CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: PULSE
This spring ball was different from that other one. For one thing, Hermione and Lucius were who they were and there was no pretense. For another, she was the new Minister of Magic, and thus she had endless obligations to speak with practically everyone she knew, and so did he. They were busy, dreadfully busy, but she managed to talk to Harry at least once.
"Madame Minister, you look radiant," said Harry, with a Ginny on his sleeve.
"Oh, good grief Harry!" said Hermione, exasperated.
Harry laughed.
"Well, you do," he said. "And also I don't want to be drawn and quartered for disrespect."
"I'm fairly certain that punishment no longer stands," said Hermione.
"For now, anyway," said Harry, eyeing Hermione.
Hermione grinned.
"Maybe I'll bring it back, just for you," she said sweetly. "And though I'd like to take full credit for how I look, I have to cede that Mr. Malfoy knows the most incredible tailor you can imagine."
"Of course he does," said Harry in a throw-away.
"He certainly does!" said Ginny, finally stopping her eyeing of the crowd to gaze over Hermione's gown.
Hermione had tried to replicate the gown from Lucius' memories, but with extra-conservatism since she was supposed to be the epitome of respectable now that she was Minister. The midnight blue and the sparkles stayed regardless.
"Do I?" asked Lucius mildly from nearby, carrying a champagne flute.
"Oh, you're back," said Hermione, hoping he hadn't overheard the compliment.
"Not really," he replied, moving on to speak with someone else.
"So," said Harry, after Lucius had left. "You came with Lucius Malfoy."
"He's a good friend," said Hermione, maybe a little defensively.
"Well I can't say I'm surprised," said Ginny. "It seems like the two of you are always together, doing something."
"You mean working?" asked Hermione. "Because that's what we do. Work."
"Did it sound like I was insinuating something?" asked Ginny, who clearly seemed surprised.
Hermione realized the experience with the memories was making her awkward and defensive, but there wasn't any reason for her to be that way since everyone she knew had watched her work closely with Lucius Malfoy for the past five years. If any of them had grievances, they'd already hashed them out with her years ago, and Lucius Malfoy had long since proven his metamorphosis and lack of malice.
"Oh, no, no," said Hermione with a laugh. "I'm afraid I'm a bit distracted, tonight."
Lack of malice was one thing. Hermione had found Lucius to be exceptionally clever and, somehow, he seemed to always end up getting what he wanted. The funny thing was, he never seemed to do it outright, or directly. He did it sideways, with subtlety. She certainly didn't want him as an enemy.
"I should say so," said Ginny. "It's incredible that'd you've become the new Minister of Magic!"
"I couldn't have chosen a better candidate," said Harry.
"Thank you," said Hermione, meaning it.
Hermione was certain Lucius didn't want her as an enemy, either.
"Is Ron here tonight?" she asked. She scanned the crowd, but instead of Ron, she spotted Lucius talking with a pair of eastern ambassadors.
"Should be," said Harry. "He's gotten on the staff at Hogwarts for next year, did you know?"
"How perfect!" said Hermione.
Lucius spotted her spotting him. She smiled more.
"I thought so, too," said Harry. "And you are definitely, definitely distracted."
"Oh," said Hermione, turning to look back at Harry. "I'm sorry."
Harry chuckled.
"It's fine, Hermione," he said. "Go."
So she did.
"Would you introduce me to your friends, Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione asked as she arrived.
"Surely the Minister of Magic needs no introduction," said Lucius.
The eastern ambassadors were fine. Pleasant. Hermione filed their names and various details away for further use when it became necessary. Lucius seemed to know a variety of people whom Hermione had never met, and she was also able to produce various contacts for him, as well. It was, overall, a very successful evening for them both… in a networking sense. They worked, because that was all they ever did.
Outside, after the ball had been spent socializing, networking, politicizing, they wandered the garden towards an eventual porting point, but they did it lazily.
Hermione realized that they'd been walking for at least two minutes without uttering a single word, so she decided to break the silence.
"What do you think?" she asked, a purposely vague question.
"I think it went well," he said, not taking her bait in the slightest.
She used his own tactics and let him stew on that, allowing the following moments to pass without a response from her.
"These sorts of events are invaluable opportunities to gain contacts," he added.
"Mn," she half-grunted. They were both aware of that already. He'd made an awkward comment. She glanced askance at him and saw he knew it, and it made her smile a little.
"Lucius," she said, saying his name, which she had never done before, except in all his memories.
"Yes," he replied, his voice immediate and weakened.
She looked up at the stars, taking her time.
"I think we work too much," she said.
"I'm afraid that, due to your new office, we will be working even more," he replied.
"We didn't even dance once at the ball!" she said.
"You didn't ask," he said.
"Neither did you!" she replied.
"We were both busy," he said.
"Yes, with all the talking," she said, kicking a pebble.
"I didn't think it would be dignified enough for you," he said.
"Not dignified?" she asked.
"It would be best not to bring scandal to your office, Miss Granger," he said.
She laughed.
"Is it too scandalous to dance?" she asked.
"It could be," he said, leaving things unsaid. Certainly, if they danced at the ball like they danced at that other ball, it would be not only all over the papers the next day, but … he was right. It would be undignified for her, the Madame Minister. But dancing wouldn't be like that for them, not now, right?
Hermione sighed.
"We could have danced in a dignified manner," she said.
"Could we have?" he asked, prompting her to look at him. "You have to consider that you are an eligible, young, beautiful, exciting, intelligent, fascinating woman and any crumbs will be both eaten up by the public as well as criticized by the public. They can as easily love you as scorn you."
"I know, I know," said Hermione.
"Any sort of dancing can be misconstrued," he said.
"I know!" she said, having enough.
Lucius considered.
"We should have had you married before you took office," said Lucius. "But there wasn't time."
"Oh, very sad we couldn't fit that in," replied Hermione, dripping sarcasm.
"Well, if we had, we wouldn't have this quandary," said Lucius.
"You speak of marriage as if it is a tool," said Hermione.
"It can be," said Lucius.
"How annoying," said Hermione, pulling a leaf off a passing bush.
"Have you suddenly become a romantic after all these years?" he asked.
"No," she said defensively, too defensively. She immediately felt her face flush, and it was all very stupid.
Lucius stopped on the gravel walkway, prompting her to wonder what he was about.
"When I...," he began, and then, "When I showed you my memories, did I make a mistake?"
How strange, that Lucius should ask aloud if he'd made a mistake. This wasn't a thing that Lucius did. Unless, of course, he had an ulterior motive for asking aloud, which was probably 100% likely.
"Stop," said Lucius.
"Stop what?"
"Analyzing," he said.
She sighed at him, and then turned aside.
"Whatever do you mean?" she asked with a chortle.
"Have I created a monster?" he asked. Rhetorically, she hoped.
"Am I your creation, then?" she rejoined, keeping her eyes out upon the garden.
"Do you know all of those stories where someone says they wish they could go back and redo the past?" he asked, sidestepping.
"What of them?"
"Redoing the past is a fool's errand," he said. "There are too many fractals in the world for one man to manage them all."
"Is that what you've done?" she asked.
"I've tried," he said.
"What have you done wrong? Isn't all this what you wanted?" she asked.
"I'm afraid I will never be able to have what I want," he said.
"What are you saying?" she asked, turning to him. "You always get what you want!"
"Do I?" he asked.
"Do you not?" she asked. "I've worked with you for over five years, and I've watched you meticulously arrange and subvert and coerce and coax every single aim you've targeted into the outcome that you desired. Even this, me, obtaining the highest office in the land… and it would have never happened without your tireless focus. And you're saying you can never have what you want?"
Lucius didn't reply and something dawned on Hermione.
"Do you even know what you want?" she asked.
There was a shuttering behind his eyes, like something clicked and he cast his gaze aside.
"Incredible," mused Hermione. "You don't."
Lucius' gaze gradually found itself returning to hers, but it didn't stay for long. He drew a breath and let it out.
"I did," said Lucius. "I wanted Narcissa and Kingsley brought to my own special justice. I wanted Draco to have a fine, normal, well-adjusted life. I wanted you to realize your incredible potential. But now…"
"Now you don't know what to do," she said.
"That is preposterous," he said, shrugging off the idea that Lucius Malfoy didn't know what to do with himself.
Hermione leaned on a nearby pillar and observed Lucius for a moment.
"Is there anything else you want?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It isn't worth spending the time thinking about, because it's impossible," he said. "It's lost to time."
"Will you voice it?" she asked.
"Miss Granger-," he began.
"Oh, for crying out loud, call me Hermione!"
"I can't."
"Lucius," she said.
"Don't-," he began, but she rounded on him.
"Lucius," she said, taunting him and crowding into his personal space. He responded by subtly edging away. "Lucius, Lucius, Lucius!" She poked him in the arm with each word.
"Oh, dear Merlin!" he oathed, exasperated, pushing her hand down. "Stoppit."
She laughed and cried, "Look at what you've driven me to!"
"To what you have been driven by me," he grammar-ed.
"Semantics," she said, waving a hand.
"You are so very different," he said, observing her, and she knew who she was different from.
She was starting to have it with being compared to memory-Hermione.
"Are you honestly going to keep being so very in love with alternate-universe non-existent unavailable me that you will always see current, very successful me as inferior in every way for ever and ever?" she asked in frustration.
He blinked, and shields went up.
"I'd prefer not to have this conversation with you right now," he said, and began to walk, probably towards the porting point.
"Is it possible that you only allowed yourself to love the past me because you knew you would be forced to lose the past me?" she called after him.
That made him stop and turn.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, clearly critical of her line of reasoning.
"I'm talking about you, Lucius, and your inability to know what you want, and your uncanny ability to deny yourself the one thing you crave," she said, with the crux: "Happiness."
"What a ludicrous idea," he said.
"Oh, you have goals," she said. "And you achieve them in such a beautiful, miraculous, almost terrifying way that it is astounding to behold, but the instant you have the golden chalice in your hand you're already casting your eyes about, looking for the next one to reach for."
"For which to reach," he murmured softly.
"And so you go on, and will never be satisfied, but for an instant in the past-future-past you could be satisfied with loving the other me, because that happiness would be balanced by the anguish of separation, and you knew it. In fact, the more certain you were of the inevitability of tragedy, the more enamored you grew with the idea of adoring me."
"You presume much," he stated.
"I presume because I know you, and I've observed you all these years, and I've seen your memories, and yes, Lucius, you have created a monster, but that monster isn't me," she said.
He waited for her to continue.
But she didn't continue. She turned away to walk towards the porting point because, by Merlin, she was going to make him work for it, but he didn't even let her move more than a step before he'd grabbed her arm and whirled her to face him again. She didn't expect him to touch her. That wasn't something he did. It was like suddenly being thrust into seeing a different side to a person you thought you knew, and realizing tactically that that person possessed an entirely new dimension.
"Please continue," he said, all veneered and placid, yet simmering underneath, a threat beneath calm waters. His hand still clutched her arm, and she observed but more felt that he absolutely needed/wanted her to finish.
She gazed at him, strength and confidence in a challenge to his quiet malice. His grip on her arm softened and then dropped away, but she almost felt like she wanted him to touch her again.
"Lucius," she said, and though she was firm, she was also tender in a way. "The monster you've created is her."
He stared at her in disbelief for a moment. Then he simply turned and started walking away.
She hadn't realized past-Hermione was so ridiculously sacrosanct.
"You're proving my point!" she called.
He kept walking.
"Lucius!"
Still with the walking. Ridiculous. Hermione wasn't having any of it, and she ran to him and did her own arm-grabbing, and did it well actually, or perhaps it was that he was pliable and allowed her to turn him to face her because he wanted to.
"Do you want me to explain?" she asked him.
"No," he replied.
"If you allow yourself to continue to pine after something that isn't there," she explained, completely ignoring his response, "then you can continue to deny yourself happiness interminably."
"What a stupid thing to say," he replied. "Why would any sane person do such a thing?"
"Because you don't think you deserve happiness," she told him.
He looked as if he was losing what little patience he had left, so she sped it up.
"And so you've created this idea in your mind of past-Hermione, which you have wrapped in a glass shell and idolized, and now nothing will never live up to her, no one, no experience, and you're trapped, just where you want to be, and there's your monster that lives under your bed at night, leaving you bereft of meaning and purpose and happiness," she said quickly, getting it all out.
"Oh gods, must you analyze me," he groaned.
"And you're sad… so very sad," she said.
"I am not," he said, entering the stage of denial.
"I've seen it," she said, calling his bluff.
He didn't reply.
"The ever-elusive happiness," she said to him, and she touched his arm, and she knew he could not look away from her. "I can't give it to you."
He waited.
"Neither can she," said Hermione.
She saw something desperate creep subtly into his features, but it passed as quickly as it came.
"It has to come from you," she finished.
"How trite," he said, though his voice was weak and he didn't seem to mean it.
She softened her grip on his arm and wondered as she let her hand fall away if he would feel like he wanted her to touch him again, too.
"Will you come to the manor tomorrow?" he asked.
"Why?" she asked.
"I'm fairly certain it misses you," he replied, without any guile over having made such an absurd statement. "In its own… ah… house way."
"Do you talk to your house often?" she asked, half a smile pulling at her face.
"Don't you?" he asked, but now he was being funny.
"Yes," she said, but she was answering his earlier question. "I'll come tomorrow."
Why did tomorrow not seem soon enough?
-ooOOoo-
Regardless of patience or impatience, tomorrow did come, and it rained diagonally and as Hermione walked through the cast iron gate and up the path towards Malfoy Manor, beneath her umbrella she could have sworn the rain had a personal vendetta against her ankles. As she reached the front doors, they opened for her.
"Thank you," she said to Malfoy Manor, and she entered.
The foyer was empty.
"Mr. Malfoy?" she called, her voice echoing back from the polished floors and wood-paneled walls and mirrors and golden chandeliers, and then fading into nothing but her steps.
She knew the way to his office, so she went that way.
The hall was filled with portraits of ancestor Malfoys. Again, they watched her in silence. Why were they always so silent? Were they still waiting for something? Or would they not speak to her due to who or what she was?
Lucius' office door was closed, and she began to wonder if she should knock, but before she could, the door opened on its own.
"I suppose I'm welcome, then?" she asked, entering.
No one was there. She turned to look back at the door, which was still open.
"Now this is simply getting weird," she said.
The manor was silent, and she could hear the soft buzz of rain falling heavily outside, on the veranda.
Exhaling, she leaned a hand on the desk. As her hand touched the polished wood, she was struck with a vision.
It was the same office, the same perspective, but Lucius was standing there, in front of the windows, looking at her. He was wearing black. His hair was long and stark against his clothes. The brilliant rose of sunset was behind him, framing his form and she knew this was a memory, but it wasn't his memory… it was hers, and he was beautiful. Was it her memory remembering this or did she currently think so? It was hard to tell because the memory held emotions and yet she experienced her own current emotions at the same time.
"Lucius," she said in her memory with meaning and purpose, and with the newness of the familiarity of calling him by his first name, and there were nerves, too. His gaze was intense upon her.
"May I ask you some questions?" she asked.
She saw him shift, not only physically, with his silhouette outlined by umber and pink and burnt sienna, but internally. Memory-her didn't see it, but Hermione did now. He became fixed upon her, confused by her, frustrated by her, yet delighted in her, wondered at her, and wanted more, more than he had wanted anything in a very long time. How wonderful he was at keeping it all silent on his face.
"Don't you always?" he asked, waiting for her questions.
"You're here," said another Lucius, and the rose glow of sunset faded into gray downpour. The vision gone, she turned to see Lucius leaning on the doorframe to the office, dressed darkly with pale Roman hair, and regarding her.
"I am," she said with a smile, realizing that this Lucius she couldn't read, but that one she could. Was it the house that gave that to her? And if it did… why?
"You look troubled," he remarked.
"It's your house," she said, glancing around her.
"Is it?" he asked, prompting for more.
"I believe I just saw one of my memories," she said, and then clarified poorly: "The memories that I don't have."
"Oh?" he asked, interested. "Which one?"
"It was here, and the sunset was behind you, and I said your name and asked if I could ask questions, and it was very mundane," she said. "It wasn't like much happened at all."
Though she kept to herself the insight into his emotions.
"I may remember that time," he said, shifting his weight and coming into the office proper.
She found that as she watched him, she became more curious about what sorts of emotions he could be currently hiding. If he had stood before her then, roiling with emotions and not showing a single mote of it on his face, there was no telling what was happening now, if he should desire to hide it.
"Why are you watching me like a specimen?" he asked.
"Oh," she said. "No reason."
"Come with me," he said, and he seemed to know there was a reason, but he allowed her to keep it to herself.
She followed, and as they walked she considered. If he could hide that much emotion behind a placid façade, how much pain did he experience all those times when he came across as kind of sad? Trying to contemplate it was mind-boggling.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"My special library," he said, as they entered the normal library and made for the secret door that led up to the turret in which his special books were held. Hermione couldn't help but be instantly delighted at the prospect. "Since I must take the blame for steering you away from the book-keeping vocation, the least I can do is make my rare collection available to you."
"Are you feeling guilt for meddling in my life, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, amused.
"Of course not," he replied. "The result of my meddling is much preferable to bookkeeping, wouldn't you say, Miss Granger?"
"Time will tell," said Hermione, aloof.
"I approve," announced Lucius. "Despite your ingratitude, time certainly will tell."
She felt as if there were something to figure out in his statement, but didn't get the chance, for they'd arrived up in the top tower that she had only seen in Lucius' memory. The shelves were filled with extraordinarily interesting books, and she was instantly intrigued. She glanced at Lucius.
"Go ahead," he said, giving his permission.
She beamed and moved to peruse through the books, but the instant her hand touched a book, she was struck with another memory.
In the memory, she had thrust open the small turret window and leaned out, smelling the early spring air and gazing over the darkest blue and silver gloaming of pre-dawn. She was filled with the excitement of staying up all night investigating with Lucius, the thrill of books, the thrill of finding trust with someone so interesting and strange.
"Oh, look," she said with a smile for Lucius, "Dawn is upon us."
Lucius sat in a chair, watching her with a forgotten book in his hands, and he was unreadable to the Hermione that was there. She felt herself in this memory wondering what he might be thinking, but she knew. He wanted her to stay. Some part of him wanted her to stay forever. Yet, he was terrified of that part of him. At that moment, he was warring within himself whether to offer for her to stay that night in the manor, and struggling to not be totally, utterly beguiled by her smile. He was trying to maintain some semblance of civility and respectability, but he began to feel crushed by the strain in this moment. Most of all, he just so badly didn't want her to go. If she could only stay a little bit longer… but he knew he was fooling himself if he thought "a little bit longer" would suffice.
How illuminating.
"Miss Granger?" asked Lucius, and the scent of pre-dawn spring was replaced with books and wooden furniture. She turned to see him sitting in a chair. The same chair. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes," she said too quickly, still with her hand poised in the act of barely touching a book.
He merely sat and looked at her.
"I had another memory," she explained. "It was here, but pre-dawn, and you were sitting in that chair, and I was leaning out the window."
"I do remember that," he said.
"Do you?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, offering nothing further.
"What do you remember about it?"
"You fought a book with a poker," he said, some bemusement in his features.
"Ah, yes," she said, hefting a book in her hands. She couldn't help but glance back at Lucius, considering his methods for hiding emotion.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said, quickly looking away to flip through the book's pages. A long moment passed filled with the sound of paper.
"What aren't you telling me, Miss Granger?" he asked.
"Mn," she said non-commitally. She put the book away and went to the window, yanking on the latch to open it, expecting it to be rusty. It wasn't, and it flew open very easily, so the act of opening the window came across less svelte than she would have liked.
She heard Lucius get up out of the chair behind her, and she leaned out of the window.
"It isn't raining anymore," she said. Though still gray, the sky had ceased leaking.
"Come with me," he said from behind her.
"Again?" she asked.
"Again," he said.
She wanted to go with him anyway. This time, she didn't ask where they were going, but she merely let him lead her through the hallway of silent, watching Malfoy portraits, to a sconce which he pulled, and into a secret passage that led up, up. She knew from his memories where they were going, and she recalled in his memory he held her hand while he led her, but now he only walked ahead. She wondered what he might be feeling.
Within the narrow passageway they climbed, she brushed her fingertips across the built stone of the walls, and thought she sensed something, an aura of sorts, a feeling, coming in waves, and it was from Lucius. That feeling was anxiety. Was he anxious? How did she know this?
The aura left and she wondered where it went, but she realized she had stopped touching the wall. Experimenting, she touched it again and the aura returned. Oh. Oh. The house, the house! Was it communicating with her? How did it know what he was feeling? But it did. It knew. Was this a thing it could do because it was the House of Malfoy? Why would it want her to know?
They reached the ancient, winding stairs that led sharply upwards, and Hermione touched the wall the entire way. She thirstily absorbed the information the house gave her all the way up. How thrilling was it to sense his emotions after all these years of not really knowing! He felt anxiety, sadness, fear, disbelief, and a tiny flicker of hope he tried to stamp out at every moment. And somewhere, deeply submerged, he wanted her to stay, but with less abandon than in the other memory. He was cautious… so very cautious. And terrified of failure.
Opening the high door, they emerged from close, dark quarters to the wide open gray skies and distant green lands of Wiltshire. It was one thing seeing it in another person's memory, but it was another to truly be there. The air smelt of rain and growing things, fresh, clean, perfect, and the clouds hung heavy to the verdant horizon.
"Do you think it'll rain on us?" she asked as he began to lead her along a catwalk of sorts.
He looked up at the sky.
"Perhaps," he said, seeming unconcerned.
She couldn't know if he was unconcerned or not, because she wasn't touching the house and had lost her secret weapon.
"Um," she said, feeling heights as they came to a narrow way over a courtyard.
He turned to look at her, then smiled a little, and held out a hand. A few days ago, she wouldn't have felt weird about taking his hand, but now that she knew things, well, it was just different. She was more aware. Achingly aware. She took his hand anyway. It was slightly rough, warm, and he was wearing a ring. She found she liked it.
"Shall we move on?" he asked, and she realized she'd completely stopped moving. "Do you need more help across?"
"No, no," she insisted, imagining "more help" would mean more physical contact, which she wasn't sure she could deal with right now.
Ignoring the drop-off to the right, she focused on Lucius in front of her, and the hands between them, and she managed fine. Heights, shmeights. But in the course of focusing on Lucius, she found they'd come to the Malfoy sniper's repose from his memories, the place where they'd kissed the first time in that time in the future-past, and the place where that other Hermione had been fully accepted by Malfoy Manor.
But am I that Hermione? Am I not? Does the Manor accept me, even though it doesn't know me? Or does it know me already?
Questions cursed her and sunk her into depths.
"I recognize this place," she said conversationally.
"Do you?" he replied, equally conversationally.
They both kept whatever thoughts and feelings they might be experiencing completely to themselves. He leaned upon the railing to look at the fields, and so she did, too, but when she touched the railing she again was vision-ed, and it was disorienting, to say the least.
She was kissing him, and she had fallen into the depths of surrender, and so had he, and the intensity of emotion struck her now as being beyond anything she had ever experienced, so much so that in her memory she had to break the kiss to keep what was left of her wits about her.
"I am finished," she sighed, meaning it to her bones. It was all over, she was his, no matter what that meant, no matter what consequences it caused.
"I am not," he said, the promise of more kisses and more madness in his voice, and in his emotions, which nearly crushed her with their pure strain, pure color, a hue of brilliant vermillion stark against a field of white. He wanted her, he loved her, he let fear go for once in his life, and he was almost mindless with the freedom. He valued her, only her, beyond all the wealth, time, and power in the world at that moment.
The emotional residue of the vision ebbed, leaving her in waves. As it faded away, Hermione found she was clutching the railing, white-knuckled. Her breath was short and she wondered if she was going to fall, faint, or do both. Her senses became heightened, and she heard the wind, saw the swirling gray hues in the sky… and the caught the scent of autumn and a thousand memories. Lucius. He hadn't said a word or made a sound. She turned to look at him.
He was watching her, dark contrast against the light gray sky, his pale hand gripping the railing with as much white-hot intensity as she. He was still, tightly strung like a violin, waiting, waiting, and afraid of what he might find in her.
Wait, how did she know he was afraid? She glanced down at her hand on the railing, and then released it. She looked at him, and she still knew. She just knew, and this she had done all on her own. Achievement unlocked.
He looked as if he might ask her something, but his question couldn't quite make it to realization. In this state, given all she had been shown, all she had learned, everything she knew, she wanted to comfort him, to touch him, and she suddenly wanted to be closer to him. She moved and reached out at once, and through instinct he pulled back slightly, yet seemed unable to look away. She paused and waited, her hand in midair, and so did he, his hand gripping the railing, ever gripping the railing.
His face told her everything she needed to know, he was waiting, he was transfixed, he was terrified, but underneath it all, he wanted. She moved again, and he stayed still. Her hand moved past his face, past his ear, to touch the platinum roman hair, to slide through it, to assure him she was there, to end at the nape of his neck, warm, hot, the side of his neck was hot, his pulse pounded like a deep plucked string, resonant, constant, she placed the pad of her thumb over his pulse, felt it, counted it with her senses, and looked up into his face.
He was breathless.
"What did you see?" he asked, his voice betraying him, his eyes showing awareness of his voice betraying him, but being unable to fix it.
She counted his pulses, one, two, three, four.
"You," she said, letting her other fingers brush across the nape of his neck. His pulse jumped, skipped a beat. She had him now, in the ultimate lie-detector, she could feel his life-blood pulsing beneath her thumb and she could feel his every change and reaction.
"Me?" he asked, casting, searching for lines. "What about me?"
"I know you," she said, watching him, feeling him. Faster.
"What do you know about me," he said, faint words without faith, already knowing it was probably all true, lacking conviction or denial. Perhaps he hoped it to be true.
"I know how adept you are at hiding your true feelings," she said.
"How should you know such a thing?" he asked.
"Your house told me," she said, which didn't seem strange at all, but should have.
Lucius appeared both betrayed and relieved.
"I believe it's time you relent to that which your house wants," she said.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Your happiness," she said.
She let her hand fall away from his neck and turned to make her arduous way down from the overlook, allowing him to stew on that for a while. Let him work out his happiness in his own way. He was very fortunate, as far as Hermione was concerned, to have a whole, ancient, wise manor looking out for his best interests. Sure, they lived in a magical world, but it was still unusual. Hermione would have appreciated such a thing. On the catwalk, she suddenly felt him take her wrist from behind.
"Wait," he said.
It made her nervous, being unbalanced on the catwalk overlooking a courtyard, and even more, being taken by the wrist and turned to face a very anxious Lucius Malfoy. This wasn't a normal look for him. She looked away, but unfortunately down, to the deep courtyard, and vertigo struck her.
Closing her eyes hard, she groaned, and he pulled her into his arms.
How strange it was to be in his embrace after all these years, to not catch his scent in brief, intangible bursts, but to inhale it, full, heady, all that she wanted, it was hers to experience, hers, hers… how steady his arms held her, how safe she suddenly felt, how the vertigo dropped away like discarded scales and his strength enveloped her. Her exhale was slow and realized.
The embrace melted away with hesitance, and Hermione found she didn't know how to react to its ending, and so she looked up to Lucius' face for answers.
His lips parted, and then, after a final inward assault, he surrendered her name.
"Hermione."
He said it like he had years ago, once, only once, but all the colors of every thing flowed throughout his voice when he did it. She caught her breath at it, for as he said it, a warm wind rushed across them and across them passed magic, the magic of colors, of time, of who they were and are and will be, and she saw at once he was the sum of all the selves that he had ever been, and she felt as if she were all the things she was and had forgotten and could come to be. In that moment, time stopped being linear and became circular, one, a place, all of time in one, and they were there, feeling it flow across them and knowing. She knew who she was, she knew what she was, and she knew what she meant to Lucius Malfoy.
The wind, the time flow, the magic faded away and Hermione found herself out of breath and stunned.
"I am the Warden of Malfoy," she said, gazing in wonder at Lucius, because now she knew.
"You are," said Lucius, grateful, and also knowing.
There was no awkwardness, there was no fear, there was no hesitance. They came together at once and kissed, embraced, she ran her fingers into his hair, his arms pressed her waist, and rain fell as the clouds abandoned their restraint. Hermione didn't care, neither did he; their joy was, momentarily as it always is, full.
-o-
Later, they sat upon the green velvet couch in his office, nearly dried.
"I remember all of it," she said, in response to a query posed by Lucius.
"How remarkable," he said, and though she noticed he was trying to restrain himself, his voice still betrayed wonder and joy and gratitude. How long had he been waiting, fearing to hope? "The manor gave it all to you. But…"
"Yes?" she asked, her hand touching his arm, his sleeve. She couldn't not touch him.
"I wonder why it took so long," he said.
"I think," she said, considering, "the manor was waiting for the right time."
"It is wiser than us both," he said.
"Clearly more than you, at least," she replied with a half-smile.
He gave her a light shove in response, and she went willingly, falling back against the upholstery. He came with her, leaning over her, a sudden warmth overtaking them both, and he was suddenly tender, his hand, his thumb, caressing her cheek.
"I've been thinking about it," he began.
"Thinking about what?" she asked, bringing her hand up to touch his face.
"It's about your office," he said, gazing upon her.
"The Minister office?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Is something the matter with it?" she asked.
"Not at all," he said as he brushed her hairline with his fingertips. "It's where you should be."
"Then what is it?" she asked.
"I think it would be best for the office if you were married," he said.
"Oh?" she asked, a soft laugh falling across her. "Best for the office, then?"
"It would be the most reasonable thing to do," he said, his gaze and his hand caressing her features, as if she were priceless, as if it were some form of worship. His reasonable words mixed with his ardent actions sent a thrill through her, truly aiding his cause.
"As my assistant, I will take your counsel into consideration," she replied, brushing her fingers across his pulse. Blood beat in his veins, steady, strong, hot, sure. She looked up to meet his gaze. "I expect a list of candidates on my desk tomorrow morning."
And then he kissed her.
THE END
-ooO\/Ooo-
A/N: It is finished. Thank you very much for reading and for all the kind reviews.