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Alternate Universe - Muggle, No magic, First POV, Divorce, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Cheating, Overheard Sex, Age Difference, Lucius Malfoy Writer, Hermione Granger Ballerina, New Beginning, Not the Lucius you expect, Lumione. Discussion of Infidelity.

CHAPTER 4

"So, what do you do all day?" Hermione asked as she sat cross-legged on my couch. She waved her fork in the air. "I mean, other than skulking around the gardens and sneering at these walls."

We'd slipped into an unspoken routine. I'd stopped avoiding her — with the exception of Wednesday mornings — and she'd become my dinner companion on Thursday evenings.

It had started with her arriving a week after her whirlwind welcome visit to my flat, Thai food in hand and chatting non-stop. When it happened the next three Thursdays, I learned that my neighbour liked routine. But, as I also learned, that came with her dancer lifestyle.

She had very set routines. When she left, when she arrived home. When she ate. What she ate — which was surprisingly a lot. She had explained that with the amount of training and classes she did, she required a lot of fuel. I knew about Tuesday nights. I'd also learned that Sundays were reserved for lunch with her friends. And I found myself cringing at how stalkerish it was that after only a few weeks, I knew her entire routine.

"I keep busy," I answered, sitting at the table and shaking my head. "And I have a neighbour who keeps me entertained."

"And which neighbour would that be?" She paused the fork halfway to her mouth. "I bet it's Mrs Trelawney on the first floor. She watches you all the time. I think she's fascinated by the long hair. It makes you look like you'd do very dirty things."

I almost choked on my dinner. "Excuse me?"

"Oh come on, the long hair? You like the ladies to think you're some kind of Brad Pitt, Legends of the Fall, bad boy."

"That's entirely untrue. And Mrs Trewlaney is a little short of a full deck."

"Rude," she snorted.

"Not if it's the truth," I countered. "The woman was chanting to some moon spirit in the garden last week. Candles, crystals, some kind of stick she was shaking; you name it, she had it."

"Just be glad she wasn't naked and dancing," Hermione laughed.

I grimaced. "That's not something I need to see."

"It was one time and it was at night so it wasn't all that traumatic." Her attention returned to the salmon and spinach pasta she'd had delivered. "But that long hair…"

I'd been getting grief for my hair since I lost a bet when I was eighteen and had to grow it out. Then, deciding I actually liked it, I'd kept it long.

"I've had long hair since I was a teenager. And if you're forgetting, I was married to one woman. I didn't have thousands chasing me."

"Mrs Trewlaney isn't thousands… although, she may have that many personalities." She smirked at me. "Maybe you could pick one and give me a show for a change."

I ignored her and went back to eating, my face heating up. The only woman I wanted to perform with was the one sitting casually on my couch.

"What about you?" I asked. "Haven't you got anything better to do than spend your Thursday nights with a near stranger?"

"You're not a stranger, Lucius. We've been hanging out together regularly and you do know some pretty intimate stuff about me." She winked and I stared down at my plate.

"Can we not discuss that?"

She laughed. "Why not? You aren't still sleeping on the couch, are you?"

"Only on Tuesday nights," I mumbled.

My hopes of her ending things with Charlie after discovering she had an audience on Tuesday nights were for naught. And, if the increase in the volume of her vocals was any indication, I had a worrying feeling that she was rather enjoying knowing I was on the other side of the wall.

"But why? You're a grown man, you have a son, you know about these things."

"Know about them, yes. But I have no wish to hear them." I glanced up at her. "I'm not a prude, but as my son so delicately put it, it's like I have free porn."

She goggled at me then rolled sideways on the couch, laughing.

"I need to meet this son of yours."

"Oh, he's a real card," I deadpanned.

"Lucius, come on. You can't keep sleeping on the couch. It can't be good for you."

"It's not, but this…" I paused and frowned. "I've only ever heard this one man, and I've never actually seen him. Clearly there's something going on between you. How does he feel about you eating dinner with me each week?"

"It's not his business," she said bluntly. "He and I have an arrangement and that's it."

"What is this arrangement?" My heart stuttered, then took off at double time. Arrangement didn't sound like commitment.

She shrugged one shoulder. "We're friends. We have been for a long time. We both have weird schedules, which makes it difficult to meet people, and we've no interest in anything more than just sex with each other. So we agreed to once a week — Tuesdays — and no strings attached. We can see other people, but I don't. I'm not sure if he does. We don't talk about it."

"No strings attached?" I shook my head, not believing it was possible. Two people couldn't be as intimate as she was with him and feel nothing.

"You don't think it's possible?"

"No. I don't think it is. To be that intimate with someone and not develop feelings… it's impossible."

"Well, I feel nothing for Charlie, other than him being a good friend." She chewed slowly on a mouthful of food, then shrugged again. "What we have is convenient and hassle-free."

"And does he feel the same way?"

"He's not said anything to the contrary." She tilted her head and appeared to ponder my words. "Why do you think it's so weird?"

"I don't think it's weird and I'm not judging, but an attractive young woman like you could enjoy the company of any man she wanted without any arrangements in place."

I just hope that man is me, I didn't say.

"And does that include you?" she asked, and I choked on a surprised cough, sure that she'd read my mind. "Are you enjoying my company?"

"Aside from you being slightly mad, yes, you're quite enjoyable company."

"So why are you sitting over there and not over here, enjoying my company?"

"The couch is for sitting on. The table is for eating at."

"Seriously? You've never sat here in sweats and bare feet and downed noodles from a box?"

"No."

"Do you care that I am?"

"No."

"Are you ever going to sit here and eat with me?"

"No."

"Are you ever going to say anything but no?"

"No."

She laughed and I grinned.

"I was raised differently," I said. "I had nannies and house staff, and there were certain expectations of what was proper etiquette. And a huge part of that etiquette didn't include children. I didn't eat a meal with my parents until I was nine. And even then, it was in a shirt and tie and pressed trousers."

"They took you out?"

"No, I wasn't allowed to eat out with them until I was thirteen, but conveniently I was at boarding school by then. At nine I was finally allowed in the dining room in our home."

"Whoa."

"Yes, whoa is correct," I agreed. "My father had very specific ideas on what would make me a man. And not associating with him or my mother until I could hold a knife and fork correctly was one of those very important ideas."

She covered her mouth to stifle her laugh.

"My boarding school was similar. Proudly raising proper gentlemen to send out into the world in tails and tops hats."

"Fancy." She tilted her head to one side. "Why don't I get that? The top hat and tails."

"That's only for meals outside the home." I sighed. My school hadn't been nearly that bad, but manners and etiquette were the second priority after education. Fun and relaxation weren't high on the list. "And I hate it, but unfortunately it's a very hard habit to break."

"Well, forty years is a long time to have been dressing for dinner."

I smiled as she stood and crossed the room, sitting opposite me. "You don't have to sit here. You were comfortable over there."

"Yeah, but you were uncomfortable with me over there." She tapped her finger on the table. "We'll work up to getting you to eat with me on the couch."

I bit my tongue. Eating on the couch was something I was definitely hoping to work up to.

"What about your ex-wife?" she asked. "Did she expect you to dress for dinner?"

"My ex-wife's expectations were limited to accessing my money and to be seen spending my money. Anything else was a bonus… for her at least."

I wondered for the first time since my divorce how my ex-wife was managing without my money. She'd been given a fair settlement, but with the way she spent, I doubted she had anything left.

"And your son?"

"I didn't want him to be raised as I was, with unachievable expectations and a lack of affection. If his mother had her way, he would have been." I shrugged. "So I made him learn the value of a dollar. He was also allowed to be with me any time he wanted."

"I guess it was easier since you were home all the time."

"Not at first. I was a writer for Time Magazine for several years. It's how my ex-wife managed to begin her… lifestyle."

"You travelled?"

"Yes, quite a lot at first, and she did join me on occasion, but when Draco was born, I hated to leave. So, when he was about a year old, I started writing freelance."

"Probably cramped her lifestyle as well." She pointed her fork at me and I nodded.

"I only put a dent in it, I think." I frowned and pushed the pasta around my plate. "She began to travel on her own, using the excuse of being bored and lonely when I was writing. I thought nothing of it, but now… I'm not sure how I didn't see it."

"The cheating?" she asked gently and I nodded. "She probably learned pretty quick how to hide it. Unfortunately unscrupulous people have a talent for hiding their real personalities."

"Sounds like you have some experience."

"Just a general observation of life."

"You're far too young to be so wise," I said. "Your father is right; you have been here before."

"Was right," she corrected. "He and my mother passed away in an accident six years ago."

"I'm sorry." I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "It seems you have faced a few battles."

She nodded. "A few. But I can't see the point in dwelling on it. I can't change what happened, I can only remember them always and live my best life. One they'd be proud of."

"I think you've already done that." Realising I was still holding her hand, I gave it another quick squeeze then reluctantly let go. "You've achieved more in your short life than most do in an entire lifetime."

"I hope so." She smiled and began eating again.

We ate in amicable silence for several minutes, but I knew by the way she kept watching me something else was on her mind.

"What?" I asked. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "I was just wondering about something, but I think it's a bit personal."

I snorted. "That's not stopped you before."

She pushed the last piece of pasta around her bowl. "You said you were raised by nannies and you went to a fancy boarding school…"

"I was and I did," I confirmed.

"And I'm assuming fancy means expensive?"

"Extremely expensive."

I watched her as she glanced around the room, her lips twisting in the most adorable way as she carefully thought through her next words. She truly was beautiful. Not in the traditional, flawless-skin-perfect-hair way, but in the natural, I-don't-give-a-damn way.

The light smattering of freckles across her nose. The crazy curls she tried to tame into a knot on top of her head. The sweet curve of her top lip. The complete lack of makeup.

She was so comfortable in her own skin, and it was a pleasant change from what I was used to.

"Extremely expensive…" She mused and then looked up from her bowl. "Nannies. Boarding school. Strict and proper upbringing. This flat. You come from money, don't you?"

"I do. An obscene amount of money," I said. "And I hated it."

"Really? Why?"

I pushed my bowl aside and leaned my arms on the table — the complete opposite of the manners I'd been taught — and explained. "There's no other way to say it, so yes, I grew up in an extremely wealthy family. I lived in a manor house on an estate in Wiltshire, and as I said, I hated it. It was cold and uninviting. It wasn't a home, it was all for show. My parents hosted lavish parties, which I was never allowed to attend, and I had more space in the gardens than any child should need, and no friends around to share it with."

"Lucius, that's awful."

"My father's idea of raising a son was to ignore me until I was old enough to go to boarding school and then tell me what classes I had to take to make him proud."

"I want to punch your father in the throat." She scowled and balled her hand into a fist and I couldn't help but smile at the sight of her tiny, delicate hand in such a threatening pose.

"Well, you wouldn't be the first. He was an arse. A selfish, uncaring arse. He died rich, but he also died lonely." I shrugged. "It was what he deserved."

"And your mum?"

"She was indifferent. She was warmer towards me, but she also liked the high life. Liked the money." I let out a humourless laugh. "My ex-wife was the same, so I guess I followed in at least one of his footsteps."

"Only one?" she asked. "I assume that means you didn't take his advice on classes at school."

"No. He wanted me to be an investment banker. It's where the money is."

"And his reaction when you didn't do as you were told?"

"I was threatened with my inheritance being taken away. Threatened with being removed from my fancy school, which I wouldn't have cared about — it was a cesspool of more spoiled, rich brats — but he was too self-centred to even notice."

I reached for her empty bowl and placed it on top of mine, standing and carrying them to the sink. My parents — particularly my father — had always been a contentious issue for me. I'd never liked discussing them, preferring to ignore their existence unless it was absolutely necessary to acknowledge them. They'd both passed on, but their absence didn't make conversation about them any easier.

"We don't have to talk about this if you're uncomfortable."

"It's fine," I answered. "Doing something while I talk about my family lessens the frustration."

"Well then, let me distract you with a magic trick."

She followed me, grinning when she held up the teapot and I laughed.

"Thank you, I appreciate that you've learned to make real tea."

"Were you serious about that?" She leaned close and filled the kettle while I ran the water to wash the dishes. "About learning to make tea at school?"

"Completely serious. I did nothing for myself until I was sent away. It was a shock to the system, believe me. Fortunately, I'm a fast learner, so within a few weeks, I could cook and clean, do laundry, and even make tea."

"Sounds like you were better off at school."

"I was," I agreed. "I finally had friends and was able to make decisions for myself. My father wasn't around to make me feel like I was simply supposed to follow his every word. It was very freeing."

"Was he actually in your life before you were sent off to school?"

I considered her question. I was nine years old before my father truly acknowledged my existence. And even then I rarely received more than a nod in my direction." I shook my head. "No. He really wasn't. And in all honesty, he hated all children, not just me."

"So, you were born because…?"

"My mother, I guess. She was more affectionate, but I still wasn't her first priority. And my father's father expected the family name to continue. I was born simply as means to carry on a name."

Her hand was warm when she touched my arm and I instantly pushed aside the thought of where else that hand might feel warm.

"He was a right arse."

"He was," I agreed. "But, fortunately for me, my grandmother on my mother's side was a free spirit, and since I was her only grandchild, I inherited everything from her."

"Very fortunate," she said with a nod. "So, there was money on both sides?"

"There was. Lots of money, and my grandmother was the only one it didn't have a negative effect on."

"And you," she pointed out. "You're not stuffy and arse-like at all."

"Thank you. I never wanted to be like my parents. And honestly, I never really knew them; I spent so little time with them. But, early on, I was on the path to becoming just like him. Fortunately, my grandmother took me under her wing and led me on a different path. She wasn't able to do it with my mother; she had her mind set on marrying rich and living as a princess. So, my grandmother was the one who encouraged me to do what made me happy, which went down really well with my father."

"I'll bet," she rolled her eyes. "I'm certain he'd hate me."

"Um… yes, he probably would," I said slowly, wondering at her meaning.

"I… ah… just meant, we're… um… friends and since I'm slightly mad, he'd hate me." Her words came out in one breath, the realisation of what she'd unintentionally referred to making her ramble. "He'd consider me a bad influence or something. I'd ruin your gentlemanly upbringing by making you fake tea. Probably a good thing you're old and we didn't go to school together."

"Oh, I don't know…" I grinned and winked at her. "Maybe I would have married you instead of my cheating ex-wife. It would have turned out better for everyone."

"Ha! That's pretty presumptuous of you. Maybe I would have thought you as big an arse as your father."

"I'll have you know I was quite the charming lad. Had we been at school together, we would have been thumping my wall in no time."

Her jaw dropped open and I chuckled, proud that I was finally able to render her speechless.

"Unless that is, you don't like blonds, or gentlemen."

"No, I like both, but… ah… you're… we're… just friends." She was looking everywhere but at me. "Why did you choose to live here? You could have easily had a country estate without the mad neighbours."

I held in my laughter at her sudden show of nervousness. I'd become used to her change of topics mid-sentence, but it was a pleasant change to see her a little shaken. Her slip of phrase was obviously unintentional, but it also gave me a sliver of hope that I held the potential to be more than her neighbour, more than her friend.

"I could have easily purchased an estate," I replied. "But my son lives in the city and, since he's my only family, I wanted to be close."

"And you raised him differently?"

"Very differently." I drained the sink and dried my hands, turning and leaning back on the counter to watch her make the tea. "From the minute I learned I was going to be a father, I knew I wouldn't be my father. Draco was raised with love and affection and, unlike me with my father, he loved spending time together. He was well educated, but he wasn't sent to boarding school. And he chose his own direction in life."

She carefully poured the tea into the cups, not looking up when she spoke. "So he's not a writer?"

"No. He's a chemical engineer."

"Oh, wow. You raised a smart kid." She paused and glanced up at me, suitably impressed. "Maybe I don't want to meet him."

I frowned. "Why do you say that?"

She shrugged one shoulder and I was concerned at the look of self-depreciation on her face.

"I don't think we'd have anything to discuss. I'm just a dancer. He's smart."

"Don't ever say that," I said more sharply than I intended. "You're incredibly talented in your own right, and I also know exactly how intelligent you are."

There was something in the way she shrugged away from compliments that didn't sit right with me. She'd done it when she'd told me she was a principal dancer, and I'd not paid much attention to her shying away from my praise, assuming that it was slightly embarrassing to have praise heaped on her by someone she'd just met. But I'd noted her reactions had been similar every time I'd complimented her since.

"I'm not chemical engineering smart," she replied. "I mean, that takes some serious brains."

"It does, and I'm very proud of my son, but I know for a fact he has two left feet. So your skills, while in a different field, are easily equal to his."

She pushed a cup my way and shrugged again, picking her own cup up and heading for the couch. "Whatever."

I opened my mouth to reprimand her, but held myself in check. It wasn't my place. Instead, I complimented her again.

"Well, you can believe what you like. But in the few weeks I've known you, I've come to think of you as incredibly talented and exceptionally intelligent."

I sat in the armchair and was pleased to notice the small smile that curled her lips, despite her trying to hide it as she sipped her tea.

"I've never felt exceptionally intelligent," she said quietly.

"You can quote Tennessee Williams, you've taught me more about ballet than I ever thought I would know. You can discuss books and politics and current affairs with ease. You love history and your knowledge of the natural world is second only to Attenborough. When you meet my son, I think he will feel inferior to you."

Her eyes widened. "When I meet him?"

"Well, we are neighbours," I said quickly, my own unintended slip warming my cheeks. "I'm sure you'll run into him at some stage."

"Run into him, huh?" Her amused smirk returned. "I hope you've not told him about the wall thumping."

The warmth in my cheeks turned to flame, and she was horrified.

"Oh my god! You didn't!?"

"It was when I thought Charlie was my neighbour," I explained lamely. "I didn't know it was you."

"Technically it was both of us in the bed."

"That's true," I agreed. "But maybe if I'd have known you were my neighbour, I wouldn't have said anything."

"Why's that?" She tilted her head to the side and frowned. "Because I'm a woman and I shouldn't be having wall thumping sex?"

"No, I just meant…" I paused. She was right. It didn't matter that it was her — as jealous as I was. She was young and should be enjoying her life, so I corrected myself. "Actually, I'm glad I told them. They found it highly amusing."

She looked aghast. "They?"

"Katie, my daughter-in-law, is also aware and suitably impressed. I'm sure you'll like her."

"You say that like I'm going to actually meet them. I definitely don't want to now." She picked up the television remote and flicked through the channels, signalling this conversation was over.

With one last glance at me, she turned her attention to the television. She continued to sip her tea, but I couldn't take my eyes off her.

I was left to wonder why she was so objectionable to compliments. What had happened in her life that she refused to hear anything positive about herself? I was sure she'd been highly honoured as a dancer — respect and adulation would most definitely have been a part of her success — so I didn't understand why my praise made her uncomfortable. And it didn't fit with the woman I had come to know.

Confidence and surety was what I had seen in her. From the minute she'd introduced herself, she'd never held back, speaking her mind and asking questions that friends I'd had for years wouldn't ask. And, despite my need for privacy, her curiosity was endearing and sweet.

It was the reason I was so confused.

The writer side of me said there was a story, something dark and mysterious. It could have easily been the loss of her parents, but the way she had spoken about them — albeit fleeting — didn't line up with them being the source of her self-doubt. And the human side of me, the side that didn't look at everything as a story, told me not to ask her. My instincts screamed that there was a story, but they also told me if I asked, all of this would be over. And that was certainly something I didn't want.

Putting aside my feelings, I had become accustomed to her presence. I enjoyed her company, enjoyed conversing with her, enjoyed laughing with her. She was the fresh air that had enabled me to breathe again. The stress of my life disappeared when I was with her. I felt calm and relaxed, and her madness reminded me what it was like to be young and carefree.

She was so settled in her life, so accomplished at such a young age, she made me feel like I'd achieved nothing — despite knowing that I had. And maybe I'd been the same at twenty-five. Maybe I'd also shied away from compliments and praise, having never truly been given anything that resembled a compliment from either of my parents. But I was also married and had a child at her age. I was older at twenty-five. I had the responsibility of a family, was still trying to find my feet in the writing world, and I bore the heavy weight of rejection on my shoulders that new writers felt. And upon reflection, I wasn't sure that carefree had ever been something in my life. I'd not followed the path my father had set for me, but I'd not veered from my own either. I'd been so determined to succeed as a writer, to prove my father wrong, that I hadn't considered any other path.

I glanced at the desk by the window, at my laptop gathering dust. The path I had chosen was to be a writer, but I had no idea how to pick up my story. Where did I find the inspiration to write again?

"Lucius?" She spoke my name without looking at me, but she was biting her lip to conceal her smile.

"Yes?"

"Stop looking at me. It's weird."

I nodded and smiled to myself. My inspiration was right in front of me.