Rows of chairs lined up the halls of the Ministry's Atrium. A platform was installed in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren where the Minister will stand and deliver his inaugural speech in a few minutes. Hermione sat beside her husband three rows across from the platform and was busy trying to bore a hole through the back of Cormac McLaggen's head as the wizard sat on the very front row and was happily chatting with Theodore Nott and Arthur Weasley.
A gentle squeeze on her thigh broke her concentration. Hermione looked up to see Lucius smiling amusedly at her. He leaned forward and pretended to tuck a loose curl behind her ear.
"If looks could certainly kill, his head would've exploded by now."
"How I wish," she murmured under her breath. "That should've been me sitting there."
"And endure two agonizing hours pretending small talk with them? I don't think so," he shuddered, thinking of being seated next to Arthur Weasley.
"But Cormac's getting all the publicity!" she hissed.
"Fame doesn't' necessarily equate to power. Power is like real estate, my dear. It's all about location, location, location. The closer you are to the source, the higher your property value," Lucius lifted her left hand and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles. A subtle reminder. "Years from now, when people look back at the photographs printed by the Prophet for today's event, who will they see smiling just at the edge of the frame?"
Lucius motioned to the edge of the platform where the press was situated. A couple of them were holding cameras that would look outdated in the Muggle world. A flash momentarily left her in a daze. The photographer edged closer, wanting to get a good shot of some of the important officials of the Ministry.
"In the next inauguration, it's you who will be standing there behind the podium. It's you who'll be the source," he lifted a finger and smoothed the frown between her eyebrows. "So, smile, Hermione. This is going to be the moment the people will eventually realize where it all began."
Cheers soon erupted from the crowd as Kingsley Shacklebolt finally took to the stands for the second time. Everyone stood and clapped their hands enthusiastically—all except two. Most of the photographers shifted their attention to the newly re-elected Minister for Magic but there were still a couple of them taking photographs of the crowd.
"…Today is not simply about the next six years. It's about the next six decades. You've placed your faith in me again, and I, in turn, choose to place that faith in our children. Now that the war is behind us, we must move forward and plan for our future. Our children are the key to our Wizarding community's future, and that's why the first order of business for this administration will be a comprehensive Education Reform Bill to properly fix, finance and strengthen our school," Kingsley Shacklebolt's first statement was met with more vigorous clapping and overenthusiastic cheering.
Spoken like a true politician, Lucius mused. Whatever it takes to maintain your seat of power.
He knew how it felt. Before everything in his life fell to pieces, he was the one standing behind the seat of power—controlling, manipulating the system to his advantage. But now he had a different purpose. Lucius wouldn't be sitting behind anymore. No more lurking within the shadows. He will be there standing beside Hermione.
"Do you see now, my dear?" he asked his wife who was now gazing serenely across the crowd.
Soon, Hermione promised herself. She reached out and linked her hands with her husband who squeezed her hand in return. "I do."
And then she smiled, all pearly white perfect teeth.
The inauguration ball was held in a private hall in a Muggle hotel not far from the Ministry. The entire hall was decorated to the hilt complete with a band performing on stage. The old guards didn't really pay much attention to it. It was there for the younger members of the cabinet to enjoy.
Hermione liked The Hobgoblins as much as the next young witch or wizard although she couldn't be sure if the same could be said about her husband who kept flinching every time the drummer hit the cymbals way too hard. Well, at least Umbridge wasn't here.
"I need you to keep that smile up for an hour more," Hermione whispered near Lucius's ear.
She was met with a frown followed immediately by a withering glare. "Don't get cheeky on me now, witch."
"I'll make it worth your while later."
"Do you now?"
Hermione was about to reply when Vera Greengrass returned from the loo, taking her seat between Hermione and Gareth Greengrass.
"It was so nice of you to make this possible." Vera gushed. "When Lucius owled and—"
Hermione raised a hand and smiled at the Greengrass matriarch. "Not another word."
Across a few tables, the boisterous sound of McLaggen's voice reached Hermione's table and she fought the urge to whip her wand out and cast a bat-bogey hex. She may not be as accomplished at casting the hex as Ginny Weasley but Hermione was absolutely sure it'll hurt the same.
"'Your dog must be a genius,' the guy says. 'Nah,' says the other guy, 'He's pretty stupid. Every time he's got a good hand, he sniffs his ass.'," McLaggen joked and everyone even the neighboring tables who overheard the joke laughed at the punchline, even the Greengrasses. Hermione forced something of a smile that must've looked like a grimace because Lucius softly chuckled beside her.
"You're trying so hard, my dear," he rested a hand on her thigh. "That lovely face of yours will only get more lines."
Hermione was about to snap at her husband when Blaise came over to their table, a stoic expression on his face. "You need to see this," he whispered.
She flicked her eyes to Lucius who nodded his head in return. "Go do your thing," he said, giving her thigh a parting squeeze before letting her go.
Hermione kissed his cheek then excused herself and followed Blaise to the hallways through the service kitchen then out to the service entrance. It was a deserted alleyway, but Blaise led her to a corner and surrounded themselves with a handful of privacy charms just to be sure. You'll never know who might be listening.
"What is it?" Hermione broke the silence, as she leaned against a bricked wall.
Blaise pulled a thick envelope out of his robes and handed it to Hermione. "I had McLaggen followed the other night."
Hermione looked up. "You found us an errand boy? Do I want to know who?"
Her colleague shook his head. "It's better if you're in the dark about this. There's something we found out," he gestured towards the envelope.
Hermione swiftly tore the flimsy paper open and pulled out the contents. The photos are of a hooded person, who was clearly McLaggen, walking through Knockturn Alley. The photographs weren't moving, she noted. Hermione flicked through each photograph until she landed on the last three sets.
She instantly felt her inside turn ice cold at the image before her. It was a good thing that she was leaning her weight against the wall because her knees had suddenly felt weak.
"H—he… he did this?"
"According to my source, he's a frequent visitor," Blaise's voice was grave. He'd seen a handful of things throughout his life but this was something else. "That brothel caters to a lot of unconventional… cravings of the human flesh. The girls who worked there were mostly squibs like that woman. Girls who were disowned by their parents."
"Not welcomed on both worlds," Hermione murmured. "Shunned from the world you were born in for an anomaly in your body that you have no control of while forced to live in a life of shame and secret in a world completely foreign to you. Death would've been mercy."
"It's even worse than being a Muggleborn," Blaise agreed, his eyes widened momentarily when he realized who he was speaking to. "Oh, Hermione—"
She breathed out through her mouth as if she could smell the corpse through the photos. Blaise's words triggering a long-suppressed memory to the surface. Hermione suddenly pictured herself in the dead woman's position only instead of welts and a handful of claw marks on her arms, there was only a single mark etched across the entire skin: Mudblood.
"Hermione, are you okay?" Blaise reached out to try and steady her, grabbing the stacks of photographs on her hands which she now realized were trembling.
Hermione pulled away from him, raising a hand to stop him from fussing. "I'm fine. Just relieving some… not so fond memories."
"Oh."
"Anyway," Hermione said, pushing away the dark thoughts for now. "This is too vague. We can't use this against McLaggen. We can't gain any traction from this."
"Why not?"
"Because it might be construed as two different photos. McLaggen can claim that he has nothing to do with it since there was no incriminating evidence aside from the fact that he entered a brothel. Nearly every single male who is sexually active does that. And since there's no incriminating evidence, he won't be subjected to a veritaserum investigation," Hermione let everything out in one whoosh. "And it's going to look like a targeted attack which it is but our real goal here is to make it look like it isn't. Who do you think the press will start throwing stones at? Who do you think has more to gain if McLaggen loses his nomination? Me. The vindictive witch who didn't get the dream position."
Blaise blinked a few times, processing everything. "Damn, Hermione. Has anyone ever told you you'd make a terrifying lawyer? The case would be over by the time you're finished."
She gave him a weak smile. "I may have heard that once."
He ran a hand through his short-cropped bright blond hair and sighed. "I'll try to look for a new angle but I'm not going to let this go completely."
Hermione nodded and patted Blaise on the shoulder. "You did good there, Blaise. If anything, you gave me more reason to destroy him."
"Just… keep it between us. I have a reputation to maintain," he pulled away and leaned against the wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes as he did. "Want one?"
"No. I think I better head back to Lucius. Who knows what he's been up to since I was gone? I might have to rescue everyone from a hostile takeover."
The two of them snickered at the thought of the Malfoy patriarch taking over the party.
"I think I'll stay out here for a few minutes. Try and clear the images from my mind," Blaise sighed as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. "See you tomorrow, boss."
Hermione nodded and proceeded to head back inside.
Lucius knew that something was amiss when Hermione came back to him half an hour later. He'd just finished dancing with the elder witch Griselda Marchbanks when he spotted Hermione entering the hall with an inscrutable expression on her face. What she and Zabini had discussed must've been grave. Hermione is a witch who isn't shaken so easily.
New music started to play. Lucius sauntered over to his wife and held out his hand to her.
"May I have this last dance, ma petite lionne?"
"You most certainly may," she gave him a wary smile and it only confirmed his suspicion.
Lucius led them both to the middle of the dance floor and they glided through with practiced ease as the music played.
"Have I told you that you're a vision tonight? That dress brings out the color of your eyes," when Hermione didn't acknowledge the compliment, Lucius started to worry. "What happened back there?"
He felt Hermione tensed for a moment before relaxing in his arms.
"Later," was her only reply.
And Lucius didn't press for more. He trusted that she'll tell him eventually in her own time. And if she didn't, well, he has his ways to make her talk.
Rita Skeeter strode through the headquarters of the Daily Prophet in Diagon Alley. A silence descended everyone as she made her way to the chief editor's office not because she was carrying an obscene amount of parchment in her arms but because of the lack of spontaneity in her outfit. The witch never missed an opportunity to turn the hallways into a runway of her own, showing off her bizarre sense of fashion.
"Where have you been? I've been owling you all day! Everyone's been working double time on the inauguration and you just up and disappeared," Barnabas Cuffe, the current editor-in-chief of the Prophet yelled through the glass walls of his office. "And what the hell are you wearing?"
"I have no time to pick an outfit today," she said as she dumped the stack of parchments on his desk.
"What is this?" Barnabas said as he flicked parchment after parchment. He froze when he realized it was the draft for Shacklebolt's education bill. "Wait… is this… where the hell did you get this?"
"The right question is: how soon can we put this up?"
"Wait, wait, wait," he held up a hand. "Let's get legal on this first—make sure we're not breaking any laws. And I want a litigation assessment. The last thing I need is Shacklebolt grinding on my arse for this. You won't tell me your source?"
"I can't do that."
"Fine. But if legal—"
"I understand. How long do you think that will take? We should get this printed right away," Rita insisted.
"I'm not just going to copy a 600-page document and put it up before we've gone through every—"
"I did that already," Rita Skeeter pulled out a thin stack of parchment from her purse and handed it over to her editor.
"You read the whole thing?" Barnabas asked, surprised.
"Cover to cover. I've got excerpts. Analysis. Three thousand words ready for editing," Rita rolled her eyes when Barnabas continued to gape at her. "Give me some credit here, Barnabas. I've been writing some credible news for the past few years."
That seemed to snap him out of his daze. "Alright. I want you to work with Betty Braithwaite on this and start working on the tables, charts, the whole nine yards," Barnabas stood and opened his door. "Betty! I need you here!"
Betty Braithwaite was the woman who interviewed Rita Skeeter when she released a book about the life Albus Dumbledore. The woman was quick and sharp-witted. Rita was pleased that Barnabas chose her.
"What's the angle on this, five words?" he asked as he tapped his quill against the desk.
"Far left of center."
Barnabas shook his head. "That's four."
"Very far left of center."
"Enough to put Shacklebolt on his heels?"
"Screw his heels," Rita rolled her eyes. "This will put him on his ass."
Barnabas smirked. "Very well then. Let's get started."
Lucius woke with a start, the book lying on his chest landed with a muffled thud on the floor. He reached out instinctively for Hermione, feeling only the crisp, cool sheets where she wasn't. It was half past 2 am and his wife was still downstairs.
They left the inauguration party after they've made their usual rounds of social interaction. Lucius was about to bring up the question again when Hermione gave him a peck on the cheek and told him that she needed to go over a couple of things from work, leaving Lucius staring after her retreating form.
He waited, passing the time by going over some work of his own and when that was done, he did some light reading until he unintentionally fell asleep.
Pulling a dressing gown over him, Lucius made his way down in search of his wife. The library was empty and so was his study. There was also no sight of her in the gardens and conservatory.
Had she left? But he could still feel her aura, the buzz of her magic throughout the Manor.
"Winky."
The house-elf appeared instantly with a small pop. "Yes, master?"
"Have you seen Hermione?"
Winky looked down for a moment before answering. "Mistress is in that room, sir. The drawing room. Mistress is in there for hours."
Lucius dismissed the elf and made his way to the drawing room. An unanswered question during the first year of their marriage came to mind. Why didn't she let him remodel the drawing room that clearly reminded her of traumatic memories?
The door was half opened when he reached the said room. Lucius quietly slipped inside and immediately saw his wife sitting by the dried blood on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Three sets of photographs and a pack of cigarettes were lying on her other side.
"Sometimes, I forget who I am when I'm with you," she softly said, her back still turned to him.
"Hermione," he called out to her as he made his way over. "What are you talking about?"
"I know that I'm not the only one who has terrible memories of this room and I know you've been wondering why I was against you remodeling this," Hermione looked up as Lucius knelt in front of her, leveling his eyes with hers. "But I needed the reminder, Lucius. That just because I'm married to you doesn't make me one of you. I don't want to lose focus."
Somehow, Lucius understood what she meant. But he couldn't understand why now? After six years, why did she suddenly bring this up? "Hermione, what brought this on?"
"He gets off on inflicting pain on to them," Hermione whispered but in the dead silence of the night, Lucius could clearly hear it. "Not the kind of pain one usually enjoys during sex but a hateful one. The kind of pain that induces fear."
"Who?"
"Cormac McLaggen. Blaise had him followed the other night," she lifted one of the photographs for Lucius to see. "She's a squib disowned by her parents. Forced to sell herself just to survive. A fate worse than being a Muggleborn."
His eyes hardened when he realized what the images were. Even in his Death Eater days, Lucius had never seen something this gruesome. Even Bellatrix, with her penchant for torture, never got off on doing something so wretched as this. The only other person Lucius knew who could be this sadistic was Antonin Dolohov and Lucius said a silent prayer of thanks to Merlin that Dolohov was rotting in a cell in Azkaban right now.
"Muggleborns, squibs… they're the reason why I'm fighting so hard, Lucius. You may not comprehend how much that means to me but I need you on my side."
Yes, he might not understand and it may not be his fight but that didn't mean he couldn't be there for her. I will be whatever you need me to be. Lucius had promised her that six years ago. He is, if anything, a man of his words.
Hermione must've seen something in his expression because the next thing Lucius knew was her lips crashing onto his, soft and supple. After all these years, it never failed to take his breath away.
And then his hand was on her face, gently cradling her cheek as he pressed his lips back on hers, his mouth parting almost immediately. Lucius felt her open herself to him and he tasted her, their tongues clashing with a dance of their own. Possessive and hungry and thrilled.
He felt her match his fervor. Her mouth worked against his own. Her hand came up and brushed across his neckline, skimming the edges of his dressing gown before resting lightly on his chest. Even through the thick clothes, her hand felt branded on his skin.
Lucius peeled these layers off her urgently, efficiently. Vaguely aware of how she matched him still. Dress for a dressing gown. A shirt, a ribbon, a bra. The quiet purr of zips. Urgent, determined, slightly trembling hands as they each divested the other of their sartorial impediments between long snatches of locked lips. Time moved sluggish and swift, and the room spun and stilled.
She pressed her lips to the spot just above his right nipple and he sucked his teeth involuntarily before he cupped her face with both his hands and supped fully from her mouth, her lips already swollen from countless such punishing, searching kisses. Slowly, Lucius dropped her on the floor, shoving the photographs and pack of cigarettes aside before stretching himself along the length of her lithe, flawless body. She kissed his eyes so they closed, grazed her lips against his ear so he shuddered. He sank his teeth softly into her neck and heard her moan.
Hermione stirred restlessly beneath him, clutching at his arms. She bit at her lip as he pressed kisses into the curve of her neck, down to the valley between her breasts. And then, in a surprising display of strength, she turned and flipped him, his back landing on the dried blood on the floor. Lucius was sure the blood would stick to the skin on his back. Hermione straddled his hips, sliding her mound across the length of him. Both muttered a string of curses as pleasure came through the heated friction. And then she sank all the way down onto him, her breath knocked from her lungs on a moan as her body accommodated him.
"Oh, gods!"
"Merlin, fuck!"
Lucius watched as her eyes roll back before her lids slid close, as she bites her lower lip. A vision he never grew tired of witnessing. He took a deep, shuddering breath and ran a hand up her side to cup a breast as she rode his hardened length to oblivion. Higher, higher, higher they went until Lucius couldn't take the pacing anymore and pushed himself off the floor. Circling an arm across her waist, his hand digging in her hip while the other anchored him from the floor, he began to set the rhythm, each thrust was met with the sweetest of moans.
As her breasts were pressed against his chest, one of her arms circled across his back while the other rested around his neck. As Lucius pushed himself deeper into her, Hermione's nails raked down his back firmly, drawing blood. And it's when Lucius realized, with a strange fascination, that Hermione's dried blood that had clung to his back had mixed with his. In his past life, the notion would make him shiver in disgust. But now it only made him hiss with pleasure.
And so he took her—thoroughly, roughly, almost violently even as something within him softened against his will. But still, he pummeled her, plundered her, his own control barely holding by a thread as he claimed her time and time again—body and soul and everything in between.
The moment she melted, the moment he felt her clenching helplessly around his cock, he spilled into her, a deep anguished groan mingling with her strangled cry.
Lucius was still breathing heavily underneath her when she reached out to her side to fetch a cigarette. As the match rasped and the flame ignited the tip, his hands came about her side, her body nesting into him with a kiss to her nape.
She stared into his face now, her expression perhaps a mirror of his own. Solemn. Unsmiling. Gaze unflinching. But then, suddenly, her face broke into a smile so small and tender that he leaned in unthinkingly and pressed his lips to hers. She held his face to hers with one slender hand and when she finally broke away from him, her sigh was one of contentment that he secretly shared.
"He will go down. One way or another," he declared, circling his fingers around her hand, lifting the cigarette from between her slender fingers to take a drag. "I promise you that."
And Hermione believed him.