This story was written for GE's FuhQFest. Huge thanks to my alpha Quilter for her help and support. Thank you to my beta Dany. You guys rock!
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
My prompt was: Hermione's time turner gets broken and she goes back in time. Does she stay and try to change the future?
2.2 June 1926
Perquisites of Unexpected
The next morning, after his bath, Abraxas went to check on his guest and found the room empty. Panic instantly clasped his heart painfully in its clammy fist and let go of him only when he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom. He sank into the armchair in the corner of the room and drew a sigh of relief – he didn't want Hermione to disappear. Somehow, even though it had been less then twenty-four hours since she had burst into his life, he enjoyed her presence in it. He felt like a little boy who found a treasure, and, naturally, he didn't want to part with it. No matter how infantile it might sound, 'finders keepers' was the exact phrase that the young Malfoy had embedded in his stubborn head at that moment.
Abraxas' eyes slid over the magenta dress, which had been carelessly tossed across the bed, and noticed that one of his shirts had been taken. His mother's robes, however, were untouched. The sight of the unmade bed brought back the recollection of Hermione's soft body and how nice it had felt to have her in his arms. The image of the little butterfly on her shoulder and the gentle heaving of her breast came to mind as well.
"She is gorgeous, isn't she?" A soft voice startled the wizard, and he whirled around to see who was talking to him. A young, blonde witch, who was sitting in the portrait on the wall, smiled at him. The wizard narrowed his grey eyes and regarded the portrait with wariness. The witch's facial features clearly indicated that she was of the Malfoy line, and yet Abraxas couldn't recognise her.
"Who are you?" he exclaimed, his state of surprise slightly affecting his sense of courtesy.
The witch in the portrait chuckled and answered, "Luciana, the daughter of Brutus Malfoy and your great-great-aunt, dear."
"Oh, nice to meet you." The young Malfoy bowed lightly in acknowledgment. "Hmm, how very peculiar. I wonder, why haven't I seen your name on the family tree? I was taught that Brutus Malfoy had only one child – a son. I also know that the last girl in the Malfoy family was Amanda Malfoy, the daughter of Nicholas. The Malfoys haven't borne a girl in centuries, if I recall correctly."
The woman in the portrait sighed and answered with a wistful smile, "It's not my place to tell you why, my darling. You will have to ask your father about it." She sighed once again and then continued, watching him probingly. "Mark my word, my dear nephew, your mysterious little witch is a Muggle-born. You do like her, don't you? Oh, I cannot blame you. She is a scrumptious little morsel. My brother, if he were still around, would be all over her."
Abraxas furrowed his brows and rebuked her sharply. "No! You don't know what you are saying. She cannot be that." His great-great-aunt's words angered him. He personally could never see or feel any difference between Muggle-Borns and pure-bloods. If anything, he would have said that Muggle-Borns were often wittier and more interesting, especially the witches. That said, he had been taught to stay away from them: they weren't considered right for a Malfoy heir. But Hermione … surely she was worthy of him.
"Why do you think she is a Muggle-Born? How -" He wanted to ask more, but, at that moment, he heard the sound of bare feet tapping over the marble floor and saw the intricately-wrought handle of the bathroom door began to turn. That minuscule motion effectively silenced him and the witch in the portrait. He hastily sprang up and focused his attention on the door.
The door flew open, and his throat went dry. Hermione stood on the threshold, wearing only his white shirt that just barely reached her mid-thighs. Her wet locks curled freely around her face, which glowed with freshness. Abraxas' heart stopped for an instant and then restarted its frantic pumping, not quite in his chest. It seemed to him that the fine batiste of his shirt and the morning sun had joined in a single goal – to drive him mad. He could see everything: the delicate curve of her waist, the soft roundness of her hips, the forbidden slope between her thighs - literally everything. At first, he even suspected that the witch was purposely teasing him. However, when he caught her startled expression, he knew that it wasn't the case. Hermione hadn't expected him to be in her room, and she was clearly unaware of what her ensemble was doing to him.
Merlin, help me, thought the wizard, and bowed to greet his lady. "Good morning, Hermione. How are you?"
The witch blushed a pretty pink colour and replied, "I don't really know. I am perfectly fine physically, and the only problem is that I cannot recall anything that happened before you found me. I gathered from the invitation that my name is Hermione, and it feels right, so that must be it. I remember spells and charms. I can tell you right now how to brew a Polyjuice Potion, and yet I cannot recall where I learned it."
"It is very strange indeed," remarked Abraxas, and came closer to the witch. "Do you remember my name?"
"Yes. Abraxas Malfoy: is that right?"
"Precisely," and the wizard nodded and smiled. He liked how she pronounced his name.
"Could you, please, tell me what year it is now?" Hermione asked, watching him with wary eyes.
"Nineteen twenty-six, my lady."
"Merlin, if only I could remember! What happened to the Time-Turner that brought me here? Did you examine it? Was it cursed?"
"I put it back where it belongs, inside my father's desk. Yes, I did examine it, and no, I didn't succeed in detecting anything unusual."
Hermione sighed, "I don't understand. Why am I here? Do you think it's possible for me to return …" She glanced at him with a tiny spark of hope shimmering in her velvet gaze. "… to go back?"
The wizard scowled and shook his head, "I am not quite sure, Hermione. I have never heard of someone traveling to the future. I gather that, first, you have to regain your memories, at least."
The young witch fell silent for a while, keeping her eyes fixed on an elaborate ornament of the woollen rug under her feet. Her wet curls hid her face, and Abraxas could only hear her faint sniffles. Feeling uneasy and not quite knowing how to help, he made a hesitant step toward the witch. She looked at him and smiled through her tears. "Oh well." She shrugged her shoulders. "We will take one day at a time, then. I know that amnesia shouldn't last long, and, eventually, I shall remember everything. And thank you for sheltering me, meanwhile."
Abraxas had no idea what exactly the term "amnesia" meant, but decided against asking. He didn't want to seem shallow or dim-witted. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Hermione," he drawled in a low baritone, gazing intently at Hermione's chocolate eyes. Even though the witch's pretty cheeks blossomed with a soft rose-colour once again, she held his gaze bravely, keeping her pointy little chin high.
Quite a character, this little one, scoffed the wizard.
"Oh, I forgot. I wanted to ask if you have a spare pair of trousers I can wear? I am not really fond of robes. Sorry."
The wizard's eyes widened in shock at that. Though, he scolded himself, I know nothing about the future and thus shouldn't be surprised. "Certainly, certainly. Wrinkly!" Abraxas called his elf.
Wrinkly brought a few new pairs of Abraxas' breeches, and the wizard politely stepped out of the guest chamber and waited for her in the corridor. A short while later, she walked out of her room, still wearing the same shirt, though now his breeches completed the ensemble. Both garments had been charmed to fit her slight frame, and Abraxas had to admit that they looked sinfully attractive on her. The wizard gallantly offered the blushing girl his hand and escorted her to the dining room, where their breakfast was waiting for them.
The moment they walked into the grand hall, the young woman froze and drew a shaken breath. "I have an odd feeling that I have been here before," she said, looking around with apprehension. "My heart is throbbing for some reason, and I have no bloody idea why. Agh, it's so frustrating!"
Abraxas couldn't help noticing how unconventional her speech was. Could his great great-aunt be right? bolted through his mind. Maybe it's just a sign of a different time, he tried to convince himself. He had rarely, if ever, heard pure-blood witches talk so freely. They all were about etiquette and protocol. He shuddered at the recollection. He disliked those doll-like creatures, who lacked any vitality at all. He appreciated a bit more liveliness and definitely a lot more wit, probably because of his mother. Yes, she was from an old, pure-blood family as well. However, she was French, and thus she could safely allow herself a degree of eccentricity. In her case, it was considered charming.
Could she be a Muggle-Born? The young Malfoy locked his grey gaze on the witch's face, watching for clues. Alas, she chose to part her lips at that precise moment. The sight of her pearly white teeth and her pink tongue that darted to wet her lips nipped all his doubts in the bud.
"Shh," he murmured softly, shifting closer to her. "You just said it yourself – one day at a time." He gently squeezed Hermione's fist, savouring the warmth and softness of her skin, and proposed: "We shall have our breakfast now, and then we shall check our family library for any records about time travel and, as you called it, amnesia." At the word 'library', Hermione's face suddenly lit up and her brown eyes sparkled brilliantly. She nodded enthusiastically and gave Abraxas the most sincere and bright smile, leaving the young wizard with a peculiar fussy feeling tickling somewhere in his chest.
The next seven days were spent in intense research. Tons of books were painstakingly studied, and yet they found no records of any travel to the future. At least, to Abraxas' delight, they spent those long hours together – talking, even debating at times. He showed her his laboratory, and Hermione turned out to be quite proficient in Potions. With every passing day, his fascination with her grew. She was truly nothing less than amazing. She knew tons of things, and was very talkative. Abraxas, who didn't actually talk much, found it exceptionally appealing. He was completely swept off his feet by this slip of a girl, by his little butterfly: that was how he called her in his thoughts.
By the end of the week, he knew for certain that she was taken with him as well. He could feel it. All those little smiles, blushes, and unrequired touches confirmed his belief, as well as their traitorous bodies that refused to comply and stood far too close for comfort, hairs that tended somehow to reach up and tickle, eyes that wondered and lingered on places they shouldn't: all those little signs pointed in one direction – they were both simmering in the same cauldron of unresolved sexual tension.
On the eighth day, during breakfast, while his gaze subtly caressed Hermione's face, Abraxas noticed the dark shadows under her eyes. A sudden revelation dawned on him: they hadn't been outside the Manor in a week.
"We ought to go out today," he remarked casually, spreading marmalade over a slice of toast before passing it to Hermione. She arched her eyebrows quizzically. "We haven't been outside since the day I found you. We both need fresh air."
"Sure," replied the witch. "Is there anything interesting we can do?"
"Such as …" The wizard arched a single eyebrow at her.
The witch snorted. "I don't know. Berry-picking, for instance?"
Abraxas thought for a minute, digging deep into his memories. "Actually, I think we can gather some raspberries. I remember gathering them with my Nana when I was a boy."
An hour later, they were walking down a shaded forest path. Hermione, with a big brown basket in her hand, was skipping a few steps ahead of Abraxas and thus affording him a very nice view of her pert derrière. The witch still preferred to wear his shirts and breeches, both of which were charmed to fit nicely on her figure. Though he could swear that they hadn't been quite that fitted a few days ago.
"Do you like your breeches on me?" Hermione abruptly halted and turned to him, forcing him to halt as well.
"Yes, very much so, why?"
She shrugged her shoulder. "Just asking," said the witch nonchalantly. She shot a quick glance at him, turned and continued her walk, swaying her hips seductively. Abraxas sped up and, in a few strides, covered the distance between them. He caught her narrow waist and propelled her into his arms, causing her to drop the basket.
For a moment, they both just stared at each other, listening to their pounding hearts and erratic breathing. "Hermione," the wizard managed to growl, pushing her firmly against a nearest tree. "I want to kiss you. Please, let me kiss you."
"Aha," she breathed, and, not waiting for him, she leaned up on the balls of her feet, wound her arms around his neck, and yanked him to her. The moment their lips met, the world around them ceased to exist. The blond wizard couldn't comprehend why he had waited for so long. He could have had her in his arms for so many days.
He kissed her with abandon, forcing her lips open and demanding access to every corner of her mouth. He swept his tongue along her teeth, caressing them, luring her tongue into his mouth, encouraging her to participate. His greedy hands found her shirt, and he pulled on it mercilessly, until he managed to free her shoulders from the frail fabric. There, he stopped to trace her little butterfly tattoo with his thumb. "My little butterfly," he whispered huskily. A heartbeat later, with a groan, he launched his mouth at it, biting into Hermione's fleshy shoulder.
"Ah," the witch moaned under his mouth and arched into him, aligning her alluring softness with his eager masculine hardness. Another strong pull of his hands, and a tearing sound signalled that the thin fabric had let go, leaving her breasts bare and free.
"Wait, I need to know," Hermione whispered frantically, pressing her fists into his chest, clearly battling against her own desire. "Do you have someone – a fiancé or something?"
"No, I don't," rasped Abraxas, drinking in her swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes. "You?"
"I don't know, I don't remember," she breathed with exasperation.
"Have you ever …" he trailed off, resting his forehead on her shoulder and licking her tattoo in a leisurely manner.
"Oh, Merlin, I am not sure. I think, I am not a virgin," she said, and suddenly cupped his protruding length. "Yup, I have definitely done it before." Her hand began to stroke him rhythmically through his breeches. "Have you ever done it?"
Abraxas tensed. "I … Agh, Hermione, oh." The wizard covered her hand with his and arrested her provocative strokes. "I have been taught, but I have never actually done it with someone I wanted. It's a tradition – the Malfoy heir should be able to please his lady. Ladies of the Manor are not supposed to fake their orgasms. Never," muttered the wizard, hiding his face in Hermione's curls.
Hermione clasped his face in her hands, kissed him firmly on the lips, and said, with a grin, "Mm, what a wicked family you have, Abraxas Malfoy."
Abraxas returned her kiss and carefully eased her on the soft moss. Kneading her breasts gently and enjoying the little whimpers of pleasure that his manoeuvres elicited from the little witch, he traced her jaw with the tip of his tongue, dipping it inside her ear and then going down her long and graceful neck to her perfectly-rounded breasts topped with dusty-pink nipples. Sucking and tugging on them, he made quick work of her breeches and pulled them down. Teasing her skin, he slowly dragged his mouth down to her belly-button, lingered there for a moment, and then continued further down. There, however, he paused, surprised by a sudden discovery. Instead of the expected undergarment, Hermione wore something pink, scanty, and probably completely impractical, but still glorious. In awe, Abraxas sat back on his heels and asked: "What is this?"
"It's my thong, silly. Knickers of the future." Hermione giggled huskily.
"Is there something on the back?" And the curious wizard turned the witch on her stomach. "Merlin," he whispered. The sight of her derrière clad only in a thin pink string that disappeared most naughtily between her luscious buttocks nearly undid him. With a quick non-verbal, he spelled himself naked, hurriedly but carefully rolled the pink garment down Hermione's creamy legs, and, with a feral growl, sank into her tight, wet, and oh-so-welcoming heat.
The witch only managed to let out a breathy "Oh," as he began to move within her, grasping her hips in order to keep her in place. Their moans and groans of shared pleasure filled the air, mingling with the sounds of the forest.
For a seemingly endless and extremely pleasurable moment, they moved in exquisitely choreographed harmony, drowning in the sheer perfection of their union. Alas, even the most perfect moment always, always had eventually to end. Feeling the nearness of his impending climax, Abraxas reached around, drew his palm down Hermione's stomach, and cupped her, pressing her tightly against his thrusts, as his fingers delved into her soft curls to stimulate her needy flesh. One light stroke against her most sensitive spot, and she fell apart. Hermione let out a long and helpless moan, sobbed "Abraxas!", and came. The blond wizard managed a few more shaky thrusts and spent himself inside her with a shout.
Before collapsing, Abraxas cradled the exhausted witch to him and rolled them both over, so that she was resting in his arms. As she played lazily with the blond curls on his chest, she whispered, "I don't know who taught you, but she taught you well. Are there any other tricks in your arsenal, Lord Malfoy?"
The wizard chuckled breathlessly and replied, "All my knowledge is at your disposal, my Lady."
"Perfect," murmured the witch. "Very much looking forward to it."
"You'd better be ready then." And he kissed her wild curls as one of his hands crept toward her thighs and the other found her breast.
They didn't get to pick raspberries. Instead, they Apparated back to the Manor, aiming directly at Abraxas' chamber.
Wrinkly, however, did pick raspberries, and Dotty made a delicious jam out of them. It was still warm when the elf served it to the young lovers with their tea in bed. To Abraxas' delight, Hermione apparently knew many ways to misuse the said jam terribly. The places where she managed to spread and then consume it, using her wicked tongue, forced him to call on Merlin more than once. Alas, it seemed that Merlin had decided to stay out of it.
It was well after midnight when they finally ran out of jam and energy. Hermione was already in deep slumber, cuddled cosily in Abraxas' arms. He felt happy, and he didn't want to think or analyse or worry about anything. He knew only one thing – the witch in his arms was his butterfly, his unexpected present from the future, and he wasn't going to let her go. Ever.
Aftermath
Hermione opened her eyes and stretched her aching muscles, humming appreciatively. Her movements made the silk bed sheets slide down from her shoulders, giving the morning sun an opportunity to warm her bare skin. For a while, she simply basked in an all-encompassing feeling of happiness. It was nice to be completely carefree, at least for a moment.
Soon, though, she had enough of motionlessness, and she stretched once again, yawned, and sat up, leaning against the mahogany headboard. She looked around and found Abraxas' chamber already back in its impeccably neat state. Hmm, and no traces of raspberry jam, chuckled Hermione to herself, as she continued her perusal. She liked his room – it had an air of masculinity about it, being warm and inviting at the same time. The amber-coloured stained glass on the windows gave everything that special, vintage appeal she always liked so much. It reminded her of Hogwarts.
Hogwarts!
Hermione's eyes widened in shock as millions of memories rushed through her head with the speed of the Orient Express, knocking the breath out of her in the process. In a matter of minutes, she remembered everything: Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, her parents, the war, the losses, the pain. Trembling violently and swallowing hot, bitter tears, she whispered, "Oh, God," and dropped her face into her palms.
The sound of the door being quietly opened forced her to look up. Abraxas, gorgeously dishevelled and clad in breeches and unbuttoned white shirt, stood on the threshold. "Good morning," drawled the blond wizard as he sauntered toward the bed, keeping his right arm hidden behind his back. After a few steps, he slowed down and held out a rose. "For my little butterfly," he said with a heart-melting smile, and locked his eyes on her.
Hermione sat still and silently stared at the rose in his fingers. It was a true beauty – fresh, delicate, with beads of morning dew still glistening on its quivering, violet petals. Slowly, she tore her eyes from the flower and focused them on the man who had managed to steal her heart in a mere week. In the diffused sunlight of the bedroom, his grey eyes seemed almost translucent to her. His blond hair was tangled and slightly damp from his morning walk, as were the blond curls on his chest. He was breathtakingly gorgeous, and Hermione's heart clenched painfully. Lost helplessly in his shimmering gaze, she whispered hoarsely, "Abraxas."
Noticing her tear-stricken face, he worriedly asked, "Hermione, what is it?", and hurried to her across the room. He was about to collide with the bed when Hermione suddenly began to speak. "My name is Hermione Jean Granger. I went to Hogwarts and was sorted into Gryffindor House. I am a Muggle-Born."
Abraxas froze, the rose fell from his fingers, and he rasped a shocked, "No!"
Closely watching his pale face, she was certain that she saw only remorse in his eyes. A terrifying feeling of loss began to gnaw at her poor heart. Hurt and angered by his reaction, the witch shouted, "Yes, Abraxas, you have brought a Mudblood to your bed! Your pure-blood prick is forever tainted now!" As a second wave of tears engulfed her, Hermione leaped from the bed, grabbed the first piece of clothing she saw, and fled, leaving the dumbstruck wizard standing in the middle of the room.
She ran through an unending labyrinth of corridors and was almost hysterical by the time she finally found a door. She paused in front of the heavily carved, oak monstrosity, just to throw on the garment she had managed to grasp before her escape. It turned out to be Abraxas' shirt from yesterday, and, as if it were deliberately taunting her, it still smelled of him.
The witch sighed, bit her lower lip, and stubbornly wore the shirt. When all the buttons had been fastened, she opened the enormous door and slipped outside. There, she just ran again, until, somehow, she ended up in front of the white gazebo where all this mess had started. She went inside, sat on the bench, threw her arms on a table, and wept.
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