feeling like she needed someone. She was deprived, for lack of a better word, and the man was—much to her chagrin—rather pleasant to look at. And, of course, she'd tried to handle the matter herself, but that only seemed to make her, ahem, troubles worse.
And him?
He only seemed to have gotten . . . surlier as the days had passed since that horribly bungled conversation. As though he could sense her warped and twisted little crush on him and it made him all the more determined to prove to her how much he disliked her. It wasn't even that big of a slip! Honestly! Why had it even registered on either of them?
Why was it still bothering her? She even thought she had a handle on things for a while, there. Oh, truth be told, nearly every damn day she'd thought she finally had a handle on this, but then she'd walk into his lecture hall and see him standing up there. She'd hear his voice as he started the lesson and the timbre of it would send a little shiver across the back of her neck and along her shoulders.
The last few nights were the most troublesome of all.
She'd awoken with a start, sure she'd felt someone standing near her bed. Yet, each time she turned on the lamp, or snatched up her mobile to shine the light from the screen around, she found herself completely alone. Like any sensible person, she'd check the door and windows to find them all securely locked. She wanted to write off the incidents as strictly the work of her obviously buggered imagination . . . but that didn't explain why she thought for certain she'd find him there. Him standing beside her bed, watching her sleep—like some creeper, as her American cousins would say.
She already felt like she was losing her mind just a bit, but now this? Although she also tried to tell herself that could also be explained away—he occupied her thoughts recently, so perhaps it was only natural her imagination should put his face to the bizarre phenomenon. There was something frightening in those moments when she awoke so suddenly, and she did still have a fear of Lucius Malfoy.
The notion of confronting that fear head-on by sticking through his course wasn't working. She'd hoped it would, but she thought rather it was making things harder to deal with.
Nodding against her pillow, she turned onto her side and told herself to simply go the bloody hell to sleep. She would stick it out one more week, and if still she couldn't get these fool notions of, well, him, out of her head, she would transfer to another, comparable, course.
Even if it meant swallowing her pride and letting the arrogant bastard think his class was simply too much for her.
The following Friday, Lucius Malfoy retired to his office after his final lecture of the day. Striding to his desk, he didn't bother rounding it to take a seat, instead taking out his workload where he stood, his back to the door.
He lifted one paper from the pile and frowned, his gaze roving over the words. "Mr. Longbottom, I swear it's as though you're trying to fail my course." Shaking his head, he set down the stack and braced his palms against the edge of the desk.
He wasn't certain, but he thought Miss Granger perhaps seemed a bit . . . antsy today. The entire class she fidgeted and looked about, as though trying to keep her attention on anything other than him. She'd not raised her hand to answer a single question he'd put to the class this afternoon.
He'd even called on her deliberately when no one had volunteered a response to one of them, and she'd actually told him to call on someone else, because she did not have an answer for him. Her! No answer. There was that intimidated little catch in her voice as she'd spoken which had appeased him a little, but this alteration in her demeanor was not something he'd expected.
He wasn't certain what to make of it, at all—if it added to his issues being around her, or lessened them.
Sighing, he raked his fingers through his hair. Maybe it was some looming mid-life crisis. Men in their forties went through these things, he knew that perfectly well. Perhaps he should accept this little quirk he'd developed where Miss Granger was involved with grace and then it would go away on its own.
He returned his attention to the papers on his desk just as a knock sounded at his office door.
"Yes?"
The door creaked open, but what he heard next was the last thing he expected—her voice breaking the silence of the room. "Professor Malfoy, I'm sorry, but could I . . . ? I need to bother you a moment."
Lucius felt his face pull into a scowling glare. Just as fast, however, he schooled his features. What could she possibly want? Though, he did find her acknowledgement that she was bothering him a touch amusing.
"Miss Granger?" He turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. She wore a barely-veiled expression as she peeked at him through the crack in the door that told him she was in dread of setting foot into his office. That was amusing, as well. Though he had a feeling he'd regret his next words, he said them, anyway. "Well? Come inside, then."
Swallowing hard, she nodded. Following his markedly impatient instruction, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her—the last thing she wanted was any passersby trickling through the corridor on their way to whatever better things they had to do as evening rolled around to hear him mocking her for not being able to handle his coursework.
He pivoted to face her. Tipping his head to one side ever so slightly, he leaned his hips back against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. Oh, he did relish the way she stopped short. "Why are you bothering me this fine afternoon, Miss Granger?"
Hermione had to give herself a shake. Was he trying to be intimidating? Bloody hell, why was she even wondering? Of course he was! However, that didn't answer the question of why him looking at her like this sent a delicious little shiver curling through her. Forcing herself to focus, she pulled a slip of paper from her bag.
Holding it out to him, she explained, "I would like to drop your course in—in favor of Professor Snape's History of Alchemy class. The admissions office said I need you to sign this form or they can't allow me to change classes. And any-anyway, I'm sure you'd be happy to have me out of your hair, so if . . . if you would . . . ?"
Lucius squared his jaw. Taking the slip from her hand, he looked it over. This was certainly something he didn't expect. She was simply full of surprises today. Yet, there was something in her demeanor just now. Some . . . lack of surety. Some hint in those brown eyes that he was positive he recognized.
And it was nothing to do with fear.
"I'd be more than happy to sign this for you, Miss Granger." He did well stifling a chuckle over how shocked she appeared at the notion that he'd be happy to do something for her, and reached back, blindly grabbing a pen from atop his desk. "On one condition."
Her brows shot up as she waited for him to name whatever it was.
Meeting her gaze, he said, "Tell me why."
"What?" Hermione forced a gulp down her throat. She'd not expected him to ask, or even to wonder why, but to simply be happy that he'd be rid of her.
Straightening to his full height, he took half a step toward her. "Tell me why you're dropping my class and I'll sign this."
The young woman's lower lip shivered as she stared up at him, those chestnut eyes impossibly wide. "Well . . . well, I just . . . ." She cleared her throat, making a sound that was an odd mix of determination and awkwardness. "I simply find your lessons are . . . too much for me to keep up with along with my other studies and I think Professor Snape's teaching style might be better suited to my methods of research and study."
This time he couldn't help but smirk. The way her brows crept upward a little in question at his mirthful expression was priceless. "Miss Granger? I know Severus Snape personally and I've witnessed his 'teaching style,' as you put it, and I dare say he's possibly the only professor on these grounds even more stringent than myself. And as for my lessons, you and I both know you're probably the only one of my students capable of scoring perfect marks in my class."
Hermione didn't know what had her more surprised just now—that he'd just praised her academic abilities, or that she recognized the gleam in his grey eyes as he took another step closer. That look . . . oh, she'd seen that look before, she'd simply never expected it from him.
Like he wanted to devour her whole. Good God. Had she been misreading his recent simmering temperament this entire time?
Her face flushed and the delicate skin of her lips tingled as she watched him. Oh, if her body could stop betraying her and let her get her breathing under control for just a bloody second!
Once more, he tipped his head ever so slightly as he held her gaze, lifting the slip of paper in his hand. "Now, tell me the real reason you don't want to be around me."
