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.o.o.
With the hood of her cloak pulled securely around her head, Hermione advanced stealthily towards her destination. She kept mainly to the darkened areas of the streets where the setting sun could not reach her—or allow a familiar face to discover her intent. Her eyes darted around her surrounding areas, and she reached up and pulled the hood even tighter to cover the bottom half of her face.
She was standing at the junction where Diagon Alley branched off into a narrow passage that led to the more unsavoury Knockturn Alley. Despite Voldemort's defeat, and the subsequent clean-up of Dark Arts practitioners five years ago, Knockturn Alley still housed many unscrupulous and malevolent characters. The Ministry's zeal to get rid of Voldemort's hidden followers had only lasted just over a year, but in time, life in the Wizarding world had returned to the days before the Second War.
But not entirely. Before the War, life had been turbulent and filled with an ominous presence of inevitable doom. The knowledge that Voldemort existed and had wanted his enemies eradicated had seemed like a burden. However, the wicked beast was no more, and the weight of impending disaster had been lifted. The majority of the Wizarding world had moved on.
Moved on so much in fact that, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had become an accomplished Auror and the husband of Luna Lovegood. That Ron Weasley had become engaged, and that Hermione Granger was to be his lucky bride.
A shudder raced down Hermione's spine.
Lucky my arse! Forced, more like it...
There really was no better way to explain her engagement to Ronald Weasley. She'd been forced, and to make matters worse, she'd also been made to believe that she had wanted to be forced.
The audacity of one Mrs. Molly Weasley.
Hermione shuddered again-but this time out of anger as she remembered that fateful spring day in May…
.o.o.
Aforementioned spring day in May, three months ago,
Saturday, the fifteenth, 1:00pm thereabouts,
Weasley kitchen table, pea-picking.
"Hermione, dear, I'd like to have a word with you."
This is not going to be good, Hermione thought.
"What about, Mrs. Weasley?"
"Oh, dear, do call me 'Molly.' I think you're old enough to address me as such."
Definitely not good, decided Hermione.
"Okay-er-Molly," Hermione said awkwardly. "What's this you'd like to have a word about?"
"Well, dear, I've been recently thinking about you and Ron—"
Oh, Circe. Kill me now.
"—and I've been wondering about your future—"
Which is none of your business.
"—and Ron's—"
Which is also none—wait—I guess it is.
"—and I've been thinking that since Ron's got a job—"
Which is part-time and pays less in a week than what Hagrid makes in a day.
"—and that you're working, which, really, you wouldn't need to do if—"
Please don't make her say it. Please don't make her say it. Please don't—
"—you and Ron got married."
Dammit!
"Oh..." was all Hermione could say in the ensuing silence.
"Honestly, dear, don't you think it's time that you and Ron got serious? You're not getting any younger."
"But Mrs. Weasley—"
"Molly."
"Er—but—er—Molly, Ron and I aren't ready to take such a big step-"
"Darling, it's not anymore complicated than courting! Whatever you two do now can be done whilst married!"
"But M-Molly, a marriage is a serious commitment," Hermione argued. "Surely you know it's not to be taken lightly. We can't just marry—"
"Hermione, marriage is a beautiful, wonderful thing," Mrs. Weasley interrupted as though she hadn't heard one bit of Hermione's argument. "It's the most important event in a woman's life-after giving birth, of course." Then, "You do want children, don't you, Hermione?"
"Well, I-I've never thought about it, but I suppose I might—"
"There!" proclaimed Mrs. Weasley in triumphant tones. "Come now, Hermione. Surely you know it's terribly-unwise to have children out of wedlock? Darling, as I said earlier, you're not getting any younger. You're pretty now, but what about five years from now? Ten years? Where will your beauty be then? It's best to get the job over and done with as soon as you can, I say. Besides, you love Ron, don't you? Of course you do. He loves you too, you know. It really is for the best. You do see this, don't you?"
.o.o.
And, for some inane reason, she'd believed Mrs. Weasley. After that Saturday, many other 'talks' had followed, each further breaking down her resolve to not marry Ron. Then, on yet another fateful Saturday—but this time in June—she'd made a Betrothal Vow to Ron in the company of his family, her parents, and Harry. Magically, she'd promised to marry him and bear his children, but during their wait for that blissful day—which was dated at six months from June—she would not be unfaithful to him.
Mere minutes after making that vow to Ron, horrified comprehension of what she'd agreed to had dawned on her. The very next day, she'd gone and done heavy research on the methods of breaking Betrothal Vows. Days of pouring over tome upon tome had yielded nothing, until one day, two weeks later, she'd encountered a paragraph in one book that referenced another concerning Unbreakable Vows:
"...and in Unpledging Pledges written by Boris Bowler, one is taught the methods of breaking the Unbreakable Vow, as well as many other important magical vows. Alas, Mr. Bowler leads us to engage in the Dark Arts if one were to utilise..."
She hadn't bothered reading on further. With a quick enquiry made to the stuffy librarian, she'd been told: "Such odious material isn't housed in this reputable establishment. That book has gone out of circulation, and rightfully so. I daresay those filthy beings in Knockturn Alley might have a copy or two left."
And so, here she was on a lovely Saturday evening in August, swamped in a huge cloak with the hem nearly dragging the floor, on her way to hunt out this 'Unpledging Pledges' book. What she was going to tell Ron when he inevitably found out about her betrayal she did not know, and frankly, did not care. She was fed up of being bossed around by either Ron Weasley or his mother. It was time for her to burn bridges.
A sudden gust of wind latched onto the hood of the cloak and yanked it from her clutching hands, revealing her face and her curls. Hastily, she scrambled to cover herself, hoping that nobody had recognised her in the seconds she'd been exposed by the treacherous wind. Then, with one last nervous darting of the eyes to make sure she wasn't being watched, she made the turn into the alleyway that lead to Knockturn Alley.
.o.o.
Well, well, well. What a lovely surprise.
Lucius Malfoy smiled at the sight of Hermione Granger sidling against the dirty walls of the alley as she tried to keep herself hidden from view. Obviously, she was heading towards the more insalubrious regions. But why? What need had she of Knockturn Alley to go through such great lengths as to disguise herself? And such a pitiful disguise it was!
Merlin knew, providence had alighted upon him when he'd turned his head just in time to see the hood of her cloak fall against her shoulders. He'd been in a tedious conversation with Monsieur Lefevre concerning the advantages of owning vineyards in northern France when, in a distracted glance, he'd caught sight of the cloaked figure. About to disregard the person, a sizzle of delighted surprise had raced up his spine at the sight of Hermione Granger.
He couldn't escape from Monsieur Lefevre fast enough. Here was an opportunity that had to be grabbed. The discovery of Hermione Granger's secret was half the prize, and then using it against her took the cake, and then some. Regardless of her reasons for secrecy, he was confident he'd find some way to place himself in an advantageous position.
Ever since that Granger girl had become Kingsley Shacklebolt's secretary, he'd been tortured by the sight of her every time there was a meeting concerning his field. After the war, he'd worked hard to reassemble his and his family's image, and not only by underhanded monetary contributions. With his impressive travel experiences and connections to people in high places in these countries, he'd managed to woo the Minister into appointing him as the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
A biweekly account was due each month in the Minister's office, during which he went over select countries' statistics and parity with Britain. He even had to report whether there were rumours of burgeoning dark lords that were aiming for world domination.
Thus, twice a month—and sometimes three—Lucius would encounter Hermione as she allowed him into Shacklebolt's office, wearing her slim, above-knee-length skirts that advertised lovely legs, and form-fitting blouses that moved his eyes from her face and sent them wandering down to her breasts. Twice a month, Lucius found himself growing more and more lustful concerning the infamous Mudblood.
And he hated it. Since when did she grow from a thorn-in-his-side to a thorn-in-his—well, he really needn't spell it out. She'd blossomed into an exquisitely beautiful creature who was out of his reach due to their bad past together. There was no doubt she still despised him, still distrusted him. It was written all over her face every chance she laid eyes on him.
But did he still despise her for what she was? Lucius didn't know anymore. He'd nearly lost his son due to intractable beliefs and the day of Voldemort's defeat had been just as pleasant for him as it was for those who'd wanted the evil overlord dead. Still, it didn't mean that from time to time, he experienced rising revulsion at the sight of those dreadful Muggles.
Regardless of his continued distaste for Muggles, there was one plain truth that he didn't waste time ignoring or denying: he wanted Hermione Granger.
And he was going to have her.
Making his goodbyes, he ambled over to where he'd last seen the girl standing. He quietly made his way along the same path she'd followed, being careful not to walk too closely behind her lest she turned and saw him. When she paused at the entrance of Knockturn Alley, he paused as well. When she began moving forwards uncertainly, he kept his pacing slow and steady.
In time, she halted before the door of Borgin and Burkes—which had been raided ten times by the Ministry after Voldemort's defeat—whilst he hid in the doorway of another shop. Amusedly, as he observed her around the corner of the doorway he stood in, he thought how unlike him being a Peeping-Tom was.
Finally, she went inside Borgin and Burkes, and Lucius waited a few moments before he rounded the doorway and entered the shop as well.
"...by Boris Bowler?" he heard her query as he quietly made his way along the dusty stalls of bottled atrocities in Borgin's store.
"Ah," came Borgin's obsequious tone. "A rarity, that book. Not many copies left."
"Yes, that's why I've come to you, Mr. Borgin."
There was a moment of silence before Borgin continued in a deceptively soft voice. "Hmm, Potter's young friend here, in my shop, requesting a book that tutors one on breaking promises. Whatever shall he think?"
"He shall think nothing of it for he will never find out," she replied harshly.
"Will he?"
Another short stint of tension-filled quiet followed before he heard her ask, her teeth obviously gritted: "How much, Mr. Borgin?"
"For the book, fifty galleons, for my secrecy, twenty galleons."
"That's ridicu-fine!" and a subsequent jingling of gold was heard, then a palm slapping on a counter. Miss Granger had paid the price for doing business with an opportunistic louse.
A few minutes later-from what Lucius could hear as he stood before a stall, pretending to be interested in a jar of toad-eyes-Borgin had returned to his counter with the book. She made some further enquiry that Lucius did not hear, and to which Borgin responded with a no. Then, huffing with displeasure, she bid good-day to the shopkeeper in a tone that suggested she rather hoped for the opposite.
He could hear her making her way towards the exit, so he manoeuvred himself to the end of the stall that was nearest the door. When she finally came into view, he pretended to be just about to exit himself, thus engineering their meeting.
She'd pulled the hood over her head again, but when she gazed up at him, he could clearly see her face. Her mouth was slightly parted in a tiny 'o' of surprise, and in her widened eyes, he could distinguish the various emotions flittering through her: amazement, horror, doubt, anger, indifference...
Indifference, hmm? Well, we'll see about that in time.
"Good day, Miss Granger."
.o.o.
Fuck.
The expletive came to her so suddenly, and although she usually refrained from swearwords, this time it felt so right. At any rate, how else was she to describe her present situation? Here she was, face to face with Lucius bloody Malfoy in stupid Borgin and Burkes.
Wait. What's so bad about that? It should be him who should be uncomfortable about being found in a store that catered to the Dark Arts!
Oh, wait, right—she'd been the one doing the purchasing of bad goods. Not him.
And he'd probably overheard.
Fuck.
"Oh, h-hello, Mr. Malfoy," she replied, hoping she didn't sound nervous. "Fancy meeting you here." She gave a tinny laugh.
"And strange, I might add," he responded.
"Oh, well, I'm not so sure about you," she tried aiming for a smirk. "You usually frequent these locales, I daresay."
"And yet, you are here as well," he reminded. "Pray, tell-what is your reason to visit such an unwholesome establishment?"
Anger and a bit of fear collided within her. What right had he to stand there and question her motives for being in Borgin and Burkes? He wasn't her father! He was too good-looking to—
Wait. No. Not what I meant to say. Not what I meant to say at all.
But he is, isn't he?
Hermione swatted the thought away. Lucius Malfoy was not-okay, so maybe he was attractive on some level. This could not be denied. It wasn't merely his outward features that appealed. It was the spirit he exuded: extreme self-assurance and a quiet, forceful strength that brooked no defiance. And his gazes-always intelligent, usually intense-sent little shivers up her spine. But, anyway, who cared? She certainly didn't. It wasn't as if she'd been eying him in a different light ever since he'd become the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Honestly! That was preposterous!
Lies!
She was not attracted to Lucius Malfoy. That was sick. The man was a hateful creature who despised her because of the blood that flowed through her, and he'd even allowed her to be tortured in his own home! He'd been second-in-command to Voldemort, aiding in the orchestration of the Wizarding world's demise. So what if he claimed to have changed? She didn't believe one whit of that hogwash! Evil men like Lucius Malfoy did not change, they only adapted to their surroundings like the disgusting chameleons they were.
And, to add insult to injury, here he was, proving her theory that he had not changed, by trying to turn the tables on her. She had every damn right to be in Knockturn Alley. The entire world knew which side she was firmly planted on, but what about Lucius Malfoy? What was he doing in Borgin and Burkes, his old favourite trinket shop for evil?
Forming her features into righteous indignation, she answered him. "Don't you question why I'm here, Malfoy. It's you who should be owning up. I wonder what Kingsley would say if he heard you were here?"
Her ensuing smile was triumphant, but it didn't last for long when she saw his lips curve upwards in an all-knowing smirk.
"Really, Miss Granger?" he replied, stepping forwards, encroaching on her private space. "And I wonder what your dear friend would say if he heard your intentions of breaking your promise to him?"
.o.o.
Lucius quite liked the gobsmacked look that usurped her face just then. He'd lashed out blind and had still managed to strike a chord. He did not know whose promise she intended to break, but he was willing to place a wager that it was either one of the two of her faithful followers. He'd even make a greater bidding and say it was that dreadful Weasley fellow. If memory served him right, he'd heard some rumour that she'd gotten engaged to that uninteresting boy.
"Tsk, tsk. What would poor Mr. Weasley think of it all?" he added, eyeing her sharply. He was greatly rewarded with her sudden sharp intake of breath and her timid step backwards.
"How did you know it was Ron?" she whispered, her eyes fixated on his face.
He continued to smirk. "Well, you've just confirmed my guess, Miss Granger."
Her look of surprise morphed into one of fury. She looked just about ready to slap him then hex him on the heels of the first assault. Then, squinting, fist clenched tight around the strap of her bag, she spoke in a deadly voice.
"I'm leaving. Get out of my way."
"I'm afraid that's impossible."
"And why is that? All you need to do is shuffle a bit to the left and we can both be on our merry way."
She pursed that pretty little mouth of hers, daring him to contradict her. She was right. If, indeed, he were to let her go, all he needed to do was step simply to the left, and the door would be made available to her. But that was not what he wanted.
Quietly, he began, "Miss Granger, to avoid unnecessary and time-wasting banter, I will make this clear: if I am to step out of your way, it is merely to align myself by your side so that I can enclose your arm in mine. You will then encircle your arm around my midsection to secure yourself as I perform a Side-Along Apparition with you to my manor."
She looked positively scandalised and horrified by his brazenness, but he didn't mind because he knew she'd follow his instructions shortly.
"And why would I allow you to take me to your manor, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Because, Miss Granger, if I step aside and you refuse to accompany me to my manor, I will immediately purchase two empty vials from Mr. Borgin who has been eavesdropping on our conversation this entire time. Then, I will retrieve the memory of your purchase of the book from Borgin, and our recent conversation that revealed whom you've had intentions of using the book against. Finally, I will duplicate these memories, encapsulate them in the vials, and then owl them, post-haste, to dear Mr. Ron Weasley and Minister Shacklebolt."
.o.o.
Hermione had heard various stories of the ways people paid for betrayal but she'd never heard of the blackmail spin on it. Well, maybe she'd set a record for others to follow, or maybe she was being made an example of as to what could happen to a traitorous friend. Time and time again, read, watched and heard, she'd learnt that underhanded solutions to problems always-always-backfired. It was just karma's version of a motherly wagging finger, saying "play fair!"
Why couldn't she have chosen the braver route? Why couldn't she have simply invited Ron over for a quiet dinner where she voiced her concerns about their magical engagement aloud? In hindsight, Hermione saw how easy it would've been to change Ron's mind. She was a convincing arguer—well, at least she thought so until she met Lucius Malfoy. But anyway, she could have easily persuaded Ron into the realms of anxiety and second thoughts while quoting bogus statistics of decreased sexual activity between married couples.
But, regardless of all the woulda-couldas running through her mind, she'd made her bed and was about to lie in it. Even if she bailed now, that bastard Malfoy would still send the memory of her purchasing that horrid book. And the thought of Ron, the Weasleys, Harry, and close friends learning of her plans in that way was too awful to consider.
And she didn't even want to think of Kingsley's reaction either. How it would look! Desperate and deceitful! She'd probably lose her job. If she was willing to camouflage herself to traipse over into Knockturn Alley to purchase a Dark Arts book on dissolving sacred promises, then what else was she capable of? Probably find a way to become the next dark lord whilst no-one was looking.
The Lady Hermionemort. Bow now, minions, or suffer my wrath!
She allowed herself a moment of hilarity by giggling at the thought.
"I see your mood has lightened since your arrival," came his voice, completely obliterating whatever little humour that had blossomed within her.
Presently, she was standing stiffly in the living room of the Malfoy Manor, trying not to be impressed by the pieces by notable artists—Monet's 'Morning Haze'; van Gogh's 'Cottages'—that covered his ivory-painted walls, or the massive bookshelf that housed a great number of recognisable titles. She'd had enough of betrayal today, and she was not going to allow her inner child demand that she stare and admiringly touch the enemy's inviting treasures.
She turned and found he'd discarded his wizard's robes, and was dressed in a green dress shirt and black trousers. He'd rolled up the sleeves of the shirt to his elbows, and the topmost button was undone. Strong forearms were advertised, a patch of chest was exposed. 'Sexy rogue look' complete.
He was holding two champagne flutes in one hand and a champagne bottle in the other, studying her as a circling hawk would a hare that hadn't a hole to hide in. She hated being likened to such a weak creature, but she was wise enough to know that between the two, she was no hawk.
"Let's just get straight to the point," she said coldly, holding her bag against her for meagre protection. "What do you want?"
His smile was reptilian; the sudden morphing from hawk to snake was amazing to behold. "I want many things, Miss Granger. Should I name them all, would you be willing to or capable of attending to them accordingly?"
"What do you want from me?"
He did not answer. Instead, he settled the flutes carefully onto his expensive-looking, handcrafted coffee table, and then poured a half-glass of the pale, sparkling liquid into them. He then placed the bottle on the table, and Hermione had a quick moment to read and be thoroughly impressed by the label on the bottle: Krug Clos du Mesnil 1990.
Oooh. Expensive. The rich bastard.
He picked up the flutes and attempted to hand one to her, and despite her longing to just grab it and down the entire drink in one go, she held defiant. She was not going to succumb. Malfoy wanted her inebriated-and inebriated equaled being loose and amenable to ideas that, on most occasions, were off-limits to consider. She was going to be a smart little cookie and keep her wits about her, regardless that her nerves were demanding otherwise.
"Come, Miss Granger," he encouraged. "Have a sip and a seat. You seem anxious when you needn't be."
She pursed her lips. "Mr. Malfoy, I've neither time nor patience to be faffing about. You're blackmailing me and I've no intentions of being cordial with you. I will not be sipping your champagne or making myself comfortable in your chairs. I will stand here and wait until you've stated your price for your secrecy."
He replaced her glass on the coffee table surface but drank from his own. "So very straightforward. I do wonder at your determination to keep this matter hidden. Are you not aware of the extremely dangerous situation you've placed yourself in, Miss Granger?"
She found the courage to sneer. "I am. But if I've faced Voldemort and have lived to tell the tale, then you, the epitome of weak and cowardly, shan't be much of a challenge to overcome."
This show of bravado sparked something within him. Her heightened awareness alerted her that Lucius Malfoy was very displeased, and that she'd suffer due punishment for her empty words. She was not terrified of what he would ask of her because she knew what he wanted already. Although she'd matured sexually fairly late in her life, she knew lust when she saw it. All those moments of catching him eyeing her appreciatively hadn't been lost on her. No, she was not terrified that he wanted her body and intended to have it, she was terrified that if he did—when he did—that she'd like it.
Betraying Ron Weasley was one thing, but betraying herself was another. Lucius Malfoy was a bad man, and for some outrageous reason that she ought to be put to death for, it was alluring to her. His sister-in-law had tortured her nearly to the point of death in this very house, yet the thought of him taking her hard against his leather sofa appealed greatly. Merlin, not only was she a traitorous friend and fiancée, she was a wanton harlot to boot.
His face hardened, he purposefully set the empty flute down, then began to advance on Hermione.
"Miss Granger, there will come a time when you will recant your declaration," he said quietly as he forced her to walk backwards. "But until then—" her back had found a wall, and he leant his body close "—I will show you that I am no coward." He clutched her hips brazenly and pressed his pelvis hard against hers. "And that I certainly am not weak."
And she felt him: hard and strong. She wanted to be furious, positively outraged by his audaciousness-but she was not. Instead, Hermione Granger was very ashamed to realise that her knickers were getting wet.
"Let me go, Mr. Malfoy," she demanded, determined to reassume control. "Stop wasting my time and just tell me what you want."
"You," he replied simply, eyes trained on her face. "Surely you've been aware of this, Miss Granger. I will have your body today, tomorrow, and whenever else I am so inclined until I tire of you."
And when she opened her mouth to hurl indignant words at him, he lifted her chin, bent his head and kissed her.
She fought him initially. She tried to wrench her mouth away but he sank his fingers into her curls, holding her head firm as he moved his mouth over hers. Her bag was discarded in favour of pounding her fists against his chest, but he pressed her body up against the wall, forcing her hands to be trapped between their chests.
With his tongue, he traced a line along the meeting of her lips but she did not relent. It was only when he grabbed her lower lip and began to suck on it softly that he finally received a positive reaction. She uttered a tiny little moan, as though she'd fought her hardest to keep it down but it had still escaped. Encouraged by her sounds, he attempted to deepen the kiss again, and found her willing.
It was heated and electrifying. The feel of her hot mouth drove his tongue to quest deeper and further. He kissed her possessively, determined to teach her a lesson for her earlier words—and to show her who was in charge. Somehow, she'd managed to release her arms from her bind, and in no time, her small hands were smoothing along his shoulders, up the back of his neck and along his jaw. Her hips began to roll desperately against his.
He had planned to break the kiss, planned to give her an all-knowing smirk when the episode was over, but an explosion of lust had hit him so hard that he wanted nothing else but to begin making good use of his blackmail privileges. He had demanded her body, and although she had not verbally agreed, actions spoke louder than words.
With an urgency that was uncharacteristic of Lucius Malfoy—the suave lover that took his time—he wandlessly spelled off her cloak, revealing a mid-thigh, floral summer dress beneath. His mouth found the spot on her neck where her pulse ticked even as he hiked up the skirt of her dress and made tatters of her knickers. Sucking at her neck, his fingers touched her, parted her, and entered her.
"Oh...god...yessss..." She arced her hips to meet his moving fingers.
His middle and index fingers curled upwards. He rubbed her upper walls even as his thumb circled her sensitive clitoris. Returning his mouth to hers, he kissed her hard, fucking her with his fingers as she moaned her approval into his mouth.
He whispered against her mouth as he pumped his fingers in and out of her. "Do you want me?"
"Yes, yes," she gasped.
"Where?"
"Here, there, anywhere." She squeezed her eyes shut as she rotated her hips.
"Would you like it if I fucked you against this wall, Miss Granger?"
"Yes, oh Merlin, yes..."
Quickly, he removed his fingers from within her, amidst her cry of disappointment, and unzipped his trousers. Released, he moved between her legs, hoisted her right leg up and around his hip, positioned himself, and then entered her with a swift upward thrust of his hips.
She cried out and the sound fueled him. He began to move slowly, relishing her divine warmth sucking at his flesh. Three thrusts and she came; his previous ministrations had already paved the way. Once, twice, thrice—many times her walls clutched at him, squeezed him, threatening to send him over with her as well but he held himself. Even as she moaned her release into his ears, he pounded into her.
"Yes, yes, yes...Lucius...yes..."
The sound of his name panted from her lips, the feel of her hot little body was sublime. He drove into her, determined to ruin her for any other man that came after him. With her hands wrapped around his neck, he lifted her other leg and wrapped it around his hips too. Deeper and harder he went, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust as she mewled his name and unintelligible words into his ear.
"Come, come for me," he said because he could feel her body straining against his, stretching for that exquisite pinnacle.
"So good, so good," she moaned. "You feel so fucking good..."
And she came for him, her mouth opened wide on a semi-silent cry, her body shaking from the power of her climax. And with her inner walls clenching him so tightly, so sweetly, Lucius found it impossible to hold on any longer. He tried desperately to maintain control but failed. His balls tingling and tight, his teeth gritted, and his head thrown back, he moved along her warm, clinging walls, spurting his come deep into her.
He slumped against her, his skin sweaty but he was too weary to bother removing his shirt. He could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest, and remembering that he'd neglected to pay attention to those important bits he promised to remedy that situation in their next encounter.
Eventually, when their breathing had calmed, Lucius released himself from between her legs and retrieved his trousers as she attempted to fix her dress. The quiet that followed was not uncomfortable, but a slight undercurrent of tension could still be felt.
"Well," she said, blushing, "that was...interesting."
He smiled down at her bowed head. Her refusal to meet his gaze and her girlish blush made him want her all over again. He was right to have demanded more than one occasion. She made him feel insatiable. He doubted he'd ever tire of her, and this thought did not horrify him as it should.
.o.o.
Satisfied.
That was the predominant emotion that resided within her, followed closely by utter disbelief. She'd just shagged Lucius Malfoy up against his living room wall, and it had been the best sex she'd had since Seamus Finnegan three years ago. Between her thighs throbbed—physically ached—as though bent to remind her of her infidelity. And she liked it. She hadn't felt like that in years. One more strike against Ron as to why he could never be good husband material in her books.
You trollop! No remorse whatsoever?
Did she feel any guilt? Maybe a miniscule twinge. She'd long since fallen out of love with Ron, and had only stayed with him because he'd become her comfort-zone. Ron knew her and she knew him. There wasn't any need to impress or to learn anymore. They'd come to an understanding of each other that, while uncomplicated, had dissolved into a tediousness in their relationship, and into their lovemaking.
However, Lucius Malfoy, Ex-Death Eater, had not 'made love' to her—he'd fucked her. Very hard, very well. And she liked that too. Oh, very much so. She'd been on the verge of telling him off before Apparating back to the Burrow and spilling the beans before he could, but his kiss had obliterated that plan. To think she'd wanted him so fiercely surprised her. Hadn't she been the one questioning his alliances and genuineness all along? She really was a traitor on all fronts wasn't she? Sleeping with the enemy—
"Miss Granger." He placed his palm against her cheek and she raised her face to meet his, astonished by the gentle gesture that was so unlike Lucius Malfoy. "I find your paltry adjective for our...experience...slightly insulting. I shall make amends shortly."
Her smile was saucy. "I don't remember agreeing to your stipulations, Mr. Malfoy. Just because we-oh no!"
Remembrance had returned suddenly and in full force. Glancing around anxiously, she withdrew herself from Lucius' touch, and crossed her arms over her midsection protectively.
Oh no, oh no, oh Merlin! How could I have forgotten?
Lucius was frowning at her. "What is it? What is the matter?"
"The Betrothal Vow!" she cried, terrified now.
"The Betrothal Vow," he parroted, eyebrows rising. "What is this Betrothal Vow?"
She clutched her belly, already expecting the forewarned pains. "I-I made a Betrothal Vow with Ron! A-and one of the clause is that I remain faithful to him. I'm not to cheat or he'll know right away due to our magical bond, and I'll suffer immense stomach pains that can lead to death!"
She watched his face morph from questioning, to surprise, to disbelief, then to amusement, and the twitches at the corners of his mouth suggested he wanted to laugh. Why he would feel humour in such a dreadful situation as this baffled her-and then angered her. He was the cause of her current anxiety. If he'd left her alone, she'd not have to suffer the terror that was to come. The bastard. He'd used her and was now finding her demise hilarious. He truly was an evil, cold-blooded git. Why she'd slept with him—
"Miss Granger, in all my years as a wizard," he replied, "I've yet to encounter a 'Betrothal Vow.'"
She sneered. "Maybe it's because all you've dabbled in is the Dark Arts."
"Miss Granger, no such thing as a Betrothal Vow exists in the wizarding world," he explained patiently. "You've been given misinformation and I believe this was done on purpose."
She studied his face, devoid of all humour now, but looking terribly bored. He wasn't lying. What need had he to? As a matter of fact, what he'd just announced placed him in a disadvantageous position. He no longer had blackmailing rights. If the Betrothal Vow didn't exist, then she hadn't been the initial traitor—it had been Ron and his mother.
Suddenly, clearly, she remembered the day of the Betrothal Vow. How she'd found Ron and Molly glaring heavily at an unhappy Ginny who'd eventually neglected to attend the ceremony. She remembered Luna, with a family history of magic that went as far back as the Weasleys, beginning to question the existence of the Betrothal Vow when Molly had sharply told Luna to be quiet, and Ron had made an incredibly insulting comment on Luna's quirky tendencies.
She hadn't noticed these things then. She'd been so preoccupied with doubt and anxiety. But now, in the light of contemplation, the warning signs shone with such clarity, she couldn't believe she'd missed them.
Merlin, they'd fooled her. They'd hoodwinked the brightest-witch-of-their-age.
She was apoplectic. Angry and upset were not apt enough descriptors for the kind of rage that roiled inside Hermione Granger. The Gryffindor lion in her roared for blood, and only the Weasleys'—namely Ron and Molly's—would do. How easily they had deceived her. How smooth and convenient it had all been. A faux magical engagement that ensured she was bound to them: should she try to find ways to break it off, she never would-because no such vow existed in the first place!
Foolish, foolish, foolish!
How could she not have researched the existence of this vow before agreeing to it? She'd have saved the heartache, and the bitter, acidic mixture of hate and anger for two people who she had once loved and thought had loved her. And maybe they did truly love her. Maybe that's why they had gone through such lengths to keep her in their family. But their method hadn't been right. Far from it.
She'd been deceived (Ron and Molly), swindled (Borgin), and taken advantage of (Malfoy) all in the space of three months.
"I can't believe this!" she finally exploded. "They tricked me!"
"Indeed," agreed Lucius as he poured himself another glass of champagne.
"I swear to Circe, I'm going to kill them. I'm going to kill every single ugly, red-haired, freckle-faced Weasley that crosses my path, starting with that bastard Ron."
Lucius snorted at this but made no comment.
"But before I make his sorry arse a living hell," she stated as she walked up and boldly knocked his champagne flute out of his hand. Liquid and glass shards sprayed on the floor but she did not care. She was too angry to care. "You will begin to make amends."
.o.o.
At the living room entrance, the west wing stairs, his master bedroom floor, and nearly in the shower they ravaged each other. Lucius was determined to burn the memory of her delicious body into his brain and Hermione was determined to spite Ron whilst enjoying her best comes. When they had finally worn themselves out, they had retired to Lucius' bed where they slept, sated for the time being.
The next morning, an invasive tap-tapping simultaneously woke them both. They tried their best to ignore the owl's incessant demand for entry, but could not. The high sun was penetrating the lacy curtains, and the bright light prevented them from returning to peaceful slumber.
Unashamed of his nakedness, Lucius eventually went to his window, smiling at Hermione's comment that she'd 'roast that bloody bird when she got her hands on it.' The moment the window was opened, in flew a snow-white special-delivery owl that was only used for extraordinary occasions. Sending out its leg in an indignant ruffle of feathers, it allowed him to untie the newspaper attached before flying off to whence it came.
Frowning at the thinness of the paper, Lucius pondered why it had been delivered on a Sunday—a day usually free of mail delivery.
"Isn't today Sunday?" Hermione came forward as well, the bed sheets wrapped around her body.
"It is." Lucius unfolded the paper. It was the Daily Prophet. He despised the newspaper immensely due to its tendencies to print libelous and false information, and he had demanded they desist sending him anymore delivery three years ago. They'd complied thus far-until today.
Lucius was just about ready to discard the paper when the extra large caption caught his eye:
WAR HERO SQUISHED!
Hermione gasped, and intrigued, Lucius decided to read on:
By Rita Skeeter,
9th August, 2003
On Saturday the 8th of August, the wizarding world and the Weasley family lost both a hero and an irreplaceable loved one: Roland Bulbous Weasley.
It was tragic, and this writer was there to witness the entire gory episode. Whilst interviewing a well-known seamstress in the Diagon Alley area concerning allegations of prostitution stemming from her institution, the writer watched dear Mr. Rolf Weasley ambling out of a nearby shop. Just as he was prepared to cross the recently widened Diagon Alley street, poor Mr. Weslley was overrun by the newly invented 'Day Bus' owned by Stanby Shunpick. (Side note: Check out the expose on Stan and his dirty secret habit of stealing knickers in tomorrow's issue!) His body was flung ten yards forwards onto a nearby sidewalk. Screams and shouts could be heard, and a few members of the public, including the writer, went to ascertain Weatherly's condition. With a strong resuscitation charm from a Healer that was amidst the crowd, he was revived. A collective sigh of relief could be heard amongst the crowd as the red-headed young man rose to his feet with the aid of the Healer. Grinning, he admitted he'd 'gotten a right hard knock' but that he'd be fine. The Healer, affirming that all was well, still advised young Mr. Weasel (such an unfortunate surname) to carry himself off to the nearest medi-center. The crowd began to thin and the writer was about to make her way to speak to the young fellow when, out of nowhere, a grand piano plummeted from the sky and squished the ill-fated young man like a fly being pounded by a heavy fist. The sight was horrible-yet amazing-to behold. As the blood oozed—
The sound of Hermione's choked sob made Lucius turn. He found her cupping her palm to her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Unsure and uncomfortable whenever around crying women, Lucius stood very still for a moment before deciding to pull her into an awkward embrace. She pressed her face into his bare chest, moving her head from side to side, ensuring both her tears and her snot was rubbed effectively into his skin.
"I killed him, I killed him," she moaned.
"Don't be ridiculous. A two hundred and twenty kilo musical instrument fulfilled that task successfully."
"But I wanted him dead and now he is!"
"Celebrations are in order then. Champagne?"
She lifted her head to glare up at him, her cheeks wet. "How can you be so indifferent to death?"
"I am not indifferent to death, simply accepting. Everyone must die eventually and if it is their time, so be it. Moreover, the Weasleys and I have never been in amiable acquaintanceship, so forgive my lack of histrionics concerning their recent loss. You must also remember that, mere hours ago, you learnt of their treacherous intentions to manipulate you into marriage."
Remembrance returned and so did the blinding anger. They'd wanted to ruin her life: force her to quit work, pop out a baby every nine months, dissolve into a tedious, repetitive lifestyle of housewifery that was devoid of learning and wonderful experiences in the things that mattered to her. However, the tables had turned. Ron had been squished like an unimportant bug, and Molly was left to bear the pain of it all.
She desperately wanted to forgive them. Ron Weasley (or Roy Weatherly a la Rita Skeeter) had been one of her best friends for many years until they'd eventually progressed into lovers. Most of her vital experiences had been shared with him and Harry, and through him, she was able to meet his family and feel welcomed in a world that was equally strange and new. If it weren't for the Burrow, she didn't know how she'd survive the lonely days when she missed her parents terribly.
And now, Ron was dead. How did that make her feel? She remembered loving Ron fiercely, but over the years, his arrogance, pettiness, selfishness, and tactlessness had shredded her love away like soft cheese against the roughest side of a grater. Before the phony Betrothal Vow, Hermione had already made up her mind to break it off with Ron, but Mrs. Weasley's words had struck fear within her.
Her faux fiancé was dead and she didn't even feel a thing. Her earlier tears had only stemmed from the shock. Maybe the pain of loss would hit her when she least expected it, but for now, what she truly felt was freedom. Free of Mr. Ron Bilius Weasley and his conniving mother who'd both schemed to tie her down for life.
She turned and found Lucius had already dressed himself in a bathrobe, lounging in his plushy bedroom chair as he sipped champagne. To think she'd been so long contemplating Ron's death.
Putting all thoughts of Ron aside—it was hard, but she did it—she went, sat in Lucius' lap and confiscated his flute. She downed the remaining liquid, watching Lucius as he watched her. The section of sheet that covered her breasts slipped low and his eyes followed this action with great interest.
"Well, Ron always said that the fine arts bored him to death," she said softly. "I guess he never thought it would squash him instead."
"The irony is remarkable," he replied with a small chuckle.
"Yes," she nodded. "But I'd rather not think about it right now. I'd much prefer to forget. Can you help me to forget, Mr. Malfoy?"
Their gaze met and held, darkened brown to darkened grey. A silent conversation without opening their mouths. Yesterday had brought a new discovery, and they intended to explore every avenue until there was nothing left to learn. Where what they'd developed would lead them, they both did not know nor cared to contemplate.
Lucius hooked his finger at the edge of the sheet and pulled it down, revealing her naked breasts and torso to his greedy eyes.
He smirked at her.
"Absolutely, Miss Granger."
.o.o.