Author's Note: Hey everyone, buckle your seatbelts, a lot happens in this chapter…including smut! Enjoy and as always leave me some feedback!

She recovered slowly, reeling in her wits and registering that she had best not look guilty. Then again, Ron had never been the most observant person; sometimes she felt that he could only understand these kinds of things if she more or less clubbed him over the head with them. But in the last few days life had been such that this would be the one time he figured it out. She wasn't going to take any chances.

"Ron, you really should have owled or called."

"It's my flat, I shouldn't have to ask permission to visit it," he bit off.

"It used to be your flat," she retorted. "My name is on the lease, not yours. You moved in here. So, if I don't want you here, it isn't your flat anymore."

"I knew this was the only way I'd actually be able to talk to you," he said, his jaw clenched. His face turned dark, his freckles standing out like they always did when he was mad. "Did I interrupt a little date?"

Hermione felt anger spear in her gut. He had no right, no right at all, to be judging her. "Watch yourself, Ronald. Take that tone again and you will be out of here so fast that you won't know what hit you. And you know I can make good on that."

The muscles in his jaw twitched. He knew very well she could and would make good on that threat; she had done it before.

"Fine."

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples. Her head felt like it was ready to burst. Why couldn't things ever be simple for her? She put down her purse and her keys and after two deep breaths, she looked at him.

Her husband was an attractive man. Every now and then it would hit her, that he was in his own way gorgeous, and it always felt like a tremendous epiphany. The first epiphany had led to their first kiss, the second to their first time in bed, and the third and beyond had landed her right here, right now, married to him but full of turmoil. They had never abated, though. Less than two months ago she'd had one. She had woken up before him and watched him as he slept, still and peaceful. For the first time in their entire relationship, she noticed his eyelashes. They were ridiculously long and lighter than his hair, almost strawberry blond. It had made her smile; after so much time, there was still something new, something to notice and fall in love with.

There were other things about him that she loved and probably always would. Ron had blue eyes, but dark blue, like marble. His hair was longer now that he was older, a bit shaggier, a bit punk rock. That reference was, of course, lost on him. He was as tall as any of his brothers, easily six foot three, and no longer awkward. Ron had become a well-formed man, masculine where he had once been gangly. He had learned a lot, too. For all that, though, he was still the same person she'd met thirteen years ago. The person that had always loved her but could never manage to express it right.

"What did you come here to say, Ron?" she asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"A lot of things," he replied, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. "And you know I'm no good at this, so please just let me talk."

She nodded. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm not even sure what happened in Mykonos. I had no intention of being with someone else, none at all. I was out with people from work, just relaxing, having a few drinks, and then all of a sudden I was with this woman and…I don't know. I don't know what happened. I didn't feel like I was in control of myself. Hermione, I love you, and I would never want to hurt you like that."

"Why didn't you just say that two weeks ago, Ron?" she asked, sadly exasperated. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He fidgeted, then leapt over the precipice. "Did you ever…feel like…maybe we jumped into things too soon?"

It was only the physiological limits of her facial anatomy that kept her jaw from hitting the floor. He was going to pull this card out now?

"We were just kids," he sighed. "The only thing we had was each other. We were so afraid of losing that after it took so damn long to find. And my mum and dad have said it was the same after the first war. Everyone was just in a rush to get married, to hold on to the people they loved, because they'd all seen how it could end tomorrow. Sort of reckless…"

It had taken a long time to find. She had known that Ron was in love with her after the Yule Ball fourth year. At that time she wasn't too impressed with him, but the next three years had formed them into a unit. By the advent of the real war, she was just waiting for him to realize it. When he did it had felt so good, so right…

"So marrying me was reckless?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean that we didn't think things through. We just did what felt right at the time. And maybe it's not right anymore."

Ronald Weasley was talking to her about not thinking things through. Surely Armageddon was approaching. She needed to sit down. He recognized this and got a chair under her just in time.

Hermione's scattered thoughts tried to make sense. It was true, nearly every couple that had formed during or after the war had married in due haste. Harry and Ginny bucked the trend for their own reasons, but it was unlikely that they would ever split. Eventually they would cave to Mrs. Weasley's insistences and get married. And as bad a track record as fresh-out-of-school marriages had, the ones that had formed in the wake of Voldemort had proved curiously resilient. Except for hers, it seemed.

"I've been wanting to say these things to you for about six months," he continued, sitting across from her. "But I'm too much of a coward. And when this thing with the cheating came along, I thought…I thought you'd dump me straight away…and I wouldn't have to break your heart more."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she didn't check them. "Then why are you breaking it now, Ron?"

"This insanity with Malfoy. Hermione, I am not worth going anywhere near him just to make a point!"

"I'm not making a point, Ronald!" she shouted. The wounded anger grew and propelled her out of her seat. "Malfoy has been kind. He's been there for me. Which is more than can be said for you!" Never mind that she wasn't even sure which Malfoy she was talking about. Probably both.

"He's a git, Hermione." Ron's temper was rising to match hers. "He knows you're vulnerable and is trying to take advantage of that. He doesn't care about you."

Grieving anger churned in her stomach, filled up her chest, made her want to scream at the top of her lungs. It was a level of rage she rarely attained. It was terrifying because she knew it was this kind of fury that had created the term 'crimes of passion'; right now she felt like she could murder him. He never changed. Never. He only truly wanted her when someone else threatened his claim. Otherwise he was perfectly content to take her for granted.

Certainty punched a hole through the fog of anger. She didn't calm, not exactly; it was more that her ire funneled into decision, suppressing the out-of-control impulses. Later she could scream. Later she could be an emotional tornado, breaking things, cutting up photographs, dismantling anything that would remind her of him. But right now…

"If you came for a divorce, Ron, you've got it," she said coldly. "Send the papers. I'll sign them. I don't want to see you again."

Six days later

People had come and gone, mainly her mum, Ginny, and Harry. Both sets of twins that she knew, the Patils and the Weasleys, had come to visit as well. Harry was here today, quietly supportive, and she loved him for it because it meant he had picked her over Ron. That didn't happen often.

"That's it!" he exclaimed as yet another owl flew into her living room window. "I'm making this apartment Unplottable."

"Don't you need a permit from the Ministry?"

"I'll get the permit later. I don't know how you can stand them!"

"The owls?"

He looked at her, his green eyes concerned. "It's not healthy to be getting howlers when you're in this state."

She shrugged. "I brought it on myself. I knew they'd come, just not that they'd coincide with the worst week of my life."

"Oh, Hermione," he sighed, "I'm so sorry for all of this."

"None of it is your fault."

Harry sat down, knocking over a pile of mail in the process. He left it there. He'd seen her do the same at least five times. He knew her routine by now; she waited for the howlers to trigger, attempted to ignore them, sorted through to make sure nothing real or important was mixed in, and then threw the remainder in the fire.

"So…Malfoy, huh?"

Hermione raised her eyes to look at him. She knew without asking that Ginny had told him. The pictures in Witch Weekly hadn't shocked him, and the only way that was even remotely possible was if he knew they weren't real.

"I know you won't believe it, but he – they've changed."

Harry chewed his lower lip. "I want to see it for myself."

"Ginny's already sized him up and approved. Do you really have to do it, also?"

He looked at her like she was daft. "Yes."

Hermione sighed. Harry would be nicer than Ginny but it would be terrifically awkward. There was also the off chance that Lucius wouldn't put up with another rude surprise. Still, he had proven himself to be incredibly…

He had proven himself to be incredible.

"All right. I'll ask him to come over." She stood up and retrieved her phone. She'd been steadfastly ignoring it for the last few days. She wanted to truly wallow in her grief, and that meant no interruptions.

It had been six days. She hadn't contacted him at all, and it was a curious kind of withdrawal as she'd spent half the previous week with him. She should have expected a message or two. The first was the third day after their 'date'.

Am I really that terrible of a kisser?

She had driven Lucius Malfoy to insecurity. It was quite a feat, but she felt no triumph. The next was the fifth day.

Did one of your overzealous fans kill you?

That was his idea of expressing concern. The third message had only come forty minutes ago.

I'm coming over.

Evidently she wouldn't have to ask him to come by after all. And with him initiating it, she could hardly be blamed for having Harry there. He was walking into his own uncomfortable doom. Hermione sighed and dropped the phone back into the drawer it had spent most of the last week in. It was nearing the time for her to rise from the mire of her depression, but not just yet.

True to form, he made an entrance. He knocked, ever polite, but as she moved toward the door she heard a scuffle and a curse. When she opened the door he looked murderous.

"Bloody owls!" he seethed.

Hermione had to smile. In one glance she surmised what had angered him. An owl had left a deposit in his hair. Draco's comment about computers not being able to shit on you popped into her head and she bit the inside of her lip.

"I've got it," she murmured. In a moment the crisis was averted; she used a spell to clean it up and his pale hair lay glossy and undisturbed.

"Thank you," he huffed, not even bothering to try to regain his lost dignity. "You really should make this place Unplottable like my flat, so the owls can't find you."

"Don't you need a permit for that?" Harry spoke up from behind her. His voice was even, almost conversational, but he wasn't fooling anyone. "And a wand?"

In spite of the unpleasant surprise and the blatant dig, Lucius didn't miss a beat. "I have a permit, Mr. Potter. And a very talented son."

Harry kept his silence, though they all knew what he was thinking.

Lucius's eyes lingered on him for a moment, unreadable, and then flickered to Hermione. She was sure she looked awful, but something told her he'd know she was upset even if she looked immaculate. She wasn't sure what that meant.

"What is it?" His voice was low and cautious. He didn't like Harry's presence, not one bit.

"Ron and I are getting divorced."

He exhaled slowly as the statement hung in the air. "Thank your lucky stars that the media hasn't gotten hold of that yet."

"Bite your tongue, Malfoy."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she sighed. "Sorry that I wasted six years of my life on him."

Lucius frowned. "It's not a waste. You loved him once."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she settled for walking away. Lucius was unused to being dismissed, but covered it well by closing and bolting the door. When he turned back, she was gone. It was him and Harry, and though they were only ten feet apart, the friction in the air between them could have filled a blimp.

Hermione watched the two of them from behind a half-closed door. She couldn't talk about failed marriages with Malfoy in front of Harry. Harry didn't understand and his presence would hinder Lucius's candor. Right now she only wanted honesty. Though she had to give him credit; he'd already shown more care and emotion in Harry's presence than she ever would have expected.

Now, though, the two of them were like animals sizing one another up before fighting for control of the pack. It was a man thing, she knew, but different because of their history. Lucius had never directly harmed Harry, but he had done something worse – he had stood aside and watched dispassionately while others did. He had supported the quest for Harry's death, actively participated in it, and once reveled in dismantling the Boy Who Lived.

And for his part, Harry had sent him to prison, if Azkaban could accurately be called that. Harry had sent him to hell. That hell had followed him, reborn into unwilling servitude under Voldemort and then powerlessness when he gave up his wand. No matter what grand show he put on, she'd bet her life savings that he held a grudge.

"Still scheming, Malfoy?" Harry said.

"Always, Potter." Lucius allowed a half-smirk to lift the left corner of his mouth. "I don't know much else."

"At least you admit it now."

"Be glad it is to your favor," Lucius returned. "You know what it's like when it's not."

Harry's hand twitched. Hermione prayed that she would not have to prevent Harry from hexing him. She didn't think he would do it, but Lucius wasn't pulling any punches. It was a mark of his boldness that he would provoke Harry when he was completely defenseless. It was also, perhaps, a mark of how much he'd changed. Any sensible Slytherin would recognize a discrepancy in power and behave accordingly, and while Lucius was still a Slytherin, it was becoming increasingly evident that he'd relinquished some of his House's tenets.

"If you have things to say to me, Mr. Potter, say them. I can do nothing to retaliate, but I won't stand here forever. My masochism has limits."

Harry was silent, thoughtfully so. After a long, excruciating minute Lucius turned back toward the door; Harry's voice stopped him.

"My sadism has limits, too. Very strong ones. But answer me this, Malfoy."

Lucius paused, turning only enough to show Harry his profile.

"Do you really care about Hermione?"

"Would I be here if I did not?" His answer was quick, ready, raw.

"She asked you to come."

"No," Lucius shook his head. "She didn't." He turned his back on Harry and was out the door before the other man could formulate a response.

Hermione leaned against the door, eyes closed. She was relieved that they had not come to blows. She was proud of them, too, for recognizing what they had once been and choosing not to perpetuate it now.

"Hermione?" Harry called.

"In here," she sighed.

Harry stood on the other side of the door, instinctively knowing that she needed the barrier. "Is it true? You didn't tell him to come?"

"No. He was already on his way here."

Harry was quiet for a long time. Then,

"Well, I guess that explains how he got here so fast."

Two days went by and this time he did not text. She knew that facing Harry had been difficult. The two of them had exchanged very few words and cloudy sentiments, at best, but the ten minute confrontation had surely felt like the toil of hours.

Though she hadn't expected any visitors today (what day was it, anyway?), Harry knocked on her door. He was in quidditch robes and looked like he was in a rush. Her suspicion was confirmed a moment later when he wrestled a piece of paper from inside his robe and handed it over.

"Hermione, I can't stay, I've got a trial with Oliver Wood's team, but you should read this." He was halfway out the door when he paused and looked back. "Malfoy sent it."

Mr. Potter,

It is perhaps a great flaw, or a great strength, that a Slytherin finds himself unable to speak plainly in the presence of those who endanger him. Be it physical danger, emotional, whatever, it is a fact. As such this is a cowardly way to deal with things, but I'm sure you prefer it to another face-to-face meeting.

Being much younger than me, you are all too familiar with growing pains. It is that time where your body grows unchecked, faster than even it can handle, and you ache with the exhaustion of it. Forgive the poorly elucidated metaphor, but at the half-century mark that is where I find myself – growing too fast, not wanting to do it at all, tempering my mistakes and the demons that many do not think me capable of having with an almost suicidal willpower. It is an exquisite punishment, one I alternately love and hate, much like those who brought it upon me (myself included).

Apologies are meaningless so I will not make them. Perhaps the best penance comes in action. Know, then, that in the most colloquial terms, I owe you one. Call upon it tomorrow or never, for great or ill; what you ask means little to me. I will do it. You know I have only offered blind servitude to one other, a colossal mistake, and I am loath to make it twice. Not that I believe you have such dark agendas…for if you did, this world would be a very different place.

But we men are full of secrets, aren't we? One favor, Potter, one task, no questions…and then we are even. Tabula rasa, if you can stand it.

Yours,

L. Malfoy

In the wake of the letter, she finally emerged from her flat. She showered, beat her curls into obedient submission, put on a bit of makeup to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, and dressed in something other than sweatpants. It was warm outside, a tinge of humidity in the air. The sun would feel good on her skin. Besides, she could use the vitamin D; staying in the house depleted it and that only made her more depressed, completely independent of everything else.

Once outside, she was glad that something had at last propelled her back into reality. It was sickeningly beautiful out. She turned back for a pair of sunglasses; they felt good to wear because they provided some protection against the story written on her face. They shielded her on both sides. With them firmly in place, she felt her back straighten and she breathed a deep lungful of summer air.

A slight breeze blew her skirt around her knees and heat kissed her shoulders. The rhythmic crunch of her flip flops became meditative, laced with the chirping of birds and the whisper of moving leaves. She was at Lucius's flat before she knew it. There was only one problem; he wasn't answering the door.

Hermione sighed, blowing a curl out of her eyes. Where would he be? She tried to put herself in his shoes but found it impossible; there was no one who could predict the whereabouts of the mugglized, grudgingly repentant Lucius Malfoy except Lucius Malfoy. She was just about to turn away from the door when it was pulled open.

It was Draco.

"Hi," she managed. "Where's--?"

She yelped a moment later when his hand clamped around her wrist and he pulled her inside. She found herself leaning against the closed door staring straight into his grey eyes. In the wake of the bold move he looked the slightest bit unsure. He was probably running over his options in his head; acknowledge the flirtation, pretend that it had never happened, apologize and offer excuses, try to wiggle out of it – but his body language didn't look like he was trying to wiggle out of anything.

After a minute he lifted a hand and gently pulled the sunglasses from her face.

"That's better," he murmured. His eyes took her in. They were less fettered than Lucius's, but still held enough ambiguity to create a worm of apprehension in her stomach. And a worm of something else…

It took her by surprise, the warm flush that spread through her at his appraising eyes. She hadn't thought it would be possible to feel anything remotely resembling physical attraction for a while; the rejection that divorce entailed had a way of crushing that. But here she was, eight days separated, letting his eyes devour her and enjoying it.

Swallowing, she returned the favor. Draco was tall and lean, the epitome of fitness. His jaw looked like it had been carved by Michelangelo. Somewhere along the line he'd found a better use for his hair products; though his hair was about the same length and the same impossible blonde, it was styled in a much more flattering, modern way. Like his father he wore muggle clothes well. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt but he made them look expensive, which, no doubt, they were. If she had met this Draco Malfoy on the street with no prior knowledge of who he was or what he had done, she would have thought him damn near irresistible. There was just something about the way he was looking at her; it made her body rage with primitive lust and she was entirely unprepared for it.

She would never know if it was her or Draco that moved first. Either way, they met at the lips. His arms slid around her effortlessly and the pressure of his body against hers was enough to shut off the rational part of her brain. She needed this. She needed…

To be shagged silly? To be reminded that she was beautiful, desirable, worthwhile? To control him…?

He had thrown caution to the wind. He was kissing her like a man returned from a long war, one that had tested his very psyche – an apt comparison. His eyes were closed, his hands restless on her back, and his mouth equally restless against hers.

She sank against his chest, luxuriating in the kiss. His tongue plied hers, coaxed it, provoked it, until at last she retaliated and pushed forward into his mouth. It drew a quiet, fantastic sound of pleasure out of him. That sound lit her nerve endings on fire in a way she never would have expected. Every stroke of his tongue, every move of his scalding hand beneath her tank top was reducing her to a puddle of pure desire. She had never felt quite like this with Ron, not ever…

He broke the kiss with a heavy breath and his mouth went to her neck. She gasped, tilting her head back automatically. His lips were like two feathers, tickling and driving her to a madness that was not at all funny. The searing of his tongue along the column of her neck made her draw a shaky breath between her teeth.

Through the fog of arousal she registered that he was pushing the spaghetti straps of her tank top down her shoulders. Then his hands went around her and worked quickly and efficiently on the closure of her bra. If she had thought for even a moment that Draco Malfoy would be removing it, she would have worn a better one…

Oh, heavens. The bra fell away, freeing her torso to the warm air and the even warmer vacuum of his body heat. He kissed her again, his right hand cupping her breast, his thumb brushing over the dusky peak of her nipple. She knew she was trembling. This was all wrong but all right at the same time. She should not be doing this. It was too soon, this was reckless, was he the right Malfoy...? Instead of making her want to pull away, the conflict was producing the most potent craving she had ever felt. She didn't think she could stop.

She could feel it in him, too. His heart was beating fast and his expensive jeans could not contain the obvious arousal against her abdomen. He wanted her. Her former worst enemy wanted her badly. If that wasn't a heady shot of power, what was?

She realized, as she worked on the fly of his jeans and watched his eyes darken with desire, that a part of her already loved him. She loved him for changing. She loved him for daring to want her in spite of it all. She even loved the contradiction of his distant, calculated confession and this very unexpected, impulsive claim. It was one thing to talk about tolerance and equality; it was entirely another to act on it, to discard his bloodline in his father's apartment…

For some reason that made her wetter than the rainforest. He wrestled her hands away from his waist and pressed her against the door, the full weight of his body against her. She hadn't realized that he removed his shirt; his bare, muscled torso on hers promised more and she was unprepared for how much she wanted it. His lips rested a centimeter from the spot where her neck and her shoulder met. His warm breath ghosted over the sensitive skin as he breathed, fast and hard. They were on the cusp of something, something that was best done quickly and decisively lest they lose their nerve.

He released her but only long enough to propel her to the floor. That broke the tentative stalemate. She tugged at him, he tugged at her, and in moments they were divested of the last barriers. The need to touch and taste took over; his tongue flickered across a taut nipple and she drank in the way he inhaled sharply, his brows knitting, when her hand found his straining length. In a tangle of limbs and skin he sought her center, touching her moisture and lazily spreading it until the pads of his fingers moved slickly over her clitoris.

The feeling was instantaneous and electrifying. She squirmed beneath him, pinned below his body and his hungry eyes. She was going to have sex with Draco Malfoy and she was just fine with it as long as he…kept…doing…that…

He did, his fingers making precise, pressurized circles. Pretense was gone. She moaned and quivered and watched him watching her, his shrewd, sex-hazed eyes inflaming her as much as the activities of his hand. Pleasure was building upon delicious pleasure and she was dangerously close to what might prove to be the most intense orgasm of her life.

He pushed her to it a moment later, when he slithered unexpectedly down her body and replaced his fingers with his tongue. She shuddered and bit back a scream as pleasure boiled over into ecstasy, spilling and pooling and exploding through her entire body. He held her there, his tongue merciless, until she could no longer contain the cries that wanted to rip out of her.

She gasped and lay boneless as his body covered hers once again. Her mind was still scattered as she watched him reel in his control, pale eyelashes flickering over grey irises. Gently his hands traveled behind her knees and eased them upward. She recovered enough sense to know what he wanted, what he needed…

With her cooperation and a practiced hand, he guided their bodies together. She bit her lip, floundering for her own control. Her insides were still singing from the orgasm and his intrusion only made them sing louder. Sex was sometimes overrated; this was not one of those times. He felt like the missing piece of her puzzle as he began to move.

Bracing himself on either side of her, he let instinct do the work. He pressed in and out of her at a reasonable pace, his face flushed and enraptured. Hermione purred beneath him. She was lost in the slick friction his throbbing sex created, demolished in the wake of the discovery of that mysteriously elusive G-spot – G obviously stood for Good God Almighty damn it hell fuck…!

She had no idea what she was saying and she didn't care as low moans began to issue from him. Draco Malfoy mid-coitus was the most amazing thing she had ever seen, heard, experienced…

Her mind spiraled into insensibility once again as she came, tightening around him, crushing his hard, thick length. His arms buckled and he leaned on her, pressing into her fitful heat, his face against her neck. Her arms went around his shoulders of their own accord and the tension she found meant that he was close.

He redoubled his efforts a moment later, rising and grasping the back of her thighs. He hunted his pleasure, taking her hard and fast until at last his back straightened, his neck tilted back, and his lips parted to emit a quiet but unquestionably erotic groan. She felt him spill inside her, twitching, and they rode it out together with matching, jagged gasps.

Time congealed around them, cradling them, muting their shocked, sated bodies, and Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger lay in its obliging cocoon.

The last hour had been mostly wordless and the trend continued. But Draco's arm around her waist as they left his father's flat was an unashamed shout. This was an unexpected, if pleasant, turn of events.

"Where are we going?" she asked softly. She didn't want to destroy the fragile magic, but she had to know that they could speak like normal human beings.

"You were going to ask where my father was before I, ah..." he trailed off and then recovered. "He plays football on Sunday nights."

She stopped walking and he nearly tipped her over.

"Football?"

"Yes, you know, that muggle game with the ball you kick with your feet."

"I know what it is!" she said and smacked him lightly on the arm. "I just can't believe he knows how to play."

Draco shrugged. "Can't very well play quidditch, can he? He told me he used to play as a child. I've never seen him, but that's why we're going now."

Hermione resumed walking beside him, thoughtful. "What else does he do that I won't believe?"

"Well, before he started working he was awfully bored. He had to find ways to occupy himself. What do you call them? Hobbies."

"Hobbies," she repeated, shaking her head.

"Now he works a lot, but apparently he likes football enough to play with this old geezer league once or twice a week. There's the pitch, on the left." Draco pointed. They had only been walking ten minutes, and sure enough there was a sloppily lined field in a park up ahead. Even from here she could pick him out; no one else had a blonde ponytail.

Hermione thought she'd mastered her knee-jerk reactions to the strangeness of the past few weeks. Now they were back in full force as they crossed the street. No amount of bizarre experiences could have prepared her the sight of Lucius on the pitch. She had never seen his legs but there they were, on account of his blue shorts and the absence of shin pads. His hair was tied back in a looped ponytail; he probably had the most hair of any man on the field. They weren't geezers, exactly, but most of them were probably around forty. Like all of them Lucius was sweating, but unlike all of them he looked good when he did.

As she watched the ball came to him and he skillfully avoided a tackle. But he couldn't avoid the second one as he moved up the field; he went down, felled by an overzealous defender. It didn't faze him in the least. He held up his hands in protest, the way every footballer did when he was fouled, and got the call.

Hermione glanced around. To their left there was a gaggle of five or six middle-aged women. She stifled a laugh when she realized they were all staring at Lucius, preening on the sidelines and trying to get him to notice them. Lucius had noticed someone, but not any of the admirers; his eyes landed right on her and Draco. Making an excuse about his knee (it was bleeding, to be fair), he jogged off the field. The pick-up game paused as the other men scattered for a break.

Hermione and Draco both laughed as the women tripped over themselves to offer him a plaster. He politely refused, slicing his way through them en route to his offspring.

"Vultures," he muttered under his breath good-naturedly.

"Oh, you love it, father," Draco responded. Lucius flashed a smile that didn't deny it and then took a sip of water.

"Oi, Malloy!" one of the other men called.

"Malloy?" Hermione whispered.

"Alias," Lucius returned, completely serious. "Just call me Luc Malloy."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh; Draco was suppressing a grin. Some things never changed, chief among them Lucius Malfoy's intermittent paranoia. It was a good alias, though – unremarkable, and there were probably fifty Luc Malloys or some variation thereof in London alone.

"Who're these fine young folks?" the other man asked as he approached. "Your kids?"

"One of them, yes. This is my son, Draco," Lucius replied before his eyes raked perceptively over the both of them, letting them know in no uncertain terms that he was aware of exactly what they had been doing before coming to see him, "and his girlfriend, Hermione."