"When will this end?" Lucius lamented, pacing the room. "This blame and this disrespect— I will not be broken by gossip, Hermione and I won't have you, of all people, think ill of me."
"I'm only trying to figure out the truth-" Hermione replied.
"No matter." Lucius Malfoy looked most theatrical, standing with his back to the flames in the fireplace, a grave expression of shadows crossing his otherwise flawless face, his sharp brows, his high cheekbones. "I am no longer the man I was and will not tolerate dirt on my name. Tell me, what must I do to prove my innocence in the matter? Shall I read an epithet?"
He pulled off an ornate table runner and tossed it around his shoulders, took a skull from the fireplace and spoke to it. The scene— a drunken farce of Hamlet's soliloquy.
"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio." Here he cocked a brow in Hermione's direction. "A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."
"Mr Malfoy-"
"I bore you." The skull and runner soon lay in a heap before the flames. "Perhaps , a dance then? Tell me, would a Pureblooded wizard with no remorse ask a witch of your bloodline to the floor-"
"That's unnecessary, I don't-"
"-don't dance?" Lucius paused. "Then that is all the reason for me to show you to the ballroom. Come now."
Hermione was hoisted out of her seat, and dragged through the darkened corridors. The rain fell in a thick curtain outside the long windows —the sky was blacker than a crow's wing. Every now and then, a white flash would glimmer off the glass and a low and distant rumble shake the lands. Besides the lightning, only one light lit her path through the house— the single candelabra floating before Lucius as he snaked his way through the sea of shadows.
Hermione couldn't shake off the feeling that Lucius was trying to distract her from something vital and important. She asked herself what in the devil had possessed the wizard? He hated her kind—the dirty-blooded—and yet the way he touched her, the way he spoke to her and entertained her suggested otherwise. Hermione just didn't know what, and the thrill of running with him through the manor left her no time for contemplation.
In one dark hall, Hermione caught the sounds of mice, scurrying behind the boards. Her eyes flickered to the wall. Ornate gold outlines of dozens of frames graced the peeling damask wallpaper — the painted faces of the Malfoy ancestors. They all looked eerily alike: blond hair and light colored eyes and their mouths curled in a haughty way upon seeing her. They whispered amongst themselves as she passed in low and distant voices, like the echoes inside an old sewer pipe.
"Careful, little Mudblood. Careful."
Their spidery hands reached for her through the painting's edge, slowly inching for a strand of her hair or a corner of her clothing. Hermione's breath caught in her throat, and she gripped Lucius' hand tighter still and pressed herself into his back.
The voices whispered louder, their tones more gravelly.
"Dirt. Dirt. Dirt."
Hermione thought of her home, of her familiar chair and her book and her favourite tea mug—a place she'd rather be than here.
"Quickly now, Hermione," Lucius said, rounding the corner.
They were in a hollow room that smelled of moss and stone. Like a king without a crown, without a kingdom, without subjects, Lucius raised his arms to the ceiling, Summoning all the candles in his capacity to light up the crumbling ballroom around him. He turned to Hermione, her face pale with fear.
"What is it?"
"I'm frightened." Hermione swallowed. "The souls of your ancestors do not want me in this house."
Lucius' looked at her seriously, eyes darting left and right. Then, he grinned and tossed back his head in a quick laugh. "Ah! The portraits you mean? What did they say?"
"They said I was…dirt."
"They can talk all they want, those dusty, old nags. Their time in the halls of this manor have long passed." He ran his palms down her shoulders, pulling her in closer, his lips a whisper away from her ear. "There now, it is alright. I am here now with you. You have nothing to fear."
Hermione nodded her head, falling against his shoulder. He smelled like a brazen man— all dusk and drink and tossed midnight silken bedsheets, wet with passion. He smelled of dark magic too—sharp and metallic, like the blade of a knife and of crisp winter fur and copper blood. Hermione found herself less frightened, and more consumed by the beating of her heart in his warm embrace. Excited that he had chosen her tonight, that they might become closer than just wizard and witch, that they might become lovers for a single night. The line between hate and passion was indeed so very thin, she began to forget herself as she steadied herself against his broad chest, her skin burning with heat.
But with the newfound lust, the memories of the past made themselves known. Hermione glanced around with horror at the place Lucius had brought her. This was the room where she had been kept imprisoned during the war, the bloody hall where she was tortured by the family of this man. And then, she could no longer do this, no matter how drunk she was, how weak her feet were and how welcoming the hot grasp of the host was. She couldn't stay a second more in Lucius embrace or his manor.
She withered in his arms, teasing herself free, but his arms held her tighter. She hated how little protest she gave, how wanting she was. The fact remained that Hermione could not leave, because she did not want to. She had already given herself up to him.
What was Lucius' wicked plan for her? To continue the crimes of his sister-in-law— lay her on the cracked marble, wet with her blood and tears, and inscribe another bloody curse word into her arm with the darkest of spells? With every last ounce of strength, she ripped herself out of the grasp of Lucius Malfoy.
"Please let me go. I have a bad feeling about tonight," she whimpered.
"You mustn't leave now, you have only just arrived," he said.
"I am not staying here," she cried as loudly as possible so that the ghosts of the Malfoy ancestors could hear her. "I will not be led around my nose with your niceties and your wine and your conversation. You are a Malfoy and I am a Granger. You are a Pureblood and I am a witch with Muggle parents. You have murdered those I love dearly and your family had hurt me. Nothing in this place brings me any other feeling but dread and panic."
Lucius merely chuckled darkly. "You have reason. I am not an innocent wizard."
"Then let. Me. Go." Hermione said. Before either of them could change their mind, she darted across the ballroom, running as fast as her feet could take her. Through the darkness, she ran to the door, which seemed much further away than she imagined.
She rounded the corner here and climbed up steps there, but soon realized she was utterly lost and the house was winding and twisting in such a way that she could never get out.
Behind her, the slow footsteps of the eldest Malfoy echoed through the corridors. He walked slowly and surely—he was in no rush. After all, his house would obey him as it had the generations of Malfoys before him. He would have her at his mercy or pleasure eventually. The question now was whether or not she would wait until she was exhausted or put up a fair fight.
Hermione snaked her arms all around her body. Shite. Lucius had stolen her wand. She should have never trusted him with all his woozy sweet talk and hors d'oeuvres. She began to walk slowly, conserving her energy and slowing her breath. He might not have her, but at least now he could not hear her.
She scanned the room as the thunder rumbled in the distance, looking for a place to hide and wait until the eldest Malfoy came close. Perhaps she could jump out and steal her wand back from him in a second of surprise.
She found a study with a giant writing desk and the portrait of a man who looked exactly as Lucius Malfoy had, but dressed in older fashions. Maybe his grandfather or father? The room had a few chairs and some bookcases filled with old tomes. Hermione drew in a breath and crawled under the table, pulling down the decorative lace tablecloth to cover herself and tucked in her knees.
-xxx-
Now this was interesting, Lucius Malfoy thought to himself. He sure liked when a witch put up a fight before he could have her. He'd have her eventually, but for now, he would make her sweat a little and cower in a corner like a little lamb. Game did taste better when it was fresh from the hunt.
Lucius had plans for her tonight, but first, he'd have to rile her up enough to get her to comply with them. She'd never do it sober or in her right mind. A woman scorned could send the Devil to Heaven and God to Hell. He imagined what a witch like Hermione could do in a fit of aroused consciousness.
"Come out, come out, please," he called out into the distance, his candelabra floating before him. The answer did not come. "You misunderstood me!"
He could no longer hear her footsteps or her heaving breath, which meant she was hiding somewhere and likely waiting to catch him by surprise—trick him in his own game. A shiver rolled up Lucius' spine and his shoulders rolled back as a grunt escaped him. That little chit would be damned before she could think she could outwit him—a Malfoy.
Of course, he was as wicked and as clever as his father was. He had put up a good act, being the gracious host and the perfect gentleman to Miss Granger, having her believe that he was a poor and lonely soul in this big, big world. Not a shoulder to cry on or a soul to confide in. That he was a touch mad too. But Lucius knew all too well he was in his very prime and he could not be shaken by any sort of feelings towards the witch—even ones as pretty as she was.
Yes, Hermione had really grown into her womanhood—a beautiful thing indeed. Her brown eyes and her soft curls that draped over a delicious bosom. She was ripe for the taking. Lucius cock stirred as he imagined how she would look beneath all those layers she wore.
But tonight was not about that. Lucius paused before his father's study and a wicked smile curled up his lips. He tore open the door and strode into the room. Books fell to the floor and the tablecloth shivered at the draft.
"Oh, Miss Granger? Are you here?" he called out softly as he walked around the room. "Please forgive me for misunderstanding you, I really do not want to hurt you at all."
Suddenly, a pair of hands snaked out from under the table and grabbed his ankles. Lucius squealed, and it was a good portion genuine for he had not expected the chit to choose aa obvious a hiding spot as his father's old desk.
Lucius' body pulled forwards and his head hit the floor. Wax from his candelabra dripped over his nose and brows and a firm weight nested itself on his lap. Hermione clawed at him desperately, evidently looking for his wand, not finding it, draw a paper knife to his throat.
"Where is my wand?" she growled.
"Patience. Here it is," Lucius said, patting his chest pocket. Hermione grasped for her weapon and the knife was swiftly replaced by the magic wand.
"I should have done this before. Let me out of this house."
"I would love to, but the house will not let me," he lied. "I've warded it to keep you here until you help me with a single task."
"You arse!" Hermione said, slapping his cheek. The pain tingled and Lucius had to bat his lashes a few times before he could look at her again. He was ready for her second swipe, grabbing her wrists and flipping himself on top of her.
"Now then, perhaps I deserved that," he tsked. "Miss Granger, it's not kind to hit men you know?"
"Its not kind to keep women trapped in your home, Mr Malfoy," Hermione snarled back.
He held down her hands with one hand, the other around her waist, digging into her ribs, reminding her of her place. "Do you let Narcissa rile you up so? What story did she make up this time? That I am out to pry her of the grasp of her beloved Edward? That I am the villain? Do you really believe it?"
"You are no saint which is why the restraining order had been set in the first place. But if you haven't been with Mrs Malfoy, if that's all you have to say, then I have no more business here," her brown eyes, rich like chocolate, glimmered dangerously.
"Keep me company," he said against the low rumble of thunder and the trickling drops on the window pane. "Stay here, with me."
"You don't care about my wellbeing. No Malfoy does."
"It is only because old Bella cared so little about the quick mercy of death that you're still alive," Lucius said. "But I'd never hurt you."
"Every night I dream of this place," Hermione whispered. "I'd feel myself bleeding out on the floor of the manor, wishing every second that death would come quickly, and it wouldn't. Sometimes I'd fade quickly and other times, the pain on my wrist would consume me. I'd continue to bleed, until I would wake in my bed with the pounding fear of being hurt by you or one of your kind."
Hermione's eyes met him in the middle of hate and the overwhelming need to expose every bit of pain within her mind. "I don't want to hurt anymore, Lucius. Not in life and not by my memories."
So this was it? A second ago, he thought of grasping her wrists so hard, they'd snap and her hands would fall off, but was suddenly urged to comb his fingers through her rough brown curls, tangled from running. For a moment, the mess was tamed under his touch. He did not want to her hurt her.
"Let's make new memories. Here. Tonight."
His hands drifted down her chest, stopping at her navel. "Grant me that, and I will release you and never bother you again."