"I will not be unmanned by my own son." A heated timbre underscored his usually cool voice.

His son grimaced, a lance of shame flashing behind eyes so like his own. "I'm hardly unmanning you, father," he began, but Lucius cut him short.

"In the eyes of Wizarding Britain that is exactly how it will appear. Lucius Malfoy retiring from the public sphere at the ripe old age of forty-five while his son, hardly an adult by any standard, takes his place." He pinched the bridge of his nose as his vision threatened to haze scarlet with bitter rage.

"Father, I know this is difficult, but it is for the good of the family." Draco laid a hand beside his own on the gleaming table. "The family name is in shambles and few will stand for you retaining your place on the board for Hogwarts, let alone the seat on the Wizengamot. It is… relatively well-known that I did not join or participate in the Death Eaters with any excitement." Now the shame hit Lucius, a reminder of his failings layered over one another, the greatest against his own son. "I might be able to garner sympathy enough to retain a measure of our place. I hardly want to do this; I am wildly unprepared, but that is why I need you onboard. Please, father."

"So I am the villain to be hidden away." It was his own doing.

"In time perhaps…" Draco's shrug was not at all reassuring and the fire Lucius retained behind a veil of icy coolness threatened to overcome it.

Had he not lost enough? His wife had left him in favor of her family home now hers as the sole surviving Black, his son run ragged before his own eyes, his dignity stripped away, and now he would not be able to use the acumen that had bettered his family in the past.

And he knew what that shrug meant. Lucius Malfoy was a pariah.

He allowed a calming breath to return his cool visage and nodded. "Very well; I will remain here like a specter as you manage the family business on the public front. However, we will need to discuss matters in the evenings. You'll be home for dinner unless there is an event-"

The boy's eyes flinched and Lucius fell silent, lifting a brow in question. "I'll be staying at the Black Estate with mother."

"And why is that? She has house elves to assist her should she need them, and she is a capable enough woman."

"She's all alone in her childhood house." Lucius could read each emotion as they danced across his face to the tune of his words. "She needs someone there; that house may as well be haunted for her otherwise."
And there it was. Now he was truly losing his son. "Am I not alone here without your presence?"

"Well, there's Granger."

He scoffed. "Granger? That timid little excuse for a lion that pitter-patters through the manor at odd hours in an effort to avoid me?What lively company."

"She's dealing with quite a lot at the moment. Be patient with her, and dare I say, try to be kind. Her world has been turned upside down so many times I am surprised she doesn't try walking on the walls rather than the floor."

"Need I remind you, Draco, that she and I are hardly compatible dinner companions?" His interactions with her flashed through the icy slate of his mind and his lip curled in disgust. There had once been a fire to the girl, something he'd glimpsed only embers of in the wake of the battle. Perhaps only ashes remained.

"Just try. Please?" Draco lifted his cloak. "I'll see you in a few days."

As his son left Lucius resisted the urge to throw his tumbler against the wall beside the door, then dropped into his wingback chair and downed the scotch instead.

Hermione was staring at her knees where the bobbed above the steaming surface. Her skin was flushed from the heat and scrubbing them nearly raw. It seemed no matter how many passes of the lathered flannel she made the prickling filth would not diffuse from her flesh.

She'd lain in bed some hours before finally relenting, chased from her bed by the dreams that had woken her with their shadows deeper than the pre-dawn morning. She wanted to be clean, to wash away the sweat and memories of his touch skittering gooseflesh over her body.

It wasn't enough. Nothing seemed to give relief. Over the scant two weeks since she'd been foisted upon the Mr. Malfoy, Hermione tried a multitude of ways to remove the splinters Dolohov had left in her soul, but she couldn't scratch deeply enough.

She dreaded the upcoming day and the night it would lead into as the creeping feeling beneath her skin was growing. The memories were bad enough, but the dreams often featured so much more than the horrors. Often they mixed nauseatingly with the strokes to her core and fire at her mouth. She'd wake tangled in her sheets and panting on the edge, sobbing with frustration at how close she was. Then ice would cascade over her at the realization and she'd be disgusted with herself.

It stood to reason, she figured to herself, that these dreams would come. Dolohov had awoken her sexuality as unwilling as she'd been. Moreover, it should not surprise her that certain sensations even in memory would twist her reactions.

Still, her storm of feelings whirled around until she was bending in the breezes and ready to snap free at the barest touch.

Ungrounded.

Hermione had attempted grounding exercises of different varieties, but neither the yoga her parents had done nor the breathing exercises she'd learned to manage her neuroticism helped. Instead they made her itch with desire to run. They were too slow, too still. The closest she came to peace seemed to be her baths, but the anxiety was closing in there as well.

Frustrated, she emptied the bath, watching with jealousy as the whirlpool pulled water down and away, then proceeded to dry herself. She wanted to hurl something; she wanted to be hurled.

At that thought she did something she hadn't done since she'd had tantrums as a toddler; Hermione slammed her fist into the meat of one thigh.

That snapped the band around her heart and she let loose a volley, the steady thudding pounding along with her pulse until her fists were sore and red. Her thighs ached, swollen where she'd hit and tender to the touch. They'd bruise.

Good.

Hermione dressed and made her way down to the dining room.

A/N:

Welcome to the sequel to Azael's Chains! I've had some things going on and been unable to write much lately, but finally started again.

This will be a story about dealing with PTSD in perhaps not the most healthy of ways considering the history and situation. As someone who has PTSD and participates in BDSM, I am going to try and portray the nuances.

Neither Malfoy is a good guy necessarily; Draco is grey at best and somewhat of a coward, but he's trying. Lucius Malfoy is just seething quietly in his manor.

ANYWAY, I only have two chapters so far and the first is quite short as I'm just starting to get into it. No promises on comment responses, but know that I read and adore every one of them.