PotionChemist and I got together again and wrote this for our good friend, TriDogMom, since it's her birthday. We thought she'd like to celebrate with a cheeky little Lumione fic, so we came up with this. We hope you enjoy it as much as she has :)

CHAPTER 1

His presence always caused a stir. Whispered voices, discreet pointing, and sidelong glances of mistrust… He was accustomed to it — always had been — but the part he played in the war had caused the speculation around him to intensify. He ignored it — of course he did — which only served to make his presence more enigmatic.

"Don't you get sick of this?" Draco asked, highly amused as they walked across the Ministry Atrium towards their destination.

"Sick of what?" he enquired.

"The stares. The pointing. Being Lucius Malfoy."

"Unfortunately I cannot change any of those things," he replied. "And it's not my concern if these people have nothing better to do with their time than gossip about why I'm here."

"Ah, I get it," Draco sniggered. "You enjoy the fame and notoriety."

Lucius glanced at him and gave him an incredulous look. "I do not."

"It's why you dressed for the occasion."

Lucius scowled. He had deliberately dressed down to avoid the attention, but it obviously had the reverse effect. He had forgone traditional robes, thinking a simple three-piece suit would suffice, but the lack of dress seemed to garner more attention.

But it had become what he preferred. The showy robes and glittering jewels were no longer of any interest to him, nor was the need to remind people of who he was. In fact, he would rather they forget. It was why he had begun to dress more conservatively — to enable him to blend in, to hide amongst the masses. But he knew it was a stretch. Short of cutting his hair and dying it dark brown, he knew he would always be noticed.

"I've taught you from a young age to always dress neatly." Lucius glanced at his son once more. "I see I have failed."

Draco laughed. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Lucius simply shook his head. His son's waistcoat and shirt paired with Muggle jeans wasn't what he would consider appropriate attire to attend a meeting at the Ministry. But, of course, it wasn't Draco and his attire attracting the attention.

"Mr Malfoy," a Ministry clerk greeted as they approached the lifts. "I have been asked to escort you."

"Does the Ministry not trust me to find my way?" Lucius asked snippily.

"No, sir, but level nine is no longer available to the public. An official escort is required."

"Level nine?" Draco glanced at his father. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," Lucius snapped. He'd not told Draco exactly why he'd been called to the Ministry, just that he had been and asked that his son accompany him. In fact, he'd not even known why he was summoned himself.

"Mr Malfoy has done nothing illegal," the clerk informed Draco. "He is here simply at our request because of a recent discovery concerning the Hall of Prophecy."

"What did you touch last time you were there?" his son asked as they stepped into the lift.

"Draco," Lucius warned.

The clerk pulled the gate closed and waved his wand across the panel in the side wall. The lift jerked and then they were moving, headed for the secretive ninth floor. The floor that had been closed to the public since the war. Closed since the break-in.

Lucius stood stiffly beside his son; what in the name of Merlin could they possibly want from him in the Hall of Prophecy?

The parchment he'd received had only requested his presence at the Ministry at a time convenient to him. It had been polite and courteous and in no way indicated he had reason to be concerned.

But level nine?

He'd only ever been there once, and everyone knew how that turned out.

"I thought the Hall of Prophecy was destroyed," Draco said.

"Just a rumour," the clerk replied. "Some prophecies were lost, but not all. An uncountable number of orbs are held within The Hall."

The lift came to a jerking halt and the clerk smiled as he opened the gate. Lucius and Draco followed him out, both startling when he waved his wand and the glamour he had over him vanished. He stood before them in the unmistakable robes of the Unspeakables.

He nodded and apologised, explaining, "Only a member of a level nine department can accompany you down here. If I had been waiting in the Atrium dressed like this, suspicions would have been aroused, and we didn't want you to be uncomfortable, Mr Malfoy."

"Your level of respect has risen," Draco noted, then squirmed as Lucius elbowed him in the ribs.

"I appreciate the discretion, Mr…?"

"Smith," he said with a nod, and the meaning couldn't be clearer; Unspeakables didn't use their real names. "Now, gentlemen, if you'll follow me please?"

They both nodded and followed as he led them down the gloomy corridor to the department proper. The circular entrance chamber was disorienting at first, the floor swirling like water until Mr Smith waved his wand and stilled the effect. He moved towards the third door on the right and spoke in a language neither Lucius or Draco understood.

It swung open and they were met with the icy coolness that emanated from the Hall of Prophecy.

"If you would step inside." Mr Smith held out an arm and they moved past him and into the chamber. "I'll ask you both to wait here; The Keeper of the Hall will be along in a moment. I'll be waiting to escort you out when you're done. But please, take your time."

The door closed without allowing them to respond, and the distinct sound of the room shifting outside reverberated inside the hall.

"This is impressive." Draco was glancing around the vast chamber, icy cold and lit only by blue-flamed candles. "How big is it?"

"No one rightly knows," a voice said from the shadows.

The Keeper of the Hall appeared, tall and broad, dressed in thick robes and holding a glowing lantern. His face was stoic, used to keeping secrets, and Lucius knew this man wouldn't budge, even under torture.

"The Hall expands as necessary," he said. "And contracts when prophecies are removed. It is its own entity. I am here only to preserve the prophecies and inform those to whom they relate. The Hall takes care of itself."

He turned and began walking down the long, central row of prophecy orbs, the two men following closely, Lucius' stomach was suddenly in knots.

Never in his family's history had the Malfoy name been held inside a Ministry glass ball. Malfoy's weren't prophesied; clear paths were mapped out and their lives were set in stone.

Of course, his path had changed at the end of the war. His loyalty to the Dark Lord and his beliefs in the Death Eaters all changed. The Dark Lord's insistence that Draco become a murderer was the catalyst that made Lucius realise he had put his family at great risk.

A risk that made him desert to the Order of the Phoenix and become a spy.

But Narcissa's execution on the final day of the battle that had been the last straw. If Potter hadn't taken the Dark Lord down, Lucius would have done it himself.

Death and destruction, senseless murders of innocent people, turning children into soldiers — it was all too much. And he came to hate himself for supporting the bigotry and exclusion that a half-blooded despot preached.

But now, following this shrouded man through this hall, he had never been more terrified in his life.

They came to an abrupt stop, the Keeper turning to face them once more. He reached out slowly, removing a small, glowing orb from the shelf, and holding it up towards Lucius.

"Mr Malfoy, I believe this belongs to you."

Lucius hesitated momentarily, then gingerly held his hand out to take the orb.

"I shall leave you to hear this on your own." He disappeared with a pop, leaving Lucius and Draco staring at the orb.

"How does it—" Draco began, but a mist had formed inside the orb, swirling and clearing, and the face of the Seer emerged.

"A woman with the blood of the common… born without magical ancestry… will bring light to the darkened world with her companions… and the world will rejoice in her name… and he of pureblood and angelic guise, but with heart and mind closed… of an ancestry steeped in tradition... will look upon her with reverence and fall to his knees before her."

The spun-glass ball of the prophecy record frosted over and the face within it disappeared into the fog. The voice of Sybill Trelawney faded as the ball returned to its aquamarine clarity.

The silence that fell in the hall was deafening. The two men stared at the glass ball; the prediction was a complete shock.

"It's not possible," Lucius murmured.

"It's what it says. Did you want to hear it again?"

"I certainly do not." Lucius puffed his chest out and glared at the glass ball, his terror replaced with incredulity. "That ridiculous woman predicts nothing but lunacy. In fact, it's not even a prediction, it's utter rot. He of pureblood. That could be anyone."

"I think the angelic guise is a dead give away." Draco snorted a laugh, and pointed to his father's long mane of hair. "And, as you well know, only those to whom a prophecy refers can remove it from its place. It was why you ambushed Potter. Have you forgotten the war already, Father?"

Lucius' head snapped up to look at his son, who was still grinning at him.

"It was not I who took this prophecy from its place," he said indignantly.

"No," Draco agreed, his face still coloured with amusement. "It was The Keeper of the Hall, the only other person with authorised access. But, had anyone else touched it, they'd be enjoying a long stay in St Mungo's drooling on themselves, and this ball of interesting information would have been lost forever. I'm so glad The Keeper found it."

"I'm delighted that you find this predicament so amusing, Draco." Lucius returned his gaze to the glass ball. Despite the cool temperature of the vast hall, the glass was warm, and the small orb was surprisingly heavy.

And even more surprisingly heavy was the prophecy it held.

True prophecies were rare. Only the most eminent Seers were capable of predictions that would eventuate into truth. And, with the exception of her prediction regarding Potter, Lucius didn't consider Sybill Trelawney anything close to being an eminent Seer. As far as he was concerned, she had managed that prophecy by sheer dumb luck.

Abundantly clear was the she in the prophecy. Common blood, no magical ancestry, bringer of light, rejoice in her name. And the fact that her face appeared in the fog of the prophecy record simply confirmed the truth.

Hermione Granger.

Potter may have been the one who had physically vanquished the Dark Lord, but it was well-known that without her, Potter — and his sidekick, Weasley — wouldn't have survived his first year at Hogwarts.

It was also well-known that her title of Brightest Witch of Her Age was apt. Her magical knowledge and abilities were almost unmatched. Wandless magic at age eleven; he knew of no other who was as capable. Severus, maybe. Dumbledore certainly, but he still succumbed to a curse. Draco was well beyond adept, but Lucius would still put his money on her if they were to duel. And his own abilities were above average but, if he were to take her on — even by surprise — she would turn on a Sickle and land him on his arse.

Hermione Granger. A woman to whom he gave little thought. His knowledge of her was limited to what he learned through his son.

Draco's work at St Mungo's brought the pair into direct contact, and Lucius knew by his son's easily given praise that there had been a shift in their former rivalry. Admiration, it seemed, had blossomed between the two and now a friendship had solidified between them.

Katie — Draco's wife — also held Ms Granger in high regard.

But his own acquaintance with her was almost non-existent. Since the end of the war, he'd only ever seen her at an occasional Ministry ball or passed her on the street. And those rare occasions slipped by with little acknowledgement from either side.

So why he would be linked with Hermione Granger in a prophecy baffled him.

And what did it mean — fall to his knees before her?

He would never bow to her.

He was more accepting — the war had made him see that the segregation of pureblood and Muggle-born was erroneous — and, of course, he had respect for her abilities and knowledge. And, if Draco was well acquainted with Ms Granger, then that was his son's business. But he had no desire to know her any more than he already did.

"Fall to his knees…" Draco's voice dragged Lucius from his musings. "Do you think this is some kind of romantic prophecy?"

"Excuse me?" Lucius was incredulous. Why would Draco even think such a thing?

"This might be your chance, Father." Draco was visibly struggling to hold in his laughter. "It's been seven years since Mother's passing, and you've been alone all that time. A younger woman might be just what you need to get your blood pumping again."

"In seven years, your manners have become appalling." Lucius' temper was rising. His son's merriment was grating on him. "And I have absolutely no romantic inclination towards Ms Granger whatsoever."

Narcissa had been the love of his life. He'd had eyes for no one else since he'd first met her in their teens. And, after the devastation of her death at the hands of the Dark Lord, Lucius had not been interested in pursuing the opposite sex — as much as his son dogged him to do so.

To Lucius, even the thought of another woman in his life felt like a betrayal.

"It could mean anything, Draco." Lucius shoved the orb into his pocket and retrieved his cane. "Potter's prophecy spoke of death. Maybe Ms Granger will sever my head when she hexes me to kneel in front of her."

Draco's laughter finally broke free. "She's a Healer, Father. She cures people. I can't imagine her ever beheading anyone."

"Yes, well, she'll not be given the opportunity." Lucius turned and began the long walk out of the Hall. "This prophecy is simply more of Sybill Trelawney's rubbish and Ms Granger is of no interest to me... in any capacity."

Draco grinned at his father's retreating back and, in a low voice, whispered to himself, "We'll see, Father. We'll see."

The Bean & Leaf Cafe was quiet, much to Lucius' delight.

He'd been frequenting the quaint, hidden away cafe on the south side of Diagon Alley for years, but the younger set had recently happened upon it and turned it into the place to be. But summer was well over, school was back in session, and the work day had started… for those who had a place of work to go to.

So Lucius situated himself in the back corner and was enjoying the quiet. A teapot was in front of him, the Oolong within it brewing to perfection while he resolutely refused to think about the prophecy that was sitting on the dresser in his bedchamber.

A woman…

...blood of the common…

...pureblood and angelic guise…

...heart and mind closed…

...reverence...

...fall to his knees…

The words of that ridiculous woman had played non-stop inside his head. None of it made any sense.

Why would he ever be prophesied? And why would it be with Hermione Granger?

Yes, she was attractive, intelligent, and hard-working. She was the darling of the wizarding world, and he was the villain. And she was half his age. She would no doubt have plenty of suitors her own age to keep her occupied; she wouldn't need a man old enough to be her father adding to the mix.

He paused. Why did he immediately assume this was a romantic prophecy? Draco's idiotic comment had stuck in his mind and he'd focused on little else. Maybe his own idea had been correct. His beheading at Ms Granger's hand would be apt. The way in which he'd treated her when she was just a child was deplorable. If an adult had spoken to Draco in such a manner, Lucius would have definitely wanted their head on a plate.

Maybe this prophecy was about forgiveness. Maybe it was a simple case of being metaphorical. Fall to his knees could just be a symbol of asking her forgiveness for his past indiscretions.

Or, it could mean that you want to fall to your knees and devour her, a voice inside his head said.

He shoved the voice away; that was definitely not what he wanted to do. He was quite content in his life, thank you very much, and that contentment would not be disrupted by a nonsensical prophecy.

"Mr Malfoy?"

Lucius looked up at the sound of the voice.

"Is there something else you need?" The waitress was smiling, but it was forced and somewhat nervous. That he still had this effect on people was something he had become uncomfortable with.

Her reaction would have caused pride to surge through him prior to the war, but now his perceived reputation made him squirm. He had tried to change, tried to be more accepting, but his purist ways were difficult to distance himself from.

He smiled at the young girl. "No, thank you. Everything is perfect."

She nodded — a look of relief on her face — and scurried away quickly.

Lucius sighed and poured his tea, breathing in the thick, woody aroma before opening The Daily Prophet.

Nothing was of real interest to him in the newspaper — which, in his honest opinion, had become little more than a gossip rag thanks mostly to that ghastly beast of a woman, Rita Skeeter. Her idea of journalism — touted as investigative — was little more than conjecture and opinion based on lies. He'd sold his shares in the paper after her abysmal reporting of the Triwizard Tournament and the paper's refusal to fire her upon discovery of said lies, and he now simply looked at the once reputable newspaper as a source of light entertainment.

He scanned the broadsheet and sipped his tea, slowly letting the world around him vanish, the sounds becoming a quiet hum in the background.

The Ministry's latest regulation changes.

A piece on the latest racing brooms from Nimbus.

Quidditch scores.

A long-winded editorial regarding the higher than average OWLs of the latest Hogwarts graduates. According to the journalist, the higher rate was achieved because of the lower stress levels amongst the Muggle-born students. The fact that they hadn't needed to concern themselves with purist propaganda had made all the difference, the writer said, and Lucius shook his head.

The war had ended seven years ago, meaning dozens of students had graduated without higher than average levels. He didn't believe for one second that lower stress levels had anything to do with it. It was all down to the headmistress.

Minerva McGonagall had finally convinced the school board to allow her to choose the staff as she saw fit and that, Lucius knew, was the reason for the higher levels. She had chosen proper professors who knew how to teach, instead of famous faces who did little but preen about. The new headmistress was old-school — professors taught, students learned, rules were enforced, and praise was given only when earned. Unlike her predecessor, Lucius admired McGonagall. Her firm hand and no-nonsense attitude was long overdue at Hogwarts.

He'd not been on the Board of Governors for years, but his interest in the school still remained and, with the few contacts he still had, he was aware that Minerva was moving out from her predecessor's shadow and making changes for the better.

He shook his head — this wasn't his concern. And a poorly researched editorial in a sham of a newspaper shouldn't bother him.

He turned the page and his breath caught.

NEW DRAGON POX PREVENTION

In a recent press release from St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a new preventative potion has been developed by war heroine Hermione Granger and former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. The pair have been researching the potion for months…

Lucius frowned. Draco had never mentioned a research project. Especially one that centred on Dragon Pox — the very disease that took the life of Lucius' own father. A fact that Draco was well-aware of.

Nor did Draco tell him that his work involved Ms Granger.

His son's interest in the ridiculous prophecy record suddenly became clear; his friendship with Ms Granger was deeper than Lucius realised.

But whatever his son was plotting, whatever hairbrained idea had gotten into his head regarding Ms Granger… Well, Draco would be sorely disappointed.