A/N: Hello, everyone. I seem to say this at the beginning of every chapter, but I'm sorry it's been such a long time. I am also sorry for the lack of author's note in the last chapter. Not that they really say much, I suppose. But anyway. Stand by for ….

IN THE NOISE OF SORRY NIGHT

Chapter 8

Hermione had made a concerted effort to compose herself, after her breakdown in her room. She made herself go out after lunch, and walk about Diagon Alley. She wanted at least to be tired enough to sleep that night.

But she could not think of anything except that she had seen him, and that he had nearly kissed her. He had been so close, tantalisingly close, and he had been about to kiss her … and she had run away.

She had no idea whether she had done the right thing. Or even if there was a right thing. What would someone else have done? What would a clever, experienced Auror have done? What would Snape have done?

She didn't know. No one except them could possibly know. At the time there had been a moment when Hermione was ready to sink into his arms and let everything else sink away from them … and then she had remembered the dream. Had the dream happened precisely to stop her making the mistake of going back to him? If so, had someone planted it?

But this felt so wrong. Wandering aimlessly, in a daze, wand vaguely grasped in her pocket, alone. Without Lucius. For all she knew, he could be watching her, but she was too preoccupied to think about it.

Very clever, Hermione. You've wanted him for nearly a week. And you finally had him … and you ran away. Very, very clever.

Somewhere near the entrance to Knockturn Alley, she stopped. She stood still, and whispered: 'Lucius.'

She could feel him, almost as if he was there. She could picture him standing in front of her, against her, almost, so close … both burning with lust and red raw love. And she knew, absolutely, as utterly as she knew her own name, that he was not there, and that she had done the wrong thing.

She loved him. He loved her. They needed each other. They needed to be together.

Of course, she could go and find him. Beg for forgiveness, beg for him to have her. It was likely that he'd have her, too. Why, then, was her body standing so strongly against the idea?

She did not know. Perhaps it was Auror pride. And perhaps not. But then, what was it?

Not for the first time that day, Hermione's eyes began to fill with tears. It was all so hopeless.

Miserable and alone, she made her way back to the Leaky Cauldron, and ordered a large vodka.

*****

No one would believe that it had not taken Lucius a lot of effort to pretend to Hermione. It had needed all his self-control just to talk to her for that one minute, to be as scathing as he had, and still he had lost it. At the end.

It was lucky, in a way, that she had refused him.

And yet strangely, sadly, horribly not.

It had seemed that she had had to fight with herself to brush him off the way she had. Still, it stung; it struck Lucius deep, where it hurt. It hurt him the way it had hurt him when she had left that Friday morning.

He did not know what he was hoping for. Certainly not a happy couple, a blissful relationship, in a sickly sweet love. Certainly not that. It was war, and war meant suffering. If they were together, they would both suffer.

The question was, would they suffer more if they were apart?

*****

There was probably work Hermione should be doing, but she could not remember it. She needed to go and see if Snape's reply had arrived in her office – it probably had by now – but she could not bring herself to move. She sat, the room rather uneasy and rocking around her, drinking still more vodka. She had lost count of them.

Eventually she staggered to bed, too sleepy even to think about Lucius, and did not move until morning.

The next morning saw no change in Hermione's attitude. She woke with a throbbing headache and a searing heart, and could remember nothing of the previous night after her fourth vodka double. She wondered if maybe she should just go down to the bar again and carry on drinking. There was nothing pleasant to remember; it was better to forget.

But then she caught a sideways glance of herself in the mirror. Tired, dishevelled, dark-eyed, helpless. And she shook herself. This was not the Hermione Granger that had left Hogwarts. This was not the Hermione Granger that had studied so hard she had become an Auror faster than almost anyone ever had.

Hermione Granger would fight.

And so Hermione Granger lifted her chin, dressed, forced half a glass of water down her throat, cast a painkilling spell on herself, and went to the Ministry.

She spent all day working, speaking to no one. Very few people saw her entrance, and she did not leave her office. She did not stop for lunch. Moody's report had arrived, and she had to read it, evaluate it, think about its consequences. She had to write her own report for Dumbledore about Snape.

Of course, everything took her twice as long as usual. Her thoughts were almost constantly on Lucius, and at moments Hermione almost had to crowbar her mind away from him. But she was making progress, she knew. Certainly since yesterday. If she carried on working, she would get over it. If she drowned herself in paper, she would survive.

It was nearing six in the evening when Hermione noticed the envelope sitting in the basket under the letterbox.

She seized it and tore it open, her face flushing with excitement, the horrific possibility of it all, but the green lettering on the front told her immediately that it was not from Lucius. It was from Snape.

Miss Granger,

I confess I am curious about your need for the items you requested, and I suspect my rather idle guesses may not be far from the truth, but I should be able to brew the potions tomorrow night (Friday). I must therefore ask you to be slightly patient. I will contact you if there are any problems.

Severus Snape Hermione sighed, a little relieved. She would write to Snape and tell him she no longer needed the potions. If she had them, she would be tempted to use them. If she were forever thinking of ways to trick Lucius into revealing things, things which quite possibly were not even there, then she would never get over him. And now, after her rather horrific night of misery, she wanted to get over him. Professor Snape, In fact, I no longer need the items I requested. Thanks anyway. Hermione Granger Before she could change her mind, Hermione hurried down to the mail centre and sent off the letter. It was done. She was making progress.

She worked until late evening, and finally returned to the Leaky Cauldron at about ten, requesting a meal of roast lamb to be brought up to her in her room. Having eaten her fill, Hermione went decisively to bed with a Sleeping Potion, and slept.

The next day, she did much the same, but this time she made a conscious effort to eat properly. She found herself thinking less and less of Lucius, and when she did it was rather distant, rather faded, like something which had happened but which was now over, finished.

Of course, she went to Fudge and told him she had changed her mind. Naturally, he was quite relieved, although Hermione suspected his conscience would eventually catch up with him. He assigned her to be on patrol of wizarding London, on a shift basis. It was perfect. She was working part-time, and she could spend her free hours reading, talking to friends – Harry was coming back – and gathering her thoughts together, ready to face the world again like Hermione Granger did.

Days passed, and Hermione began to feel happier, healthier. It was sliding into March now, and the days were growing lighter. Yes. Things would be all right. She could live without him.

Changing her mind was becoming a bad habit with Hermione.

*****

Late one night, Lucius, half-drunk and thinking of Hermione, did not consider what the Dark Lord would say, or think, or do.

He knew what had to be done. Finally, he made his decision.

*****

Hermione returned from the Ministry in the evening after a meeting with Harry. He had returned the previous day, and they had had a lot to talk about. She'd explained about the investigation of Snape, and her resuming, and then abandoning once more, the investigation of Lucius. She said nothing of Phillippa. She said nothing of her misery and self-destruction.

Of course, Harry had asked her about Lucius. But she'd been pleasantly evasive, reminding him that she was an Auror and that it did not do to dwell. What a hypocrite you are, Hermione, she told herself afterwards.

But still, it was over.

Back in her room at the Leaky Cauldron – she was still staying there, although she was now looking for some sort of alternative accommodation – Hermione bathed, scrubbed a towel over her wet limbs and ordered some food. She was too tired to eat downstairs, and she had an early start tomorrow.

She was in bed and reading by ten o'clock by the glow of an oil lamp. Quivering shadows danced on the wall.

At thirty-one minutes past ten, Hermione cut off the supply to the lamp. It flickered into obsidian. She jerked her body down under the covers.

At thirty-eight minutes past ten, Hermione Granger fell asleep in the dark.

*****

A scrabbling noise woke her at seventeen minutes past two.

She opened her eyes. She froze, listening, trying desperately to see.

Someone was trying to open her window from the outside. There was a scratching, a tapping, soft and sharp.

Hermione snatched her wand from under her pillow and sat up. Her eyes were wide and stark, invisible in the black. She was trembling slightly.

The curtain twitched, and a shard of moonlight danced on the opposite wall. Hermione shook her hair from her face, waiting, pointing her wand directly at the window.

Then, just as a foot padded down onto the floor behind the curtain, Hermione leapt lightly onto the floor and said quietly: 'Don't move a muscle.'

The figure was a dim outline against the light outside, but it stood still.

Hermione twitched the curtain aside with a soft spell, and gasped.

'Lucius!'

Quickly she flicked her wand to the lamp and murmured: 'Incendio.' A sudden spark flooded the room with a grainy light.

'Hermione,' he said softly.

'What the fuck do you want?'

Lucius' eyes were sad, motionless, like before in the Ministry. His body was less stern, less stiff, and it almost sagged with what seemed like fatigue, but what Hermione knew – or hoped - to be something deeper. She lowered her wand and folded her arms over her silk nightdress.

'Please, just answer the question, Lucius. I'm bloody freezing with the window open.'

'I – I just -' Lucius broke off, and paused. 'I just wanted to – to see you.'

Hermione looked at his face, and then she knew.

Finally, suddenly, she knew.

'How can you just pretend?' Lucius asked brokenly. 'I've been watching you for a week, or more. How can you just pretend not to see me? Like it never happened?'

Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes. All the emotion, the anger, the lust, the – the love – that she had discarded and barred from her mind over the past days, flooded up, and threatened to engulf.

And then his arms were around her, and hers around him, and they were clinging onto each other with the curtains sweeping into the room, and his mouth was murmuring, warm, into her neck. 'Hermione … I've missed you …'

She pulled him to her, and he could not be close enough for anything. 'Lucius …' She was crying and whimpering into his shoulder.

'So you were pretending,' he sighed. 'I hoped so much you were … but why did you have to? I've wanted you all along …' He ran a hand over her hair, tousled with sleep.

Suddenly Hermione drew back, remembering. 'Was that why you slept with Phillippa diMarco?' she asked.

Lucius' eyes grew frightened. 'Hermione – I – it was …'

Hermione took a deep breath. 'You're not trying to tell me you didn't sleep with her, are you. You did.'

He nodded slowly, not meeting her eyes. 'Yes.'

'How - how can you criticise me for pretending?' Hermione snapped. 'I've been tearing my heart out inside, desperate for it all to end, wanting you so much – so much – and you've been fucking a seventh-year. Sauntering around with your hand on her cheek, buying her books, acting like everything's so fucking wonderful, and I haven't had a bloody clue what to do with myself. But never, not in a million years, would I have gone and slept with someone else!'

'So what did you do with Harry?' Lucius said coldly. 'Funny, isn't it, how you run to him at the first sign of trouble. I'm sure that wasn't the last thing on your mind, Hermione. Don't tell me you weren't at least considering going back to him.'

Hermione began to breathe faster. Now the anger and frustration was surfacing, and Lucius' attempt at the old blame shift trick was annoying her even more. 'He's a friend, Lucius. I went to him for comfort. And of course there was a possibility of that. He was my first lover. That's always going to be between us. But nothing happened – at least, not when Harry realised that I didn't want him. It's all finished.'

'So is everything with Phillippa and me!' Lucius protested. 'It was never really anything … she wants connections, and I was – well, I thought it'd be prudent to oblige … and she'd be quite an asset to …'

'To the Death Eaters?' Hermione said coldly. 'I see you're still eager to please your Master. Still a Death Eater at heart, then.'

Lucius raised an eyebrow. 'From what I remember, you rather like them bad, Hermione. First Draco, and now me …'

'Surely it'd be more of a compliment to say that I liked the Malfoy family,' Hermione retorted.

Then she sighed. 'I didn't want you because you're a Death Eater, Lucius. It was because I thought there was some decency in you even though you're one. You said you loved me. That'll touch anyone. Even if they regret it afterwards.'

'Do you regret it?'

Hermione considered. Then she said quietly: 'Yes, I do. I regret ever letting myself be hurt by you like this. I regret believing that you really did love me and that you wouldn't betray me. Yes, I wish it had never happened. We never should have.'

Lucius looked at her for a long time, saying nothing.

She remembered it all. She remembered his eyes boring into her like this before they had even started talking, let alone slept together. And she remembered how amazing it had felt when they had made love. She remembered the sudden, gasping, shooting pleasure that she had never before felt with anyone.

And then she remembered Phillippa.

'Why, Lucius?' she burst out. 'Why did you sleep with her? Until I saw you with her I was so in love with you. I wanted you so much … and you've destroyed everything.'

'It's my job, Hermione,' Lucius replied coolly. 'It's my job to sleep with women who might be useful.'

'She's not a woman, Lucius, she's a girl!' she exclaimed. 'Barely even an adult … but the younger the better for you, I suppose.'

A faint smile traced across Lucius' lips, before he banished it, and it fired her anger when she realised that her words were true, and he was lecherous, lustful, disloyal.

'Get out,' she snarled. 'Just leave me alone. Let me live out my live in peace.'

'Without me, Hermione?'

She turned away in disgust.

Suddenly there were footsteps, and his hands were on her waist again, his nose nuzzling her neck. Hermione turned to try to push him away, but the expression in his eyes made her gasp. There was a passion more intense rooted there, in the cool pools of silver, than anything she had thought possible. He breathed slowly, carefully, and every inch of him breathed desire.

'Are you really going to refuse me, Hermione?' he whispered. 'After all this? After … this?' He ran a finger down her jawbone, and then gently lifted her chin, and lowered his mouth to hers.

Hermione remembered their first kiss. That bruising, bitter, warm taste. She remembered their subsequent kisses, the completeness, the giving.

But she remembered nothing like this.

It was achingly teasing. His tongue ran over her lips in languid, easy strokes that set her whole body on fire. He was dominant now. Before, they had been equal, both in love with each other, but now there was uncertainty, and he was taking control.

It was better than what Hermione remembered. Gradually she opened her mouth to his, letting him ravage her as her emotions had, letting him bruise her. She wanted him to be master. She wanted him.

'No!' The words burst from her lips suddenly, and were unanticipated by both. She stumbled backwards, away from him, turning her body away, desperate not to have to meet his eyes.

'No, Hermione?' Lucius said softly. 'After everything … no?'

He stroked a hand down her hair, her bare shoulder, her waist, and she could feel him drawing closer behind her.

His mouth was by her ear. 'No?'

He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him. Hermione looked determinedly past him, refusing to look at him.

Lucius pushed her backwards, back down onto the bed, his weight resting on her, his breath heavy against her.

She could do nothing to resist him. Her whole body had turned to liquid, melting under him.

'No?'

What was there, she reasoned, that she could possibly do? He had her, and he would take her if she did not resist.

But would he rape her? Was there a way to force him to stop?

As soon as she had thought it, she pushed off the lust, and began to struggle with him, pressing her hands into his shoulders, forcing her weight upwards. 'Get – off – Lucius -'

But immediately he got up, his eyebrows raised. 'Don't be silly, Hermione. I'm not going to force you. You can't trick me into that. If you really don't want me, I'll go. The problem is … I think you do. And I'm not leaving until you tell me otherwise.'

'Fine,' Hermione snapped. 'Lucius, I don't want -'

His lips cut her off. Hot, heady, and so deliciously Malfoy.

Her resolve crumbled. She pulled him down to her. She let him take her.

The waiting was over.

*****

A/N: This is what you call one of these 'finally' moments, I suppose. About bloody time, too. Anyway, please review!

~SS~