A/N: Abounding gratitude for Elle Morgan-Black and suliswrites for their beta brilliance for this chapter.


Lucius kept a close, careful eye on the cheeky girl as she interacted with her former peers. It was cocktail hour at the Villa, the evening sun still high in the sky, and the younger guests had gravitated towards the bars at both ends of the central court–naturally–whilst the older generations occupied the terrace immediately above.

The traditional peristylium was bordered by a gallery of ornamental Composite columns of enchanted verde marble, with a bewitched saltwater fountain pool spanning the full length of the expansive square exceeding more than a quarter of a mile. Magical bronze sculptures of fauna native to this part of Tuscany leisurely grazed the flower gardens, berry bushes, and shrubbery, as the limestone Hellenistic figure studies of muses preened themselves beneath dense pomegranate and lemon trees, silently flirting with their new admirers.

It had been far too long since Lucius had returned to Villa Olimpo. These ancient marbled halls, constructed during the peak of the Roman Empire, held the vast majority of the few pleasant memories he could recall from early childhood.

But never before had the estate looked quite as magnificent as it did with the presence of a certain petite little witch with big golden-brown curls, who seemed to elevate her surroundings from merely beautiful to positively breathtaking with every smile she deigned to offer.

It had required strict occlumency concentration for Lucius to regain control over the unbefitting spark of rage that had arisen in direct response to the overly familiar–though admittedly, not technically improper–way the little chit had greeted his son. But once he'd banished the anger, determined not to lower himself to a jealous fit of temper over something as innocuous as a social kiss, he could finally observe the surprising way Hermione behaved at a formal gathering.

The girl was a force to behold.

He'd already known she possessed a uniquely sophisticated disposition for her age, an elegant worldliness that suggested she'd been raised by her muggle parents not just with means, but with a truly native fluency in savoir faire. So while he certainly expected her to conduct herself amongst pureblood nobility appropriately, he hadn't anticipated that Hermione would actually manage to go so far as to charm everyone around her.

She was as graceful in her movements as she was in her conversation, politely subduing every snake that would think to look down upon her with keen intellect, good natured wit, and youthful curiosity. She was a gentle social butterfly, attractive and inviting, commanding attention not through aggressive overtures, but through benign affability.

She may have been a muggleborn, but Hermione carried herself with the poise of a sacred pureblood.

Potter remained dutifully by her side like a lieutenant, perhaps befitting the upbringing the boy had been forced to endure as the Dark Lord's primary target. Lucius had witnessed small notions of idealistic valour in The Boy Who Cheated Death upon their first official meeting when Potter was twelve, but it wasn't until that ignominious blunder at the Department of Mysteries that Lucius fully acknowledged that the chosen halfblood truly possessed a soldier's disposition. He was recklessly brave. Sentimentally self-sacrificing.

And, in dire need of direct orders.

It was a well-known fact even amongst Death Eaters that Hermione was the primary source of intelligence and stratagems for the triumphant Golden Trio, attributed largely to the prodigious magical aptitude she had demonstrated even as a child. But as Lucius scrutinised the way Potter still deferred to the girl for tutelage, the way he stood at the ready to defend her like a protective brother, Lucius realised that Hermione was far more than the hidden "brains" of Potter's success.

Hermione was Potter's success.

Lucius wasn't certain if it was simply her natural maturation after surviving a war, Cressida's professional guidance, or even some unknown aspect of her omega nature at work, but something in Hermione had…softened, paradoxically rendering her more powerful. Daresay irresistible. She was no longer the self-righteous, temperamental, foot-stomping little bint from all those years ago at Flourish & Blotts, desperate to prove herself amongst wizardingkind. She was a precocious young woman, controlled and dignified, her influence rightfully earned and respected, instead of forced.

And unlike the doltish Weasley spawn who had distanced himself from his friends to garishly assert his uninvited presence at the soirée with as much subtlety and refinement as a mountain troll, Hermione waited for others to come to her and her bespeckled guard hound with a warm regality befitting a monarch. She was demure, but she certainly wasn't shy.

He was keen to witness how she would interact with the foreign dignitaries that would be arriving on the morrow for the formal ball. If she conducted herself this well with international stateswizards, then Lucius strongly suspected this brightest witch, this war heroine, had the makings of quite the formidable future politician within her. With the right mentorship, financial backing, and sponsored ingratiation into high pureblood society, a witch like her could very well become Minister one day.

My brilliant, clever, beautiful girl…

"Lucius, my love," Narcissa called sweetly. She slinked towards him with a sultry smile that didn't reach her glacier blue eyes before lowering her sylphlike body onto his lap. "Let the children have their party. I'm sure everything is fine down there."

She crossed her long legs, placed her hand on his chest, and quieted her voice. "And for Merlin's sake, stop bloody staring at Miss Granger like some besotted mooncalf. Have you forgotten you're supposed to be convincing the public that you haven't fucked her?"

"Temper yourself, my dear, we're amongst company," Lucius purred pleasantly, smiling at his wife with the kind of fondness that would convince even the greatest sceptics that they were helplessly in love.

Narcissa and he were experts with appearances, after all.

Narcissa fluttered her magically extended gold-flecked eyelashes, playing her role of a doting wife with faultless grace, laughing coquettishly as she indulgently urged her nearly fully exposed breasts against his chest.

When she spoke again, it was through her teeth. "You will keep your hands to yourself this weekend, Lucius Abraxas. Do you understand me?"

Lucius chuckled as he squeezed the bare curve of her slim waist, exposed from the cutout design of her ribbon of a gown. "More than twenty years of marriage and you're still foolish enough to believe you have any say over where I choose to place my hands. Jealousy is rather unbecoming, wife."

"Foolish husband." Narcissa released a breathy sigh, softly tutting. "Not only are you still arrogant enough to believe that I actually care whether you find me becoming, but you're also stupid enough to believe I'd harbour jealousy over someone like Miss Granger. She's a child, Lucius–"

"She's of age–"

"A plain, unremarkable, mudblood little girl."

For the briefest of moments, Lucius faltered, before tightly schooling his features back to that of a wizard in love to appease the prying gossips around them. "Careful, dear. Miss Granger is the reason we're not in Azkaban. You'd be wise to mind your barbs against her."

"I'll call the whore whatever I'd like. She's been fucking my husband–in my home," Narcissa cooed prettily. "This is our son's birthday. I will not have you ruining this weekend for him with your urges. You will stay away from the girl, and keep your cock in your trousers."

"And if I don't?" Whilst he had no interest in causing a spectacle, and fully intended to play his part in Cressida's strategy long enough to protect Hermione's reputation and disabuse all suspicion against her–and of course, himself–that did not mean he would needlessly suffer celibacy with the delectable demoiselle right under his holiday roof. He could smell the sweet musk of her arousal the moment they'd made eye contact upon her arrival at the Villa, necessitating the immediate erection of his occlumency shields–before an alternate erection could occur.

Her heat may have been over, but he still had the innocent girl in his thrall.

And Lucius had far more wicked games he wished to play with his nubile omega toy.

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully, softly smoothing her fingers through his hair before raking her lacquer-tipped nails harshly against his scalp. "You'd be wise to remember I was a Black before I was a Malfoy, Lucius."

"Are you attempting to threaten me, darling?" Lucius placed a soft kiss on her pulse point, just above the weblike lattice of cabochon blood rubies dripping down her neck. "I may very well fuck the girl this weekend just to see your reaction."

"Don't be vile, you wouldn't dare–"

"I had her in your apartments at the Manor. Did I mention that?"

Narcissa's bright smile cracked into a furious grimace, and a twitch formed in her left eye.

It was quite remarkable how quickly such a small change, a mere tick, could take his beautiful wife's perfect face from gorgeous to ghastly.

"I don't believe you. You're lying–"

"Am I?" Lucius taunted smugly, relishing the way Narcissa visibly struggled to restrain her fury. Her alabaster skin was reddening, her overly wide smile strained and quivering.

His wife was far too easy to provoke.

Lucius softly brushed his lips against the shell of her ear, a gesture that would appear to all onlookers a sign of deep lust for the blonde witch. "I apparated Miss Granger right into your private chambers. I tied her to your bed, and buried my tongue so deep in her sweet little cunt she spent herself all over your linens–"

"You disgusting pig! I ought to cast a Scourgifyuponyour soiled mouth–"

"What's the matter, darling? I thought you enjoyed hearing about all of the filthy things I've done to this mudblood little girl. How I've defiled her. How I've stretched her tight pussy open with my cock. How I've made her scream. Isn't that why you brought Draco here in the first place? So I could pursue the girl unencumbered?"

He could tell he'd pushed the outer limits of her control when his wife prepared to strike him, but at the last moment, she lowered her shaking hand and remembered where she was.

Averting her gaze, she eyed his half-finished tumbler of firewhisky, snatched it from his grip, and tossed back the entirety of its contents without pausing to breathe.

Licking her plum-painted lips, she idly flung the empty glass behind her shoulder for an elf to invisibly collect in the mere seconds before the fine dragonfire crystal could shatter on the floor. She then pressed herself against him tightly, her mouth hovering just above his. "I can tolerate my husband raping a mudblood. Her kind is a threat to ours, and I will support all endeavours to ensure that she and all those like her know their rightful place is beneath us. Take her unwillingly a hundred times–a thousand times–for all I care. But do not disgrace our family by taking her as a lover."

"Fucking hell, witch, enough with the evangelistic fervour." He was nowhere near intoxicated enough to listen to one of Narcissa's garrulous homilies. Only her mad sister and the Dark Lord himself had exceeded his wife's zealous verbosity on matters of blood purity.

He may have been a Death Eater, but Lucius had little patience for religious sermons.

Lucius Malfoy was pious for no one.

On a slow exhale, he continued, "We lost the war. The Dark Lord has perished. It's over. Either we adapt to this new order, or we go to Azkaban."

"And this is what you call yourself doing with Miss Granger? Adapting?" Narcissa scoffed. "What kind of Malfoy–no, what kind of alpha–crawls on his knees and sniffs between a mudblood's legs–"

"Careful, Cissy–"

"A dog, Lucius. That's what you are. You're a feral dog with a bone. A bone I will bury so deep you'll never find her again if you dare to cross me this weekend."

Lucius maintained strict command over his countenance, directing all of his wrath to a highly specific location tightly beneath his iron occlumency shields, but the alpha within raged at the threat against his omega like a caged horntail shooting fire at its captors. Dropping his voice, Lucius coldly warned, "If you harm one hair on Miss Granger's head I will curse you to a madness so devastating you'll be begging to join your dead sister in Hell."

"Empty threats don't suit you, darling," Narcissa replied, unbothered. "We both know you can't cast a dark curse on me without also cursing yourself. Or has shagging an overly hormonal teenager made you forget that part of our marriage vows? My dog has no bite."

Lucius didn't immediately answer, but simply glowered at Narcissa with a silent promise of vengeance that rapidly caused the hubristic witch's boastful simper to fall to panic.

When he spoke again, his tone was as dark and unforgiving as his intent. "I'm well aware of our vows, wife. Just as I'm well aware that I am the only one who can irrevocably break them."

Narcissa gasped, gazing upon him in horror.

Checkmate.

"You wouldn't do that to me." Narcissa could no longer maintain her façade, and there was pure terror in her eyes. "I am your wife. I am the mother of your only son. You wouldn't dare shame me with such indignity, condemn me to such a horrid fate–"

"Try my patience, witch."

Narcissa gaped at him in disbelief, slowly shaking her head as if in a daze.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the Goyles were approaching.

"Now continue to play your part as a gracious host, and I shall do the same. It is our son's birthday, and we shall celebrate him accordingly."

Narcissa silently seethed, appearing mere moments from violently detonating, so Lucius added a gentlewizard's concession. "And you have my word as your husband, any interactions between myself and Miss Granger shall remain…discreet."

Whilst not as powerful as an Unbreakable Vow, he could still feel the runes carved upon his bevelled platinum, emerald, and black diamond wedding band sharply warming in reaction to his solemn asseveration. Narcissa slowly extended her left hand in response, and the massive, spherical diamond that sat atop a platinum, silently screaming Medusa sparkled with a blinding new fire. The emerald-eyed serpents of the metallic Gorgon's mane hissed and slithered, before coiling around the full length of Narcissa's slender finger.

The ancient epithalamic magic they shared as husband and wife had activated.

With full sincerity, Lucius concluded, "I am a gentlewizard–you need not fear me embarrassing you this weekend. As my wife and mother of my only child, you shall be afforded the proper consideration befitting your…respected position."

After a few moments, Narcissa tightly nodded in resignation.

Shifting upon his thigh to face him fully, she produced a whimsical smile, and spoke with dulcet tones. "Go fuck yourself, Lucius."

Lucius deeply chuckled and kissed her diamond. "Fuck you too, darling."

He lightly tapped Narcissa's hip, encouraging her to untangle herself as he stood to greet two of his oldest acquaintances.

Insolently, Narcissa spoke first, her saccharine voice dripping with thinly veiled distaste. "Sir Goyle. Madam Goyle. We're so pleased to have you with us this weekend."

Samara Goyle reacted immediately to his wife's disingenuity, and performed a half-hearted witch's curtsey–barely socially acceptable, and nowhere approaching the deferential ceremony Hermione had offered his wife earlier that day. The proud, dark-haired witch had always been reluctant to supplicate herself before figures she deemed unworthy–the Dark Lord included. "Lady Malfoy. We were so pleased to receive your invitation."

"Indeed–not even probation can keep us from the young lord's eighteenth birthday," Grayson Goyle added pleasantly. "And I must say, Narcissa, it's as if the war never happened for you. You're more radiant than ever, my dear."

"Yes, you most certainly are!" Samara concurred with exaggeration. "Why, if your skin were any more flawless one might suspect you of bathing in the blood of virgins, Cissy darling."

Narcissa's smile didn't waver, but there was an unmistakable frost in her eyes directed at Samara.

Lucius and Grayson shared a familiar, weary look.

"No virgin blood, I assure you," Narcissa eventually responded with a haughty sneer. "I simply eat well, avoid the sun, and of course, I apply enchanted skin caviar sourced from Switzerland."

"Well you're positively ageless," Samara acknowledged, not unkindly. "Skin caviar certainly agrees with you."

Narcissa's lips pursed in a patronising smirk. "It can be quite expensive–perhaps it's something you might budget for in the future, given your family's unfortunate financial situation. It would be a tragedy for a face as lovely as yours to remain buried beneath unsightly signs of age–and so prematurely for our kind, too!"

Lucius rolled his eyes with a slow sigh, unamused by his wife's incivility. There was a time and place for directly flaunting their wealth in front of those inferior, but this was assuredly not it. The bond of one million galleons Lucius had been compelled to offer the Ministry to ensure his family remained out of Azkaban whilst awaiting trial was but a singular droplet in the oceanic Malfoy vaults. That same sum, however, had completely drained the Goyles of their liquid assets.

There was simply no need to boast in front of Grayson and Samara. They were not appropriate targets, for their profound financial ruin was no secret.

Also, they were friends–most of the time.

Their inferior rank–both in society and with the Dark Lord–was the only quality that had afforded them the slightest advantage over the Malfoys in this post-war world. The Goyles had been granted probation and movement privileges immediately upon payment of their bond.

In order to be awarded the same allowances for his family, Lucius had practically needed to bribe Kingsley Shacklebolt that night over dinner with sizable campaign donations and reconstruction grants–funds that had only been accepted due to Hermione's preliminary written testimony.

Samara's catlike absinthe eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, her striking features steadily sharpening, so Lucius chose to intervene before this inane encounter could escalate any further. "Darling, why don't you go and offer our condolences to the Crabbes whilst I visit with the Goyles," Lucius instructed Narcissa. "I suspect Vince and Hilde have been so very distraught after the death of young Vincent."

"But of course, my love," Narcissa replied, kissing the corner of his mouth. "So lovely to see you Samara. Grayson."

Once Narcissa vanished to the opposite end of the terrace, Samara abandoned the charade of propriety with an irritated groan. "I still can't believe you married that ice queen, Lucius."

More humoured than affronted, Lucius replied, "Not all of us can be as fortunate as the pair of you, Sam." He guided the couple to a somewhat secluded quartet of silk chaise lounges.

"Fortunate?" Grayson snorted. "I can't stand the bloody sight of this maddening wench half the time."

Samara immediately quipped, "And I abhor the sight of this boorish ogre twice as much."

Grayson appeared offended for all of two seconds before his broad, stern face split into a pointed grin. "Gods I love you, incorrigible witch."

Samara's sharp cheekbones darkened with flush, and she planted a long, indulgent kiss upon her husband's waiting mouth. "And I you, infuriating wizard."

It was with no shortage of begrudgingly acknowledged envy that Lucius watched the lovers sharing hushed, heated whispers, Samara playfully tickling her burly wizard's chestnut beard as Grayson caressed his witch's golden skin. Betrothed well before Hogwarts, the Goyles were nothing short of a miracle of a pureblood marriage, having managed to achieve that ever-elusive concept of love as fifth and sixth-year students.

Even more astoundingly, both Grayson and Samara were alphas, each having willfully presented at seventeen. It defied all laws of reason and nature for them to function as well as they did as a couple, for they were innately magibiologically incompatible, predestined for mutual hostility.

And whilst they bickered like the fiercest enemies, their devotion to each other was tangible. They moved in exacting tandem like warriors, male and female halves of an otherwise identical army.

Lucius cleared his throat, only partially annoyed by their amorous display. "My friends…you're more than welcome to retire to your regular chambers if you're incapable of controlling yourselves."

They dislodged their wet snogging, but remained unashamed in their affections.

"Apologies," Grayson remarked–unapologetically. He casually swiped his thumb across his mouth, removing Samara's sheen. "Nothing gets the blood boiling quite like the scent of a fresh omega."

Hermione is mine, you thrice-damned son-of-a-whore–

"Calm yourself, Lucius, before you succumb to an apoplexy. Grayson only jests," Samara teased, noticing Lucius's sudden flare of temper. "It's been obvious since the final battle that you have designs on the Granger girl. Rest assured, we won't interfere."

Lucius scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about–"

"Don't play the fool, Malfoy, my patience for willful imbecility has been long exhausted by my idiot son, bless him," Grayson interrupted with a perplexing combination of fondness and disdain. "We could all smell her presenting that night."

Lucius feigned incredulity, but mentally tried to recall just how many alphas mature and powerful enough to detect Hermione's debut pheromones had been present in the Great Hall that night. Of all the defecting elder alpha followers of the Dark Lord–apart from himself, Samara, and Grayson–William Nott likely would have noticed the girl too, considering his advanced age. Perhaps even Vince Crabbe, though he may have been grieving his son's death so heavily he wouldn't have reacted to the girl's bouquet.

Lucius waved his hand dismissively. "That means nothing–"

"You're the only one who went after her," Samara noted.

Lucius glared at Samara. "Just what are you insinuating? That I would be foolish enough to try and fuck a muggleborn omega on Hogwarts grounds mere hours after the Dark Lord fell, with the immediate threat of Azkaban looming over my family?"

Don't you dare say yes.

"Merlin, there's no need to be so bloody theatrical," Grayson clipped. "If you say nothing happened, then nothing happened."

"Thank you."

"So, you wouldn't mind if…we get to know her better, then?" Samara mused suggestively.

Oh, for fuck's sake…

Lucius's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Pardon?" Even Grayson seemed surprised by his wife's boldness.

The witch at least had the decency to feign reticence as she addressed her husband. "It's been so long since I've watched you dominate a submissive witch, love. But to watch you dominate an omega? It's a fantasy I never thought could come true. And we have a ripe one…right here for plucking."

Lucius wanted to hex the licentious leer right off of Grayson's face. "You know I only have eyes for you, Sam. But would that turn you on, my darling?"

Samara eagerly nodded, her eyes wide and excited as she absently puckered her rouged lips. "She may be a mudblood, but she is rather pretty. And so tiny, too! I'd love nothing more than to watch my big, strong alpha husband discipline that petite little witch until she squeals like the swine she is."

Say one more foul word about my omega you vulgar cunt–

"Perhaps it would be prudent not to proposition a teenaged war heroine the weekend of my son's birthday," Lucius scolded, warring to ignore not only the violent ire that managed to seep beyond his occlumency shields, but also the flare of self-disgust at the reminder of the girl's age.

Merlin, did Hermione have to be so bloody young?

Grayson remarked, "He has a point, Sam." Disappointment began to edge across his beloved wife's face, and the wizard added in a rush: "I love nothing more than granting you pleasure, my heart…but she and Potter are testifying on behalf of all of us. Miss Granger is quite young, she might not welcome our advances–it would be wise not to offend the girl before our trial."

"So you'll seduce her after, then?" Samara asked hopefully.

Like fucking hell you will.

"If the girl is amenable, and it is indeed your wish. You know I can't deny you anything."

I'll Avada you both before I let you touch her.

Lucius abruptly stood and stormed to the terrace balcony, not even bothering to offer a word of departure as Samara leapt into her husband's arms for more lustful pursuits. He scanned the youths below, searching for Hermione amongst the other children as hot blood furiously billowed through his tense body.

He finally spotted her in a far corner, tugging his son by the wrist onto an open floor mosaic where spectators were beginning to gather. She pointed her wand at the magical gramophones in the courtyard, casting an unfamiliar enchantment, and suddenly, a blaring, repetitive melody–tasteless muggle pop music, undoubtedly–began to echo across the peristylium.

All eyes were on the omega as Hermione's hips began to rhythmically swing from side to side, her sweet, friendly gaze directed at an openmouthed Draco, whose own gaze slipped appreciatively down to the girl's bouncing breasts each time she turned her head.

Merlin's bollocks, control yourself, son!

The hormonal boy never could resist a voluptuous set of tits on a pretty witch.

Hermione proceeded to captivate his son–and progressively more guests–as she began to move in a series of confounding gestures involving the routine extension and contraction of her arms. The movements would have appeared awkward on anyone else.

But on Hermione, the bizarre dance in time with equally bizarre music was wholly hypnotic.

Lucius curiously watched as guests followed her movements one by one, until all were performing in unison in this peculiar ritual, as if it had been previously rehearsed. This was no graceful waltz or spirited wizard's quadrille, or any other respectable dance Lucius was familiar with.

Yet Hermione had enraptured her audience all the same.

When Hermione placed her hands on her tiny waist, shimmying her rounded hips and flipping her voluminous hair as she flirtatiously lowered to the floor in an overtly sensual motion that looked like she was slowly taking a cock deep in her body, Lucius's occlumency shields finally cracked. It was as if a dam burst, for his consciousness was positively flooded with a magmatic deluge of rage.

Your arse is mine, Omega.

Shaking with anger as sparks of magic spontaneously discharged from his wand hand, Lucius apparated down to the courtyard and charged towards the brazen little chit who seemed intent on driving him to madness. The intoxicating scent of her pheromones was strong in the air, undetectable to the hapless betas immediately surrounding her–yet each one was visibly enthralled under her omega spell.

You're playing a dangerous game, little girl.

Scowling, he approached her with near-murderous intent, temples pulsing and nostrils flaring, uncaring of the way guests fearfully abandoned their dance upon witnessing his glowering pursuit.

He would drag the girl by the hair kicking and screaming if he had to. He'd strip her, take her over his bloody knee and spank her arse, and fuck her right here in the courtyard for all to witness. He would demonstrate to each one of these salivating boys–including his own bloody son–that Hermione had already been claimed by an alpha man.

He no longer cared what in Merlin's name a mock-err-reign-err was.

The omega needed to be punished–now.

"Miss Granger," Lucius hissed darkly. "Is thishow mudbl–muggleborns–conduct themselves at formal affairs?"


"You look like you could use a drink, 'Mi," Harry mentioned, eyeing Hermione with concern. "Why don't you take a break from all of the…talking."

Hermione smiled weakly and nodded, swallowing hard to moisten her admittedly very dry throat.

"Preemptively discouraging conversation about my hormones is indeed exhausting work," Hermione admitted. "Would you mind getting me a glass of wine, Harry?"

"I'll get you two," Harry joked kindly.

Hermione watched Harry confidently stroll to the bar on the opposite end of the court, noting with interest that he caught the interest of several giggling witches. Her friend was polite, shy even, with his flirtatious admirers, but when the eldest Greengrass sister made a point to introduce herself with elegantly feminine overtures, Harry began to blush in the same way he used to react to Ginny.

This was interesting. Hermione hadn't actually seen or spoken to Ginny since that horrible day at The Burrow, but as far as she was aware, she and Harry were still together.

…Weren't they?

Resolved to ask Harry about it upon his return, Hermione secluded herself in a small gazebo shaded by climbing grape vines, partially concealing her from the rest of the party. An enchanted bronze fawn sculpture approached on adorably awkward too-long legs, nuzzling her palm with an excitedly wagging tail before its interest was captured by a butterfly.

Hermione lowered herself onto the steps of a glittering marble fountain as the fawn chased its colourful winged playmate. She rubbed her temples and took several deep breaths, but now that she was alone–and no longer forced to perform–the self-doubt she'd consciously banished all evening began to overtake her. Cressida had rightly advised that scrutiny and judgement would be more acute than ever, and that the only way to control all narratives about her would be by taking the initiative and asserting herself head-on–with grace.

Hermione had summoned memories of all of the lessons on social etiquette in polite society her mother had given her as a child, everything from proper posture–shoulders relaxed and back straight, Hermione love–to acceptable hand gestures–small and graceful, dearest, you are a little lady, not a boxer–to ideal topics of conversation–my brilliant daughter, let's not discuss infectious disease over tea and biscuits-tell me about that new biography on Catherine the Great you're reading instead. Hermione had thought those lessons tedious and dull as a little girl–and dreadfully anti-woman as a young teenager–but now, she couldn't deny that her mother's tutelage had served her well in navigating this den of gilded snakes.

The efforts, however, had proven to be simply exhausting.

She wasn't this girl naturally.

"Granger?"

Hermione's head snapped up at the sound of Draco's uncharacteristically timid voice. She hadn't even noticed him slouching on a nearby stone bench, he was so thin and motionless.

Evidently, her respite was over.

Forcing a pleasant smile, Hermione tentatively approached the younger Malfoy. "Why aren't you out enjoying your party?"

"I think my guests are more interested in you than me," he responded flatly. "Mother only began to receive confirmations of attendance upon your acceptance."

Hermione sharply inhaled. "Malfoy, I–"

"It's fine," he interrupted dismissively. "Being ignored is far superior to being reviled."

Hermione had an impulse to walk away, and continue to work towards her primary objective of disabusing all offensive gossip about her designation. Draco wasn't her friend, which meant he wasn't her problem. He'd bullied her for years–she didn't owe him anything.

But a quiet, disdainfully sentimental voice reminded her that she had agreed to attend this party at his father's behest a week ago–for the sole purpose of extending kindness to a boy who was painfully suffering.

In that moment, Draco reminded her of her younger self–isolated and alone.

And desperate for friendship.

"No one reviles you." Hermione carefully sat down next to him. "Besides, even if they did…since when does the Malfoy heir care what people think?"

She'd tried to use humour to appeal to his famously pompous pride, but to her chagrin, this seemed to make Draco feel worse.

His pale, sad eyes, a lovely rainlike hue somewhere between Lucius's scintillating silver and Narcissa's vibrant aquamarine, began to cloud.

Acting on impulse, Hermione placed a soft hand on his bony, raised shoulder.

"Get back to the party, Granger." His words were curt, but he made no motion to physically dismiss her.

Hermione calmly replied, "I'm staying."

"Why?"

"Because…I don't think you should be alone right now."

He didn't answer her, so they sat together in silence, Draco holding himself with so much tensity she worried his bones would break from the self-inflicted pressure. His tears never fell, staying carefully guarded within his scowling hold, but Hermione's heart progressively broke at the miserable sight of him.

"Draco," Hermione said gently.

A defined blond eyebrow arched at her use of his name, a mere ghost of his familiar arrogance, and for a fleeting moment, he resembled Lucius a bit too much for Hermione's comfort. Despite the brilliant platinum hair colouring he shared with his father, his slender facial features were much closer to Narcissa's, particularly with how thin he was.

His mannerisms, however–from the curl in his lips, to the focused narrowing of his intense gaze, and even the haughty way he raised his chin–were gestures of the genetic variety he had clearly inherited exclusively from his sire.

"Yes…Hermione?"

Garnering her courage, Hermione softly asked, "Just how long have you felt…like this?"

"Like what?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Like…you want to die."

She braced herself for Draco's violent wrath, wondering if she'd stepped too far and gravely offended him with her observation. But the abject desolation in his eyes and frailty of his physical presence was too disturbing to ignore, regardless of their shared history.

He didn't just remind her of her younger self. He reminded her of her potential self–the self that very well could have come to fruition, many times throughout her life, had she not had the unconditional support of loving parents and loyal friends.

He reminded her of what she could have become, that horrible day after his father had attacked her, had she not found something to live for.

Draco averted his gaze, noticeably ashamed, and stared hard at his long, veiny hands.

"I've wanted to die every day for nearly two years now."

Since he took the Dark Mark.

"Do your parents know?" Hermione asked.

Draco snorted. "Malfoys don't get depressed." He'd mimicked his father's deeper voice almost expertly.

"Anyone can get depressed. I certainly have recently," Hermione shared.

Draco looked at her suspiciously. "You? The Golden Girl, the New Chosen One, the saviour of the Wizarding World, loved and revered by all, is depressed?"

"Loved by all?" Hermione laughed dryly. "Please. More than half of the people I've talked to this evening still think I'm little more than an animal due to my blood status. Being an omega war heroine simply makes me slightly more interesting to them. I'm like a circus attraction–something to scrutinise and point at and prod."

Draco shook his head. "You're no circus attraction, Gra–Hermione. I've watched you today. You command respect. You entice admiration. Skeeter's lies will never change that."

Hermione stiffened. "Draco…about the article–"

"Sod it. You don't need to explain anything. I know it's all rubbish. Father would never touch you–no offence."

Hermione felt her cheeks warm, but she smiled in what she hoped was a casual expression. "None taken, I assure you."

"I mean, it's nothing against you…you're quite pretty, actually. My father is just a bigoted git, and his hatred for muggles is stronger than his designation. Mother thinks the real reason he went to St Mungo's the night you were there is due to ill health from all of his drinking of late–not because he was chasing your scent, or however the bloody hell it works for alphas."

In an effort to shift the conversation away from Lucius before she was forced to lie to Draco's face–on multiple fronts–Hermione teased, "Did Draco Malfoy just call me pretty? Merlin, does the sun also set in the east now?"

Draco rolled his eyes, but he seemed to slightly relax at her jest. "Don't let it go to your overly large head. Though I will confess, I did fancy you once."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. That secret affection promptly faded when you broke my nose third year."

"Well, you deserved it," Hermione said firmly. She maintained a stern, offended façade, and the moment Draco began to visibly panic, she winked at him.

"I suppose I deserved that too," Draco said, lightly laughing. "And for what it's worth at this point–I am sorry. For everything."

"I know you are."

"It's no excuse, but–"

"Draco," Hermione interrupted kindly. "I forgive you."

For a moment, he looked hopeful, but then his face fell. "How can you?"

"Because you need it," Hermione answered, aiming to convey compassion instead of pity. "It's clear you've been punishing yourself since I last saw you. And I know you're probably also grieving–what with Crabbe, and…" Hermione paused to collect herself, "...and your aunt."

Draco huffed. "You don't have to pretend they were good people for my sake. That's excessive, even for a hero."

"I'm not pretending they were good," Hermione corrected. "But they were important to you all the same. Vincent Crabbe was your friend. Bellatrix Lestrange was your family. Grief, loss…those feelings don't vanish just because of the deceased's abhorrent behaviour."

Draco studied her for an extended pause, as if in disbelief.

"Besides," Hermione continued, "in a way, I need to forgive you too. Forgiveness isn't about…excusing what people have done. It's about releasing the anger, and moving on. I'd cease to function if I held an infernal grudge against every person who has ever called me a mudblood."

"I've done a lot worse to you than that. Aunt Bella did a lot worse to you than that. "

The continued mention of that mad witch's name was steadily summoning an overly detailed flashback of being tortured on the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor, so powerful that the Mudblood carving on her inner arm was beginning to sting in recollection.

I want to have a little conversation with this one–girl to girl…

Before fear could overpower her, Hermione redirected the conversation back to Draco. "Do you regret what you've done?"

"With everything in me."

"And would you do it again?"

"Absolutely not," Draco said resolutely.

"And do you intend to make amends?"

Draco looked defeated, and her heart ached for him in ways far more intense than sensible. It reminded her somewhat of the way she'd felt almost physically compelled towards Professor Snape at his bedside at St Mungo's, but that was due to the paternalistic alpha bond the Potions Master carried for her.

The dejected blond before her was a beta, just like Harry, Ron, and everyone else in the peristylium as far as she could tell.

Why was she so overwhelmed with sympathy for Lucius's son?

"I haven't the slightest idea where to begin," Draco admitted mournfully.

Hermione was suddenly struck with inspiration, and she grinned at Draco mischievously. "I have an idea. Come with me," she instructed determinedly. It had certainly been a while since her bossy side had made an appearance, and this seemed to be the most appropriate occasion for a grand return.

She stood on her toes and pulled Draco to his feet, and led him right back to the party.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Draco called nervously.

"Just trust me," she answered back. She couldn't believe she didn't think of this sooner, but now that she had the idea, she had to see it through. It was the very same technique Harry had used to haul her from the depths of hopelessness during those miserable months hunting for Voldemort's horcruxes.

Pulling Draco's skeletal wrist, she brought him to the centre of an Achilles mosaic, uncaring of the way party guests scrutinised her. Hermione released her wand, and intently charmed each of the gramophones in the courtyard to access a muggle radio frequency. As soon as familiar synthetic opening chords began, Hermione knew that this was the perfect song for her new little project.

She couldn't cure Draco's depression, but she could at least help him gain some endorphins through physical movement.

Or at the very least, he could humour himself by ridiculing her for what she was about to do.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked again, looking fearful.

Hermione smiled brightly, and began to perform the familiar steps. "I'm getting you to dance with me, Draco Malfoy. Me, a muggleborn, in front of all these people at your birthday party. But we're not just performing any dance–we're dancing The Macarena."

As she comically wiggled her hips, Hermione was vaguely aware of a sudden warmth flaring deep in her belly, like a subdued version of her heat. Her temperature also slightly increased, but she promptly dismissed it as a consequence of the near-summer sun.

It was magibiologically impossible for her to go into heat again, so quickly.

Soon, an audience had surrounded her, and nearly all partygoers began to curiously participate in the silly line dance.

That warmth within continued to burn hotter as the song progressed, and she was relieved to see that Draco had the beginnings of a smile forming on his face.

"This dance is ridiculous," he mentioned between pleasant chuckles, tentatively testing the choreography.

"I know, right? But it's so fun!" Hermione responded cheerfully. "Come on, let's see your moves!"

A layer of tension visibly fell away from Draco as he finally allowed himself to be irreverent. They were laughing playfully as Draco perfected the routine with enthusiasm, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the Flamenco-inspired beats.

"I have to ask–what exactly is a Macarena?" Draco asked breathlessly, his pale cheeks flushed from the activity.

Hermione widely swung her hips and flipped her hair as the chorus restarted. She was about to respond to Draco's query, but the pretty brunette witch named Esmerelda she'd met earlier that evening interjected. A recent graduate of Beauxbatons, she was part of the noble, pureblood Del Sol family of Madrid.

"Macarena isn't a what–it's a she," Esmerelda explained, before expertly adding spirited paso doble footwork to the repetitive arm sequence. "The song is about a woman who entices others to dance."

Among other things…

Smirking down at Hermione, Draco quipped, "So basically it's about you." He stared admiringly at the crowd around them. "I don't think there has ever been a gathering of so many purebloods dancing to muggle music."

"But there will definitely be more! I love it!" Gregory Goyle cheerfully shouted from somewhere behind them.

"Eh, Macarena!" Blaise Zambini added, bumping hips with the giggling youngest Greengrass sister.

"¡Ay!" shouted a Norwegian trio of recent graduates from Durmstrang. They were so tall and blond that Hermione wondered if they were distant cousins of the Malfoys.

Hermione prepared to join the happy chorus, but by the abrupt way Draco's face suddenly paled in horror, she had a dreadful feeling that their levity was about to be brought to an abrupt end.

"Miss Granger." She could nearly taste his fury, Lucius spoke with such contempt. "Is thishow mudbl–muggleborns–conduct themselves at formal affairs?"

Hermione nearly cowered in fear at his admonishing tone–I'm sorry, Alpha, please don't be mad at me–but the fact that he had been about to use that word made her own fury reign righteously triumphant. Angrily whirring around to face him, Hermione craned her neck and balled her trembling fists, straining to keep her gaze steady on his intimidating face.

But remembering where she was, Hermione tempered her anger with a deep breath.

There were witnesses–lots of witnesses. This was not the time for her to lose her composure. She needed to extinguish the flame of suspicion concerning herself and Lucius–not pour petrol onto it.

"Apologies, Lord Malfoy. It's simply a popular dance song," Hermione answered smoothly. When he didn't immediately respond, simply sneering down at her as if she were an uncultured peasant unworthy of his attention, her bruised pride added on a pettish impulse, "Perhaps it's a bit beyond your generation."

Hermione had to temporarily stop breathing to resist the furious influence of the potent alpha pheromones that immediately sprung forth, as if intending to shove her to the ground. Her reflexive omega instincts nearly crushed her consciousness with the overwhelming compulsion to lower her head in meek submission in the midst of his displeasure.

I'm sorry, Alpha.

I've been a bad girl, Alpha…

Punish me, Alpha…

"Father…please don't embarrass me in front of my friends," Draco pleaded tensely. "Everyone is enjoying themselves."

Lucius finally tore his eyes away from her–granting her a moment to collect her thoughts–before eyeing his son critically. "Your mother went through a great deal of effort to plan this weekend for you, Draco."

"And I appreciate it. I truly do. But…perhaps there can also be room for a little spontaneity, too," Draco suggested apprehensively. "It is my birthday, after all."

Lucius seemed to steady at Draco's words, arrogantly scanning the courtyard of increasingly nervous teenagers.

"Very well. Anything you'd like, my son," Lucius answered coolly, shooting one final glare at Hermione, strong enough to make her shiver. Turning to address the rest of the guests, Lucius announced, "Dinner will begin momentarily. If you please, join us on the lower western terrace this way…"

"Sit by me?" Draco asked, chivalrously offering his arm. Hermione accepted with a formal gratitude curtsey, but searched the moving crowd for any sign of her friends.

She found Ron first, and rolled her eyes at the way he drunkenly staggered about, prattling on to an increasingly disgusted-looking Millicent Bulstrode. Harry took several more moments to find, but she finally spotted him in what appeared to be a highly flirtatious conversation with Daphne Greengrass.

…Who seemed to be enjoying the wine that had been meant for Hermione.

"Draco, would you excuse me for a moment?" Hermione asked. "I just remembered there's something I have to tell Harry."

"Of course. I'll see you at the table."

Manoeuvring her way through polished day robes and enchanted cocktail gowns, Hermione paused in front of Harry–who immediately flushed upon her arrival.

"H-Hermione…you remember Daphne, right?"

Disciplining her features into the face of polite neutrality she'd employed all day–Hermione smiled at Daphne. "Indeed. It's a pleasure to see you again."

The refined blonde witch returned Hermione's smile, delicately inclining her head. "It's my pleasure to see you, Hermione. I was just telling Harry, your dress is simply stunning."

Social etiquette required Hermione to return the compliment, but Hermione found that Daphne's amiable nature made it much easier for her to respond in kind. "Thank you, Daphne. And your jewellery is exquisite. Are those Tahitian pearls?"

"Indeed they are–excellent eye!" Daphne placed a well-manicured hand upon the ropes of iridescent greenish-black spheres around her neck. "They were a gift from my grandmother when I came of age."

"A true work of art. You wear them well," Hermione replied sincerely. Turning to Harry, she asked, "Harry, might I speak with you for a moment?"

Harry visibly gulped before addressing Daphne. "I'll catch up with you at dinner, yeah?"

"I look forward to continuing our conversation, Harry," Daphne replied sweetly.

Once they were somewhat alone, trailing the rear of the chattering procession, Hermione stared accusingly at her friend.

"Explain yourself, Harry James Potter!"

" 'Mi, it's not what it looks like–"

"Is it? Because it appears you're growing rather…familiar with Miss Greengrass, with poor Ginny waiting at home for you!"

Just as the lovely Lady Malfoy waited here at the Villa for Lucius…while I shagged her husband.

Merlin, she was a loathsome hypocrite.

"Damnit, Hermione, will you let me explain before you rush to conclusions!" Harry exclaimed, exasperated.

He waited until the courtyard had completely cleared before speaking again. "Look…Gin doesn't want to be with me."

"What are you talking about? She's been mad about you for ages."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, well…we were apart for nearly a year, hunting horcruxes. And with the distance, the lack of communication…"

Oh, poor Harry…

"She…found someone else, didn't she?" Hermione concluded.

Harry nodded sadly.

"Is that why Ron said she's behaving…unusually? She's feeling conflicted?" Hermione asked.

"Err…not exactly." Harry awkwardly cleared his throat. "She's certain she doesn't want to be together, but she hasn't told any of her family, mainly because she's–err–she's afraid of how Molly will react to…not getting me as a son-in-law." Harry paused uncomfortably, almost guiltily, and dropped his voice. "I love Molly, but…you know how she is–she started planning our bloody wedding ages ago."

Hermione certainly understood wanting to avoid the Weasley matriarch's overbearing nature. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I had no idea–"

"Don't be," Harry assured. "It hurt when she told me, but if I'm being honest with myself…I'm glad Gin moved on. Sought comfort. None of us knew if I'd even make it out of the war alive."

"Is that all?" Hermione asked, sensing there was something Harry wasn't telling her.

Harry offered a crooked smile. "I'll admit…my feelings changed too. I think I'll always love her, in a way, but…it's just not the same as it was. After everything…I don't know about you, but my perspective on dating has certainly changed."

Hermione playfully raised her eyebrows. "And Daphne Greengrass fits this new…perspective?"

Harry blushed, his grin widening. "We really were just talking," he affirmed. "She's…bloody brilliant. Not as smart as you of course, but she's…cultured. Funny, in that debutante sort of way I'd normally roll my eyes at, but with her…I can't seem to get enough of it. She's sophisticated, but also sweet. She cares a lot about her family, especially her younger sister Astoria. And she's also…levelheaded. Mature."

So that was where Harry's interests in witches had changed…

He'd spent his early childhood abused and neglected, and his latter years suffering the nearly insurmountable burden of being the Chosen One. He'd nearly died countless times, and now that it was all over, her boyish friend had emerged a man–with a man's tastes.

A lifetime of pressure hadn't crushed Harry–it had polished him.

And while they may only have had a year between them in age, it seemed that Harry had reverted to viewing Ginny as Ron's kid sister–and nothing more.

"I'm sure it doesn't hurt that Daphne bears a strong resemblance to Claudia Schiffer," Hermione noted with a giggle.

"I actually told her that, and you won't believe it…she understood the reference!" Harry said excitedly. "Daphne has a keen interest in muggle fashion–she really meant it when she was complimenting you."

"I could tell," Hermione acknowledged. "Daphne seems very kind–and that's what I want most for you, Harry. You deserve a witch who will be kind to you–and challenge you when you need it, of course. But mostly, I just want you to be happy. And if that's no longer with Ginny, then I'm sure the Weasleys will understand."

Hopefully…

Harry slung his lanky arm around her shoulders and fondly squeezed. "Thank you for being so understanding, 'Mi."

Hermione leaned into his chest, returning the hug. "Now come on. Our work isn't done. We don't want to miss dinner!"


"Draco, I promise I'm not just saying this because it's your birthday–but will you please, please stop apologising?" Hermione pleaded. She wasn't truly irritated with him, for she knew he meant well, but he'd spent the entire dinner chronologically apologising for every single offence he'd ever committed against her at Hogwarts, many of which she'd long forgotten about.

It had been over two hours, and he was barely through fourth year.

Seated at a candlelit table comfortably accommodating the more than one hundred overnight guests at the Villa, they were currently enjoying the ninth course–seared scallops topped with beluga caviar. She couldn't decide if this or the creamy white truffle risotto with edible gold flakes was her favourite so far.

Or perhaps even the pasta alla chiantigiana, the delicious wine-soaked bucatini that had been served with smoky pancetta and freshly sharp Pecorino Romano, with a highly detailed, dragon-shaped cuttlefish ink adornment that shot off tiny harmless sparks…

Hermione watched as Draco emptied the wine in his Grecian rhyton–a gilded silver, horn-shaped vessel with a ruby-eyed dragon on its end–before replacing the assuredly priceless artefact back atop the overwhelmingly ornamental table.

Draco turned back to her, his pale cheeks permanently pink in his advanced state of inebriation, but Hermione found that her former bully was a surprisingly pleasant–albeit overly apologetic–social drunk. He was gregarious and inquisitive, whimsical and lighthearted–and mercifully not too sloppy.

It was a welcome change from his show of depression earlier, even if it was caused by alcohol, and still quite far removed from the slurred belligerence Ron was displaying several chairs down.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he began again with a sheepish smile, and Hermione raised her eyebrows. Shaking his head, Draco cleared his throat. "Right, I mean…well, what else am I supposed to say?"

"Nothing. I told you I've forgiven you."

"But I was such a prat."

"Yes, you were."

"I really didn't mean any of that rubbish I said about you being a mudb–"

"Let's not use that word at the table, shall we?"

"Right, I'm sorry–bugger, sorry for saying sorry again…Hermione, I want us to be friends. Will you please be my friend?"

"Relax–I'd be happy to, Draco."

"Really? You mean that?" His eyes widened hopefully, and Hermione couldn't suppress the widening of her smile. With his angelic white-blond hair and crystal-like eyes, he'd never looked so young to her, staring at her with the innocent wonder of a little boy on Christmas morning.

Was that all it took to make the Malfoy heir happy? An offer of friendship?

"Of course," she responded kindly.

Draco clapped his hands and looked across the table at Harry, who was gazing admiringly at an equally entranced Daphne. "Potter, you'll need to find yourself a new best friend. Hermione is mine now. She doesn't need you anymore. She just said so."

Hermione chuckled and playfully slapped his shoulder. "You sneaky little ferret! That is not what I said–"

"Is that so?" Harry good-naturedly laughed–his cheeks also flushed from the abundant wine pairings. "I may have to challenge you to a duel. I'm not letting her go that easily, mate."

"It's my birthday, she's my friend now," Draco quipped back, wearing the same arrogant smirk Hermione associated most with his father. "It's the rule–I get what I want."

"You boys do realise Hermione is not some trophy to be won, right?" Daphne piped in, winking at Hermione.

"And also…I'm still sitting right here," Hermione added.

Draco regarded her for several moments, before nodding resolutely. "She's right. We'll share her!" he announced happily. "Guess that means I need to make nice with you too, Potter. Or am I still of the wrong sort?"

He'd spoken with humour, but the way his impish grin slightly faltered revealed an impression of insecurity.

Hermione recalled the first time Draco had introduced himself to Harry, back when they were innocent first years awaiting the sorting ceremony.

Perhaps Draco–in his smug little eleven-year-old way–actually had been trying to make friends, real friends, with Harry back then, too.

Harry studied Draco for several moments before tilting his drinking horn in Draco's direction–this one featuring a sapphire-eyed wolf. "If you're Hermione's friend, then you're mine too."

Accepting the toast with clear gratitude, Draco added, "To new friendships."

Hermione and Daphne both joined the toast, Hermione extending a swan-shaped rhyton with diamond eyes. "To new friendships."

"To new friendships," Daphne agreed, offering her lion-shaped rhyton.

As she savoured the fine wine, Hermione became acutely aware of an icy silver stare targeting her like a strike of lightning from the head of the table, and she was unable to suppress her fearful reactionary shiver.

Please don't be mad at me, Alpha…

I promise I'll be a good girl…

She'd purposefully avoided looking at him all night, for his magnetic presence was almost suffocating in its intensity. He was a glorious sight in his relaxed midnight blue occasion robes–oppressively handsome–and every time she stole a peek of him against her better judgement, she would temporarily lose the very ability to breathe.

Even more torturously, when he wasn't glaring at her, Lucius presented an agonisingly arresting portrait of a man helplessly in love as he doted upon his stunning wife. Hermione couldn't fathom why she cared, but each time the attractive, highly affectionate couple whispered to each other, giggling like teenagers, each time Narcissa placed her left hand upon Lucius's chest, blinding the entire table with a diamond so big it looked more appropriate for a sceptre, each time Lucius kissed Narcissa's hand, or cheek, or neck, running his fingers through her long blonde hair…a stabbing sensation would pierce through the centre of Hermione's chest with so much force it felt like her entire rib cage was shattering under the pressure.

Alpha…

Alpha, please…

It horrified her to admit even privately, but there was a very real part of her–her brain, her body, and perhaps even her magic–that felt almost tethered to him, pining for his favour like a crazed zealot kneeling before a fetish high out of reach. It made no logical sense, and betrayed everything she believed in, but in that moment, she wanted to be the singular object of Lucius Malfoy's affections with a frightening desperation.

Alpha…please look at me, Alpha…

Please let me be your good girl, Alpha…

Hermione rapidly swallowed the remainder of her wine, fidgeting nervously as she waited for the metallic swan to be refilled. She had no intention of becoming drunk, but she needed something to dull her senses, for these objectionable feelings were far too confusing and acute and sharp for her to process rationally in her hyper-sensitive state. Lucius was not her lover–he was her attacker, and the fact that he'd tended to her during her heat most assuredly did not mean she harboured any affection for the Death Eater. There was absolutely no excuse for her to feel…what was she feeling?

Merlin, was this jealousy?

The closest thing she had to compare this nauseating sensation to was the painful, sickening heaviness in her gut that had arisen when she'd watched Ron kissing Lavender Brown after his first Quidditch victory. Hermione had really tried to hate Lavender, capturing the heart–or at least, the lusts–of the boy she loved, but even more powerful than the green-eyed monster was the far darker mental demon of insecurity.

This insidious beast that seemed to haunt most girls beyond a certain school age had begun silently whispering to Hermione when she was only twelve. It had told her that she was plain and undesirable with her bushy hair and too-big teeth; that she would never be as pretty as her peers. And as she'd matured–having diligently ignored those harmful whispers as she sharpened her mind to rightfully earn the sobriquet of Brightest Witch–that dreadful voice had taken her by surprise that day in the Gryffindor common room, demolishing her self-esteem to rubble. The voice told her that it didn't matter how bright and talented she was–for a girl like her would never capture Ron's attention.

It told her she was hopeless.

Now, as Hermione watched Lucius with his perfect wife, that voice escaped the prison where she'd long banished it, and it spoke once more–louder than ever.

You're nothing but a dirty mudblood to him.

Hermione was experiencing something far more dangerous than jealousy.

She was experiencing something deadly: self-loathing.

Hermione tore her eyes away from the uncomfortably beautiful Malfoy couple and stared hard at the dense cypress forest immediately below the formal dining terrace, twinkling with pretty fairy lights. But some panicked instinct–or perhaps morbid curiosity–compelled her to look right back at the head of the table, and Hermione gasped out loud when Narcissa placed a hand on either side of Lucius's strong jaw, pulling her husband into a long, indulgent, passionate kiss.

Alpha, no…

Please, no…

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them, and Hermione jolted from the table before she made a complete fool of herself, for she could feel the last remnants of her sound mind rapidly slipping away.

Dutifully, Draco rose as well, closely followed by Harry.

"Hermione, are you all right?" Draco asked, placing a soft hand on the small of her back.

She could feel Lucius's gaze on her again, and Hermione's heart raced with anguished panic as her overactive mind violently stormed with paranoid, increasingly nonsensical dark thoughts. They were composed so deftly by the demon of insecurity, that in that moment, Hermione believed those silent taunts to be entirely true.

He's probably laughing at me.

"...Hermione?"

Cressida was wrong–I don't belong here.

"Merlin, I think she's going to be sick…"

I was raped. I'm filthy. Worthless. Hopeless…

"Hermione? Do you want some water?"

He did this to me because I'm trash.

Stupid, stupid, ugly mudblood little girl…

Shaking her head, Hermione forced a smile with all of the willpower she had remaining.

"Sorry…I'm feeling a bit faint," she answered–was it Harry who had spoken?–breathlessly. "Draco, if it's alright with you, I'm going to retire to my room for the evening."

"But you can't leave now." Draco was actually pouting, staring down at her with manipulatively sad eyes she likely would have responded to if she wasn't feeling so distressed. "We haven't even had pudding yet!"

"If I eat one more bite I may burst out of this dress," Hermione joked weakly, easing her way out of the half-embrace she hadn't realised Draco had wrapped her in. "Don't worry–I just need a good night of rest. I think this is just some delayed vertigo from the abraxan flight in. I've never been great with air travel."

"Would you like me to go with you, Hermione?" Daphne asked, visibly concerned. "I believe our rooms are on the same floor–"

"No no, I'll be fine–thank you," Hermione insisted tensely. "I'll see you all tomorrow."

Hermione managed to retain control over her tears all throughout the long walk back to the guest wing of the Villa.

But the second she closed the door behind her, Hermione collapsed onto her knees and sobbed so hard that she rapidly fell sick, and every single course she'd eaten that night reappeared–all over her dress.

The very knowledge that she was this emotionally distraught over someone like Lucius caused a new wave of disgust to crash over her, and Hermione was fully submerged in her tears, buried by sorrow, unable to catch her breath as powerful tremors that bordered on Cruciatus convulsions painfully rattled her down to her bones.

She was an embarrassment to everyone who had ever known her. She wasn't a hero–she was a fraud.

What kind of witch–no, what kind of woman–would cry over a man–a married man–who had violated her?

How could she ever look at herself in the mirror after this?

How could she even live with herself after this?

Suddenly, there was a gentle grip on her shoulders, but Hermione's eyes were too cloudy to clearly perceive just who she was now humiliating herself in front of.

"Hermione? Are you physically hurt?" a soft feminine voice asked.

Hermione shook her head as a pitiful wail escaped her, too…heartbroken to be ashamed of the fact that she was covered in her own sick in front of another person.

A silky cloth gently dabbed her eyes, and Hermione strained to focus on who her unexpected rescuer was.

"P-Pansy?"

Her heart began racing again. This was bad–very bad. Pansy Parkinson had been just as cruel to her as Draco in their school days–perhaps even more so.

She's going to tell everyone…

"Do you still feel sick, sweetie?" Pansy asked, eyebrows arched in concern.

In her untimely episode of mental illness–since there really was no other explanation for her to be this devastated that Lucius was kissing his wife–was she now experiencing hallucinations?

In what universe would Pansy Parkinson be kind to her?

Hermione shook her head, too embarrassed and dumbfounded to speak.

"Good. How about we get you cleaned up, yeah?" Surprisingly, there was no disgust in Pansy's eyes as she casually surveyed her soiled state. She silently and carefully pulled Hermione up to her feet, shouldering a fair amount of her weight as she guided her into the en suite.

Pansy slowly sat her down at the vanity before making her way to the freestanding dark stone tub. Hermione watched, baffled, as Pansy manually drew a bubble bath for her, noting with little more than casual interest that the skull and serpent tattoo on her inner arm seemed to be much more faded than Lucius's.

Once the tub was filled, Pansy asked, "Do you need help getting undressed?"

Still unable to form words, Hermione shook her head again.

"Okay. I'll be waiting right outside for you."

Hermione took far too long to cleanse herself, her limbs weak and shaky with each swipe of cloth across her skin. By the time she exited the bath after over an hour, she nearly fell over on unsteady legs as she attempted to dry herself.

The last of her energy was exhausted with the efforts just from brushing her teeth, so Hermione hastily shrugged on the grey linen dressing gown embossed with the Malfoy family crest that hung by the door. After tightening the silk emerald belt high around her waist, Hermione returned to the bedroom, steeling herself for whatever horrors awaited her.

"I thought you might enjoy some chamomile…may I pour you a cup?" Pansy offered, motioning to the small table in the sitting lounge by the fireplace with a full tea service.

"Yes…yes, please," Hermione croaked.

"How do you take your tea?"

"Just a bit of honey," Hermione answered. "Th-thank you."

Hermione slowly sat down on an elegant, gold-threaded silk canapé, nodding gratefully as Pansy prepared tea for both of them.

Warming her hands on the fine china, Hermione deeply inhaled and took a tentative sip.

Infinitesimally, she began to feel better.

"How are you feeling?" Pansy asked after several minutes of watching her.

"Much improved," Hermione answered warily. "Your kindness is certainly…unexpected."

"I detest that it's unexpected–though I know that's entirely my fault." Pansy smiled wistfully. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but I've spent the last month in America."

Hermione hadn't heard that Pansy had been overseas. She'd assumed all marked Death Eaters had been under the same restrictions as the Malfoys.

After taking another slow, calming sip to settle her stomach, Hermione asked, "What were you doing there?"

Hermione would welcome any opportunity to avoid talking about herself at the moment.

"I was completing a Ministry-sanctioned No-Mag–muggle studies–intensive at Ilvermorny." Pansy daintily nibbled on a square of lavender shortbread. "My parents probably would have preferred if I'd chosen house arrest, though. Azkaban, even, those bloody fanatics."

Despite the grim topic, Pansy spoke in the casual, pleasantly gossipy way that Hermione had always secretly longed to engage in with other girls. It was something she had never quite been able to achieve, even before she met Harry and Ron.

Hermione had always been too bookish–too awkward–to curate a close group of female friends.

"So…why did you choose Muggle Studies, then?" Hermione tentatively queried.

Pansy placed her cup back on the table and elegantly folded her hands, sighing thoughtfully. "Well, I found out I was only extended the option…because a brave muggleborn schoolmate–a girl I bullied–wrote a statement on my behalf, when she most certainly didn't have to."

Hermione flushed nervously, clearing her throat. "It was the right thing to do," she said dismissively. "Harry and I did the same thing for all of the defecting Death Eater families. Malfoy, Goyle, Nott…"

Pansy cocked her head to the side, staring at Hermione quizzically. "Well, whatever your reasoning…I am gratefully in your debt. Truly."

"You're welcome."

"And besides," Pansy continued, "what kind of Slytherin would I be if I didn't take advantage of the most favourable option presented to me?"

Hemione laughed at that. "But of course. And how was this intensive?"

"It was extraordinary," Pansy gushed dreamily, and it was then that Hermione realised that Pansy wasn't wearing wizarding fashion.

The interlocking C's on the buttons of her knit, candyfloss pink dress, along with the chain of calf leather and gold wrapped twice around her waist, confirmed that this pureblood witch, this marked Death Eater, was dressed in…Chanel.

Pansy continued, "I never knew muggles were so adept with culture. Literature. Art. Fashion. Music. And oh, the cinema! And, Merlin, I almost forgot the best part–can you guess what it is? Look closely at my face."

Hermione observed Pansy as instructed, and soon noticed that some of her features did appear different–but in a subtle, lightly enhanced kind of way. She was still recognisable, but her cheeks were fuller, her lips far plumper, and her nose smoothed, straightened, and defined.

"You've had…cosmetic surgery?" Hermione asked. Normally such things were frowned upon as topics of conversation in the muggle world, but Pansy seemed positively thrilled to divulge her procedures.

"It was a revelation," Pansy enthused. "Once I learned about it in class, I found a doctor in New York one weekend, and I told him I no longer wanted to look like my bigoted parents. He said I could easily resemble Linda Evangelista with my bone structure–have you heard of her?"

"Yes, I have. And actually, you do look a bit like her," Hermione acknowledged sincerely. With Pansy's vogueish, shoulder-length raven hair, bright sapphire eyes, and tall, runway figure, she definitely looked like she could be the younger sister of the muggle supermodel.

"Of course, I didn't look like this immediately after, so I simply used magic to hasten my recovery where muggle medicine couldn't. A few days of bruise balms and pain potions, and here I am."

That was actually a brilliant idea. Surgery was considered barbaric in the wizarding world, despite the fact that there were many conditions, such as complex cancers and neurological injuries, that could be treated far more effectively by borrowing from muggle techniques. If a healer were to combine magical diagnostics with appropriate muggle science–minimising pain with the more powerful wizarding potions and balms–then medicine itself could very well be revolutionised.

"I must say I'm impressed," Hermione admired. "Your face, your fashion, and Merlin, that perfume you're wearing is enchanting. Is that No. 5? It's my mum's favourite."

For a moment, Pansy looked briefly embarrassed, before slowly shaking her head.

"No, Hermione," she said. "What you're smelling isn't perfume."

Oh. Oh!

Red roses…jasmine…sweet almonds…

Pansy was an alpha.

"Is that the only reason you're here?" Hermione asked timidly. "Just because…I'm…I'm–"

"Don't be silly. I only just arrived from America a little more than an hour ago. I'd already planned on speaking with you this weekend. I was just freshening up in my room down the hall, but then I smelled your tears. I couldn't exactly go straight to the party without checking on you first, now could I?"

"You couldn't?"

"An omega's tears are…severely distressing for an alpha," Pansy explained. "I've heard rumours about the effects, but this is my first time experiencing it. And I knew what it was immediately. It's like my whole body told me I had to help you, no matter what."

Hermione lowered her head and groaned. "Pansy…I'm really sorry," she said ruefully. "This is all so new to me, I had no idea–"

"Hermione, stop with the heroics. I'm here of my own will because you need it–not because you're an omega." Her tone was firm, but not unkind. "Your tears were just…a signal. One I'm happy to respond to."

Hermione poured herself another cup of tea. "Thank you, Pansy."

"So," Pansy probed, "do you want to tell me why you were so upset?"

Hermione shrugged her shoulders in what she hoped was a nonchalant gesture. "Just an emotional few weeks–with the end of the war and everything. That's all."

"I see," Pansy said–in obvious disbelief. "So it's entirely unrelated to Lucius Malfoy?"

Hermione swallowed her automatic tremor at the mention of his name. "Look…Skeeter's article is nothing but a bunch of–"

"You don't need to lie, Hermione. It doesn't suit you hero-types."

"I'm not lying–"

"No?" Pansy chuckled. "Then explain why I saw Draco's father looking utterly besotted, carrying you out of the Forbidden Forest like you were his bride a month ago."

Fuck.

Hermione froze. "Pansy…umm…whatever it is you saw–"

"I know what I saw, but you can relax. You don't need to panic. I haven't said anything to anyone, and I won't–you have my word as a witch," Pansy assured. Perhaps it was desperation, but Hermione was inclined to believe her. "I'm sure whatever happened between you…you probably couldn't control it, could you?"

Hermione lowered and shook her head.

"And…is it something you're hoping to continue?"

"Of course not," Hermione said–perhaps too quickly. "He's…he's not safe for me. We have–had–a shared magibiological need. That is the end of our interactions."

Pansy still didn't appear to believe her, but thankfully, she didn't press the subject further. "You discharge your pheromones when you're strongly emotional," Pansy remarked. "You don't even realise you're doing it, do you?"

"I didn't even know I was an omega until a month ago." Hermione released a frustrated sigh. "No one thought to tell me anything, or warn me about how awful this is."

Pansy considered her in silence, before nodding thoughtfully with a soft smile. "Where do you feel your omega magic?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the exact physical location, within your body," Pansy clarified. "Where do you feel it the most?"

Hermione blushed, pointing somewhat evasively to her pelvic region.

"That's what I thought. It's the same for me too." Pansy ran a hand through her layered hair as she considered her next words. "Have you ever studied occluding?"

"Not very much, unfortunately," Hermione admitted.

"It may be wise for you to start," Pansy advised. "All alphas begin occlumency lessons as children, well before we present. It's supposed to help us to discipline the aggression that's natural to us, thereby controlling the release of our own hormones. Otherwise we'd all end up constantly fighting each other. I'm not sure what standard tutelage entails for omegas, but I imagine controlling your emotions would be equally appropriate for you. Do you happen to know a skilled Occlumens?"

"The only one I know of is Professor Snape, and I think I've exhausted all favours with him."

"Whyever would you think that?"

Hermione took a steadying breath, rapidly cataloguing which details she wanted to disclose–and which ones needed to remain private. Pansy was almost disturbingly easy to talk to, and a part of Hermione felt compelled to confess all of her secrets, but she remained aware that this was likely due to Pansy's alpha presence.

There was no real evidence to suggest she could actually trust the witch–as a friend.

Hermione answered, "I asked him to brew a potion for me to stop my heat last weekend. It took…a lot of effort on his part, but it didn't work–"

"Oh gods, he didn't end up fucking you through your heat, did he?"

Hermione recoiled at the horrific suggestion. "Gods, no. There are some small mercies." Hermione chewed her lip, stalling the inevitable. "Lord Malfoy was the alpha who…provided his services during my time of need. Once it was over, Professor Snape brewed all of the necessary potions for my…err…recovery. So I think if I ask him for anything else he'll Avada me for insolence."

"Oh I highly doubt that. He may be an arse, but he's an alpha first. And a pretty little omega like you?" Pansy snickered. "You're automatically irresistible to him, Hermione. He'll do whatever you say."

Hermione nearly vomited again, but she decided to choose her next words tactfully, as opposed to offering an outright denial. Snape's trial was forthcoming, and the confession he'd dictated–the confession she'd transcribed–stated that it was his undying love for Lily Potter that compelled him to switch allegiances and serve the Order, risking his life as a double agent to protect Harry at all costs.

No one, besides Madam Pomfrey, knew that the Potions Master's true allegiances had shifted again–to her.

In order for Professor Snape to rightfully remain a free man–that truth would need to remain a carefully guarded secret. "It's…it's different with Professor Snape," Hermione argued. "He…he has love in his heart. So I don't affect him like that."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Sweetie, I have love in my heart and your pheromones are making my mouth water. And unlike Professor Snape, the witch I love is actually alive."

Hermione tried–and miserably failed–to conceal the shock on her face.

"Oh…I…err…I didn't realise–"

"Is that a problem?" Pansy asked sharply, and Hermione's heart raced upon the alpha witch's show of contempt. The dizzying scent of red roses and night jasmine effused the air between them so powerfully that Hermione felt like she would choke on it.

"No, no! Of course not!" Hermione scrambled nervously. "I was just surprised is all–but I think it's wonderful. Brilliant, even! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend…I suppose I'd just assumed–because of your history with Draco–that you prefer…I mean…no, I know it's not a preference, it's how you're born, and I have no problem with it. None at all. In fact, I think it's brilliant. Lesbians are great! Truly!"

Pansy glared at her for several moments before her face split into a wide grin, and the raven-haired witch burst into laughter. "You poor thing, this is the real reason why you need to learn how to occlude. You are far too easy for an alpha to toy with." Pansy was laughing so hard that tears were forming in her eyes. "Merlin, to think that there is finally something that the brainbox Hermione Granger isn't automatically perfect at."

Hermione blushed in anger and humiliation.

There was the bully she recognised.

"Are you quite finished?" Hermione clipped. Pansy dabbed the corners of her eyes as her joyful laughter finally settled. "Yes…sorry. I realise that matters of sexuality are another area where muggles are quite behind us. Though it seems we're equally archaic on matters of sex itself."

"How do you mean?" Hermione was raptly attentive, her curiosity about another part of the wizarding society she'd had yet to explore far surpassing her embarrassment over Pansy's ridicule.

"Well no one in our world will be ever stoned for who they enjoy sleeping with, for instance. The fact that muggles do this is utterly barbaric," Pansy explained, and Hermione wholeheartedly agreed. "However…wizards are still seen as superior to witches in every way that matters. A gay wizard can bond with another gay wizard, and it will be equally celebrated with the same pomp and circumstance as any other magical union. Lesbian marriages, however, while perfectly legal, are generally…frowned upon, and are therefore quite rare. Sapphic witches who bond are perceived as rebuffing their duty to wizarding society."

"Their duty?"

"Birthing heirs," Pansy explained in distaste. "Our…inclinations may be welcomed–eroticised, even–but a wasted uterus is still considered an affront to the wizarding world."

"So basically…men are allowed to do whatever they want, whilst women are the ones forced to conform," Hermione concluded. This was beginning to sound a lot like Professor Dumbledore's greater good justifications for using human beings–children–as pawns in warfare.

"Precisely. Wizards are raised to believe their cocks belong absolutely everywhere–even in places where they are entirely unwanted."

"I'm so sorry Pansy," Hermione said truthfully. "You should be able to bond for love, just like a wizard can. It's unjust."

Pansy shrugged her shoulders. "Love is rare in pureblood marriages. The best I can hope for is a husband who will leave me alone once I provide an heir, and won't try to insert himself as I enjoy sex with the fairer sex."

"What about the witch you love?" Hermione queried. "I mean, if she loves you, who bloody cares what wizarding society says–"

"First off: I am not walking away from my five-million galleon inheritance for anyone," Pansy asserted firmly. "And even if I lost my sodding mind and decided to follow my emotions and live knutless in what will be tantamount to social exile, the witch I love is…inordinately close with her unnaturally large family. They'd never approve. And I care for her too much to ask her to leave them behind."

Hermione felt her heart breaking for Pansy and the nameless witch in her heart, when suddenly, the seemingly unrelated threads of information she'd received over the last several days wove into place in one cohesive assemblage.

"It's…Ginny Weasley, isn't it?" Hermione dared to ask. "The witch you love?"

Pansy didn't need to respond, for the truth was apparent all over her rapidly saddening face.

It now made so much more sense why Pansy had been so keen to send Harry to Voldemort. It wasn't because she was some devout follower.

It was because Harry had a romantic history with Ginny.

And if Harry and Ron's disclosures on the youngest Weasley's recent behaviour were anything to go by…Ginny deeply loved Pansy, too.

"Your secret remains safe with me," Pansy said seriously, "so long as Ginevra's remains safe with you." It wasn't harsh enough to be a threat, but it was certainly a warning–a warning Hermione was perfectly amenable to.

"Ginny is my friend. I would never betray her like that," Hermione assured. "Or you."

Pansy smiled lightly and briefly squeezed her hand. No further words needed to be spoken.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, but soon Hermione began to doze off.

Politely taking the unspoken cue, Pansy stood and smoothed her dress. "I'd best be off to give my respects to our hosts for the week-end. And you, Hermione, should try and get some rest."

Hermione grinned sleepily as she walked the Slytherin witch to the door. "Is that the alpha in you talking?"

"No–you just look dreadfully exhausted." Pansy smiled conspiratorially. "Even a beta could see that."

They bid farewell with social kisses and a promise to spend more time together during the activities scheduled for the following day, a prospect Hermione actually found herself strongly looking forward to.

As much as she loved Harry and Ron, and as much as she was rapidly–and rather unexpectedly–growing more fond of Draco, Hermione desperately needed more friends.

Girl friends.

With an exhausted yawn, Hermione crossed the expansive guest suite, collapsed onto the exquisitely carved Venetian-style bed, and fell almost immediately into a desperately needed sleep.

Hours later, when an unknown compulsion heaved her out of the depths of slumber, she opened her bleary eyes.

And Lucius Malfoy was staring down at her.


"If you move one bloody inch from this table I will slice off your favourite appendage with my sister's cursed blade in your sleep," Narcissa snarled through an over-wide smile the second she released him from her kiss. "What in the fucking hell is the matter with you? Pull yourself together!"

Lucius had nearly bowled over as his core was besieged by his omega's distress, a violent force so powerful that the pain was actually nauseating. Her emotions were volatile and aggressive, striking in brutal flares like the Cruciatus, constricting his heart and setting fire to his nerve endings, pressurising every last facet of his being to see to her needs as soon as possible.

He'd been curiously apprehensive to see how Hermione would respond to this part of Cressida's strategy–which required Lucius to publicly play the role of a passionately in love husband, deeply devoted to Narcissa. He knew it could possibly pose a challenge to his schemes of seduction if Hermione witnessed such displays now that she was firmly out of heat, but the inconvenience of a wife had never before hindered Lucius's ability to get a witch in bed. He was certain he'd be able to charm away any jealousy the girl might be harbouring with his silver tongue–both with his words, and with his attentions delivered directly upon the numerous pleasure points on her sensitive body he'd hungrily discovered during their perfervid days together at the Manor.

But whatever Hermione was feeling wasn't mere jealousy. It wasn't even anger. It wasn't hurt or betrayal.

It was something far darker and far more destructive, and it was directed internally. It tasted like shame, and sounded like grief, buried deep within a complex labyrinth of hopelessness and despair.

Oh, my sweet girl…

Self-loathing.

The girl was hating herself.

"You can carry on without me, can't you?" Lucius absently uttered, not even looking at Narcissa as he watched Hermione stand from the table with a start. Her tightly composed features revealed nothing of her private suffering as she spoke with Draco, Potter, and the eldest Greengrass girl, but Lucius could feel Hermione's turmoil as if it were his own.

She fled the party moments later, and Lucius was more desperate than ever to follow her.

I'll take care of you, sweetheart.

Just before he could move from the table, Narcissa gripped his chin. "Have you gone mad? You cannot chase after the mudblood in front of all of these witnesses!"

Lucius nearly cursed his wife, but tempered himself before he committed something unforgivable–in front of more than one hundred people.

They all had roles to play–Hermione included. Despite how much his alpha instincts impelled him, he could not be seen running after the girl with their positions–and her safety–so precarious.

I promise I'll come for you, sweet girl.

Just hold on for me.

Lucius raised his occlumency shields as high as possible, until Hermione's emotional state viciously gutting his alpha core faded to nothing more than a featherlight caress. His own emotions willfully obtunded, he functioned as barely more than an inferi for the duration of dinner, too psychologically numb and deadened to feel remorse over his gross lack of engagement at his own son's eighteenth birthday celebration.

Narcissa soon lost interest in pretending to be in love with him upon recognition of his active occluding, and abandoned his side in favour of playing the overly hospitable hostess with their guests, in addition to devoting more attention to Draco.

Narcissa may have never had love in her heart for her husband, but her affection for their child was unmistakable. She'd successfully deceived the Dark Lord himself–twice–in order to protect their son; once when she'd compelled Severus in an unbreakable vow, and again when all had believed Potter to be dead in the Forbidden Forest.

For that, Lucius would always be grateful to his wife.

After pudding had been served, gifts had been opened, and nighttime cocktails had been consumed, the majority of the guests began retreating either to their suites or to the informal ballroom.

Finally–finally–he could tend to the omega.

Slipping out of the parlour undetected after successfully bypassing unwelcome attempts at conversation from Ursula Zambini, Vizconde Guillen Del Sol, and the ogrerish Crabbes, Lucius began the meditative process of demolishing each layer of his occlumency shields, one by one, until he could once more feel.

To his surprise, he could no longer detect Hermione's emotional currents in his alpha core at all, and he quickened his pace as he strode through the guest wing of the Villa, not entirely willing to acknowledge that he was growing increasingly concerned–paranoid, even–for her safety.

Why can't I feel you, sweetheart?

"Oi, Malfoy! Where do you think you're going?"

Lucius gritted his teeth as he turned on his heel to look down upon the youngest Weasley boy who had done nothing but make a fool of himself all evening. With his uninvited presence, excessive drunkenness, and yobbish behaviour, the boy had managed to achieve what Lucius had thought impossible–sinking the disdainful Weasley family even lower.

Ronald Weasley was an embarrassment to his bumbling knobhead of a father.

"You dare question where I choose to go in my own home?" Lucius clipped.

The slovenly redhead staggered toward him with an accusing glare. "I dare to question where you choose to go when my best friend is concerned."

"Ahh, I assume you're referring to Miss Granger." Lucius rolled his eyes, already bored. He was certainly well-prepared for anyone audacious–or suicidal–enough to directly question him about what Skeeter had written. "Tell me: are you capable of reading, Mr Weasley?"

"Of course I am, you sodding–"

"I only thought to ask, as you evidently haven't seen fit to peruse the separate statements released by Miss Granger and myself to the Daily Prophet refuting Miss Skeeter's erroneous claims concerning the two of us."

"I read the statements, you sarcastic prick, and I know they are nothing more than dragon shite." Weasley huffed, and pointed a calloused, dirty finger. "You snobby gits might think I'm stupid, but I'm a champion wizard chess player. I'm a strategist. I observe before making my move. And do you know what I've observed, Lucius?"

Lucius was rapidly losing what little patience he had remaining. Each moment he spent entertaining this dullard was a moment spent away from the omega. "Do enlighten me, child. I'm sure I'll be dazzled by whatever spurious conclusions your hammered brain has managed to deduce."

His composure began to erode when the boy's angry face split into a toothy, triumphant grin. "While everyone has been looking at Hermione tonight–the shiny New Chosen One–I've been looking at you. And you haven't been able to take your eyes off of her, slobbering after her like a rabid hound. That act you're putting on with Lady Malfoy? You may have everyone else here fooled–but not me. I know you've done something to Hermione. And I know you're after her again."

"Done something to her?" Lucius laughed dryly. "If you're going to accuse me of fucking the girl at least be wizard enough to use the word."

"So you have touched her."

"I've said no such thing."

"You took advantage of her, didn't you?"

Lucius internally flinched at the veracious reminder, more than half-tempted to Avada the little shit, but he maintained his aloof outward countenance. Weasley was but a boy–a drunk, loutish, callow boy.

He was, quite simply, an unworthy opponent.

Clearing his throat, Lucius replied calmly, "This conversation is over, Mr Weasley. Go retire to the chamber my wife and I have generously provided you despite your–"

"You sodding bastard, I bloody knew it!" The boy was shaking in his indignation, his nostrils flaring like a bull on the precipice of a charge. "Hermione would never let someone like you touch her! She was saving herself for me!"

"You idiot boy, are you so deluded to believe you harboured any chance of possessing a witch like her?" Lucius knew he was treading dangerous ground indulging the boy's contentions, revealing far more of the truth than advisable, but all of the dark anger he'd kept under strict control ever since the moment Hermione had kissed Draco's cheek was beginning to break free.

Had Hermione truly been saving herself for this ill-bred oaf?

If he hadn't succumbed to his baser urges, violating the girl in the Forbidden Forest, would she have instead offered her sweet flesh to this entirely unworthy suitor?

A faint echo of the self-loathing Hermione had been experiencing earlier that evening rippled deep in his alpha core, and Lucius was suddenly filled with dread of a purely organic origin.

Was the girl's self-esteem so low that a Weasley would be the object of her romantic aspirations?

Weasley deliberated his words for several moments, before squaring his shoulders resolutely. "I'm going to reason with you–wizard to wizard."

Lucius snorted. "That suggestion would imply we are equals, Mr Weasley, which we most assuredly are not. Learn how to address your betters, son. It will serve you well in the future."

"Hermione is mine," Weasley gloated. "She has been mine since we were eleven. She is in love with me. I don't know what you've done to her, but whatever it is…what she feels for me is stronger than that. You can't touch her the way that I can. So stay away from her."

He knew it was reckless to rise to the bait even before he formed the words.

But for a brief, irrational moment, Lucius wanted nothing more than to watch the ill-informed triumph fade from the overweening boy's eyes.

With a smirk, Lucius dropped his voice. "Considering the way her virgin blood spilled over my cock when I fucked her within an inch of her life, I would say that it is in fact you who cannot touch the delectable Miss Granger."

Lucius could acknowledge that the boy certainly moved fast. It took less than a second for Weasley to reach into his denim pocket and aim his wand, screaming Crucio at the top of his lungs.

Lucius, however, was faster.

Much faster.

Lucius watched, almost passively, as the red flares of the unforgivable curse angrily fractured from the tip of the wand. It was a fully-intended curse, more powerful than he'd expected Boy Wonder's sidekick to be capable of, its lightning-like impact moving directly towards the centre of Lucius's chest.

But the spell itself seemed to be moving in slow motion. Or, perhaps Lucius's visual acuity was so high that it only appeared that way. Fractions of seconds were passing, but it was more than enough time for Lucius to wordlessly erect a powerful shield, protecting himself from the spell.

…Before sending it rebounding right back to its caster.

The boy shrieked as the Cruciatus, strengthened by the deflection, detonated within his insides, and he immediately fell to the floor, dropping his wand with a loud clamour as his gangly limbs spasmed.

Lucius casually eyed the brittle chestnut wand as he advanced on the screaming boy, and was suddenly struck with recognition. This wasn't Weasley's natural wand. The boy had stolen this one that day he'd escaped the Manor with the rest of the trio over Easter hols.

This wand had belonged to a dark wizard.

This wand was Peter Pettigrew's.

Lucius gripped the wand before he could consider the potential consequences, casting amplified Muffliato and Disillusionment charms in quick succession around the deserted hallway.

The dragon heartstring core seemed to pulse in gratitude for being within the grip of a worthy wielder of dark magic.

The boy looked seconds from pissing himself as Lucius towered above him, but there was a stubborn determination across his face that confirmed he planned to put up a fight.

Bloody Gryffindors…

Lucius nudged the boy's side with his patent dragon leather boot, eliciting an agonised cry. "You attempted to curse an unarmed wizard in his own home, Mr Weasley." Lucius tutted. "Now, what would Arthur have to say about that?"

The boy spat a mouthful of blood on the mosaic floor, before snarling, "Fuck off, Malfoy, don't you dare talk about my father–"

"Crucio."

Lucius watched in equal humour and disgust as the boy lost control over his bodily functions when the curse achieved full impact. He held the spell only for a few seconds, for he had no intention of killing the useless third of the Golden Trio–today, anyway–but the temptation to curse the boy to madness was only going stronger, the familiar seduction of violence more and more difficult to resist.

He'd need to be careful–for both of their sakes.

"That was a warning, Mr Weasley," Lucius said, once he released the curse. Weasley had rolled over to his side, groaning in pain as he violently vomited.

With a disinterested sigh, Lucius muttered Tergeo under his breath to clean the filth that Weasley had expelled. "Raise your wand to me again and I won't be so lenient."

"I'll fucking kill you," Weasley mumbled.

Lucius briefly wondered if the boy's mind was already half-lost to the curse.

He was even weaker than he'd suspected.

Continuing his slurred, lolling harangue, Weasley added, "I don't bloody care that you're an alpha. Hermione is an omega–if she bonds with me, she can make me just as good as an alpha. She's mine, do you hear? Do you hear me, Malfoy? Her body is mine, and her omega magic is mine, mine, mine…I'll never let you have her…fucking Death Eater…"

Lucius feigned consideration as the boy continued to ramble nonsensically. With the occasional really, now and is that so, Mr Weasley, Lucius unshouldered his outer robes, pocketed his emerald-eyed serpent cufflinks, and rolled his crisp sleeves above his forearms.

Clearly, his warning hadn't been enough.

And Lucius fully intended to rectify this deficit–severely.

He'd obliviate Weasley, of course, so that no memory of this encounter remained. Whatever mangled state the boy would eventually be found in could easily be explained by his belligerent drunkenness at the soirée.

But Lucius's patience had long expired, and violent aggressive instincts were boiling his blood to a high, heady fever. The magmatic rage was too hot to cool, and had reached the irreversible threshold where it could no longer be suppressed.

The alpha within was volcanic–and now, it could only detonate.

It had been far, far too long since Lucius had indulged in the exacting pleasure of torturing someone with the command of a wand, and he welcomed the potent influx of dark delight as his muscles tingled with adrenaline in anticipation of the pain he was about to mercilessly inflict.

"Are you quite finished with your threats, Mr Weasley?" Lucius asked lazily.

"You'll never have her," Weasley croaked. "I'll kill you…I'll kill you before I let you take her from me…"

Lucius slowly smiled.

He'd certainly enjoy watching the green beta try.

"Crucio."


It was several hours later that Lucius finally apparated directly into Hermione's chambers. The girl was deeply asleep at the centre of the bed, her small, motionless body nearly invisible within the layers of silken linens.

He carefully sat down on the mattress and planted a hand on either side of her, trapping her unwittingly within his arms as he stared down at her peaceful visage. The serenity across her gentle features as she slept reminded him of the carved faces of the enchanted marble goddesses and muses all throughout the Villa. Her face evoked an ancient, timeless kind of beauty, something celestial and pure, a mesmerising femininity that commanded the full attention of his executive and animalistic sensibilities.

Beautiful, beautiful girl…

Lucius nearly felt guilty, thinking to disturb such a lovely, innocent creature to satisfy his baser urges.

Open your eyes, sweetheart…

Wake up for me, and let me take care of you…

Hermione's slowly eyes fluttered open upon his silent command, a faint furrow upon her smooth brow as she took in her surroundings. Lucius readied himself for her temper at waking up to him on top of her, but to his surprise, her confused gaze softened when it reached his face.

"You're here," she said simply. Her mellifluous sleepy voice was like a balm to his still-kindling rage, soothing him in depths no one had ever before touched.

"You were upset. Did you truly doubt that I would come for you?" Lucius asked in response.

Hermione smiled sadly. "You wouldn't."

"Yet here I am."

"Indeed." Hermione sighed. "Because I desire it. And here, in this space…I'm the architect. And I get what I want, don't I? Those secret things I daren't admit even to myself."

Lucius wasn't entirely certain just what the girl was going on about, but she seemed relaxed–tranquilised, even–and he intended to keep her in this subdued state as long as possible.

She'd be much easier to play with that way.

"Of course you get what you want, little one," Lucius crooned, indulging her. "I'll give you anything and everything your sweet little heart desires."

"I really should hate you for talking to me like this."

"Should you, now?"

She chuckled lightly, but the mirth didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well…I wish I did."

"And why is that, little one?" Unable to resist any longer, he lowered his lips to the crook of her neck, groaning as he deeply inhaled the heavy concentration of her sweet, warm scent that collected on her pulse point. Hermione shivered beneath him in what he hoped was pleasure as he languidly extended his tongue for a taste of the mouthwatering omega.

"Because I…umm…I…"

Lucius chuckled, tonguing the sensitive spot just below her earlobe. "Tell me, Hermione. Tell me why you should hate it when I call you my little one, my sweet, precious, darling girl."

He shifted his attentions to her collarbone, licking her equally as much as he kissed her, her scent and flavour sending lightning bolts of arousal directly to his hardening cock.

"Because…I'm…I'm–"

"You're what, love?"

"I'm…I'm the Brightest Witch," Hermione confessed with effort. "I'm the Brightest…Brightest Witch of My Age."

Lucius paused his kisses, since it was obvious they hindered her ability to speak, and stared down at her with a smirk. "Indeed you are. But who says you can't be both?"

Hermione frowned, and then her eyes widened in wonder, as if this were the most novel concept she'd ever heard of.

Brilliant, silly girl…

"You believe I can be…both?"

"Of course you can, little witch." Lucius ran his knuckles across the plump apple of her cheek. "You can be everything you want to be, sweetheart."

He was entirely unprepared for the powerful impact the sheer adoration on her face would have on his physical affect.

And for several moments, Lucius was breathless.

It was as if she'd yanked his heart out of his chest in a way only this little omega could, and now, she held his life force securely in her tiny palm to either protect or destroy. Something was clearly amiss, for Hermione Granger would never look upon him with such fondness outside of her heat, but she held so much warmth in her eyes, so much sweetness in her smile, that it was rapidly becoming impossible to resist succumbing entirely to her allure.

She didn't look at him as if he were a Death Eater, or even her rapist. She looked at him with absolute trust, freely given like a sacred blessing, entirely devoid of fear and judgement.

She looked at him as if he were a god.

Her god.

She suddenly reached forward and placed her small hands on the side of his face, stroking his skin much like the way he was stroking hers.

"You know…I actually wish this was real. Isn't that funny?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Hermione giggled. "Oh, the things I would say to you if you were actually here like this. Kind. Tender. Gentle. The things I'd do. The things I'd want you to do to me…"

Shit.

Of course.

The girl thought she was hallucinating, experiencing nothing more than a hormonal vision of him, just as he'd had of her.

Her true regard of him was so low that she only believed he'd offer tenderness in her dreams.

Lucius was about to correct her, but the girl continued, "It's entirely immoral for a man to possess a face like yours. Do you know that?"

Lucius laughed. "Pardon me?"

"No wizard should have the power to melt a witch's knickers with nothing more than a glance."

"Am I melting your knickers now?"

Hermione slowly ran her tongue along her pouting lower lip. "If I were wearing any, you certainly would be."

Saucy little minx…

"Are you saying you find me attractive, Miss Granger?" Lucius queried. His cock impossibly hardened at the sight of the charming blush that bloomed across her cheeks.

"You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, Mr Malfoy," she said. "It's hard to look at you…painful almost. Like staring at the sun–you're positively blinding. Though I suppose it makes sense–it's your very name, isn't it? You're the shining one–the morning star."

Lucius had known he was handsome for his entire life. He knew objectively that his looks—his abounding, affluent genetic inheritance—were powerful assets that others simply did not possess by birth.

But never before had he been made humble by a witch's unfiltered commentary about his appearance.

It was…disconcerting, though not entirely unpleasant, and Lucius was becoming less and less keen to awaken Hermione from her fantasy.

"What things would you wish to say to me?" Lucius asked. "If I were truly here with you in the way you secretly desire?"

Hermione pondered his question for several moments.

"I'd tell you that you intimidate me in ways no one ever has before. That whenever I'm around you–even before…you know…" She paused to nervously swallow. "Even before…what happened…I think a part of me has always wanted to please you."

Lucius warred to restrain his befuddlement at her candid admission. He was a wizard lost–lost to this brilliant, confused, beautiful sleepy girl who thought she was merely dreaming about him.

He had to keep her talking.

He had to see what Hermione was like when she wasn't fearing for her life around him.

"Are you saying…you've wanted to please me since before I–"

"Don't say it–I don't want to talk about that," Hermione pleaded. "You had an impact on me from the first day we met. You probably don't remember–"

"I remember that day at the bookstore quite clearly, Miss Granger. You made quite an impression." With a smile, Lucius added, "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."

Her eyes joyfully illuminated at his words, practically sparkling. "You were awful to me. Just…dreadful. Your manners were appalling. And yet…you were also so handsome, and older, and posh, and…Merlin, I really shouldn't say this last bit."

"Go on, kitten," Lucius gently pushed. "Where's that Gryffindor bravery of yours?"

Hermione took a deep breath and stared at him determinedly, rising to the hint of challenge like the fierce little lioness he knew her to be. "You were…dangerous."

"I still am, little one."

"I know," Hermione whispered. "And…it excites me even more now than it did when I was twelve. Because now…I'm old enough to understand what it means. I have words for it now–impolite, shameful words."

"And what words are those?"

Hermione smiled whimsically. "Perversion. Deviance. Filth."

Lucius held her gaze steady as he followed the trail of flush on her skin, down to the exposed flesh just beneath her neck. The girl was wrapped in one of the guest robes provided in all suites of the Villa, and Lucius found he quite enjoyed the sight of her wearing the Malfoy family crest.

Raising an eyebrow, he reached for the silk belt around her waist, and tugged firmly, briefly cutting her air supply. "Is that why you were hating yourself tonight, Hermione? You felt perverse? Deviant? Like a naughty, dirty, filthy little girl?"

A flicker of fear flashed across her eyes, but it wasn't the kind of fear he wanted to avoid. It was…anticipation. Nervousness. Deference.

Pure, sweet submission…

"Yes," Hermione breathed. Lucius narrowed his eyes, inadvertently testing her, but the clever little witch responded beautifully. "Yes, sir," she added meekly.

"And what exactly made you feel this way?"

Lucius slowly untied the belt of the robe, allowing it to slither off her waist with a sensual hiss. Hermione's breathing had sharply increased–her chest was practically heaving–but she made no motion to stop his advances as he palmed the centre of her quivering torso, flirting with the edges of the robe.

"Answer me, Hermione," Lucius ordered.

"Watching you kiss your wife," she blurted out.

"You know quite well that I'm a married man, little one," Lucius purred, finally pushing the fabric off of her shoulders.

Hermione gasped as Lucius exposed her, her lower lip trembling, but she remained motionless as he greedily took his visual fill of her body. All of the blood remaining in his body rushed to his cock, leaving him dazed and lightheaded as he stared openmouthed at the most perfect set of tits on a witch he'd ever before witnessed. Her breasts were more than a handful, large on her small frame, fleshy and inviting and peaked by pebbled rosy nipples that simply begged to be sucked.

"Mr…M-Mr Malfoy–"

"Why would the sight of me kissing my wife make you hate yourself, Hermione?" Lucius asked firmly. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her breasts, from the indentation of her rapidly expanding and contracting ribcage immediately below.

And she thought his face was immoral?

Every inch of her succulent body was mortal sin. Wizards would split their very souls for a taste of her.

"Because I'll never have what she has. And I'm…I'm perverse for even wanting it in the first place."

Lucius tore his eyes away from her breasts with great effort, and was disturbed to find that tears were welling in her eyes.

Please don't cry, sweet girl…

How had this sensual encounter managed to go so spectacularly pear-shaped, so quickly?

"What does Narcissa have that you want, Hermione?" He couldn't fathom that a modern witch like Hermione would ever desire to be one half of an arranged marriage, even if it was to some fantasy version of him.

Hermione scrambled up to a seated position, but the petite witch was still more than a head shorter than he was. She didn't attempt to cover herself with the robe, but her shoulders did timidly shrink as she stared up at him with large, tear-filled doe eyes.

"I know how you rape, Mr Malfoy."

Her words were neither vengeful nor accusatory–it was simply a statement of fact. It didn't matter that he'd committed the act to save his own life, that they were both subjected to the violent demands of a hunt. For Lucius, it had been a pleasure.

But for Hermione, her first sexual encounter would always be an act of violent assault.

And suddenly, Lucius knew with absolute clarity exactly what the girl was about to ask for.

"I…I also know how you…umm…"

"Say it," Lucius urged. He needed to hear the words–explicitly.

"I know how you…f-fuck."

"And?" he pressed.

Her tears finally spilled over, and the saline scent of pure heartbreak and anguish practically disembowelled him with its overwhelming force.

Tell me what you need, sweetheart…

Please don't cry…please…

"I'll never know how you make love," Hermione sobbed, and Lucius felt like his own heart was breaking. "I'll never know what it's like. And I hate that I want that from you. But I can't seem to help it."

Hermione had just confessed her shame, believing she was in a safe private space of her own imagination. She was naked and defenceless, crying her eyes out, yet somehow, Lucius felt as if he was the one who had been flayed alive.

Reacting purely on impulse, Lucius reached for her, pulling the sobbing girl tightly into his chest as her body shook with her tears. She clung to him with desperation, her little fingers twisting in his waistcoat as she buried her face against his pectorals, as if he were her lifeline.

Words of comfort and affection poured unbidden from his mouth, phrases he'd never used before, but some compulsion told him that it was precisely what Hermione needed to hear.

She needed to be told she was brilliant.

She needed to be told she was beautiful.

She needed to be told that the rape was not her fault–and that it did not make her worthless.

When she finally calmed after more than an hour, Lucius repeated his earlier question.

"What is it that you want, Hermione? I need you to tell me."

She sniffled, rubbing her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, before answering in sombre clarity. "I want you to make love to me, Mr Malfoy."

If he were an honourable man, this would have been the perfect moment to bring the girl to full lucidity, to disabuse her of her childish fantasy and remind her of her place. She was no wife. She wasn't even a mistress.

…But she was an omega.

She was the magibiological opposite to the alpha within, his perfect, submissive antipode.

And Lucius was not honourable.

The girl would hate him in the morning, once she returned to her faculties. She would be horrified, irreparably wrecked, and freshly traumatised. For if he proceeded, he no longer had the excuse of impending death to justify his vile actions. If he granted her request, he would be knowingly and willfully participating in sexual assault upon her vulnerable person.

The girl thought she was dreaming–which meant she could not consent.

His guilt was strong.

But his desire for her was stronger.

"Please? I may not be able to have the real thing…but I'd like the dream at least," Hermione asked timidly.

Forgive me, Omega.

"Lie down, little one," Lucius murmured against the top of her head. "I'll take care of you, sweet girl…"