This story began almost two years ago. It had a different pairing and a slightly different plot. It had come to a complete halt, but the minute I changed the pairing, the story just fit.

This is a Muggle AU and a very different Lucius Malfoy. I hope you enjoy my twist on his character.

** TAGS WILL UPDATE AS NEEDED.

Relationships:

Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Katie Bell, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter

Characters:

Lucius Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Katie Bell, Scorpius Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Harry Potter, Charlie Weasley, Narcissa Black Malfoy.

Tags:

Alternate Universe - Muggle, No magic, First POV, Divorce, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Cheating, Overheard Sex, Age Difference, Lucius Malfoy Writer, Hermione Granger Ballerina, New Beginning, Not the Lucius you expect, Lumione.

CHAPTER 1

The quiet thumping that barely registered with me grew louder and pulled my attention from the book in my hands. The sound was heavy and continuous, and it was something I'd not heard in the three months I'd lived here. And the quiet solitude was something I had relished.

The space I now occupied was much smaller than what I was accustomed to. The former billionaire owner had transformed his three-story mansion into six flats with two on each floor. Mine was on the top floor and had a large central living area with the kitchen at one end and the living room at the other. A short hallway to the right led to my bedroom and bathroom, and a smaller guest room, bathroom and a study were off the hallway on the opposite side. It was comfortable, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings, ornate arched doorways, and the large picture windows had wide ledges that overlooked the sprawling private gardens below. It was amazing; classic Victorian architecture that would have made my ex-wife's jaw drop. She loved the finer things in life — fancy clothes, designer shoes, palatial homes. My money.

She also loved the dicks of other men. Many other men.

My divorce was swift. I proved she was a lying, cheating whore and had been almost for our entire marriage. I sold our former home and walked away with my money. She walked away with her reputation in tatters.

But that didn't change anything. I was angry and… betrayed wasn't the word. Humiliated? That was closer. She took advantage of the fact that I adored her and she played me, played me for the entirety of our marriage. And I hated being played. But at least she now had none of the finer things, and as far as I was aware, none of the dicks either.

I was bitter and hurt, embarrassed at my ignorance, and the second I found my new home, I had hidden myself away from the world.

My work had suffered; my publishers were on my back to write the final book in my best-selling series, but I hadn't even been able to look at my laptop since my divorce. And because it had been more than a year since I'd written anything, the pressure was becoming heavier by the day. However, nothing I tried would shift the block inside my head. The bitter resentment I held for my ex-wife was all-consuming, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't seem to let go of what she had done.

I sighed, shoving away the thoughts of my ex-wife. The thumping was barely audible, but I had become so accustomed to the quiet, the low sound was enough to annoy me.

The building manager — who took care of all three buildings which backed onto the gardens — had informed me when I moved in that my neighbour lived alone, was quiet and no trouble; the easiest tenant he'd ever dealt with. Then he told me in a direct tone that he wished more of the building's occupants were the same and, in the months since I'd moved in, everything he'd described had been true. Silence from the flat next door. No loud music or television. No loud voices. No thumping feet in the hall.

In fact, I had yet to even lay eyes on my neighbour; he hadn't made his presence known. And I was only too pleased about that fact. I had no desire to become friendly with anyone in the building, and my closest neighbour even more so. I didn't want to share my life with anyone; my trust had been so severely broken, everyone around me — even complete strangers — caused my anger to twist in my gut and brought the hurt that I had tried to push aside to the forefront. So, the low, pounding thump simply felt like another sharp twist, pushing my annoyance to the limit.

However, I didn't think angrily approaching my neighbour's door would help my cause. Besides, it was one night. I could ignore the noise for one night.

I placed my book on the side table and crossed the room to my own sound system. I flicked through several playlists, settling on Ella Fitzgerald, and began playing it at a low volume; enough to drown out the sounds from my neighbour, but not so loud it drowned out any possibility of me continuing my evening with my book.

Refilling my tumbler with scotch, I resumed my seat, and continued reading, drifting back into my book and slowly forgetting the neighbour who had distracted my peace.

Thump.

My subconscious registered the sound as a familiar disturbance that had somehow annoyed me.

Thump.

It was closer this time and a spark of electricity in a single cell in my brain told me I should maybe take notice.

Thump.

Louder. The sound registered with a little more clarity. I winced, fighting the sleep that was still struggling to hold me. What the hell is that?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My eyes flew open and I looked at the clock. One-fourteen a.m.

Thump.

I bolted upright. My ears pricked up and I stared intently at the door, waiting for it to open and whomever it was that had broken into my flat to come in.

Thump. Thump.

"Oh, god!"

I jumped at the muffled female voice.

Thump.

"...right there."

Turning my head towards the wall behind me, my sleep-fogged brain finally caught up with what was going on. Oh, no. Surely not? There was no way—

Thump.

"Oh...oh...Don't stop, don't stop! Oh God, don't stop!"

No, no. Please, God, ignore her and make them stop.

Thump.

"Oh, fuck, yes! More...Yes! Yeeesss!"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Oh, fuck no. I squeezed my eyes shut. This wasn't happening. My neighbour wasn't having wall-thumping sex in the room next to mine. My previously silent neighbour wasn't making a woman beg for more just a few feet — and a wall — away from me.

Thump. Thump.

"Harder… more… oh, fucking give it to me!"

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Apparently, he was.

I leaned my elbows on my knees and pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes; this was my worst fucking nightmare coming to life. Everything I had enjoyed over the last few months had been ruined in just a few minutes. My quiet, idyllic life couldn't have taken a worse turn.

Then, unfortunately, it did get worse.

I heard a long, loud moan and shook my head. Oh, Christ, no. This really wasn't happening.

"That's it, baby… yeah… one more… give me one more." The sound of a deep male voice joined the already excited female voice, and a loud groan followed.

Are you fucking kidding me? I glared fiercely at the wall, as if an angry stare would stop this calamity. The thumping sound I'd heard earlier in the evening began to make sense. My neighbour had been playing music to drown out the bed-thumping sounds, but since it was now ridiculous o'clock, clearly he thought music was unnecessary.

Another loud groan sounded, then a screaming wail, followed by two more hard thumps. Then silence. I waited, not sure if the show was over. The seconds ticked away, and just when I thought it was safe to lay back down, the laughter started. A series of girly giggles, a low growl, and then a high-pitched squeal.

"No, no! Stop!"

Giggle.

"No. That's not fair."

Giggle. Laugh. Giggle.

"Oh!..oh...yes...oh, God, please."

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

And, I was done.

I wrenched the comforter off my bed and, slamming my bedroom door behind me, stormed into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. I didn't need this shit. What I needed was sleep.

I groaned, stretching my body and rolling over, I felt myself slide sideways, my hands ineffectually clutching for purchase as I hit the floor with a hard thud.

What the fuck?

Rolling onto my back, I turned my head to the side and took in my surroundings: armchair, Persian rug, coffee table, television. Sound system that had drowned out the low thumping that morphed into the hard pounding of my neighbour and his companion.

Oh, right. The reason I felt like my body was folded in two — why I was on my back on the floor of my living room.

My neighbour.

My loud, groaning, sex-having neighbour.

I wasn't jealous. No, jealous wasn't in my vocabulary. Sure, I might have been in a dry spell — divorce could do that to you — but jealous? No.

I was, however, pissed.

I had never been a great sleeper, usually tossing and turning, waking several times every night. But the first night I spent in my new home, I slept like the dead, hardly moving and not waking once. And I had done so every night since. Victorian architecture, it seemed, was exactly what I needed. That, and the weight of my cheating ex-wife lifted from my chest. Three months. Three months of quiet, of serenity, of total peace. Three months of calm, of me finally being able to breathe again.

And then in one night, it all came back.

I'd been out of town on a book signing tour. The last book I'd written was the third in a planned series of four and had been my biggest success so far. It had sent me across the globe to meet and greet and sign and smile and laugh with my avid readers. But it also made me wonder why my wife — my wife who loved the world-travelling lifestyle — didn't want to come with me. So, on the last leg of the tour, I decided to come home early and surprise her. And surprise her — and myself — I definitely did.

When I walked through the door of the home we'd shared for the last twenty-five years, I was greeted by the sight of my wife bent over the arm of our custom-made leather Chesterfield sofa, naked and being fucked by another man. A man who didn't have the decency to stop fucking her even when she saw me and cried out my name in surprise. No, instead of stopping, he groaned and finished, saying 'oh, sorry, mate,' as I turned and left the flat.

The tension, the anger, the picture of my ex-wife naked with another man, both groaning in the same fashion I had been subjected to last night all came flooding back. I thought I had put it out of my mind — or at least had started to — but clearly that wasn't the case. She still had that hold on me and that tiny grasp was still affecting every part of my life. My writing was suffering, I pretty much lived on coffee, and I had been living like a recluse for months.

My son had sent several messages while I was moving from hotel to hotel, but I had even been lax in responding to him, sending him the occasional message to let him know I wasn't dead. He had wanted me to live with him until I was settled, but I had refused. My life in general became a giant shit-show, and I didn't want to pull him and his family down with me. It hadn't been until I found my new flat that I began to see the clichéd light at the end of the tunnel.

But now, thanks to my neighbour, I felt like I'd taken another kick in the guts.

Kudos — serious kudos — to him for getting his rocks off, but honestly, did the entire building have to hear it? Did I have to hear it? And how the fuck did he not know that someone lived — and slept — on the other side of the wall he was rhythmically thumping his bed into?

But then, if it were me, would I care?

"Probably not," I answered into my empty flat and pressed my hands into my eyes. "But I would have fucked her so hard she wouldn't have been able to talk."

I chuckled, knowing that I sounded insane, which only made me laugh more.

This was what my life had become. I had been reduced to sleeping on my couch because my neighbour was doing exactly what I wanted to — shagging the fuck out of some bird.

I laughed again. Shag some bird. Riiiiight. I was really only fooling myself.

I wasn't ready. Twenty-seven years with the same woman; the woman I loved more than anything, the woman whom I had assumed when we made those vows, I would spend my entire life with. Those years weren't something to simply brush aside. Add to that the humiliation and hurt and I was wary beyond belief. And, believe it or not, truly uninterested in pursuing the opposite sex.

A few close friends had tried to do the set-up thing, one woman after another, none of whom even spiked a slight interest.

Yes, I had been separated from my ex-wife for almost a year and a half, and yes, my divorce had been finalised five months ago. And yes, I probably should move past it all, but every woman who approached me, every woman who said hello, every woman who simply smiled, threw up a giant red flag and I wanted to be as far away from them as possible. They thought I was crazy — my friends, that is — that I wasn't interested in finding someone new. But they didn't understand. They were all happily married, with wives who had been as disgusted with my ex-wife as I was.

But me? I was in no man's land. Bitter, angry, humiliated, not-having-sex, no man's land. And now no man's land included the floor of my new flat.

Dropping my hands from my face, I blew out a breath and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe I would just stay here. It was Wednesday and I had nowhere to be. The floor was as good an option as any.

Don't be fucking pathetic, I chided myself and sat up. I might not have anywhere to be, but I still had work to do.

Glancing over my shoulder, I looked at my laptop, sitting untouched by the window. My sleep may have improved, but my work was still suffering. I'd sat staring at the blank screen for hours, nothing decent enough to write down forming in my brain. A complete mess of ridiculous rubbish that just seemed to be replaying over and over in my head.

Write. Erase. Repeat.

It was all I could do. My agent, my editor, my publisher were all on my arse about getting the next book completed, but it was no use. My ability to write had all but left me, and my ramblings made no sense. The story was lost, and it seemed there was nothing I could do about it.

"Fuck," I swore into the empty room, standing and moving towards the counter that separated the kitchen and living room. I started the coffee machine and stood staring at the hallway that led to my bedroom while it brewed.

I listened carefully. The dull pounding of music I'd heard from my living room the previous night was silent, but that didn't mean much. I'd not been able to hear the steady thump against my bedroom wall while I'd been in my living room, so I was now certain the music had been used as a disguise to hide the wall thumping. My neighbour was clearly aware that he no longer lived alone on this floor — why else would he have been considerate enough to play music? — but obviously that consideration didn't extend to the wee hours of the morning.

Then the horrific thought of what if they were still at it occurred to me. I glanced at the clock; seven-fifteen a.m. Probably not. That'd be at least a six hour shagfest. Impressive, and not impossible, but I doubted it. I looked back at the doorway and cringed at the next thought that teased my brain. Maybe they were getting another one in before they left for work.

And, what if last night was the norm? What if my neighbour had been on holiday, or had a job that included travel and was away for months at a time, and what I had heard was a nightly occurrence?

"Fucking hell," I swore again. I should have gotten the fuck out of London, bought an estate in the country, and surrounded myself with silence. Becoming a full-blown recluse would have been a better option than the sound show I had been subjected to.

The coffee made a final gurgling noise indicating it was done, but I didn't move. Instead, I was far too concerned with the possibility that I would have to get accustomed to sleeping in my living room. A picture flashed through my mind of me having to turn my bedroom into my living room and my living room becoming my bedroom.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and shook my head. After months of searching — and living out of hotels — I thought I had finally found the perfect flat. No. I knew I had found the perfect flat. The quiet, the calm, the view from the windows. The private gardens themselves. Everything about this place was what I had been unknowingly looking for, and I hated the thought of all of it being ruined by my neighbour. I had been through enough sex-fueled antics to last a lifetime. I didn't need my new, perfect flat to be ruined by more.

I sighed.

Or I could stop being so fucking dramatic and invest in a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Shaking my head, I turned away from the hallway, pouring myself coffee and pushing away all thoughts of what my life might become. I was being ridiculous; it had probably been a one-night stand. The months prior had been blissfully silent.

A one-night stand on a Tuesday night? my traitorous brain, which seemed intent on torturing me, asked.

"Fuck," I swore once more and then laughed. I had been cursing at myself since I fell off my couch; maybe I was going insane.

I told myself to stop being a drama queen and finished my coffee before heading down the hallway and stopping outside my bedroom door. I paused, inhaling deeply and bracing myself for more moaning, and pushed the door open, wincing in anticipation.

Standing in the doorway, I waited, staring at my dishevelled bed and then at the wall, listening for any sounds that indicated the shagfest was still underway. But much to my relief, all was silent. Hopefully they were enjoying breakfast in a room far away from mine. Or, better yet, she left straight after the moaning and the screaming and the wall thumping.

I wasn't so old that I frowned upon random hook-ups, but I was old-fashioned in the sense that I had always liked the idea of being someone's someone, of having that kind of fun with just one person, of having things to share, of coming home to the whinging and bitching of how bad each other's day was.

And that was how my former wife and I had started — sharing and bitching — but of course, my blindness as to just how much fun she was having now made me look naïve and stupid.

But maybe even more naïvely and stupidly, I still wanted it. I still wanted that one person to share my life with, to wake up with and go to sleep with. Was I a romantic? Maybe. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and in my case it wasn't random hook-ups and wall-thumping sex with strangers.

I said a silent prayer to whomever was listening, thanking them for the silence this morning, and asking if this was indeed one of those fun hook-ups and I didn't have to move out of my new flat.

Hey neighbour,

I don't want to start off on the wrong foot, and I don't mean to be rude, but slamming doors at 1.30 in the morning is not cool. Please be a little more considerate. Your neighbours are sleeping.

I had taken a shower — a long, hot shower — in an attempt to pull the aches from my body after sleeping on my couch. I had, of course, spent many a night on various couches, but that was when I was nineteen — not forty-nine — and a struggling writer and didn't particularly care where I slept. But it had been an age since I'd slept anywhere but a bed, and I was now paying for it. And the fall to the hardwood floor hadn't helped.

But when I emerged. I was greeted with a note that had been shoved under my door.

I stared at it, not truly believing what I was seeing. Slamming doors. Not cool. Sleeping? Was this guy for real? I was surprised he had even heard my door slam in the wee hours of the morning, what with the moaning and the don't stops, and the constant thumping. But clearly, he had and was none too pleased about it.

"Fuck this bullshit." I scowled at the piece of paper and hastily scribbled a note of my own on the back.

Hey Neighbour,

I wouldn't have to slam doors at 1.30 in the morning if my sleep hadn't been disrupted by the wailing moans infiltrating my flat at the same time. Please be more considerate with your nighttime frivolity; maybe your neighbours AREN'T sleeping.

I yanked my door open intending to return the note to my neighbour, but the sight that greeted me in the hallway caused me to freeze in my tracks.

A female figure was heading down the hallway, away from my door. I was unable to see her face as she had the pink hood of her jumper pulled over her head. But that wasn't what got my attention. The tight yoga pants that showed off her perfect arse had my stomach clenching with a heated sensation that had been missing for longer than I could remember. I stared at her back — well, I stared at her arse — as she disappeared, humming happily as she bounced down the stairs. My mind was completely lost to my original intention of confronting my neighbour. If this was the view every morning, maybe I could put up with the sex antics every night.

I crumpled the note in my fist and retreated back into my flat, closing the door quietly and laying my palm flat against the wood. My heartbeat had picked up and a surge of adrenaline hit me. I hadn't felt like this in… well, years, if I was honest. And I hadn't even seen her face.

And then the feeling was gone in an instant. What if she had just been a one-night stand? What if I never saw her again? What if this woman was the one I was supposed to meet?

I raced to the window in the guest room, pressing my forehead on the glass and peering down at the street below. But I didn't see her. No pink hoodie. No hot arse in tight spandex. No possibility of seeing her face.

Fuck.

Disappointment surged through me. I wanted to see her face, wanted to feel her tight arse in my hands. Wanted to know if the rest of her was as tight—

I cut myself off mid-thought. I was lusting after the very same woman I wanted to murder last night, the woman who was the very reason I spent the night on my couch. The woman whose voice had been so desperate, so demanding, so wanton, that I instantly hated her.

And now, with one simple glance at her arse — her perfect, tight, spandex-covered arse — I wanted her in my bed, naked, and begging me to give it to her.

My hatred for my neighbour grew and I glared out the window, scowling at the street below, hoping that the bastard had left for the day and was walking past at that very moment.

"Fuck you, you bastard," I snarled down at the people passing by. For the first time since I walked in on my ex-wife fucking another man, I felt something for another woman. But, as if the universe hadn't been cruel enough, the one woman who actually stirred something inside me was already with someone else.

I shifted my gaze, glaring out over the rooftops and the city beyond, hating everyone who wasn't the woman leaving my arsehole of a neighbour's flat.

Then I caught sight of my reflection in the window. I looked like a crazed lunatic. I didn't know this woman, didn't even know what she looked like. In fact, I didn't even know what my neighbour looked like and I was hating him for enjoying his life.

I shook my head and turned back towards the doorway.

I was fucking pathetic.

And I needed to do something about it