Here we are, all you lovely patient people. Lots happening here. Thanks once again for all your support and lovely words - I can't tell you how much it means to me. LL x

Thank you to the outstanding apk and the glorious darklotus for all your advice and help. x

It was with an odd sense of displacement that Hermione returned home later that day.

She was not in denial about Lucius' intentions at the World Cup - she would take the information and tell Shacklebolt - but she was fully aware that her need for him was undiminished. In the moments of being utterly alone, which are so rare for a mother of young children, a ripple would pass through her, transient and elusive. If it was anything akin to guilt or shame it was soon pushed back by the memories of the man holding her, entering her and telling her of his love. And when she picked up her children from school and nursery, the enforced business of domestic routine squeezed all emotion from her mind.

She knew she was not questioning herself. She knew she should. She told herself that telling Shacklebolt to cancel the World Cup and thereby preventing any deaths was enough. The wizarding world would be safe and she and Lucius could carry on. Win-win.

But her involvement with her family seemed distanced, muffled, as if she was interacting with them through a gauze. When Rose looked up at her with bright eyes and declared she was Star of the Week at school, the disclosure seemed to pass thickly through a fog before it reached her mother. Hermione smiled and continued washing her hair as she had done for the last five years, but her hands rubbed like some automaton's over her daughter's scalp, which registered with odd tactility on her fingertips.

The world was at odds, and as much as her mind was screaming at her to acknowledge it, she did not.

-xxoOoxx-

She asked for an urgent appointment with Shacklebolt the next day. He had been busy; Hermione had insisted.

He made her wait. She had been shown into his office and had sat there for twenty minutes before the door was opened. It was shut perfunctorily and the Minister paced in and sat himself down with tense force. He started rearranging papers in front of him, not looking at her. His brows were creased. She could see his nose, still markedly sore from Lucius' perfectly placed punch. It had clearly been broken, despite him now having healed it (and not terribly well, she noted); the bruise had crept maliciously to discolour and distend his left eye, giving him the appearance of a rather incompetent thug. Hermione tried hard not to let the corners of her mouth rise.

"Hermione," Shacklebolt stated at last, still focusing on his desk. "I'm very busy this morning. What is it you want?"

He was clearly in a foul mood. It did not deter her.

"I have received intelligence that there is to be a terrorist attack at the Opening Ceremony of the Quidditch World Cup. You must cancel it and the entire tournament."

At last he looked at her. His face was blank. For a moment he did not move, simply stared at her curiously, as if her body may have been replaced by an incubus. "What?"

"I said you need to cancel the World Cup; there is going to be an attack on it resulting in loss of life."

"Hermione ..."

"Yes?"

"Umm ..." He skewed his mouth to the side and rocked slightly back and forth in his chair, casting his eyes almost with amusement over her face. Hermione persisted, unaware of how ludicrous she must sound to his ears.

"You need to do it immediately, Minister, so that everyone is informed in good time."

Shacklebolt simply stared at her before letting out a sudden laugh of disbelief. "What the hell has got into you?"

"I'm preventing a disaster."

"But ... what? ... What is this intelligence? Who has it come from?"

"I can't tell you that, but it is fact. It will happen unless you cancel it."

"Hermione ... you can't just waltz into my office and state this. It's completely surreal. Cancelling the World Cup is unthinkable."

"Then hundreds of innocent people will die."

Now his tone became harsher, not because he was starting to believe her, but because of her obstinacy. "Who is responsible for this?"

"It's being masterminded by Ivan Kresvidyev."

"Kresvidyev?" he scoffed. "Crap. We've investigated him thoroughly. We've been able to find little if anything. You may have had that breakthrough in Casterford, but it amounted to nothing. Even Malfoy, the bastard, hasn't been of much use to him."

"You're wrong about Kresvidyev. He has quietly been accumulating power and funds. And he has support over here. He plans an attack on the Opening Ceremony. It will happen."

Shacklebolt was tense with confused fury. "How the hell do you know this?"

"I can't tell you that."

He stood up suddenly and leaned aggressively over the table at her. "You bloody well will!"

Hermione did not flinch. "I know that if I disclose my source my family will be in danger. Minister, you must believe me. This is very much real and true, but I cannot tell you anymore than that. I fear for my children. I won't tell you anything more."

Shacklebolt sank back down into his chair. He did not speak and stared at his desk, as if trying to memorise its contents. Hermione watched as the Minister for Magic brought his hand up to his mouth and started to gnaw distractedly on his nails. His voice was oddly hollow. "How is this going to happen?"

"I don't know. All I know is that he intends to cause a massive disruption at the World Cup and there are likely to be some deaths."

"Hermione ... you need to tell me your source."

"I won't do that, Minister."

"But this is ridiculous." Panic was welling up in his voice. "I can't cancel it. Do you know how much investment has been put into this? How much money will be lost? Hundreds of millions! Billions even! The World Cup is a major boost to the wizarding economy which has positive repercussions into the Muggle economy. The Prime Minister is attending, endorsing it. It is unthinkable to cancel it."

"People are going to die, Minister."

"I need details, Hermione. I need fucking details!" He slammed his hand so hard down on the table she thought he may have broken bones.

"I don't have any. I give you my word on that. I only know that Kresvidyev is planning an attack on the World Cup."

"Who told you?"

She shook her head.

"I could have you locked up for withholding information!"

"Minister ... I cannot and will not tell you anymore."

"I need to get the World Cup security team in here. I'm not making any decisions until I've spoken to them. Damn you, Hermione. Damn you to fucking hell! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Under the circumstances she allowed him his furious insults. "I'm preventing a disaster, Minister. A disaster on your watch. You couldn't let this go ahead and allow hundreds of deaths when you knew it could have been prevented, could you?"

"What the hell is it with you?" He had stood and was pacing now, running his fingers over his head, glaring at her, trying to offload his panic and confusion onto her. "You've been so bloody distanced recently. I don't remember you as the same person."

For the first time, Hermione averted her eyes from him.

"I can't do this without consultation. You'll have to be involved."

"You're the Minister for Magic. You have the authority to veto anything, including the Quidditch World Cup."

"I'm not going to bloody cancel the thing until this has been thoroughly investigated!" His temper flared from him. As hard as she tried not to be, Hermione was intimidated. "Go now. I'll be in touch."

Hermione knew when she was not wanted but could not leave without a final word. "You will cancel it, won't you?"

"Go, Hermione."

She left quietly and shut the door on him frantically scribbling away at a parchment.

-xxoOoxx-

The following morning she was awoken by a sharp and insistent tapping. In her bleary haze of interrupted sleep she thought one of her children was banging on the door, but it was too harsh and focused for that. It must be a stick of some kind ... a cane rapping at her door ... a cane with a metal head ... She sat up, startled and short of breath. As consciousness returned to her she realised that the tapping sound was not metal hitting her door but a beak tapping at her window. There was an owl perched on the sill with a note between its talons. It was 5:45 am. Ron grunted, turned over and carried on sleeping. Hermione rose and staggered thickly over to the window, pulling it open and taking the small parchment from the owl's grasp. It fluttered off immediately into the darkness which still pervaded the new day. After closing the window, she sat back on the bed and uncurled the note. She was requested at the Ministry. Summoned was a more appropriate term.

'For the attention of Mrs. H. Weasley.

You are to attend the Crisis Committee meeting at 11am today in the Investigation Chamber.

KS, Minister for Magic.'

Hermione let the parchment slip from her fingers onto the floor. The house was silent. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was in an entirely different world. One where she had never married Ron, one where her children were yet to be born, one where the Quidditch World Cup had never been conceived of. One where she would open her eyes again and it would be Lucius lying beside her.

The tone of Shacklebolt's message disturbed her. Why could he not simply cancel it?

She knew the answer. It would be impossible to do such a thing without the full support of security officials and the highest Ministry officers. But with her current warped perception of life, she still hoped that it would happen with minimal fuss.

At five to eleven she walked purposefully to the Investigation Chamber, keen to convince them quickly and effectively of what needed to be done through cooperative discussion.

She opened the door. Two rows of wizards and witches sat in silence, about six in each row. She could make out the imposing figure of Shacklebolt in the middle of the first row. The light was dim save for that shining on a single isolated chair facing them. Bile rose quickly in her throat and her grip on the door handle tightened instinctively.

"We can begin early. Sit down, Mrs Weasley." Bernard Underhill, seated beside Shacklebolt, indicated the empty chair.

Hermione's first instinct was to turn and walk away from them. Was this to be some sort of interrogation? Now feeling foolishly naive, she had hoped that it would be a collective and sensible discussion of like-minded people. But here she was, as if she was under suspicion. And as is the case in these situations, false guilt washed through her. Compelled to do so, she took uncertain but steady steps towards the chair.

She sat down. It was a hard, ungiving seat. The light shone in her eyes, making it impossible to see the faces staring at her clearly. But with Granger determination she held her head high.

"The Minister tells us you wish to cancel the Quidditch World Cup." The unknown voice came slightly to the right of centre.

"I don't wish it to be cancelled, but it is essential that that happens."

"He says you have evidence that there is an act of terrorism targeting it."

"Yes. There is."

"We would like you to tell us how you know this." Another voice spoke now, a female voice, tight and clipped. It was unfamiliar to Hermione.

"I will not do that as I have reason to believe my children will be in danger if I do."

"Mrs Weasley." Another voice again, from the left of the front row, but Hermione could once again not see the face. "When the Minister was told by you of this supposed plot, he summoned us all, and we have spent all of last night and this morning investigating the possibility that you are indeed correct."

"I'm glad to hear ..."

"Mrs Weasley, you will not interrupt." She was silenced almost immediately. The tone of voice drew her immediate silence out decisively.

The voice continued. "You told Minister Shacklebolt" – who had not yet spoken, Hermione noted – "that Ivan Kresvidyev is behind this. We have gone to great lengths to ascertain whether there is any chance of this being likely.

"You told us that you had witnesses who had seen Kresvidyev in discussion with Lucius Malfoy. If this meeting did indeed take place, which in itself is dubious, then there is nothing to indicate it led to anything significant; Malfoy is unreliable. He is impotent these days. We think much of his talk is bluff and bravado as much for his benefit as ours, to boost his now crushed ego. Kresvidyev has nothing."

"That isn't true."

"You will be silent until we ask you to speak, Mrs Weasley!"

"The security we have worked months to put in place for the World Cup is unbreakable. We have complete confidence that even if there were to be an attack it would be thwarted before anything would be noticed. And we do not believe there will be an attack. The cost to the magical economy and to wizarding morale would be catastrophic if the World Cup were to be cancelled. Unless you can provide us with proper evidence that this supposed attack is indeed going to happen, and to reveal your source, there is nothing we feel needs to be done."

Hermione's eyes stared blankly in disbelief. Her mouth ran dry. There was silence for some time before the man's voice sounded again with an oily veneer of respectable curiosity.

"Unless you feel there is something else you wish to add, Mrs Weasley?"

"How do you mean?"

"We find it interesting that you were the one who reported the sighting of Kresvidyev in Casterford, and now you are the one reporting this alleged plot."

"Are you accusing me of inappropriate dealings?"

"You tell us, Mrs Weasley."

She stood up, enraged. "I am trying to prevent a crime against humanity. I am trying to do what is good and right and decent and you have the audacity and lunacy to accuse me!"

"You will sit down, Mrs Weasley. We are simply trying to work out how you, more than anyone else in the wizarding world, seem to have so much information about Kresvidyev."

"I've done my research properly."

"Mrs Weasley. We have found nothing whatsoever to corroborate this theory of yours. We will not be cancelling the World Cup. To do so for no reason other than to humour the delusions of an over-wrought, domestically-frustrated witch would be criminal in itself." The man speaking leaned in, revealing his thin, angular features in the light. She at last recognised him as Clifton Palgrave, the head of Wizarding Counter Intelligence. His voice now contained a sickening smoothness which turned her stomach. "Hermione, we would like you to take a leave of absence. Perhaps some more time with your family would ease your concerns."

"How dare you?"

"Go home, Hermione." It was Shacklebolt who spoke now. "Maybe have a little holiday. I hear the Maldives are particularly relaxing at this time of year. We'll be in touch."

Nobody said another word. Hermione stood slowly, her breath pulled in hard through her nose.

"You will regret this, Minister."

"That will be all, Mrs Weasley."

Hermione found herself suddenly outside the closed door of the Investigation Chamber, not entirely sure she could remember walking out of it.

A sickening sense of dread and panic was churning through her, for her children, for her family, for herself, for Lucius.

Lucius.

The Ministry could rot in hell. She turned and began to hurry through the corridors, intent only on seeing one person. She had to see him. She had to tell him.

-xxoOoxx-

Once Hermione was out on the streets of London, already growing busy with people on lunch breaks, she stopped at last. It was stormy. The wind buffeted her, picking up even as she stood there. Standing stock still, she closed her eyes and let humanity and air swirl around her. She nearly Apparated to St James' Gardens but remembered in time that any magic of that kind would be detected instantly. She could manage a discreet floo, but nothing else.

However, her need for Lucius remained undiminished and she took herself as quickly as she could to Diagon Alley and from there to a small and undistinguished book shop she frequented tucked down a side street.

"Hello there, Mrs Weasley," greeted Delia Rimblethorpe, the owner, as broad in girth as she was high in stature (not that there was much in the way of stature). "Looking for something specific today? Bit windy out there, isn't it? Always affects my spells, not that I use the old wand much these days."

On any other day Hermione would have enjoyed putting the world to rights, but on this occasion she focused hard not to snap caustically at the rotund witch. "Actually, Delia, I just want to use your floo. I'll pay you for the powder. Is twenty galleons enough?"

Delia's eyes widened with mercenary curiosity. "Well, yes, of course, my dear, but I only ever charge one. There really is no need to ..."

"No, it's fine. I'm engaged in some official business, you understand, and it is very important that my coming here and using the floo remains strictly between us. Please ... take the money." Hermione pressed the twenty galleon note into the podgy fingers. Delia glanced up, a flash of intrigue darting across her face. Hermione averted her gaze. Not only had she been asked to take a break from her job, she was now resorting to bribery as well. A flush of colour rose in her cheeks and she licked her lips with distracted guilt. She felt like a criminal. Perhaps she was.

"Well, thank you ... I'll just ... that's all fine then, Mrs Weasley." Delia stood by for a moment longer, watching as Hermione took the floo powder in her hand.

Hermione was about to use it when she turned and fixed the shopkeeper with a ferocious glare. "Thank you, Delia."

With a flustered bustle, Delia shuffled off into the back room.

Concentrating hard, Hermione stepped into the fireplace, threw down the powder and declared, "23 St James' Gardens."

She arrived in the dining room. The house, just as it had been before, was silent. Hermione tore through it, calling for him, searching the rooms frantically. But this time was different; he was definitely not here.

Defeated, she slumped on the sofa in the living room, that same sofa she had laid back on the first time she had come to give herself to him.

"All alone? Just desserts at last."

She sat up, shocked to hear a voice, but immediately glancing up, she identified it as coming from a portrait. A disdainful wizard with a pinched, tight face of familiar arrogance stared down at her. She knew those eyes. She knew this portrait; it was Lucius' father, Abraxas. Hermione stood, defiant against his prejudiced hatred.

"I need to speak to Lucius. Where is he?"

"This isn't his main house, you stupid girl." The haughty blond sneered. "And he says you're clever ... You should know full well where he is."

"But it's Wednesday ... he's always here on a Wednesday."

"No, little fool, it's Thursday. He was here yesterday. He waited for you and you didn't come."

"But ... Thursday ...? I ... I lost track of time ..."

"Oh dear ... not quite so ardent anymore perhaps?" The clipped voice rang with amused sarcasm.

"It's nothing to do with that. I've been preoccupied with something vitally important. Lucius will understand."

"Will he now? Judging by the mood he left in last night, I wouldn't be so sure."

Hermione glanced up at the smirking image of Abraxas, refusing to let his words affect her. "I have to see him. Is he at the Manor?"

"Of course. With her."

Now Hermione's stomach did turn over.

"Who?"

Abraxas chuckled. "Oh, I have struck fear into you, haven't I, you little trollop? You may be his only current paramour, but he still goes home to her most nights. A proper wife. A pureblood wife. He'll never leave her."

"I don't expect him to." The mere mention of Lucius' wife made her want to retch, but she stood tall and said again, "I need to see him. If he comes here please tell him I'm looking for him."

And Hermione marched out of the room to the sound of the taunting chuckle of Lucius' father.

Going into the bathroom, she shut the door heavily behind her and slumped down it, tears streaming down her face. She was wretched. Heaped on top of her disastrous experience at the Ministry and the fear of the World Cup was now more turmoil about Lucius – was he angry with her for not appearing yesterday? Was he back at the Manor with Narcissa? She pictured them eating together, laughing, making love. Hermione groped to open the lid of the toilet and vomited into it. Normality was slipping through her fingers.

She at last steadied herself with a long drink of water. It had only been two days ago Lucius had told her of his love for her, but should she doubt it? Did his father's words ring true? Perhaps they did. Brushing her teeth and splashing cold water over her blotched face, she tried to banish them from her mind. Still she knew what must be done. She must speak to him, there was no doubt. She wanted to speak to him.

Taking the floo in the dining room again, she returned to Delia's shop but walked swiftly out before the woman even noticed she'd arrived. Hiding around a dim corner, Hermione extracted her wand, pictured the outside of Malfoy Manor as clearly as she could and Disapparated. Immediately the process brought her queasiness back with a vengeance.

-xxoOoxx-

She was in pain as soon as she landed. Her right leg hurt. And her arms. And her back. She had landed in a bush, a sharp prickling bush of some kind.

"Shit." Her voice sounded surprisingly loudly even in the tempestuous gusts of the stormy air. Extricating herself with difficulty, she plucked off the twigs and leaves, some of which had embedded themselves in her skin, and stood up gingerly. She had landed just outside the boundaries of the Manor, beyond a point where any wards would detect her. But one advantage of having been inside the house before (albeit in circumstances she was now trying hard to forget) was that the wards were less likely to reject her. It was a risk, but after detecting a weak spot at the divergence of ley lines, and using her unique skill, intuition and Ministry magical privileges, she passed through the shimmer of magical barriers undetected. Hermione breathed deep. Not only had she succeeded in slipping through invisibly for now (as she had wanted in case Lucius was not at home), but she was also reassured that Lucius had protected himself comfortably from any prospective Ministry intruders. She knew none had the combination of skills and circumstance necessary to do what she had just managed.

Her cuts still stung, but she barely noticed. Creeping closer to the manor, she found herself at the back of a lawn with a view to the rear terrace. It was a gloomy day, with the buffeting wind growing increasingly turbulent, and the large house beyond was mostly dark, but there was a single light in a room on the ground floor and a few others shining from rooms further up.

Her resolve faltered. What if he wasn't here? What if the only person here was Narcissa? Or Draco even? That would be unthinkable. How could she explain herself to them? But she had to take a chance.

Keeping to shadows and behind trees and bushes, she crept towards the imposing building, which seemed to rise up with such dominance it blotted out the entire sky.

She would try to look in through the window to ascertain who was there, hoping against hope it was Lucius.

As she prepared to steal up the steps of the terrace, a low deep bark suddenly broke the air, the wind carrying it forcefully towards her. She gasped in surprise and stepped back. There was the sound of fast, four-legged running, but before she could grasp from which direction it was coming, she had been knocked off her feet by a vast dog, dark and powerful. The animal, a wolfhound of some kind, stood over her, preventing her escape, but luckily not attacking. She could smell its hot breath as it growled with a rumbling menace, its muzzle only an inch or so from her face. She froze, averted her eyes and waited. What else could she do?

Footsteps sounded on the terrace.

"Cassius?" She knew the voice. Her eyes closed and her breath caught in her mouth. "Cassius? Where are you, boy? What have you found?"

The dog growled again and barked loudly, alerting its owner to her presence. The footsteps grew closer until they were standing beside her and the dog.

"Good boy, good dog. Back inside. You've done well. Go back." The hound whimpered with pleasure at his owner's praise before Hermione heard it padding softly back up the steps.

Hermione lay on the ground, staring up as the person looked down on her.

"Why are you here? You shouldn't come here." The voice was hard and anxious.

Hermione met the eyes of Lucius Malfoy and pushed herself to her feet.

"I had to ... I had to ..."

"Don't you understand? I didn't know you were coming. I -"

"You're angry. Your father said -"

"What? My father?"

"His portrait. I went to St James' Gardens. He said you were angry about Wednesday. Shacklebolt's a fool. I had to speak to you. I had to see you ..."

There was a noise from the house. Lucius darted his head round, clear anxiety on his face. "Get back! You mustn't be seen." To her ears, his voice was tight and aggrieved. Her nausea threatened to overwhelm her again.

Instinctively, Hermione pushed herself back, cowering behind a bush, her adrenaline and fear rendering her immune to the cold. "I'll go. I shouldn't have come," she stuttered, her mind blank.

"No! Wait there! Don't you dare go."

And before she could dissent, he had turned and paced heavily back into the house.

Hermione strained her ears, desperate to hear anything. She was sure she could detect the low mumble of voices but could not distinguish them at all.

It seemed to take an age. If someone had told her an hour had passed with her hunched down behind a camellia bush in the gardens of Malfoy Manor she would not have been surprised. She huddled into herself, but managed for now to ward off the cold; all her senses were attuned to what may be going on inside the house between Lucius and his companion.

He seemed angry with her. Perhaps his father was right. In the darkness of a stormy dusk, as thoughts of Lucius' involvement in the World Cup plot ran through her mind, she tried to muster her own anger and indignation. Minutes ticked away and cold at last sank through her. And suddenly, crouched in the gathering gloom with a chill capturing her bones, Hermione doubted: doubted him, doubted herself, doubted this whole crazed mess they were in.

Still her senses craved only his return, but her resentment of losing her grip on normality did not diminish, and when at last footsteps approached again she stood and set her face straight.

"Are you alright?" Lucius asked, not quite meeting her eye, his voice still tense. If he was indeed angry with her, it merely made her more aggrieved towards him.

"Yes."

"Why did you bloody come here? Don't you know that you could have ..." He stopped, turning away and running his hand nervously through his hair.

She looked hard at him, her mind as chilled as her body. "I'm not sure why I'm still here. And I'm cold."

Lucius slackened a little. "I ... I just ... Come inside."

"I can't do that. Not if she's still here."

He frowned. "Who?"

"Your wife."

"Narcissa? No ... she's ... I don't know where she is. I haven't seen her for days. I never see her anymore."

"Not here?"

"No."

"But who ...?"

There was a moment's silence.

He reached over for her. "Hermione. Come inside. You must be freezing." His voice had softened. She evaded his grasp.

"So who were you talking to?"

"There's no one here anymore. Come on."

"Your father said you were angry yesterday. And you're angry now that I came here."

"I was worried about you yesterday. You never forget Wednesdays. For Merlin's sake, come in now. I can't believe you've been out here all this time."

"You told me to wait, remember? Did you hope I'd go?" Her voice was flat.

"No! But there was nothing I could do. You would have been put in danger if you'd come in. I had to ..." He sighed before quickly reverting to talking about the day before. "I was so worried yesterday. Why didn't you come?"

"I had to go to the Ministry. I had to tell Shacklebolt, you know that. And he ... didn't listen. They made me go back today. They made me feel as if I'd masterminded the whole thing myself."

"I didn't know what was going on."

"So you were angry? Your father was right."

"No. Not angry. I just ..." He stepped up to her and placed one hand on her arm while the other brushed her cheek. "You're so cold."

"Who were you with, Lucius? Just now. Who was here?"

"Come inside."

"Tell me who you were fucking well with!" He averted his eyes and gave no verbal response. It told Hermione enough; her stomach heaved. "Has he gone now? Completely?"

"Yes. Completely."

Lucius was stroking up and down her arm, stepping in closer so that she could smell his breath falling soft but steady over her.

"Finalising details, were you?" Her voice was hard and cold, as cold as her numb hands.

He didn't respond and tried to pull her in closer to him. She resisted.

"I'm sorry I made you wait out here. I'm here now. Come on, come on, my darling, let me warm you."

But Hermione only stood rigid, eyes closed, as he stroked and caressed her. "What am I doing? What am I doing? Why the hell am I here? What the hell am I doing?"

Lucius ignored her, instead leaning down and starting to kiss over her. "I hated when you didn't come. I hated not having you yesterday. I needed you. I need you so much."

And, once again, she felt herself soften. Hermione breathed deeply and let his luxuriant aroma engulf her. He enclosed her into him now and stroked her hair, glancing down over her arms. "What have you done to yourself? You're bleeding."

"Am I?"

He planted kisses on her, along her battered arms and over her face and against her lips. "Come along. You're here now. You're with me." Lucius put his arms around her waist and guided her up the steps.

And for only the second time in her life, Hermione was led inside Malfoy Manor.

Hermione remembered the room in which she found herself. There was a painting to the left of the fireplace: a landscape with a castle in the middle distance. She recalled it well. The last time she was here, as she had studied it intently, she had guessed it was somewhere in the Lake District. There were two cattle staring curiously out from the foreground, one with horns, the other without. She remembered them too. She had focussed on them amidst the interminable pain of Bellatrix Lestrange's Cruciatus curse. Now she looked back into the large eyes of the cows once again.

Lucius led her to sit on a large sofa of dark green leather. How fitting, she thought, the colour. She couldn't remember that having been there before.

He pointed his wand at the fireplace and the fire billowed and flamed, instantly sending more heat out into the room.

Hermione glanced at the table. On it were two long-stemmed glasses which had clearly contained red wine, one empty, one half-full. Next to them was an ash-tray; a cigarette stub clung precariously to the rim, several others lay in it. As she inhaled now, she noted that the smell of cigarette smoke still hung oppressively in the room.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't."

She looked up. He was standing over her, staring down, for once the clear certainty in his eyes absent.

Hermione said with as much detached determination as she hoped she felt, "I need to talk to you. I can't stay. I need to talk to you now."

Lucius bent at the knee and placed his hands on her, his face as open as she'd ever seen. She tried to ignore it.

He spoke, soft and insistent. "Not now. Don't talk now. You must stay for a while. You will, you will."

And then he pushed her legs open gently but firmly with his hands and she did nothing to stop him. And then she felt cool air against her and knew he'd vanished her underwear. And then he brought his head down between her legs.

She closed her eyes and knew her hands were stroking over his hair.

And she was warm again.

Ever more complicated ...

More to come. Thoughts, as ever, make me smile and muse. LL x