NOTE:
This collection of fics was originally posted on my lj as part of my Pick a Fic: Round II, in which posters could pick a plot bunny and prompt for me to write. The response was… more than I expected. None of these one-shots is connected to the previous in any way (except for Regarding Hair as a short follow-up to Love & War), and I experimented with different styles and tones throughout. I don't think it worked out too well, but... I don't think it particularly bothers me anymore either.
More.
astarvingwriter
Standard Disclaimer Applies
Author's Plea: Originally Choice C as part of Pick a Fic: Round I on my lj but not posted until Round II. It used the following prompts:
Bunny #10: Hermione comes upon another fight/duel between Lucius and Arthur. An accidental injury occurs. with Prompt 034. Not Enough
Much more depressing than I had originally envisioned, but enjoy if you can.
Arthur did not look apologetic. A bit guilty, perhaps, but it was a given that any remorse he may have been feeling was more in regards to the collateral damage than the extent of injury to his age-old enemy.
"Do not look at me so, Hermione. It was only a matter of time before someone shut the git up, and I can only be proud that it was I. 'Blood traitor', am I?"
Hermione had known, since that first memorable encounter between the two men at Flourish & Blots, that Arthur Weasley was every bit as gung-ho and righteous as his aggressive children. Still, it was rather something different to come upon him attempting to pound sense into Lucius Malfoy. After all, that effort was quite wasted.
"Mr. Weasley, you could have killed him!"
Instead of looking contrite, Arthur said with an expression every bit as happily vindictive as his youngest son, "One less piece o'scum on the earth, that would be."
Her eyes, wide as they were by this point, could not pick out even the slightest bit of apology. Giving up, she turned to face the current problem. She only hoped for Arthur's sake that the man wasn't as dead as he looked. Reaching down to feel for a pulse, she was grateful to find it slow and steady, his skin surprisingly warm.
"He's only unconscious," she said with a relieved sigh. "But he will be feeling it when he wakes. If he wakes... I'm not sure the extent of head trauma. I need to get him to a healer if he's going to make it through without any permanent damage."
"Oh, just leave the blighter! Someone will find him eventually."
"Mr. Weasley, if you could be serious for a moment while I try to save your arse! We can't leave him here; he could die and if he doesn't, we cannot alter his memory while he is unconscious. He will very much know who did this to him, and he will seek revenge. We may have won the war, but he still has friends in high places, else he wouldn't be free."
"Very well, very well. What do you need me to do?"
"Help me Apparate him to my flat."
"Of course, that sounds lovely-- Are you mad?!"
"It is the only place we can stow him until he wakes. Unless, of course, you wish to house him at the Burrow."
"Of course not! But, Hermione, you certainly cannot intend to care for him alone."
"I do not want to, but I do intend to. It isn't as if I can currently trust a Weasley not to worsen the situation!"
He honestly gaped at her for the comment, though perhaps she had said it with a bit too much bitterness. In fact, she had sounded very similar to her former Potions professor.
"Mister Weas -- Arthur. Let me take care of this. I mean no disrespect, but your presence will do more harm than good once he wakes. Now, help me Apparate him to my flat, and I will do the rest."
He grumbled, as she expected him to as he was already acting like his youngest son, but the man had already become so accustomed to taking orders from a fierce woman that there was no fighting it. Without another word, he bent and hoisted the unconscious bigot up and, between the two of them, managed to Apparate to Hermione's flat.
It took a full five minutes to drop their burden onto her couch and convince Arthur that his presence was neither needed nor desired. When he stepped out her door to Apparate, she thought he looked more relieved than anything which was for the best. With a grimace and steely resolve, she turned to her couch and her newest pet project.
When Lucius Malfoy woke up, it was to be greeted by a pounding headache and a frighteningly familiar face.
"Lucius?"
The woman's face was swimming, or perhaps it was simply his eyes in their sockets, but it took him a moment to register who exactly she was.
He immediately tensed and murmured out something that was supposed to be a very snooty, "Back away if you know what's good for you, Mudblood" but most unenthusiastically was not. However, if the frown on her still swimming face was any indication, she understood mumble-talk perfectly fine.
"Lucius, dear, please be still. You aren't in your right mind."
The next statement he attempted was "I will not be still, you commoner, and do refrain from calling me 'dear'." Once again his vocal aptitude fell short of expectations.
"Shhh... drink this and sleep. You'll feel much better in the morning."
She was holding a foul smelling concoction to his lips, and he fought valiantly her attempts to make him drink it for all of a few moments before dizziness overtook him. Before he quite knew what was happening, she had managed to pour the disgusting liquid down his throat. It wasn't a familiar taste, and he was tempted to ask her what exactly she was poisoning him with. However, he couldn't seem to find it in him to care as the dizziness receded and he fell quickly to sleep.
When Lucius next woke, it was to be greeted by the smells of various potions in various stages of brewing mixed with a very fragrant coffee. It wasn't one of the most pleasant mixes in the world, but it certainly had a certain appealing quality to it.
When he actually managed to open his bleary eyes and take a look around, he was witness to a rather rare sight.
Swaying slightly in time to some soundless beat, his captor was humming softly even as she stirred an unknown concoction. The smooth motion of her hips, so odd considering his rare and barely remembered experience with her had shown a woman of exact and sharp movements, had him a bit befuddled to recall why exactly he disliked her.
He tried to sit up a bit, but the effort was wasted and his pained groan disturbed the woman from her work. She immediately cast stasis charms on all her potions before approaching him with concern on her expression and some sort of fire in her eyes.
"Oh, Lucius, stay down. Yes, just like that. You've bumped your head and really shouldn't be moving."
Another groan was his only response. Her words were only barely registered and only after the welcoming coolness of her palms on his arms and forehead.
"Lucius, dear, stay right there while I get your potion."
Part of him considered telling her exactly what she should do with 'his' potion. The rest of him was confused as to why he would ever think such a thing about such an obviously nice young witch. After all, he could remember no instance in which the witch had ever offended him, and his aching head could find no imperfection in her appearance.
Except for her hair. Even in its jewelled clip, it truly was abysmal.
"Here you are, now. Drink up. You'll feel right as rain when you wake up."
He nodded weakly as he accepted what he was given without question. All questions had died long ago. This witch would never harm him.
No. Here, and nowhere else, he was safe.
When next he woke, it was to be greeted by the face of his saviour. The woman was holding a damp cloth to his forehead, a frown marring her own features, as she mumbled disjointed phrases to herself.
He thought he might understand some of what she said, but he didn't know how an unctuous unction could he worsening his injury. Why would he need such a potion? He was already persuasive enough.
He thought little more before falling back to sleep.
When next he woke, it was to be greeted by the smell of herbal shampoo and a certain warmth and weight he had not remember feeling in quite some time. Weary eyes showed him a mess of hair and a sleeping face resting at his side on the edge of a sofa.
He didn't have much strength to do much more than watch her as she slept. Her breaths against his arm were slight and warm and delightful. Her skin glowed, even if it was a bit pale and showed her worry with shadows under her closed eyes.
Her hair was still abysmal, but he thought it suited her well right now. Certainly normal hair couldn't cover his side and chest so well, wrapping him in such pleasantness.
He wanted more.
Slowly, more because he still felt terribly weak than any wish for stealth or quiet, he raised his other hand and slowly, so very slowly, wrapped the fingers in the mess of hair that he could reach. The texture was wonderful misery –thick and clinging but well taken care of. Soft. Soft and strong.
He wanted more.
Her scalp then, fingers grazing it, feeling the heat from her head and knowing somehow that the mind housed beneath these curls was even now working steadily away. Still so soft and strong.
He needed more.
Her cheek then, curly strands of hair floating above it, curly strands of hair still caught in his grasp. Thin skin, not much flesh beneath, but a jaw line cut smoothly, sharply, heightening the appeal.
More.
Her lips then, still more curly strands floating around, still more curly strands caught in his grasp. Thin lips, but bright. Lips made for speeches and spells. Smart lips.
He did not know this witch right now, but he knew he wanted her right now. And when her eyes fluttered open and fixed him with a penetrating look that was sharper than her jaw and smoother than her skin, he knew she was a good witch and would not deny him.
She didn't.
His lack of strength did little to impede them. She met his lips with some great passion, almost fury, and he took whatever she would give. She met his hips with some great passion, almost sadness, and he gave whatever he could give. And when he finished, he was so very tired he thought of nothing but warmth.
He almost didn't hear her apologies.
When next he woke, it was to a familiar environment. The sofa had been replaced by the luxury of his bed. The room was his own.
"I'm sorry."
Her voice was steady and soft. It took a moment to find her sitting so sedately by the door.
"How…"
"You were knocked unconscious when you fought with Arthur Weasley. I was taking care of you, and thought you might benefit from a little subconscious persuasion."
His jaw tightened, and he felt a bit of pain in his temple as he began deciphering her meaning.
"Unfortunately, I took a bit more of a risk than I intended. Gregory's Unctuous Unction reacted negatively with the pain relievers. You almost died."
His temple positively throbbed now.
"I've managed to correct everything. You should be fine within the week, though you might experience some tenderness along the back of your head."
His wand was not in sight else he would have hexed her by now, regardless of any favours she might have done him.
"And I'm sorry. For the other night. I thought the unction had worn off, I thought maybe you were grateful for once… I didn't think at all. It was shameful, and it helped nothing."
"You are despicable."
"You called me Mudblood as you climaxed. You knew who I was."
"I did no such thing."
"Regardless of what you believe, that is what happened. Now, I have come here today to make an offer. I doubt you have any wish to remember these last few days. I know they are not my greatest hours. I will Obliviate the memory of Arthur injuring you to begin with, but I leave it as your choice whether we will be Obliviated of what occurred after."
"We?"
"If you forget, I wish to forget as well. I have no need of the memories otherwise."
He was still angry, but that flat expression, those tired eyes were all too familiar by now. He'd seen that look before and revelled in it.
Now he felt only tired himself. Looking at the shades of age crossing her features, he felt old. Perhaps she had acted in error, but at the moment he had no desire to torture.
Besides, he could remember her. He could remember her tending him. He could remember his voice begging for more.
"Very well. How do wish to complete this?"
"The mirror on your dresser will do. We both look in, both hold the wand, both say the words. It should work."
He only nodded and gently pulled himself from the bed with as much dignity as he could gather. When they were standing in front of the mirror, he more than felt her weariness. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to get this over with and forget everything.
"Ready?" she asked, a bit of a plea lacing the tone.
"Yes."
Her hand was rough and soft under his. He blocked it out and met her eyes in the mirror.
"Obliviate."
Arthur Weasley was preening. She didn't know why, and she didn't know why he winked at her and told her what a marvellous job she had done on cleaning up the area.
H preened even more, smirked a bit, when a familiar figure was spotted across the street. The man, well dressed as always, spared a look at Arthur and merely arched a brow in return. When his gaze fell on her she felt positively exposed.
Warmth. Soft warmth and a terrible error in judgement. Something wrong. Shared words and conclusions.
Impressions only. Nothing to catalogue, nothing to find. She knew something was off and knew that he knew as well. His eyes told her everything they didn't know.
So positively exposed.
"Miss Granger."
More.
"I… found this. I believe it might be yours."
A jewelled hair clip, given to her by her mother. How he had come to possess it was a mystery. She didn't know if it was a mystery she wanted to solve.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Good day."
She walked away quickly, the clip biting into her hand.
"Hermione! Hermione! Did he steal that from you?"
Arthur was so well impersonating his youngest son that she was tempted to treat as such instead of as her boss. Instead, she stiffened her spine and looked back into the blank portions of her mind.
Warmth.
More.
"No. I don't believe he did."
And she walked on, leaving everything behind.