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Before the war, there wasn't a shred of doubt in Hermione's mind that Fred and George would still be around for decades to come. She was convinced that they would keep life interesting by unleashing their special brand of humour on every unsuspecting soul who happened to cross their path.
Of course, that was then, back in those days when optimism still stood a fighting chance.
Fred's untimely death changed everything, and it was only the first of two terrible tragedies to strike the Weasley family.
A few weeks after the victory celebrations, Ron suffered a serious Quidditch accident. He was clowning around, trying to make everyone laugh, but he lost his balance, slipped off his broom and fell ten feet, breaking his spine and neck as he hit the ground.
There was nothing the Healers could do for him.
Three months after Fred's memorial service, the Weasleys had another funeral to organise.
Staying with the mourning family at the Burrow soon became too painful for Hermione. She couldn't handle the terrible anguish reflected so vividly in Molly's eyes, or the constant reminders of a future that might have been.
It was time to move on.
Unfortunately, she had no relatives left who would still remember her, let alone welcome her into their home, so at the age of nineteen, Hermione found herself living in some grotty East End flat all by herself.
From thereon out, things went downhill fast, or rather, at a more rapid pace than they had done before.
Strong-willed Hermione may have been, but she had no means of preventing the breakdown that followed. The grief and isolation had become too much to bear.
One gloomy Monday morning, a concerned neighbour—a Muggleborn witch who'd fled the wizarding world during the war—took her to St. Mungo's, literally dropped her off at the door and then Disapparated, never to be seen again.
Two years have passed since that day, but it might as well be a lifetime.
Hermione cringes whenever she recalls those endless hours of tedious talks and pointless therapy. Just a few night of restful sleep would have sufficed, or a change of scenery.
As she sits here today in another bleak, barely decorated flat—it's merely a temporary accommodation, for she has other plans—she wants nothing more than to erase those terrible years from her memory.
She strongly disagrees with the so-called experts who insisted that every aspect of the treatment was part of a 'learning experience' and 'an essential phase of the healing process', and she can't help thinking about all the precious time she lost, and about how she misses all her friends who are no longer there for all sorts of reasons.
She has been giving the future a lot of thought recently, and finally reached the conclusion that there is also another option open to her, one that has been dangling in front of her eyes the entire time:
Hogwarts.
The Muggle world no longer has anything to offer her, not to mention that she wouldn't even succeed in finding a decent job there, given her lack of relevant qualifications.
She does want a career. She always intended to have one.
She takes a sip from her coffee and gazes out into the distance.
Yes, she will return to Hogwarts come September, so she can finish school.
Finish school, pass her NEWTs, and take care of something else besides.
~*~
During Hermione's stay at St. Mungo's, a friend would come and see her occasionally.
It was usually Luna. The others never seemed to know what to say or how to act, and so their visits became less and less frequent as time went by.
Luna, on the other hand, was always her usual chirpy, chatty self. She happily kept Hermione up to date on every little topic under the sun, from sightings of mythical creatures in tropical rainforests to political shifts in the wizarding world and even Hogwarts' members of staff.
The girl was an inexhaustible mine of information. She seemed to know everything.
One of the advantages of running a newspaper, Hermione supposed, and it wasn't difficult to sift out what might be useful later or to steer every conversation into a certain direction.
One little titbit Hermione found particularly intriguing was the strange leap Lucius Malfoy had apparently made on the road to redemption. The man had become a Professor at Hogwarts, to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, of all things.
Even today, it remains unclear how and especially why that came about.
Possibly, he was mortally afraid for repercussions from former associates and sought the kind of sanctuary only the strong wards of Hogwarts would be able to provide.
Or perhaps it was more a case of loneliness and not knowing what to do with himself after Narcissa had walked out on him and persuaded Draco to join her.
The Malfoy divorce was a much-publicised event. All its sordid details were plastered over the front page of every wizarding newspaper in Europe and beyond.
Those articles, Hermione only skimmed, however. Lucius Malfoy's private life didn't interest her in the slightest.
It still doesn't.
Now, those rumours on the other hand…
She has been hearing them for years. She even found something akin to evidence once, when she was seventeen and able to steal a quick glance at Tonks' files.
Some people whisper—very quietly, for it's not the sort of thing anyone with half a brain would consider shouting from the rooftops—that Lucius Malfoy is not only a former Death Eater, but also highly skilled at Necromancy.
Necromancy. The art of raising the dead.
Ever since she first heard the news of his new career, Hermione hasn't been able to get those rumours out of her head.
Perhaps, if there's even a hint of truth to them, she shouldn't be worrying herself with all this 'healing' and 'moving on' nonsense. Maybe she can just pick things up where she left them.
With a little help from a—
No, never mind that. He's no friend by any stretch of the imagination, but then nor does he need to be.
~*~
Being back at Hogwarts fills Hermione with a feeling of familiarity that's both comforting and daunting, in more or less equal proportions.
Upon her arrival, she is given a private room in Gryffindor Tower. Because of the age difference between her fellow students and herself, apparently, and in case she prefers some solitude. "It'll be less stressful that way," she is told. "Not so tough on your nerves."
Hermione is mildly offended at the implication that she might not be up to sharing a dorm. She's not that crazy, never was, and there is no logical reason to keep her apart from the other seventh-years. It's not as though she'll hex them all into oblivion, at least not without valid reason.
Still, she decides to keep her objections to herself. A private room also has its advantages, after all, and plenty of them.
This way, she'll be able to conduct all necessary research without any irksome interruptions, and no unsuspecting dorm mates will accidentally stumble upon the unusual reading matter she's bound to peruse over the next few weeks either.
McGonagall is glad to have her back, though also slightly concerned about her general wellbeing.
"You chose a very heavy study load for yourself, Hermione," the Headmistress says during the obligatory chat in her office. "So many NEWTs, including Divination. You have never shown much interest in that subject before, and of course you'll have to pass the OWL before you can take the NEWT as well."
"Yes, Professor," Hermione replies, politely and without blinking. "I'm fully aware of what I'm about to tackle, and I'm more than willing to put in the extra work."
"I don't doubt that you are, dear, on both counts, but are you certain that all this is… entirely wise, after—" the woman pauses as she peers over her glasses, clearly unsure how to continue without potentially causing offence.
"I have made a full recovery," Hermione states firmly, "and am entirely confident about my capabilities."
"Very well," McGonagall says with a placating smile. "I'm sure you know what's best. Should you ever need a sympathetic ear, however, please keep in mind, dear, that my door is always open."
~*~
Friday night, two weeks later, she hears him approaching behind her in the Restricted Section of the library.
She'd recognise the rhythm of his footsteps anywhere. Her prolonged stay at the mental ward left her observant about such things.
Besides, he's the only one at Hogwarts who'd still wear boots like that, with old-fashioned brass buckles. They resemble something from a previous century.
Rather like his views and values, she decides wryly.
As far as she has noticed, he doesn't mention politics anymore, not even in veiled terms, but she's certain that's only a well-calculated move on his behalf, one that's entirely inspired by his keen sense of self-preservation. She can't imagine that he has had a genuine change of heart. His kind rarely does.
Just a few more steps and he'll be standing right next to her.
Hermione bites back a smug grin. He doesn't know, of course, that being discovered was her intention all along.
With no warning, never mind a prior request, he snags the book out of her hands.
His eyes widen as he reads the words on the cover. "What on earth could you possibly want with… this, Miss Granger?"
Were she not so bitter and desperate, the horror in his tone might make her laugh. "I had two options," she states plainly, "either get my hands on a Time-Turner or take this route, and well,"—she pauses for effect—"everybody knows that we've long run out of Time-Turners."
He shakes his head slowly, befuddlement written all over his face, which looks paler than ever in the light of the flickering candle. "Sweet Salazar! They should never have let you out of the institution. You're clearly… not well yet."
In one swift move, she roughly pulls the book back out of his hands. "Are you a qualified Healer now, Professor? Or do you have some kind of personal experience with maladies of the mind, one you picked up in Azkaban, perhaps?"
He glares at her, but refuses to take the bait. "I believe it's high time you return to Gryffindor Tower, don't you?" His tone is stern, but also carries an underlying weariness Hermione wasn't expecting.
Without a word, she rises from her chair.
His burning gaze follows her out as she walks away slowly, the controversial book tucked safely under her right arm.
~*~
From that day onwards, she's aware of him watching her whenever they happen to be in each other's proximity. He's extremely subtle about it—obviously; It could spell all sorts of trouble for a teacher if he was caught repeatedly staring at a student —but she seems to have developed a sixth sense for noticing these things.
Wednesday's breakfast in the Great Hall is no exception.
His gaze is on her when the owl arrives and he's still watching her out of the corner of his eye as she rips open the package with eager hands.
Her fellow students lose interest as soon as they see the book-shaped object appear. They're painfully familiar with Hermione Granger's unquenchable thirst for reading material, and it's a topic they'd rather not go within a mile of—if it's all the same, nothing personal and no offence meant, of course.
Hermione smiles. No one appreciates being lectured or bombarded with random facts. She might not have realised as much a few years ago, but she's certainly aware of it now. She has even discovered that overloading people with random information is a tactic that works like a charm when she needs to keep them out of her business.
Her eyes shine as she reads the notes on the back cover. The book was written by Guillaume Destré, a notorious French sorcerer whose work cannot be sold in Britain. Even translating it would be breaking the law.
Not that the language presents a problem to Hermione.
One of the Assistant Healers at St. Mungo's was from Avignon originally.
One day, Hermione told him that she was bored out of her wits and desperately needed to occupy her restless mind, preferably with something that had no connections to the past.
So at her request he brought her French textbooks and dictionaries, and in exchange she told him about British Muggle life and what it had been like for a little girl to discover that she was, in fact, a witch.
Hermione has barely exited the Great Hall when Lucius accosts her in the corridor.
"What are you planning, Miss Granger?" He quickly glances around to check whether they're still alone. "Surely you don't intend to bring anyone back from the grave? That Weasley boy, for instance?"
Hermione crosses her arms, but remains silent. She doesn't owe him any explanations. She doesn't owe him a bloody thing.
"I could report you, you know," he says, sounding every bit like he means it.
"So could I," she tells him. "I imagine your ex-wife would be very interested to learn about your little—well, not so little, actually, but that only makes it better—bank account in Switzerland." Hermione shakes her head. "Such an ingenious, not to mention, Professor, ironic course of action. Tell me, do you launder the money in the literal sense before you exchange it for the wizarding variety or do you simply wear gloves? I can imagine you wouldn't want to end up contaminated with filthy Mudblood germs."
Lucius looks at her then, his mouth agape. He's not used to people getting the better of him, or indeed talking to him in such an audacious manner. The Granger girl was never this abrasive before, was she?
No. The female Weasley was always the rude, loudmouthed one. Granger seemed more reserved, more… charming, despite her tendency to spread her knowledge around as if the whole world had just turned into Hufflepuff Haven.
But, of course, appearances can be deceiving.
"Fine. Do as you wish with your little…side project," he snaps, "but I sincerely hope you're aware of the risks. I'd strongly advise against summoning some dark, soulless creature over which you'll have no control."
"Don't worry," she says dryly, with a sneer that reminds him far too much of Bellatrix for comfort. "I have no intention of bringing back Voldemort. I've heard things didn't turn out so well the last time someone did that."
Lucius looks like he'd like nothing better than to backhand her for her insolence, but he remains standing there motionless instead, not allowing his professional demeanour to slip, not even for a second.
"Your first class starts in ten minutes, Miss Granger," he informs her. "I suggest you run along now, so Professor Slughorn doesn't deduct any points for tardiness."
~*~
Lucius continues to watch her closely, his feelings a combination of curiosity and apprehension, with just a hint of envy mixed in as well.
Only a Gryffindor would be this stubborn-headed and loyal, he thinks, and all things considered, this isn't altogether… fair.
He did everything he possibly could for his family and yet, at the first sign of trouble, Narcissa left him stranded.
Well, all right, true enough, not exactly the first sign.
She had been patient and faithful during his stay in Azkaban. She had never blamed him for the unbearable pressure the Dark Lord had put on Draco. She hadn't even faulted him that—
Regardless. The fact remains that she did leave and took Draco and a large chunk of the Malfoy fortune with her.
So much for family, so much for loyalty, and that after so many years and after everything they'd been through together.
Lucius shakes his head.
The painful end of his marriage is such a shrill, painful contrast to what's presently unfolding right in front of his eyes.
Hermione Granger, who by some mockery of fate is a Muggleborn to boot, is willing to go so far as to defy the God she was probably brought up to believe in and resurrect a loved one.
Ronald sodding Weasley.
What is it about those blasted Weasleys anyhow, Lucius wonders, that they always seem to get the best of everything, in spite of their chronic lack of both money and charm?
He shakes his head again. No. This just won't do. He's above petty jealousy, not to mention too old for this nonsense.
Besides, Granger's unfortunate devotion to Weasley isn't exactly the point here. It scarcely skirts the heart of the matter.
Lucius' main concern, as he sits there in his dungeon office drinking sweet, expensive wine that does nothing to soothe the bitter taste in his mouth, is that the reckless girl might cause a lot of damage with what's she about to attempt.
Perhaps he should get involved and assist her, for everyone's sake.
He knows all about the un-dead; the ones that come back wrong.
He knows more about them than he'd prefer, frankly.
They rarely make for pleasant company, with their ferocious appetites, their murderous dispositions, and he'd rather not bring to mind their vile stench.
Just as well that house-elves aren't exactly known for their keen sense of smell, or certain parts of the Manor would be a lot less inhabitable than they are today.
But the worst of it is that if Granger's experiment goes wrong, and some poor sod must be called upon to clean up the mess, every finger in the building will undoubtedly point at the DADA Professor, the local expert in all things ghoulish and gruesome.
Lucius refills his glass and downs the contents in one large gulp.
He considers himself lucky to have made it through the war relatively unscathed, and the last thing he needs in his life right now—or indeed, at any point in the nearby or distant future—is another Dark creature.
He lets out a long, weary sigh, and finally accepts the obvious. He really has no choice but to offer her his assistance.
For everyone's sake.
Especially his own.
~*~
Familiar footsteps echo off the library floor until they come to an abrupt halt right in front of her.
Hermione doesn't look up.
Lucius' arrival is no surprise, though part of her does wonder what took him so long.
"So," he says, his arms crossed, "you appear to have found what you were looking for."
She nods, and any doubt she may have had about his knowledge in these matters vanishes in an instant.
He probably recognised the cover of Destré's book. She wouldn't be surprised to learn that he owns a copy, himself; one he has safely stashed away in some hidden room at Malfoy Manor.
He must know her reasons for reading up on Hemlock and Hellebore as well, and that's probably the reason he's approaching her now—finally—after all those days of silent observation.
"You do realise what the Resurrection Ritual entails, don't you?" he continues, taking the chair across from her. "It goes beyond the mere summoning of a sprit. It involves creating new life, or rather: recreating old life." He pauses briefly before he adds, his tone even and businesslike as though this is just another lesson he must teach. "So obviously there will be highly advanced spells and potions involved, as well as one rather more… unorthodox requirement."
Again, Hermione nods. "Sexual intercourse," she says, and despite her fierce determination to remain cool, collected and above all, practical about this, she can feel her cheeks blaze.
He raises a pale eyebrow. "Yes, you're partly correct."
She can tell that he's enjoying this a tad too much, and she's not amused—definitely not—that he seems to consider her unaware of all the facts. Oh, the very nerve! Some Gryffindors do think before they act, and Hermione always makes sure not to overlook even the tiniest detail. After all, the way she sees it, anything that is worth doing is also worth doing properly.
But back to the matter at hand; everything she has read about the Resurrection Ritual so far has clearly stated that the… coupling—and really, she shouldn't be blushing at the idea; she's twenty-one now, a grown woman, not some silly, giggly teenage girl—must leave both participants feeling fulfilled, or the magic won't be strong enough.
She swallows hard.
"You're not a virgin, are you, Miss Granger?"
Not only does his question take her by surprise, part of her—the old, sensible Hermione—also can't decide which is the most offensive of the two: the assumption that she's sexually inexperienced, or the suggestion that she might not be.
"No," she replies curtly, and leaves it at that. Her past relationships—both of them—are none of his business.
The "Very well" he gives her in response reveals nothing of his feelings on the matter.
Smug Slytherin bastard.
"If I may be so blunt, who do you have in mind for a… partner?" he goes on to ask. His tone is still neutral, unsettlingly so.
Hermione blinks. "Well, I—" she begins, but in that very moment she can tell, just from the way he's staring at her, that something has already given the game away. She always was quite hopeless at bluffing.
"I see," he says plainly, as if her plan is nothing out of the ordinary.
Well, she reasons, perhaps to him, it isn't.
In recent months, Hermione has digested plenty of reading material about more controversial magical practices.
Chilling tales of barbaric sacrifices, for one. Some of those accounts brought her to tears, and the worst gave her horrific nightmares for weeks.
Then there were also those other rituals, the ones that utilised sexual acts as a means of channelling magical energy.
Of course, Hermione is well aware that a lot of the literature in that field is largely based on folklore, tall tales made up by Muggles with overactive imaginations. Even the stories that do have some truth at the heart of them mostly describe customs that have long since been abandoned, if not for ethical, then definitely for practical reasons.
These days, a sacrifice is merely a symbolic gesture; a basket of fruit placed on an altar, a straw puppet set alight, or a silver coin dropped into a bubbling cauldron. There is no actual cruelty involved, not unless the forces one wants to invoke are wholly Dark, and that's definitely not Hermione's intention.
The Resurrection Ritual is one of life, not death. It's controversial, certainly, but there is no actual Dark Magic involved; not according to her sources. The correct sources, she reassures herself.
It does require…. that other thing, though.
Still, she also knows that, at least in theory, the sex doesn't mean anything beyond the Ritual. It's just a means to an end, and this, of course, must explain why Lucius Malfoy seems so utterly unfazed at the mention of it.
He has probably done this sort of thing countless times before—most of the powerful purebloods probably have—whereas she…
Well, perhaps she's just being too… Muggle in her reasoning.
It's a habit she should kick—sharpish. If she wants this to work, she has to open her mind and think like a witch.
Lucius Malfoy, meanwhile, still hasn't uttered a word.
Hermione holds her breath. She expects mockery or anger. No doubt she deserves both.
He might even take this further and insist she be expelled. Strictly speaking, she did just proposition him, and then there's that whole 'wanting to raise a dead bloke' thing. People get kicked out of school for less.
When he finally does speak, all he says is: "We have to wait until the next full moon falls on a Wednesday."
"That's six weeks from now," Hermione blurts out.
"Is it?" He smirks. "Excellent. That will allow us plenty of time to gather all the necessary ingredients for the potions, and to ensure that you possess the required skills and mindset. Make no mistake, Miss Granger. Nothing about this will be simple."
"I know," she tells him in a voice so soft he can barely hear her.
~*~
Every evening after dinner he teaches her, and the lessons continue well into the early hours of the morning.
It isn't merely knowledge she needs to acquire, but also—and perhaps most importantly—know-how and confidence.
Hermione has always felt fairly certain about her ability to study, but she cannot deny that the time she spent at St. Mungo's has left its mark on her self-esteem. She is no longer as confident as she was a few years ago. People constantly questioning your sanity will have that effect on you, no matter how hard you try fighting it.
Thankfully, the private tutoring turns out to be highly interesting and even fairly pleasant.
Now and again, Lucius Malfoy reminds her of Severus Snape—minus the late professor's bitter, biting sarcasm—and she is starting to understand why the two men were friends.
Somewhere halfway into the first week, Hermione is puzzled to realise that she enjoys Lucius' company more and more.
Sometimes, when the two of them wait for a potion to brew or a complicated spell to take effect, the 'shop talk' turns into a regular chat.
Lucius proves to be well read—something that shouldn't surprise her—and a fascinating conversationalist. She can't tell whether he still harbours a vast dislike for Muggleborns, but perhaps he doesn't. Perhaps her earlier assessment of him was too rash—too harsh—and he really has changed for the better.
Whichever the case may be, he always treats her with respect, almost like an equal.
One night, he accompanies her to the Forbidden Forest to pick fresh herbs and Moonflowers.
An ominous howl sounds in the nearby distance.
"Come on," he says. He takes her arm and leads her onwards, and in that very moment, she feels safe in his presence, and that isn't something she ever expected to happen.
After that night, she finds herself looking forward to the evenings they spend together, and not only because the lessons are so captivating.
This isn't a development she ever stops to think about, however.
Perhaps she doesn't want to.
Still, when Ron returns—when, not if; of that, she is fully certain now—she does intend to ask him to re-evaluate his opinion of the Malfoys.
Well, of Lucius, at any rate.
~*~
Hermione takes a deep breath before stepping into the room.
The hot bath she just took, with lavender oil, was supposed to help soothe her nerves.
It didn't. Standing face to face with him, she can practically hear the blood pumping through her veins.
She knows why she is doing this—why she must—but the embarrassing fact of the matter is that she has only had sex twice before, and that was years ago.
No, she's no longer a virgin, but she couldn't possibly feel any more out of place if she still were.
With shaking fingers, she removes her cloak, revealing the long blue dress she bought three years ago. It fits like a glove.
Lucius looks her up and down, and gives a smirk of approval. "Drink this," he says. "It'll help you unwind."
She accepts the glass and studies the red liquid intently. "Is this some kind of potion?" she asks, her tone tinged with suspicion.
He shakes his head and smiles. "No, it's red wine—Châteauneuf du Pape; a very good year, too."
Hermione frowns, still uncertain. And since when does Lucius Malfoy drink Muggle wine anyhow? Isn't that beneath him?
"I have no intention of drugging you," he informs her. "I'm quite confident that we can complete this Ritual successfully without the need for any… outside stimuli."
She inhales sharply. It's almost impossible to fathom how nervous she is feeling, even though from a practical viewpoint, she doesn't suppose she has that many reasons to be concerned.
She didn't forget about the contraceptive potion this morning, and everything written about the Ritual states quite clearly that she has to enjoy herself, or it won't work.
So he won't be rough with her, or do anything she doesn't want.
Will he?
She swallows thickly.
"Through there," he says, gesturing towards the open door to his right.
Funny, she thinks, how unfazed he seems, and she has to wonder how often he has done this before, slept with virtual strangers, and for that matter, girls who went to school with his son.
She walks into the adjoining room and almost gulps at the sight of the luxurious four-poster bed. Has that always been there?
She glances around and notices the candles and roses on both beside tables. Her heart races again, and not just from nerves this time.
"Aren't you drinking your wine?" he asks.
She turns around to face him, and shakes her head. She can't risk getting drunk tonight, or falling asleep. Given past experiences, it'd most likely be the latter. One glass of wine, and she's out like a light. The twins used to joke about it all the time.
She bites her lip. That's really not the sort of thought she should be having right now.
"Right, then," she says, and takes a seat on the bed.
He joins her, smiling.
She opens her mouth to speak, but he silences her with a kiss.
Her breath catches in her throat, and before she can even think about what she is doing, she's kissing him back—and again.
When they break apart, a long moment later, she's breathless and giddy.
Goodness. The man can certainly kiss.
She lifts up her hands, places them behind his head and carefully undoes his ponytail.
The hair that falls over his shoulders is a mix of grey and light blond now. It clearly betrays his age, even if nothing else about him does, but that doesn't matter.
He's gorgeous.
Though from a rational perspective, that's probably something Hermione should also put out of her mind.
This, what they're doing here—what they're about to do—is merely something that needs to be done. It's a means to an end.
It bears no other significance.
It doesn't mean anything.
It isn't supposed to.
Though that fact is difficult to keep in mind as he starts to unbutton her dress, ever so slowly, and then slips it down so he can kiss her bare shoulders.
The touches of his lips are feather light, barely even there, and yet they make her sigh and shiver in anticipation of what's to follow.
His gaze travels down her body, briefly rests on her cleavage, and then that sinking feeling of self-consciousness is back.
Hermione has never thought of herself as beautiful. True enough, she has always been more occupied with improving her mind than her looks, and she'd rather give up books forever than be as vain and shallow as the likes of Lavender Brown and Pansy Parkinson, but nonetheless, she hopes that Lucius isn't currently comparing her to his ex-wife.
With all that beauty and sophistication, Hermione couldn't even begin to compete. She considers herself to be quite… ordinary and plain in comparison.
"You're a very desirable young woman, Miss Granger," Lucius says, before she can even ask herself why she is suddenly so keen to impress him.
She exhales in relief, but soon her breath hitches again as he slowly kisses a trail down her neck and collarbone.
He pauses at her bra and looks up in question.
She bites her lip and nods. She never used to be this shy before, but then he's… not intimidating, exactly, but definitely somewhat overwhelming. He's an experienced man of the world, not some overeager teenage boy fumbling his way around.
Pale, surprisingly soft hands stroke her breasts, slim fingers slowly circle each nipple, and she is stunned to find him so gentle, so careful, with her.
It's almost as though he means it.
No. That's nonsense.
"What is?" he asks, a confused look on his face.
"Nothing," she says quickly, embarrassed for having voiced her thoughts out loud.
He murmurs something she doesn't quite catch and continues his ministrations.
He takes his time caressing her breasts before his hands travel downwards.
He dips his head lower and kisses her breasts, one by one. His lips move to her right nipple, licking and sucking lightly, before he gives the left one the same attention.
Sighing, Hermione throws her head back. Her earlier nervousness is as good as gone, and it occurs to her that she should probably do something, too, get involved and not just lie there like some—
Oh blast. Whatever must he be thinking of her?
Her fingers tremble as she lets them wander down his back, and then under his shirt. It's a silky, old-fashioned garment with an insane amount of buttons.
Well, yes, she supposes it would be.
"Would you feel more comfortable if I disrobed?" he asks.
"Yes," she says, her voice a mere whisper.
She expects him to get up, and she isn't looking forward to the loss of contact (being this close to him feels too wonderful), but he doesn't. He mutters a wandless spell and in an instant, his clothes are gone, neatly folded over a chair next to the bed.
Hermione blinks. Will he ever stop surprising her?
She looks at him, then. His skin is pale and smooth and his grey eyes glow in the candlelight.
"Where were we?" he whispers and before she can form any kind of coherent response, he kisses her again.
She responds eagerly, vaguely aware of her dress landing on the floor, and of her bra joining it a few moments later.
He kisses a trail down her neck, over her breasts, her stomach and her abdomen.
"Oh," is all she manages when his hands come to rest on her inner thighs. His tongue starts to explore her and she can't stop the moans and sighs that escape her lips.
She squints her eyes shut. One of her hands tightly clutches the sheet beneath her, and the other grabs his shoulder.
"Ready?" he asks.
She opens her eyes again, looks at him and their gazes lock.
"Yes," she breathes.
"That part about not being a virgin," he says softly. "I presume it wasn't a lie?"
"No," she says. "But, um…"
"Yes?"
Is that concern in his eyes? She must be imagining it.
"It has been a while, though," she tells him. It feels like a confession.
He nods, slides a hand underneath her bum to tilt her hips up slightly, and then carefully pushes himself inside her.
She grits her teeth, just for a moment. It has been so long.
He bends down to kiss her earlobe and her neck. She moans again.
He begins to move, slowly, gently, experimentally almost, until a certain angle makes her gasp in pleasure.
The grin he gives her is triumphant.
Vaguely she thinks that she might be tempted to slap him, if this wasn't so enjoyable. But it is—extremely enjoyable. Merlin.
She moves back against him, back and forth, and grabs his waist with both her arms, guiding him, helping determine the pace.
The antique bed creaks beneath them.
He's moving faster, harder, his hand squeezing her bum now, pulling her closer as he plants more kisses down her neck. One of them is almost a bite.
She moans loudly and mutters something unintelligible.
She's close, so close.
She wraps her legs around him, to make him go even deeper and to increase the friction, until she can feel it—the pleasure coiling deep within her and bursting to the surface.
"OhGodOhGodYessss…"
She clenches around him, shudders, and climaxes with an intensity she has never experienced before.
A few more thrusts and he reaches completion too, groaning somewhere by her right ear.
He rolls off her, breathing hard.
She doesn't speak. What could she possibly say?
"God. You're amazing. "
"Wow. Could we please do that again? Every night?"
All of those would be true, but also highly inappropriate, because this didn't mean anything. It can't. It mustn't.
Her gaze drifts off in the distance and comes to rest on the cauldron in the adjoining room and the yellow mist that now hovers above it.
Hermione smiles wryly. Just in case there was any remaining doubt, the Ritual was a success.
Lucius rises from the bed. "We'll meet here again in six days," he says as he steps away from her, casting first a cleaning charm and then a spell that redresses him.
"Yes," she replies softly, as if in a daze.
She too, gets up, and with shaking legs starts to put her clothes back on. She'll take a shower in her private bathroom later.
He doesn't spare her even a fleeting glance. "Kindly lock up when leave," he says and heads for the corridor, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Hermione is overcome with a sense of loss she can't explain, and when she heads back to Gryffindor Tower ten minutes later, there's a chill around her heart that, she is quite certain, has nothing to do with the freezing cold corridor.
~*~
She doesn't speak to him privately over the next few days, nor does his gaze follow her around the room like it used to.
She supposes as much stands to reason.
Soon enough, they'll be slipping into their former roles again, student and teacher, Muggleborn and Malfoy.
One more spell to be said over yet another potion, and the Ritual will be complete.
Just two more days, and Ron will be by her side again.
Three weeks after the funeral, when she and Ginny were sorting through his belongings, to give some away to charity, Hermione plucked a few hairs from one of his jumpers before putting it in the laundry basket.
Though no one ever breathed a word about it, she was sure that everyone considered her mad and desperate for keeping them.
Well, perhaps she was… slightly unstable back then, but at least those keepsakes will serve their purpose soon. They'll allow her and Ron to be together again.
Together.
Unexpectedly, Hermione's stomach plummets as she realises something.
And it doesn't make a bit of sense.
She'll finally get what she has wanted for so long, what she has worked so hard to get, and yet, the idea of being reunited with Ron no longer fills her with the longing and unbridled joy it once did.
All she can think about, the only person she has been able to think about lately is…
No.
Her head spins from the onslaught of conflicting emotions.
She takes a deep, calming breath. She must stop this nonsense.
Everything will be all right again once Ron is back.
It has to be.
~*~
Lucius surveys the room for the second time, and gives a satisfied nod.
Everything appears to be in order and set up as required.
The potion is ready, brewed to perfection. Ten candles are strategically placed on the makeshift altar, and a circle of runic symbols is drawn on the floor.
One more joined incantation, and all will be over.
Ronald Weasley will return.
He'll be sitting right over there, on that wooden chair by the purple tapestry.
Lucius shakes his head and inwardly curses his mounting anxiety.
He knows that he has no rational reason for feeling this way. None at all.
Everything should go well here today and over the next few weeks, and that includes the complicated but necessary plan of keeping the Weasley boy hidden until the end of the school year.
Lucius knows that the cause of his unease isn't a question of competence, either. He knows what he's doing and by now, so does Hermione Granger.
Hermione.
Which brings him straight to the heart of the problem.
He has barely spoken to her in the last few days.
Not that he'd been hoping for anything different.
After all, there was no longer any need for her to beseech him, and he, for his part, has never been one to pursue women, nor is he terribly inclined to get into the habit now, after that regrettable business with his ex-wife.
Perhaps he should send Narcissa roses and a note of congratulations. He has finally become a greater coward than their son, and in the process, he has also got his feelings—and what's far worse still, his pride—hurt.
He must have lost his mind to even be harbouring these feelings.
Hermione Granger is just a girl—a Mudblood, technically, though he really shouldn't think about her in such prejudiced, degrading terms any longer.
No. The plain fact of the matter is that he shouldn't be thinking about her at all.
He never expected to feel this way about anyone again.
He always thought—No, he was convinced that Narcissa was his soul mate and that the two of them would be together forever, no matter what the future might hold, but of course, life turned out very differently.
He knows that it can't possibly be the nature of the Ritual that has him confused
He had done such things before, slept with virtual strangers in the name of magic, or indeed, for the sake of getting something he desperately needed or simply wanted badly enough.
Of course, he was much younger back then, and the sex with those people wasn't something he thought about.
It was insignificant, as were they.
Hermione Granger, however…
Somehow, the girl has managed to get under his skin.
It turns out that she's not infuriating at all. She's rather attractive, and quite charming in her own Gryffindor way, and she does possess a brilliant mind.
The only consolation, the only solace he has, as far as he can see is that in a few months' time, she'll take her NEWTs and leave Hogwarts behind her for good.
Or perhaps she'll even decide to move on as soon as she has been reunited with her precious Weasley and then it won't even be necessary to hide the boy.
Perhaps the happy couple will go to Europe, set up a home there, and Hermione will spend the next two decades looking after a horde of freckled, red-haired children.
Lucius sneers at the thought. That scenario might be amusing if she didn't deserve so much more.
Then again, if this really is what she wants, then she shouldn't get anything better.
And to think of the life she could have—the one he could offer her.
He shakes his head. Perhaps the girl isn't that smart after all, or he's just getting soft at his age.
Before he can ponder the matter further, she walks in, empty-handed.
"Did you forget your supplies, Miss Granger?" he asks, bemused.
Her gaze rests on the bubbling cauldron rather than his face. "No, I—"
"Yes?"
"I've um, made up my mind. I've decided not to—"
He narrows his eyes, fast losing his patience. Just what kind of game is she playing here?
She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Lu-Prof-Lucius, but I'm afraid I cannot go through with this. I—"
He blinks, unsure whether to be livid that all his work has gone to waste, or relieved and delighted at her change of heart.
"And why is that?" he asks. If his hopes are about to be dashed, she'd best get it over with quick.
"It's wrong, immoral, to bring back the dead." Her answer sounds like a speech, one she spent hours rehearsing in front of a mirror, and he wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly what it is.
"I see," he says, unable to stop the sneer that follows. "A belated attack of conscience. Only a Gryffindor…" He slams the book closed and extinguishes the candles with a spell. "Very well. Good night then, Miss Granger."
He expects her to leave, to run for the safety of her Tower, but she doesn't. Again, he has misread her.
He pretends not to notice her lingering presence and starts Vanishing the symbols on the floor.
Once more, she speaks up. "But—"
"Yes?" he says casually, but doesn't turn around, not just yet. Hope is a dangerous weakness, and always comes with a high price.
"I've sort of…" Even from across the room, he can hear her sharp intake of breath. "Ron will always hold a special place in my heart, but things wouldn't be like they were before, and furthermore, there… There is someone else I feel drawn to at present. Someone I—"
Lucius finally turns around.
She's blushing and flustered when she meets his gaze. "I'm afraid I find myself strongly attracted to you, Profes—Lucius."
"Do you, indeed?" he says, slowly, enunciating every syllable.
She bites her bottom lip and nods.
He strides towards her until they're standing toe to toe. He places his hand under her chin and tilts her head up, so she has to look him in the eye.
"You do realise, do you not," he says, "that my getting romantically involved with a student would be going against every rule Hogwarts has about these matters?"
She looks at him, and he can see the fear of rejection clearly reflected in her wide brown eyes.
"On the other hand," he adds, smirking slightly, "neither of us has ever been very good at following rules. Fortunately we do both excel at discretion. "
Before she can reply, he kisses her with a passion that takes her breath away and a tenderness that makes her heart melt.
Her arms slip around his waist. Hermione closes her eyes, and all she can think is that for someone who is about to jump, feet first, into another branch of insanity, she feels of surprisingly sound mind.