After checking that Lavender was again wrapped up around Ron, a full goblet of punch in her hand, Hermione hastily passed back through Minerva's fireplace. After calling for home, she stepped out into Grimmauld's kitchen, hurried out onto the front stoop, and twisted on the spot. The dreadful wrench of apparition sent her stomach flipping, before the world slid back beneath her. Nauseated, Hermione placed her elbows on her thighs, staring balefully down at the snow-covered drive of Malfoy Manor.
"Clever witch is here!" A delighted voice squeaked.
Swallowing down her bile, Hermione straightened to find Fisby making her way towards her, bare feet seemingly unbothered as they slapped against the blanket of hard snow. "Hello, Fisby," Hermione managed to get out. "Is Lucius in?"
"Oh, yes. Master is in his study" Fisby said, grinning as she held out a hand. Hermione gratefully took it, and a moment later, they popped up into the back parlor. "Master opened the floo for the clever witch, but Fisby sees her outside the gates. Miss is cold?" Before Hermione could reply, Fisby snapped her fingers, and a pleasant wash of warmth swept up her lower legs. Hermione glanced down to find her tennis shoes dry, though her jeans were still ripped and bloodied.
After thanking Fisby, Hermione started off down the hallway. She bit back a confused smile at the sweet elf's words. He was expecting me? The question plagued her mind until she was at the study's doors. Her hand lifted, fingers drawn into a fist, when she hesitated.
She would be naïve to think Lucius wasn't somehow involved in the prophecy. He was too close—too close to her, to the quest, to the secrets swarming Hermione's every move this long winter. And while Hermione had always scoffed at the tedious subject of Divination, she knew that it held some merit with the way Fate played her tangled game. Harry and You Know Who were proof enough of that. And as Trelawney had once lectured, prophecy was two parts fate, one part action. Once discovered, every decision, every choice made by those involved in the prophecy would spur it closer to completion. At the beginning, Fate was a wild, twisted tree, her branches numerous in their forks. But as time swept onward, and choices played out, those branches would narrow.
If Hermione told Lucius, she'd set them down a path she couldn't control.
But what choice do I have? Fate will have her way with me, one way or another.
It would be pointless to fight. Delaying, though…With a sharp breath, Hermione gingerly rapped her knuckles on the door.
"Enter."
She pressed inwards to find him smiling behind his desk. The moment stretched onward, his smile fading as his gaze dropped to her roughed-up palms and the torn knee of her jeans. "What happened?" he asked tightly, rising to his feet.
"Squabble with an imbecilic Occlumens."
His expression darkened, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Fisby!" he called out. The sweet elf appeared a second later, wide eyes fixed on her master. "Fetch the healing kit," he told the elf, his gaze never leaving Hermione. As soon as the elf disapparated, Lucius shoved aside his books and papers, beckoning her towards the desk. "Sit," he commanded.
Numbly, she followed his directions, feeling too dazed by the day's events to comprehend that Lucius Malfoy was demanding she sit her muggleborn arse on his expensive desk. When Fisby returned seconds later, Lucius popped open the small tin, revealing both muggle and magical healing tools. With a steady hand, he poured a creamy potion onto a cotton round, then reached for her left wrist. Gentle fingers enclosed it as he dabbed carefully at the abraded skin. "Tell me what happened," he said in a low voice. It didn't leave room for argument.
Wincing as he swiped the cotton over the worst of the scrape, Hermione said quietly, "Do you remember a girl from my year, Lavender Brown?"
His lips pursed. "Is this Weasley's girlfriend we uncouthly heard beneath your bedroom?"
She nodded, unable to say more as his words dragged forth the memory of that night. When his hands left her to reapply the cotton with potion, she let out a soft sigh. "I ran into her at a party, and she, well…she revealed to have a falsified memory of us," Hermione explained as he attended to her other hand. "One she was threatening to show just about everyone involved in my life. Things got…heated."
"I assume you've taken care of it?" he asked, tossing the cotton to the side. His eyes slid up to meet hers, and she was surprised by the warmth pooling in their steel.
"Yes," she admitted, earning a small smirk. "Lavender won't remember more than our skirmish, assuming my spellwork was satisfactory."
"I would expect nothing less, my devious little witch," he said, giving her another delicious smirk. Hermione flushed, then her cheeks burned brighter as his eyes dropped to her wounded knee. With the tightness of her jeans, she knew he'd be unable to pull the stiff fabric far up enough to reveal the cut. She could heal the wound herself, of course, but with a flutter in her belly, Hermione realized she didn't want to do it herself. She didn't want to transfigure the jeans into something easier accessible, either. She wanted to see what he'd do. How he'd react.
She wanted to know how it felt, to slip her jeans off in front of the wizard standing inches before her.
Lucius seemed to echo her thoughts, when his silky voice slid out. "Will you take these off?" he asked, touching the side of her knee.
Hermione complied with her head bent, unable to meet his eyes as she hopped off the desk and quickly shimmied out of the jeans. She whimpered as the rough fabric scraped over her knee, and Lucius's fingers closed around her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. When her legs were bare, and her cheeks hot enough to fuel a fire, Hermione settled back onto the desk, her jeans laid delicately over the top of her thighs to provide some modesty.
She met his eyes. His were fixed on her own, dark with longing, before drifting down and across her bare legs as he re-applied the healing potion to a fresh cotton round. "Lucius?" she asked softly.
"Hm?"
"Do you have a Pensieve I can use?"
His motion paused, just a moment, before one hand settled above her knee. His fingers pressed into her soft skin, sending licks of flame dancing up her thigh. The others set to work on the wound, tenderly dabbing at the gash. "I assume you do not wish to re-visit your altercation with Miss Brown."
"I don't."
"What for, then?" At her silence, the corner of his mouth ticked up. "Unless you simply require a washing basin, I insist on knowing your reason." Lucius dropped the cotton on the desk, reaching over for a roll of bandages. With careful fingers, he wrapped the white cloth around her knee, before securing the ends in a knot. That hand fell away, while the other remained, resting above her knee. His eyes rose to meet hers again as his thumb brushed her inner thigh. The motion was languid, coaxing higher up her thigh until his hand flattened out, his palm flush against her burning skin.
"Lucius," she breathed out, half directed towards his dangerous touch, half towards her quickly diminishing will to keep her reason a secret.
His fingers stilled, his eyes still boring into hers. They dropped to her lips. Amusement danced in those soft grey irises. "Yes, my dear?"
"Take me to your Pensieve. I'll show you." She cringed internally at how easily her resolve to keep the prophecy a secret had broken.
Maybe this is how it worked. She tried to fight it. Lucius stopped her with one, little. consuming touch.
A victorious smile playing on his lips, Lucius turned at her request, allowing her some modesty as she carefully slid back into her jeans. After a murmured Reparo on the torn denim, she bid Lucius to turn back around. He appraised her silently before offering his arm. "Come with me," he said, as her hand settled on the crook of his elbow.
"You don't keep the Pensieve in your study or the library?" she asked, as they walked past the library and towards the back parlor.
"I decided to move it before the Ministry raids," he explained, as they entered into the opposite hallway she'd never ventured into before. "The blasted aurors were much more…delicate with items kept in the sleeping quarters, rather than my places of work."
The walls and flooring here were of similar, rich design, though instead of feeding into a single length of hallway, the corridor quickly opened up into what she assumed was the front area of the manor. Marble tiles stretched beneath Hermione's tennis shoes, gleaming so brilliantly she could see their reflection floating beneath her. She had hardly a moment to peer at the vast collection of gold-framed portraits and centuries-old, jewel-toned furniture before Lucius was leading her up one side of a mahogany, curved staircase. At the top, she caught a glimpse of a closed door. Indistinct, if she hadn't felt the taint of dark magic emanating from it. Hermione stiffened and looked sharply away. She wanted nothing to do with the manor's drawing room, nor her memories there…or the gaunt, Death Eater wizard who once occupied it.
As they climbed to the second floor, Hermione thought back to Grimmauld place, whose draftiness and darkness paled extraordinarily to Malfoy Manor's dripping luxury. She was startingly out of place here, especially in her tennis shoes and denim, but felt enchanted all the same. To be swept through its ornate halls, with the lord of the manor on her arm, was a thrill as much as it was a shock. It was like walking into the fairy tales she'd loved as a girl, one born of darkness and misery, yet beautiful all the same.
"What…what is that!" a voice shrieked from Hermione's left.
"A girl!"
"No, you fool—a mudblood!"
"Potter's whore!"
Hermione froze, catching Lucius's arm. "What was that?" she asked, whirling around. After a moment of searching the delicate floral wallpaper, her eyes landed on a landscape painting. Crouched in the corner of the rolling hills stood three oil-painted men. They ogled her with furious eyes.
"Best to keep going," Lucius muttered, steering her away by the arm.
"Out of here, mudblood scum!" one of the portraits hissed as they hurried away.
Hermione chanced a look back down the hall, but the painting was already out of earshot. Fortunately the rest of the corridor was free from other landscapes the men could scurry into.
"I apologize for my ancestors," Lucius said, glancing down at her. "Did they upset you?" he asked, stopping in front of a set of white double-doors.
"Just surprised. Surprised I hadn't heard them before," she answered, thinking back on the downstairs hallway and library. Now that she thought about it, the spaces she always occupied were completely devoid of any paintings—portraits or otherwise. "Lucius, did you take down the paintings from the back rooms?" she asked, a shy smile forming on her lips.
"Couldn't have my witch distracted from her work," he mused, before reaching for the door handles.
No, you did the distracting all on your own, Hermione thought, smiling as the doors swung open to reveal a bedroom. Shades of pewter and cream swathed the huge canopy bed, which was framed by a chaise, set of winged charm chairs, and chest of opal-inlaid drawers. Beyond, Hermione saw the open door to the pale grey, marble bathroom, and the manor's winter grounds beyond the drawn, white velvet curtains. Bookshelves lined one of the far walls, a shut cabinet at its center. As Lucius moved towards it, she asked in a small voice, "Are these…are these your quarters?"
"Expecting something else?" he quipped.
"Well…I was expecting more of a Slytherin common room aesthetic."
Lucius chuckled. "While my House is quite proud, it is not known for its decorating taste," he said, pulling open the cabinet's doors to reveal the silver basin within. His fingers caught on the wood below the bowl, drawing it towards him to pull out the tray. Hermione's breath caught. The Pensieve, she realized, hurrying to join him.
Hermione eyed the glassy surface of the liquid within the basin, before glancing nervously back at Lucius. "What I'm going to show you…it's not something you can so easily forget about."
Lucius's fingers rose to her cheek, brushing back an unruly curl. "Hermione, I do not wish to forget any of it…this." His fingers stilled, then fell away. She found herself missing his touch and cleared her throat, turning back to the Pensieve.
Their hands joined. Hermione touched her wand tip to her forehead, drawing the memory forward before depositing it in the water. The surface rippled, the image of the Hogwarts corridor shimmering into view. One deep breath later, Hermione stepped forwards and lowered her face to the cold pool.
Lucius stepped away from the Pensieve, not even bothering to push the basin back inside. Hermione watched as he strode over to the bed, settling on the tall edge. "There's parchment," he said quietly. "In the drawer below the cabinet…" He didn't even have to finish, before Hermione found a blank scroll and quill. With the words of the prophecy still fresh in her mind, Hermione used her wand to spell out the words.
"Read it, please. Line by line."
Hermione bit her lip, eyeing the man across from her. His eyes were trained on her legs, but she didn't think he was truly looking at her. No, the wizard was lost in thought. Crinkling the edges of the parchment, Hermione read aloud, "And there will be a grey tunnel. One side made. One side born."
"Go on," he said in a low voice.
"One side holds the key. One side holds the lock. Between them lies magic's end." She stopped, realizing he had caught her eye. He gave a small nod for her to continue. "Only three gifts willingly given may stop it. One of Future. One of Family. One of Life." Her fingers clutched harder to the parchment, her voice thick as went on. "Only when the Givers forge themselves in Future's flesh, and the third gift is given, may the tunnel collapse. Only when the collapse is imminent, may the gift be given." Hermione crossed to the bed, setting the parchment beside him.
Lucius didn't even seem to notice, instead catching her hand and tugging her onto the bed. She slid clumsily onto the tall mattress, using the frame to boost herself up until she was sitting beside him. Their thighs touched. Her feet dangled, tennis shoes distinctly dirty against the expanse of plush, cream carpeting. "My great aunt, Odelia, was proclaimed by some in my family to be a seer," he said quietly. "I thought prophecy was thestral shit my whole life, until that little glass orb became the fixation of the Dark Lord's plans. If this is a prophecy, you would do well not to ignore it, lest it fester like Potter's did."
"Do you really think Lavender could be a true seer, like Trelawney?"
Lucius looked sideways at her, arching one brow. "You know the girl better than I."
Hermione pursed her lips. "Lavender's always had a inclination for Divination, though I always thought it was more to do with her lack of talent in other studies." Hermione sighed and tugged her curls over one shoulder. "And an Occlumens, apparently," she added bitterly.
Lucius's lips quirked into a smirk. "Your expression was quite exquisite when the little chit threatened to share her altered memory of our encounter."
Hermione flushed, remembering they were in quite a similar situation right now. Lucius's bed was soft, the downy comforter just begging to be laid back upon—Stop that! she snapped at herself. Hermione attempted to will the color away from her cheeks and set her eyes on the cold marble fireplace across from the bed. "Yes, well, like I said, that part is taken care of. It's the rest I don't know how to deal with. Between interpreting the prophecy, and preparing for the ritual, and actually performing the ritual…" She trailed off into a frustrated sigh.
Lucius's weight suddenly left the bed, and Hermione looked up, surprised to find him standing before her. A finger tucked beneath her chin, holding her still, forcing her to meet his eyes. "One step at a time, my dear. I am closing in on a lead on the genie lamp, and I expect to have it in a matter of days. We can focus on the prophecy after the ritual is complete." After. It sounded so easy when he said. Hermione's lips parted, about to argue, when he spoke again in that low, calming voice. "Would it help if we planned the details of the ritual? We can go over the details and pick a day for the event."
She nodded, feeling his fingers slip away. "Yes, that would be good."
"It's settled, then. Go home, get some sleep, and take the floo here tomorrow evening after work."
Hermione blew out a breath and slid off the bed. He took her arm to lead her away from the bedroom. As they descended back down the grand staircase, Hermione looked up at Lucius, frowning. "Fisby said you had your floo network open for me, even though it's the weekend."
Lucius chuckled as they entered into the back hallway. "Ah, well after two unexpected holiday visits from a certain little witch, I assumed she would make an appearance." He stopped them in front of the crackling fireplace and caught her hand in his. "Happy Valentine's Day, Hermione," Lucius murmured, lifting her knuckles to his lips.
Hermione's heart stuttered as she gave a tight goodbye, the burn of his lips warmer than the green flames licking up her legs. She stumbled out into Grimmauld Place's kitchen, checked that she was alone, then collapsed into the nearest chair.
Happy Valentine's Day indeed.
Despite Lucius's advice to forget about the prophecy for the time being, Hermione couldn't help her mind from running the words through her head. After taking a scathing shower, and confirming that the raucous sound in the kitchen was Lavender and Ron throwing some kind of karaoke party with Neville and Parvati, Hermione cast a silencing spell and locked herself inside Sirius's room. She slipped off her bathrobe, pulled on one of the man's old, buttery t-shirts, and burrowed beneath the covers. With her wand lit, Hermione illuminated her cocoon as she traced first the scar on her forearm, then the raw mark on her inner thigh. It was ugly, and permanent, but it gave her hope. Hope that someday, this would all be worth it.
Her fingers trailed to her knee next, tracing over the bandage she'd kept dry from the shower with a spell. Lucius had been so tender today, so…understanding. Even after viewing the complete memory of her encounter with Lavender, the wizard had not faltered. Instead, he had comforted her.
She felt it now, under the weight of the blankets, in the dark and the quiet of Sirius's bed. Lucius cared for her. And she…well, she cared for him too. As a friend, but also as something more. Something that scared her.
Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe Lucius was dangerous, just not for the reasons the redhead thought.
Sighing, Hermione canceled her Lumos and stretched out over the silky sheets. "And there will be a grey tunnel," she recited in a whisper, the prophecy now engrained in her head. "One side made. One side born. One side holds the key. One side holds the lock. Between them lies magic's end." This part, she didn't have a clue about. She wasn't aware of any tunnels in the magical world. The magic's end, though, was more than worrisome. If the prophecy played out to fruition, she might have the weight of the world on her shoulders. Again.
"Only three gifts willingly given may stop it. One of Future. One of Family. One of Life," Hermione continued on. "Only when the Givers forge themselves in Future's flesh, and the third gift is given, may the tunnel collapse. Only when the collapse is imminent, may the gift be given." It would be foolish not to consider the possibility that herself, Lucius, and Sirius were the Givers mentioned. Unless it was herself, Ron, and Harry, but Hermione had a sinking feeling that this time, the prophecy didn't involve her black-haired friend. Or her red-haired one, if their recent distance was taken into account. No, it made more sense that the prophecy surrounded Hermione and the men she was currently closest to. Or would be soon, once Sirius returned.
Givers forge themselves in Future's flesh…Hermione winced as she thought over the line. She knew from past extracurricular research into the restricted section of the Hogwarts library that carnal activities were sometimes components of prophecy. Magic and sex were linked in ancient wizarding society, though recent centuries had abandoned most of those practices. The notion had her biting at her lip. If the three of them—the Givers—were supposed to 'forge' themselves in Future's flesh, then that must make her the Future in the trio. Doesn't it? I highly doubt Fate would have Lucius and Sirius sleeping together…The picture had her giggling, and Hermione rolled over into the pillow.
'Forging' with Lucius…with Sirius…it was terrifying. Electrifying. Both, at the very same time. But if she was indeed this 'Future', then she would be the one to willingly give that gift up. Hermione didn't see how that could be—yes, she was taking some risks meeting with Lucius and the dark magic of the ritual, but surely her choices wouldn't completely demolish her chances at a future.
It's not like I'm 'Life.'
Hermione had been resolutely ignoring those words of the prophecy. One of Life…surely, one of them didn't have to die, if the word 'Life' even referred to such an fatal gift. Prophecies could change. Fate could be re-directed, at least into an adjacent branch. And Hermione would not lose anything at the end of this. Not her future, not one of her wizards. Nothing.
She drifted off to sleep with the resolution spinning through her head. And when she dreamed, the word echoed back, the voice haunting and her own. Only now, the thought had been twisted.
You could lose everything.