Author's Note: Someone had asked me, wouldn't people be trying to figure out who the author of Faim is? And wouldn't there be enough to possibly point a finger at Lucius, no matter how careful he is? This is an issue I neglected for the first 10 chapters in favor of developing the relationship between Lucius and Hermione, but the answer is absolutely – and the impact of that (among other things) starts here.

Some responses:

xoxomrshmalfoyxoxo: Thank you! I aim to please, here's a new chapter for you.

Lucas'Mom: Yes, I was actually listening to storms roll through as I wrote it - nothing like atmosphere to jump-start the muse. I know Hermione's reaction was frustrating, but she is definitely the type who would have a bit of a freakout, simply because she can't turn her brain off.

Faerlyte: Sorry for keeping you awake, I hope it was worth it! Yes, I love me some Lumione and I really appreciate your positive comments.

Earwen: Ha, I am triumphant! Hehe. Thanks as always.

Azrulai: Thank you. Characters like Lucius are a blank canvas and while many choose to portray him as an utter git, I like to figure out why a person would behave the way he does. It leads me into some interesting territory, as this story is proving. I hope I continue to live up to your expectations. :)

snobunni: Thanks!

Lady Verity: Yes, I know I can get quite emotional when I'm writing, but I have to have a stopping point or I risk depressing MYSELF! Hehe. This chapter will have some more angst, as will the next one, but after that things will start heading up. But keep in mind this is a pairing beset by many obstacles, so everything won't be peaches and roses right away. Thanks for reading and I hope I can wick a few more reviews out of you. ;)

Alchemelia: Thank you!

Pookiepantsmcpoo: Excellent penname. Thanks for your compliments.

Fahzzyquill: Thank you. Everything really just fell together for their kiss; I hope I can continue to do that.

Duco Lacuna: I'm glad - you build up to things and you can only hope that people enjoy the payoff!

SlytherinDragoon: Yes, me too; flat characters are so boring. Lucius is much more enjoyable when you give him some depth.

LoneCayt: I'm honestly not sure how many I've lost, but I'm ok with it. I know it's a squicky topic. What I'm happy about is that people recognize the quality of the writing, regardless of the subject matter. Thanks for your support!

TheCresentMoonWritier: 'phenomenal', for future reference! hehe. Thank you!

Academic Dragon: Yeah, I've never been the type to throw my characters into a relationship too quickly. Thanks for reviewing!

Velvet Storm: Yes, Healer Smythe is very sharp...he's an unwavering ally, though, so don't worry. The thunderstorm was just too right for them, I'm glad others agreed! Hopefully you can find a handsome substitute to kiss during one of those Florida storms... ;)

uckpa: Thanks for sticking around. It means a lot to me. Someone already guessed who Narcissa snogged and more than snogged; it's Snape! gasp

On with the show...

She had looked everywhere for him. Or at least she thought she had; it was a gargantuan house and he knew it better than her, so it was possible that he had sought a hidden place in the wake of whatever strange chemistry had exploded on them. It didn't seem like something he would do, but she could no longer pretend that he was predictable.

He hadn't left. His stack of parchment, quill, and ink were on the desk, neatly stacked and weighted down as always. His pills were still there, too. One bottle had fallen over, blown by the wind that had picked up in the aftermath of the storm. With a sigh, Hermione closed the window.

It occurred to her that now might be a perfect time to do the snooping she had wanted to do earlier in the week. He was either out or in full retreat, so there was little chance of him walking in on her while she did it. She just wanted a look at all his medications, was all…and perhaps those ever-tempting pages. He hadn't yet used her name. What gumption he had, kissing her before he would consent to speaking her name…

That made her decision. With one last guilty glance around (she really was terrible at this), she sat in his chair. She had never been much of an investigator. People tended to spy on one another; she had seen the other girls in her dormitory do it and had no doubt that they had gone through her things at least once. Thankfully, her possessions were generally uninteresting to anyone who didn't enjoy books. Though she had sometimes wondered what secrets her roommates' trunks held, she had never given in to temptation. Not even when Lavender Brown was 'dating' Ron – and the temptation had been extreme at the time.

So she was wholly unaccustomed to this. Her hands trembled as she pulled the pill bottles toward her. Goodness, she was going to have to look up some of the drug names, as she had never heard of them before. However, none of them were anything she had suspected. No sedatives or sleep aids that she recognized, no anti-anxiety drugs, no anti-psychotics – nothing. It was entirely possible that there were other medications elsewhere but that was a line she wouldn't cross. Merlin only knew what she would find if she went through his actual belongings.

She placed the bottles back on the corner of the desk. They were out of order and she didn't remember how they had been arranged before she moved them. There were people in the world who wouldn't notice such a thing, but Lucius would. He would know that she had gone through them or at least moved them. She was absolutely miserable at spying on people like this. He would either be angry at her or amused by her incompetence in an area that she had never wanted to be competent in.

Ah, but she could tell him the wind had scattered the bottles and she had just put them back on the desk. That was a plausible excuse. Problem solved. Hermione blew a breath out between her lips. The stack of parchment was steadily growing; this book would be longer than Faim, that was for sure. She hoped that whatever she was about to read would not be completely horrific, but if it was, it was her own fault for not being able to control her curiosity.

She lifted the paperweight and set it aside. She felt more guilty doing this than looking at his medication. He had made it clear that he didn't want her to read it before he was done. Even if it had been written in the form of gentle chastisement, he had explicitly indicated what he wanted. There had to be a reason for it and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out what it was.

She picked up the top page and turned it over. It was three quarters full of his elegant scrawl and there was a splotch after the last word, as if he had rested the quill there while lost in thought. Little things like that made him endearing; it made her feel like she could get inside his head, if only for the fifteen seconds he hesitated before starting a new sentence.

She raised her eyes to the top of the page.

…and I wanted to strangle her, to wrap my hands about her neck and squeeze until only crushed bone and sinew remained. Instead I took my son by the hand and walked away from her. My anger didn't abate for long, long minutes; even after I had passed off the child to my wife and tried to isolate myself in the parlor, it goaded itself into a greater furor. When my father stepped in to cast a disapproving look meant to propel me back into social company, I think he saw it. His eyes went dark and did not lose track of me for many minutes afterwards. Even after I excused myself to the loo, it felt as though he was just behind me, watching me.

I felt no such violence toward him. He had made life difficult for me. He had been cruel, distant, cold, and unforgiving. But he was predictable and he had never once betrayed me. It is rather sad, though, when that is all the good a man can find in his sire.

I returned to them eventually but I was careful to keep my mind trained elsewhere. Once the anger had passed a cold, hard determination settled in its place. I would get through this and then there would be no more. I had tried my best to allow my son to know his grandparents, because I was glad to have known mine. It was not my fault – nor his – that he was better off not knowing them.

Hermione frowned and turned back a page. She was desperately curious to know what events had precipitated him cutting ties with his parents. She scanned the page. Ah. There…

I heard her shrill voice, chastising my son for something. It raised a black defensive anger in me; the gall of her, to think that she had any place disciplining my child. She would never win any awards for her mothering. When I was younger I would accept her guilty love, but having a child of my own had done something to me. I could barely stand to be in the same room as her and her hypocrisy.

I went to them, summoning my control. It was possible that the boy had done something that warranted censure. I could see upon arrival that he had; one of the family portraits was singed almost beyond recognition, victim to a game of exploding snap played on the decorative table beneath it. I had done the same in my youth and received the hiding of my life because it was the portrait of my father's favorite aunt.

"The house elf did it, Father!" my son pleaded, and convincingly at that. Let it not be said that he isn't clever; he knew of my intense dislike for house elves. I might have believed him if I didn't recognize the burn pattern on the painting. Remembrance of the way it looked had been forever branded into my mind by a beating that held the top spot for most painful experience of my life – until the first time I was hit with the Cruciatus.

My mother put her hands on her hips. "He likes to tell stories, just like his daddy."

I don't know if she spoke before she thought or if she actually meant to take me back to the day that had fractured my trust. In any case, I nearly blacked out with anger. It came so swiftly that it blinded me. She didn't try to backpedal or make apologies for her statement. Indeed, she didn't even seem to realize the verbal sin she had committed. That she could have forgotten the day I had faced every fear I had to tell her what had been done to me, or that she still believed it was something I made up for attention – that made me murderous. My blood thundered in my ears…"

That was where the page ended and where the next one picked up. She could feel his anger radiating off the page. It was one hundred percent justified. Really, she wanted to choke the life out of his mother, too. She was not so sure that she would have let her child anywhere near her parents if they were anything like his.

She reached for another page, but something stopped her. He obviously had his reasons for asking her not to read until he was finished, just like she had her reasons for wanting to be called by her given name. Biting her lip, Hermione replaced the pages and put the paperweight on top of them.

She sat back, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. Then she twirled around in the chair – it was the kind that spun. She had never realized how comfortable it was, probably because she had been hesitant to sit in it. She had also never realized how accustomed she had become to Lucius's presence. Now, without it, the house felt bereft.

Hermione sat for a while longer, lost in thought. Then she realized it was getting late and it would probably be best if she didn't drop off to sleep in his chair. She had no idea what his mood would be like when he returned; regardless, she would rather not be in the way of it.

She was just about to stand up when there was a noise at the window. It startled her until she realized it was just an owl pecking at the glass. Who was sending mail this late? Leaning over the desk, she opened the window to admit the owl. The bird was wet and miserable; it held out its plastic-wrapped parcel and fluffed its feathers grumpily.

Hermione took the parcel and cast a drying charm on the owl. It blinked at her, confused by its sudden dryness. With a chuckle, she went in search of something to reward the bird with and found the remnants of Lucius's dinner. Evidently Jo-Jo was still too fearful of interrupting a non-existent liaison to have cleaned up. No matter. Hermione set the plate in front of the owl and it dug in gratefully. She spared a moment to wonder about owl nutrition; if people were constantly giving the birds whatever they had lying around, it couldn't be good for them, could it? Ah well, she wasn't a veterinarian or an animal healer and she couldn't recall any prohibition against it.

The owl must have flown a long way. As she unwrapped the mail that was mummified in layers of plastic wrap the bird settled into a brief sleep on the windowsill. She didn't mind its company so she let it be. When she finally extracted the booklet from the plastic, she saw that it was for Lucius. A note was stuck to the front.

Lucius,

You might find the article on page 36 interesting.

P. Netherwood

The signature was one of those stamps that said that whoever P. Netherwood was, he signed an awful lot of papers. In spite of herself she did not put the magazine down. It was called The Critiquill. The subtitle read 'For discerning readers of wizard literature.' Her eyes widened. Why had she, the queen of books, never heard of this magazine?

She opened it, aware of how easily she was fitting into her own stereotype at the moment. She didn't care. There were reviews and analyses of books she hadn't heard of before, eighty percent of which sounded riveting. The remaining twenty percent seemed like the kind of esoteric literature that perhaps five people would appreciate. She read straight through until page 36, noting at least three books that she was going to buy as soon as she got the chance. When she turned the glossy page Netherwood had mentioned, her mouth fell open.

An Open Letter to the Author of Faim

By Aloysius Pound

We here at The Critiquill have fastidiously resisted the pull of your book. We confess ourselves guilty of literary snobbery; we believed that no book so popular with the masses could be of any value to true scholars. However, in the six months the book has been out, it has garnered acclaim from critics all over the world, many of whom we consider to be excellent judges of quality. Therefore, two of our reviewers, C.P. Bartholomew and Regina Roundtree, have at last tackled the tour de force that is Faim. They had this to say:

CPB: 5/5 stars

Faim is a chillingly entertaining read. It overflows with the ebbing sanity of the protagonist, who may indeed be the antagonist as well. His prose is incisive, blunt, but also contains an introspective beauty that lets the reader know that this author is nothing short of a wordsmith. This book does what few in the history of storytelling have done; it weaves a tapestry of people, places, and events that are singularly disturbing in a way that neither beatifies nor condemns the protagonist for his role in it. I have never before read a story in which the main character was so abhorrent yet so justified. He has drawn a solid line between hating a person and hating what a person does. In these post-war times it lends a little more understanding to the fact that those who wronged us are people, too – which is just as uncomfortably humanizing as the rest of the book's raw grasp for control in a world where it is in short supply. If you haven't read it, get to your nearest book shop or library and do so. This is one bandwagon I am happy to jump on.

RR: 4.5/5 stars

I found myself unable to put this book down. In spite of its infuriating ambiguity (which is the cause of my slight rating detraction), one can conceptualize the characters, the setting, and most importantly the mood. Emotions are sometimes hard to convey in words but this author is quite gifted at finding ways to express the unexpressible. The story sizzles with anger, sexuality, and uneasy triumph. It simultaneously revels and rages in the human capacity for schadenfreude. Faim puts the reader in a curious state of mind, one in which everything seems to be cast in a different light. Because of this, the power of this author's story is so visceral. He almost forces you to think on topics most of us would rather leave alone, for if you want to know the rest of his story you must face the uncomfortable truths and lies. Overall, this is not just the story of a man damned almost from birth; it is also an insightful commentary on the state of the wizarding world and its many conflicts. It may be difficult for some to get through but it is definitely worth the effort.

Our reviewers have spoken; Faim is worth the purchase. I, however, find myself more curious about things other than the story. Namely, I wonder about you, author, the anonymous person who crafted this 'memoir'.

Who are you? Is this your story, or some fiction packaged as a memoir to gain attention? If it is, congratulations, sir, you have successfully created a new marketing scheme. Conversely, if Faim is really your story, I hope you have found peace in writing it.

I must warn you, though, that in winning us over you are now subject to our staff and readers' inquiring minds. We are curious and we will strive to unravel your mystery. Have you covered your tracks well, dear writer? Were you as careful as you should have been in disguising your identity? We are as interested in you as we are in your tales, perhaps more, so be advised that we will do our damnedest to unmask you. You had to know that in writing something so sensational, you would bring this attention upon yourself. We make no apologies, author, because we have the feeling that you make none for the tease of your genius.

Yours,

Aloysius C. Pound & The Critiquill Staff

Hermione put the magazine down. That had been high praise for a magazine she could already tell wasn't generally prone to giving much. However, it was a double-edged sword. She didn't doubt for a minute that the academia was buzzing over just who the author of Faim was. She knew Lucius was meticulous. The only people who knew the secret of his identity were her and his publisher. Of course, measures had been taken to prevent both of them from talking, but nobody was perfect…

What would happen if Lucius was found out? Faim alone was enough to put him back in prison; she was sure Soif would only add to the list of his sins. But was there a way, short of his own confession, to pin the activities in the books on him? He knew what he was doing when he wrote it. He had crafted a cage of truths that he could never be locked in. She expected nothing less of him, really.

He wouldn't be discovered. She wouldn't tell even after the Vow was lifted from her. The publisher wouldn't, because then his fortune would be lost. If someone else managed to put the pieces together, Lucius could deny it or dance around it. She was fairly certain that the Ministry would not issue an order for Veritaserum based on the possibility that he might have written a book about things he might have done decades ago…

And she couldn't forget the terminus that loomed in his future. If she knew him, and she was beginning to think that she might, at least a little, he would reveal himself posthumously. A part of him yearned for full disclosure. Another part of him wanted to spite the system that had screwed and glorified him. He would enjoy the knowledge that he had made people like what he had to offer and then taunted them with his glaring absence for the consequences. He was exceptionally good at avoiding consequences – most of the time.

Feeling very exhausted all of a sudden, she closed the magazine and left it on the desk. He would see it when he came back. The owl was still dozing on the window ledge. It wouldn't do any harm to let it stay the night; she could hear another storm kicking up outside and the poor thing had already had one harrowing flight. Hermione blew out the candles and went to bed.

He still wasn't back when morning came. It worried her. He had missed a dose of his medication. Would that be problematic? What if he had really gone? Abandoned the book and her and everything? He wouldn't do that, would he? There hadn't even been words exchanged. It wasn't a fight.

Hermione chewed her lip as she sat in the bath. Normally she was good at putting herself into the mindset of another, but in this case she couldn't begin to fathom what Lucius was thinking.

"Oh, relax," she said out loud. It had only been one night. In all likelihood, he would be back before the day was out. Everything would be awkward but fine.

He was not back by nightfall. She had caved to curiosity and checked his room; all his things were still there. Now she had passed from simple worry to full blown concern. He had not gone and done anything stupid, had he? Surely he would not be so upset by one misstep that he would…

She apparated back to London. It was pointless since she couldn't really go around asking after him; people would think she was crazy. There was nothing in the newspapers, though. No news was good news, right?

She slept terribly that night. She had instructed Jo-Jo to wake her the moment Lucius reappeared. Hour after hour, the elf was absent. Hermione knew the little thing was just as worried as she was. She had even gone to Malfoy Manor and asked the other elves if the master had been about; they said no. Lucius was well and truly missing in action.

She had tried to touch his mind and beseech him to come back. The connection was still there but all she got was a stony silence on his end. She pressed against it, hurled thoughts to it, begged it, but it never wavered. Conversely, no matter how open she left her mind, he never once tried to grasp for it.

She was lucky if she got two hours of sleep. When she woke she knew she had to do something with herself or she would go mad. She left a note for him on the desk to please, please let her know, somehow, that he was all right, on the odd chance that he might return while she was out. Then, with a queasy resolve, she walked out the door.

The beauty of the day mocked her. Inside she was a mess of worries; she imagined that if her consciousness could be assigned an image, it would look something like a house torn apart by a tornado. There would be bits of wood and brick and siding everywhere, a car flipped over, and the refrigerator six miles away in a bog.

She tried to concentrate on the sun as it beamed down at her. Its rays said that everything would be all right. It was too nice a day for upsetting events. There was a reason for his absence. There was a reason for everything. The trouble was, with him the reason was sometimes worse than the reality.

Distracted, she ran her hands along the sturdy sunflower stalks as she passed the field. They were a bit prickly; the sensation gave her something to focus on. Then there was wheat. She skimmed her hand around the silky stems, wondering what they would eventually be turned into. Flour? Pasta? Bread?

Too quickly she was walking into the small town. It was early but the piazza was booming; it seemed a bit overwhelming yet she forced herself to walk among the scurrying natives. Perhaps she would pick some vegetables and meats from the stalls and have Jo-Jo cook something…

The day wore on and she was amazed that she was shopping, buying trinkets and trying on pretty sundresses, when internally she felt close to panic. She had never been so worried for anyone in her life. Since the moment all this had begun, she was acutely aware of how easy it might be to tip his balance. She hoped to high heaven that she had not done it with her silly reaction to kissing him.

It had just been too much to process at once. Her mind couldn't reconcile how good it felt to kiss him and how cardinally wrong it was at the same time. Now that she had time to think, she could see that it wasn't wrong. He was a man, she was a woman. He had changed for the better and expressed a genuine, non-threatening attraction, which her body had responded to in kind. It was just her stupid brain that couldn't cope with the suddenness of it.

She loved her intellect, really she did, but sometimes it got in the way. She wanted to analyze everything. She wanted to assign logic and meaning to things that didn't necessarily involve either. Like kissing Lucius Malfoy. And worst of all, her mind always wanted to overrule her body, knowing that it was only a web of flesh and bone and sensory receptors. But just because it was didn't mean that it was wrong.

Yes, liking, affection, and love were cognitive things. They were abstract mental concepts. But they were invariably intertwined with the body; that was why one's heartbeat quickened, one's stomach filled with butterflies, and one's skin tingled in proximity to the person they loved. Not that she loved him. But damn, did her body react to him…and she couldn't discount the fact that perhaps it knew better than her brain on this. Her brain was what remembered; her body could forget.

She tried on another dress. It was a little old-fashioned looking, cut like a dress that a woman would have worn in the 50s, but the pattern, colors, and details were modern. It was something she wouldn't have worn in England. She was not in England. The shopkeeper, a thirtysomething woman who looked like a transplant from a couture shop in Rome or Milan, anointed her in just the right accessories. Forty minutes later she walked out of the shop looking like a different person.

This worry for him was making her a different person. In fact, she was spending his money like it was going out of style, as if that could somehow bring him back. She was aware of it as she watched people go by beyond the veil of her sunglasses. More than a few gave her curious looks; dressed like this, she was mysterious, someone they wanted to know more about. Especially the men.

She trailed her hand in the clear water of the fountain she was leaning against. In the heat of the midday sun, Hermione wondered who she was hiding from. Very likely it was herself. It was the woman who desperately wanted Lucius Malfoy to come back, to stay in her life…and to kiss her again. More than kiss her…

She moved on. There were more shops and more things she didn't need. She tried to blow the remainder of the 700 Euros leftover from his ridiculous bestowal. But she found that as soon as she handed the last bill over, for another dress she'd be too self-conscious to wear once she returned home, more money materialized in her bag. And no matter what she did, it would not diminish. That son of a bitch had spelled her purse.

Hermione sat at a table at an outdoor café and drank sparkling water. It wouldn't do to get heatstroke again, because now there was no one around to take care of her. As the afternoon wore on, she returned to the food stalls and purchased an assortment of everything. The resourceful little house elf would be able to make something out of it…

So she trudged back up to the villa laden down with bags, not entirely sure where the day had gone or if she felt any better. Defense mechanisms were wonderful things, but in the long run they tended to make the situation worse…so lost was she in her ruminations that she missed the fact that the windows were open. She had left them closed.

When she walked in, though, it was impossible to miss the glaring fact that he was back. The bags fell from her hands, probably bruising the produce she had so carefully selected. She opened her mouth to speak and the words promptly died when she realized what he was about to do.

The stack of parchment that was Soif was in his hand. And that hand was quickly moving toward the fireplace, which glared and crackled with new flame. She saw it like it was slow motion. He was going to burn his manuscript.

"NO!" she shouted. It startled him enough that he paused. Slowly, he turned.

"Why are you still here?" His voice was hedged in ice.

"Don't do it, Lucius," she said softly, barely even comprehending his question. She worried for the manuscript like it was a hostage, a real live person that he could kill.

"I asked you a question!" he said sharply. "Why are you still here?"

"You never told me to leave!" she shot back. "And I'm not going to."

"Yes, you are." Confirming her fears, he turned and made the motion of throwing the papers into the fire. However, her summoning charm was quicker. The stack of parchment narrowly avoided the flames and flew across the room into her outstretched hand. When he turned, his face was livid.

"Get out."

"No." She tucked the papers into one of her bags and put the straps around her arm; he could not summon it unless he wanted to summon all of her. And if that happened, she would fight him tooth, nail, and spell, and she was certain that he had seriously underestimated her ability in an altercation when provoked.

"Get out!" It was a shout this time, vicious and enraged. It stirred a slight peal of fear in her. He hadn't raised his voice to her before.

She stood her ground. "I won't. Not when you're like this."

"Like what?" he demanded, prowling in front of the fireplace. "Tell me what I am like!"

"Something's bothering you," she replied, trying to remain calm and placid in the hopes that it would bring him down from whatever anxiety was rattling him. "Just…just tell me what it is, and we'll talk about it, and you'll feel better."

He laughed, a harsh, choked sound. "What world do you live in? Because I should like to visit sometime. No…no, there is nothing to talk about, now give me those fucking papers."

She swallowed, fighting the urge to take a step back. He was frightening her. She could feel the air in the room shivering, wavering against the power of his anger. And something else, too, something she couldn't quite identify. He was walking the knife's edge, just barely containing himself. He was right to tell her to leave but she simply could not live with herself if he did anything stupid in her absence.

"All right," she said diplomatically, "maybe talking about it won't fix it, but neither will running away."

"Other people run away," he spat. "Why can't I?"

She could not believe she was about to say this. "You're not like other people."

Silence hung between them, punctuated by the crackle and pop of the wood in the fireplace.

He shook his head. Some of the anger had leached out of him, but none of the intensity. "No. I am tired of the charade, tired to death. I am sick of pretending that things matter. None of it matters."

Hermione held the bag full of papers against her chest, her fingers twitching. What in the name of Merlin had happened? "It matters, Lucius. Millions of people have read your book--"

She couldn't have known it, but that was the wrong thing to say. His face contorted as his anger returned full force. It was so strong that she actually felt a current of electricity searing along her skin.

"SHE read the book!" he thundered, interrupting her mid-sentence. "It was on her bleeding shelf!"

His long legs were carrying him toward her and her mind panicked. The bag of parchment fell to the floor as she struggled for her wand. Now she did back away, nearly stumbling on the heels she had purchased not three hours before. There was no point in getting hurt for a stack of parchment – but damned if she was going to let him destroy all the effort and artistry and the stupid thing that had dragged her into this situation in the first place!

She vanished the bag with a flick of her wrist, just as his fingers were about to close around it. He was very still. When at last he looked up at her, his eyes were unlike anything she had ever seen. She didn't think it was possible to layer so many emotions into one deadly glare. There was pain, fountains of it, and rage that made his pupils dilate into wide black pools. There was also hate; real, unadulterated, crackling hate. Anything she thought she had seen in his eyes on previous encounters now seemed like nothing more than casual disgust.

Hermione took another step back, her wand trained on him with a trembling hand. This was a dangerous game. If he wanted to destroy the book and never write another word, what did it matter to her? It was not her business if and when he quietly (or not so quietly) self-destructed. She should not care for the therapeutic value of telling his story, for he was the one who had made it so traumatizing in the first place. Aside from one encounter, he had made his own choices. He had done this to himself.

And yet, she couldn't suddenly stop caring. She didn't know when she'd started. It was outside her abilities as a compassionate person to walk away. In spite of the way he was looking at her, she believed in his word. She believed he wouldn't hurt her.

He rose to his feet with a slow grace that belied his ragged emotions. Then, in the space of a blink, he apparated away with a quiet pop. She stood frozen in his absence.

Oh, God. She had been right. He wouldn't hurt her…but he had never made any promises about not hurting himself.

A/N 2: It's important to note that Lucius is not just being an irrational brat here – there is a genuine reason for his behavior, which you'll discover in the next chapter (though I have hinted at it in this one). Can you guess why Lucius is rattled?