A/N: Wow! This chapter ate my soul! I had set events to put into this chapter and to fit it all in, well, it kept going and going and going... Also, there's a lot of French, but I'm assuming most of it is common-knowledge French. The part with Excessive French will be translated at the end of the chapter.
Malfoi is pronounced mal-FWAH.
CHAPTER TWENTY: LE BAL DE PRINTEMPS
Her ball gown was midnight blue, it sparkled as she moved, and seemed to be equal parts tulle, satin, and the most wonderful little crystalline beads. With it had been packed a jewelry set of too-much-yet-delightful grey tourmaline and a pair of charcoal heels that sparkled merrily in the light. She simply had to get the name of this personal stylist Lucius had recruited for her, because whoever it was, he or she was absolutely fabulous. She wondered if Lucius were to manage to go back in time and all of these memories and experiences would cease to exist – she was more and more hating the idea – maybe she could tell Lucius to send this stylist her way at the appropriate time.
Years of prepping her own horrible hair had given her enough practice to do an adequate job, and so she pulled it up with loose pinning, because what else does one do in such circumstances? She even put a bit of work into a smoky eye, for it would just be a complete waste of the rest of the outfit not to do a smoky eye! She might as well be wearing a potato sack if she couldn't be bothered to put the effort into a smoky eye! Never mind she might be trying to look good because of other reasons. That didn't matter.
Adequately satisfied with her appearance, she maybe-frolicked down the hallway to find Lucius. They'd spent much of the day planning for contingencies, i.e.: "What is Jacques memory of his twelfth birthday?" "He received a grey horse, black spots, and rode it the whole day." They created the character of Jacques as completely as possible, and it worked out that he was very much like Lucius… without the prejudice. Or as much prejudice.
The whole rest of the day they'd only fought once or twice, or, well, maybe three times, and between them had only broken one single ceramic collectible. She considered the day a triumph.
Near the Grand Malfoy Master Suite, she could hear Lucius talking and supposed it would be more or less polite if she were to knock on the door (as opposed to bursting in unannounced). The wood of the door was old, and made a rich, satisfying, hollow noise when she knocked upon in it the way only very old wood can. Porgy opened the door promptly and was holding a pair of scissors.
"How may Porgy help Miss?" the elf asked.
"May I see Mr. Malfoy?" she asked.
"I don't see why not," replied Mr. Malfoy from within the room, and so Porgy allowed the door to open to its full hinge and she saw Lucius sitting upon a chair reading the rest of The Daily Prophet in his formal clothes, one leg crossed over the other, a towel cast 'round his shoulders, and … his hair had been cut short. Like a Roman. She didn't know why she'd just thought that, but it was nice. She liked it. He was more approachable, and suddenly she had the desire to run her hands through it, but she made sure to squelch that idiotic thought right away.
She smiled.
He continued to read The Daily Prophet.
"So," he said, "Are you ready?"
Oh, good grief, could he not even look up from his newspaper to see her? Sure, she didn't really care what he thought, but she'd put some work into how she looked so he'd better notice! Not that she cared. But still! One does not just wake up with well-done smoky eye!
Porgy went about trimming up any loose ends on Mr. Malfoy's coiffure.
"As I'll ever be, I suppose," she said, meandering closer to inspect some ceramic gnome figurines on a nearby dresser, where it would be impossible for him to ignore the sparkly queen-of-the-night nature of her gown. Lucius seemed to have a lot of ceramic gnome figurines in the manor. They clinked a bit as she fiddled with them.
He looked up at her, then back to his newspaper, then back at her with a sharper, more discerning eye, and then his eyes trained slowly back to his newspaper.
"I suppose you are," was all he said.
She flicked a gnome figurine over and it plunked sideways to the polished top of the dresser.
"Please don't break those," he said long-sufferingly as he turned the page.
"I'll try," she said, flicking another gnome over on its side. It made the clinking sound of ceramics being treated horribly.
He blinked slowly and put the newspaper down to regard her.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Trying to get your attention," she said with a big smile.
It seemed as if her smile did its job, because it infected Lucius and he smiled back, and even laughed a little.
"I'll remember this when you're trying to read a book," he said.
"Don't you dare," she replied, threateningly.
"Porgy has finished, Master," said the elf, handing Lucius a mirror. "Is it sufficient?"
Lucius looked his reflection over briefly.
"Yes, thank you, Porgy," he said, handing the mirror back over his shoulder and, removing the towel, he stood up. Porgy became a flurry of straightening up and lint-removal and Lucius seemed hardly to notice as he turned his attention fully upon her. He was wearing dress robes unlike anything she'd ever seen him wear before, though equally as well-made, but these were different, more continental in style, and though mostly black as per tradition, they were accented with a rich, deep blue shade like the color of her gown, and charcoal satin, and silver buttonwork. She hated to admit it, but he looked très bien. Very, very bien. Bien like a boss. It was disarming. This wasn't what she expected from Lucius Malfoy. He didn't seem like himself. He seemed like an alternate form of himself. She supposed that was the point.
"You've done well," she admitted.
He smiled.
"I mean, you really look different," she said, suddenly awkward for some reason and she looked at the gnomes and righted them and cleared her throat and inwardly groaned over her own lack of svelte.
"Good," he said. "That's what is necessary, isn't it?"
"I suppose, now we'll find out about your acting skills," she replied.
"I think you'll find those abilities to be sufficient," he said.
With all of the acting he'd done for all of his life of conniving, she was certain they would be.
"I've no doubt they're more than sufficient," she said with a sniff.
"Too sufficient?" he asked, not seeming as if he cared if there were an answer.
"Depends on circumstances, now, doesn't it?" she replied, giving him a sharp glance.
"Mercurial," he said of her, yet appreciative, and she felt strangely flattered, momentarily basking in the full radiance of his attention. For his part he seemed caught for an instant, like a moth flitting against a fine netting into which it had flown without knowing what it had done until it found itself there, disoriented, and stuck faltering until it found the sense to right itself and go on with its business.
He drew a breath and then turned to Porgy.
"I think we'll be going now, Porgy," he said.
"Yes, master."
-oOo—
The Ministry's Spring Ball was being held this year in a vast, old castle built on an island near a monastery, and, as she and Lucius apparated across the waterway that separated the castle from the mainland, Hermione felt shreds of anxiety work their way through her guts like worms. There were so very, very many ways this could all go tragically wrong.
"Keep in mind that we need to stay out of situations where I might be required to use magic. Narcissa's wand would raise all sorts of suspicions," he murmured to her, his hand gently grasping her arm as she gazed up at the castle, full of warmth, dazzled by a million fairy lights, shifted by delicate mist that radiated subtle colors, and a sky that blazed the Milky Way. She turned to gaze upon him with his platinum, roman hair, open-face and so much trust buoying his countenance it took her a moment to recollect where she was and what she was doing.
She placed her hand over his and said, "Do not worry, Monsieur Malfoi. You are wholly under my protection, now."
Something crossed his face as she said that which she could only interpret as surprise, the sudden redefining of all previously known parameters, and profound gratitude. He said nothing else, but held out his arm for her to take, which she did, ignoring how she liked it.
They were greeted by a steward at the front entrance, who smiled at Hermione, and then gave Lucius the once-over.
"Welcome, Miss Granger," said the steward, and then, with a second lost look at Lucius he asked, "Who might I announce is arriving with you tonight?"
"Ah, this is Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine," she replied.
"Bonsoir," said Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine with a disarming smile.
"Indeed," said the steward.
How strange was all of this business.
"Miss Hermione Granger and Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine," announced the steward from the top of the stairs, his voice amplified by magic. Hermione tried not to notice a distinct lowering of the general conversation level as it seemed nearly everyone was quite interested in and possibly staring at whoever this mysterious Frenchman was arriving with the (presently scandalous) Miss Granger.
The stairs down had never seemed so long.
She was relieved by the sight of Luna pulling along Neville in a rush to meet them at the bottom of the stairs. Luna was wearing a froth of pale pastel frittery and it was perfect for her, and Neville was ridiculously handsome, as per usual.
"Hermione, there you are!" she said, and then looking over Lucius, and knowing full well who he was, she went on with extreme politeness, "Whom you have brought with you, might I ask?"
Hermione wanted to laugh at Luna's terrible acting abilities, but introductions were made to her, and to Neville, and to others who couldn't seem to wait to join in and find out all about Monsieur Malfoi and where he was from and why no one had ever heard of such a fascinating fellow before. It was almost like they'd been mobbed at the foot of the stairs, but by the intensely polite interest of at least a dozen people. She assumed it would have been too difficult for more than a dozen to accost them at once, and the others were biding their time.
"And you say you are related to the Malfoys?" asked the wife of the Secretary to the Ministry's Accounting Department.
"Vraiment, madame," replied Lucius, "Though one could say I am, alas, ze black sheep of ze family."
"Black sheep, you say?" inquired the Secretary from beside his wife.
"Bien sûr, monsieur," he replied, going on perfectly to say: "I never did quite fit in, as you say. We share different philosophies, alas."
He left enough vagueities to allow them to come to their own conclusions, and they appeared rather delighted by the idea of a Malfoy which did not share the traditional philosophies of Malfoys. It was already clear to everyone, most of whom were smart enough to conclude, that Jacques Malfoi found Hermione Granger pleasant company regardless of her blood status, and that in itself spoke volumes to the public eye regarding what sort of 'black sheep' to the rest of the Malfoys he might be.
"Monsieur Malfoi, shall we find the champagne?" suggested Hermione, also suggesting escape from the clutch of enamored English witches and wizards that thronged him.
"Oui, allons-y," he said to her with a smile. The others let him go, apologizing half-heartedly for keeping them at the foot of the stairs so long, but Luna and Neville came along.
"Hermione, the two of you are simply sensational!" whispered Luna excitedly, and it made Hermione laugh because of how anxious and wholly not-sensational she felt. "Really, you both look gorgeous. And he's so mysterious! They'll be talking about this for ages."
"Ugh, The Daily Prophet is my bane," she sighed in return, thinking of more newspaper headlines about her personal life, but at least they'd arrived at the champagne.
Taking a flute, she took stock of Lucius and his expressions and all of the little, subtle things she could interpret that no one else would. He was good at this. He was so very, very good at this. He held his champagne flute in a practice of appreciation mixed with ennui, he received every inquiry and greeting with perfect, warm, yet intriguingly detached decorum, and in between, when no one was watching (except her), he scanned the crowd with intense precision for opportunity.
"Very well, Hermione," said Harry Potter's voice, coming upon her unawares, "You've got to introduce me to your friend."
"Oh, Harry!" said Hermione, surprised and then with laughter. "Where on earth did you come from?"
"I was late," said Harry with a shrug. "You know how it is."
Ginny was with him, and, yes, he'd married her. None of the rest of them had married their school sweethearts, but of course Harry did. He'd been dying for family since the moment he'd arrived at Hogwarts and now he had it. He looked quite happy still.
"Of course I know how it is," she said to her old friend. "Harry Potter always has to make a fashionably late appearance. Oh, the drama!"
"Speaking of drama," he said, glancing at Lucius.
"Oh! Yes, of course," she replied. "This is Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine."
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Potter," said Lucius, offering his hand. "I have, bien sûr, heard of ze boy who lived."
Harry regarded Lucius intently for a moment, and then put on his best false smile.
"A pleasure, Mr. Malfoi," he replied, accepting a handshake.
Oh, crap. Harry wasn't buying it. Why wasn't Harry buying it?
"How long do you expect to sojourn in England?" asked Harry politely, obviously probing for the answer to this other question: I don't know why you're here or how you're here but when in the H. E. double-hockey-sticks are you going away (hopefully forever)?
She could see Lucius knew Harry wasn't buying it. Lucius and Harry both knew the other wasn't buying it, yet they were both playing along. Hermione thought she might faint, or, less delicately, throw up.
"Je ne sais pas," said Lucius with a noblessesque shrug, so ridiculously good at appearing wholly at ease, even when Harry by-Merlin Potter sees straight through everything in an instant. "I have unfinished business to tend to, and after zhat, we shall see."
Both men chose that moment to sip champagne in a thoroughly stress-inducing manner.
"Ahem," said Hermione, causing both men to break the champagne-stalemate and regard her. "Harry, may I have a moment?"
"Absolutely, Hermione," he said with a smile, knowing explanations would be forthcoming.
"Excuse us, Monsieur Malfoi," she said, smiling at Lucius. So much fake smiling. So much agony.
Lucius, within his also-fake smile, gave her a look that said, Take care of it. As if she wasn't going to take care of it. He didn't have to mentally tell her to do so. She let him know that with an almost eye-rolling and then walked off with Harry, who seemed comfortable enough to leave his wife with Lucius Malfoy.
As soon as she and Harry had reached the peaked, empty hall outside the ballroom, he turned to her.
"What is that?" he demanded, very nonspecifically.
She sighed.
"It is, isn't it," he said, again nonspecifically.
She looked up at him and didn't say no, so…
Harry's eyes widened and he just looked flabbergasted.
"But how? When? Why?" he asked. "Just answer all the questions, all of them! Then make up more questions, and answer those, too!"
"How did you know?" she counter-asked, fording all of his questions with her single, burning inquiry.
"Please, Hermione," he said with a groan. "I know you. I know your penchant for outlandish adventures, because I've dragged you into half of them! You borrowed my cloak. You've been acting mysterious. You've been working at the Malfoy estate… a lot. And that face you made when we were introduced, the face you made once I began to suspect… everything, everything points to him being exactly who he looks like, somehow!"
"Why do I always have to wear it all on my face?" she murmured, smacking herself on the forehead.
"Now answer my questions!"
"I'll tell you, Harry," she said, touching his arm to calm him. "But do you trust me that I know what I'm doing?"
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"No," she said, and they both laughed in anguish. "But you know what I mean."
"I do, very much so," he replied. "But has he changed?"
Hermione considered that.
"I don't know," she replied. "Yes and no. He'll always be awful, but maybe what we didn't know is that he actually isn't as awful as he came across as being?"
"He gave Ginny that diary second year with the knowledge it might kill her," he said.
"Ugh, I know," said Hermione. "But, but… it's more complicated than just that."
"How? She was a child!"
"It's not like he marked Ginny for death and set out to murder her," she said.
"Still!" he said. "Still it's terrible!"
"Yes, I know, but there were other forces at work, Harry!"
"Are you defending him?"
"I am," she said, suddenly feeling cold for some reason. "Because I didn't know, and now I do."
"What didn't you know?"
"The grey," she said.
-oOo—
Harry did require some 'splaining - lots of 'splaining, actually - but once she'd done it, he accepted it for what it was and, despite a great deal of concern over her well-being, agreed that something must be done because that sort of corruption could not be tolerated in any form, even if that corruption destroyed the Malfoys. The point wasn't the Malfoys as far as Harry was concerned; it was that any family could be completely obliterated like that without any consequences for those who did it. He was of a mind to charge in, wands blazing, and bring the Ministry to justice, and she had to nip his Gryffindorian tendencies in the bud and assure him she and Lucius had the situation in hand.
"Slytherin subtleties rub me the wrong way," said Harry with a bit of a sullen look. "How can you even stand to work with him?"
"I hardly can, half of the time," she laughed wryly. "We fight like the dickens. But I can't let something so terrible lie unsolved, you know I can't."
"I know you can't."
"I got to punch him in the nose," she added.
"Now there's a perk."
"And his books, Harry! Oh, he's got books that you wouldn't believe!"
"I see you've got an ulterior motive."
"Oh, ha-ha," she said, playfully shoving his arm.
"And just so you know," he told her, regaining some seriousness, "If you and Malfoy don't fix this your way, I will, and I'll do it my way."
"I really don't want to see you do it your way," she said. "We don't need another wizarding war."
"Who says I'll start a war?"
She leaned closer just in case. "He's a good Minister, Harry. All told, he really is. He doesn't necessarily need removed."
"Hermione! After what he's done!"
"You've got to see the big picture, Harry!" she said. "What would you do, run the Ministry yourself?"
"Of course not, I've got to run the Aurors."
"Well, then who?"
"You'd be good at it," he said.
Hermione couldn't help but laugh, but Harry was serious.
"Don't even think about knocking out the Ministry leadership and setting up your own puppet government, Harry," she said, only half-serious.
He seemed to find that amusing.
"Why shouldn't I?" he said.
"Look at you, Harry, you've more in common with Monsieur Malfoi than you realize," she smirked.
He poked her in the middle of the forehead as punishment.
"Ow," she said.
"Let's go make sure the good Monsieur hasn't tormented my wife too badly, shall we?" he asked, and she agreed.
As they arrived back in the ballroom, it appeared that the good Monsieur wasn't tormenting Ginny Potter at all, but instead was dancing with her, and she seemed to be having a wholly delightful time.
"Now that's just wrong," said Harry, stating Hermione's exact thoughts, as they watched the effortless charm of the dancing pair. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. Come, dance with me, and we'll break this up forthwith. He is not allowed to dance with my wife."
And so, Harry and Hermione danced too, right over to where Lucius and Ginny were, and eavesdropped long enough to hear a snippet of their conversation.
"You've an estate, Monsieur? And it is in Alsace-Lorraine?" asked Ginny.
"Mais oui, as all Malfoi do," he replied.
"What's it like?" she asked.
"Madame, it is but modest," he said cordially, "upon ze Rhine."
"Sounds delightful," she smiled.
"It is fine," he said with his noblesse shrug.
Ginny seemed charmed by his modesty… fake modesty, Hermione reminded herself, as she wondered if the Malfoys actually owned a small estate on the Rhine. They probably did.
"Well, hello there," said Harry loudly and blandly, breaking up the dance with his best fake smile. "I've come to collect my wife."
"As you like," said Lucius, letting Ginny go. "We shall trade, oui?"
"That's up to Hermione," smiled Harry.
"Oh, yes, well," said Hermione awkwardly. "Why not?"
"Such a delight, Monsieur Malfoi," said Ginny.
"Merci, Madame Potter," he replied.
"Hermione's filled me in on your unfinished business, Mr. Malfoi," said Harry, not at all friendly. "I will be interested to see its conclusion."
He gave Lucius a steely gaze, one that he'd vintaged through war, suffering, and his twenty years of Auror service and leadership, and danced away with Ginny.
Lucius looked at Hermione.
"You told him?" he asked.
Oh, he didn't know how these things worked. He didn't know that when one forges a friendship like she, Harry, and Ron had done all those years ago, that nothing, nothing breaks that trust, and governments, municipalities, and organizations can never get between it. For Harry, she would always come first. They'd been through enough to where he knew that if she was doing something, it was worthwhile and it was important, and it was hers, and he wouldn't interfere. He might help, but he wouldn't interfere. He trusted her. In that moment she kind of pitied Lucius, because he didn't know that. He didn't know real friendship. He didn't know what was real. How terrible!
"Quelle horreur!" Hermione sighed softly, wondering at Lucius and his lack of real friends.
"C'est vrai," he replied, in full agreement.
"No, no, not that," she said, waving away his assumptions. There was something delightful about the possibility that she could be the person to show Lucius Malfoy what it was like to actually truly, really, wholly trust another person, to know that, no matter what, she would have his back, that with her, he was safe. He could be safe. What a gift to give to another person! Was there anything that could compare?
She took his hands and said, "Let's dance."
"But-," he said as, somewhere behind him, the Undersecretary to the Interior of Artifacts called out to Monsieur Malfoi, but as Lucius began to turn, Hermione wasn't having any of it, and she pulled him back with a smile.
"Ne regarde pas en arrière," she said. "Gardes les yeux sur moi."
He said, "Tu me caches quelque chose."
"Tais-toi," she said, "et danser avec moi."
He relented in an instant, and took her 'round the waist and danced with the sort of perfection that comes from decades of training in the art of being prepared to gracefully face any situation, no matter how strange or dangerous or alarming. He didn't speak again until she did.
Within the relative privacy of his arms she could speak to him, her voice low, and it would only seem to others that they were making small talk, and if she relished the scent of autumn and a thousand memories whilst she did so, well, that was her secret to take to the grave.
"Harry trusts me," she said, glancing up at him to give assurance. He didn't look wholly assured. She supposed Harry and Lucius were, in a way, nemeses.
Of course Harry had had all kinds of nemeses. Voldemort, Snape, Draco… she was certain if she considered it she'd come up with a half-dozen other names. The guy was really good at creating polar relationships with other men.
"Does he," murmured Lucius.
She just smiled at him, waiting for him to relent again. He did.
His eyes flickered and there was a softening about his face. "Very well. I'll believe you."
"But if we don't manage what we set out to do, he's going to fix it his way," she said.
"I think I can guess what his way might be," he said. "Does it have anything in common with your original plan?"
She chuckled. "Maybe exactly like my original plan."
"Oh, you Gryffindors are all so very predictable," he said to her, his face both condescending and adoring. It came off more condescending than adoring.
She replied by using the arm she'd draped around his shoulder to pinch the back of his neck sharply between her fingers.
"Ouch," he said, and she smiled warmly. "So, how much time would you say we have before Potter reaches meltdown?"
"I'll handle 'Potter'," she said with a laugh, and then, spotting something for which it was worth being interrupted, she pulled him close and whispered into his ear, "Shacklebolt at your ten o'clock."
She felt him turn his head to look, glance, or whatever. She was sure he did it strategically, for she definitely trusted his talent in subtlety.
"Ah, so he is," he whispered near her ear, and something about his whisper sent a chill through her, and she was suddenly very aware of his closeness. She could feel his lips hovering near her ear, could hear faint hints of his breathing, and she realized he was holding her, and she was holding him, and it was still a dance, but it could have been easily mistaken for an embrace. It happened so easily, before she'd even known it was happening. She tried to think of what to say as the event horizon drew her with a gravity heretofore unperceived. He brought her dancing hand into his chest, she found herself glorying in the abundance of his scent, and he whispered something soft and percussive against her cheek. She sighed into his ear with the attempt to remember what he said, but his hand splayed on her back and forced her closer against him and she forgot everything.
For a time, she merely danced in the wonderful, magnificent embrace of a perfect man, in the perfect, sparkling, fairy lights of the most perfect ball ever created. She forgot all, except this one, singular, perfect moment and within this moment, she lived and time lost existence. She observed distantly that as time lost existence, she gained it. She was truly existing in the best of ways.
The song ended and he released her with the reluctance of melting snow. She felt dazed, embarrassed, intrigued, and so much of her protested the warmth's end. Somewhere, distantly, a small part of her mind was screaming at her to get it together and go molest Shacklebolt conjointly, but the rest of her mind squished that part with a hug and told it there'd be more than enough time for that… later. Lucius took her hand and drew her outside to the gardens, and she went willingly.
Above the hedgemaze and rosebushes and stone pillars, the sky consumed her vision with a billion singing stars.
"We should talk," said Lucius, encroaching on her fragile existence.
"Hmnn," she said, little more than a sigh or a moan, or something in between, not wanting to lose the sensation of the feeling she'd just experienced, which now only echoed through her, mirroring what was but with each reverberation becoming less a true representation. She was losing it, and she mourned its loss, grasping at fragments.
They both leaned back upon a stone rail and gazed up at the stars, maintaining mutual quiet for the moment. In time, Lucius' voice brushed against the silence, voicing words now familiar to both of them.
"I feel the need to stress to you the necessity that our investigation be unfettered by the complications of romance," he said softly.
"Hm, yes, I agree," she replied. "Wholly and one-hundred percent."
And because of her tendency to deflect and avoid, she went on.
"But you needn't worry about that with Harry," she said. "He's married."
He wouldn't have any of it.
"So am I."
She wouldn't have any of that.
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am."
"You are not."
"Hermione!"
"What?"
"Do not tell me what I am and what I am not!"
"You're in denial!"
"You speak of that which you know nothing!"
And it was all going so well…
Making a highly irritated noise, she made to stomp off deeper into the gardens, but he caught her wrist before she could do it.
"Sometimes, I think you're not so bad," he said. "I think you're actually quite nice, even pleasant to be around, perhaps even more than pleasant... but then, you say something horrible and offensive and … and… dare I say cruel and the illusion goes up in thin air and I'm left standing with a clay golem."
"Oh, how can you accuse anyone of cruelty?" she returned, lowering her voice to a fierce, confidential whisper: "And how twisted was it that you were so pleasantly dancing with the woman on whom you planted a nefarious, possibly murdersome diary when she was just a child! That you can fake such pleasantry is absolutely terrifying."
She twisted her wrist out of his grasp with a yank and stomped down into the garden, her present goals being consumed with getting away from him.
"You know it was more complicated than that," she heard him say behind her.
"Oh, please," she groaned with a weary wave at a passing stand of roses, "Is that what Voldemort would say, too, were he here?" She proceeded to do a (admittedly terrible) impression of Voldemort: "Yess, I tried to kill everyone, but it wass more complicated than thaa-aat." She waved her hands mystically, turning back to the Lucius. He followed and she bowed theatrically to say, "Forgive mee-ee… I'm sso different now…"
Lucius' expression darkened, finding no humor in that at all. "I'm not Voldemort," he said.
"No," she said. "You're not."
She turned and began walking around a fountain.
"Then what do you want me to say?" he asked, following her again, exasperation beginning to show at the edges of his voice. "I did what I judged to be most advantageous for my family at the time."
"You judged poorly."
"We've been through this already!"
"That doesn't change it."
"I did what I had to do!"
She rounded on him.
"Why don't you ever just try to do what is right? Just try it! Just once!"
"What is 'right'! How do you know what is right and what is wrong? Who made you the judge of good and evil, Hermione?"
"Who gave you the right to do whatever you want to whomever you want, if only you judge it to be to your advantage?"
"I did!"
"Oh look at you, you've become the god of your own universe," she said, with a condescending flourish.
"A fine case of the pot calling the kettle black," he rejoined bitterly.
"At least my universe has rules and morality," she said, bitterness creeping into her own voice as well.
"You wouldn't even know how to function in mine. You'd be lost, helpless… useless." The last word he spat out with disgust.
"You might finally find happiness in mine," she replied, and he gave her a sharp look.
"Hypocrite! You know nothing of happiness!" he said. "You don't even know how to find it yourself. Don't speak like an expert on something of which you clearly know so very little."
That actually hurt. It was probably the truth in it that hurt so much, and she was equal parts angry and sad and that meant an attack from tears wasn't far behind. She turned quickly into the garden with much more fervor to avoid the humiliation of Lucius seeing he'd actually hurt her. The hedgemaze gave her the privacy she wanted. Tears were cruel and unrelenting at times like these, humiliating taskmasters that take your pride and flush it down the toilet.
Why didn't she bring a handkerchief with her? She'd gone to the ball with Lucius Malfoy, why hadn't she anticipated tears? There were always tears with him around! Oh, bloody seven sticks of Hades, why couldn't they get along? And why, sometimes, did they get along so well? Their potential for beautiful harmony made it that much worse when they were painfully dissonant.
The stars roamed above the hedge tops like an eternal wheel of light, and that was all she saw as she wandered the endless turns of the maze until she came to a dead end with a stone bench and statue of a minotaur. She was glad it wasn't a real minotaur. One never knows in magical gardens.
The bench called to her, and she plopped down upon it to finish getting over her tear spasms, to salvage her smoky eye as best she could, and to sigh in the aftershocks of emotional intensity. The stars didn't change. How did they manage such stability? How could she have that for herself? Oh, she wanted it so very badly.
A faint trail of silvery light came to find her, followed shortly by Lucius. He put Narcissa's wand away and looked as if he'd been through the emotional wringer trying to find her in the maze. Approaching her, he stood before her where she sat on the bench. He held out his hand.
She glanced at his hand, considering not taking it at all, but when she looked up at him, he looked as if he needed her to take his hand and it was that vulnerability that convinced her to do it, because she needed this, too, in some way, somehow.
She took his hand and stood, and as their gazes met, he lifted her hand to his mouth and he kissed it, and she felt a new tear fall to her cheek as he gently turned her hand. He kissed her palm and her breath hitched.
"I feel the need to stress to you," she breathed, irony filling her words, another tear falling to her cheek and his kisses possessing her hand and then wrist, "the necessity that our investigation be unfettered … by the complications of … romance."
His gaze fell upon her and he touched her cheek, his fingers pressing into her jawline, his thumb gently wiping one tear of shame away. He was so kind, so tender, so wonderful, when he wanted to be. It made her cry harder.
"No," he protested softly against the resurgence of tears, brushing away the sum of her anguish with his hand. "Don't cry," he said, soft, soft, warmth, kindness. "Please…"
She fell into the arms of autumn and a thousand memories, for his shoulder was to become her handkerchief and his embrace her covering, and that was all.
"Lucius," she sighed against his neck, the utterance of his name both an endearment and a pleading. His hands moved across her back in reply. "Lucius," she whispered again, and then her breath hitched softly in a teary aftershock. "Why can't we get along?"
His hand came up to caress the nape of her neck gently, once. "I don't know," he whispered, with an honest sound about the words.
"I want to," she whispered.
"Me too," he replied.
"Very badly," she said.
"So do I," he said.
"Then, let's," she said.
"Very well," he replied.
They maintained their embrace for some time, neither one fully believing the other's words, but wishing with a burning sadness that they could be true.
When he spoke again it was with an intense gentleness against her hairline, near her temple.
"Now do you see why this… this gets in the way of our work? We should be in there, subtly accosting the Minister, but instead, here we are, agonizing over… over… je ne sais quoi."
"Yes, of course I see."
His sigh was marvelous against her hair.
"But I don't think it could be avoided, Lucius."
"Hermione."
"Could it?"
"No."
She took his robes in her fists tightly, and held the embrace, willing him to continue whispering upon her brow, and never leave.
"We are searching for the common ground, Lucius, and we're going mad trying to find it."
"Do you think it exists?"
"Yes."
"There's more hope in you than me."
"Then borrow from mine."
"A beguiling thought."
"Do it."
He kissed her brow in response.
"How can you make me question everything I've ever known," he sighed against her forehead.
"What a paradox that I should feel the same."
She touched his face in order to connect with his gaze, and there was truth between them for a fleeting moment. Running her fingertips across the freshly-shaven fine grain of his face, she fell into a wry sort of smile, but he absorbed her affection and only looked painfully lost.
"Do you have any idea how much I love conspiring with you?" she asked him with a hint of a soft laugh.
"How much?"
"Too much."
"Impossible."
She laughed again, a half-hearted thing.
"I look forward to it every day. I wake up excited about what the day will hold, what we will do, what we will talk about, what we will discover-," she said, and he cut her off.
"So do I," he said.
"I don't want to forget all of this," she said suddenly, a desperate thread of urgency in her voice.
He drew a breath while forming a reply, but she went on.
"I know I shouldn't care, but I do, I don't want to forget this, it makes me feel terrible to think that this, all of this, might never exist," she said. "That I might not remember any of it, that I might forget… you."
"But it's been terrible! Oh, Hermione, the fighting, the ideological clashing, the, well, insane lack of sleep at the very least!"
"But hasn't it been wonderful?"
"How can you say such a thing…?"
"But hasn't it?"
Yes, she could see he agreed that, somehow, it was wonderful, she saw it all over his face. For once.
"Hermione…"
"Oh, Lucius, I will miss you, I'll will miss you so much it will almost kill me but I won't even know what I'm missing!"
He looked as if he could hardly stand it, the precipice upon which they hung, and the two opposite sides of the same coin of which they each were.
"Don't worry," she whispered, letting her hands slip into and through his hair, and it was as wonderful as she had tried not to imagine. She shook her head, never meaning anything more in her life, "Don't worry, Lucius, I am here for you."
His breath caught as she said those last words. Had anyone ever said anything like that to Lucius Malfoy?
"No matter what, we will do what must be done," she whispered.
He seemed not to know how to thank her, nor how to express whatever was coursing through his systems, nor how to process his wildly altered ideologies or timelines, nor how to hold her adequately nor what to do with her at all, nor how to even exist in that moment.
She watched him think, as it was always a fascinating exercise, and pairing it with running her fingers through his platinum roman hair was, perhaps, nirvana realized. But he, Lucius, was clearly having a crisis and she could not take her eyes off of its unfolding, as he was caught in her gaze, and her wrench had jammed his gears, and for a moment he was blind and deaf and dumb as he drew an unsteady breath and fought, oh, he fought so very hard to regain his focus and to process it, to process everything, to process her.
His exhale came out shaky and she watched him submerge deeply inside himself and then find the thing upon which he could focus, and his whole countenance changed with an intense, slave-like pinpoint focus, and she saw all over his face what it was; he was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
The event horizon came at her like the siren song of death. She would never come back from this, never, not ever.
Sirens and alerts and red flashing lights and red flags and ambulances and police forces and swat teams went mad inside her head as the realization drove through her psyche like the cracking dive of an icepick. As he leaned in, she gasped and drew back in self-defense.
They stood facing each other, rooted in shock over the other's behavior, neither understanding the other, both terrified. She was definitely terrified, at least. He simply looked it.
"I-feel-the-need-to-stress-to-you-the-necessity-that-our-investigation-be-unfettered-by-the-complications-of-romance," she said quickly, so quickly… insanely, really.
They both possessed the labored breathing of one who had just sprinted up a flight of stairs.
Then Lucius began to laugh.
It was completely baffling. Why was he laughing? Whatever it was, it was extraordinarily funny. To him, anyway. He looked up at the sky and turned away and took in his surroundings and laughed again. Hermione could do nothing but stare at him as if he'd lost his mind, but Lucius had reached a different conclusion.
"You're crazy," he said, leaning a hand on the minotaur statue.
"I'm not crazy," said Hermione, maybe too quickly. There was too much adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"Oh, yes," he said, seeming quite sure of himself. "You're stark raving."
"I'm not crazy," repeated Hermione.
"And you're trying to drive me crazy along with you," he said.
"You just tried to kiss me! What am I supposed to do?"
"Let me?"
She opened her mouth to reply but the audacity of his response resulted in her emitting a high-pitched squeak.
"Like a normal person," he added, gesturing conversationally.
"But the investigation! The unfettering with romance!" she protested.
"As if that ever stops you," he said.
"But," she tried again, "You're married!"
"Oh, now I'm married?" he replied, fury bursting across his face.
"Well, you think you are!" she said, and then, "Are you a philanderer?"
"Unbelievable. I'd love to hex you into next week."
"I'd like to see you try!"
He laughed again.
"Hermione Granger," he said, and then he looked tired. "I believe you could drive any man crazy."
He half-turned away, leaned back against the statue, and with folded arms he looked up at the sky.
"Fine," she relented, her voice sounding small in their space. "I'm afraid," she admitted.
"Afraid of what?"
"That if you kiss me," she began, faltered briefly, and then went on: "I won't be able to let you go."
Lucius sighed and cast his eyes down from the sky.
"I'm trying to keep a certain level of detachment," she said, "and, yes, maybe that makes me seem like my behavior is a little crazy sometimes. It's because I have to, I have to keep part of myself separate from you. It's because you're right, you were right all along, romance causes all kinds of awful problems, and in the case of you and I, we've only barely begun to scratch the surface! Imagine if we hadn't been as careful as we have been!"
"I'd rather not," he said, glancing aside, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
"The investigation would be a shambles."
"Isn't it currently?"
She sighed at Lucius.
His glance meandered back to her.
"You look beautiful tonight, you know."
She didn't know how to accept that compliment from him, right now, coming out of nowhere.
"Oh," she stammered. "Th-thank you."
He allowed his head to fall back against the statue and sighed quietly, "Il n'y a pas de quoi."
"In good news, it looks like everyone but Harry positively adores Monsieur Malfoi," offered Hermione.
"Yes, that is good news," he replied. "Unfortunately it seems we've missed most of the ball due to in-fighting."
"It would be too hasty to really go after Shacklebolt so soon, anyway," said Hermione with a shrug.
"Though I'd love to disagree, I believe you are right," he said. "Familiarity breeds contempt. Curiosity killed the cat."
"And do both of those apply at once?" she asked with a little laugh.
"Why, yes. A little Monsieur Malfoi will likely go a long way," he said. "Starting Monday, I'll begin the process of applying to inherit the Malfoy fortune."
"The Daily Prophet will be on fire," she said. "Prove Monsieur Malfoi is benevolent and the Malfoy inheritance is yours."
"Mine in a way that I can practically apply it, anyway."
"Yes, yes, because it was already, in actuality, yours," she said wryly.
"Always," he said.
"So, despite all the things that might lead one to believe the contrary," she said. "Tonight was actually a complete success."
"Strangely enough," he added, appearing as surprised by the outcome as she. "We did what we set out to do."
"Then, I suppose we're done?"
"Yes, I suppose we are."
A hesitation.
"I-I enjoyed parts of it," she offered.
He shifted his weight against the statue.
"A lot," she added.
He smiled wryly.
"You look nice," she addendum-ed.
He shifted his glance to her, seeming to wonder what she was going on about.
"Really nice," she threw on top of the pile of additions.
Finally he just laughed again.
"You do!" she protested through his laughter.
"Thank you," he finally said with a smile, straightening himself from the statue and coming to approach her. He held out his hand for hers. "One more dance, then."
"What? Here?"
But she gave him her hand, anyway.
"I won't kiss you," he said.
"You won't kiss me?" she asked as he drew her close.
"No," he said, gently curling a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I won't."
"Well, then, in that case," she said, straightening his collar with affection, "Dansons, monsieur."
He took her into his arms and danced with her under the watchful, frozen eye of the pale stone minotaur, the protection of the evergreen hedges, and beneath the turning, turning sky. Not once did he try to kiss her, and she knew he wouldn't anyway, because the truth was she trusted him, maybe with her life.
The real truth, the one that she avoiding thinking about, was that she wholly, one-hundred-percent didn't trust herself. Not at all. Not where Lucius Malfoy was concerned.
-oOo-
A/N: Translation just before Lucius and Hermione's first dance:
"Ne regarde pas en arrière," she said. "Gardes les yeux sur moi."
He said, "Tu me caches quelque chose."
"Tais-toi," she said, "et danser avec moi."
"Don't you dare look back," she said. "Just keep your eyes on me."
He said, "You're holding back."
"Shut up," she said, "and dance with me."
Thanks for reading! And for reviewing! And for favoriting! 3
I drew/painted Hermione and Lucius at the ball, it can be found on my DeviantArt page, under the name planussea. There are a couple more drawings/paintings from this fanfic there, as well.