The Alkahest

Chapter Twenty-Five: Building Regrets

…

When Narcissa and Rose returned, chatting at full speed, their voices preceded them down the hallway. Lucius' eyes flicked towards the door, and he jerked a nod at her as he speed-walked to the door on the other end of the room. Hermione watched him, snorting a bit with amusement, and then caught wind of some of her mother and Narcissa's conversation.

"Well, I thought Hermione should arrive to the ceremony on a white horse. We can charm it to look like a unicorn," Narcissa was saying. "I always wanted to come to mine on a white horse."

"Oh, that sounds lovely," Rose said, and Hermione winced.

Her mother was supposed to be here to keep things from going arses up, and here she was agreeing that Hermione should ride in on a fake unicorn. A feeling of dread hit the pit of her stomach as the voices came closer, and she edged away from the table and then ran out the far door, after Lucius.

When she caught up to him, her trainers thudding softly on the thick carpet, he turned and blinked at her.

"You're briefly taking custody of me," she warned him. "You need to talk about something. It's urgent. It might take a while." At his shocked, blank look, she shooed him down the hallway with waving hands. "Go, go!"

Turning slowly, still trying to reconcile his quick mind with what was happening, Lucius moved at a stately pace down the hallway while Hermione kept pace, glancing behind her to make sure they weren't being followed. When they turned the corner, she let out a breath, unmistakably relieved.

He eyed her from the corners of his eyes. "I would have thought you'd find the planning of an event to be an engaging challenge," he finally admitted. "You seem to enjoy creating order from chaos."

She smiled, tightly. "Yes, well... it's quite a bit harder to get in the spirit of things when your mother and your mother-in-law are planning to have you ride into the ceremony on a white horse with a fake horn on its head."

"Mm. I recall Narcissa wanted to do that during our marriage. My father refused. He would not let us have the society wedding she dearly wanted."

Well, that was sad. And it explained a lot. And it was going to make it a lot harder to try and talk Narcissa out of some of this stuff. Hermione felt the dreadful feeling in her stomach get a little heavier. Glancing up at Lucius curiously, she frowned. "Why not?" What was the harm in having a girl ride in on a horse, if she wanted?

"He tended to be, as a man, very dismissive of what he considered to be 'frippery.'"

"Sounds like you."

"Indeed," he agreed, cocking his head slightly. "However, just because I do not enjoy such things doesn't mean I find it gratifying to deprive her."

Well, that was just adorable. And so unexpected from him.

She smothered a smile at his somewhat gentler tone of voice. Hermione had known that he loved his wife and his son – the way he'd acted towards the end of the war when he almost lost them both was evidence enough of that – but for some reason she hadn't really pictured him as giving into Narcissa's whimsies just to make her happy. He'd always seemed too coldly calculating and ruthless. She supposed almost losing everything made one evaluate their life choices a wee bit.

He stopped at a door, opening it to reveal what was clearly his study. He inclined his head at her to enter, and then left the door conspicuously wide open as he followed her.

"Shouldn't we close that?" she asked, frowning at it. "What if they find us?"

"A young girl should never be trapped in close quarters with an older gentleman," he intoned, taking a seat at his desk. "She may be taken advantage of."

Hermione stared at him, not sure if she'd heard him right. Was he suggesting that anyone in this house would honestly believe that he might come on to her? She started laughing, and he blinked up at her, half-turning in his chair. "You're not serious," she guessed.

When his somber stare continued, she stopped laughing, and turned pink.

"Oh." Feeling awkward, she stood there for a moment. "But that's ridiculous when you're my father-in-law, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I am not your father-in-law, yet," he said, in a reasonable tone. "You may sit, if you wish."

She gingerly took a seat, watching him with a faint frown. "Neither Narcissa nor my mum honestly think you'd, uh, take advantage," she said, sounding the words out with a grimace. Gross. "And neither do I, you know."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I know," he said. "And for the record, I would not. It is simply a matter of propriety. Rules of etiquette exist for a reason, and it is not so that they can be disregarded at will."

God, he really was a taskmaster. "Good," she sighed, relieved. "I was beginning to get really grossed out."

Lucius, who had turned to some correspondence he was writing, raised his head to look at her, his eyes slightly narrowed.

Her posture wilted under the weight of his gaze. "Not that I- think you're gross," she stammered. "Nor do I- not that I think it's gross, or that... you doing it is... gross." Good God, what was she saying?! Swallowing, she said, stiffly, "I'm going to shut up, now."

"That's advisable."

She flushed, wrinkling her nose. Great, now she'd offended him. She fidgeted, her mind whirling as she tried to think of something to say to smooth things over.

What she blurted out was, "Well, you're just so old." She looked shocked that the words had come out of her own mouth, and felt her jaw drop open as they echoed around the study stubbornly. His quill had stopped. "... Der," she tried to add on, feeling her cheeks go scarlet. "Older. Older than... than me."

"If I told you in no uncertain terms that I understood the vast sea of years between us, would you be able to stop trying to reassure me?" he asked, curiously.

She made a face at herself. "I don't know. I tend to get a little word-vomit-y when I'm feeling awkward."

"That, I can see."

"It's not that-" She watched him sigh, his eyes closing as he shook his head a little, but ignored it as she blazed on. "It's not that you're not handsome, because you are, I knew a lot of girls in school who thought you were very fit, even though they were still underage, I mean, you don't look nearly fifty, and obviously you've got Narcissa, who would be out of anyone else's league, herself, so you know, you're obviously... attractive."

He gave her a strained look, and she realized that he was finding this as painfully awkward as she was.

"Although I'm not sure you're even in her league," Hermione continued, to her utter alarm. Why was she still talking? "But if it was a contest, I guess you'd be closest." Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Oh my God, why can't I stop?"

"I would pay a million Galleons for the answer to that question."

Swallowing, she let her eyes pan around the room, and said, "I'd probably not be able to talk if I had a glass of whatever's in that decanter," she muttered, pointing at a crystal receptacle containing a brown liquid.

Lucius stood. "If that is what it takes," he agreed, pouring her three fingers of the stuff into an equally expensive-looking glass.

Crossing back over to her, he handed it to her, and she took it meekly. She'd really put her foot in it. "Sorry," she mumbled, and then took a sip. It was very smooth, and she recognized it distantly as some sort of aged Firewhiskey. He cast her a quelling look, with a silent order to be quiet, and took his own seat again, returning to writing.

She took a moment to look around the room, eager for a distraction from what had just occurred. The study was large, with a collection of chairs. He probably had friends in here sometimes, and they probably sat and smoked cigars and drank fine spirits as they guffawed about the Muggle-born proletariat, or something. It had a massive fireplace that was obviously Floo-capable, a few sneering portraits of platinum-blonde men with icy eyes, and quite a lot of dark wood and brown leather. All in all, it was very much what she imagined rich men's studies looked like.

The bookcase across the room caught her attention, and she squinted at them a bit, trying to read the titles. When that didn't work, she got out of the chair and wandered over to it, not noticing Lucius glancing up to see what she was doing.

Some of these books were very old. She reached out and gingerly traced her finger down a faded leather spine, and blinked when the book seemed to groan and shudder at her touch. The books surrounding it made their own noises, all aching to be taken out and opened. It rather reminded her of the Restricted Section. Her finger hovered over the spine of the book, almost giving into the urge to pull it out and look at it, but then she let her hand drop.

"That was wise," he commented, from his desk. "Some of those books are very dangerous."

"How old are they?"

"Older than this Manor. Some pre-date England itself," he said, in an idle, almost bored tone. She couldn't imagine having this kind of wealth of knowledge at her fingertips and not being bloody excited about it. But then, this was Lucius Malfoy, who probably said, well done in a polite voice when he orgasmed.

She really needed to stop thinking about Lucius Malfoy having sex with his wife, because it was really starting to turn her stomach. Hermione made a face at herself. Get it together.

She looked at him, but he was writing, again. "What's in them?"

"Malfoy secrets, Hermione," he drawled, dismissively.

"You know, I'm about to be a Malfoy," she reminded him, and his quill slowed and then stopped.

She hadn't thought it would work, but then he stood, and walked over to her side of the room to join her in looking at the bookcase. He reached out, tugging the spine of the book she'd been touching and pulling it free of the shelf. The book issued a ragged scream of victory, and she saw his hands strain to hold it closed. "These are spells, written in their original runes, an earlier version of what you learned at Hogwarts."

Hermione stared at the book, straining to fly open. His fingernail beds were white as he held the cover tautly closed. "Are they dark spells?"

"This is before that," he said, seriously. "This is from a time when there was no dark spells or light spells. These are just spells, some of the first ones ever recorded. They're very powerful, and all call upon both dark and light arts simultaneously, without barriers."

She looked up at him, forgetting about her Firewhiskey for a moment as it dangled from her fingers. "Have you ever looked in it?"

"Yes."

"Did you perform one of the spells?"

He put the book back, and it screamed in rage as it was slid back in between the other whispering volumes. "I tried."

Tried.

She couldn't imagine how difficult they must have been, if Lucius Malfoy hadn't been able to succeed at doing one. "What happened?"

"An event that would have left me with an impressive amount of scarring had I not been taken to St. Mungo's promptly to be attended to," he said. "Those spells are difficult to harness if you predominately call upon dark magic or light magic, because they require a purer tapping of power. Most witches and wizards who live during this time would not be able to succeed."

Staring at the book's spine, Hermione felt an itch in her fingers to try. Her logical brain told her she was definitely a light witch and would probably suffer the same pitfall. Her heart demanded she try, just to see if she could do what Lucius Malfoy could not.

He put a hand on her shoulder, turning her away from the bookshelf. "Do not attempt those spells," he said, firmly, and ushered her back to her chair.

Feeling utterly chastised, she demanded again, "Are you a Legilimens? You have to tell me, if you are."

"Actually, I do not. There is no required registry of such a skill," he said, making sure she sat before taking his chair at the desk again. He picked up his quill, and Hermione made a face at his back. He had to be a Legilimens. There was no way he was just that good at guessing what she was thinking. "Your face will get stuck like that," he drawled, amused, even though he still had his back to her.

Shocked, she looked around his desk for a reflective surface that he could have used to see her making faces, and didn't find any. "I knew it," she muttered, slouching in her chair.

0o0o0o0o0o0

She only got half an hour more of blessed reprieve – which she spent mostly quietly, lost in her thoughts as Lucius shifted his papers around and wrote. Then an elf popped into view at her arm, and she yelped and jumped a bit in her chair.

The elf flinched a little at her reaction. "Sorry, Miss. Dorry is to be taking you to the garden for tea, Miss."

"Oh," Hermione breathed. She hadn't missed the insufferably amused expression Lucius had shot her when she startled, and drained the rest of her glass. She was going to need as much of this stuff in her as possible if she was going to survive the next couple of hours with a bunch of wedding-crazy old hens. "Okay, sure."

The elf nodded and touched her arm gingerly, and then she was gone. The empty glass she'd been holding was left balanced on the arm of the chair, and slowly began to tip off.

Calmly, Lucius stood and walked to the chair, collecting the glass a mere second before it fell and putting it back on the davenport. Then, after a glance around to ensure he was alone, he shut the door to his study and moved over to the ornate mirror on the wall and inspected his face for lines.

0o0o0o0o0o0

She was Apparated right into the garden. Elf-apparation was so much smoother than human Apparation. She wondered if humans had devised the spell to copy the elves' natural abilities, but had simply been unable to reach the level of skill elves had naturally. That probably infuriated someone, somewhere.

Before her, a long table sat, all but groaning under the tea, sandwiches, and cakes on top of it. Sketches and pictures covered every spare bit of space.

"Hermione, there you are," Rose sighed. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, I was talking to Lucius," she said. She flushed a bit as she recalled how thoroughly she'd humiliated them both in that study, and murmured, "Sorry. I didn't mean to be gone so long."

Narcissa was watching her blush curiously, but she set aside the question to urge her forward so she could look at some sketches of potential bridesmaid dresses.

The tea and snacks were left mostly forgotten as Hermione tiredly got through narrowing down the available choices on every little thing – from the dresses to the cravats to the flowers to the food to the table seating. By the time three o'clock came around, she just wanted to lay down on the dirt in the garden and wait for death.

The dresses the dressmaker brought were all hand-made, beautiful, and something Hermione was absolutely sure should never get within forty feet of her clumsy body.

When she tried on the first one, Rose's eyes had teared up, and by the fourth one, her mum was crying quietly. "Oh, Hermione, you look so beautiful. I can't believe you're already getting married." Feeling stiff and embarrassed with all the attention, Hermione nodded a bit and kept her head down, trying to ignore the dressmaker's exasperated remarks about her wide hips or chubby shoulders (she did not have chubby shoulders).

She honestly wasn't sure what dress to pick. They were all equally stunning and, she was sure, would have looked much better on Narcissa. So she picked the one that seemed to make her mum cry the hardest, because that seemed like as good a measuring stick as any.

Narcissa approved, naturally, and by this point the womens' constant nattering had given her a deadly headache.

"Are you alright, luv?" her mum asked her, finally noticing her wan expression. "You look a little peaky. Maybe the sandwiches at tea didn't agree with you?"

She smiled, weakly. "I've just got a bit of a headache. Maybe I'm coming down with something."

Rose frowned, getting up to feel her daughter's forehead. "Hm. Well, it doesn't seem like you're running a temperature. Maybe you should get home and rest, just in case," she said, worriedly. "Cissa, you don't need her for anything else, do you?"

Cissa.

Her mum was on a nickname basis with Narcissa Malfoy. Just what the hell had happened during this week?

As Hermione did her best to try and come to terms with this new, world-shattering information (she hadn't even imagined that anyone called Narcissa by anything as pedestrian or lowly as a nickname), Narcissa got up and grabbed her hands, kissing her on both cheeks as she assured Hermione that the rest could wait until later. The blonde woman's elegant perfume gave Hermione a heady, almost dizzy feeling, and she smiled, ducking out of sight to get out of the dress before she did something stupid like trip into the mud with it.

After putting her jeans and shirt back on, she quickly said her goodbyes and Flooed home, utterly exhausted.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Good, you're home," Draco said, from her couch. Seeing the expression on her face put a smirk on his. "Looks like someone had a long day."

"Shut up or I'll send you over there," she warned. "I've got a blistering headache."

He sat up, and gestured at her to sit on the floor between his legs. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he rolled his eyes. "With your back to me. I'm not that much an arsehole. Give me a little credit, here."

Hermione dropped onto the floor, leaning back against the couch between his knees, and felt his hands close over her shoulders, rubbing them and kneading his thumbs into the back of her neck. She sighed through her nose, relaxing a bit as he moved his fingers up towards her scalp. "How'd tea go?" she asked, absently.

He was quiet for a second, and then said, "Good. I think. It was weird." His voice was soft.

"Weird how?" Andromeda Tonks had always struck Hermione as being so effusive and loving, it was hard to feel awkward or out of place in her presence. She was still a beautiful woman, like her sisters, but a long life of love and happiness had formed laugh-lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes. Her booming laugh was the kind that quickly filled the room, seeming to come from someone much bigger than the tall, stately woman with the perpetually immaculate posture.

"Seeing her, I guess. I'd never met her," he admitted, thoughtfully. "I knew of her, but nobody had corresponded with her in... well, since before I was born. She was mentioned so sparingly, I'd assumed she was dead until I learned otherwise just a few years ago."

"But you had a good time?"

His hands slowed a bit. "I did," he said, slowly. "She was very... affectionate. It kind of put me off at first. Her grandson was, too."

Hermione smiled at the mention of Teddy. Such a sweet boy. "How'd you find him?"

His voice was so soft, she could barely hear it, and it was small – like he was speaking from a great distance. "He's very trusting. Naive. He'd get eaten alive in Slytherin. And he cries easily. His favorite animal is the dragon. He likes to kiss on the lips to say hello and goodbye, even if he's got biscuit crumbs all over his face," he said, his tone turning a bit wry, and Hermione giggled at the idea of Draco swallowing his disgust and giving the crumb-covered boy a peck on the lips.

"He said he loved me," Draco said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur, again. "And that he hoped I came back soon to play."

She felt her heart twinge a bit at the sound of his voice when he said that. She wondered what it was about his interaction with Teddy that had so clearly touched him. "You sound a little sad," she prodded, curious.

"I think it made me realize how... how excited I am to be a father," he said.

She felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on her. Stiffening up a bit, she said, with forced nonchalance, "Oh."

"I know you don't want them, yet," he said, softly. "I can wait."

Hermione tilted her head to look up at him, and he lowered his gaze, probably aware of how raw his expression looked. She realized that a child's love was probably the purest kind there was – always present, always unconditional. She wondered how starved for it Draco had to be that he was so desperate to have a kid when he'd just turned twenty-four. "You're still really young, Draco. You have a lot of living you could do before having a child," she said.

"I know," he said, but it sounded more dismissive than in agreement, like he was just trying to desperately close the conversation.

She turned around between his knees, looking up at him. "You're going to be a great father, Draco, but you'll be an even better one with a few more years of life experience under your belt. All parents are better, then. Besides, did you see James and Albus? Not all kids are sweethearts, like Teddy. You could have one like James."

His nose wrinkled in instant rejection of the idea, and she laughed, getting up to join him on the couch. They shifted and fidgeted around until they were lying side-by-side, facing each other with their noses barely an inch apart. His knee was between her legs, and her leg was thrown over the top of it, and she felt his hand running up and down the length of her thigh with what was almost a sense of familiarity. For the moment, they just laid there, quietly, content to just be in each other's company.

His eyes searched hers – she didn't know what he was looking for – and she returned his gaze with a slight, amused smile. She felt herself grow drowsy, though, and soon her blinks were getting longer and longer, and then she was asleep, tangled up in his limbs.

0o0o0o0o0o0

When she woke – she wasn't sure how long it had been – she did so gently, her eyes still closed as she felt her consciousness start swimming upwards to reality. She felt something tickling her thigh and her side, and realized it was a finger, slowly tracing the contours of her body.

As her eyes opened, she saw that he was looking at his hand. Rather, more specifically, he was looking at the places where his hand moved, his gaze laser-focused, like he was memorizing every inch of her.

She shifted a bit, and his eyes flicked up to hers in surprise, and she saw embarrassment and guilt flash through them as he quickly stilled his hand and left it at her waist.

"What were you doing?" she asked, sleepily.

"Nothing," he said, quickly, and she watched as his cheeks grew faintly pink, his eyes avoiding hers.

"Weirdo," she sighed, contentedly, wriggling forward to press her face into his chest. His hand slid up her back and his fingers began running through her lightly-tangled curls. The soft touches made her drowsy again, and she hummed happily in her throat as she let her eyes close.

It was some while later before he finally roused her, explaining that he'd had to go to the bathroom for over an hour and he was going to rupture. She'd sat up, stretching, happy to note that her headache had disappeared. He all but ran for the bathroom, and she laughed softly to herself, wondering why he'd wait so bloody long instead of just waking her up earlier.

He came back out with a sigh of relief. "You know, it's pretty late," he said, glancing at the Floo. But he didn't make a move towards it.

"What time is it?"

"Half eleven."

"Merlin," she sighed, stretching again. "I should set my alarm before I forget." She stood from the couch, and watched him fidget a bit, his hands in his pockets. She wasn't feeling particularly sexy at the moment, so she wasn't sure what she should do when he was so obviously waiting to see if she'd kick him out, or not. She didn't want to give him the wrong idea, or give off the impression that they were going to do anything.

Then again, when she looked at his face, Hermione realized that he didn't look particularly horny, himself. He just looked painfully shy.

She started towards her bedroom, walking past him where he stood, frozen, in the living room.

She made it halfway down the hall before she stopped, turning around. A second ago, her intent had been to just let him make the decision, but she felt a flicker of guilt, knowing that he'd just leave. But that was also sort of what she wanted him to do. It wasn't that she didn't like him, but sleeping with other people was never as comfortable as sleeping alone. And she knew that if she didn't say something, she was just being a coward.

Hermione snuck a glance at the living room. He was right where she'd left him, his shoulders sloping down a bit in defeat. He looked so utterly lost, and she cursed silently to herself. She wouldn't be able to leave the night like this. The guilt would eat her alive. "Well?" she asked, squinting at him sleepily.

He looked at her, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

When he just stood there, she huffed, "Are you coming, or not?"

The question came out annoyed, almost painfully so, but the frown dropped from his face immediately at his expression lit up a bit. It almost hurt to watch him get so happy over such a small concession (one she didn't even want to make, really), and she realized at that moment – with him all but jogging to catch up to her, his eyes lit up with hope – that she was in very big trouble.

That thought gnawed on her as she led him into her bedroom, both of them getting down to their underthings – and her into a camisole – before crawling into bed. It gnawed on her as she curled up on her side, only to be joined seconds later by him crowding her against the edge of the bed, his arm wrapped around her. It continued to gnaw at her as he shifted to get comfortable, and she felt him breathe a sigh of relief against her shoulderblades.

Because she realized, at that moment, that she was steadily falling into the very same trap Harry had warned her about just days prior.

Damn it.

TBC...