A/N Content Warning: contains violence and sexual intimidation.
Beta'd by the wonderful StoryWriter831. Everything belongs to JK Rowling.

...

Lucius's mouth hardened, and he did not reply.

Instead, he freed the brooch and raised his arm, at first I thought to touch my face, but then I realised he was reaching over to place the jewel on the tall bureau just behind me. Still avoiding my gaze, he brought both hands up to my collar bone, and, hooking his thumbs under the edges of the heavy cape, he slid it off my shoulders.

I felt the costly material billow around my ankles. Wincing regretfully at the uselessness of hindsight, I thought: There goes your chance for escape. You should have just run for it.

I didn't quite know what I was going to do. Obviously I wasn't going to let the man strip me naked. Sweet-talk? Beg? Negotiate? A kick in a sensitive area?

There was a brief tug on the back of my neck, as Lucius pulled away the white opera-scarf, again letting it drop in a pile at my feet. There was a palpable, wired tension in his body, like a tiger ready to spring. I realised we were both waiting for me to react in some way. And neither of us quite knew what to expect.

How many layers, Alice? I wondered. How many layers before you crack?

"Lucius," I whispered again, afraid to speak louder, lest he hear the quiver of desperation in my voice. "Why won't you tell me my name?"

Still no reply. Encircling both my wrists with one strong hand, he lifted my arms slowly above my head, using his other hand to peel the cashmere jersey up and over. For a moment I was blinded and bound by the plush material, and the intense vulnerability of my situation left me flushed and trembling when at last he freed me from it.

I was paralysed with indecision and confusion. It was too, too much like a bedroom ritual, an act performed by lovers—but it was not an act of love, it was one of hate; an unsoundable, incomprehensible hate, spun through and through with delicately twisted skeins of desire...

After his extreme, blazing violence and rage, I wondered if Lucius was really as in control of himself as he now appeared. Somehow I doubted it. It was always so close to the surface, his anger, like smouldering coal hidden beneath a layer of bone-dry tinder. One spark was all it ever took.

His fingers worked open the buttons of the satin waistcoat leisurely—tauntingly.

Still I could not bring myself to react. What's the worst he can do, Alice? He can't very well hurt or humiliate you more than he already has. Unless. No. He can't be intending to—to—

The waistcoat fluttered to the floor. Only the shirt, trousers and socks remained and I was excruciatingly aware that beneath them I was completely naked.

As if reading my thoughts, as too often he accurately did, Lucius drawled, "Tell me, Miss Carroll...do you think it wise for a young lady to enter a man's bedroom, alone and at night?" His voice was silky. Treacherously so. "Might not she have reason to expect certain...repercussions, for such indiscreet behaviour?"

My heart seemed to have launched itself into my throat. "No, I d-don't," I stammered. "I mean, I th-thought you didn't—didn't—you said you would n-never..." I trailed off, cheeks burning. What could I say? You promised not to rape me? I couldn't say it—not that word, not with the huge baronial bed mere feet away from us, not as I was: cornered, wounded and helpless.

Not with that glimmering light in his eyes, blue flame encased in ice.

Lucius leaned forward, an almost-imperceptible curve touching his mouth. "A man's actions do not always coincide with his assertions, Alice. Surely you know that."

"A gentleman's actions should," I countered, in a voice rather higher than I wished.

The curve deepened. "How little you must know of gentlemen."

I glowered up at him. "I know what they ought to be. And clearly you are not one."

"Am I not? How fortunate. Then I need not concern myself by disappointing your expectations."

I bit my lip. My only real defence against him were my words, and he always, always managed to twist them against me. A cold, clammy anxiety was creeping over my body now, usurping and quashing the magnetic pull I had felt only moments ago. "B-but I thought that you. That I. I disgusted you."

The fiery gleam in Lucius's eyes flared and intensified. "Indeed," he murmured softly. I drew in a quick breath as he brought his hand to my face, lightly placing his fingers on my cheek, brushing my lips with his thumb. I pressed them firmly together, but they tingled at his touch. His pupils had dilated fully, like a night-hunting predator's."...And yet perhaps...perhaps I can perceive...a certain...appeal..."

My heart thudded wildly. This was uncharted territory. Uncharted and terrifying. For so long I had craved the man's approval or—or anything, rather than endure his prolonged, wearying campaign of contempt and hatred...but now I felt like a non-swimmer plunged into waters far too dangerous and much too deep. I wanted respect, not...not...this...

I suddenly twisted my head away, attempting to duck past him. Lucius's arm shot out to seize and sling me backwards into the bureau, its handles punching into my back, my head knocking against the hard wood. I sagged, momentarily winded and dizzied, but he closed in, holding me up by bodily crowding and trapping me against the tall unit. In a subtle, fluid motion one of his hands tilted my chin upwards, forcing me to look at him, while the other slipped under the hem of the shirt and came to rest on my hips, between the layers of overlapping material. He fixed his eyes on mine and within their liquid, smelted-silver depths I could plainly read the mocking query: which garment shall I divest you of next?

I had to do something. Say something to stop him. Anything.

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?" The first unedited words sprang to my lips in a hoarse whisper.

Lucius's shoulders stiffened. His pupils suddenly contracted, his expression hardening. "What?" It was a like a snake's hiss. "What did you say?"

I could see my words had distracted him from the task in hand and that was good enough for me to repeat them. I summoned a sturdier, stronger voice. "I said, 'you're afraid of me, aren't you?'"

Lucius's lip curled into a snarl. "That is rather an extraordinary question for a girl to put to a man twice her size and strength." The grip spanning my jaw tightened, his fingers digging into my cheeks.

"You might be b-bigger and stronger than me, but you are afraid. It's obvious." It was a gamble, deliberately reigniting his wrath, but I couldn't see an alternative which didn't leave me stripped naked or forced into some kind of activity I was by no means prepared to engage in. Or both.

His eyes narrowed and suddenly he pulled me against him, stooping to murmur in my ear. "Afraid, am I? Afraid of you?" His arms wrapped around me in an enveloping embrace. "How easily I could crush the life from you, pathetic little mud-blood." As if to illustrate his point his arms squeezed me painfully, and if I ever doubted the muscular power hidden beneath the layers of expensive tailoring, I had no reason to do so any longer. "How equanimously, how unrepentantly, could I accomplish such a deed."

I was stifled and overwhelmed to the point of faintness. My ribs felt like they were about to crack and I couldn't breathe, his hold was too restricting, consuming...too close...

"If you're not afraid, then tell me my name," I gasped out.

His grip loosened. For a moment I thought he was going to release me, but then to my dismay and horror I found he had caught a wrist in each hand and was now manoeuvring me over towards his bed.

"Stupid girl," he muttered and I had time neither to resist nor protest, for he was already gathering me up and propelling me backwards onto the brocaded quilt. "I have no reason to bestow favours upon you." And he used his weight to press me down beneath him.

"No—wait, Lucius! What are you—let me go!" This wasn't going at all to plan, his rage seemed only to have fanned the frightening flame of purpose in his eyes. Instinctively I brought my hands up to his chest to push him away, then nearly gagged at the pain which shot up from my fingertips—apparently they were only numb when not touching anything—and I had to throw them wide to avoid blacking out for a second time.

Lucius's hands tangled in my hair, pulling it back so I was forced to arch against him. Again he brought his mouth to my ear and he hissed, "Stop me. Prove to me what you can do. Show me."

"What do you mean?" I cried. How could I stop him? I couldn't even attempt to claw his face. "Please don't—I don't want—I can't—"

"Try, Miss Carroll." And then his mouth was on mine, hard and bruising; his tongue was parting my lips, choking away my pleading and protesting cries.

For a moment I froze, incapacitated by a sudden claustrophobia, overriding both fight and flight instincts. But then the crushing pressure, the smothering invasiveness, became too much to bear, and I began furiously kicking, squirming, twisting away. I attempted to bring up my knees, but Lucius merely used his own to part my legs and settle his weight more heavily upon me. I could feel the pressing rigidity, the heat of his desire—but unlike the first time, in my bedroom, my body was not responding in kind—the thrumming elation I had experienced then was completely antithetical to the pure, glacial terror I felt now.

He lifted his mouth a fraction to speak, his lips grazing against mine. "You are not trying to stop me, Miss Carroll...does that mean you do not wish me to stop?"

I was prevented from replying by a second suffocating kiss. One hand disengaged from my hair and was sliding down my side, down to the hem of my shirt, and then under and upwards. My whole body convulsed at his touch on my bare skin. I jerked my head away, scraping my bottom lip on his teeth as I did so, then I gulped a lungful of air and screamed with all the force I could muster.

I knew it was useless. Who was there to hear me? The wailing lady?

The wailing lady and the screaming girl, both helpless as each other.

But my screams did have an effect. Lucius relinquished his grip on my hair, and his hand was transferred to clamp across my mouth. He waited until I stopped thrashing before he spoke again. "Well, Miss Carroll, have I sufficiently demonstrated my abject fear of you? You see me, quaking before you."

He took his hand away from my mouth, as if interested to hear my reply. I glared up at him, my chest heaving, gulping back panicked tears. I burned with rage. So that's what all this was about? Him trying to teach me a lesson? "I hope you f-find yourself incredibly amusing," I snarled at him. "Because I certainly don't."

I tried to sit up, but he pushed me roughly back down on the bed. "Amusing? Ah, perhaps you think I am playing a joke on you, Miss Carroll? Proving a point? No, I'm afraid not."

My stomach churned. "What the hell are you doing, then?"

"I should imagine that to be fairly obvious, my dear."

"Do you mean r-raping me?" I forced the ugly word out, spat it at him. "Because—because that's what this is, you realise! Rape. I'm not a willing partner. I consent to nothing."

"'Rape' is such a tawdry, inelegant term, Alice. The English language is so rich; you really should learn to be more creative with it."

Now I was sure he was mocking me—playing with me. But not quite sure enough. "Screw you!" I blurted out furiously.

He smiled at the futility of my response. "Well, that would be another way of putting it—not elegant, but a start—"

"NO, LUCIUS—SCREW YOU!—I know you are afraid of me, you coward!" The smile disappeared instantly, but I ploughed determinedly on, "Why are you so scared of my name, Lucius? Don't you know that, fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself? The very fact you refuse to tell me it, proves that you're afraid."

I expected some kind of reaction, but not the one I got.

Lucius recoiled back from me, as if burned, releasing me from his grasp. He pushed himself up to stand, and for some moments just stared down at me with an incredulous, even dazed expression. He had paled discernibly and the liquid heat in his eyes chilled and hardened, like molten lava turned suddenly to granite.

I hauled myself up and as I did so Lucius turned and moved away from the bed.

Relief coursed through me, awash with gritty sediments of confusion and fear. I didn't know what it was about those words which had produced such a sudden, startling reaction from him, but I could only be glad that they had.

...Had he really been intending to rape me? ...No...surely not. And yet I couldn't truly know. In fact, I couldn't be sure I was out of danger, even now.

How long does a cat play with a mouse before its killer instincts prevail?

I slid off the bed and eyed the door. There wasn't much point trying to make a dash for it, he would certainly catch me. And I had had enough physical contact with the man for the time being, that much I knew. I gravitated away from the bed, unwilling to be too close to that, either, and ended up standing, shaky and uncertain, in the middle of the floor.

Lucius's profile was stony, unreadable. He had moved over to one of the wardrobes and I watched as he produced what appeared to be a bulky, brown blanket. He shook it out, and I now saw it was a kind of long, thick robe.

Without further ado he threw it at me. It landed in a heap at my feet. "Since you scorn to wear the finer garments I provide for you, you may make use of that."

It wasn't exactly "proper clothes", but it was a step in the right direction. I could see the material was heavy and substantial and quite the opposite of revealing. "Thank you," I mumbled awkwardly, still rather reeling with confusion and fear, and not a little suspicious of the sudden change in his manner.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

I think we both remembered my broken fingers at the same time: I gave a frustrated sigh, and he made a low growl of annoyance.

In a small voice I began, "Can't I just—"

"No," he cut in shortly.

He strode back over to me, jerked me around so my back was to him and before I had time to register what was happening he had whipped the shirt over my head. I crossed my arms defensively over my bare chest, but he had already retrieved the robe and was wrapping it around me, with a few brief, perfunctory movements. Then he knelt down, grabbed the fabric around the knees of my trousers and simply yanked them down to the floor.

There was nothing to do but step regretfully out of them. My toes caught on the material and for a second I wobbled unstably and was forced to put a steadying palm on Lucius's shoulder. He took the opportunity to grasp one foot at a time and peel away my socks. For some reason, this gesture felt oddly tender, almost parental. But there was nothing tender or parental in his expression when he stood up.

The old Lucius—the all-too-recognisable, deriding, arrogant Lucius—was back.

And I was relieved. This Lucius did not perceive in me a "certain appeal". This Lucius detested me, was repelled by me. This Lucius I could—not control—but at least predict. Mostly.

For some seconds we stood, eyes locked, exchanging unspoken insults. The curl of his lips, the harshness of the lines bracketing them, told me in no uncertain terms that I should not dare to aspire to the honour of being afraid of his intentions now. My own thoughts were less intricate, but I hoped as clearly conveyed: merely that he was a bullying pig.

He was the first to break eye-contact, but I wasn't allowed to feel victorious, for with the subtlest of grimaces he managed to express that he no longer wished to offend his eyeballs with prolonged exposure to my revolting visage. Just like that, I was put back in my place, somewhere lower than his heel.

I watched silently as the man made a graceful round of the room, gathering up the items of strewn clothing. When he had collected them all, he strode over to the fireplace and heaped them directly upon the flames.

An involuntary cry escaped my lips. "What are you doing?" I gasped. Of course, I could already pretty well anticipate what his answer would be.

Lucius bestowed upon me his iciest of sneers. "You don't really expect me to wear those...polluted items again, do you?"

My cheeks burned and my throat ached with insult and anger. Yes, that was him alright. The familiar feeling of resentment flooded into me—but it was now accompanied by a strong, oppositely-flowing undercurrent of reassurance. How ironic that I was comforted by the loathing in his eyes. How strange I could feel glad for the cutting note of contempt in his voice.

I sensed I was dismissed.

I made a hurriedly stumbling retreat from his room, neither daring nor wishing to catch his eyes. My own were half-blinded by tears. Tears of confusion, frustration, anger, but above all...relief.

...

A/N I know I lose some readers at this point, because Lucius's behaviour is so appalling here that some people can't imagine any romantic viability between him and Hermione. Just a heads up: things do begin to gradually improve from here-on-in, and we find out in later chapters why he has been so hateful to Hermione (there are specific reasons, going far beyond his prejudice against muggleborns). I assure you, the romance does not commence until some big shifts have happened in both their mindsets, and Hermione is far more empowered than she currently is.
xox artful