A/N: Many thanks to suliswrites and Elle Morgan-Black for their beta brilliance.
"Hermione! You're back! I promise I didn't touch it, I just had to see what you're wearing tonight–you don't mind, do you?"
Hermione was ambushed by the eldest Greengrass sister the second she walked through her suite doors later that evening, unsure of exactly what "it" Daphne was referring to.
"Daphne–oh, and Pansy…?" Hermione noticed the dark-haired witch sipping a glass of champagne by the fireplace. "What are you two doing here?"
"Getting ready for the ball with you, of course!" Daphne answered, as if it were obvious. She was wearing a silk seafoam dressing gown, with at least two beauty charms actively spinning through her gold hair, carefully transforming the long, straight strands into sleek, single-shoulder curls reminiscent of a Golden Age muggle actress. "We missed you during the festivities today! I can't decide if you would have liked the dragon race better, or the surprise performance by the Weird Sisters, although the flying gondola ride above the vineyards was lovely as well. Oh! Has Ronald Weasley recovered from his allergic reaction?"
Hermione blinked dumbly. "Pardon?"
Dropping her voice as if she were relaying juicy gossip, Daphne continued with a rueful smile, "Forgive me…I may have overheard Lady Malfoy while we were all enjoying the Villa spa this afternoon. She was talking to the Nobildonna di Zambini–Blaise's mum–and she let it slip that it was the enchanted cuttlefish ink from last night that made Mr Weasley so sick, the poor thing. How is he?"
So that was the story. "Umm…his reaction was rather severe–life-threatening, really–but he's doing much better. Mr and Mrs Weasley arrived at San Lattanzio's to take over watch just before Harry and I left. Ron will be transferred to St Mungo's in the morning."
Molly had immediately collapsed on the floor upon witnessing Ron's state that afternoon. She'd cried to the point of violent sickness, her screams of not my baby…please not my baby shrillyechoing throughout the Renaissance halls so loudly a healer had forcibly dosed her with pozione calmante–twice. There was a brief moment when Arthur almost appeared equally disturbed by Ron's condition, but the Weasley patriarch quickly masked his own emotional state with cheerfulness, just like he always did, comforting his sedated wife as best as he could through optimistic smiles and inoffensive pun humour.
That warm geniality–that cosiness–Hermione typically associated with Mr Weasley had iced over into disbelief once Hermione had declined to remain at the hospital with the family.
And that cold disbelief had turned into pure sorrow when Harry had voiced his intent to follow her, despite her insistence he remain.
It had broken her heart to disappoint a man as kind as Arthur.
Returning to the Villa for Draco's birthday ball was the indisputably logical choice for salvaging her reputation–for protecting herself–but it still felt like an act of ultimate selfishness to abandon Ron in his time of greatest need, to put ambition before friendship. It didn't matter that he had abandoned her before. The standard was different for Hermione.
She was supposed to be stronger. Braver. Better.
"Well it's certainly good news his parents are with him, and he's going to be okay," Daphne enthused sweetly, breaking Hermione out of her guilt-ridden stupor with a fond squeeze to her wrist. "Now, you must tell me who I need to impress at the atelier–I've been on the wait list for a Susanna-Lisbeth original for years now, and I need your secrets."
Hermione frowned as Daphne pulled her farther into the suite, even more confused than before. "Susanna-Lisbeth?"
With slightly shifting eyes, Pansy added, "I was just telling Daphne that it's probably your war hero status that granted you such favour with the renowned magical couturier. I take it you paid a visit to the boutique when you were in Vespertine Commons this week, no?"
There was an urgent, slightly panicked look on Pansy's face, a look Hermione imagined she herself had likely expressed to Harry and Ron over the years, urging them to shut up and follow my lead whilst she did her best to talk them out of whatever trouble they had managed to get themselves into.
Pansy was…covering for her.
But for what?
Offering Pansy a small, grateful smile, Hermione followed Daphne's admiring gaze to a gown more art than fashion that floated in charmed stasis at the foot of the gilded bed.
Crafted with gossamer silk georgette in enchanted gradients of a Mediterranean sunset–colours that fluctuated with each airy sway of the delicate fabric–the strapless gown had a plunging bustier-style bodice, and was embellished with fine, intricate crystal embroidery, sparkling with an almost electric intensity, producing its own dazzling light.
Hermione took a tentative step farther, momentarily forgetting that Daphne and Pansy were in the room with her as she surveyed the gown as if it were a museum sculpture. The dress was also backless almost all the way to the hip, with a fluid, multi-layered skirt split high at both thighs, with further adornments of bewitched crystal butterflies and blooming wildflowers floating all throughout the flowing train of at least a two metres, if not more.
Hermione had never fathomed a gown so lovely.
It was quite a shame she'd never get to wear it–for there was only one person in the world who would presumptively gift her such extravagance.
Wouldn't you like to experience the vast ways I can…pamper you? Spoil you?
Shaking herself out of the daze the stunning creation had swept her into–as well as the echo of Lucius's voice–Hermione croaked, "I don't think I'll be wearing this tonight. I have…err…I brought a backup gown. A muggle gown."
"You can't be serious!" Daphne protested, stomping over to where Hermione stood with her hands on her hips. "I adore muggle fashion, but nothing can compare to Susanna-Lisbeth enchanted couture. Trust me. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you tonight–especially with these shoes."
Daphne pointed to a pair of towering, barely there stiletto sandals elegantly resting on a nearby damask bench with a chandelier-like adornment of colour-changing crystals around the threadlike ankle strap.
"The dress will look brilliant on you, Hermione," Pansy said. "You should feel very confident to wear it." There was a hint of gentle coaxing in Pansy's voice that almost sounded like granting permission, as if to say, it's okay that he gave this to you.
…Or perhaps Hermione was reading too much into things.
"Purebloods tend to dress quite ostentatiously for formal occasions," Daphne added, though not unkindly. "A dress like this will completely obliterate everyone tonight. You'd be making quite the bold statement."
Cressida had advised that this ball would be the perfect opportunity to make an impression on international stateswizards and stateswitches, establishing her reputation as a powerful young witch beyond her designation–and beyond any rumours of sexual association with Lucius or Professor Snape. The wizarding world–both in Britain and abroad–was still overwhelmingly controlled by pureblood nobility, and Hermione couldn't deny that an enchanted gown would be far more appropriate for the affair than the modest selection from Selfridges she'd brought with her.
Hermione then thought back to the Yule Ball, the first time she'd ever dedicated extended time to dressing up, arriving at the dance in a lovely periwinkle dress of girlish ribbons and ruffles on the arm of Viktor Krum. She'd been met by universal gazes of admiration by her peers, instead of the indifference–or worse, ridicule–she'd long grown used to.
It had been nice to be more than just a bookworm for the night. More than a bushy-haired know-it-all.
It had been nice to just feel…pretty.
To feel more than worthless.
Would it be so terrible to try and recapture that elusive sensation, even if the dress was from Lucius?
Hermione carefully considered the ramifications before she made her final decision–a decision informed by careful logic and contemplative maturity, instead of brash stubbornness and childish pride.
It's just a dress. It means nothing.
He means nothing.
"Pansy? Daphne?" Hermione asked. "I've never owned a magical gown before. Will you two mind showing me how to wear this?"
The moment Hermione entered the ballroom, the entirety of the marbled hall fell completely silent.
There wasn't a single person–witch or wizard–with the strength to look away from the vision of heaven the tiny girl presented.
All were under the omega's spell–and the girl wasn't even releasing her pheromones.
She was an angel in mortal form, a loveliness too beautiful for their world, a celestial body so exquisite Lucius wouldn't have been surprised if the younger wizards literally fell at her feet and ejaculated in their trousers, unable to comprehend the devastating impact of her raw sensual power.
Hermione was dressed in the couture he'd commissioned for her days prior–good girl–the enchanted fabric tightly moulding to her swooping curves like liquid, drawing his highly appreciative male gaze like a magnet to the ample expanses of soft, milky flesh revealed by the daring cutouts of Susanna-Lisbeth's clever design. Her long, golden-brown waves were loosely gathered high atop her head, exposing her slender neck and the delicate contours of her cheeks and jawline. Tasteful applications of shades, shimmers, and rouges upon her sweet face subtly enhanced her already arresting features, further elevating her appearance to a register no other witch could hope to compete with.
Sweet Nimue…
Hermione was perfection.
"Close your mouth, Lucius," Narcissa muttered by his side. "Granger and Potter are coming to greet us–behave yourself."
Lucius hadn't even noticed that Boy Wonder had Hermione in arm, she'd so outshone him with her natural effulgence.
"Merlin, did you buy her this harlot's dressage?" Narcissa whispered with a sneer. "I'll never step foot in Susanna-Lisbeth's atelier again if she has demeaned her brand to serve mudblo–"
"Finish that word and it will be the last thing you do this evening, Cissy," Lucius warned coldly. "Miss Granger's attire befits the occasion."
There was an elegant artistry in the presentation of nymphlike sexuality that Hermione's Edenic dress of flowers and butterflies offered, far removed from the nearly grotesque eroticism of the cutout gown his wife had chosen to wear. Narcissa had commissioned a frock from a Milanese magical couturier, composed entirely of thin metal cords of solid gold forming the shape of a dragon wrapping around her thin body–complete with periodic blasts of fire from its mouth upon her shoulder.
"A hog in acromantula silk is still a hog, dear husband." Narcissa scoffed. "Though I suppose there's little I can do to stop you if your current fetish is fucking swine–"
Cruci–
"Wonderful for you to join us this evening, Miss Granger," Lucius announced as the girl finally approached, his immediate physical delight at her nearness a balm to his soul, entirely supplanting the dark impulse to curse his spiteful wife. Gazing fondly at Hermione, he attempted to convey with his eyes what he could not yet say to her in words. You look ravishing, sweet girl.
Hermione shyly oriented her head towards her escort. Taking the unspoken hint, Lucius added, "And of course you too, Mr Potter. We're so pleased to have you here."
A haunted look passed over the girl's face, yet she quickly regained control of her countenance, and gracefully performed an extended, formal witch's courtesy with the elegance of a dancer, her pretty head demurely lowered. "Lord Malfoy. Lady Malfoy. It's our great honour to join you in celebration of the young lord's birthday," she recited dutifully. Submissively.
Potter bowed somewhat awkwardly next to Hermione, but his gestures were good enough. Evidently Narcissa's cousin had taught the boy something about pureblood etiquette, even if his attempts were rather maladroit.
"How is your friend Mr Weasley faring?" Narcissa asked the war heroes with a concern so contrived he was surprised neither Potter nor Hermione caught on to the obvious disingenuity.
"Much improved," Potter answered. "He'll be continuing his recovery at St Mungo's in the morning."
Ah. Another boy who lived.
"Thank you again for your swift action and guidance," Hermione added, addressing his wife with a sparkling smile that rendered Lucius briefly resentful.
He wasn't sure at what point he'd begun responding so powerfully to the girl's smiles–perhaps because she so rarely did so in his presence–but now, he couldn't help but perceive every upward curve in her plump lips as a gift–one that was currently being wasted on Narcissa. That smile should have been directed onto him. He was the one who had spent more than twelve thousand galleons on her gown, and another thousand on her shoes.
Hermione continued, "You may have very well saved Ron's life with your efforts."
That dress is worth far more than the life of a Weasley…
Lucius hadn't realised Narcissa had been involved in any life-saving efforts, and had assumed one of their servants had taken care of the boy.
"It was my duty and honour–both as a hostess, and as a mother," Narcissa responded. "Hopefully Mr Weasley can get the help he needs. He's certainly fortunate to have loyal friends like the pair of you."
They parted ways after a few moments of polite pleasantries, Hermione excusing herself to greet Draco, whilst Potter joined the Greengrass sisters.
It suddenly occurred to Lucius that Hermione hadn't looked at him once during the brief exchange.
What are you playing at, little one?
"Tell me, husband," Narcissa said, reaching for a floating glass of champagne. Her cool gaze swept over the gala, her smile widening as she locked eyes with those of influence she considered worthy of her attention. "Just how did you manage to wandlessly Imperio that boy to drink so much he split his own liver?"
Lucius shared a curt nod with the German Chancellor of Magic from across the room, and offered a short wave to the Chief of Staff to the Supreme Mugwump to his right.
Talking through his unwavering smile, Lucius responded, "I'm not sure what you're talking about, dearest."
"You Crucio'd that boy within an inch of his life, and utilised the Dark Lord's psychocurses to shatter his sanity, concealing the evidence of organ failure by using the Imperius to force him to drink beyond the limits of even a mountain troll." Narcissa wrinkled her nose in distaste. "That was your signature back when you, Bella, Rodolphus and Rabastan went about torturing muggle junkies at those garish punk rock concerts."
The seventies had been a strange time indeed…
"Again, wife, I know not what you're referring to. You saw yourself last night how that gluttonous boy ingurgitated our liquors. It's hardly my fault he doesn't know his limits, nor the inherent risks of consuming conflicting enchanted alcohols in excess." Lucius answered evenly. "Besides, since when do you have such a bleeding heart for Weasleys?"
Narcissa tightened her hold around his arm. "I don't give a niffler's arse about those filthy, blood traitorous mendicants. What I care about is our son. And you are risking his freedom with your obscene recklessness–"
"I have done everything in my power to protect our son, to secure his station." Lucius suspended the charade of doting husband, and glowered darkly at his wife. "I would never compromise Draco's freedom."
"You're the sole reason his freedom is compromised in the first place!" Her voice had elevated enough to garner a few interested glances, so Narcissa quickly schooled her features, beaming serenely beyond his shoulder to Madam Lotus Edevane, the award-winning theatre actress Lucius knew firsthand his wife despised.
Speaking with a slightly louder volume to engage those who were now sure to be listening in, Lucius stated, "This evening is magnificent, my darling wife. You have truly outdone yourself. I have never been more proud to be your husband."
He planted a kiss on the top of Narcissa's head, and his wife stiffened against him.
"I've never been so proud to be your wife, darling husband," Narcissa cooed, batting her eyelashes. "Brave, gallant, wise, and faithful…you are truly the wizard of awitch's wildest dreams, Lucius."
Their performance had its intended effect, and the layer of tension that had formed immediately dissipated as the prying onlookers regarded the happy Malfoy couple.
Cressida would be pleased.
Occluding away all aggression, Lucius re-committed himself to the role he needed to play for both Draco and Hermione's benefit, magnanimously socialising amongst guests of influence with well-practised politesse.
But Hermione was never far from his sphere of awareness, circling his peripherals like Helius, his fundamental matter compelling him towards her shining light like gravity.
She was the centre of his universe.
As he covertly watched her navigate the party with Draco happily trailing behind her–shoulders straight, son, you're not a gosling and she's not your mother goose!–Lucius recognised that the girl's true irresistibility was sourced from something deeper than beauty. Her allure was something within, a gift innate instead of taught, a beguiling quality not unlike the magnetism the Dark Lord had once wielded, when the messianic orator still known as Tom Riddle had inspirited droves of devoted followers with little more than a few words of persuasion.
Hermione wasn't just beautiful. And she wasn't just intelligent.
Hermione had charisma. Passion. Fire.
Lucius observed Hermione with pride as the little witch animatedly led a friendly discussion on theoretical arithmancy and runic relativity equations between the Monégasque Minister, the newly appointed Durmstrang headmaster, and the Director of the Hellenic Museum of Magical Antiquities. They were surrounded by a small gathering of lesser nobles and diplomats desperately hanging on to every word of Hermione's confidently asserted–and well-researched–postulations, as if she were an oracle.
Barely eighteen years old, and this girl had the capacity to bring world leaders fourfold her age to heel.
His witch was incredible.
At dinner, Draco had insisted on sitting between Hermione and the reclusive widow Soleil Elaloïs, Duchesse de Montagne. The perpetually austere, taciturn witch possessed a positively arctic disposition befitting her snowy hair, and typically refused to speak to anyone at formal affairs–especially muggleborns. But astoundingly, the ever-tenacious Miss Granger had conversed with the unpleasant woman in expert French, and had actually managed to garner a small smile from the heartless witch Lucius called mother by the time pudding had been served.
Lucius would have been content to simply admire Hermione from a distance for the rest of the night–allowing the girl to ingratiate herself into high society so long as she continued to extend her war heroine social favour to his son, as he'd originally intended.
But suddenly, some unknown disturbance caused the girl to release her pheromones–boldly–and Lucius, along with every other alpha in the room, could now smell her.
Fuck….
Sweet, sweet girl…
Ignoring her was no longer an option.
You're mine, Omega.
"What a lovely gown you have, Miss Granger!" a silky voice suddenly said, interrupting her respiting moment of lighthearted party gossip with Draco. Whilst elaborate sculptural dressing and avant-garde fashions were considered routine by pureblood standards–given the practical benefit of enchantments for ease of wear–they'd just been sharing a laugh over Lady Hildegarde Crabbe's decision to wear an actual hive of sedated billywigs as a headpiece. "Is that a Susanna-Lisbeth?" the speaker further queried.
"Indeed, it is." Hermione smiled politely, but privately struggled to recognise the stunning older woman with catlike eyes of pure chlorophyll who smelled overwhelmingly of plumeria and coconut. Merlin, she's an alpha too! "Thank you, Lady…?"
The woman delicately chuckled. "Oh, I'm just a mere Madam, Miss Granger, but no need for titles. I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced. I'm Samara Goyle–Gregory's mother. And it's my great honour to finally make your acquaintance."
Hermione went ahead and performed a witch's curtsey, regardless of Samara's status as a Madam, for she'd read that it was considered a polite symbol of respect for the lower and upper halves of Britain's wizarding peerage alike. "I'm pleased to meet you as well."
Samara acknowledged Hermione's supplication with a gracious nod, and then turned her attention to Draco with a warm smile. "Happy birthday, darling boy," she said with maternal familiarity, stroking Draco's prominent cheekbone. Hermione noticed that Draco blushed under the witch's attention, though not uncomfortably. "Such a handsome young man you've become."
Flushed, Draco responded, "It really means a lot to me that you all came this weekend. I didn't actually think I'd ever hear from Gregory again. He hasn't answered any of my letters."
Samara's eyes softened sympathetically, but then she beamed with mischief. "You know as well as I my son has never been particularly loquacious. But he misses you. Why don't you go and see him while Miss Granger and I get to know each other–he's out on the terrace with Theo and Blaise."
Draco turned to Hermione. "You'll join us when you're done?"
"Sure–go ahead. I'll catch up."
Once Draco bowed and departed, Hermione cautiously asked Samara, "You wanted to speak with me?"
"It's been impossible to get your attention all night, what with all of your admirers," Samara remarked. "I wanted to say thank you. My husband and I are deeply appreciative of your statement of support, and willingness to testify at our trial."
"Harry and I agreed it's the right thing to do," Hermione said for what felt like the hundredth time in a row. She hadn't anticipated being thanked by so many Death Eater parents of her Hogwarts peers at Draco's birthday, assuming their supremacist pride would prohibit them from associating with a witch of her blood status, regardless of their defection from Voldemort. Hermione wasn't naïve enough to believe they actually respected her. Nonetheless, these extensions of etiquette were a refreshing surprise, though perhaps it shouldn't have been such a shock–Slytherins were known for their cunning, after all.
"Well my husband and I would love the opportunity to express our gratitude properly," Samara said with a charming smile. She pointed to an intimidating, brawny man built like an American footballer, or perhaps even a wrestler, who appeared moments from splitting his dress robes, his muscles were so large. The distinct scent of patchouli and bergamot emanated powerfully from his direction, as if specifically targeting her. "That's him, over there. Handsome, isn't he?"
Samara's tropical alpha fragrance mixed with the aroma from her husband was beginning to make Hermione feel nauseous, the scents were so strong. Were the pair actively releasing their pheromones? Or was she just unusually sensitive as an unschooled omega? Hermione was fairly certain there were at least a dozen other alphas in attendance at the ball apart from Lucius and Pansy, but none had smelled quite as aggressively as the Goyles.
Shaking away her dizziness, Hermione realised Samara was still waiting for her to speak. "Forgive me…what was the question?"
"I just wanted to know if you find my husband handsome," Samara said expectantly. Hermione briefly panicked, wondering if Samara thought she was out to seduce married alpha wizards as Skeeter's article had insinuated, but there was no malice in the witch's voice. Her tone instead held something almost playful.
Provocation?
"Umm…sure?" Sir Goyle was an attractive man by objective standards, but he was also obnoxiously muscular, comically so. If he wasn't an obvious alpha, Hermione would have surmised the wizard had taken muggle steroids. "You make a very beautiful couple."
"I know Grayson's…physical presence is rather overbearing, but he can be a gentle giant when the occasion calls for it," Samara said blithely. "Would you like to meet him?"
The overwhelming scents were now running the risk of making her sick, and Hermione frantically scanned the ballroom for a polite escape from the conversation that was rapidly becoming suffocating.
"Actually, Madam Goyle, I'm feeling a bit faint," Hermione said, frustrated that she couldn't think of a convincing lie in the midst of this smothering fugue. "Please excuse me–I need to get some air."
"Of course, dear," she heard Samara say. "I'll send you an owl sometime–perhaps you can join us at our estate for luncheon this summer."
Hermione didn't bother with a goodbye curtsey as she rushed towards the terrace where Draco had gone, but before she reached her destination, her path was blocked by a total sensory assault of lemongrass and pine.
"Kingsley?" Hermione gazed up at the Acting Minister in confusion, warring to remain steady on her toes from the vertical pitch of her heels. "I had no idea you'd be here this evening."
Kingsley chuckled. "Originally I wasn't planning on attending, but then I heard you'd be in attendance."
"You're here for me?"
"We have much to discuss, Hermione," Kingsley said with a mock severity that caused her belly to flip in a not entirely unpleasant way. "Not least of which includes your little stunt at St Mungo's last weekend."
Hermione blushed. "I'm sorry…I truly didn't mean to disrupt the hospital–"
"The hospital? Is that what you're apologising for?" Kingsley laughed. "Merlin, you truly have no idea, do you?"
Irritation won over humiliation, and Hermione was reminded of the last time she'd spoken with Kingsley, when he'd left her alone to suffer in total ignorance of her designation. "Well why don't you enlighten me, Minister, if there is some other additional transgression I need to atone for."
"There's no need for ill temper, Miss Granger. I've taken care of everything for you–you won't be charged."
"Charged? With what?"
Kingsley stared at her with openmouthed incredulity. "You were in a public, highly populated area at the onset of your heat."
"So? Is that illegal?" Hermione's indignation was truly rising now. "Besides, I couldn't have been at the hospital longer than ten minutes–"
"There was a thirty-percent increase in violent crime within a five-mile radius of the hospital," Kingsley said seriously, and Hermione gasped. "No fatalities, thankfully. The worst of the offenders only spent a few nights in Ministry holding cells until the effects of your…influence…wore off. But this spike in aggressive behaviour–almost exclusively amongst alpha wizards–occurred within moments of your arrival at St Mungo's. The DMLE hadn't been this overwhelmed with violent reports since before the war."
Hermione paused to take several deep breaths, desperately hoping Kingsley wasn't implying what she suspected. "And if it weren't for your intervention…I would have been charged for the crimes of these wizards? Is that what you're saying?"
"Hermione, of course no one blames you personally, but–"
"But what?" Hermione was heartbroken and infuriated by what felt like betrayal from her fellow Order member. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"
"There are laws, Miss Granger," Kingsley declared in a deep tone of voice that made her shiver where she stood. "Ancient laws written to protect all wizardingkind. An omega in heat has a tangible impact on the mental state of alphas–"
"I will not be held responsible for the behaviour of alphas who can't control themselves." She could accept her role in the hunt her ignorance had inadvertently forced Lucius into–for that truly could have killed him–but these wizards Kingsley was referring to hadn't even seen her the night her heat started. Resisting the urge to capitulate to Kingsley's authoritative presence–despite how much her instincts urged deference–Hermione continued, "I can't believe you'd suggest something so blatantly sexist–"
"I would have thought such unfair accusations beneath you, Miss Granger. You know quite well I have always fought for equity in our world. I've bled for it. I've been cursed for it, and I've nearly died for it." Kingsley glared down at her for several moments. "This isn't a wizard versus witch scenario. You are a true omega–the first to present in Britain in decades. You hold a power in your body that can be a dangerous weapon if you wield it carelessly. And last weekend, you were careless with your body—wait, no, bugger that, I didn't mean–"
"Careless with my body?" Hot rage erupted deep in her core, and Hermione felt as if her insides were now on fire. "Next you'll tell me the dress I'm wearing invites danger as well!"
Kinglsey's gaze casually slipped below her neckline at Hermione's goading, down to her toes and back again, before slowly sweeping over her bare thighs, ultimately settling upon her propped-up cleavage and naked upper stomach. Hermione watched in horror as Kingsley's eyes glazed over and eventually darkened as he absently licked his lips.
A shift had just occurred.
Something…biological.
Heatedly, Kingsley murmured, "Oh, there are a great many things a dress like this is inviting, Omega…"
He spoke in a low purr apropos of his carnivorous patronus that caused Hermione's skin to break out in goose pimples, and she realised, far too late, just what kind of warmth was currently circulating through her body.
You discharge your pheromones when you're strongly emotional…
Her blood was boiling, but so was something else, and Hermione shook with dread, mortified that she was inadvertently releasing chemical signals–signals strong enough to provoke subconscious lust in a wizard who had just been reprimanding her. Mercifully, this wasn't quite like her heat, for she maintained full command over her mental faculties, but she could physically feel that strange omega something gathering deep in her lower pelvic region, slithering through her veins in tingling eddies of increasingly voltaic magnitude as her blood pumped harder with panic.
Hermione ventured a glance around the ballroom, gasping at the realisation that almost every male alpha was now staring at her.
They can smell me!
Hermione had never hated herself more for her lack of prior knowledge in occluding. She'd grovel at Professor Snape's feet if she made it out of this party alive–anything to convince him to teach her how to protect herself.
Conflicting alpha scents bombarded her with nauseating potency as several wizards abandoned their varying conversations mid-sentence and began to approach–pine, lemongrass, patchouli, cinnamon, musk, amber, sage, anise, bergamot, mint, pepper–and Hermione felt like she was choking at the epicentre of chemical warfare, with no escape in sight.
But suddenly, salvation descended upon the odorous cacophony of testosterone, lust, and aggression, as a brisk, powerful redolence–as warmly familiar as it was coolly invigorating–entirely obfuscated all other scents as if a grenade had just been dropped at her feet, blasting everyone and everything into ruins.
Lucius…
There seemed to be an almost choreographed ethological reaction shared amongst the wizards who had been circling her like starving wolves upon an injured fawn–Theo's father, Esmerelda's father, the Italian Minister, the Durmstrang headmaster–for they immediately halted their pursuit and swiftly changed direction as soon as Lucius made his presence known.
Even Kingsley took several steps back, chagrined as if he'd been chastised.
"Miss Granger," Lucius said smoothly. "Might I entreat you to join me in the first dance?"
Alpha…
When she didn't respond, Lucius spoke low enough for only her to hear with that fathomless pitch that seemed to target the space between her thighs with potent, toe-curling vibrations she had no hope of evading. "Dance with me, sweetheart. I'll protect you."
Hermione was stunned, unable to speak as her shaky hand moved of its own accord to the solace of Lucius's possessive hold. Her breath hitched as the warmth of his skin and coolness of his rings encircled her fevered flesh, and she stared openmouthed at the handsome Death Eater as he proceeded to lead her to the centre of the ballroom floor.
Hermione wasn't sure if the lights had actually dimmed, or if her omega mind was perceiving something illusory, for the brilliance that radiated from the dark wizard in front of her seemed to plunge the rest of the world into darkness.
Lucius was her guiding light.
The sweetly sad notes of a delicate piano arrangement echoed throughout the marbled hall in a haunting melody, just as Lucius placed his free hand firmly at her waist, his fingertips skirting along her bare back.
"Look at me."
Hermione obeyed his gentle command, nervously chewing her lower lip as his proximity compelled her executive and primal urges. Her eyes asked the question she was too afraid to voice.
"Last night, you told me you wanted what Narcissa has." Lucius raised their joined hands above his shoulder height. "So tonight, I give you, my sweet girl, the honour of the first dance."
Slow, seductive orchestral strings and the glittering fancies of a harp joined the piano in an evocative, erogenous andante as Lucius confidently advanced, her body immediately retreating in heady acquiescence to his moving dominance as he skillfully swept her into a wizard's waltz.
A Devil's waltz.
"I don't…I don't think I know this dance," Hermione breathed. His graceful, powerful movements somewhat recalled the Champion's routine she'd learned for the Yule Ball, yet there was an element of sensual darkness to his fluidity that sent Hermione's private instincts reeling.
"Your body already knows what to do, little one," Lucius assured. "Just relax–feel–and allow me to lead you."
Hermione was a marionette, and Lucius her puppet master, as he masterfully moved her across the floor. With an extension of his long arm, Hermione was sent slowly spinning on her toes almost like a ballerina en tournant. Their bodies were separated for but a moment, before he swiftly brought her back firmly within his grasp, repeating this elongated process of extension and contraction–push and pull–as the intensity of the orchestra scaled to a passionate crescendo.
There was an inherent eroticism to the way their bodies moved in such exacting synchronicity, such acute physicality, and Hermione found that with each step, with each Dionysiac lilt of the orchestra's guiding melody, dancing with Lucius was as effortless as breathing. It was reflexive and unthinking, requiring no conscious thought, something to feel and experience instead of intellectualise and decipher. Her nerves warmed in reaction to his proximity; her muscle groups activated upon his faintest touch. It made no sense, but it captivated her senses–smell, touch, taste, sight, and sound entirely focused on Lucius's body in relation to hers.
"Lucius…"
"Yes, love?"
"What are you doing?" Her eyelashes fluttered as a fresh wave of his aqueous, woodsy redolence crashed into her like a wave upon the shore, the sharp, smoky notes of his potent masculinity saturating every inch of her exposed skin like liquid, inexorably eroding her into oblivion.
"Dancing with the most beautiful witch at the ball."
He spun her around again, but kept her facing forward as he eased her bare back against his clothed torso, leading her from behind with his large hand splayed possessively across her stomach.
"This is dangerous." Hermione whimpered as she detected a distinct bulge against her back. "Oh gods…p-people will see…Cressida said–"
"Relax…I told you I'd protect you," Lucius cooed directly in her ear. "They're watching us now, and next, they'll be watching my wife with Potter. Then Draco with the young lady Parkinson, and so forth. You're safe, sweetheart. It's just a waltz."
He languidly sent her into a dizzying twirl, and when they faced each other again, Hermione feared her legs would give out, his allure was so shattering. Cloaked in fine dress robes of midnight and silver, standing in an ancient villa, Lucius was more otherworldly than ever, the fleshly personification of a Roman god.
Alpha…
How easy it would be to become swept up in the tempest that was Lucius Malfoy, to lose herself entirely within his storming presence of seduction and chaos. To cease to be Hermione Granger–an individual–and instead become a nameless worshipper kneeling at his feet, devout and pious and pure–receptive–for whatever Olympian thunder and lightning Alpha desired to violently thrust inside of her.
Violate me…
How easy it would be to pretend Lucius was simply a handsome, unattached older man, a dark prince, romancing her like his young innocent princess across the ballroom into iniquitous carnal delights.
Seduce me…
How easy it would be to reject all other ambition, and simply aspire to be safe and warm and protected as his perfect good little girl…
Make me yours…
Lucius firmly planted both hands on her waist and lifted her above him as if she were weightless, just as the orchestra ascended to a roaring climax that sounded like the gates to heaven had opened, and the angelic songs of paradise too beautiful for the limitations of mortal words were singing down on them. Hermione yelped at the unexpected height as the melody reverberated around her, her back arched with fevered tension as the vibrations of each sonorous note rippled across her sensitised skin, sweeping her into an ecstatic storm of sweet mellifluence.
He held her there for several breathless moments of silence and stillness, their gazes locked, and it was as if they were the only two figures in the world. Time disappeared, Hermione's spatial awareness limited to the flickering candlelight and glowing flowers that bloomed upon every stone surface of the ballroom.
In this moment, they were not in a Villa, but in a wild garden.
They were not Death Eater and muggleborn, wizard and witch, or even alpha and omega.
They were simply man and woman–ancient, wild, unashamed bodies of instinct and desire, their existence predating concepts of morality, of right and wrong. They were fundamentally built for no other purpose than to consume each other in the basest of ways.
Never let me go, Lucius…
Finally, the composition sounded once more in a low, soulful rallendanto, and Hermione slowly came back to awareness.
Hermione felt like she was floating as Lucius carefully brought her back to her feet, before shifting his hand to her front, gently pressuring her.
"Let go," Lucius whispered, and Hermione felt her muscles go completely limp at the command. She was unable to tear her eyes away from his as Lucius manoeuvred her helpless body, releasing her in a prolonged, slow dip, vertebra by vertebra, his firm thigh supporting her full weight as the waltz concluded in a breathless finale.
Love me, Alpha, please–
Booming applause liberated her from Lucius's thrall, fracturing her lapse in sanity and setting her to fragile rights, banishing that disdainful thought from her consciousness before she could ruminate on the horrifying implications.
She refused to condemn herself to the purgatorial netherworld of suffering and humiliation that would surely befall her should she ever give voice to anything as sick as the desire for whatever foul toxicity resided in Lucius Malfoy's black heart.
Hermione jerked and tore herself away from the dark wizard, desperately clinging to her sound mind–her only protection–with all of the strength contained within her small body.
Alpha…please, Alpha—
She had to get away.
"Hermione–"
"Do not speak to me!" Hermione barked, unsure if she was talking to Lucius, or to herself.
That secret self, this blasted omega self, an almost childlike state of being ignorant of decency and proprietary and laws–ignorant of basic intelligence–did nothing but want and demand, heedless of consequences.
Please take me away from here, Alpha–
Lucius glared hard at her, growling, "Do not run from me."
Hermione darted into the crowd before she capitulated to his deep, angry voice, and she was immediately smothered by adulations of unknown sources, praising her…performance with Lucius.
"Hermione, you were amazing!"
"When did you two find time to rehearse?"
"What a wonderful sign of unity for our world–a noble pureblood dancing with a mudblo–I mean, muggleborn war hero!"
The world seemed to be collapsing on her, sounds and odours and textures crushing her sensory nerves, and tears welled in her eyes as her panic ascended to a summit high in the upper atmosphere, oxygen rapidly depleting as pressure took its place, threatening to shatter her bones and split her organs. She could feel Lucius's influence compelling her, an aching coercion embedded deep in her viscera as if he'd impaled her bowels with a spear, the magnitude of the pain directly correlating with how fiercely she resisted.
The farther she moved away from Lucius, the more she physically hurt.
Hermione shoved her way through the bodies with gritted teeth and renewed determination, ignoring the piercing throb deep in her abdomen as her core temperature inflamed, unsure if her fever was caused by her hormones, or the considerable exertion required to simply put one foot in front of the other–away from her attacker.
Hermione rushed out of the ballroom, the needle-like point of her high heels nearly puncturing the mosaic floor, so she abandoned the shoes entirely to increase her speed with a gasped Evanesco. She hauled herself into a desperate sprint down an empty hallway, through several corridors, and finally to the outer grounds, her tears liberally cascading down her cheeks, neck, and chest.
She ran as far as her legs would carry her before her lungs felt like they would burst, and Hermione slowed to a walk as she entered what appeared to be an ancient basilica on an abandoned segment of the Villa demesne, deep within the cypress forest. The enchanted marble statues–muses perhaps?–turned to gaze at her curiously as Hermione stepped farther into the hall, her rib cage splintering in her agony for air.
Thunderous apparition sounded behind her moments later, and Hermione quickly whirred around with her wand outstretched as Lucius seethed in front of her.
Alpha–
"Stupefy!" Hermione cried.
Lucius blocked her spell with an even faster Protego, his glare hardening to something deadly. "I told you not to run–"
"What else am I supposed to do when a rapist approaches?" Hermione snapped, disturbed by the way Lucius flinched at the word.
"Hermione–"
"That's what you are–no use in denying it," Hermione spat venomously. "You are a vile, cruel, disgusting man. A sick man. You should be in Azkaban–you…you…you raped me…you–"
"I did," Lucius said simply. Something about his plainly spoken admission chilled Hermione, and she choked back a sob. "Is that what you need to hear?"
Hermione tightened her grip on her wand as Lucius took slow steps forward. "Stay back!"
"Do you need me to tell you how the moment you presented in the Great Hall that night–this tiny, beautiful little teenage omega–that I could think of nothing else except fucking you within an inch of your life–"
"Stop talking! Stop it–"
"That as you forced me into a hunt, my only guiding thought was forcing you–"
"Do not come any closer! I swear I–"
"That the moment I smelled your wet cunt was the moment I became a predator, and you, my poor sweet, innocent little girl…you became my prey–"
"Bombarda!"
He sent her charm ricocheting to the opposite side of the room, disintegrating a statue of a wine-drunk Bacchus into a pile of rubble to the visible chagrin of their fearful marble witnesses.
"Is this what you need, Hermione? I attacked you, so you attack me?" Lucius chuckled dryly, but his eyes remained glowering. "Do your worst, kitten. I can take it. I'll give you what you need."
A distant voice warned her against rising to the provocation.
But Hermione was too far gone to care.
As if possessed, Hermione unloaded every duelling spell in her arsenal with a battle cry in rapid succession, growing freshly breathless and dizzyingly fatigued as Lucius blocked her efforts with an almost lazy ease. She sent jinx after hex in Lucius's direction, and would have been proud of her visibly improved offensive magical capacity if it weren't for the fact that Lucius seemed to anticipate her spells before she even cast them.
She stood no chance against an omega-fortified alpha–a Death Eater with decades of real-world duelling experience.
Lucius was a fully grown man, and had likely killed many muggleborns like her before.
What was she doing?
Why was she being so stupid, provoking a dangerous dark wizard?
Blood began pouring from her nose and ears from the exertion, a fact that Hermione only noticed from the sudden alarm on Lucius's face.
"Hermione, that's enough–"
Alpha says stop—
"Expelliarmus!"
For the first time, Lucius had to physically dodge her spellwork, she'd cast with such record speed, and the charm missed its target by mere millimetres, landing instead against a wall of serpentine columns, splintering the marble in a profane desecration of the sacred.
Like a fighting bull, Lucius advanced on Hermione with a snarl, nostrils flaring. "Enough of this madness. Lower your wand. Now!"
The depth of Lucius's voice was like the first frost of a long, dark winter, his infernal alpha pitch freezing her fevered body into instant, cold submission. She shivered where she stood, the perspiration against her skin chilling to sharp, prickly needles as the strange frost continued to creep down her spine, pressurising each vertebrae in an invisible threat to paralyse her–permanently.
Her instincts screamed at her to run while she still stood a chance of escaping, but the closer Lucius approached, the quieter those warnings became.
He paused several feet in front of her, and it was only then that Hermione noticed that he was also breathless and sweating, the faintest hints of dishevelment on his otherwise perfectly polished dress robes.
"I raped you, Hermione." Lucius inhaled slowly, his wide, finely cloaked shoulders rising and falling like a wraith. "I chased you, an eighteen-year-old virgin girl, into the Forbidden Forest. And I raped you."
A single tear slipped down Hermione's cheek, but she wasn't entirely sure what the primary cause of her fresh sorrow was.
"The hunt….the hunt…" Hermione mumbled lamely.
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters–"
"Why? Because I thought you've already decided I'm nothing more than a rapist who violates little girls for sport."
"That's not…that's n-not what I said…I know that th-the h-hunt–"
"Which is it, Hermione?" Lucius queried sharply, wincing as he watched her struggling not to cry. "What am I to you?"
"I don't know–"
"Am I a violent pervert who attacks indiscriminately?"
Hermione shook her head, biting her lip and balling her fists to keep her tears from falling. "It's not that simple–"
"Why?"
"Because you're Alpha!"
"Yes!" Lucius boomed passionately, his eyes flaming. "Yes! You're nearly there, sweetheart! And?"
"And I'm…omega," Hermione choked out. The words formed automatically, but it was several moments before the true meaning resonated, and it was as if some fundamental piece out of sorts deep inside her soul had finally shifted into its proper place, like a broken bone being reset.
Lucius Malfoy was an alpha.
She was an omega.
They were perfect opposites–and when they were together, they were perfectly, magibiologically balanced. Synchronised, like a waltz.
Push and pull…
Lucius Malfoy had chased her.
Because she ran–first.
What happened in the Forbidden Forest wasn't as simple as victim and perpetrator, because their designations–their bodies—connected them to the primordial, to an ancient time and power before such constructs.
Before words.
Hermione had released her pheromones, her body intuitively choosing Lucius without communicating with her mind, because of all of the wizards in the vicinity that night…he was the strongest true alpha.
Hermione wasn't the only one who had been hunted.
Lucius had been hunted too–by her.
Alpha had sniffed her in the air like an animal, and had pursued her, and taken her, because his instincts compelled him to survive, above all else.
To mate.
"Hermione?" Lucius said softly. She gazed up at his handsome face, her vision blurring as her tears finally escaped their confines. She sobbed heavily, and visualised the exact moment Lucius was impacted by her tears, for his face became a mask of absolute anguish, and he fell to his knees in front of her, clutching her hands protectively.
"Sweetheart…tell me how to fix it, tell me what you need, love," Lucius soothed. "Please don't cry…what do you need me to do, little one? I'll give you anything, precious girl…"
Hermione swallowed hard, gathering strength from the unblinking, fierce way Lucius stared up at her as if she were the centre of his universe.
Had anyone ever looked upon her with as much adoration as this married Death Eater more than twice her age?
"Tell me, Hermione," Lucius urged. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you…"
Her limbs had long defrosted from Lucius's prior alpha command, and hot blood roared unbidden throughout her entire quivering frame. She knew with certainty that her body was releasing pheromones, because now she could feel it–sharply–and see right in front of her the impact such biological liberties were having on the alpha before her.
Lucius was a portrait of a man enraptured, his strong gaze singularly focused and reverential. The handsome pureblood wizard was supplicating himself in his finest dress robes, but still presented a vision of terrifying authority contained within the stark muscles of this paragon of virility.
For the first time since her presentation, with her attacker on his knees before her, Hermione felt…powerful.
Hermione moistened her trembling lips, preparing to finally speak. Lucius eagerly leaned forward, their mouths practically touching from the reduction in his height.
Only on his knees were they finally level with each other.
Lucius's lips slowly curved into a deadly, triumphant smile, kindling that last dwindling flame of Hermione's rage.
"Tell me what you need, sweet girl," Lucius crooned.
Hermione's breath hitched, and she spoke before she could stop herself.
"Reducto!"
The blasting curse, sourced from the lowest depths of Hermione's wrath, and with the full intention of every cell in her body, detonated against Lucius's rapidly erected shield like a weapon of mass destruction, finally breaking through his indefatigable defences she'd fought so hard against. Time seemed to slow as dancing flares of warm red and jagged spikes of glacial blue pulsed and swirled around each other in a flirtatious pas de deux of protection and destruction.
But that moment of beautiful, magical synthesis quickly faded as the impact of Hermione's curse finally edged over Lucius's shield.
And then, an eruption occurred.
An iridescent gleam of terror on the dark wizard's face was the last thing Hermione saw before a white-hot fulmination of thermal and nuclear energy sent Hermione and Lucius flying opposite each other, so loud it was silent. A radiating storm of fractured marble cycloned throughout the basilica, burying her beneath ash and tephra, the earth shaking beneath her pummelled body as if a brand new portal to the underworld, gates to Hell, had been freshly erected and flung open purely by her rabid fury, sending her body and mind free-falling into a familiar darkness.
Hermione had no idea how long she was unconscious, or if she was perhaps still somewhat lucid, for as her mind drifted between the waking and the dream world, the one constant that remained was Lucius's scent.
Her eyes were closed, but she could feel pain and pressure slowly activating and retreating on different parts of her body. And after a time, the silence gave way to sound, and she could hear multiple incantations frantically being repeated above her.
"Brackium Emendo…Brackium Emendo!"
There was a crack somewhere in her lower body, sending a lightning bolt of pain from her hip to her ankle, but then, there was nothing but comfort. Warmth.
Alpha…
"Episkey…Merlin, this fucking wand…Episkey!"
Sharp tingles of paresthesia swept through her wrist, and Hermione's hand shifted several inches of its own accord, back into its proper place.
Hermione slowly opened her eyes, and like a spectre, Lucius's dark silhouette manifested through a cloud of smoke and ash.
Alpha…
Please…
Please don't…
"Please don't hurt me," Hermione bleated fearfully.
Lucius didn't respond, and simply glared down at her with so much malice she feared she'd either lose control over her bodily functions, or pass out again. He looked more threatening now than he had after the final battle, dishevelled and filthy and dangerous. His silver eyes glittered with pure rage, and there was a sharp cut on his upper temple drawing rivulets of blood down the marble planes of his face and over his parted lips.
He looked demonic. Vampiric.
Hellish.
"Mr…M-Mr Malfoy…p-please–"
He advanced on her with an animalistic growl, teeth bared, caging her beneath him with his powerful arms and legs, hurtling his pheromones on top of her with the strength of a blasting curse. Hermione was immobilised by his scent, her muscles failing to respond to the fearful motor signals being sent by her brain—run, run, run!–wheezing despairingly as his aroma rushed into her lungs with the heaviness of smoke, choking her, her eyes stinging and watering from the sheer lack of oxygen.
When he finally spoke, his voice so low it was inhuman, Hermione thought she would expire from terror. "Is. Anything. Else. Broken?"
Hermione blinked several times, unable to process what he was asking, she was so frightened. He looked like he was going to kill her, the embodiment of aggression and testosterone and alpha rage, yet the content of his speech–the actual words–revealed…concern?
"Answer me, Hermione," Lucius growled, his preternaturally deep voice sending vibrations up her spine. "Do you have any other…broken bones?"
"Umm…what?"
"I've…I've healed all that I can see, but your wand…this blasted thing isn't exactly cooperative," Lucius ground out tensely, breathlessly. He glanced disapprovingly at her wand, still in his gloved hand. "Beech, is it not? What's the core?"
In dizzying contrast to his innocuous query, his voice was primaevally terrifying, his alpha timbre making her want to cry and kneel at his feet and beg for mercy and do whatever he told her to, all at once.
Whatever phantom of strength had fortified her enough to attempt to blow this wizard up had clearly long abandoned her.
Maybe he'll spare me if I'm a good girl…
Hermione shivered. "U-unicorn, sir."
"Of course it is," Lucius muttered. "I'm surprised it let me cast at all."
He gazed back down at her, and Hermione was instantly flattened by the direct impact of his furious, fiery eyes.
Alpha is mad…
He's mad at me…
"Are you…are you going to kill me?"
"What a stupid question." Lucius rolled his furious eyes, and in that brief moment of distraction, Hermione regained more spatial awareness, and she noticed three very uncomfortable truths.
The first was that the silver in his irises was rapidly disappearing as his pupils dilated, like a solar eclipse; a thin ring of blinding iridescence surrounding absolute blackness.
The second truth was that Lucius was still on top of her, his muscles caging her from every direction–his scent her only air.
And the third truth–perhaps the most terrifying of all–was that Lucius Malfoy was hard, brutally, his erection pressed dangerously against her thigh, a breath's distance from impaling her.
It was as if the feel of his arousal activated some kind of key within her, a switch, for as soon as she became aware of his hardness, unbidden slickness and heat flooded from her core, soaking through her knickers.
Lucius released a pained groan, and Hermione blushed in mortification at the realisation that there was a strong possibility that he could smell her.
"Witch…you have one chance to say no," Lucius snarled dangerously.
"W-what–"
"I can occlude for maybe another minute or two, if you're lucky."
"Occlude? Why would you–"
"You released your pheromones. You ran from me. You attacked me. And…fucking hell, your cunt smells so good…I need it…"
Oh…
Oh!
Hermione whined in agony as her insides reacted to Lucius's filthy words, as well as the interaction her body had swept her into without her mind's knowledge, her sex pulsing with so much moisture her thighs felt sticky. "Please…not again–"
"Oh yes, sweetheart. You did this. You played with fire, little girl," Lucius hissed. "This is your only chance to say no."
Lucius was shivering above her, his muscles visibly taut with tension even through the barrier of his torn dress robes. Hermione felt a fresh pulse of wetness seep out of her body, and Lucius violently jerked as if he'd been cursed, releasing an agonised, rumbling moan that reverberated through her core.
"And…if I say no?" Hermione dared to ask.
The prominent apple in Lucius's throat bobbed with his laboured, throaty swallow, his jaw falling open. His tongue absently darted out against his lower lip, like a serpent capturing chemicals in the air. "You apparate. And apparate again. Keep moving. Get as far from here as you can. Don't tell your friends–don't tell anyone where you are. Don't bother going home–your wards won't be able to keep me out."
"But what will happen–"
"That's less than a minute now, you infuriating girl–"
"–to you?"
Lucius roared, slamming his fist right next to Hermione's head, hard enough to crack the marble beneath her. Hermione eyed with morbid fascination the fresh streams of blood that flooded from his bruised knuckles.
"Don't insult my intelligence by pretending now you care anything about my survival," Lucius answered finally.
Hermione gulped. "Well…what happens…if I stay?"
"I'm warning you, Hermione–"
"Please–Mr Malfoy," Hermione pleaded. "What will you do if I stay…right here?"
Lucius inhaled with a tortured howl, and when he looked down at her again, the eclipse was gone.
His eyes were completely pitch.
"If you don't flee within the next thirty seconds, you will be massacred by my lust," Lucius warned. "You will be violated. You will be beaten. And you will be fucked–repeatedly, and violently. I will not respond to your tears, and I will not stop when you plead for mercy. I will only fuck you harder. If you don't leave right now, I will become a monster, and I will abuse your body, and there won't be a single thing you can do to stop me. Do you understand?"
Hermione nodded.
She understood perfectly.
Lucius withdrew with great effort, tears welling in his fathomless eyes like moonlight upon the River Styx as his powerful form was brutalised by whatever nameless internal pressure was torturing his insides. He cried out like a slain wild beast as something struck him, grimacing in pain as he clutched his chest, and Hermione briefly experienced a phantom echo of the pain from the night she'd attempted to stop her heat–a pain so distressing she'd had suicidal thoughts.
Was that what Lucius was currently feeling?
Lucius sat back on his haunches, scowling in visible excruciation, his defined brow so harshly angled it shadowed his face like a bandit's mask. His breathing was laboured and uneven, somewhere between a wheeze and a growl, trembles growing epileptic as slow seconds elapsed.
Lucius wasn't just suffering.
He was dying.
"This is your last chance, Omega," Lucius rasped.
Hermione reclined fully onto her back, exposing her belly and jugular, staring unblinking at Lucius.
"Take me, Alpha."
The moment she uttered the words, whatever invisible shackles had been restraining Lucius immediately fell away, his occlumency shields demolished. He moved faster than she could perceive, a blur of muscle and blood and platinum hair, attacking her offered body like a carnivore seizing its prey.
Sink your teeth into me…
Hermione cried out as she was roughly flipped over onto her stomach, freezing in terror as her dress was not wandlessly spelled away, but rather, ripped away by hand, fabric tearing to irreparable shreds at her sides. The bright lights and fluttery movements of the bejewelled flower and butterfly appliqués faded to darkness and absolute stillness as the beautiful gown's enchantments were officially broken by Lucius's destruction. Hermione scrambled to gain purchase, to position herself on her hands and knees to welcome what she expected was coming, but before she could find balance, a heavy weight shoved her back onto her stomach, stealing the breath from her lungs, before yanking her knickers from her body.
"Mr Malfoy…wait, I–"
Hermione shrieked as a vicious strike landed directly on her naked backside without warning, so hard that fresh tears immediately sprung forth from her eyes. She dared a brief glance over her shoulder, and found Lucius staring down at her already welted buttocks with a bloodthirsty hunger in his eyes, licking his lips, his large hand and arm muscles flexing and contracting as he prepared to deliver another blow.
Hermione tried to brace herself for the pain, to remind herself that she'd known what she was submitting to, but nothing could have prepared her for the violent brutality of Lucius's massive palm and sharp rings crashing against her tender arse in increasingly violent succession, as if intending to shatter her pelvis.
Hermione had experienced all manner of curses and battle casualties throughout the last seven years. She'd been petrified by a basilisk, drugged into stasis and submerged in the Black Lake, and had even had her flesh carved into by a blade. She'd been Crucio'd. She'd been raped.
But never in her life had she experienced the abject humiliation and singularity of being repeatedly hit by hand.
Or rather, spanked.
The sound of Lucius's flesh colliding with hers echoed against the marbled floors and walls of the basilica in a bouncing call and response, a venereal, filthy percussion punctuated by the stringy shrieks and brassy sobs that erupted from Hermione's throat with each bruising collision. Lucius was wordless as he hit her, coldly methodical, almost entirely silent in his determined brutality, with the exception of deep, guttural grunts that sent waves of sensation to her throbbing clitoris in the briefly respiting seconds between one blow and the next.
The inherently degrading nature of what Lucius was doing was almost as distressing as the physical violence itself. There was a sickening delight, an addictive, heady sapor of sweet, sweet deviance, associated with this bestial perversion of an antiquated form of discipline upon an errant child. Hermione even felt childlike, babbling and crying and silently apologising for unknown transgressions, as the older authority figure whose approval she desired so strongly–Alpha, it hurts, it hurts so bad–slapped her naked bottom again and again and again.
I promise I'll be a good girl…
He was hitting her so hard that her entire body quaked from the impact, each blow sending whiplash all the way throughout her skull to her toes and back again. She strongly suspected the force of each strike would have sent her flying across the room if it weren't for the pressurised way Lucius held her in place, his large hand splayed across her mid-back as the other reigned terror on her arse.
A particularly powerful blow landed on her left cheek, and Hermione's scream was choked by a sudden gag as the pain fully edged into nausea. As if sensing the severity of her distress, Lucius instantly released his hold on her back and repositioned himself behind her, relieving the pressure on her internal organs and granting her the ability to breathe–which Hermione hadn't even noticed she'd lost.
Hermione gasped for air, practically wheezing as Lucius covered her buttocks with both hands, generously kneading her stinging flesh with his large palms and long fingers in a tender massage that almost felt like a tactile apology. Whereas moments before, the feel of his rings made her fear the skin of her buttocks would actually split open and bleed, she now welcomed the coolness of those mysterious precious metals and gothic stones, instinctively wiggling her hips into his grasp, mindlessly and shamelessly needy for any form of soothing Alpha would offer her.
Suddenly, Lucius clawed her right cheek, nails digging brutally into her flesh, assuredly breaking her skin, and Hermione whimpered pitifully and immediately halted her movements.
As soon as she froze, the pressure was released, and Lucius resumed his gentle massage on her welted flesh.
Hermione swallowed hard and nodded to herself, finally understanding the unspoken rule.
I'm not allowed to move.
Hermione willfully relaxed her muscles, and Lucius's massage was soon amplified by the feeling of his lips against her sore skin, almost like a reward, and Hermione gritted her teeth in an effort not to respond to his attentions, though she couldn't restrain her helpless moan. He left slow, wet, indulgent pecks across her entire backside, her battered sensory nerves aflame and confused, unsure whether to signal pain or pleasure.
Suddenly, her cheeks were brusquely pulled apart, opening her up like a laboratory specimen pinned to a slide, and Hermione shivered as Lucius's hot, panting breath coated her exposed, dripping sex.
Lucius dove into her sex without preamble, sealing his mouth on her entire exposure, lapping at her folds so rapidly it almost felt like his tongue was vibrating. Hermione tried her best to relax, to acquiesce to the forceful sensations of his hungry mouth, to stay still the way Alpha wanted, but he was licking her too violently for her to derive any meaningful pleasure from the act.
His tongue was everywhere at once, his nose, chin, and jaw punishing her overly sensitised flesh as copious slick flowed out of her hole in reaction to the bombardment of stimulation. The sound of his licking and sucking and slurping was bestial and obscene, squelching, echoing loudly throughout the sacred space of ancient worship in abject desecration and profanity.
His thick tongue roughly brushed a particularly vulnerable spot on her clitoris, and Hermione cried out in pain and instinctively jerked away. With a growl that vibrated throughout her sex, Lucius clawed her hips hard enough to tear through her skin, making her bleed as he pulled her against his mouth with a brutal suction that activated every single sensitive nerve ending against her will.
Hermione screamed an alpine octave as an unexpected orgasm brutally sliced through her body like Sectumsempra, hacking her insides with a painful, indiscriminate pleasure. Her ears were ringing, her vision blurred from her tears, her own blood filling her mouth as she bit her lip in agony, yet still Lucius continued to relentlessly devour her without a moment's rest, shoving her past her orgasm and beyond the outermost limits of her sanity.
Hermione was a wordless being, no longer capable of articulating concepts as simple as yes and no as Lucius feasted upon her with throaty growls, his teeth threateningly dragging on her reddened labia each time she tried to squirm away. Her clitoris was too sensitive, overstimulated and aching, shrinking away from him in a vain attempt at protection, yet Lucius chased the apex of her pleasure with the tip of his rapier tongue like a swordsman, pummeling it with so much wet, hot direct pressure that Hermione was coming again before she even realised what was happening.
And again.
And again.
And again.
There was no elegance to what he was doing–none of the skillful, deliberate techniques he'd teased her with the night before, techniques that could only arise from decades of experience in the sexual practice of cunnilingus. This was eating out, in the most basal, literal form of the vulgar euphemism, for Lucius was an animal–an insatiable monster–against her cunt, his greedy, messy strokes an act of singular consumption.
Lucius was a beast, and he was eating her alive.
Another orgasm struck her down so savage her heart stopped, and Hermione couldn't even scream as every muscle in her body simultaneously contracted, before spasming with irregular pulses of white-hot electricity that left her paralysed in exhaustion, no longer in control of her own motor functions.
Alpha…
Please, Alpha…
She was helpless.
Hermione sobbed in delirious relief as Lucius finally surfaced from her sex, granting her tender, grotesquely exposed tissues a few moments of recovery, but her hope for mercy was quickly usurped by blood curdling terror when Lucius sharply gripped her hair and pulled her up to a tall kneel against his chest.
His other hand snaked around the front of her body, sharply squeezing her breasts before slapping them, and Hermione became acutely aware of the fact that she was completely naked–bleeding and bruised–whilst Lucius remained largely clothed.
She felt the tip of his cock begin to split her lowest lips, and Hermione briefly feared he'd managed to conjure a third fist, he felt so large. Her uterus fiercely contracted the more he lubricated himself in her juices, and with a feral yowl, Hermione felt an embarrassingly prolific, copious stream of hot slick flow out of her body and down her trembling thighs.
Her body–her omega body–was readying for her alpha.
Lucius brought his teeth to her earlobe and jerked her head to the side, fully exposing the vulnerability of her throat. "Don't. Fucking. Move," Lucius growled between heated pants, and Hermione was overcome with a sense of déjà vu as his threat took her right back to the Forbidden Forest.
Without further warning, Lucius fully sheathed his cock inside of her with a single, savage thrust, and the last, tenuous threads of willpower connecting her to executive, modern function finally disintegrated, and Hermione became an ancient, wild thing.
Alpha…
Hermione's consciousness slipped into a dreamlike state of acute physical awareness, all intelligent thoughts suffocated and silenced as a new, sedative form of warmth gently burned through her veins, subduing her into a peaceful serenity she'd never before accessed. All was right in the world. Alpha was inside of her, and nothing else mattered. She'd found her purpose. She didn't have to think about anything, or make any decisions.
Lucius would take care of her.
Hermione was a blissful rag doll in his powerful hold, unresisting and compliant as he manipulated her every way he saw fit, stealing his pleasure like a barbarian invader, pillaging her guarded body. She dared not move, for Alpha had told her not too. Because if she resisted, she would hurt herself.
Only Lucius was allowed to hurt her.
She cried out in gratified ecstasy as his cock stretched her vaginal walls with every fervid thrust, pummelling her cervix with voracious brutality. She may have been small–tiny in comparison to Lucius–but Hermione was far from weak.
Her body was made for this.
She was made for him, and he was made for her.
She was in pain, undoubtedly, for Lucius was being rougher with her than he'd ever been, throwing her against every available surface of the destroyed basilica as he bestially fucked her, yet with each new summit of aching torture came a balm of exquisite pleasure so profound she found herself longing for him to hurt her more.
It was certainly nonsensical that unsparing pain was begetting unfathomable pleasure, but Hermione was beyond the need to make sense of anything going on between them.
Her mind needed rest.
For now, her body could take over.
She wept and giggled in hysterics of gratitude as Lucius's shouts grew more drawn out and pronounced as he approached the apex of his pleasure. She squeezed her abused vaginal muscles as tightly around his shaft as she could manage, trapping him deep inside of her, and her own pleasure reached its sweet pinnacle as Lucius's hot seed flooded against her spasming cervix.
She needed more.
To her delight, his recovery was swift between each subsequent release, refractory almost nonexistent, and it felt like only seconds later that Lucius was mounting her again with a grunt, repositioning her to the uppermost limits of her flexibility as he contorted her like an acrobat, his tiny little contortionist, his private erotic dancer performing only for the pleasure of his burning lusts.
She was vaguely aware of the way the enchanted statues had abandoned their fearful stances in favour of more amatory positions, the silent figures pleasuring themselves as they watched Lucius fuck Hermione. Their eyeless, marble faces perceived their carnality with rapt attention, and Hermione felt like an exhibitionist, the star of her own erotic performance, her audience of gods and muses from the ancient world captivated under her sexual spell.
Lucius mercilessly took her on the floor for what felt like a timeless purgatory of pleasure, one orgasm bleeding into the next as he flattened her into rubble and destruction, before he held her tightly in his arms, supporting her full weight as he shoved her against every column that remained standing, knocking her skull to the cusp of consciousness and back again with every titanic thrust.
Hermione clung to him desperately, constricting her limbs around him like a boa as she luxuriated in the hellish way Lucius shoved his cock in and out of her, puncturing her and rearranging her insides with his massive size. This ruined temple was their private pleasure garden, a paradise of lust and earthly delights, but Lucius was no Adam, and Hermione was no Eve.
They were both snakes.
They would sin and burn together.
There wasn't a single thing that could spoil the perfection between them. Lucius violated her as much as he spoiled her–with each orgasm he achieved, he still ensured she had at least three ahead of him.
Hermione threw her head back as Lucius tightened his hold on her hips, dragging his nails down her thighs, scratching her and splitting her skin as he fucked himself into her like his life depended on it.
"Hermione…fuck, Hermione…my sweet girl…my sweet, perfect, beautiful girl…come again for me, sweetheart…bathe me in these sweet juices…" he grunted, and Hermione swelled under his praises, her primed, exhausted, mutilated body responding instantly to his demands as a fresh wave of moisture streamed out of her savagely stretched hole.
Lucius slipped his hand between them, chasing her ballooned clit each time it tried to shrink away from the overstimulation, but Hermione was too drunk on Lucius's powerful body to react meaningfully to the pain of sensory overload.
Their gazes locked, the world falling away between them, as Lucius brought them higher and higher to their shared pinnacle.
"Come with me, sweetheart," Lucius urged. "Come with me…now!"
Lucius had shouted with a deep, alpha command, compelling her to the depths of her soul, and Hermione seized around him so tightly she almost worried he couldn't breath. But the cyclone of rapture that immediately hit her as Lucius's magmatic seed erupted inside of her promptly slaughtered such trivial concerns as survival. Hermione felt like she was being blown apart by pleasure, every single cell in her body mutating and rupturing as shock wave after shock wave of sweet pain and savage pleasure boiled her alive to perfect ruins.
On an impulse, she captured his mouth in hers, hungry to taste him, and her tongue was immediately inundated with his flavour, her flavour, and the metallic taste of either his or her blood, or perhaps even both. She screamed into his mouth, and he roared into hers, as their simultaneous pleasure extended beyond the measure of time in a symphony of corporeal exaltation.
But suddenly, there was a disturbance in their shared ecstasy–and intrusion–and the cold reality of the past several hours of dangerous physical activity began to overtake all joy Hermione had just been experiencing.
There was no more pleasure–something had disrupted it.
Now, there was only pain.
"Hermione," Lucius breathed. "What is it, love?"
Blinking nervously, Hermione gazed over Lucius's shoulder, searching for the source of her fear, and she shrieked as her eyes landed on Narcissa Malfoy.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong–"
"Lady…oh gods, Lady Malfoy–"
Lucius froze, the knotted head of his cock still embedded inside of her, as Narcissa's jaw clenched. Hermione could have sworn the witch's aqua eyes flashed red as her beautiful face contorted into a murderous scowl.
"I'm sorry," Hermione squeaked, unable to breathe from the way her torso was pressured from Lucius's deep, hard presence within her. "I'm so…s-sorry…"
There would be no recovering from this shame and humiliation. This was the worst thing that could have possibly happened.
Hermione wanted to die.
"Narcissa Io Malfoy, for your own safety…you need to leave immediately," Lucius uttered darkly, and Hermione tensed in reactionary terror, crying out in agony as the contraction of her pelvic muscles aggravated her bruised cervix, tyrannised by Lucius's massive cock. Lucius was fuming, hot breath coating Hermione's naked, sweat-soaked skin.
In that moment, Lucius seemed even more homicidal than his wife, and Hermione feared for Narcissa's safety.
Narcissa refused to move, and Lucius spoke again, even lower than before, "Wife, I'm warning you–"
"Shut up, Lucius!" Narcissa shriek echoed in the stone temple so loudly that Hermione feared her eardrums would rupture.
Lady Malfoy slowly shook her head in utter disgust, and never before had Hermione felt so worthless. "You fucking idiots."