A/N: I put the title of this chapter in French as my tiny, insignificant way to show support for Paris at this time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: AVANT LE PRINTEMPS

As she awoke the next day, once again in the Blue Guest Room, she rolled over and groaned into an (admittedly) comfy pillow at the recollection of the previous evening's events, and possibly due to the fact that she was still there at all. Not only was she going to have to face Lucius after all of their fighting and debating and emotional shenanigans, but she was going to have to face the music with The Daily Prophet's intrusion into what it suspected was her love life. Which… she didn't know if it was her love life or not. She was pretty sure she actually didn't really want to get in any sort of romantic relationship with Thomas at all.

A bit late for that.

Sure, he was attractive and nice and whatever, but he was just ridiculously young and, when it came down to it, he was too young to understand, well, anything. Oh, whatever. One crisis at a time.

She threw herself out of bed and then threw open the long, blue and heavy curtains with equal gusto. The latch on the window only stuck a little, and after a moment she had that open and was leaning out, surveying the cloudy scene of the sodden Malfoy lands. The air smelt fresh at least, and near the window, a wayward vine was budding a vibrant green. It pleased her.

"I wonder what Lucius has decided I shall wear today?" she asked wryly, turning to face the room and looking for a pile of clothes.

There they were. Another high-waisted pencil skirt, but she didn't recognize it. Did he actually have this made? Really? It was nice. Really nice. Black, made of thick material, well-tailored, two black cloth-covered buttons fashionably placed near the side. She felt immediately more attractive and feminine once she put it on, and she supposed that's what good clothes were supposed to do. A fine burgundy blouse was supplied with it, and patent heels, still sensible, and dark, but upon inspection they weren't black, but a very very dark burgundy. Clever. There were even some accessories and matching thin, short trench for, she supposed, when she went outside.

Clearly, Lucius was putting way too much effort into this. He needed to be using his resources for things like the investigation, not her clothes. She'd have to have a talk with him about that, but she'd enjoy it for now. It was quite nice and she actually did need something to wear, so it was all very practical and extravagant at the same time.

As she finished cleaning herself up in the adjoining washroom, she realized Luna wouldn't be there today. She would miss the buffer Luna provided for her when she was around. It was Saturday, and that meant Hermione would normally be wearing sweats at home, catching up on her reading. Instead she was dressed as if she were going into work. She actually was working, it seemed, 24 hours a day these days, if one considered Lucius Malfoy to be her employer. Something about that definition rubbed her the wrong way.

Speaking of Lucius Malfoy, they needed to make plans because tonight was the ball, and if they were to be successful, they would need lots and lots of plans. The whole impending doom of it made her stomach flutter uneasily, and not in a good way, but in a bad Hermione-was-dreading-this way.

She decided to casually make her way downstairs to see if Lucius was about.

Porgy was bustling around downstairs, carrying a tray with what looked like breakfast.

"Ah, Porgy!" she called from halfway down the staircase.

"Miss Granger," he said. "Follow Porgy, for the master is to breakfast in the solarium."

She didn't remember there being a solarium, but then again, she hadn't explored half of this place yet. Following Porgy, she eventually came into a room that had been restored, like many others, and she had actually once walked through, but hadn't recognized as a solarium at the time because the windows had once been all but opaque with overgrowth and dirt. Now it was clear and sunny and not a bad place for breakfasting. Lucius was certainly keeping Porgy busy.

Speaking of Lucius, he was sitting in a comfortable chair near the windows, very engrossed in reading today's edition of The Daily Prophet. Crap.

She sat down in a nearby chair to "enjoy" the bloom of morning over the distant Malfoy hills and/or plot ways to get that Daily Prophet out of Lucius' hands. Maybe Lucius hadn't read about herself and Thomas, yet. Maybe the reporter had decided, after all, that her love life wasn't worth reporting about, or maybe Lucius hadn't even gotten to the society page? If he hadn't, she had to make sure he never got there. It was time for a distraction.

"Good morning," she said to him, with wild enthusiasm and what she hoped was a brilliant smile.

He glanced over at her around the edge of the paper, and then returned his attention to whatever he was reading, which was not the society page yet.

"You're acting weird again," he said behind the newspaper.

"No, I'm not," she protested.

He put the paper down on his lap to look at her.

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"No?" she meandered.

His eyes narrowed. He flicked the paper back up, seeming intent on ignoring her until she returned to her normal level of weirdness. She thought quickly.

"You're spending too much time on my clothes," she said.

"No, I'm not," he replied, not budging from the paper.

"Yes, you are," she argued. "All of that attention to detail is a waste of your time and energy when there are more important things to worry about."

"All I did was tell Porgy to enlist a personal stylist," he said. "And gave a few suggestions. It took five minutes."

Darn.

To her delight, he put the paper down to look at her. He glanced over her once, and then, to her dismay, he put the paper back up.

"Effective," he commented simply and then moved to turn the page.

"Lucius!" she exclaimed.

This time, when the paper came down, he started to look annoyed.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Why do you keep reading that paper?" she asked, feigning supposed offense at being ignored for a paper. Maybe this tactic would work.

"Because it is morning and I need to be apprised of what is going on in the world if I am to rule it," he said simply, as if he didn't just say something totally imperious.

"But we need to work on our plan for tonight," she said.

"Your clothes will arrive from the stylist at noon," he said.

"I don't care about my clothes!" she said. "Why is it always about clothes with you!"

Lucius looked baffled at her outburst. Good. The longer he stayed baffled, the longer she had to try to separate him from that paper.

"Are you intentionally trying to pick a fight with me?" he inquired.

"No," she said, meaning yes, she definitely was.

"Why?" he asked.

"I said I'm not," she said, sulking into the sunrise. "Can I see that paper a moment?"

He handed it over, and she gave him a deeply indulgent smile. His eyes were full of distrust.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" he asked.

"No," she said, turning straight to the society page.

There it was, dammit. That stupid reporter with his stupid intrepid reporting and stupid—well, to be honest, she and Thomas didn't look too bad whilst kissing, and it kind of reminded her of how pleasant it was to be kissing him, and it certainly looked wildly romantic, what with the umbrellas and the rain and the whole sweetness of it all. She guessed she couldn't blame him for the scoop, but it was time to burn this newspaper while she was still ahead- and at that moment Lucius, who had crept upon her unawares (or maybe just walked up normally), yanked the newspaper out of her cold, dead hands. At least, her hands felt cold and dead after the realization of what had just happened.

"Lucius!" she chided. "I was reading that!"

He looked over the society page and she tried to stop a shameful blush from forming all over her everything. She tried to look indignant, like he was the one who should be ashamed of himself, but she was failing so, so very badly as his eyes zeroed in on the offending picture. He folded the paper without bothering to read or even glance over the article that accompanied it, dropped it on a little table beside her chair and turned away in order to occupy himself with a cup of coffee.

"That explains the weirdness," he said after a moment, and then he turned fierce: "You've been busy canoodling with members of our investigative party after I specifically requested you refrain from romantic entanglements!"

"He just kissed me, I didn't-," she objected, but was cut off.

"Are you really going try to convince me you are unaware of how to stop someone from kissing you?" he asked.

"Yes, but he-," she tried again.

"You certainly don't look forced in that picture!" he said.

"I wasn't, but-," she tried thrice.

"And out in public, where anyone could take your picture!" he said. "Now there is proof of a connection between the two of you! Do you know you have just compromised Thomas' position as our informant due to your own selfishness?"

By this point she didn't reply, because he would have just cut her off, anyway.

"And how will this go tonight? Are our plans ruined?" he asked, maybe nearing irate by some definitions. "The whole wizarding world will be looking for you to arrive with a Mr. Thomas Bennett, shamefully young secretary at the Ministry, won't they?"

"He's not shamefully young."

"Yes, he is, and don't even begin to deny it!"

"Alright, fine," she replied. "Fine! He is shamefully young and I don't even really know that I want—,"

"At this point I don't care what you want, Hermione," he said, "because, for the life of me, I cannot figure it out. It looks as if you can't either, which means, at least, we are in accord on that one thing. Of course, that may change within the next five minutes, since that's the general way of things with you, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What I'm talking about is that Hermione Granger, when she shows up at the Spring Ball with Jacques Malfoi, will come not as a muggleborn accessory to a reformed Malfoy inheritor as we planned, but as a sensational two-timing hoyden, playing two spineless men like dual cuckolds!"

"I beg your pardon!" she protested, rising to her feet.

"Thomas Bennett may be the sort to take whatever scraps he can get, but Jacques Malfoi does not share."

She highly suspected, by his tone, and his posture, and the threatening thunderhead that was his facial expression, that this not-sharing trait was one Lucius co-owned with Jacques Malfoi, and that he was quite deadly serious about really, utterly, not sharing ever, never.

"This is the sort of thing that can make for a very, very bad first impression," he said.

"It shouldn't have any bearing on Jacques at all," she said. "That kiss is Hermione Granger's business."

"It makes him look weak," he said.

"We can pretend he came into town and swept her off her feet in a day," she said with a shrug.

"It makes her look flighty," he said, "which in turn makes him look weak as well as having poor judgment."

If being pureblooded, powerful, and influential required this much constant worrying about what other people thought and how one was to be perceived by every action, it sounded terrible and she maybe didn't want anything to do with it, even as an accessory. Lucius looked extremely broody about it all.

"Then just," she said, feeling frustrated, "just go alone."

"I need the mudblood card."

Her mud-blood ran cold.

"You didn't just say that."

"I wouldn't say it if you'd stop acting like one," he replied with disdain.

Of all the, the, the! Without any greater plans on file for such a situation, she simply grabbed his coffee out of his hands and threw it against the wall. The explosion of ceramic shards felt familiar, somehow. Familiar and cathartic. And stupid.

He snatched her wrist like a striking snake and held her fast with dark strength. Anger rolled off of him in waves.

"Why can't you learn to control yourself?" he demanded, his voice reflecting equal part fury and frustration.

She met his angry gaze with her own, equal, perhaps even a little bit greater angry gaze.

"Don't ever call me that again," she said, her voice coming out sounding far more threatening than she'd expected.

It gave him pause, subtle, scarcely perceptible pause, but she'd grown so accustomed to his face that she knew it immediately. He regretted he'd said it. The strength in his hold on her wrist slackened slightly.

"Stop ruining our plans," he said to her.

"Stop micromanaging everything!"

"Stop kissing Thomas in front of reporters!"

"Stop micromanaging me!" she said.

"Stop kissing Thomas at all," he said.

"Stop being jealous!"

Those three words, bubbled forth from her subconscious, slammed into her conscious psyche with all the force of a bludger, and after the requisite bludger-induced eclipse, she realized his face was the very model of 'how dare she?', equal parts shock, outrage, and denial, and maybe even some form of agony playing at the seams.

But it was at this moment that her mind went to work, putting together countless tiny clues and behaviors, words and comments, and inflections and probabilities, and she realized her subconscious was right; he was jealous. Somehow. For some reason. In some way, he wanted her all to himself, and he didn't want to share.

He watched her think; he watched her process. His eyes widened and he looked as if he'd been caught, and perhaps he hadn't realized there was anything for which to be caught until he was caught and held down by her increasingly fascinated stare. His hand lost its strength and, gradually, her wrist was released, and they stood, neither feeling the desire to broach the discussion of any new-found knowledge or anything of the like. It was too terrifying and awful, really.

"You were right," she said.

"I was?"

"Yes," she said, "about romantic entanglements. They're a distraction and, in the case of Thomas, a liability."

He stayed quiet, waiting.

"In the case of Thomas, I've used his attraction to me from the beginning to manipulate and control him," she said.

"I knew that," he said.

"I guess I just wasn't very good at controlling the whole thing," she said.

He stayed quiet again.

"It's really hard to know how to maneuver a person's emotions," she said. "And I don't want to be a complete Slytherin, so I guess I justify what I'm doing to him if I tell myself that I sort-of like him. Then I'm not a complete hypocrite. Even though in reality I would never really want to seriously date him, if I allow myself to think I might, then I don't feel as bad. I can live with myself."

Lucius watched her rather thoughtfully throughout her entire explanation, and she thought it was safe to say that not a single facial nuance got past him in those moments. In this, he was very interested.

"One of the greatest challenges of living this sort of life is the difficulty in cultivating real human relationships," he said. "Anyone you are close to knows what you do, and questions the validity of everything you do and say."

She thought about last night, and how hurt he looked after she did exactly that.

"That's terrible," she said.

"Is it?" he asked. "Or is it the sacrifice that one must make to ensure the security of those for whom one cares?"

"I continue to be hopeful that there is another way," she said.

He gave her a look that said he did not agree. She gave him a look that said maybe he should think about it. He narrowed his eyes in response, but looked slightly amused.

"Why are you so open with me?" she asked, and then caught herself, because 'Lucius Malfoy' and 'open' were antonymns. "I mean you're not open by normal standards, but you openly tell me of your motivations and plans, and general things for which I might condemn you."

"I guess that means I've learned to trust you," he said.

"Hm," said Hermione.

"More than anyone else," he said.

"Ah," she said.

"However, you made a large mistake last night."

"Ahem," she said.

"You're not perfect, I can acknowledge and accept that."

Hermione puffed out a breath of air and glowered a little at him.

"So, how shall we fix it?" he asked, ignoring her glower.

"How about this?" she asked, devising a story in her head: "Hermione, working late last night at the manor after her surprise-kiss with Thomas, hears a knock at the front door (with a simultaneous crash of lightning, naturally), and, Porgy arrives with," Hermione added a dramatic gasp, "Jacques Malfoi."

"Do go on," he said.

"Well, it turns out that Hermione and this handsome stranger Jacques share an immense love of books, and so they stay up talking all night long – imagine that – about books, and he, intending to go to the ball anyway, asks her to accompany him the next night so she can help him make her debut. She can only say yes, for books were discussed, and, you know, books. Throw in something else about books for extra validity."

"Sounds almost similar to the truth, almost."

"It's generally easier just to tell the truth as much as possible," she said. "Oh, and they're going as acquaintances, not as, you know, romantic entanglementers."

"Because even those two, Hermione the simple book finder and Jacques the book enthusiast, know that romantic entanglements only complicate matters and distract from what deserves their real focus," said Lucius.

"Which is books, obviously."

"Nothing but books."

"All the time."

"Is this our plan?" he asked, looking amused.

"Part of it," she smiled. "Take me on a walk around the grounds; I want to see the roses. Meanwhile, we can iron out all of the rest of the details."

"As you wish," he said, calling for Porgy.

"The master called?" asked Porgy, after a poofity appearance.

"Porgy, I seem to have dropped my coffee," said Lucius, indicating the spot where a cup of coffee seemed to have exploded against the wall. "Would you clean it up, please?"

"Er," said Porgy with a pause, perhaps trying to ascertain how one could drop coffee in a horizontal direction and with such violence. He eventually seemed to give up. "Of course, master."

Lucius offered his arm to Hermione and asked cordially, "Shall we?"

-oOo-

A/N: I hope to actually get to the Spring Ball next chapter! These little vignettes that are supposed to be "short" in my head, keep extending to chapter length!