Hermione's body trembled at Lucius' touch. At first he held her to keep her from leaving, but now, it was not about containment anymore. The look in her eyes was as old as nature itself. She longed to be rescued and Lucius was old enough and wise enough to know that strong women, no matter their conquests, wanted to fall into the embrace of a brute at least once in their lifetime and to feel as weak as children.

He wanted to be that man for a woman again—for her. He'd thought about himself first since the end of the war, and he'd only recalled the consequences of the tortures in his own house under the rule of the Dark Lord from his own perspective. Was this why Cissy left him? Because he couldn't empathise with anyone else's grief but his own? Had he truly driven away everyone he loved because of his self-centred nature?

With Hermione sitting on him, her body so close to his, he began to feel things he hadn't felt in ages: compassion, and pity. He had a heart still. She was here all alone, at the edge of her rope. Gone was that brazen little chit who told him off at the bookstore some years ago. This Hermione was desperately searching to prove herself, to show herself. He would grant her that.

The girl that had been the bane of his son's existence during his scholarly years—always too smart for being the tip of the joke. Something had died inside Hermione. She had been too silent for too long, too strong and now, he had the chance to save her small beating heart from extinguishing. If he could only hold her closer, only put the broken pieces back together, he felt he could make up for some of the horrors he participated in during the war, that he could somehow unhurt all the other women he had scorned and men he had slaughtered. He really was a monster. He deserved to be sent to the Tongue of the Beast, to be consumed, to be chewed and spat out. He was a horrible monster.

But, maybe not anymore. Not for her.

He kissed her where her curls fell apart to show the softest forehead. It was hot and wet to the touch and smelled of her and the undergrowth brushed his chin.

"What have I done?" he whispered, hoping his confession could wash over her. His hands traced her cheek, her neck, the dip of her underarms and her waist.

It's what she needed now,as she fell into his embrace. He'd hold for the night if it brought her soul some comfort. He'd never let her go. Digging into her skin, he pulled her closer. This was the heat of a woman, a woman that was all his for the taking.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "If I could take it all back, trust me that I would."

Hermione looked up at him then and his breath caught in his throat. With those brown eyes, wet with tears and those swollen, red lips he ached to kiss. Soon. Instead he stroked her arm as he slowly lifted her sleeve up to reveal the letters that his sister in law had etched into her white skin, taking in every detail. Yes, the letters still there, the crimson blood was now a deep burgundy, but the word was legible:

"Mudblood."

By the Gods, it was like he had written it himself, for that fateful night he had stood back, coward that he was and watched his sister-in-law etch each letter into the girl's skin as she screamed and begged for mercy. His hands were stained with sin too, he had been Lucifer's assistant in this wrongdoing.

Arm to his lips, he kissed it.

"I did this too," he said, nearly weeping. He pressed the skin to his mouth, kissed and it was as though it had been yesterday, the taste of copper stung his tongue. He kissed again, trying to drain the poisonous engraving from her beautiful hands, but could not. "Why didn't I stop Bella? Why did I let her cause you so much pain?"

"You couldn't," Hermione whispered. "You couldn't stand up to your family."

He shook his head, but didn't know how to respond. What could he say? How could he explain to her when he himself couldn't understand everything that happened in their past?

He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. Her sweet scent. A part of him longed to give her something back to make up for all she lost, but what could replace blood?

"Carve me," he finally said, opening his eyes once again and holding her gaze. The words were a surprise even to himself.

"What?"

"Please, cut me," he repeated, still kissing her arm. "Stain me, Hermione"

He knew it was a selfish request, but he also knew the alternative would keep her destroyed. He took out his hands, handed it to his Redeemer.

-xxx-

It took Hermione a moment to process what exactly Lucius was asking her to do. Her arm, his wand and the look of utter submission in her eyes were not adding up to the idea of the Lucius Malfoy she knew. This was the man who ran in cowardice when the Dark Lord, his previous master, had fallen. This is the man who had pulled every string in the spool to clear his name from being associated with the Death Eater organisation. The man who was afraid of ending up in Azkaban prison, again. All because he was afraid of punishment.

Here before here, Lucius begged to be punished.

"Because it would absolve you of the past? And what of my stained hands?" Hermione held her head high. "You are selfish."

"Please, please." Lucius sank to his knees, his beautiful head pressed against her knees, like a giant white dog, he held her. His look so pitiful, she thought he might cry. "I am not worthy to live unstained while you suffer from my mistakes."

He had suffered enough, had he not? His wife left him for another, robbed him bare. His son no longer wished to contact him. His friends were long dead, his house was soulless. Robbed of his name, his fortune, his future. He was alone with his expensive, aged whiskey. And yet, this man who should have been destroyed, gazed at her so hungrily. He should have been dying but he still held the appetite for something more.

Those Purebloods were really something. Were their cravings ever satisfied? Or did they feed off the attention?

"Stand up," Hermione said. "I am not in the business of inflicting pain on anyone. You've been punished enough by your circumstances."

Lucius looked up at her, pleading, still on the ground.

"But what if it will bring you comfort?" he asked and touched her hand, holding it tight between his. "What if it will heal you?"

Hermione looked down on him. He was begging and there wasn't a thing she could do to pry him away. She hated herself so much, hated how weak and pathetic she truly was. He was so malleable, ripe for the taking. She couldn't lift a finger to him, as though he was the one controlling her. She was nothing more than a weak witch, incapable of resisting the urge to control others. Lucius Malfoy was a snake. A dangerous one, but a very pretty snake nonetheless. And at this moment, he was hers, whether she liked it or not.

But still, she was not the hand of Fate. Nothing that he could say seemed to shake Barnaby's cruel torts from her memory. She was a bitch, she didn't care about anyone suffering. Had she not spent years in the Ministry assuming that her hand was the final pound? that her word was the truth? That the protection of victims was in her own control. What if she didn't really know what people needed and made vast assumptions. Here was Lucius begging her to absolve him from his guilt, and instead of complying she positioned herself above him in every sense of the word. What if this was the only path to absolution.

"But you would be hurting, like I was," Hermione said.

"But how else can you ever forgive me if I don't give you blood for blood?" Lucius begged. "How else will I learn."

"It would be wrong?"

"How would it be wrong if I had asked you?" Lucius said. "It's in your control, you are not as cruel as Bella. You can stop when you please."

Hermione was not cruel, not usually, but in this circumstance, could the cruelty be justified as an act of mercy? If she could show him just how physically in pain she was that terrible night at the Manor, perhaps it would absolve them both of the pain. She was no sadist who took pleasure from the act of hurting others, but if she could view this as care, as a treatment, it would be right. Right?