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Chapter Text

Hermione hadn't expected it to be an easy thing- ending things with Ron, but at least it had been straightforward.

No shouting or dramatic farewells. Instead, it had been a long conversation of sighs about how friendship was the only way forward.

The truth was, they never loved each other that way.

Of course they had cared, but that had always felt like the natural progression of a childhood friendship that grew into something more-something more basic, familiar, comfortable. They were raised together, facing trials together, and supporting each other when everything seemed to be falling apart. Choosing one another after the war felt so easy in an uncertain world. 

But it really was just that: Easy.

Habit, not passion.

The slow realization had drifted between them, like dust settling in the corners they had ceased to notice ages ago. They ate meals together and conversed, slipping into the comfortable rhythm of coexisting, yet somehow time passed, and they stopped truly seeing each other.

Then came an opportunity for Harry and Ron to be stationed at an international Auror post, one that would last the entire year and take them deep into Europe.

As soon as Ron told her, she knew.

They both knew.

Neither wanted to try for a long-distance relationship—not when the thing they were hanging on to had been fading for some time.

They had embraced so tightly that they could hardly let go of each other with promises that they would keep in touch. 

Now, for the first time in many years, Hermione was on her own.

But it didn't feel bad.

It felt like something was being birthed anew.

And so, she made her choice.

She was going to throw herself out there,

She would go on dates.

And if she was to be dating, she was going to be serious about it.

She'd picked La Bastille as her first-date haunt for two very specific reasons:

Firstly, it was comfortable-a bit of an old haunt so there couldn't be any surprises.

Secondly, it was neutral ground-upscale enough to impress, but never so much as to seem forced.

She liked controlled environments.

He was there already, at his usual table by the fireplace where golden light cast sharp shadows alongside the sharp lines of his tailored black suit.

She arrived early to enjoy the silence before her date. But this allowed Lucius Malfoy the time to notice her.

His low, rich voice sliced through the conversation "Miss Granger," he said softly.

Hermione exhaled slowly. There was no way to avoid him. She turned around and smiled with a curt politeness.

"Malfoy." Anything more would have been a mistake. 

Lucius put down his tumbler of firewhisky, regarding her with a look that was as amused as it was too knowing.

"Dating again, are we?" he mused, a thin smile appearing that told her he was thoroughly entertained. "How... bold."

Hermione stiffened.

"Not that it's any of your business," she replied lightly, "but yes. Some of us don't enjoy dining alone every night."

Lucius gave a quiet chuckle, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

"I suppose you'll tell me this is some intellectual endeavor," he added, actually tilting his head at the entrance, awaiting her date.

Hermione refused the bait.

"And I suppose you'll claim your dinner companions are here for your sparkling personality," she said, nodding toward the businessmen and aristocrats sitting at his table, who all looked terrified they'd wake the dead with a breath.

Lucius smiled.

"Business, Miss Granger," he drawled. "Not the same as companionship, but we all have our ambitions, don't we?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, about to snap back when Timothy Carmichael finally showed up.

Lucius smirked to himself at the mere sight of the man.

The game was afoot.

She led Timothy to the table, and two glasses of wine later, it was indisputably apparent that Timothy Carmichael possessed the astounding ability to talk and talk and talk some more.

Hermione had tuned out long ago, responding politely at punctual moments, throwing in an occasional "Hmm" or "That's interesting" during breaks to mask the fact that she thought about everything else but what he was saying. Then he wouldn't shut up long enough for her to fake interest.

"...and of course, that's when I realized, 'Why work for the Ministry when I can invest in potion startups instead?'" He swirled his wine around drop by drop as if unveiling the next great revelation, oblivious to Hermione's mind wandering. "It's all about the market-supply and demand, knowing when to cut your losses-"

Cut your losses.

Now that was a concept to consider. Hermione cast a glare toward the door.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to remain in her seat.

It wasn't that she wasn't trying. She'd come into this evening with good intentions, determined to keep an open mind about people and new experiences. She'd told herself she'd at least have an interesting conversation if the date went nowhere.

This, however, was not.

Timothy had spent the first fifteen minutes of the date talking about his wine collection-wine collection that was "respectable" but still "in development."

Then he went on and on about his ill-fated Quidditch career, one that had come to an end when his broom was hexed by a "jealous teammate" (Hermione wanted to ask if he was jealous of his skills or his voice, which was notorious for never ceasing).

And now?

They're way deep into investment strategies for potions.

Hermione was tempted to stab herself with the salad fork just to feel alive.

Thirty minutes was all she had lasted-and that felt like a victory in itself, considering how excruciating the monologue had been.

Is this what I left Ron for?

She took a very slow sip of wine.

Is this what the dating world looks like?

She suppressed a sigh.

Maybe I should have stayed home.

She had just been considering the idea of sending a fake emergency owl when she felt it-

The presence.

She didn't need to look. She already knew who it was. Fate-at least today-was cruel. Her eyes drew themselves toward the flicker of firelight catching his silver hair.

Lucius Malfoy was a staple at places like this-polished, untouchable, dripping with money, and full of arrogance.

Once his attention shifted toward her, she knew.

His gaze flicked to hers like someone who was confident in their place in the world.

Rather than acknowledging him, Hermione buried herself in her thoughts.

His gaze soon found hers-laden with thick black silk-the challenge was as slow and deliberate an act as any.

She could feel the lazy amusement spreading across his features.

The game began.

Then came the worst part.

His smirk.

That insufferable curve of his mouth told her that he avoided taking anything seriously. 

Bastard.

"Miss Granger," he greeted, his voice delightfully dripping with self-satisfaction. "What a… pleasant surprise to see you again with your… date."

Hermione forced herself to smile. "Malfoy."

Timothy blinked, his expression filled with disbelief. "You two... know each other?"

Lucius tilted his head in a studying position, his face unreadable—dangerous, perhaps.

"Oh, Miss Granger and I go way back," he mused, voice dripping with something dark and dangerous.

Hermione gave him a deadpan stare.

"Yes. As far back as your hairline should have receded by now."

Timothy nearly spat out his drink.

Lucius's smirk deepened, and Hermione glimpsed an almost genuine amused expression on him before he quickly masked it.

His associates chuckled quietly, and Hermione noticed Timothy straighten up, trying to decide how to respond.

Lucius took a slow sip from his glass. He was still looking at her with maddening amusement.

"Still as charming as ever, I see."

Hermione gritted her teeth.

Don't engage. Don't engage. Don't engage. 

With great effort, she turned back to Timothy and forced out a polite smile, desperate to save the night.

"Anyway, Timothy," she said, trying to sound interested, "you were saying? Something about your potion investments?"

Timothy cleared his throat, his voice rising a little higher than before, clearly glad to be the center of attention again.

Hermione lifted her wine glass and took another long sip.

Lucius's gaze did not part from her.

And for reasons she would never admit, Hermione found herself fighting the urge to look back.

Because the real issue wasn't that Lucius was there.

It was that he was enjoying this.

And for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.

But she would.

Eventually.

For now, she'd endure the dreadful date.

And she would absolutely not think about Lucius Malfoy watching her while she did.

Chapter Text

If Hermione had thought her first encounter with Lucius Malfoy at La Bastille was a one-time inconvenience, she had been sorely mistaken.

Because the universe, apparently, hated her.

And Lucius Malfoy?

He was enjoying this far too much.

Two weeks had passed since her disastrous evening with Timothy Carmichael, and in that time, Hermione had gone on three more dates—each progressively less awful than the last, but none particularly memorable.

There had been Andrew Patel, a well-mannered Curse-Breaker for Gringotts, who had been perfectly pleasant but utterly forgettable. He had spent most of the evening detailing his last expedition in Egypt, which had been interesting at first—until Hermione realized that his favorite topic wasn’t actually archaeology or magical traps.

It was himself.

Then there was Lucas Rowley, a rising Potions Master, whose idea of a good time included an impromptu lecture about the "philosophical implications of alchemical transmutation."

Which might have been intriguing if he had been remotely interested in her input.

And finally, there was David Roswell, a high-ranking Ministry official who had been the best of the lot, polite and charming enough to make her think maybe, just maybe, she could give this a real shot.

But then—he had called her ‘Mione.

And that had been the end of that.

Still, despite the varying degrees of disappointment, Hermione had remained determined.

She had promised herself-to put herself in situations claiming new experiences, new people, new possibilities.

Yet, one constant kept hanging around no matter who she was in company with.

Lucius Malfoy.

Seated at his usual table, sipping firewhisky, entertaining business associates, aristocrats, or whoever the hell he was conspiring with this week.

Every. Single. Time.

And, of course, he never ignored her.

No, that would have been too easy.

Instead, he had turned their accidental run-ins into a ritual.

A game.

One she hadn’t agreed to play, and yet, somehow, was playing anyway.

She would arrive early, as was her habit—enjoying the quiet of the restaurant before the awkwardness of a first date.

And he would be there.

Waiting.

Always.

He never called attention to it outright—never acknowledged the sheer absurdity of their repeated encounters.

But the moment he saw her, his expression would shift, and there it was—

That damned smirk.

A slow, knowing curve of his lips, as if he had been expecting her.

And he would murmur, in that impossibly smooth voice—

"Ah, Miss Granger. Back again?"

And because she was a fool, she would respond.

Because she couldn’t not.

"Malfoy," she would sigh, lowering herself into her chair, pretending not to notice how he followed her movements with idle amusement.

Lucius leaned back a little, swirling his drink with the finesse of an expert. 

"Tell me," he mused, looking at her as if she had been the most captivating thing in the room. "Have you ever thought of using a subscription service rather than this hit-or-miss trial approach to courtship? It might perhaps save you some time.”

Hermione would roll her eyes, setting down her bag with a bit more force than necessary.

"And have you considered minding your own business?"

Lucius would exhale a soft chuckle, tilting his head as if considering.

"But where would be the fun in that?"

She would glare.

And he would smirk wider.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t just tolerable.

It was becoming something dangerously close to enjoyable.

A pattern.

A routine.

There was no telling, on the part of Hermione, of whether she should feel annoyed or be disturbed by this great anticipation she was now feeling.

That night, she arrived very early and immediately ordered a glass of wine. Little by little, it had become a given, a precious moment of tranquility for the impending embarrassment of a first date, a few minutes for her to breathe before she was to fake interest for yet another stranger.

Unfortunately, she was never alone for long.

As soon as Lucius had spotted her, he had looked her over, taking his time with an expression that was too assessing, too amused.

Then, slowly, he had swirled his firewhisky, his silver gaze glinting in the candlelight.

"Another date- my, my, how do you do it?” he had asked lazily, his voice smooth as silk, rich as sin.

Hermione had arched a brow, bringing her wine glass to her lips.

"That depends," she had mused, deliberately matching his tone. "Do you mean the men, or my tolerance for them?"

Lucius had smirked, setting down his glass with a soft clink against the table.

"Both."

The implication hung between them, a challenge wrapped in velvet, a thread of something deeper that Hermione did not want to tug on.

So she had only huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head, and turned back to her wine.

But she hadn’t missed the way his gaze had lingered.

Nor had she missed the way her own heart had stuttered, just for a second, just enough to annoy her.

Another evening, another date.

This one—Julian Woodley, a historian from the Department of Magical Artefacts—had been pleasant enough, even if he did talk about the Goblin Rebellions a bit too passionately for a first date.

She had been mid-sentence, politely agreeing with something Julian had said, when he had excused himself to the restroom.

Precisely then, of course, Lucius had decided to strike. 

In the manner of a predator biding his time, he had inclined slightly toward her table, not close enough to be offensive but just enough for his voice to drift through that slender space as though it was meant solely for her. 

"Now that one looks like it promises something," he murmured with amusement.

Hermione had frozen, then glared at him from across her glass.

Lucius’s gaze had flickered toward the abandoned chair, then back to her, his smirk widening.

"That is—" he had gone on, raising his glass mockingly toward her in consideration—"if too much blinking and bad posture seem attractive to you."

Hermione was clenching her teeth, holding very tight onto the stem of her wine glass.

She had battled the urge to look toward the restroom, to see once and for all if this man blinked too much or not.

Instead, she had kept her expression neutral, her voice flat and unimpressed.

"He’s fine."

Lucius had hummed, slow and nonchalant, before taking a leisurely sip of his drink.

"If you say so."

And then he sat back in the chair, supreme disinterest in his eyes as though the conversation had never been. 

But Hermione felt the heaviness of his words hanging in the air, of the withholding of doubt in her mind deliberately.

And she had hated that he had done it.

Hated that he had gotten to her.

Hated that, later, when Julian had returned to the table, she had noticed the blinking.

Damn him.

Diagon Alley was quiet at this hour, the crowds dispersing to stragglers and shabby sorts, shoppers late in the night, tipsy couples tumbling home from dinners, and the rare clumsy Ministry official who would work late, wishing he never did.

Hermione, drawing her coat tightly against her, stepped away from La Bastille while the cool air bit into her flesh; her footsteps echoed against the cobblestone streets.

Another date.

Another long evening filled with forced smiles, polite conversation, and—eventually—disappointment.

She should have been used to it by now.

She had gone into the dating world knowing very well that she was not going to easily find a man. She had prepared herself for the awkward initial meetings, the dull conversations, and the eventual realization that she just was not interested. This very idea brought some deep frustrations coiling under her skin.

Because it wasn’t just one bad date.

It was all of them.

Every single one.

Even the decent ones—the men who were smart, successful, interesting enough to hold a conversation—fell short of something she couldn’t quite name.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe she was too picky.

Too set in her ways.

Too wrapped up in the life she had built for herself to properly fit someone else into it.

She exhaled sharply, brushing the thought away as she reached Flourish and Blotts.

Her bookshop.

Her home.

She unlocked the door and went inside, greeted by the familiar smells of parchment and ink. The dim light from the floating lanterns bathed the shelves filled with books, neatly arranged in orderly rows, with soft golden hues-their weathered spines whispering promises of winsome stories much better than the one stretching before her.

Hermione had crossed the shop with smooth ease and gone behind the counter and up the stairs to her flat. 

It was just two years ago that she had taken over Flourish and Blotts when the previous owner had decided to hang up his boots. Maybe it was an impulsive thing, an offer thrown in the air on a whim after she saw it listed in the Prophet, but it turned out to be one of the few best things she had done in her life.

The bookshop was hers now.

Where there was silence if she wanted it to be, an ecstatic riot during the changing of seasons where students came flooding in for their supplies for Hogwarts, and a place to lose herself in work, literature, in everything that felt kind of like home all her life. 

She felt bizarrely restless, though.

Hermione sighed and, slipping off her shoes, she dropped onto the plush emerald-green sofa by the window while absently rubbing her temples.

She was not lonely.

She didn’t need someone.

But gods, it would be nice to feel something.

Something other than this cycle of half-hearted interest, followed by inevitable disappointment.

She had tried. She had put herself out there.

The one man who had kept her glued to him for more than a few minutes was the last person she should even have been bothering to think about.

Hermione groaned, tipping her head back against the sofa, eyes closed to the vision of him.

Lucius bloody Malfoy.

What was even more infuriating than her failed dates?

The sight of him enjoying himself more than she was triggered a scowl from Hermione; she reached for the dark-colored blanket wrapped around the armrest and put it around herself. 

Tomorrow was another day.

Tomorrow, she would try again.

Maybe the next date wouldn’t be a disaster.

Maybe she would actually feel something.

Maybe, just maybe, she would stop noticing the way silver eyes lingered on her from across a crowded restaurant.

Maybe.

But for now, she would go to bed alone.

Again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

He wasn't coming.

At least, that's what Hermione thought as she checked her watch. Her fingers began drumming impatiently on the polished wood of La Bastille's bar.

Well, her date that Gregory-whatever was now forty five minutes late with no owl, no Floo, and no excuse.

Well, initially she had given him the benefit of the doubt; perhaps he got distracted at work or had an emergency. But time went by and the truth dawned on her: She had been stood up.

Bloody fantastic.

With a deep sigh of pestilential anger, she got up from her seat at the table she had been waiting at and with a scolding temper proceeded toward the bar. 

It had to be a strong drink to salvage whatever was left in an evening at this stage.

At least whisky wouldn’t disappoint her.

Taking a stool, she told the bartender to bring her a double firewhiskey. Her elbow hit the edge of the bar and she fell back into her unhappy posture.

She was so sick of this.

Of trying.

Of meeting the wrong men.

Forced go-and-date kind of things she never really cared much about; it felt like something she ought to be doing.

Her drink was half-empty already, and she was fuming, when a familiar being plopped down beside her on the bench.

Before she could even turn to look, she already knew who it was.

Lucius Malfoy.

Because, of course, he had noticed.

Because he just couldn't help himself.

She sighed dramatically and did not look at him.

"Unless you’re here to tell me my date is actually dead and not just a total ass," she muttered into her drink, "I don’t want to hear it." 

Lucius made a low hum as he set his cane against the bar as he sat next to her.

"Now, now, Granger," he said, shaking his head, "I was merely checking in."

She scoffed. "You? Checking in? Unlikely."

Lucius chuckled quietly, swirling the firewhisky that had been brought before him. 

"You looked… distressed," he said with a smooth, almost casual tone. "I simply could not stand to ignore a woman in distress."

Hermione finally turned and scowled at him.

"I am not in distress," she snapped.

A brow raised, his gaze flickering to the empty chair where her date should have been. And then there was the smirk, which Lucius let out knowingly. "So, he really didn’t come." 

Hermione felt resentment bite at her jaw, wishing he would not have so quickly figured it out.

"Not that it’s any of your business," she said stiffly, taking another sip of whisky, "but yes. He didn’t show. Are you happy?"

Lucius breathed and shook his head slightly in her direction before resting his elbow on the bar.

"Hardly," he said, sounding almost genuinely sympathetically. "I can’t say that I particularly enjoy watching you waste your precious time on men who clearly don’t deserve it." 

Hermione blinked.

That was unexpected.

It wasn’t an insult. It wasn’t even mockery.

It was… something else.

Something she did not want to analyze.

She huffed, looking away.

"Well, you can save your pity, Malfoy," she muttered, swirling the liquid in her glass. "So if that was all, you can go back to the business meeting or whatever you are supposed to be doing instead of hovering and interfering my personal life."

Lucius watched her for a moment with too heavy, too knowing a look, and then let out an amused breath.

"Very well," he murmured with a mock wave of the glass in her direction. "I will leave you to drown your disappointment in firewhisky. Try not to let it take over too much, Granger."

With a light slide of his chair, he gathered his cane and walked effortlessly to his table.

Hermione complained and then said under her breath, "Prick," and downed her glass.

While ordering another, a soft, teasing, dangerously charming voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Trouble in paradise?"

She blinked, faced turning, and saw Blaise Zabini settling easily into the seat Lucius had vacated, glinting with amusement.

She gave a long exhalation and rolled her eyes.

"Oh, fantastic. Another Slytherin. Just what I needed."

Blaise let out a rich laugh, signaling the bartender for a drink.

"There now, Granger," he drawled sumptuous. "That wounds me. But if you will insult me, at least do it with some propriety."

Hermione sighed. She was sitting there with her chin resting on her hand.

"I really shouldn't lie; my date left me standing," she muttered.

Blaise did a very faintly mock-offended sound. "Impossible! Who in the entire world would turn down a chance to be seated opposite Hermione Granger?"

Hermione snorted, shaking her head. "Obviously, an idiot."

"Obviously," Blaise confirmed, his expression smug. 

There was something easygoing about him-something gracefully charming that felt totally spontaneous and unforced. 

Unlike all her past dates, Blaise Zabini was simply sure of himself; he had no need to overcome his inferiority. When he just existed, attention was drawn to him.

"So," he went on, with a swirl of his glass, "Since a man of horribly bad taste tragically ruined your evening, shall I try to save it?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Are you seriously asking me out?"

Blaise gave a slow grin, dark and knowing.

"I would never dream of it," he said smoothly. "I merely suggest that you let me keep you company for a while. Strictly platonic, of course."

Hermione considered him for a moment and thereupon sighed.

"Fine. If however, you give me any sort of flirtation, I shall hex you," came the muttered ultimatum.

Blaise smirked, raising his glass.

"I make no promises."

Hermione rolled her eyes but when she took a sip of her drink, she simply could not hold back the smile that was building on her face.

Blaise, to Hermione's dismay, was ridiculously charming.

Unlike the men she had been dating recently, he did not try too hard to impress her. He did not fill the air with grandiose monologues demanding attention nor urge her to notice the great intellect or accomplishments he boasted about- he simply was.

And he was fun.

"'Tell me, Granger,' Blaise mused, with a sidelong smirk, 'Is this your usual evening? Get stood up, drink alone, then carry on a conversation with devilishly handsome men?”

Hermione snorted and put down her glass.

"Absolutely," she said sternly. "It's a sure-fire system: I make sure I have a maximum degree of misery beforehand so that when someone as charming as you comes along, I appreciate it." 

Blaise laughed and shook his head.

"Clever," he admitted, "although I think that before I arrived you weren't all that miserable. Frustrated? Yes. Irritated? Definitely. But miserable? No."

Hermione hummed, tilting her head. "And what exactly gave me away?"

Blaise grinned.

"The scowl. It was more ‘murderous intent’ than ‘woe is me.’ Very distinct difference."

She laughed, "So, now you know my moods!" she teased.

"I guess I'm a fast learner," Blaise said with a grain of charm. "And it would certainly be useful dealing with very intelligent, strong-willed witches who set men on fire whenever they annoy them."

Hermione lifted her brow. 

"Setting men on fire?"

"Figurative, of course," Blaise amended, though the smirk on his face showed that he was not really certain. "Though I wouldn't put it past you."

Hermione grinned as she took another glassful of her drink. 

"A smart man, indeed."

There went their easy conversation, flowing from barrel side teasing to somewhat more interesting talk. Blaise had words for anything—flirtations and taunts at once, keeping her as engaged as few could. 

She was laughing at some particularly unsavory remark when she felt it. 

Lucius Malfoy had entered. 

The drawl of Blaise betrayed his amusement when he said, "Ah! And here I thought we were free from the presence of that watchful Lucius Malfoy."

Lucius came to join his companions, eyes fleeting from Blaise to Hermione with piercing assessiveness.

"Blaise," he said, smooth voice awaiting a response, "I should have known I would find you here."

The smirk of Blaise grew wider at that and he raised his glass. 

"What can I say? I have excellent taste. And judging by your repeated patronages of the same pick of places as Granger, I suppose you've got some yourself." 

Lucius's expression did not change, but Hermoine caught hold of a flicker in his eyes that offset his look.

"The two of us meeting here is mere coincidence, I assure you." Lucius returned the gaze with the look that made Hermione question his exact intention. "So, what are you doing here? You're not, I suppose, one of Granger's usual tragic dates?"Blaise grinned, turning to Hermione.

“I don’t know — Am I?" 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No, Blaise. You are not amongst my tragic dates."

Lucius inclined his head and sipped his drink. "Good," he murmured smoothly. "I would hate for you to be disappointed again."

Hermione scowled at him, but before she could say anything, Blaise leaned in ever so slightly with his amused yet calculating gaze. 

"Well," he sighed, placing his empty glass on the bar. "As much as I've enjoyed this, I was just about to be off. And—" turning to Hermione with a devilish smile—"I was planning on a nightcap at my place. Care to join me?"

Silence.

Hermione blinked; It all had surprised her.

Next to them, Lucius gave nothing away, but Hermione saw it - a fleeting emotion that no longer sounded like amusement.

The weight of both men watching her caught her for a second, and slowly she turned to Blaise with a smirk at the corner of her lips.

"You know what?" she put her own empty glass down. "I think I will."

Blaise smiled, rose from his stool and extended an arm.

Hermione took the offer and turned just enough to look at Lucius, whose eyes widened.

"Good night, Malfoy," she said lightly with a light but teasing note.

For a moment Lucius stared at her. Fingers tightened around the glass he was holding.

But he said nothing. 

Hermione turned and let Blaise lead her out of the restaurant, with her stomach twisting with something dangerously close to satisfaction. 

They had wandered through the winding streets of Diagon Alley with Blaise rambling off behind her. His slow stride seemed to say he could wait this moment out. They could smell the cool night air - the faint scent of roasted nuts from a vendor closing up for the night - old parchment and cobblestones.Blaise said as they walked, his hands in his coat pockets, "things turned out quite charming tonight."

A brow was raised in reply, and she tilted her head to look at him. "Charming?" she chuckled. "I got stood up, drank a little too much firewhisky, and then you had to entertain me all night. Hardly what I'd call charming."

The lamps were dim and Blaise laughed. "I don't consider spending time with you a chore, either" Blaise said softly. "I would even call it an honor. Who would have thought that I was going to be the one to bring the Golden Girl home for the night?"

Hermione stumbled slightly, her brain caught up a second too late.

"For the night?" she blurted, facing him completely.

Blaze stopped in front of this brownstone - a newer, modern flat in the trendy Diagon Alley. One key fell out, silvery moonlight glinting in the lock as he slid it in.

Then—with that smirk.

That wicked, devilish, utterly Zabini smirk.

"Care to correct me, Granger?" he murmured low and teasing.

Hermione felt a hot coil in her stomach but she did not let it show.

"It depends," she said, watching him flick his wrist to open the door. "Will you make me regret it?"

Blaise had slightly turned there by the door to glare at her with challenging eyes.

"Oh, honey, I don't think regret really stands a chance here," he said with a half-smile.

Then Hermione breathed out slowly. Her heart may have skipped a beat for a split second.

And then she smiled briefly and walked into the apartment, with the door chiming behind her.

Hermione glanced through the room at the chic and modern decor before turning back to Blaise who gave her a dreadful stare. She raised one eyebrow and smiled deviously at him.

"So what are we doing then?" she asked in a low husky voice.

Blaise laughed and rolled his eyes at the corners. "I've been thinking about doing this all night," he said as he moved closer with a fluid motion.

She froze when he reached out to run his finger down her cheek. "And what exactly were you thinking about? "she asked in a whisper.

Blaise looked at her and smiled wider. "I had been mulling over how much I want to taste you. All of you," he said in a low, gravelly voice.

A gleam shown in Hermione's eyes "That seems like a good place to start." she said dryly.

Blaise laughed and his eyes were amused. He breathed tentatively, "Oh darling, you have no idea."

He grabbed her hips, and drew her closer to him. Hermione registered a shock, followed by a wave of pleasure once Blaise's mouth connected with her skin. He kissed her thighs, his lips up to the edge of her panties, and Hermione felt herself lose consciousness at the sensation.

Amid the crisp pleasure he  was administering, Hermione almost taunted him, her voice straining with excitement. "For a pure-blood, really, you aren't very... refined," she chuckled with sarcasm. 

Blaise looked up into her eyes, a flash of amusement crossing his face. "And for a know-it-all, you're not very... quiet," he laughed. 

The sweet giggle poured from Hermione's throat as Blaise's mouth closed over her; she felt her own pleasure stirring at his touch, with her body arching in response. 

But, she wasn't giving him an exclusive backstage pass. Gazing at him with glinting intent, she reached for his hair and tugged him closer as the spirals of buildups were about to consume her. "More," she exhaled, her voice drowning in need.

Blaise did as asked, his lips moving in sync with her hips as she rode the waves of pleasure. As she came, her body thrashing into release, Blaise looked up, his eyes shining with pride.

"Your turn," Hermione whispered, the last words dissolving as she grasped his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. 

His eyes lit up as soon as he started stripping, his body lean and sculpted. Appreciation filled Hermione's eyes and she felt a thrill down her spine.

While walking to the bed, she teased him. "For a guy who is supposed to be so good at this, you're not exactly impressive," she said with sarcasm.

Blaise laughed. "You know nothing of what I can do, darling," he promised.

After that, he pushed her back onto the bed and put his body over hers and entered her. The pleasure came to Hermione and she held him close with her legs as they rocked to the same beat.

Sarcasm and amusement dripped from the banter as they joined. Behind the jokes was a spark of attraction from Hermione. Also, there was a feeling of connection that transcended just being a one-night stand.

She put that thought aside and concentrated on feeling Blaise's embrace in her own body. Her body arched in response to his touch as they moved in unison, and she felt herself soar toward the finale.

They came, bodies thrashing with release, and satisfaction fell upon Hermione. She had never felt like this, and knew she would never forget this night, this moment with Blaise.

Between gasps for breath, Blaise turned to her, amusement flashing in his eyes. "You're not exactly boring for a one-night stand," he chuckled.

Hermione's eyes were filled with mischief "And you sure aren't stuffy for a pure-blood."

Blaise laughed low and husky, "I think we make a perfect team, Hermione," he said.

Her heart would have skipped a beat if not for all the conflicting thoughts flooding her mind. This was just a one-night stand, after all. She surely was not going to get attached.

"Maybe you are right," she whispered as she dragged a finger along his cheek. Now drunk with the feel pleasure as their bodies relax into dreams, their minds racing with the excitement of earlier.

Chapter Text

Hermione slightly moved as the morning light came shining through the half-drawn curtains, spilling golden hues in the modern bedroom. The sheets were silky smooth beneath her, and the mattress-way too comfortable for her own.

And then she remembered.

Blaise.

His apartment. His bed.

Her eyes fluttered a bit as she reached a long exhale, and she hurried to look around the room: minimalist, stylish, and expensive. The kind that says effortless riches but is too cool to put on display.

Next to her, Blaise let out one slow exhale, languidly stretching before he rolled onto his side facing toward her. His dark eyes were still heavy with sleep but held a certain unmistakable amusement.

"Good morning, Granger," he breathed, all hoarseness and that devilish smirk on his lips.

Hermione scoffed, rubbing one hand over her face.

"Morning, Zabini."

Blaise kept his eyes on her for a while and then leaned close to move a strand of her hair from her face; his cool fingers against her warm cheek. 

"I have to say-if I’d known the Golden Girl was such excellent company, I would have seduced you much sooner."

Hermione let out a dry chuckle and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"I can’t say that a whole lot of seducing happened," she replied, stretching her arms above her head. "I seem to recall too much firewhisky, a bit of shameless flirting, and you being too damn smug."

Blaise grinned and propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her.

"Ah, but I didn’t have to seduce you, did I?” he teased. "You came willingly — more than once if I recall correctly.”

Hermione turned her gaze gruffly at him, but that smirk simply refused to leave her lips.

"Don't get used to it," she said, sitting up and running her fingers through her tangled hair.

Blaise laughed, looking at her with lazy appreciation before dropping his legs off the bed.

"Come," he said as he got up and stretched. "I make a great breakfast. You must stay."

Hermione arched a brows.

"Such a bossy man," she mused, smiling. 

"Confident," Blaise said with a devilish grin before slipping away into the next room.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermoine was sitting at a sleek black dining table, observing Blaise as he danced his way in an immaculate kitchen, preparing coffee and eggs as if he had done it a million times before.

He was ridiculous. Shirtless, his back and his pretty much perfect shoulders making an ideal view, lounging around way too comfortably for one who had just enjoyed a one-night stand with Hermione Granger. 

She sipped her coffee with a sigh. Its rich aroma and well-brewed flavor were enough to enchant anybody in an instant.

"Alright," she admitted, putting the mug down. "I'll grant you that; the coffee is good." 

Blaise chuckled, smirking from behind and smoothly flipping the eggs with a deft wrist flip. 

"Granger, everything I do is phenomenal."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled.

Minutes later, he placed sausage and eggs on the plate in front of her and sat down across, biting his food as he studied her.

"So," he said after a bit, "I suppose this is where we talk about our little indiscretion, make some jokes about it, and go about our day as if it never happened?" 

Hermione smirked, stabbing a piece of egg with her fork.

"Something like that."

Blaise chuckled.

"Good. Because I’d hate for you to think I’m the type to get attached."

Hermione snorted. "Please. If anything, I’d be worried about you falling in love with me."

His grin broadened at that, and with even greater slowness, he took a sip of coffee. His gaze then slowly drifted down to her hair, rumbled by sleep, the chilling view of his oversized shirt slipping off one broad shoulder.

The smirk grew deeper.

"You know," he murmured, "if you ever need to be reminded again not to settle, I’d be more than happy to lend a hand.”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head.

"Are you proposing we be friends with benefits, Zabini?"

Blaise feigned offense, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Friends with benefits, Granger? You wound me. We’d have to be friends for that first."

Hermione chuckled, shaking her head as she took a second bite. 

"You are so very insufferable." 

"And yet, here you are," Blaise remarked. "Having your breakfast in my apartment after a most memorable evening."

Hermione rolled her eyes but did not argue. 

Instead, she allowed the silence to gently settle between them while they enjoyed the soft rhythm of their conversation, this silent acknowledgment that there would be no awkwardness with whatever last night had been.

After a beat, Blaise set down his fork and rested his weight upon the back of his chair as his gaze studied her.

"So," he said, his lips curled in a lazy smirk, "seeing as it’s been established that I am simply irresistible company, you should come for dinner tonight."

Hermione raised a brow. "Dinner?"

"Yes," Blaise said in confirmation. "Theo, Draco, and I are meeting at the new place in Knockturn Alley. You should join us."

Hermione hesitated, but Blaise just raised a brow. 

"Unless, of course," he said smoothly, "you have yet another awful date lined up?"

Hermione scowled. 

"You’re lucky I don’t," she muttered. 

Blaise grinned, sipping the last of his coffee. 

"Wonderful. I’ll owl you the details."

"I’m regretting this already," she muttered.

"Oh, no, Granger," he said smoothly, opening the door for her. "You’re going to love every second of it."

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't hold back the amused smirk that formed on her face. She stepped outside and pulled her coat tighter around her. 

As she walked down the cobble-street, she heard Blaise call out one final time—

"Don’t miss me too much, Granger!"

Hermione snorted as she shook her head. 

Bless her soul. 

She had just agreed to dinner with three Slytherins. 

What could possibly go wrong?

The morning air was brisk, fresh and invigorating, as Hermione drifted out of Blaise's building and into the chaotic streets of Diagon Alley. She could not even make it through the morning crowd without becoming painfully self-aware.

Dressed still in her ensemble from the evening before — far to flashy for the daytime—her heels made a clicking noise against the cobblestone, drawing attention. Meanwhile, her curls held on to the last traces of last night's style, now just a bit more untamed, and the faint smudging of her makeup around the eyes was the giveaway that she had not entered her house last night.

Not that the universe would make it any easier for her.

People noticed, indeed.

It wasn’t a type of scandal she was used to, just a myriad of curious glances and a few knowing smirks from witches who had obviously been through similar situations.

Then came the men.

One particular wizard who seemed to be in the potions business, by the way, had gone ahead and tipped his hat to her as she walked by.

"Good night, then?" he smiled.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione smirked and strode away with her head held high.

She refused to be ashamed.

She had a great time.

And she would be damned if she let anyone make her feel otherwise.

Still, past the entrance of Flourish and Blotts, she exhaled the breath of relief, quietly pushing the door open and passing inside so that no one would see her. 

The shop wasn’t as busy as its usual bustle of activity, and she quickened her pace and stood at the door of the back office that led upward to her apartment—Only to crash straight into a broad chest.

A very expensive, very familiar broad chest.

Lucius Malfoy.

Because, of course.

Because fate was a bitch.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Hermione stood her ground, tilting her chin skyward in order to gaze at Malfoy in the eyes. The silver eyes slowly yet deliberately traveled down her frame, taking everything in— the wrinkles in the dress which were still slightly there from the night before, the trace of a smirk upon her lips, and the complete absence of blushing on her face. 

Then, realization dawned upon him.

The faint raising of the eyebrow. The halt in his observation. The slight twitch along his lips, as if he were fighting the impulse to unleash a caustic witticism.

"Ah," Lucius murmured smoothly, a faintly sardonic amusement hidden beneath. "So that’s what you were up to when you disappeared to last night."

Hermione exhaled, all measured and calm, and uncoiled just a small step away from him, putting some distance between them—not as a reaction out of nervousness, but just to make him work for standing in that moment with her. “Did you need something, Malfoy,” she acknowledged, in a cool and detached tone, the perfect opposite to the heat creeping up in her cheeks. 

Lucius tilted his head with an air of slow consideration. "And here I was, under the impression that you would simply retire early," he mused, innocent words dripping with mockery; "But no—evidently, you were… otherwise occupied."

His gaze flickered over her again, lingering—just a moment too long—over the curve of her collarbone, the way that dress from last night still clung in all the right places.

Hermione stood her ground; she didn't flinch or even try to hide her amusement. Instead, she drew on a slow breath and let a smirk curl up at the corners of her lips. 

"If you're looking for details, Malfoy," she said, eyes gleaming, "I'm afraid I must disappoint you. A lady never kisses and tells." 

The expression on Lucius's face barely shifted, something sharpened in his eyes, quiet, but knowing. 

"Hmm," he uttered almost too lowly; his smirk held just the right amount of menace. "And yet your expression indicates I wouldn't need to ask. It's clear that Blaise left quite an impression."

Hermione arched a brow, already knowing what he was up to. Prodding. Testing.

She let the silence drag for just a moment too long before answering, just to make him wait.

"Well," she finally said, letting the word hang as she lifted a lazy shoulder in a shrug. "He is rather... talented."

Lucius was suddenly completely still.

Just for a second.

So faint that most people wouldn't have caught it. 

But Hermione did.

And how pleasing it was.

Lucius Malfoy, always so calm, always so unbothered, had just shown a twitch of reaction.

She'd gotten under his skin.

She hadn't even realized how much she'd wanted that until now.

Of course, he recovered quickly. Too quickly. His control snapped back into place, smoothing over the moment like a well-practiced act, his features returning to their usual unreadable polish.

"How charming," he murmured, though the words were clipped, measured. A touch too restrained.

Hermione smirked wider. "Very," she responded.

There was a pause.

One too long and too heavy. The air between them thickened, bristling with tension.

She wasn't sure anymore who was testing whom.

Lucius breathed out softly, straightening his cuffs with effortless grace. "Far be it from me to interrupt your post-coital strut," he drawled. 

Hermione laughed, tilting her head back. "Funny," she said, eyes sparkling with challenge. "I don't remember you ever taking such an interest in my personal life before."

His smirk crept back slowly, tantalizingly like a move in a game. "Perhaps I simply find it... intriguing." 

His voice wrapped around the word, smooth and rich, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. 

Hermione's heart kicked against her ribs, but she wouldn't let it show. Instead, she mirrored his smirk and tilted her head. "How very unlike you to care," she said.

Lucius gave a soft, thoughtful hum stepping close-not too close to catch a faint whiff of expensive cologne, something sharp and crisp, like warm tea and winter air.

"Oh, I don't care, Granger," he said smoothly. "I simply find amusement in watching you navigate... shall we say, new experiences?"

Hermione arched a brow, parted her lips, and let the weight of his words settle between them.

New experiences.

Bastard.

Her smirk remained unwavering; if anything, it deepened. "You sound jealous, Malfoy," she teased, warming her voice. "I had no idea you were so invested in my extracurriculars."

Lucius let out the softest breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Oh, hardly," he countered, though the way his gaze swept over her again told a different story. "I simply enjoy knowing when someone is… out of their depth."

Hermione felt her pulse shake—just for a second, just enough for her to clench her jaw against the reaction.

She refused to let him win.

Tilting her chin up, she met his gaze full-force, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement. "Well, then," she murmured, stepping past him, close enough that their arms almost brushed. "It’s almost a shame you’ll never know what depths I am truly capable of."

Lucius turned slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studied her—assessing, recalibrating.

And for the first time, Hermione thought she saw it.

Not just intrigue.

Not just amusement.

But something else.

Something deeper.

Something dangerous.

The moment stretched, it was thick and charged with a static energy before Lucius finally exhaled, regaining his usual effortless composure.

"Well," he drawled, stepping back with an air of nonchalance. "I do hope you enjoy your newfound... hobbies."

Hermione barely had a chance to respond before he turned, striding away with the kind of graceful arrogance only a Malfoy could pull off.

She let out a slow breath, watching him disappear through the doorway.

She should have been annoyed.

She should have been exasperated.

But instead, all she could think was—

Well. That was fun.

Chapter Text

Knockturn Alley pulsed with an undercurrent of danger, the air thick with the scent of damp stone, burning wax, and something darker—secrets, perhaps. The alley’s twisting streets and shadowed corners made it a place of hidden deals, whispered conspiracies, and careful maneuvering.

And Hermione Granger had never felt more aware of herself as she stepped through its winding paths.

She knew she stood out—knew her presence here was something that would turn heads and spark curiosity. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? She wasn’t here to belong. She was here to understand—to peel back the layers of a world that had always been just out of reach.

Tonight, though, she wasn’t just a bystander.

Tonight, she was expected.

The entrance to Nocturne’s was understated yet imposing, its obsidian doors set between twisting wrought-iron sconces holding flickering green flames. The moment she stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was elegant in a way that felt almost dangerous, with velvet-draped booths, dark mahogany paneling, and chandeliers that bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. The murmur of conversation was hushed but steady—there were no loud voices here, no unnecessary displays of power. The powerful didn’t need to announce themselves.

And seated at the center of it all, radiating ease and ownership, were Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott.

Blaise saw her first.

A smirk ghosted across his lips as he leaned back in his chair, dark eyes sweeping over her in a way that made her wonder if he had been waiting for this moment. His fingers tapped idly against his glass, amusement written into every inch of his languid frame.

Theo was next—his head turning mid-sip, whiskey sloshing dangerously in his glass before he choked. His cough rattled in his chest as he smacked a fist against his sternum, wide eyes flicking between Hermione and Blaise.

Draco, meanwhile, took a moment longer to react. He followed Theo’s line of sight, gaze settling on Hermione with a flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into something sharp and assessing. Then, with a shake of his head, he let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” Draco muttered, shifting his focus from Hermione to Blaise with the weariness of a man who had clearly dealt with this brand of chaos before. “Zabini, you absolute menace, you didn’t tell us your latest conquest was Granger.”

Hermione arched a brow as she slid into the open seat beside Blaise, her movements deliberate, composed—one leg crossing over the other as if she had all the time in the world.

“Conquest?” she repeated, her tone as dry as the wine she had yet to order. “How charming.”

Blaise, completely unbothered, raised his glass in a mock toast. “Don’t look at me. Theo was the one who insisted I bring my latest conquest to dinner. I merely… obliged.”

Theo, who had just regained the ability to breathe, wiped his mouth on a napkin and shot Blaise a deeply unimpressed look. “Yeah, mate, because usually when you say that, we expect some random socialite who’ll be gone by sunrise, not Hermione bloody Granger.” He hesitated, then flicked his gaze toward Hermione, still looking slightly dazed. “No offense.”

Hermione hummed as she picked up the menu, sparing him a glance. “None taken,” she said easily. “Though, for the record, I don’t qualify as a conquest. There was no winning involved.”

She flicked a glance at Blaise, eyes gleaming with challenge. “He was just very… persuasive.”

Blaise’s smirk deepened. “Persuasive?” he echoed, tilting his head slightly. “I prefer irresistible.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin, do you ever stop?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Hermione mused, tapping a finger against the menu as she skimmed the options.

Theo let out a snort. “Oh, he doesn’t. We’ve tried spells. Restraining orders. Threats of violence. It’s all very ineffective.”

Hermione exhaled dramatically, setting down her menu with a resigned shake of her head. “Shame. I suppose I’ll just have to suffer.”

Blaise leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into something silkier. “Admit it, Granger,” he murmured. “You like it.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, the air between them humming with playful challenge. Then, with the same lethal composure she had honed over years of debates, duels, and dealing with Harry’s reckless plans, she took a slow sip of her wine and replied, completely deadpan—

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Theo howled with laughter, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. “Sweet Salazar, someone write this down! Granger just admitted she finds Blaise attractive. This is history!”

Draco, despite himself, let out a quiet snort, shaking his head. “Honestly, Blaise, I think this is the first time in your life you’ve been appreciated for something other than your money.”

Blaise placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Draco. My incredible charm is worth far more than my family vaults.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Right. That’s why your last three ‘conquests’ couldn’t even spell Zabini correctly.”

“I don’t require literacy in my romantic endeavors,” Blaise said smoothly. “Just enthusiasm.”

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Oh, well, at least your standards are consistent.”

Blaise grinned. “Unlike my women.”

That did it. Theo dissolved into another fit of laughter. Even Draco’s smirk turned slightly reluctant, like he hated that he found this even mildly amusing.

Hermione shook her head, setting her glass down with a quiet clink.

And just like that, something shifted.

The tension that had crackled in the air from the moment she arrived softened, dissolving into something… easy.

Natural, even.

The kind of camaraderie she hadn’t realized she missed until now.

The kind she hadn’t felt since Harry and Ron left.

After that night, spending time with the Snakes became routine.

What started as occasional dinners at Nocturne’s morphed into late-night drinks, which then turned into game nights at Malfoy Manor.

And that?

That was something she never would have anticipated.

Malfoy Manor, with all its cold grandeur and storied history, had once been a place of nightmares. But now? Now she moved through its halls like she belonged there.

Which, perhaps, she did.

She would curl up in one of the sitting-room armchairs, feet tucked beneath her as she nursed a drink, listening to Blaise, Theo, and Draco bicker over cards. She would watch the way their sharp wit clashed and merged, the way they insulted each other with the ease of old friends.

It was comfortable.

It was fun.

And then, of course—

There was Lucius Malfoy.

Because every time she was there, so was he.

Watching.

Waiting.

Lurking on the edges of their conversations like a specter, never fully engaging, but always present. He would pass through the room under the guise of getting a drink, or adjusting something on the mantel, or—on one occasion—simply standing in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

It was deliberate.

The way he observed. The way his silver eyes flickered over her, taking stock of every detail.

And the first time he actually interrupted?

A spectacle.

The night had been going well. Hermione had just obliterated Draco in a game of Wizarding Poker, her victorious smirk only growing as Theo cackled at Draco’s absolute look of devastation.

Blaise, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable—very comfortable.

Hermione was half-seated on his lap, her back pressed against his chest as she idly sipped her drink. His arm draped loosely around her waist, fingers absently playing with the fabric of her shirt.

And then—

The room went silent.

Lucius Malfoy had entered.

The easy atmosphere fractured, laughter and conversation cut short as the head of the Malfoy family swept his gaze over the scene—over Theo, Draco, the scattered cards and half-finished drinks—

And then?

Then, his gaze landed on her.

More specifically—
On her, sitting on Blaise’s lap.

Lucius Malfoy paused.

The flickering candlelight did little to soften the sharp, assessing look that darkened his silver eyes. He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, his gaze flickered between Hermione and Blaise, settling on the casual, almost possessive way Zabini’s arm rested against her waist.

His jaw tightened.

The reaction was subtle, but Hermione caught it—saw the way his fingers twitched briefly before he laced them behind his back in that perfectly composed way of his.

She should have felt unsettled by the scrutiny.

She should have felt unnerved.

Instead?

She smirked.

Lucius arched a brow, voice smooth but edged with something colder. “Comfortable, Miss Granger?”

A lesser person might have faltered at the thinly veiled disapproval in his tone, but Hermione wasn’t a lesser person. She was a Gryffindor—and more importantly, she had spent years refining her ability to push back against Malfoy arrogance.

So she didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t flinch.

She tilted her head, letting the corners of her lips curl just slightly as she met his icy gaze head-on.

“Quite, actually,” she said, drawing out the words as she took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink.

Blaise, ever the agent of chaos, smirked wickedly and raised his glass in a lazy toast. “You know me, sir,” he said silkily, eyes glinting with amusement. “I always treat my guests well.”

Theo snorted. Draco closed his eyes briefly, looking as though he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Lucius’ gaze lingered. It was subtle—too subtle, really—but Hermione caught the way his silver eyes flickered once more over her position, how his lips pressed into a slightly thinner line when Blaise’s fingers idly traced patterns against the fabric of her dress.

Oh, he hated this.

Which meant she loved it.

The tension between them stretched, a battle of pure stubbornness hanging in the air.

Lucius exhaled slowly, shifting his weight as he adjusted the immaculate cuffs of his tailored robes. “I can’t decide if I should be shocked or disappointed, Miss Granger,” he drawled, his voice laced with dry amusement. “I always assumed you had better taste.”

Hermione smirked, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair as she propped her chin in her hand. “Oh, I do,” she said sweetly, tilting her head toward Blaise. “That’s why I'm not sitting on Draco’s lap.”

Draco choked on his drink.

Theo collapsed against the table in wheezing laughter.

Blaise grinned like the bloody Cheshire Cat, leaning in ever so slightly. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Granger.”

Draco, still recovering, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling. “I hate all of you.”

Lucius was silent.

For one perfect, blessed second, he simply stared at her, unreadable. Then, with an exhale that sounded suspiciously like begrudging amusement, he gave her a single, slow nod.

“Well played,” he murmured, then turned on his heel and walked away.

The moment he disappeared down the hall, Theo let out a long, exaggerated gasp.

“I—I’m in love,” he declared dramatically, clutching his chest. “Granger, I’m so proud of you.”

Blaise gave her an approving nod. “Welcome to the dark side, darling. We have excellent wine and far less moral obligations.”

Draco, still scowling, took a deep drink from his glass. “I hope you all choke.”

Hermione, looking utterly pleased with herself, lifted her glass in mock toast.

“Cheers, Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

Draco was watching her.

It wasn’t in an obvious, probing way—but it was still there, a quiet observation from across the card table, his sharp grey eyes flicking between Hermione and his father whenever Lucius entered the room.

The more time she spent at Malfoy Manor, the more she felt it—Draco’s gaze tracking their interactions, the subtle shift in his expression whenever Lucius made an offhand comment in her presence.

And tonight, it seemed, he had finally decided to say something about it.

Hermione had just finished trouncing Theo at Wizard’s Chess when Draco, sitting across from her with a glass of firewhisky in hand, tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thoughtful calculation.

"So," Draco began casually, his voice deliberately light, almost indifferent. But there was an edge beneath it, something too carefully measured. "You and Blaise."

Hermione blinked, tearing her attention away from the chessboard where she had been contemplating her next move. She raised an eyebrow, meeting Draco’s gaze, which was half-lidded and unreadable.

"What about us?" she asked, her tone just as nonchalant.

Draco shrugged, lifting his glass of whisky and swirling the amber liquid lazily. The firelight caught the movement, casting warm, flickering reflections across his pale fingers.

"Is that actually a thing?" he asked, affecting boredom as he took a slow sip. "Or just a very convincing performance?"

Beside her, Blaise let out a rich chuckle, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for this moment. Lounging back in his chair, he stretched his arms over the back of the sofa, utterly at ease.

"Astute as always, Draco," Blaise said smoothly, the smirk curving his lips entirely too self-satisfied. "Granger and I are… how shall we say? Former companions of convenience."

Theo, seated across from them, snorted. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake, just say you had a one-time lapse in judgment."

Hermione let out a sharp sigh, rolling her eyes. "It wasn’t a lapse in judgment, Theo. It was a single moment, one time, and it’s long over."

Blaise chuckled, tipping his glass toward her in a mock toast. "Mutually agreed, never to be repeated."

Draco’s smirk twitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his glass. "No? So just harmless flirtation, then?"

Hermione exhaled, exasperated. "Yes, just the flirting."

Draco, who had been lifting his glass to take another sip, visibly hesitated mid-motion. His grip on the crystal tightened almost imperceptibly before he set it down with deliberate care. His smirk widened, slow and knowing.

"Interesting," he mused, drawing the syllables out lazily.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, lips pressing together. "Why does that sound like you’re planning something?"

Draco tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Me?" he asked, placing a hand against his chest. "Granger, I’m wounded. I was merely… clarifying the situation."

"Right," she muttered, not believing him for a second.

Blaise’s smirk only widened as he raised his own glass, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. He took a slow sip before tilting the rim in Hermione’s direction.

"Careful, Granger," he said lazily, voice rich with amusement. "Draco has a habit of making things… more diabolical than they need to be."

Draco merely smirked over the rim of his own glass, his silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable. He took a slow, deliberate sip, never breaking eye contact.

Hermione wasn’t sure she liked the look in his eyes. It wasn’t just satisfaction—it was knowledge, a certainty that made the back of her neck prickle. He had confirmed something for himself just now.

Her fingers tapped idly against the chessboard as she studied him, narrowing her gaze. "Why do I feel like you’ve just confirmed something for yourself?"

Draco’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch, watching her with a knowing amusement that made her want to scowl.

Before he could respond, Hermione decided to turn the tables on him instead. She tilted her chin up, her own smirk curving into place.

"You know, Draco, if you’re so invested in my love life, you could just admit you’re interested," she teased, her tone light, teasing—challenging.

Draco laughed outright, the sound rich and genuine as he shook his head. He leaned back slightly, stretching one arm over the back of his chair in a languid, easy motion.

"Oh, Granger," he sighed dramatically, as if truly put upon. His eyes gleamed with mischief, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel like something more. "I think you might be considering the wrong Malfoy."

Hermione froze, her smirk faltering for just a fraction of a second.

Draco saw it.

And he smirked again, this time slower, more deliberate—like he had just placed her in checkmate.

It was too casual, too smoothly said—but the implication hit her like a stunning spell to the chest.

Draco, Theo, and Blaise watched her reaction with keen interest, their collective gazes sharp and assessing. The weight of their scrutiny sent a prickle down Hermione’s spine, but she kept her expression carefully neutral.

And then—

"Merlin, Granger," Theo barked out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "Even you can’t be that blind."

Hermione stiffened slightly, lips parting to protest, but before she could form a response, Blaise nudged her knee with his own, his smirk positively wicked.

"Do you think we don’t notice?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. "Every time Lucius walks into a room, the entire temperature shifts."

Her mouth went dry.

"That's ridiculous," she muttered, forcing a casual scoff. But her fingers curled slightly against her thigh, betraying her unease.

Draco arched a brow, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied her. "Is it?"

His voice was smooth, unimpressed, and far too knowing for her liking.

Theo grinned, leaning forward on his elbows, thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. "Oh, please, Granger. We can feel the tension."

Hermione let out an incredulous huff, crossing her arms over her chest. "You’re all insufferable," she shot back, willing her voice to remain steady.

But the way they were all looking at her—with that amused, all-too-knowing expression—made her stomach twist.

Draco took another slow sip of his drink, his gaze still fixed on her—sharp, calculating. Hermione could practically hear the gears turning in his mind as he studied her, peeling back layers she hadn’t even realized she had. And then, suddenly, his expression changed.

His grip on his glass faltered, his posture stiffened, and his eyes widened slightly in realization.

Then—

“Oh. OH!”

Hermione’s stomach plummeted.

"What?" she asked warily, her fingers tightening around her own glass.

Draco pointed at her, his jaw dropping slightly before he turned wildly to Theo and Blaise, his voice escalating.

"Oh my god, did you SLEEP with my father?!"

Hermione choked on her drink. Nearly spilled it. Possibly died for a brief moment.

"What?! No!" she snapped, far too quickly, slamming her glass down on the table with a little more force than necessary.

Draco squinted at her, his sharp eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement. "That was a very fast denial," he observed, his tone far too entertained for her liking.

"Because it’s not true!" she insisted, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual.

Her cheeks were burning now, a betrayal of the way his ridiculous accusation had knocked her off balance.

Blaise let out a low whistle, sitting back with an absolutely delighted grin. "Merlin, Granger, if you had just rolled your eyes and called him an idiot, he probably would’ve dropped it."

"Exactly," Theo added, watching her like she was a particularly fascinating puzzle. "But now you’re blushing."

Hermione groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I am not blushing."

"You so are," Draco murmured, a slow smirk creeping onto his lips. "And now I really want to know why."

Hermione clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply. "You are all too much."

Theo, Blaise, and Draco exchanged looks before turning back to her in perfect unison, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"And yet," Draco drawled, leaning forward, his smirk widening, "you still haven’t denied being attracted to him."

Hermione grabbed her drink and downed the rest of it in one go.

Draco studied her for another long, agonizing moment, his silver eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to triumph. He let the silence stretch, savoring her discomfort, before—

"Right," he said at last, dragging the word out slowly, deliberately. His smirk widened, the corners of his mouth curling up like a cat that had just trapped a mouse. "So you didn’t sleep with my father— not yet, then."

Hermione’s glare could have set him on fire.

"Draco."

His smirk only grew. "But you want to," he said knowingly, tilting his head just slightly, watching her like she was the most interesting puzzle he’d ever encountered.

Hermione opened her mouth. Then closed it.

A mistake.

The silence stretched for half a second too long—just enough time for all three Slytherins to read everything they needed from the expression flickering across her face.

Theo and Blaise howled with laughter, Theo actually doubling over, clutching his stomach.

"Oh fuck, Granger," Theo wheezed, gasping for air. "I thought Draco was just messing with you, but—bloody hell, this is real."

Blaise, still chuckling, shook his head in mock amazement. "I mean, I knew you had a thing for power, but Lucius? You really don’t do things halfway, do you?"

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"This is not happening," she mumbled into her palms.

Draco leaned back in his chair, looking infuriatingly smug, swirling his drink as if the entire conversation was nothing more than an evening’s entertainment. "Well, well," he mused, "this just got even better."

Hermione lifted her head just enough to shoot him a withering look.

"You are the worst," she hissed.

Draco smirked. "That’s funny—I was just about to say the same thing about you, considering you're apparently plotting to become my stepmother."

Theo nearly fell out of his chair.

Hermione snatched Draco’s glass right out of his hand and downed the rest of his drink without breaking eye contact.

She was going to need it.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy was a man of control. Precision. Strategy.

And if Hermione Granger wanted to play games, then he was more than willing to return the favor.

Because if she was going to drape herself over Blaise Zabini like some carefully curated accessory, laughing too brightly, leaning in too closely, her fingers grazing his wrist just enough to be noticed—then Lucius would make certain she saw him with other women.

Stunning women.
Refined women.
Women who belonged in his world.

Women who, unlike Hermione Granger, wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at the thought of blood purity or scoff at the idea of arranged matches. Women who knew the rules, who played the game effortlessly, who wouldn’t challenge him at every turn.

And Hermione hated it.

Not that she would admit it.

No, she would sit at the card table, cool and composed, swirling her drink with slow, methodical circles, pretending not to notice as Lucius leaned in close to Lady Helena Montclair—a striking blonde widow with impeccable lineage, a voice like silk, and a diamond necklace worth more than Hermione’s entire bookshop.

She would not react when his hand lingered—too long—on the small of Lady Montclair’s back, his touch deliberate, his fingers pressing just enough to be suggestive.

She would keep her expression neutral when Lady Montclair laughed, tilting her head just so, angling herself toward him in that effortless, practiced way that women of high society did when they wanted to be noticed.

And Hermione most definitely would not—would not—let herself flinch when Lucius leaned down, lips dangerously close to Lady Montclair’s ear, and let out a deep, smooth chuckle at something she whispered to him.

But her fingers tightened slightly around her glass.

Her grip just a little too tense.

And Lucius—watching from the corner of his eye—allowed himself the smallest, most self-satisfied smirk.

So.

She did care.

And yet.

When she turned back to the game, her grip on her drink was tight.

Too tight.

Theo, ever perceptive, watched the entire thing unfold with keen amusement, his gaze flickering between Hermione and Lucius like he was watching an expertly played match of chess. He let out a quiet chuckle, muttering under his breath,

"Looks like someone’s had a taste of her own medicine."

Blaise, lounging beside him, smirked, his dark eyes glittering with mischief. He tilted his glass toward her in mock sympathy before taking a slow sip.

"Jealous, Granger?" he asked, voice smooth, teasing.

Hermione scoffed, but the sound lacked conviction. She tossed back the rest of her firewhisky in one quick, decisive motion, welcoming the sharp burn as if it could sear away the irritation coiling inside her.

"As if," she lied, the words just a touch too sharp.

Draco, watching her with blatant amusement, let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he set his glass down with a soft clink.

"Oh, Granger," he murmured, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that was positively gleeful. "You’re in trouble."

Hermione exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the empty glass in her hand. She could feel the heat of their stares, their knowing smirks pressing in on her like a trap she hadn’t realized she’d walked into.

And, deep down, beneath all her stubborn denial and feigned indifference—

She knew Draco was right.

Because when Lucius Malfoy turned his head ever so slightly, his sharp gaze flicking toward her from across the room, his lips curving in a smirk that said I see you, little witch—

Hermione felt it.

A pull.

A challenge.

A game she hadn’t realized she was already losing.

__

The Ministry Gala was one of the most extravagant events of the year, an evening of politics, posturing, and painfully overpriced champagne.

"Come with me," Blaise had said, sprawled out lazily across her sofa, his long legs stretched out as if he owned the place. His arm draped over the back like he belonged there, like this was his second home instead of hers.

Hermione, seated in her favorite armchair with a book balanced on her knee, barely spared him a glance. "Come where?"

"The Ministry Gala," he said, watching her expectantly, his smirk already in place as if he knew he’d win this argument before it had even started. "It’ll be insufferable without you."

She snorted, finally deigning to look at him, one brow arching in clear skepticism. "So, I’d be there purely for entertainment, then?"

"Obviously," Blaise smirked, stretching out even further, looking far too pleased with himself. "What else are you good for?"

Hermione didn’t even hesitate—she grabbed the nearest cushion and hurled it at his head.

Blaise caught it effortlessly, laughing.

"Granger," he said, smooth as ever, adjusting his position so he could watch her properly. "If I’m forced to endure an evening of mindless small talk, dull aristocrats, and people who only care about bloodlines and bank vaults, I’d at least like to do it with someone who can keep up."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.

Because she wasn’t naïve.

She knew exactly why Blaise wanted her there.

It wasn’t just about avoiding boredom. It wasn’t even about having someone at his side who wouldn’t bore him to death with inane conversation.

No—this was about something else entirely.

Blaise knew Lucius would be attending.

Blaise knew this would be another opportunity to stoke the fire, to push whatever thing existed between her and Malfoy Senior further into dangerous, uncharted territory.

And the worst part?

Hermione wanted that too.

She wanted to see Lucius across the ballroom, sharp and untouchable in his tailored black robes, surrounded by people who didn’t even realize they were mere pawns in his game.

She wanted to watch his gaze flick to her, to see that slight hesitation, the barely-there pause that meant he’d noticed her arrival.

She wanted to watch him react.

And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to push him a little. To make him feel a little unsteady, the way he so effortlessly did to her.

She sighed, snapping her book shut with a decisive thud. "Fine," she said at last, giving Blaise a pointed look. "But if it’s dreadful, you’re buying me drinks all night."

Blaise grinned, victorious. "Deal."

The gala was held in one of the Ministry’s grand ballrooms, a space so massive and gilded that even the largest egos in the room barely managed to fill it.

Hermione arrived on Blaise’s arm, her emerald green gown hugging her in all the right places, her curls styled to effortless perfection.

Theo and Pansy Parkinson followed closely behind them, while Draco escorted Astoria Greengrass, his expression already bored before they even entered the room.

"Remember," Draco murmured as they stepped inside, his voice low and amused, "if anyone asks, we are the most respectable group in attendance."

Theo grinned, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. "That seems unlikely, given that Granger is with us."

"Shut up, Nott," Hermione muttered, though she was biting back a smile.

They made their way inside, the scent of expensive perfume and aged wine filling the air, the sound of deliberate, practiced laughter echoing off marble walls.

And that was when she saw him.

Lucius Malfoy was impossible to ignore, his presence a force of nature even in a room filled with Ministry officials, aristocrats, and social climbers vying for attention. He stood effortlessly composed, radiating the kind of wealth and power that didn’t need to be announced—it was simply understood.

And tonight, he was not alone.

The woman at his side was strikingly elegant, the kind of effortless beauty that made people pause mid-conversationjust to take a second glance. Her gown was a masterpiece of navy silk and delicate embroidery, hugging her tall, lithe frame with perfect precision, its plunging neckline revealing just enough to hint at scandal, but not enough to be outright indecent.

She was the perfect counterpart to Lucius Malfoy.

Regal.

Poised.

The picture of exquisite breeding.

And the way she touched him—lightly, familiarly, possessively—Hermione felt it like a blade sliding between her ribs.

The woman’s fingers rested delicately on Lucius’s arm, a proprietary touch, like she was claiming her place at his side without needing to say a word. She leaned in just slightly as he spoke to another guest, the small tilt of her head making it clear that she was comfortable in his space—comfortable enough to drift closer, the silk of her gown barely brushing against his sleeve.

And Lucius?

He did not pull away.

He did not correct the implication that she belonged there.

No, if anything, he allowed it—accepted it—his expression smooth, indifferent, as if her presence was neither a burden nor a pleasure.

Just a fact.

A fact Hermione was now forced to reckon with.

Because this woman—whoever she was—was exactly the kind of woman who would fit into his world.

Hermione could tell just by looking at her.

The effortless way she stood, the subtle but calculated grace of her movements, the kind of polished aristocracy that had been ingrained in her since birth.

This woman was everything Hermione was not.

And Lucius knew Hermione was watching.

Because when their eyes met across the ballroom—he smirked.

It was slow, deliberate, dripping with self-satisfaction.

As if he were saying, I see you, Granger. I see you watching. And I wonder—do you care as much as I think you do?

Hermione’s blood boiled.

Her fingers tightened around the fragile stem of her champagne glass, her pulse jumping to life with something that was not quite jealousy, but definitely not nothing.

And before she could stop herself—before she could think better of it—she tipped her head back and drained the entire glass in one go.

Blaise, standing beside her, chuckled under his breath.

"Well," he murmured, plucking the empty flute from her fingers, "that was subtle."

Hermione barely heard him over the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Because suddenly, she wasn’t sure who had just won this round.

Hermione set her jaw, reaching for another drink.

"I hate him."

Blaise’s smirk widened. "No, you don’t."

Hermione scowled, tossing back her second drink.

"Fine," she muttered. "I hate this game."

Blaise tilted his head, amused. "Then why are you playing?"

Hermione didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know.

All she knew was that she wasn’t done yet.

The moment Hermione and the others approached Lucius Malfoy, the air shifted.

Not drastically—nothing obvious, nothing dramatic.

But subtly. Deliberately.

The way Lucius remained perfectly composed, his posture at ease, the very picture of aristocratic poise—yet his eyes never left hers.

Not once.

Even as Draco exchanged pleasantries, even as Theo made some offhanded joke, even as Blaise lounged in his usual brand of smug amusement—Lucius’s focus remained locked onto Hermione.

And worse?

His date noticed.

The elegant woman on his arm—whose name Hermione had no interest in learning—shifted uncomfortably, her manicured fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of Lucius’s sleeve.

Hermione might have felt a hint of guilt—except she didn’t.

Not when Lucius smirked at her like this was all part of some great unspoken game only the two of them understood.

And Merlin help her—Hermione understood it all too well.

The conversation that followed was strained at best.

Draco was doing his best to keep things neutral, throwing in just enough snark to mask the fact that everyone in this circle knew exactly what was happening.

Theo, ever the agent of controlled chaos, leaned lazily against his cane, watching the whole ordeal like a spectator at a particularly entertaining duel.

Blaise, of course, was the wild card, lounging in his own amusement, his sharp gaze flicking between Lucius and Hermione with undisguised interest.

And Hermione?

She was very aware of Lucius Malfoy’s gaze dragging over her, of the way his fingers lightly tapped against the stem of his glass, the way his date kept darting glances between them like she was trying to figure out why exactly the air in the room felt suffocating.

And then—Lucius spoke.

"Granger," he drawled, his voice smooth and unhurried, edged with something dangerously close to amusement. "I must say, that’s quite the choice of dress this evening."

Hermione tilted her head, unruffled, a slow smirk curving her lips. His tone was deliberate, his words a loaded observation rather than a compliment. She had chosen the dress carefully—dark green, fitted in all the right places, just enough skin to be provocative but not improper. A color that, under the right light, was nearly Slytherin. Nearly his.

She arched a brow. "I could say the same about your choice of company," she mused, her voice silk-soft as she flicked a glance toward the woman on his arm.

The stunning blonde—tall, poised, draped in wealth and status—stiffened ever so slightly at Hermione’s words. Her fingers twitched against Lucius’s sleeve, her nails pressing in just a touch too tightly, as though she sensed a threat.

Hermione didn’t bother hiding her amusement.

Lucius, however, remained perfectly composed, his silver eyes gleaming with dark mirth.

He hummed, tilting his head as if considering her words, and then, ever so slightly, leaned in. "Careful, Miss Granger,"he murmured, his voice pitched just low enough for only her to hear, the heat of his breath ghosting over her skin. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound jealous."

Hermione snorted softly, but she let her lips curve into something far more dangerous. She stepped closer—not enough to be improper, but just enough to tip the balance of power, to make him notice.

Her voice dropped into something equally quiet, equally teasing. "If I didn’t know better, Malfoy," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his, "I’d say you’re trying to make me."

Lucius huffed a quiet, knowing laugh, shaking his head just slightly. His expression didn’t falter—calm, calculated—but something in his eyes flashed, sharp and intrigued.

He lifted his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip of his drink, his smirk lingering against the rim of his glass. "Interesting theory, Miss Granger," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "Let’s see how it plays out, shall we?"

"Lucius," his date finally interjected, her tone laced with forced sweetness, the kind that was just a little too rehearsed. She turned to him with a practiced smile, her fingers still curled possessively around his sleeve. "Aren’t you going to introduce me to your… companions?"

Lucius barely inclined his head in acknowledgment, the barest flicker of amusement ghosting across his sharp features.

"How rude of me," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the distinct lack of effort that implied he didn’t care in the slightest. He gestured lazily in Hermione’s direction. "This is Miss Hermione Granger."

Hermione watched as the woman’s eyes flickered with brief recognition, her poised expression faltering for the briefest second before she masked it with well-practiced grace.

"Ah, of course," the woman said lightly, though there was an unmistakable tension beneath the surface. "I’ve read so much about you in the papers."

Hermione smiled sweetly, tilting her head just slightly. "I’m sure you have."

The woman’s lips pursed ever so slightly, her grip tightening around Lucius’s arm.

Hermione wasn’t done.

She let her gaze flick lazily over the woman’s elaborate gown—elegant, expensive, predictable. A carefully curated accessory, much like the woman herself. She smiled, widening her eyes with just the right amount of polite curiosity.

"And you are…?" she asked, tone light, breezy—deliberately forgetful.

Lucius let out the barest hint of a smirk.

The woman’s back straightened, her nails subtly digging into Lucius’s sleeve. "Lady Eleanor Greaves," she answered, her smile a little tighter now.

Hermione hummed, nodding as if considering. "Mmm. No, doesn’t ring a bell."

Theo choked on his drink. Blaise smirked behind the rim of his glass.

Lady Greaves’ jaw tensed for half a second before she recovered, smoothing out her expression with an expert’s touch. "I suppose not everyone keeps up with high society," she said, her tone lilting, just bordering on patronizing.

Hermione gave her a slow, saccharine smile. "Oh, I do. Just not with the forgettable ones."

Lucius let out a quiet, amused hum, swirling his drink.

Lady Greaves’ mask cracked—just slightly. But before she could retort, before she could even attempt to regain ground—

"Well," Hermione continued, tone bright and airy, "it was lovely meeting you, Lady Graves—"

"Greaves," the woman corrected, voice clipped.

Hermione’s eyes twinkled. "Right. That."

Theo was barely containing his laughter. Blaise didn’t bother.

Lucius, ever composed, merely arched a brow, his smirk curving ever so slightly.

Hermione took a slow sip of her drink, perfectly at ease.

Then Blaise struck.

"Well," he mused, taking a leisurely sip of his drink before turning his full attention to Hermione, his expression far too entertained, "I believe I promised you a dance tonight, Granger."

Hermione arched a deliberate brow.

"Did you?" she asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

Blaise grinned. "Mmm, I’m certain of it. And, really, we shouldn’t waste such an opportunity."

He extended his hand toward her, eyes glinting mischievously.

Lucius’s grip on his glass tightened ever so slightly, and Hermione felt it.

She felt the way he stiffened, how his date caught the micro-expression of irritation and glanced up at him in barely concealed confusion.

And because she was Hermione Granger, she took Blaise’s hand without hesitation.

"I suppose one dance couldn’t hurt," she mused.

Blaise winked. "That’s the spirit."

Lucius said nothing.

But Hermione saw it.

The flicker of restraint.

The tension in his shoulders.

The way his silver gaze followed them as Blaise led her onto the dance floor.

And as she turned back one last time—just in time to catch the moment his date realized exactly what was happening—she scowled towards her.

Because for once?

It was Lucius Malfoy left standing still.

And Hermione, because she had never been one to back down from a challenge, smirked right at Lucius Malfoy before slipping her fingers into Blaise’s.

Draco, standing slightly behind them, let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"Oh, this is going to be so fun," he muttered under his breath.

Theo grinned. "Absolutely. Shall we place bets?"

Draco snorted, watching as Hermione let Blaise lead her onto the dance floor. "No need. We already know how this ends.”

Chapter Text

Blaise was an excellent dancer—of course he was. The kind of dancer who moved without hesitation, who could lead without force, who made it seem as if he owned the floor rather than merely existing on it.

His steps were fluid, confident, his grip light but assured, the press of his palm at her waist just firm enough to remind her exactly who was in control. He guided her through the movements with an ease that suggested he had done this countless times before, with countless women, in countless ballrooms just like this.

"Alright, Granger," he murmured, his voice like silk, a quiet hum just for her to hear. His breath was warm against her ear as he turned her with an effortless flick of his wrist. "What’s your next move?"

Hermione exhaled slowly, still feeling the weight of Lucius’s gaze on her back, the burn of it tracing along her spine like a brand.

She refused to turn around.

She refused to give in.

But even so, she could feel him watching—knew that, at this very moment, he was taking in everything.

The way Blaise’s hand rested just a little too comfortably on the curve of her waist. The way she let Blaise guide her without resistance, their movements effortless, a quiet dance of amusement and mischief.

The way she was playing the game.

And yet—

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Her voice was softer than she intended, more uncertain than she wanted it to be.

Blaise hummed, his grip tightening slightly, just enough for her to notice.

"Interesting," he mused, tilting his head as he studied her. His dark eyes gleamed, the smirk tugging at his lips entirely too smug.

"Because it looks like Lucius does."

And just like that, the air changed.

Hermione’s stomach coiled, heat rising beneath her skin for reasons she refused to name.

Blaise knew it, too—of course he did. The way his fingers lingered just a second longer at the small of her back, the way his smirk curled as he leaned in just enough to whisper—

"You can feel it, can’t you?"

Hermione pressed her lips together, not answering, because she didn’t have to.

Because they both knew the truth.

Lucius Malfoy wasn’t just watching.

He was waiting.

Hermione frowned slightly, and before she could turn her head to confirm it—

A shadow fell over them.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the edge of the dance floor, his presence alone commanding enough to disrupt the moment.

His expression?

Maddeningly composed.

The shift in energy was immediate.

The moment Lucius Malfoy’s voice slid through the air, smooth and yet unmistakably commanding, Hermione felt the ripple of anticipation coil in her stomach.

"Zabini," Lucius said, his voice velvet and steel all at once, "if you don’t mind, I’d like to cut in.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a statement of intent.

Blaise tilted his head slightly, his amusement flickering between intrigue and delight, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

He turned back to Hermione, his grip still light on her fingers, his thumb brushing lightly against the inside of her palm in a ghost of a touch, his dark eyes gleaming with pure mischief.

"Well, Granger," he murmured, voice dripping with mock innocence, but his smirk giving him away entirely. "What do you say? One song?"

It was a loaded question, and they both knew it.

Hermione’s mind spun through every possible response.

She should have laughed in Lucius’s face.

She should have let Blaise twirl her back into another round of playful, unbothered flirtation, let them parade the game right in front of Lucius just to prove a point.

But instead—

She lifted her chin, let her gaze lock onto Lucius’s, and took the bait.

"One song," she said.

Lucius’s smirk deepened, his silver eyes flashing with something dark and triumphant.

Blaise chuckled, releasing her hand as he took a step back, offering Lucius the floor.

Blaise offered one last smirk, tipping his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment before turning on his heel and making his way back to where Draco and Theo stood, drinks in hand, watching the unfolding chaos like spectators at a particularly entertaining duel.

Blaise strolled up to them with a gleeful grin, shaking his head. "This," he announced, raising his glass in mock salute, "is going to be a disaster."

"It always is," Draco muttered, taking a slow sip of his drink.

Theo smirked, watching as Lady Greaves approached the bar unescorted, her expression carefully neutral but her body language screaming irritation that her date left her to dance with another woman.

"You have to admire her," Theo mused, raising a brow. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone rattle an aristocrat so efficiently. It’s an art form, really."

Blaise chuckled. "It’s a bloody talent. She didn’t even have to try—just waltzed in, flashed that innocent little smile, and wrecked the poor woman’s entire evening."

Draco scoffed. "Please. Greaves will recover. But Granger?" He exhaled, shaking his head. "She’s playing with fire. And she knows it."

Theo let out a low whistle. "Oh, she knows it, alright. That’s what makes it fun."

Draco took another sip of his drink, watching as Hermione and Lucius began their dance.

Blaise grinned. "Merlin help her."

Draco hummed. "Her? Merlin help him."

___ 

Lucius Malfoy did not hesitate.

The moment Blaise stepped away, he took his place, sliding effortlessly into position as if it were his by right.

One hand rested lightly against her waist, the other enveloped her fingers in a grip firm enough to make it clear that he was in control.

Hermione’s pulse stumbled for half a second, traitorous and unsteady, before she forced herself to smooth it over, steadying her breath. She was not going to let him see the effect he had on her.

Lucius Malfoy’s hand rested lightly at her waist, his grip effortlessly firm as they moved together in time with the slow, sweeping waltz. His posture, his presence—commanding yet deceptively relaxed—took up space without trying. It was maddening.

"Bold of you," she said, tilting her head slightly, her voice cool, measured. "Cutting in so abruptly. Most men would ask first."

Lucius smirked, the kind of smirk that had destroyed people’s self-confidence for sport.

"I’m not most men," he murmured, his voice like silk, rich and deliberate.

No.

No, he certainly wasn’t.

Hermione held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. "I gathered."

Lucius chuckled softly, a low, knowing sound. "Have you now?" His fingers flexed subtly against her waist, guiding her just slightly closer, a motion so casual it was almost imperceptible—almost.

She arched a brow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stumbling. "You do have a habit of making yourself known."

"And yet," Lucius mused, eyes gleaming with something dark, “I choose to dance with you.”

Hermione scoffed, lips curving despite herself. "Oh, should I be flattered? Are you implying most women flee when you approach?"

Lucius smirked. "Not quite. But you…" His gaze flicked over her, slow, deliberate. "You always seem so intent on standing your ground. Tell me, Miss Granger—" His voice dipped slightly, conspiratorial. "Are you trying to prove something to me, or to yourself?"

A flicker of heat licked up her spine, but Hermione swallowed it down, tilting her chin up in challenge. "Oh, how very Slytherin of you. Answering my question with another question."

Lucius hummed in amusement. "How very Gryffindor of you to avoid it entirely."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but before she could craft a retort, Lucius abruptly spun her, the movement sharp and seamless, catching her completely off guard. For half a second, she lost herself in the effortless grace of it, the sheer power he exuded with nothing more than a step and a perfectly placed hand.

By the time she recovered, his smirk was wider.

"Something wrong, Miss Granger?"

Hermione exhaled sharply, matching his smirk with one of her own. "Not at all. I was just thinking—" She let her fingers trail ever so slightly against the fabric of his sleeve before gripping it properly again. "You dance rather well for someone so used to people bowing at his feet."

Lucius let out a low, rich laugh, tilting his head. "And you provoke rather well for someone so used to playing by the rules."

Hermione’s stomach tightened. Not from nerves. Not from fear.

From something infinitely more dangerous.

Because this—this was a game she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to win.

The music swelled, the waltz picking up in a slow, sensual rhythm that forced them to move closer, and Hermione hated that he was good at this.

Of course he was.

Just like everything else, Lucius Malfoy’s dancing was measured, precise, and completely calculated—leading her through the movements with the kind of grace that was practically ingrained in his bones.

"And what exactly," she asked, forcing the words past the tension curling in her throat, "do you hope to accomplish by this, Malfoy?"

Lucius arched a brow, his expression unreadable but his grip steady as he turned her with ease.

"I could ask the same of you, Miss Granger," he murmured, his voice dangerously smooth. "You’ve been parading yourself around all evening. Did you hope to make a point?"

Hermione scoffed, tightening her grip on his hand.

"Parading myself?" she repeated, voice laced with sarcasm. "Forgive me, I thought that’s what you were doing with your… what was her name again?"

Lucius’s smirk didn’t falter, but she caught the flicker of something in his expression.

"Ah," he said, amusement curling around every syllable. "So you did notice."

Hermione gritted her teeth.

"Hard not to, considering she was practically draped over you," she muttered.

Lucius exhaled a soft, quiet laugh, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin of her back.

"I wasn’t aware you were keeping such close watch, Miss Granger," he murmured, voice low.

Hermione’s stomach flipped, but she ignored it, lifting her chin.

"I wasn’t," she replied coolly. "But she was certainly making a point of it."

Lucius hummed in agreement.

"Jealousy is unbecoming," he mused, though there was a distinct glint of amusement in his gaze.

Hermione let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head.

"You truly are insufferable," she muttered, letting him turn her once again, the movement so fluid, so practiced, it made her frustrated all over again.

"So I have been told," Lucius admitted.

Hermione exhaled slowly, her pulse pounding far louder than it had any right to be.

The song was coming to an end, and she should have felt relief. She should have been grateful that this absurd game—this ridiculous push and pull—was reaching its inevitable close.

But instead, all she could think about was him.

The way his hand rested so easily at her waist, firm but not forceful, like he knew exactly how to hold her without making it seem like restraint.

The way his other hand remained steady in hers, his grip unwavering, as if letting go had never been an option.

The way his presence consumed everything, made the rest of the ballroom feel like nothing more than a backdrop to whatever this was between them.

And then—

Lucius leaned in.

Not much. Just enough for his breath to graze her cheek, for the air between them to become too thin, for his lips to hover so close to her ear that she almost—almost—shivered.

"Be careful, Miss Granger," he murmured, his voice dangerously low, velvety smooth.

Hermione swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

"And why is that?" she asked, forcing herself to sound unaffected, though she wasn’t entirely sure she succeeded.

Lucius’s fingers flexed subtly at her waist, a mere shift of pressure, but it sent an infuriating flicker of heat curling down her spine.

He let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of anticipation before finally murmuring—

"Because I don’t think you’re as indifferent as you’d like to believe."

The words slipped between them like a blade, deliberate and precise, cutting straight through the carefully constructed walls she had been so determined to maintain.

The song ended.

The final notes drifted into the air, dissolving into the murmured hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

And yet—

Their grip remained unbroken.

For a single, charged second, neither of them moved.

Neither of them let go.

Hermione’s breath was shallow, her heartbeat a fraction too quick. She knew it. He knew it.

Lucius’s silver eyes flicked to hers, sharp, gleaming with something both dangerous and amused. His smirk remained, barely there, just the ghost of satisfaction lingering at the corner of his lips.

And then—deliberate, excruciatingly slow—his fingers slid from her waist, his touch vanishing like it had never been there at all.

But Hermione still felt it.

And when Lucius finally stepped back, inclining his head ever so slightly in that infuriatingly composed way of his, she had the sinking realization that she had, somehow, lost this round. He bent down and placed a single kiss on her knuckles.

Hermione ripped her hand from Lucius’s grip like she’d been burned, stepping back with too much force, her pulse hammering so violently she thought she might explode from sheer frustration.

She needed air.

Without a word, she spun on her heel and stormed off the dance floor, pushing past a few startled guests. The tall double doors leading into the corridor were her only escape, and she shoved them open, stepping into the cool, blessedly empty hall.

The silence was sharp, like a knife against her skin.

She let out a ragged breath, her hands clenched into tight, furious fists at her sides.

She needed to calm down.

She needed to—

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Deliberate.

Her entire body tensed.

Of course.

Because of course he would follow her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, biting down her anger, before turning around with fire already blazing in her expression.

Lucius Malfoy stood just inside the doorway, his silver gaze sharp, his face unreadable—except for the slightest twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips.

She hated that look.

She hated all of it.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she hissed, stepping toward him, her temper flaring beyond reason now.

Lucius barely lifted a brow. "You’ll have to be more specific, Miss Granger. I do so many things wrong, according to you."

Hermione let out a frustrated breath, her fingers twitching at her sides.

"You are insufferable," she bit out. "First, you spend the entire night throwing yourself at some aristocratic mannequin, making a spectacle of yourself—"

Lucius chuckled, and she wanted to slap him.

"A spectacle?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Tell me, which of us was dancing in the arms of Blaise Zabini, practically inviting half the room to speculate?"

Hermione’s nails bit into her palms. "Oh, fuck off, Malfoy—"

"Really, Granger," Lucius interrupted smoothly, stepping closer, his smirk sharpened to a blade, "Blaise Zabini? Is that truly the best you could do?"

Hermione’s anger ignited into something volcanic.

"You have the absolute audacity to talk about my choices, when you’ve spent all night parading around with a zero-personality, stuck-up, pureblood porcelain doll?" she shot back, eyes flashing.

Lucius tilted his head, as if considering. "Yes, but at least mine had the good taste not to shag Draco’s best friend."

Hermione gasped at the sheer gall of him.

"Oh, you absolute prick—"

"Careful, Granger," he murmured, his voice dangerously low, the air between them crackling with something untamed.

Hermione shoved him.

Her palms met the hard plane of his chest, and he barely moved, but his smirk vanished.

Her breath was ragged, her fury spilling out too fast, too heated.

"I am—so—tired—of—your—games."  she hissed

Lucius moved before she even registered it—

One second, he was standing there, infuriating and smug, and the next—

His hands were on her.

Gripping her roughly by the waist, pulling her against him, his body heat and sharp edges and something dangerously raw.

And then—

His mouth crashed against hers.

It wasn’t a kiss of hesitation.

It wasn’t a kiss of caution.

It was war.

Hot, furious, unrelenting.

Hermione gasped against his lips, stunned by the sheer ferocity of it—of him—but her fingers betrayed her, twisting into his jacket before she could stop herself.

Lucius’s grip tightened, one hand tangling into her hair, the other dragging her closer, as if he wanted to consume her whole.

The kiss was a battle, all sharp teeth and pent-up rage, her body pressed against his, her nails digging into his shoulders, because if she let go, she was afraid she might fall apart entirely.

She hated him.

And yet—

She kissed him back.

Harder.

Fiercer.

Because fuck him.

And fuck herself for wanting this.

For wanting him.

It was fire.

It was rage.

It was every argument, every challenge, every searing glance poured into the space between them, burning through logic and restraint until there was nothing left but need.

Lucius’s hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth took hers completely, no hesitation, no caution—just raw, uncontrolled want.

His lips were firm, demanding, pressing against hers with the same arrogance and dominance he wielded in every other aspect of his life. And Hermione met him just as fiercely.

She wasn’t some delicate debutante for him to conquer.

She wasn’t going to bend for him.

So she fought back.

Her fingers further twisted into the expensive fabric of his jacket, yanking him closer, pressing up against him with all the stubborn defiance she had ever aimed at him.

Lucius growled low in his throat, the vibration thrumming against her skin, his fingers spanning the small of her back, pulling her flush against the sharp planes of his body.

Hard muscle. Heated breath. The scent of rich cologne and firewhisky.

She gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping inside, deepening the kiss in a way that sent lightning straight through her veins.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

His teeth nipped at her lower lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make her gasp again—and she answered in kind, sucking his bottom lip between her own before biting down, hard.

Lucius hissed, his grip tightening as he backed her against the wall, caging her between his body and the cold marble.

A gasp slipped from her throat, and she hated how much she felt it.

The heat. The rush. The reckless thrill of it all.

The sheer danger of kissing Lucius Malfoy like this—hot, unrestrained, filthy.

His hand slid lower, fingers skimming along her hip, gripping the fabric of her dress like he was seconds away from tearing it apart.

The moment was wild, reckless, spiraling out of control—

And then—

It was over.

Lucius pulled back so abruptly that she nearly stumbled forward, her breath ragged, her lips swollen, her body still screaming for him.

But he just straightened his jacket, smoothing out the creases like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t just kissed him back like she wanted to tear him apart.

Like none of it had mattered.

Lucius turned back to her just slightly, his gaze flickering over her flushed skin, the heave of her breath, the way she stood her ground despite the unmistakable storm raging in her eyes.

His smirk was slow, infuriatingly composed—like he hadn’t just pinned her against the wall, like his lips hadn’t been on hers, like he hadn’t just kissed her like he was drowning and she was the only air left in the world.

"This was inevitable, Granger," he said smoothly, his voice cool and controlled, as if he hadn’t just devoured her against the wall.

And then—

He turned.

But this time, he hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Then, without looking at her, he added, voice lower, sharper—

"Consider that a lesson in playing with fire. You should be more careful what you start."

Hermione felt something snap.

Fury.

Humiliation.

A sharp, vicious ache curling in her chest.

But she refused to let him see it.

Refused to let him know that he had just lit her world on fire—only to walk away like it was nothing.

So she took a breath, set her jaw, and lifted her chin.

"Typical," she muttered, her voice sharp, biting. "Even now, you still run the second something requires effort."

Lucius stilled.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Then, without turning back, he exhaled a slow breath.

"Good night, Miss Granger."

And then—

He was gone.

Chapter Text

The hallway felt too empty after Lucius left.

The air still crackled with heat, but it was a lonely, fury-laced heat, one that did nothing except churn in her stomach like a storm with nowhere to go.

She should have slapped him.

She should have hexed him.

She should have—

Merlin, she should not have kissed him back.

The realization crashed into her, her breath coming too fast, her pulse erratic. She dragged a hand through her hair, willing herself to calm the fuck down, but it was no use. She was too angry. Too humiliated. Too—

No.

She wasn’t going to let him win.

Not like this.

Not when he had the audacity to kiss her like that and then walk away like it was nothing.

She squared her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and forced her legs to move.

Back to the ballroom.

Back to her friends.

Back to someone who actually gave a shit about her feelings.

Blaise spotted her immediately the moment she re-entered the ballroom, his sharp, perceptive gaze flicking over her face.

He was seated at their table, lounging comfortably with one arm draped over the back of his chair, a drink lazily swirling in his hand. But as soon as he took in her expression—the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the fire still burning in her eyes—the amusement in his face shifted.

"Hermione," he greeted smoothly, setting his glass down, his tone still light, but laced with curiosity. "I see you’ve returned from your mysterious departure. Dare I ask—"

"I want to go home," she interrupted, her voice tight, controlled, betraying nothing of the inferno raging in her chest.

Blaise blinked once, then tilted his head.

"Home home?" he asked slowly.

Then he smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in slightly.

“Or you want me to take you home?" he drawled, his tone drenched in suggestion, one brow arching as he gave her a very pointed wink.

Despite everything, despite the seething anger still bubbling under her skin, Hermione let out a breath of a laugh, shaking her head.

"Home, home," she corrected, rolling her eyes. "I just want to sleep."

Blaise clicked his tongue, mock disappointment written all over his face.

"Tragic," he sighed dramatically. "And here I was, ready to offer my services for a much more… distracting evening."

"You’re a menace," she muttered, reaching for her clutch.

"I try," Blaise murmured, still watching her too closely, too intently for her comfort.

Draco, who had been watching the entire exchange in silence, suddenly narrowed his eyes. His usual air of detached amusement was gone, replaced with something sharper, more focused.

"Granger," he said, his tone shifting, no longer teasing—now edged with something close to concern. "Did my father do something?"

Hermione stilled for half a second. Barely noticeable. But Draco caught it.

Then she let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed her things with a little more force than necessary.

"Your father," she said, biting out the words, "can go fuck himself."

Draco’s brows shot up in surprise. Theo, who had been half-drunk and only half-paying attention, suddenly straightened in his seat, his intrigue sharpening.

"Oh," Theo murmured, his eyes lighting up. "interesting."

Hermione let out a slow, measured breath, as if physically forcing the irritation out of her body. It didn’t work.

"Or," she added bitterly, scoffing as she adjusted her bag over her shoulder, "he can go fuck his stupid pureblood doll. I don’t really care."

Draco’s confusion deepened. His sharp, calculating gaze flickered over her face, scanning, piecing together a puzzle that didn’t make sense.

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, his voice low but pressing.

Theo, on the other hand, had fully sobered up, now watching like a man who had just stumbled into the most entertaining drama of the year.

"Wait," Theo said, holding up a hand, his words slightly slurred but no less eager. "Hold on. Did something actually happen? Because I knew it—I bloody knew it. That tension? That ridiculous, slow-burn, ‘I hate you but let me smolder at you from across the room’ energy? We all felt it."

Draco ignored him, eyes still locked onto Hermione with an intensity that made her want to look away—but she didn’t.

"Are you sure—"

"Draco," she cut in sharply, her voice firm, final, "I'm fine."

Too firm.

Too final.

And Draco wasn’t buying it.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t stupid—he knew when something wasn’t right, when someone was deflecting.

But before he could push further, Hermione turned on her heel, striding away before he had the chance.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Well, that was a fucking lie."

Theo whistled, leaning back in his chair, entirely too amused. "Oh, definitely a lie."

Draco downed the rest of his drink in one go.

Whatever the hell had just happened—whatever his father had done—he was going to find out.

Draco didn’t look convinced. Not one bit.

His eyes flicked toward the hallway—where she had just come from.

Where his father had gone.

The suspicion in his expression was undeniable, but Hermione refused to indulge it.

She had nothing to say.

Not now.

Not about that man.

So instead, she turned stoped and turned around and looked at Blaise.

"Blaise, are you coming?"

Blaise grinned, pushing himself up from his seat with his usual lazy grace, adjusting his cuffs as he did.

"Darling," he said smoothly, slipping his arm around her shoulders, "after a performance like that, how could I say no?"

Draco sighed heavily, rubbing his temple like he already regretted every decision that had led to this moment.

"You two are going to be the death of me," he muttered.

Theo, still smirking, raised his glass. "And I, for one, welcome it."

Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring them both as she let Blaise lead her away from the table.

She was done thinking about Lucius Malfoy tonight.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

But as they exited the ballroom, as the weight of his hands, his mouth, his words still lingered on her skin—

She knew that was a lie.

____

The morning after the gala, Hermione woke up with a plan.

A petty, calculated, reckless-as-hell plan.

Because Lucius Malfoy had kissed her like he owned her.

Then walked away like she was nothing.

And that?

That was unacceptable.

So when Blaise sauntered into her bookshop later that morning, his expression still lazy from sleep, his hair artfully disheveled, and his entire demeanor screaming I was up far too late and had far too much fun, Hermione was already waiting.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk firmly in place.

Blaise stopped short the moment he saw her, eyes narrowing in immediate suspicion.

"Granger," he drawled, stepping closer, "you look far too pleased for someone who nearly committed murder last night."

Hermione shrugged, feigning innocence. "I’ve decided on a new approach."

Blaise arched a perfectly sculpted brow, his intrigue deepening. He crossed the remaining distance with the slow, unhurried grace of someone who knew he was about to be entertained. Placing his hands on the counter, he tapped his fingers lightly against the wood, watching her carefully.

"Oh?" he mused, tilting his head slightly, the predator in him sensing something delicious on the horizon. "Do tell."

Hermione leaned in just a fraction, lowering her voice, her smirk deepening as if she were about to unveil a particularly wicked secret.

“He’s not the only one who can have their own pureblood porcelain doll."

There was a beat of silence.

Blaise blinked once.

And then—

A slow, devious grin spread across his face, his dark eyes alight with delighted wickedness. His entire demeanor shifted, his spine straightening, his fingers pressing more firmly against the countertop as if he had just been granted his favorite kind of entertainment.

"Oh, darling," he purred, voice dripping with amusement and so much anticipation, "this is going to be fun."

Hermione grinned, tilting her head playfully. "Think you can handle it?"

Blaise scoffed, placing a hand against his chest in mock offense. "Granger, please. If there’s one thing I excel at, it’s being irresistible and deeply inconvenient."

Hermione chuckled, shaking her head. "Good. Because I want this to be convincing."

Blaise’s smirk turned absolutely diabolical. "Oh, trust me, love. By the time we’re done, Lucius Malfoy won’t know what hit him."

Blaise threw himself into one of the chairs across from the counter, draping himself over it like a lounging cat, his grin never once faltering. He exuded the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was about to have far too much fun.

"Alright, Granger," he drawled, propping his chin up with his hand, dark eyes glittering with amusement. "I’m intrigued. Lay out this masterpiece of a plan for me."

Hermione leaned against the counter, her fingers idly toying with a quill, her mind already racing through every possible move, every calculated step they could take.

"We make it impossible for him to ignore us," she said matter-of-factly.

Blaise’s grin widened. "Us?"

"Yes, us," she clarified, rolling her eyes. "You and I—we step it up. More public appearances. More whispers. More lingering touches that might not mean anything but look like they do."

Blaise hummed in approval, his grin positively sinful. "Oh, Granger, I think I love—"

Hermione shot him a warning look.

He smirked, unrepentant. "—this plan."

He sat up straighter, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair, considering. "So, to clarify—you're asking me to publicly seduce you in the hopes of driving Lucius Malfoy out of his mind with jealousy?"

Hermione exhaled. "Not seduce. Just… create the impression that we could be. Keep him wondering. Keep him watching."

Blaise’s grin was positively wicked now. "Darling, watching me charm someone is like watching an artist at work. Are you sure you're prepared for the full Blaise Zabini experience?"

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. "I highly doubt you’re as devastating as you claim, Blaise."

He gasped dramatically. "Granger, I am wounded." Then, his smirk returned, sharper this time. "Fine. If we’re doing this, we need to set the stage properly. Subtle, but not too subtle."

Hermione nodded, her mind already spinning. "We start with casual encounters—places where we’re seen but not in an obvious way. Dinners at The Ivy. Late-night drinks at that lounge in Diagon Alley where all the pureblood heirs gossip. And the next gala?" She smirked. “We’ll make a statement."

Blaise let out a delighted laugh, sitting up properly now. "Oh, I love when you embrace your inner Slytherin." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And we’ll need the perfect wardrobe. I’m thinking dangerously high slits, low backs, and colors that make Lucius question his entire existence."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in amusement. "You just want an excuse to dress me up like one of your accessories."

Blaise winked. "If I’m going to be parading you around on my arm, you might as well look like the temptation of the century."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head but unable to suppress her smirk. "Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly."

Blaise clapped his hands together, looking thoroughly pleased. "Oh, obviously. If we’re setting out to make Lucius Malfoy lose his composure, we can’t half-ass it."

Hermione smirked. "No. We go all in."

Blaise’s dark eyes gleamed with mischief. "Granger, darling, you have no idea what you’ve just started."

"We’ll start somewhere obvious," she continued, pacing slightly, her brain already crafting the perfect sequence of headlines and rumors. "Somewhere we know he’ll be."

Blaise watched her with amusement, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"You have a particular event in mind, don’t you?"

Hermione smirked. "The Montague Gala. This weekend. He’ll be there."

Blaise whistled, low and impressed. "You did wake up feeling dangerous."

She tapped a finger against the counter. "And we won’t just attend together. We’ll make an entrance."

Blaise grinned. "Oh, I love an entrance."

"We show up late," she continued, gesturing as she spoke, her mind piecing together the perfect performance. "Fashionably late. Just enough that people notice. And when we walk in—"

Blaise sat up slightly, nodding. "We make sure he’s watching."

"Exactly," Hermione confirmed, her grin matching his now.

Blaise let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "Merlin, Granger, I didn’t know you had it in you. This is positively diabolical."

She smirked. "You haven’t seen anything yet."

Blaise tilted his head, tapping a finger to his lips in mock contemplation.

"You know," he mused, "if we really want to sell this, I should start sending you flowers."

Hermione shot him a deadpan stare. "That’s excessive."

"Excessively brilliant," he corrected. "Come on, picture it—gorgeous bouquets arriving at your bookshop daily, delivered by yours truly, the most charming man in London."

Hermione sighed but couldn’t help but laugh. "Fine. One bouquet."

Blaise gasped, placing a hand over his heart. "Just one? How stingy."

"One for now," she clarified, shaking her head.

Blaise leaned forward, his smirk turning more mischievous.

Blaise leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he studied her.

"You do realize this will only work if you commit," he said, his voice low, teasing, but with just enough seriousness to make it clear—he wasn’t entirely joking. "We’re going to have to be very… convincing."

Hermione lifted a brow, unimpressed. "Meaning?"

Blaise grinned, reaching across the counter in an overly dramatic flourish and taking her hand in his, fingers curling around hers with exaggerated reverence.

"Hand-holding, lingering glances, possibly even a scandalous brush of fingers on the small of your back," he murmured, his tone mockingly grave, as if he were discussing the logistics of some great noble sacrifice. "Are you prepared for that level of dedication?"

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips.

"I’ll manage," she said dryly.

Blaise sighed, shaking his head as if deeply moved. "Such bravery. Such commitment to the cause." He gave her hand a small squeeze before releasing it, his smirk widening.

"Good," he said, stretching languidly as he leaned back in his chair. "Because I want a front-row seat when Lucius Malfoy loses his goddamn mind."

Hermione smirked, a real thrill of excitement curling in her stomach for the first time since the disaster that was the Ministry gala.

"Then let’s get to work."

Blaise laughed, the sound rich and indulgent as he pushed himself up to his feet, rolling his shoulders like a lazy cat preparing to prowl.

"Merlin’s balls, Granger," he murmured, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "I truly have never been prouder."

Hermione just grinned.

Because this time?

She wasn’t just playing.

She was playing to win.

__

It started with appearances.

Hermione and Blaise made sure they were seen—and not just casually spotted in passing. No, they crafted moments. Strategic outings. Places where their presence would command attention and spark speculation.

It began innocently enough—a brunch at Maison d’Argent, an exclusive wizarding café known for its sky-lit charm and enchanting floating tea trays. They took a window seat, where the morning sun cast them in perfect lighting, where anyone strolling Diagon Alley would see them laughing over their pastries, leaning in just close enough for whispers to spread.

Next, there was dinner at Le Sorcier Noir, a high-end restaurant where political figures and aristocrats dined, and the presence of a former war heroine and a notorious pureblood playboy could not go unnoticed. Hermione sipped her wine, tilting her head toward Blaise as he whispered something outrageously inappropriate—judging by the way she bit back a laugh, her cheeks flushing just slightly.

And then, of course, came the gallery opening at The Wilde House—where Lucius Malfoy himself was in attendance.

Hermione, clad in an elegant emerald dress that just so happened to match Blaise’s dark green velvet robes, let him lead her through the room, his hand resting at the small of her back just a fraction too long. They paused before a piece of abstract magical art that pulsed softly with color, engaging in what appeared to be a deep, intimate conversation—but in reality?

Blaise was describing the painting as “What I imagine Draco looks like when he’s constipated”.

Hermione nearly snorted her wine.

And across the room, Lucius Malfoy watched.

Oh, he watched.

His silver eyes barely strayed from them, his expression unreadable save for the tightness in his jaw, the way he swirled his firewhisky a little too forcefully in his glass.

The headlines followed soon after.

The next morning, the wizarding world woke up to chaos.

Page Six of The Daily Prophet screamed:

HERMIONE GRANGER & BLAISE ZABINI: LONDON’S NEW POWER COUPLE?

Blaise, stretching like a well-fed cat at Malfoy Manor’s breakfast table, unfolded the paper and grinned so wide it was criminal.

Theo, sitting across from him, nearly choked on his tea.

"You two are absolute menaces," he muttered, shaking his head as he wiped the liquid from his chin. "I refuse to associate with you in public."

"Oh, don’t be jealous, darling," Blaise teased, waving the paper in his direction. "Not everyone can be the subject of scandalous headlines."

Theo snorted. "Scandalous? That’s barely the tip of it—have you seen Witch Weekly?"

Draco, who had been watching in resigned exhaustion, sighed and took a slow sip of his coffee.

"Oh, this is going to be a disaster," he muttered.

And sure enough, Witch Weekly had outdone itself.

The cover featured a particularly well-timed photo—Blaise whispering in Hermione’s ear at the Wilde House gallery, her laughing with her head tilted back, his hand resting far too comfortably on her waist.

MINISTRY’S GOLDEN GIRL LINKED TO NOTORIOUS PUREBLOOD PLAYBOY!

"Oh, that’s good," Blaise mused, flipping through the article with genuine appreciation. "Notorious playboy? I quite like that. Makes me sound—"

"Like a fucking scandal," Draco muttered, rubbing his temple.

Theo snatched the magazine from Blaise’s hands, flipping through with a raised brow.

"Oh, this one’s even better," he announced. "Listen to this—

Sources say the two have been spotted at multiple high-profile locations together, and their undeniable chemistry suggests this is more than just a casual friendship. The former Gryffindor war heroine and the Slytherin socialite appear to be the most unexpected pairing of the season. Has Miss Granger traded in her history of noble Gryffindor romances for something darker, more alluring?”

Blaise grinned.

"Darker? More alluring? Oh, they truly get me."

Draco, still half-dead from exhaustion, shot Hermione a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Are you happy now?" he asked.

Hermione, reclining comfortably with her own copy of the paper, simply smirked.

"Not yet," she said. "But I will be."

Because the best part?

This was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

They played their roles masterfully.

Subtle touches. Lingering glances.

Just enough to push the boundary between plausible and suggestive—to make people wonder. To make him wonder.

At a ministry event, Blaise leaned in just a little too close, his lips ghosting the curve of Hermione’s ear as he whispered something that made her laugh—an uninhibited, delighted sound that had her throwing her head back. The movement was effortless, natural. But the moment her throat was exposed, every pair of eyes in the room flicked toward them. Including his.

Lucius.

He stood across the hall, sipping his whiskey, his silver eyes fixed on her with unreadable intensity. He was poised as always, composed. But Hermione saw the way his fingers curled just a fraction tighter around his glass.

At a high-end social gathering, Blaise took things up a notch. A featherlight touch, his fingers grazing the delicate skin of her wrist as he handed her a drink. A touch so brief, so insignificant—except for the way his thumb lingered a half-second too long before pulling away.

It was nothing.

But Lucius noticed.

Oh, he noticed.

At a private dinner party, Hermione let Blaise press his palm to the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd. She didn’t need guiding, but she let him do it anyway—let her spine arch ever so slightly at the contact, let her body lean just enough into the touch to make it seem real.

Lucius’s gaze flickered toward them like a storm on the horizon. Controlled. Calculated. And yet—undeniably fixed on her.

At a ballroom event, Blaise took her hand absently in the middle of a conversation, running his thumb in lazy circles against her knuckles as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Casual, effortless. The perfect illusion.

Lucius had been mid-sentence when he noticed. He didn’t pause. Didn’t break stride in his conversation.

But his jaw tensed.

Which was exactly what Hermione wanted.

The game had begun.

And this time?

She was playing to win.

Draco Malfoy had been expecting a quiet, uneventful dinner.

A rare evening where Lucius had invited him back to Malfoy Manor for what was supposed to be a casual father-son meal.

Except casual wasn’t exactly the word Draco would use.

Because Lucius Malfoy was pacing the dining room.

Which meant he was distracted.

And a distracted Lucius Malfoy only ever meant one thing:

He was thinking about something.

Or rather, someone.

Draco smirked to himself as he reached for his glass of wine, swirling it lazily. He already had a very good idea of who had set his father’s mind so off-kilter.

Still, he decided to play it slow.

"You’re going to wear a path in the carpet," he remarked dryly, taking a sip. "And considering how much mother paid for that rug, I doubt she’d be pleased."

Lucius halted abruptly, flicking his gaze toward his son. His expression was unreadable, but Draco could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the sharp set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against his tumbler of whiskey before he took a measured sip.

Draco suppressed a smirk.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Lucius exhaled slowly, turning toward the window, as if pretending he wasn’t just prowling around like a caged predator.

"Tell me something, Draco," he said, his voice as smooth as ever—but there was a thread of something beneath it. Something dangerous. "What exactly is going on between Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini?"

Draco nearly choked on his wine.

Oh, this was better than he thought.

He set his glass down with deliberate slowness, leaning back in his chair. "Interesting question," he mused, studying his father with barely concealed amusement. "Why do you ask?"

Lucius’s gaze remained fixed out the window, as if Draco wasn’t worth looking at just yet. "Because everywhere I turn, I see them."

Draco bit back a grin. "Funny, I’d have thought you had better things to focus on."

Lucius turned then, arching a slow, deliberate brow. "Draco."

Ah. There it was. That tone. The one that warned he was not in the mood for games.

Which, naturally, made Draco all the more eager to play.

He sighed dramatically, lifting his hands. "Alright, alright. If you must know, Blaise and Granger have been rather… close, lately."

Lucius’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I’ve noticed."

Draco barely managed to keep from laughing.

"I assume you’ve also noticed," he continued, "that they’ve been particularly… public about it?"

Lucius’s grip tightened around his glass.

Draco did laugh this time, shaking his head. "Merlin’s sake, Father, if it bothers you so much, why don’t you just admit it?"

Lucius’s expression remained impassive. "Admit what, exactly?"

Draco smirked. "That it irritates you." He took another sip of wine, tilting his head. "That it bothers you more than it should."

Lucius remained silent.

Which was answer enough.

Draco set his glass down, his smirk widening. "Oh, this is rich."

Lucius exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his tumbler down with measured care. "Spare me the dramatics, Draco."

"No, no, let’s really get into this," Draco pressed, leaning forward now. "Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so—what’s the word?" He tapped his chin mockingly. "Unsettled? Agitated? Jealous?"

Lucius stilled.

And Draco knew.

Knew that he had struck something deep, something raw.

Oh, this was going to be good.

He set his glass down and leaned forward slightly, pinning his father with an unrelenting stare.

Draco leaned back in his chair, twirling his glass between his fingers, watching his father like a predator who had just cornered particularly fascinating prey.

"Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?" he said, his tone far too casual, far too amused. "What exactly is your endgame here?"

Lucius’s gaze narrowed slightly—just for a second, just enough to betray that the question wasn’t entirely unexpected but was still unwelcome. Then, as always, his expression smoothed over, cold and impassive.

"I have no endgame, Draco," he replied, voice perfectly even, perfectly controlled. "I simply find it… curious that she and Zabini have become so publicly entangled."

Draco gave him a flat look.

"Curious?" he echoed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a smirk. "That’s a good word for it. I’d probably use something more along the lines of ‘infuriatingly distracting,’ but sure—let’s go with curious."

Lucius set his glass down with a little too much force.

Draco grinned, leaning forward slightly. "Oh, this is delicious. You’re spiraling, aren’t you?"

Lucius exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back in that measured, controlled way he always did when he refused to show emotion.

"I do not spiral," he replied coolly.

Draco outright snorted. "Right. Of course not," he said, eyes gleaming. "You’re just casually keeping tabs on the woman you spent weeks baiting, and then walked away from."

Lucius’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

Draco’s grin widened.

"Merlin, she really must have pissed you off."

Lucius exhaled sharply, as if willing himself to be patient. Finally, he lowered himself into his seat with a measured slowness, pinning Draco with a cold, practiced stare.

"If you have a point, I’d suggest you make it," he said, voice clipped but calm.

Draco tapped a lazy finger against the table, never breaking eye contact, his amusement never once fading.

"My point, Father," he said lightly, though his tone was pointed, "is that this isn’t about Blaise. Or her public image. Or any of the nonsense you’re pretending to care about."

Lucius remained silent.

Draco tilted his head, smirking like the bastard he was.

"This is about you," he said, voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a revelation. "And the fact that for the first time in a long time, you’ve lost control of the game."

Lucius held his gaze, his expression unreadable.

And yet—

Draco saw it.

The way his father’s fingers flexed ever so slightly against the glass.
The way his lips parted just a fraction, only to press together again.
The way his jaw remained tight, like he was swallowing something he refused to acknowledge.

Draco had him.

And Lucius knew it.

Draco exhaled, sitting back in his chair with a deeply satisfied smirk. He lifted his drink in a mock toast, tilting it toward his father.

"Enjoy the ride, Father," he said smoothly. "Because something tells me you’re about to lose your goddamn mind."

Lucius didn’t respond.

He simply swirled his firewhisky a little too forcefully in his glass.

And Draco?

Draco laughed.

Because watching Lucius Malfoy—a man who never lost his footing, never lost control—come undone over Hermione Granger?

That was the most entertaining thing Draco had seen in years.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy was unraveling.

Slowly. Painstakingly. But undeniably.

It had started with small things. Things no one else would notice.

The way his gaze lingered too long when Hermione entered a room, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass as she smiled at Zabini, as she touched his arm, as she leaned in just a fraction too close to whisper something in his ear.

The way his cordial smiles no longer reached his eyes, the calculated charm in his expression a little too forced when people spoke to him.

The way his words sharpened, even as they were spoken with perfect politeness—his biting remarks toward Blaise delivered with a little more precision, a little more venom than usual.

And then—it became less subtle.

It was a Thursday night at La Fontaine, where powerful men and beautiful women whispered over rare vintages and aged firewhisky.

Lucius was seated in his usual private alcove, discussing international trade agreements with a group of esteemed business associates, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable.

He had been—if not content, then at least occupied. The conversation was stimulating enough, and for once, he had managed to push certain distractions from his mind.

And then—

She walked in.

Hermione Granger.

Wearing a satin navy-blue gown, her curls swept to one side, her eyes alight with mirth and amusement as she glided through the room like she belonged there—because she did.

Lucius had always known that Hermione Granger had an undeniable presence, something sharp, something unwavering, but tonight… tonight, she was something else entirely. A force. A vision. A problem.

Blaise Zabini was beside her, of course, his usual self-assured smirk in place, his hand resting lightly on her lower back as he guided her to the bar. The touch was casual, too casual—as if it was second nature, as if it belonged there. And something in Lucius’ chest tightened uncomfortably at the sight.

He exhaled slowly, bringing his glass to his lips, schooling his features into their usual mask of indifference, willing himself to look away.

But he didn’t.

His silver gaze remained fixed on them as Blaise leaned in, ordering their drinks with an air of lazy confidence. Lucius caught the moment—saw it—the way Blaise’s fingers brushed against Hermione’s shoulder, tucking a stray curl behind her ear with a familiarity that sent a slow coil of heat through Lucius’ veins.

It was a simple touch.

But it wasn’t simple at all.

Lucius watched as Blaise leaned in even further, his lips ghosting near the shell of her ear, murmuring something meant only for her.

And then—

Hermione laughed.

A real laugh. Not the calculated kind she had given him before, not the sharp, knowing smirk she wielded like a weapon.

No—this was something unguarded, something effortless, something… intimate.

Her head tilted back slightly, the elegant curve of her neck exposed in the dim, golden light. Her lips parted in a way that felt too easy, too natural, too real.

And Lucius felt it like a taunt.

A direct hit.

The sound of glass meeting glass as the bartender handed them their drinks pulled him from his thoughts, but not before he caught the way Blaise smiled at her—lazy, indulgent, victorious.

Lucius curled his fingers more tightly around his tumbler.

He should have looked away.

Should have ignored it.

Should have walked away entirely.

But instead, he remained rooted in place, firewhisky burning down his throat as he watched.

Because for the first time in years, he found himself utterly unmoved by the dull aristocratic chatter around him.

For the first time in decades, he had no interest in the social maneuvering of the room.

And for the first time in his entire life—

Lucius Malfoy realized that he wasn’t the one in control.

He felt something in his grip shift.

Something in his control falter.

Then—a sharp sound.

A fracture.

He looked down.

His firewhisky glass had cracked in his hand.

The conversation at his table halted.

Not faltered. Not slowed.

It halted.

Lucius remained eerily still, his posture as precise as ever, his fingers curled too tightly around the now-ruined tumbler in his grasp. The once-pristine crystal had splintered under the force of his grip, fault lines spider-webbing through the glass, amber liquid slipping through the cracks and pooling against his palm.

For a long, tense moment, no one spoke.

His associates—men who were usually so sure of themselves, so comfortable in their own carefully curated airs of superiority—exchanged quick, uneasy glances. Their murmured discussion had been cut short, all attention now fixed on him.

Waiting.

Watching.

Because Lucius Malfoy did not lose control.

Not in business. Not in politics. Not ever.

And yet, here he was, sitting at his own table, holding the very evidence of something undone.

One of the men—Everett Selwyn, if Lucius recalled correctly—cleared his throat hesitantly, carefully choosing his words, as if he were addressing a sleeping dragon rather than a man.

"Lucius," he ventured carefully, his voice laced with a cautious hesitance. "Are you—"

"I'm fine."

The interruption was swift. Even. Controlled.

Betraying none of the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Without so much as glancing up, Lucius set the fractured tumbler down with measured precision, placing it carefully upon the polished mahogany table. The ruined glass caught the flickering candlelight, the tiny fissures gleaming like the cracks of his own composure.

He exhaled slowly, lifting a single brow, his expression cool, impassive.

"A simple defect in the glass, it seems."

The silence that followed was thick.

Nobody believed him.

But nobody dared to say otherwise.

Selwyn nodded once, though his gaze flickered down toward the shattered tumbler before darting back up to Lucius, uncertainty plain in his expression. Another man—a younger associate—shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly debating whether to continue the conversation or quietly excuse himself.

Lucius ignored them all.

Instead, he reached for the bottle of firewhisky at the center of the table, his movements fluid, deliberate, as if nothing at all had just happened. He poured himself another glass, this time ensuring that his fingers remained loose around the crystal.

His gaze flickered back toward the bar.

Toward her.

And the moment he saw Hermione Granger leaning just a fraction closer to Blaise Zabini, laughing softly at something he’d said—Lucius tightened his grip on the new tumbler, jaw clenching just slightly.

He would not break this one.

As he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes flicking back toward the bar—

Hermione had noticed too.

Because she was watching him.

Across the room, her honeyed brown eyes flickered with something knowing, something sharp.

And then—

She smirked.

Just the barest curve of her lips before she turned back to Blaise, her fingers brushing his forearm with practiced ease, the moment almost too perfectly timed.

Lucius' grip on his fresh glass tightened.

His control was slipping.

And Hermione Granger?

She knew it.

___

Seeing him physically hurting himself—however unintentionally—made something in Hermione go still.

She had wanted to rattle him. To get under his skin. To make him feel something the way he had made her feel too much. But she hadn’t wanted this.

The shattered tumbler. The firewhisky dripping from his fingers. The tension so taut in his jaw that it looked painful.

That wasn’t the Lucius Malfoy she knew—the man who wielded control like a finely sharpened blade, who never let emotions surface unless they were calculated, deliberate.

And the realization hit her like a slap.

Maybe this had gone too far.

The game had been fun.

For a while.

But now?

Now, Hermione felt empty.

It wasn’t satisfying anymore.
Not the headlines.
Not the teasing remarks.
Not even the thrill of watching Lucius squirm.

Because at the end of the day, she wasn’t winning anything.

She was just… exhausting herself.

And the worst part?

She had been hoping.

Hoping that he would finally snap, finally admit that he wanted her, finally do something real.

But he hadn’t.

And Hermione was done.

She needed a break. A moment to breathe.

Which was how she found herself at The Peacock Room, a quiet upscale bar, where Theo had dragged her with the promise of expensive wine and unsolicited wisdom.

"Because, Granger, you need a drink, and I need entertainment," he had said, flashing her a too-knowing smirk.

Which, in hindsight, should have been her first warning.

They sat in a private corner booth, hidden from the rest of the patrons, the dim glow of enchanted lanterns flickering across the deep mahogany table between them.

Hermione swirled her glass of red wine, staring at it like it might give her answers if she just looked hard enough.

Theo, meanwhile, was watching her a little too knowingly.

Finally, after a long sip of his drink, he set it down and sighed dramatically.

"So," he said, his voice casual, far too casual, "are we going to pretend you’re not having a full-blown existential crisis right now?"

Hermione let out a tired breath, rolling her eyes.

"Theo—"

"Because, for the record," he continued, ignoring her entirely, "I think you’re better than this."

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to meet his, narrowing.

"Excuse me?"

Theo shrugged, his expression calm and easy, as if he hadn’t just thrown a verbal grenade at her feet.

"I just mean—you’re Hermione fucking Granger," he said, lifting his drink to his lips. "And yet, here you are, playing petty games with a man who should have already been on his knees for you."

Hermione blinked, caught somewhere between shock and irritation.

"Excuse me?" she repeated, her grip tightening around her wine glass.

Theo tilted his head, completely unbothered by her reaction.

"Look," he said, setting his drink down and leaning in slightly, "you can hex me later, but let’s be honest here. If Lucius Malfoy was smart, he’d have stopped pretending weeks ago. He’d have swallowed that goddamn pride of his and done something real."

Hermione felt something in her stomach twist uncomfortably.

"I—"

Theo held up a hand. "Let me finish."

She snapped her mouth shut, scowling at him.

"You don’t need to play mind games to get a good man, Granger," he continued, his voice steady, unwavering. "You don’t need to scheme or manipulate or make headlines just to prove a point. You’re a catch. Any man with half a brain would see that."

He took a slow sip of his drink before pinning her with a look that felt far too piercing for someone who was already half a bottle in.

"So if Malfoy—Lucius Malfoy—is too much of a stubborn bastard to admit what’s right in front of him?"

He lifted a brow.

"Then he loses. Not you."

Hermione swallowed hard, the words hitting her like a punch to the chest.

Because Theo was right.

He was so painfully right.

She had been waiting for something that was never going to happen.

She had been clinging to a game that had stopped being fun.

And worst of all?

She had been giving a damn about Lucius Malfoy’s reactions—as if his approval dictated her worth.

Hermione let out a long, slow exhale, pressing her fingers to her temple.

"Fuck," she muttered. "You’re annoying when you’re insightful."

Theo smirked, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

"It’s a burden, truly."

Hermione laughed, despite herself.

But as she left the bar that night, she already knew what she had to do.

The game?

Was over.

Lucius Malfoy?

Could burn in hell for all she cared.

___

The next morning, Hermione found herself exactly where she expected to be—lounging in Blaise Zabini’s penthouse, curled up on his obscenely luxurious leather sofa, watching him skim through the morning edition of The Daily Prophet as he sipped his tea like an aristocrat who had never known stress a day in his life.

"You look dramatic," Blaise observed, barely glancing up from behind the pages.

Hermione smirked, plopping down unceremoniously beside him, stretching her legs across the couch.

"That’s because I have news," she announced.

Blaise finally looked up, studying her carefully, his expression flickering with intrigue.

"Let me guess," he drawled. "You’re finally bored of making Lucius miserable?"

Hermione exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes. "I’m done playing, Blaise."

At that, Blaise set the paper aside and stretched his arms over his head, letting out a deep, exaggerated sigh.

"Well, damn," he muttered. "It was fun while it lasted."

Hermione tilted her head, watching him with amusement. "Do you want to mourn the loss of our fake relationship before I get to my actual point?"

Blaise waved a hand. "No, no. I’ll be fine, I just—" He placed a hand on his chest dramatically. "I never thought I’d live to see the day when Hermione Granger gave up on something."

"Not giving up," Hermione corrected smoothly. "Choosing not to waste my time."

Blaise chuckled. "And what, pray tell, are you planning to do?"

She leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"I think we should break up."

Blaise blinked once, then grinned.

"Mutually, I hope?"

Hermione smirked. "Obviously. Publicly. Dramatically. The works."

Blaise let out a low whistle, shaking his head in admiration.

"Oh, this is going to be spectacular."

And spectacular it was.

Because the next morning—

The headlines exploded.

HERMIONE GRANGER & BLAISE ZABINI CALL IT QUITS!

PUREBLOOD PLAYBOY & WAR HEROINE: A FIZZLED FLAME?

BLAISE ZABINI SPEAKS OUT—"SHE DESERVES BETTER!"

At Malfoy Manor, Draco nearly choked on his coffee when he read that last one.

Blaise, meanwhile, was grinning like a cat in the sun, flipping through the pages as he sat across from Hermione at breakfast.

"That’s my favorite one," he mused, waving the paper. "‘She deserves better.’" He smirked. "Makes me sound positively noble."

Hermione snorted, taking a sip of her tea. "You’re insufferable."

Blaise winked. "And you, darling, are free."

She exhaled.

He was right.

She was free.

And Lucius Malfoy?

Well.

He was about to realize just how much he’d lost.

Hermione had barely stepped into Malfoy Manor when Draco appeared like clockwork, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway of his study, looking far too smug for her liking.

"So," he drawled, his grey eyes flicking over her as she shrugged off her coat, "you and Blaise are ‘over’ then?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, kicking off her heels with more force than necessary. "Don’t act surprised, Draco."

Draco snorted, pushing off the doorway and strolling toward her, his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, I’m not surprised," he said smoothly, smirking. "I just want to hear you say it."

Hermione let out a tired breath, rubbing her temples.

"Yes, Draco, we broke up. Officially. Publicly. We even coordinated the press statement over pastries and tea."

Draco laughed outright, shaking his head. "You two are so dramatic."

"Worked, didn’t it?" Hermione shot back, arching a brow.

Draco tilted his head, his smirk deepening. "I suppose. Though I have to say, the tragic end of your great romance wasn’t as convincing as the start of it."

Hermione stiffened slightly, but Draco’s gaze was too sharp, too knowing.

Her expression flattened. "You knew."

Draco grinned.

"Of course, I knew," he scoffed. "Blaise barely likes sharing a drink, let alone his personal space. The second I saw you two parading around like the next wizarding power couple, I knew it was a front. I just wasn’t sure if you were doing it to make my father jealous—or yourselves."

Hermione stilled, her lips pressing together.

Draco took in her silence, his smirk shifting into something less amused, more calculated.

"So that’s it, then?" he said after a pause. "You’re done? Giving up on my father?"

Hermione inhaled slowly, then lifted her chin.

"I’m done playing games."

Draco studied her carefully, his expression unreadable, like he was searching for something—some hesitation, some lingering denial.

Then, slowly, he smirked.

"Good," he said simply, turning toward his study.

Hermione frowned, narrowing her eyes. "That’s it? No sarcastic remark? No annoying commentary?"

Draco shot her a look over his shoulder, his smirk cool, knowing, certain.

"Oh, Granger." He shook his head, voice rich with amusement. "I’m just waiting to see what happens next."

Hermione huffed, ignoring the way her stomach twisted uncomfortably at his words.

She was done.

Lucius Malfoy was his own problem now.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy had won.

Or so he should have thought.

Blaise Zabini was out of the picture.

The headlines had confirmed it, the nauseating spectacle of their "relationship" finally coming to an end, splashed across the front pages of The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, and The Evening Oracle.

HERMIONE GRANGER & BLAISE ZABINI CALL IT QUITS!

PUREBLOOD PLAYBOY & WAR HEROINE: A FIZZLED FLAME?

BLAISE ZABINI SPEAKS OUT—"SHE DESERVES BETTER!"

Lucius had read those words over more times than he cared to admit.

Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini Part Ways: A Short-Lived Romance Comes to an End

The article was absurdly dramatic for something that had, by all accounts, been nothing more than a well-crafted spectacle. The words amicable, uncomplicated, and mutual had been tossed around, carefully curated quotes placed within the article to suggest that both parties had moved on without a second thought.

But Lucius knew better.

And each time he reread the words, the same hollow, unsatisfying feeling settled in his chest.

Because if this was victory—if the damn game was over—then why did it feel so much like a loss?

Something about this was wrong.

Something about this felt off.

Hermione Granger was single again.

And yet—

She was nowhere to be found.

No smug appearances at social events. No conveniently public run-ins at the lounges and high-end establishments they both frequented. No carefully executed moments designed to get under his skin.

Nothing.

And that was the most unnerving part.

For weeks, he had felt her presence, her orchestrated moves as clear as a well-played chess match. Even when she wasn’t with Zabini, she had made herself known—laughing just a little too brightly at something Theo had said, lingering just a little too long at the manor, tossing careless, knowing glances in Lucius’s direction as if daring him to react.

It had been infuriating.

And yet—

It had been something.

But now? Now, there was only silence.

No trace of her at all.

And that silence rang louder than all her past taunts combined.

Lucius exhaled slowly, setting the paper aside with careful, deliberate movements.

Something was wrong.

And for the first time in years, Lucius Malfoy had no idea what move to make next.

Lucius was a man of control, a man who knew how to shift the pieces on the board, who could manipulate the game to his advantage.

So he did what any logical, strategic, and self-respecting man would do.

He ensured the headlines stayed on him.

If Hermione Granger was going to disappear, then he would ensure that he did not.

His name, his image, his presence would remain in every social column, every gossip page, every front-row seat of high society.

And it started with appearances.

Lucius attended every gala, every elite social event, every gathering of importance, never without a beautiful, perfectly curated woman at his side.

First, there was Celeste Avery, an heiress from one of France’s most prestigious magical lineages.

She was graceful, elegant, her laughter delicate, her presence harmless.

The papers loved her.

Lucius did not.

Then came Vivienne Rosier, a statuesque beauty with a sharp tongue and sharper ambition.

She clung to his arm at the Montclair Ball, whispered low, flirtatious remarks in his ear, let her fingers linger just long enough for the photographers to capture the moment.

It made headlines.

Lucius Malfoy Steps Out with Lady Vivienne Rosier—A Rekindled Romance?

The photographs were everywhere—Lucius, ever poised, escorting Lady Montclair into an exclusive soirée. She looked stunning, draped in designer silk, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, a diamond necklace resting at her throat that whispered of old money and impeccable breeding.

She played the role well. She laughed at the right moments, angled her body toward him in a way that suggested familiarity, ran her fingers along his sleeve in fleeting, practiced touches.

The papers ate it up.

Lucius Malfoy returns to his roots!

A picture of grace and tradition!

A union long overdue?

It was precisely the kind of thing that should have made Hermione furious.

It should have made her react.

It should have made her do something.

But no matter how many photographs were taken, no matter how many eyes followed his every move—

Hermione Granger did not react.

She did not glance his way at the next event.
She did not roll her eyes at the spectacle of it all.
She did not send so much as a flicker of irritation in his direction.

She did not acknowledge his existence.

And that?

That was unacceptable.

Lucius Malfoy was not a man to be ignored.

He was used to power, to control, to his presence shaping the room whether he intended it to or not. He had expected—no, anticipated—a response. A sharp glance. A biting remark. Perhaps a pointed attempt to return the favor and make him seethe for once.

But there was nothing.

Complete and total absence.

And for the first time in a long time, Lucius felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest.

Not irritation. Not amusement. Not even anger.

Something sharper.

Something dangerously close to doubt.

And that?

That would not do.

__

Lucius continued his nightly meetings at La Fontaine, as he always had.

It was a place of familiarity, of routine, a space where he could sit back, sip his firewhisky, and observe the comings and goings of the elite.

And for weeks, he had watched Hermione parade in with Blaise, suffering through the charade of their little romance.

He had sat back, calculating, patient, waiting for it to fall apart.

And now, it had.

And yet— She did not return.

There were no new dates, no disastrous suitors fumbling their way through dinner, no exasperated sighs from across the room as she endured yet another tedious conversation.

There was only silence.

Only absence.

None of it mattered. The game didn’t matter.

Because she wasn’t here.

The realization settled in his chest like lead.

She wasn’t playing anymore.

She wasn’t waiting for him to react, wasn’t orchestrating moments designed to provoke him, wasn’t trying to get a rise out of him with Blaise Zabini’s whispered words against her ear.

She was done.

He took another sip of his firewhisky, the burn doing nothing to dissolve the unfamiliar weight pressing at the edges of his control.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

He had expected—anticipated—resistance. A counterattack. A new move on the board that he would have to outmaneuver.

Instead, she had simply walked away.

No fanfare. No biting remarks. No grand display of defiance.

Just… gone.

Lucius had spent years perfecting the art of the game—controlling the narrative, dictating the rules. People always reacted to him. They always responded.

But Hermione Granger had done the one thing he never prepared for.

She had stopped caring.

The next time he passed by her bookshop in Diagon Alley—purely by coincidence, of course—he saw her.

Sitting behind the counter. Reading.

Not with a calculated air of mystery.
Not with the performative indifference she had worn so well these past weeks.
Not like she was waiting for someone to notice her absence.

She was simply… living her life.

Without him.

He told himself he had no reason to enter.

That he was merely passing by, that he had business in the area.

That this was nothing more than idle curiosity.

And yet—

He found himself inside Flourish and Blotts, stepping into the warmth of the shop, where the scent of parchment and ink curled in the air like a nostalgic ghost.

It was quiet.

A handful of customers browsed the shelves, their footsteps soft against the wooden floors.

And behind the counter—

There she was.

Completely unbothered.

She looked up when the bell above the door chimed, her brown eyes flickering toward him with the same professional politeness she might offer any other customer.

Not surprise.
Not irritation.
Not even amusement.

"Mr. Malfoy," she greeted calmly, setting aside her book.

Not Lucius.

Not Malfoy—drawled with challenge and intrigue.

Just Mr. Malfoy.

His jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"You've been absent," Lucius noted smoothly, stepping toward the counter, his presence as poised and deliberate as ever. His expression remained unreadable, schooled into that effortless mask of control, but his sharp silver eyes—they watched her too closely.

Hermione barely looked up, tilting her head slightly, the ghost of a polite smile curving at her lips. "I wasn’t aware I had an attendance requirement," she mused, her voice light, too light. Unaffected.

Lucius exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You've made a habit of being... visible these past few weeks," he said, watching her closely, his voice deceptively calm. "And now you are not."

Hermione made a soft humming sound, as if the statement was nothing more than an idle observation, as if she weren’t entirely aware of what he was trying to do. She glanced down at her book, adjusting the page absently before flicking her gaze back up to meet his.

"Well," she said simply, "I suppose I grew tired of the game."

Lucius stilled.

It was the first time either of them had acknowledged it for what it was.

A game.

The words hung between them, weighty and final, shifting the dynamic in a way that Lucius didn’t particularly like.

He studied her carefully, searching for something—a tell, a flicker of amusement, anything that might suggest she was toying with him. But there was nothing. No teasing glint in her eyes. No smug smirk. Just quiet certainty, an air of casual detachment that set his teeth on edge.

"How convenient," he murmured at last, tilting his head slightly. "You tire of the game the moment you start losing."

Hermione exhaled a small laugh, though it lacked any real amusement. "Oh, Lucius," she said, shaking her head slightly, "if you think I lost, you haven’t been paying attention."

That—that—made something slow and sharp unfurl in his chest.

His fingers flexed at his sides, but his face remained impassive. "Enlighten me, then," he said smoothly, stepping even closer, his voice low. "What, exactly, have you won?"

Hermione met his gaze unflinchingly, as if he were the predictable one in this conversation. As if she had already seen this move coming before he had even made it.

She smiled, but it wasn’t playful. It wasn’t triumphant. It was simply… knowing.

"My peace."

And that—that was the moment Lucius realized he had lost.

Because the game had never been about winning. It had never been about jealousy or strategy or control.

She had been waiting.

Waiting for him to do something, to acknowledge what was simmering beneath the surface. And when he hadn’t—when he had chosen pride over pursuit—she had walked away.

Not to provoke him. Not to make a statement.

But because she had finally decided he wasn’t worth waiting for.

Lucius Malfoy was many things. Calculated. Unyielding. A master of control.

But in that moment, standing in front of Hermione Granger, watching her decide that he no longer mattered—

He felt something foreign, something bitter.

He felt regret.

Lucius inhaled slowly, assessing her, searching for some trace of the woman who had once been intent on pulling him apart at the seams.

But she had disarmed herself completely.

No smirk.
No teasing lilt to her voice.
No sharp edges, no defiance daring him to respond.

Just politeness.

Just distance.

And for the first time in a very, very long time—

Lucius Malfoy did not know what to do.

He let his gaze drift over the shop.

It was meticulously arranged, as expected, with fresh displays of new releases, stacks of well-loved classics, and sections neatly labeled in Hermione's crisp handwriting.

He had never truly taken the time to appreciate this space before, but now, he was acutely aware that it was hers.

Her world.

One that she had built without him in mind and one she would continue to build - without him. 

And it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"So this is it, then?" he asked, lifting a hand to idly trace the spine of a first edition Potions Compendium on the counter.

Hermione blinked, a single brow raising. "What is?"

"This," he gestured vaguely, "Your sudden withdrawal. Your decision to... fade into the background."

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head.

"I'm hardly fading," she pointed out. "I just stopped making an effort where it wasn’t needed."

Lucius narrowed his eyes.

"So you've lost interest."

Hermione shrugged. "If that’s how you’d like to see it."

A silence settled between them—thick, weighted.

Lucius never lost.

He had always been able to predict, to anticipate, to maneuver.

But this?

This he had not accounted for.

That Hermione Granger would simply stop playing.

That she would move on—without hesitation, without regret.

That he would be left waiting for a game that was no longer being played.

She smiled, tilting her head toward the bookshelves.

"Let me know if you need help finding anything, Mr. Malfoy," she said lightly, as if this were any other casual exchange.

Lucius clenched his jaw, his fingers pressing into the fine leather binding beneath them.

He had come here expecting a reaction.

A smirk. A challenge. Some sign that she was still engaged in their battle of wits.

Instead—

She had dismissed him entirely.

And for the first time in years—

Lucius Malfoy felt completely, utterly irrelevant.

__

Lucius sat in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, firewhisky in hand, staring into the flames of the hearth.

It had become routine, these late nights spent in solitary reflection, the flickering firelight casting long, sharp shadows across the dark wood and expensive upholstery.

Only tonight?

Tonight, he was not alone.

Draco sat across from him, lounging with a familiar, knowing smirk, his own drink in hand, sipping far too leisurely for someone who was clearly far too amused at Lucius’s expense.

"You’re brooding," Draco observed, swirling his glass, his tone light but pointed.

Lucius didn’t look at him.

"I do not brood."

Draco snorted. "You’re sitting in the dark, drinking alone. That’s brooding."

Lucius sighed through his nose, tilting his glass slightly, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight.

"You seem particularly pleased with yourself tonight," he noted dryly.

Draco took a leisurely sip, smirking over the rim of his glass.

"Maybe because I enjoy being right."

Lucius finally turned to face him, expression cool, unreadable.

"About what, exactly?"

Draco’s brow lifted in exaggerated surprise.

"Oh, come now, Father," he drawled, mock innocence dripping from his voice. "You know exactly what."

Lucius set his drink down with measured patience, fingers steepling in front of him.

"Do enlighten me, Draco."

Draco rolled his eyes. "She’s stopped playing."

Lucius did not react.

But Draco was his son, and he knew better than to mistake his father’s silence for disinterest.

"And now," Draco continued, grinning like the smug little bastard he was, "you have no idea what to do about it."

Lucius exhaled slowly, his expression remaining carefully composed.

"I find it interesting," he mused, "that you assume I care."

Draco laughed.

Actually laughed.

"Right. Because you’ve been so relaxed about it," he mocked, shaking his head.

Lucius picked up his drink, taking a slow sip, eyes drifting back to the flames.

"I simply find it... curious," he admitted, "that after all that effort, she would abandon the game entirely."

Draco’s smirk sharpened.

"Or," he said, tilting his glass toward him, "she finally realized she doesn’t need to play games to get what she wants."

Lucius’s fingers tightened subtly around his drink.

Draco chuckled, shaking his head.

"I told you this would happen," he said, far too satisfied with himself. "You were so busy trying to control the board, trying to stay one move ahead, that you forgot she could walk away at any time."

Lucius’s jaw ticked.

Draco leaned back with a self-satisfied sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Let me guess," he continued, voice full of mock sympathy. "Now that she’s actually gone, you find yourself... unsettled."

Lucius didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because they both knew the truth.

Draco let out another low chuckle, swirling his glass before tossing back the rest of his drink.

"Face it, Father," he said, setting the empty glass down with a quiet clink. "You’ve lost."

Lucius took another measured sip of firewhisky, swallowing down the sting of truth that accompanied it.

Because deep down?

Draco was right.

Again.

And Lucius hated that.

But unlike the previous nights, Draco didn’t leave after delivering his brutal assessment.

No, this time, he sat there, watching his father too closely, a flicker of something new in his expression.

Lucius raised an eyebrow.

"Something else you wish to say, Draco?"

Draco tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“You’re falling for her," he finally said. Flat. Simple. No teasing this time.

Lucius exhaled slowly, setting his glass down. "You are mistaken."

Draco snorted. "Oh, don’t give me that utter nonsense. You’re miserable because she’s gone. That’s not ‘mild interest,’Father. That’s attachment."

Lucius leaned forward slightly, his tone clipped.

"I do not get attached, Draco."

Draco merely raised a brow, unimpressed.

"You’re insufferable," Draco muttered, shaking his head. "For Merlin’s sake, if you’re hesitant because she was my classmate, get over it."

Lucius stilled.

Draco scoffed. "Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the issue. You’re Lucius Malfoy, and Hermione Granger was just some mudblood in your son’s year at Hogwarts. And now you can’t reconcile the fact that she’s—what? Not beneath you? That you actually respect her? That she’s—"

Draco gestured vaguely, "—a force of nature?"

Lucius narrowed his eyes.

Draco pressed on, completely unintimidated.

"She’s not the girl from Hogwarts anymore," he said simply. "She hasn’t been for a long time. But you? You’re acting like a coward."

Lucius’s gaze darkened dangerously, but Draco was unfazed.

"You’re too proud," Draco continued, shaking his head. "Too terrified of looking weak, of admitting you feel something for someone you never expected to."

Lucius leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, his grip tightening around the crystal tumbler in his hand.

Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"For the record," he muttered, shaking his head, "I think she’d be good for you."

Lucius looked up sharply, but Draco just shrugged.

"She’s the only person I know who could actually keep up with you. Challenge you. Call you on your bullshit."

Lucius was silent.

Draco sighed again, finally pushing himself up from his chair.

"Not that it matters now," he added, stretching his arms behind his head. "Because you waited too long. She’s done with you."

Lucius stared at the fire, his grip white-knuckled around his glass.

Draco turned toward the door but paused, glancing back one last time.

"But if you ever decide to actually do something about it," he said, smirking, "I wouldn’t stand in your way."

And with that, he strolled out of the room, leaving Lucius alone with his thoughts.

With the undeniable truth that had been forced upon him.

That Hermione Granger was gone.

And if he wanted her back?

He would have to fight for her.

Chapter Text

"You know, Granger," Draco mused, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored black tux, "I’m only doing this because I’d prefer my father not to have a stroke in the middle of the Montrose Winter Gala."

Hermione, who was fastening the delicate clasp on her necklace, arched a brow at him in the mirror.

"Oh?" she asked, feigning innocence.

Draco smirked, stepping back to admire his reflection in the full-length mirror before turning to face her.

"No offense, but you know you’re not my type, but if you showed up with Blaise tonight, Father might have an actual heart attack."

From his spot on the sofa, Blaise scoffed, nursing a glass of champagne.

"I’m offended," he said dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "You don’t think I’d make a stunning, charming gala escort for our dear Hermione?"

Draco shot him a flat look. "Oh, I’m sure you’d love to stir the pot. But we’re past that phase now."

Hermione smirked, smoothing the silk of her crimson dress, the fabric hugging her frame in a way that was undeniably dangerous.

Draco’s eyes flicked over her outfit, and he let out a low whistle.

"On second thought," he muttered, shaking his head, "maybe I should reconsider escorting you. This dress alone is going to send my father into a spiral."

There was a brief silence.

And then—

"Wait, wait, wait," Pansy interjected from across the room, eyes wide with interest. "Did you just imply your father is going to lose his mind over Granger’s dress?"

Astoria, sitting beside her, gasped slightly, looking between Draco and Hermione.

Theo, meanwhile, who had been enjoying his second glass of champagne, choked on his drink.

Draco merely grinned, watching the reaction unfold.

"Oh, don’t look so shocked," he said, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. "You lot knew something was going on before even I did."

Pansy turned back to Hermione, pointing aggressively. "And you—you’re not even denying it!"

Hermione simply smiled, turning back to the mirror to adjust the thin straps of her dress.

"I fail to see the problem," she said smoothly.

Theo laughed outright, shaking his head. "Oh, Granger, this is going to be so much fun."

Draco sighed heavily, offering Hermione his arm.

"Come on, Granger," he drawled, his tone dry. "Let’s go before Blaise convinces you to wear something even more catastrophic."

Blaise smirked, raising his glass. "For the record, I would have picked something even lower cut."

Hermione just laughed, taking Draco’s arm.

Lucius Malfoy was not paying attention to his date.

He should have been.

She was beautiful, sophisticated, the perfect social companion—exactly the type of woman he had been seen with for years.

She spoke eloquently about the Ministry’s economic policies, occasionally brushing her fingers against his arm, offering him smiles that were perfectly calculated and perfectly uninteresting.

But Lucius Malfoy was not listening to her.

Because across the room—

She walked in.

Hermione Granger.

On Draco’s arm.

Lucius felt his grip tighten just slightly around his glass, the chilled crystal pressing against his skin as his fingers curled instinctively. He schooled his expression into one of polite indifference, but his pulse betrayed him, thrumming just a fraction faster as his eyes locked onto her.

She stepped into the ballroom like she owned it.

The deep red silk of her gown clung to her in a way that was impossible to ignore, flowing like liquid fire with every movement. The neckline was dangerous, the kind that turned heads, the kind that demanded attention. And then—the slit. A perfectly placed, utterly taunting reveal of smooth skin and toned leg, flashing only when she walked, when the fabric swayed just so.

It was a weapon.

And she wielded it masterfully.

Lucius barely registered the murmured words of his companion—a woman he had chosen deliberately for the evening, her presence a calculated move in a game he no longer had a grip on. He nodded absently, half-hearted at best, because his attention had been stolen.

By her.

And by Draco, the traitor.

His son, whose smirk was far too pleased, whose posture was far too comfortable, leaned in, murmuring something against Hermione’s ear. She laughed. Laughed.

A real laugh, her eyes warm with amusement as she lightly rested her hand on Draco’s forearm, fingers brushing against the fine fabric of his sleeve in a way that was so casual, so effortless, that it made something inside Lucius twist.

He exhaled slowly. Evenly.

Look away.

But he didn’t.

And then, as if the gods themselves had a personal vendetta against him—

McLaggen.

Lucius felt his grip tighten further, the faintest crack threatening the integrity of the glass.

Cormac McLaggen, the insufferable, arrogant imbecile, sauntered over with all the charm of a man who thought far too highly of himself and far too little of social decorum. His chest puffed out, his smile practiced and smarmy, his posture reeking of unearned confidence.

Lucius knew exactly what was about to happen.

McLaggen would try.

He would flirt. He would make some grand, empty comment about how stunning she looked, how she had never looked better, how it was an absolute tragedy that she wasn’t already on his arm. He would be insufferable. He would touch her.

And for the first time in a very, very long time—

Lucius Malfoy felt something dangerously close to murderous.

"Hermione," McLaggen drawled, grinning far too wide, his chest puffed out like an overconfident peacock, as if sheer bravado could somehow make him more attractive.

Hermione sighed internally, already regretting this encounter before it had properly begun.

Still, she turned toward him with polite disinterest, lifting her glass in a slow, calculated sip before lowering it.

"Cormac," she greeted, voice bored but civil.

McLaggen’s grin widened. "Fancy seeing you here. You look—"

Don’t say it.

"Incredible tonight."

Of course.

Draco, standing beside her, arched a brow but remained wisely silent, swirling the drink in his hand as if debating whether this was worth his intervention.

Hermione offered McLaggen a tight-lipped smile, the kind of expression that could almost be mistaken for warmth if one were particularly oblivious—which, in McLaggen’s case, was a near certainty.

She took a slow sip of her champagne before offering a perfunctory "Thank you."

Cormac, as ever, missed the social cues entirely.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower as if they were about to exchange some grand secret, his breath warm against her cheek.

"Fancy a dance?" he asked, already extending a hand, his posture suggesting that he had already decided she would say yes.

Hermione considered declining.

She considered walking away, offering an excuse, stepping back into the safety of her own evening without indulging his overinflated ego.

But then—

A flicker of silver in her peripheral vision.

Lucius Malfoy.

Watching.

Expression neutral, but jaw set.

He was far enough away that their eyes shouldn’t have met. That he shouldn’t have been looking. That she shouldn’t have been able to feel his gaze like a tangible force pressing against her skin.

And suddenly?

She felt like playing just one more time.

So she smiled—slow, effortless, the kind of smile that meant trouble.

"I suppose one dance couldn’t hurt," she mused, letting just a hint of amusement color her tone.

Draco let out a snort, shaking his head as he took a sip of his drink. "Merlin help us all."

McLaggen, pleased with himself, barely noticed. He beamed, his ego practically expanding in real time as he extended his arm with a flourish.

Hermione took it.

And just before she allowed McLaggen to lead her toward the dance floor—

She glanced back.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to see Lucius Malfoy’s fingers flex against his glass, his lips pressing into a thin, unreadable line.

Just long enough to confirm exactly what she already suspected.

That he was not neutral.

Not even a little bit.

He should have looked away.

He should have ignored it.

But as McLaggen pulled Hermione onto the dance floor, his hand slipping far too low on her back, his lips dipping too close to her ear, Lucius felt something in him snap.

Because this was wrong.

That was not where his hand belonged.

That was not where his lips belonged.

Lucius swirled his drink, watching.

Waiting.

And then?

Then he made a very, very bad decision.

Because for the first time in his very well-controlled life, Lucius Malfoy was about to do something very reckless.

And he didn’t care one bit.

The applause for the dance was polite, measured, a background hum of sound as Hermione pulled away from McLaggen, fully intending to thank him for the dance and escape.

But then—

A presence cut through the space beside them.

A shift in the air—weighty, undeniable, electric.

Lucius Malfoy.

She felt him before she even turned.

Before his smooth, dark voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"If you insist on making a spectacle of yourself, Granger," Lucius said, his tone silk-wrapped steel, "at least have the decency to dance with someone who knows what he’s doing."

Cormac stiffened, his easy bravado faltering, but he recovered quickly, straightening his shoulders as he turned to face the most intimidating man in the ballroom.

"Didn’t realize this was your concern, Malfoy," Cormac said, his voice straining to remain confident, his chin lifting. "Last I checked, Granger was free to dance with whomever she pleased."

Hermione raised her brows slightly at Cormac’s audacity, glancing between the two men with mild amusement.

Lucius, for his part, did not even look at Cormac at first.

Instead, he turned to Hermione, offering her his hand in silent command.

"A mistake you can correct," he murmured smoothly, ignoring McLaggen entirely.

Cormac bristled. "Now, hang on—"

Lucius finally looked at him.

A slow, deliberate glance that pinned Cormac in place, dissecting him like a mild inconvenience, his silver eyes cold, assessing.

"You are excused," Lucius said, his voice polite but dripping with dismissal.

Cormac’s jaw tensed, and for half a second, Hermione thought he might actually try to stand his ground.

But then—

Lucius took a single step forward.

It was nothing obvious, no grand display of power—just a simple, effortless shift in posture that made Cormac instinctively take a step back.

Hermione bit back a smirk.

Cormac, realizing his place, exhaled sharply, giving Hermione a tight-lipped smile.

"Guess I’ll let you enjoy your evening," he muttered, and then, before he could embarrass himself further, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Lucius barely acknowledged his departure.

Instead, his focus remained entirely on her.

Hermione tilted her head, considering him, her gaze flicking to his still-extended hand.

She let the silence stretch—taunting, teasing—before finally placing her palm against his.

"Well," she murmured as Lucius’s fingers tightened around hers, "shall we?"

Lucius didn’t answer.

He simply pulled her onto the dance floor.

Lucius led with effortless precision, his movements commanding but not forceful, his grip firm, unrelenting, his touch possessive in ways he didn’t dare acknowledge.

And Hermione?

Hermione danced like she was bored.

She let him lead, let him pull her close, let the world fade around them, but her expression remained impassive, detached—like he was no different from any other dance partner.

Like this meant nothing.

Lucius hated it.

"I was under the impression you enjoyed these dances," he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he spun her effortlessly.

Hermione let out a small breath of amusement. "With the right partner," she said lightly.

Lucius’s fingers tightened ever so slightly at her waist.

"Ah," he mused, his voice dripping with feigned indifference. "Shall I assume Draco was the better option, then?"

Hermione raised a brow, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

"You assume quite a lot," she said simply.

Lucius hummed.

"It’s an interesting choice, taking my son as your escort."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Draco is my friend."

Lucius arched a brow. "Friends don’t usually hold one another quite so intimately, Granger."

Hermione’s patience snapped.

She stopped dancing for a half-second, forcing Lucius to adjust quickly, stepping forward to keep her from breaking the rhythm.

"You know perfectly well that Draco and I are just friends," she said, her voice quiet but sharp, her tone daring him to challenge her on it.

Lucius exhaled, his fingers pressing more firmly against the bare skin of her back, his eyes darkening.

"You’re right," he admitted, voice lower now, more intimate. "You wouldn’t settle for him."

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

Lucius smirked.

"But you would settle for McLaggen?" he asked smoothly, tilting his head. "I expected more from you."

Hermione let out a short laugh, shaking her head.

"Funny," she mused. "I could say the same about you. I assume your date is terribly engaging?"

Lucius didn’t blink.

"Not particularly."

Hermione’s lips curved slightly, her eyes dancing with something unreadable.

"Why don’t you go back to her?" she asked, her voice dripping with politeness.

Lucius studied her for a moment, then—very deliberately—lowered his head slightly, voice a low whisper against her ear.

"Why would I, when you’re standing right here?"

Hermione’s breath hitched, but she recovered quickly, meeting his intense, unreadable gaze with equal fire.

"So that’s what this is?" she murmured, letting the words brush past his throat like a blade wrapped in silk.

Lucius tilted his head, his smirk subtle, his grip possessive.

"This," he murmured, "is whatever you want it to be."

A challenge.

A dare.

The song ended.

The ballroom hummed with quiet applause, a soft murmur of approval sweeping through the elegantly dressed guests as the orchestra transitioned seamlessly into another waltz.

Hermione stepped back, calm, composed, completely untouched by whatever had just passed between them.

"Thank you for the dance, Malfoy," she said smoothly, offering a polite, measured nod.

Lucius did not move immediately.

His silver gaze remained fixed on her, his hand still slightly outstretched, his posture tense in a way he never allowed himself to be.

But Hermione?

She just smiled—that infuriating, knowing smile that said she had won something tonight, and he didn't even know what.

Then, without hesitation, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Lucius watched her go, standing in place for a beat too long, his mind churning with thoughts he shouldn’t be having, his fingers itching with the ghost of her touch.

And then—

A presence at his side.

His date.

"Lucius?" she murmured, her voice soft, expectant.

Lucius inhaled slowly, masking the turmoil beneath a well-practiced veneer of indifference, before finally turning back to her.

"Shall we?" he said, offering his arm.

And yet—for the rest of the night, he barely heard a word she said.

Across the ballroom, Hermione reached the group of Slytherins who had unofficially adopted her into their circle, her pulse settling back into its normal rhythm, though she still felt the lingering heat of Lucius’s hands on her waist.

She refused to acknowledge it.

Instead, she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and took a long sip, composed, unaffected, victorious.

"So," Theo drawled, watching her carefully, swirling the last of his drink. "How was it? Did you two confess your undying, insufferable tension to one another yet?"

Hermione scoffed, shaking her head. "Hardly."

Pansy sighed, dramatically disappointed. "Shame. You owe us entertainment, Granger."

Draco, who had been watching her just as closely, smirked. "Well, if nothing else, I think we should celebrate the occasion."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "And by that, you mean…?"

Draco grinned, grabbing another drink from a passing tray.

"After-party. Back at the Manor."

There was a beat of silence before Theo exhaled loudly, clapping his hands together.

"Fantastic. I was just about to say this night needed more debauchery."

Astoria laughed, linking her arm with Pansy’s. "I could do with a little more fun before we call it a night."

Draco, smirking as he turned toward Hermione, tilted his head.

"What do you say, Granger? One last drink before you abandon us for your quaint little bookshop life?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

"Fine," she conceded, sipping her champagne. "One drink."

Draco’s smirk widened—but he wasn’t looking at Hermione anymore.

Instead, he glanced deliberately over his shoulder, where Lucius Malfoy was seated with his date, clearly listening.

And then, in a voice just loud enough to carry, he said:

"Perfect. Then it’s settled—we’ll all head back to Malfoy Manor."

Hermione bit back a smirk as she saw Lucius’s posture stiffen, his jaw tensing just slightly, his grip tightening around his glass.

Blaise grinned knowingly.

"Oh," he murmured, sipping his drink. "This is going to be good."

And with that, they raised their glasses—because the night?

Was far from over.

Chapter Text

The air at Malfoy Manor was thick with laughter and alcohol, the tension of the gala long forgotten in favor of reckless indulgence.

The sitting room, usually reserved for quiet refinement and dignified conversation, was now the site of chaos, with Theo sprawled across an armchair, Blaise lounging with his legs kicked up onto an ottoman, and Draco perched on the sofa beside Hermione, who was definitely drunk.

Pansy and Astoria sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning into each other as they whispered and giggled, their attention fully on Hermione.

Which was never a good sign.

"Alright, Granger," Pansy drawled, swirling her glass of firewhisky, her gaze narrowing in mischief. "It’s time for an interrogation."

Hermione blinked, momentarily distracted by the room spinning just slightly, before focusing on Pansy’s very pointed expression.

"What?" she mumbled, reaching for her drink.

Astoria grinned. "You and Lucius Malfoy."

The boys immediately perked up.

"Oh, here we go," Theo muttered, smirking as he leaned back.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There is nothing—"

Pansy cut her off, raising a perfectly manicured finger.

"Don’t lie to me, Granger. I know things. I have instincts. And that dance? That was not nothing."

Draco snorted into his drink but didn’t argue.

Blaise, however, smirked lazily. "We’ve all noticed, darling," he said, tilting his glass. "But we’re waiting for confirmation."

Hermione huffed. "You’re all ridiculous."

Draco arched a brow. "Are we?"

Astoria nudged Pansy excitedly. "She’s deflecting. That means there’s something."

Pansy’s eyes glinted with triumph. "I knew it."

Hermione groaned, reaching for another shot of firewhisky.

Theo watched her closely. "Granger," he said, grinning. "Are you about to confess something?"

Hermione hesitated for just a second too long.

And then—

Pansy gasped. "OH MY GOD. Did you sleep with him?!"

Hermione choked on her drink.

"No!" she coughed, wiping at her mouth, glaring as the group burst into laughter.

Blaise wiped a fake tear. "A tragedy, truly."

Draco, however, was still watching her closely, his expression shifting slightly. “But there is something…” he muttered.

Hermione hesitated, swirling the remaining liquid in her glass, before finally admitting it.

"It was just—" She exhaled, shaking her head. "A kiss."

Silence.

Absolute, stunned silence.

Theo nearly fell out of his chair.

Blaise sat up so fast he spilled some of his drink.

Draco, who had previously looked half-interested, now looked like he had just been slapped in the face.

"I’m sorry—what?!" Draco sputtered.

Hermione shrugged, taking another sip of her drink, deciding that now was a good time to pretend this wasn’t a big deal.

"It wasn’t—"

"NO, NO, NO," Theo waved a hand, shaking his head. "Pause. Rewind. When the fuck did this happen?"

Hermione blinked at them, momentarily regretting her honesty.

"Months ago?" she said slowly.

Draco gaped at her. "And you never thought to mention that you kissed MY father?"

Hermione grimaced. "It… never came up?"

Pansy was cackling at this point, clutching at Astoria, who looked equally scandalized and delighted.

Blaise, however, looked positively delighted.

"You devious little minx," he said, smirking. "And here we were thinking you were just torturing him at the gala—when really, you already had him by the throat."

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"This is why I didn’t tell you lot."

Draco, who had yet to recover, just shook his head. "Fucking hell," he muttered. "This is worse than I thought."

Pansy clinked her glass against Hermione’s. "This is fantastic is what it is."

Astoria giggled. "I want details."

"No one is getting details," Hermione mumbled.

The boys groaned.

"Then at least tell us this," Theo said, smirking. "Was it good?"

Hermione lifted a brow.

And then—

She smirked.

The room erupted in chaos.

The debate over the next drinking game was still in full swing when the fireplace roared.

The air in the room shifted instantly—the lazy, drunken warmth morphing into something tense, expectant, electric.

And then—

Lucius Malfoy stepped through the floo.

With his date.

The room fell into an immediate hush as Lucius took one calculated step into the room, his silver eyes sweeping over the scene before him.

Hermione, still holding her drink, sitting far too comfortably in the middle of his son’s friend group.

Draco, looking far too smug.

Theo, half-drunk but delighted.

Pansy and Astoria, watching the moment unfold like it was their favorite drama.

And then—

His eyes landed on her.

On Hermione.

And the moment stretched.

And then, without hesitation, Lucius turned to his date.

"Go home," he said simply.

The woman blinked, confused. "Lucius, I—"

He flicked his wand, activating the floo again, and gave her a pointed look.

She huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder, muttering something about "insufferable men" before disappearing into the flames.

Lucius barely spared her a glance.

Instead, he turned back to the group, straightening the cuffs of his coat, his expression carefully composed.

"Good evening," he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just sent his date home without ceremony.

Draco, still holding his drink, tilted his head slightly, clearly amused.

"Father," he greeted, taking a sip. "Lovely timing."

Lucius’s gaze flickered toward Hermione again—something unreadable flashing across his expression—before he exhaled, nodding once.

"I’ll be in my study."

And with that—

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, the room erupted.

"I’m sorry, I need a moment to process." Astoria held up a hand, shaking her head in disbelief. "Did Lucius Malfoy just walk in, send his date home, and then pretend like it never happened?"

Pansy, still gripping her drink like it was the only thing tethering her to reality, nodded furiously. "He did. He absolutely did."

Theo chuckled, stretching out on the couch, looking far too entertained. "Well, well. Seems like the elder Malfoy isn’t as cold and calculated as he’d like us to believe."

Blaise smirked, nudging Hermione lightly. "Granger, you seem awfully quiet. Any thoughts?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, finishing the rest of her drink in one long sip before setting the empty glass down.

"None that I feel like sharing with a room full of gossips," she replied smoothly.

Pansy and Astoria shared a look, and before Hermione could dodge whatever plan they had brewing, Pansy clapped her hands together.

"Truth or Dare with Veritaserum."

Theo immediately perked up, his grin wicked. "Now that is a proper game for a night like this."

Hermione groaned. "Oh, for the love of—"

"Too late, Granger," Blaise cut in, grinning lazily. "You can’t back out now."

Draco, who had been watching the exchange with a smirk, stood up, dusting off his trousers.

"I’ll go get the potion," he announced, striding toward the door. He paused, then added with an unmistakable smirk, "Be back in a moment. Try not to do anything scandalous while I’m gone."

Hermione flicked a pillow at him, but he dodged it effortlessly, disappearing down the hall.

With everyone now deeply invested in their new game, Hermione saw her chance to escape.

"I'm going to the bathroom," she announced, standing.

"Suspicious timing," Theo noted, sipping his drink.

Hermione flipped him off before making her way toward the hall.

She barely made it two steps past the main corridor before a firm hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her into a darkened room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Hermione’s heart pounded as she was spun around, only to find herself face-to-face with Lucius Malfoy.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t step back.

The study was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the fire burning low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the bookshelves and the heavy wooden desk.

Hermione exhaled sharply, tilting her head.

"We need to have a serious discussion about your habit of pulling me into rooms unannounced, Malfoy."

Lucius didn’t smirk.

Didn’t make a snide remark.

Didn’t pretend.

He just looked at her, eyes dark, stormy, filled with all the things he hadn’t said and all the things she wasn’t ready to hear.

And then—

"I’m done pretending."

Hermione froze.

Her breath hitched, but she recovered quickly, her chin lifting.

"Funny," she said, crossing her arms, "you’ve done a remarkable job of it up until now."

Lucius exhaled sharply, stepping forward.

"I let you walk away," he said, voice low, controlled, but edged with something raw. "I let you play your little games, dance around me like this was all a performance."

Hermione’s fingers curled into fists at her sides, because—how dare he.

"I was never playing games."

Lucius’s eyes flashed, his jaw tensing. "No?"

"No," she said, her voice firm, unwavering. "You think everything is a calculated move, a power play, but I wasn’t trying to win. I wasn’t trying to bait you."

Lucius inhaled sharply, his grip tightening slightly on the edge of his desk.

"You kissed me first," Hermione continued, her voice dangerously quiet. "You started this. And then—you walked away."

Lucius closed the distance between them in a single step.

"You walked away, too," he countered, his voice a murmur, but it cut through her like a blade.

Hermione’s breath caught, because damn him, he was right.

But before she could respond, before she could find another argument, another excuse, Lucius lifted his hand, his fingers brushing the line of her jaw, his touch infuriatingly gentle.

And then—

He kissed her.

And unlike the last time, this wasn’t anger, wasn’t recklessness, wasn’t a battle of who would break first.

This was deliberate.

A slow, soul-shattering claim, one that sent heat curling through her, unraveling everything she had told herself about walking away.

His fingers slid into her hair, pulling her closer, and she let him, let herself sink into it, let the fire build—

And then—

She broke away.

Hermione stood there, breathless, her pulse pounding violently, and she hated that she could still feel him everywhere—his hands on her waist, his lips still burning against hers, the way he had pulled her close like he was finally claiming something he should have claimed long ago.

But she had broken away.

And now?

Now, she had things to say.

Lucius exhaled slowly, his forehead nearly resting against hers, his breath uneven, frustrated, full of want.

"Hermione," he murmured, voice low, raw.

But Hermione stepped back, shaking her head, eyes flashing.

"No." Her voice was sharp, and it made Lucius’s gaze snap to hers, the slight tension in his jaw tightening further.

She pressed a hand to her temple, forcing herself to breathe, but it wasn’t enough.

Because she was furious.

Because this wasn’t just about tonight.

This was months of waiting, months of silence, months of a game she had stopped playing—but he had refused to let go of.

"Do you even realize what you’ve done?" she demanded, her voice quieter now, but laced with something dangerous, something unraveling.

Lucius’s eyes flickered, watching her carefully. "Explain it to me," he said smoothly, but she could hear the tightness beneath his composure.

Hermione let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. "You want me to explain it to you?" she asked, her voice incredulous. "Fine."

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with all the fire he had spent months feeding.

"I knew what it was before," she said, voice steady but charged. "It was a game. We were both playing it. And I was fine with that."

Lucius said nothing, but something in his posture shifted—something tense, something guarded.

"But then I stopped," Hermione continued, stepping forward now, her anger simmering, boiling over. "I walked away. I moved on. I stopped playing"

Her voice wavered, just slightly, but she forced herself to keep going.

"And for months, you kept it going. You dragged it out, you watched me, you inserted yourself into my life without ever saying anything real. Do you know how much that hurt?"

Lucius’s expression flickered, a flash of something—guilt? Recognition?—before it was gone again, masked beneath his cool indifference.

"Hermione—"

"No," she snapped, cutting him off. "Why the hell would I still be interested, Lucius? Why would I still be waiting for you to actually do something, when all you’ve done is keep me at arm’s length, pretending you don’t care while making sure I never forget you do?"

Lucius’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, and she saw it then—a flicker of restraint, of something being held back.

But she wasn’t done.

"If you want me," she said, voice trembling slightly now, but firm, "prove it."

Lucius stilled.

"You have to show it. You have to do something real," Hermione continued, her breathing heavy, her frustration spilling over the edges now. "I am not some socialite you can bring to galas and ignore. I’m not some trophy to parade around just to prove you can."

Lucius inhaled sharply, but he said nothing.

And that?

That was exactly the problem.

Hermione let out another breath, more tired than anything now, shaking her head.

"I deserve more than this," she said, softer now, but just as sharp.

Lucius stood there, watching her, but for the first time—

She wasn’t sure if he would fight for her.

So she turned.

And this time, she left.

And Lucius Malfoy didn’t know what to do.

Hermione stormed back into the drawing room, still fuming, her breath coming in short, sharp exhales as she tried to push down the burning frustration in her chest.

She had been so stupid to think that Lucius would do anything different. That he would ever allow himself to be vulnerable, to admit what was so painfully obvious to everyone but himself.

And now?

Now she just wanted to go home.

But, of course, her entrance did not go unnoticed.

The second she walked back into the room, Pansy and Astoria locked onto her like predators scenting blood.

Astoria’s sharp intake of breath was immediate.

"Oh. My. God."

Pansy’s eyes widened in delight, her gaze sweeping over Hermione’s disheveled hair, the slight flush on her cheeks, the way she looked thoroughly wrecked in a way that was decidedly not from alcohol.

"Granger," Pansy gasped, sitting forward with wide eyes, "did you just get seriously shagged?"

Hermione stilled, blinking, before her expression snapped into one of pure indignation.

Draco and Blaise, who had been mid-drink, immediately started laughing.

Theo, meanwhile, looked between them, grinning as he raised a brow. “Well, well, well”

Hermione clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay calm, but the sheer rage simmering under her skin must have been apparent—because the laughter cut off almost instantly.

Draco’s smirk faded first, his sharp gaze narrowing. "Wait. What happened?"

Blaise’s amusement was the next to vanish. He stood, his usual playful demeanor gone in an instant, stepping toward her.

His voice was calm but serious. "Did he hurt you?"

Hermione let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"Only in the way men like Lucius Malfoy do," she said cynically, her voice dripping with venom, crossing her arms as she tried to reign in her emotions.

Blaise’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening as he studied her, assessing the situation.

Theo, who was usually the first to crack a joke, was watching closely now too, his brows pulled together.

Draco, now fully on edge, frowned, stepping forward. "Granger," he said, his tone much lower, more serious now, "what the hell happened?"

Hermione exhaled, rubbing her fingers against her temple. "Nothing worth discussing right now."

Draco did not look satisfied with that answer.

"Granger—"

She cut him off.

"Draco," she said, looking up at him, her voice tight with exhaustion, "can you just unlock the floo so I can go home?"

A beat of silence.

Then, with one last assessing look, Draco sighed heavily, pulling out his wand and muttering a quick incantation, the green glow flickering to life in the fireplace.

But before she could step through, he tried one last time.

"Hermione," he said, his voice lower now, less of a demand, more of a plea. "Just tell us—what happened?"

Hermione hesitated for a second.

Then, she shook her head.

"I’ll talk to you tomorrow."

And with that—

She stepped into the floo and disappeared.

Chapter Text

Lucius emerged from the hallway moments later, looking a little disheveled, a little less composed than usual. His normally pristine robes were slightly wrinkled, the crisp line of his collar askew as if he’d yanked at it in frustration. His shoulders were tight, drawn in a way that suggested restraint—like he was holding something back. One hand rubbed down his face, his fingers briefly pressing against his temple before dropping to his side.

The room was deathly silent.

The group had exchanged wary glances the moment they heard the heavy footfalls echo through the corridor, and now, every pair of eyes was locked on Lucius. The tension in the air thickened, sharp as a knife. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to crackle more softly, as if unwilling to disturb whatever was about to unfold.

Draco, standing nearest to the fireplace, turned slowly. His movement was deliberate, controlled, but there was an edge to him—something simmering just beneath the surface, coiling tight in his muscles. His grey eyes were sharp, assessing, and filled with something dangerous.

"You have exactly five seconds to tell me," he said, voice low and deceptively calm, "why Hermione Granger just flooed out of here looking like she was ready to kill someone."

Lucius inhaled, slow and measured, and for the briefest moment, his gaze flickered. His hand returned to his face, this time pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled heavily.

"Draco—"

"No." Draco's voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the space between them as he took a single step forward. "What. Happened?"

The hesitation was minute, but Draco caught it. A fraction of a second—just enough for the silence to stretch unbearably. Lucius was not a man who hesitated. That alone was an answer.

Lucius let out a low, quiet breath, tilting his head back just slightly, as if collecting himself. His jaw worked, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally spoke.

"I made a mistake."

The weight of those words seemed to drop like a stone into the silence.

Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides, his expression unmoving, but something cold settled in his chest. His father did not admit mistakes—not easily, not unless something had truly gone sideways. His stomach twisted, mind racing through the possibilities.

He was going to get to the bottom of this.

And if Lucius had done something to make Hermione leave like that, then he was going to fix it.

One way or another.

Theo’s eyebrows shot up.

Blaise let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Well, that’s new."

Pansy leaned over to Astoria. "Did Lucius Malfoy just admit to a mistake?"

Astoria nodded, wide-eyed. "I think so."

Draco, however, was far from amused.

His gaze remained locked on his father, unblinking, cold and expectant. His arms were crossed over his chest, his fingers digging into his sleeves as he waited, unwavering. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with unspoken accusations. The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the tense silence.

Lucius exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening as he regarded his son. There was something unreadable in his expression, something guarded, but Draco had seen the subtle flickers of irritation, of discomfort. Whatever had transpired between him and Hermione—it had unsettled him. That alone made Draco's stomach tighten.

Finally, Lucius spoke, his voice cool but firm.

"I will handle it."

Draco let out a short, humorless laugh. It was sharp, biting, utterly devoid of amusement.

"Oh?" he drawled, shifting his weight forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to anger. "And what does handling it look like, exactly?"

Lucius didn’t answer. Not immediately. Instead, his fingers twitched at his side, as if restraining the impulse to rub his temples. A flicker of something passed over his features, gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Draco—"

"Don't," Draco cut in, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "Don’t dismiss me like I’m a child. Hermione was furious. She flooed out of here like she was ready to hex the first person who looked at her the wrong way. So forgive me if I don't just sit back and trust that you'll—what was it?—'handle it.'"

Lucius regarded him for a long moment, his expression impassive, but Draco knew better. He could see the tension in his father’s shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. He was choosing his words carefully.

"You are overreacting," Lucius finally said, turning slightly as if ready to remove himself from the conversation.

Draco's teeth clenched, a spark of frustration igniting in his chest.

"Am I?" he challenged, taking a step forward. "You think I don't know what this is? You think I don’t see it? You did something, said something, and now you're hoping it’ll all just... what? Fix itself? That she’ll calm down and forget whatever it was?"

Lucius’ jaw twitched, but still, he remained silent.

"Right," Draco scoffed, shaking his head, his laugh just as humorless as before. "Of course. Because that’s how things always work with you, isn't it? Pretend it isn’t a problem and wait for it to disappear."

Lucius' eyes flashed, sharp and piercing, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he simply turned on his heel, his robes sweeping behind him as he strode toward his study.

Draco stared after him, his fingers twitching at his sides, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, before exhaling sharply and raking a frustrated hand through his hair.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Then, turning back toward the group, he exhaled.

"I need another drink."

Blaise chuckled, pouring another glass.

"Oh, you’re going to need several."

Lucius sat in his study, the dim firelight casting elongated shadows across the rich mahogany desk. The flames crackled softly, licking at the logs with a quiet persistence, their flickering glow illuminating the smooth parchment before him. His fingers hovered over the desk’s polished surface, tracing absent patterns in the fine grain of the wood. His mind, however, was an absolute disaster.

He wasn’t a man prone to regret.
He wasn’t a man who second-guessed himself.

And yet—

Tonight, he had watched Hermione Granger walk away from him. Not just leave—walk away. A purposeful, decisive exit that cut through the air like a sharpened blade, her anger vibrating in every step, every glance, every word that still echoed in his mind like a curse he couldn’t shake.

"If you want me, you have to show it."

Her voice wasn’t pleading. It wasn’t desperate. It was strong. Unyielding. A demand, not a request.

His jaw tensed. He hated that she had been right. Hated that she had seen through him, seen the hesitation, the carefully crafted barriers he had spent a lifetime constructing.

But what he hated even more was the knowledge that, for once, those walls hadn’t been for his own protection.

They had been a coward’s defense.

Lucius Malfoy—coward. The words tasted foul even in his own mind, but he couldn’t deny their weight.

His fingers tapped lightly against the parchment in front of him, the blank page a mirror of his own inadequacy. He had stood there, watching her leave, his silence just as damning as any confession.

Because she was right.

She had been right the whole damn time.

And that?

That meant only one thing.

Lucius Malfoy had to do something he never did.

He had to apologize.

The very notion of it made his spine stiffen, his pride recoiling at the mere thought. Apologies were not something he handed out. They were beneath him—weakness masquerading as civility. But for the first time in his life, he realized that not apologizing might cost him something far greater than his dignity.

It might cost him her.

His fingers curled into a fist before he exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he reached for his quill, dipping the sharp tip into the inkpot.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

This time, he would not fail her.

The ink bled onto the parchment as his hand moved across the page, the words forming before he had the chance to talk himself out of them.

For the first time in a very long time, Lucius Malfoy was writing something that truly mattered.

Miss Granger,

It seems I owe you an apology—something I am not particularly well-practiced in, so I ask for a small measure of patience as I attempt to do this properly.

You were right. Entirely, infuriatingly right.

I was playing a game—one that, in hindsight, I never should have begun. Not because I didn’t enjoy it (as you well know, I do love a challenge), but because I failed to see what was truly at stake.

For months, I convinced myself that I was in control, that keeping you at arm’s length was some grand display of restraint. But the truth? The truth is that I was only succeeding in pushing you away. And that—well, that was never what I wanted.

I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending this revelation came easily. You and I both know that I am as stubborn as I am insufferable. But I do know this: I made a mistake. A rather spectacular one, at that.

I don’t expect you to forgive me, nor do I intend to demand your time. But I will say this—I do not intend to make the same mistake twice.

If you are willing, I would like to see you. Not as adversaries locked in some ceaseless battle of wit (tempting as that may be), but as something else.

Something real.

Yours,
L. Malfoy

Lucius had just sealed the letter when the study door creaked open.

He didn’t have to look up.

"Draco," he sighed, setting his quill aside. "What is it?"

Draco strolled in, far less confrontational than before, his hands in his pockets, his expression more curious than frustrated this time.

"Thought I’d check in," Draco said casually, eyeing the letter Lucius had just finished writing. "Looks serious."

Lucius exhaled slowly.

"It is."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Does this serious thing have anything to do with why Hermione left looking like she wanted to set the manor on fire?"

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. "I assume you won’t let this go?"

Draco grinned. "Not a chance."

Lucius leaned back in his chair, staring at the fire for a long moment before finally answering.

"We argued," he admitted.

Draco snorted. "Well, obviously."

Lucius shot him a look but continued.

"She told me I had spent months dragging this out, keeping her at arm’s length while never giving her a real answer. That I wanted to control the game but never actually commit to anything."

Draco hummed, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Lucius’s gaze snapped to him, irritation flickering across his expression. "Do you have anything useful to contribute?"

Draco smirked. "I mean, aside from an I told you so?"

Lucius sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Draco tilted his head, studying him for a long moment.

Then—he said the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

"Stop playing the game."

Lucius’s fingers stilled, his mind processing those words in a way he hadn’t before.

Draco leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk.

"You’ve spent months dancing around this, Father. You started this thing thinking it was just amusement, something to pass the time, but it stopped being that a long time ago. And Hermione? She stopped playing before you did."

Lucius exhaled slowly, the weight of that truth settling in his chest.

Draco straightened, rolling his shoulders.

"You want my advice?" he continued. "You’ve already started doing the only thing that matters."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "And that is?"

Draco smirked, nodding toward the letter on the desk.

"Being honest for once."

Lucius stared at the parchment, the neat, careful script, the words that had come more easily than he thought they would.

"She’ll still make you work for it," Draco added, grinning. "But if you’re lucky? Maybe she’ll let you."

Lucius let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "And here I thought you had no faith in me."

Draco shrugged, heading toward the door.

"Not faith," he said. "Just entertainment value."

And with that, he left the study, leaving Lucius alone with the weight of what came next.

Lucius tapped his fingers against the sealed letter, staring at it for a moment longer before standing and calling for an owl.

It was time to end the game.

And if Hermione let him?

It was time to start something real.

Chapter Text

Hermione stared at the envelope in her trembling hands, a shiver of unease slipping down her spine as she recognized the familiar dark ink. Her heartbeat quickened, memories flooding back to her of previous encounters—each letter carrying weight, uncertainty, and tangled emotions. Her fingers hesitated, hovering over the wax seal bearing the Malfoy crest, its presence both intimidating and strangely captivating. 

Drawing a shaky breath, she considered briefly tossing it aside, unopened, sparing herself from whatever words lay hidden within. But curiosity—and perhaps something deeper she dared not admit—compelled her forward. Slowly, deliberately, she broke the seal, the soft crack echoing like thunder in the silence of her room. Her heart sank as she unfolded the parchment, immediately recognizing the cold, clipped handwriting that could belong to no one other than Lucius Malfoy.

As her eyes scanned each meticulously penned word, Hermione felt a mixture of frustration and bewilderment rise inside her. His words were careful, undeniably smooth and persuasive, yet she couldn't help but question the motives behind his carefully crafted lines. Did he truly believe she would fall so easily, swayed by eloquence alone, after everything that had transpired between them? Could she trust the sincerity behind his declarations, or was this another calculated manipulation cloaked beneath a veneer of charm?

She exhaled sharply, setting the letter down on her bedside table with a resigned sigh, her head spinning with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She lay back against her pillows, eyes tracing patterns on the ceiling, restless and troubled. Sleep proved elusive that night, punctuated by unsettling dreams and half-awake reflections that kept her suspended in an uneasy state until the first faint rays of dawn finally crept through her curtains.

When a gentle knock sounded at her door in the early hours, Hermione groaned softly, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes before reluctantly moving to answer. Draco stood there, his expression gentle and cautious, holding a tray laden with tea, warm pastries, and fresh fruit.

"Thought you might need some company after the letter," he said quietly, a small, understanding smile playing at his lips.

She offered him a faint smile in return and stepped back, letting him enter. Draco placed the tray on the table and turned to face her, concern etched deeply into his features.

Hermione sighed, sinking down onto the couch and pulling her knees close to her chest. Draco joined her, leaving a careful space between them.

"Draco, your father…he makes things complicated," she murmured, staring blankly ahead.

He chuckled softly, setting the tray down and taking a seat beside her. "Believe me, I know. Complicated is practically our second family motto."

She managed a faint laugh, shaking her head as she reached for a pastry but merely toyed with it absently. "I just don't want to play these games anymore. I’m exhausted by the idea of being some trophy or prize. I want someone who genuinely cares for me, not just the challenge of winning me."

Draco nodded solemnly, his gray eyes earnest as they searched her face. "I understand. You deserve someone who sees you exactly as you are—someone who values you, genuinely. No more games."

She met his gaze finally, vulnerability evident in her brown eyes. "And do you really think your father could ever be genuine? That he’s capable of real feelings, beyond his usual strategic calculations?"

Draco hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He’s always been guarded, obsessed with appearances and power. But lately… something has shifted. He's quieter, more reflective. It's like he's actually trying to change, Hermione."

"Changed how?" she asked skeptically, eyebrows furrowing in uncertainty.

He sighed thoughtfully. "It's hard to explain. He’s been asking questions—not about power or influence—but about how to truly understand someone, to reach them. It’s almost as though he’s trying to learn a new language—one he’s never spoken."

Hermione picked at the pastry on the tray, her expression pensive. "I'm just tired of being treated like some kind of prize, Draco."

Draco reached out gently, his hand brushing hers briefly in reassurance. "Maybe he finally sees that. Maybe this is his way of finally stepping away from those old habits."

Hermione sighed again, heavily. "I wish I could believe that."

Draco gave her a small, supportive smile. "I guess time will tell. For now, let’s just enjoy breakfast. We can figure everything else out later."

She nodded softly, grateful for his steady presence. For now, at least, she could take comfort in the calm Draco brought with him, hoping that perhaps things might truly change, that sincerity might be possible.

The real pursuit, she thought with cautious hope, might finally be beginning.

Across town, Lucius sat in his study, the fire flickering softly as he gazed pensively into the flames. Draco’s earlier words echoed relentlessly in his mind, each syllable burrowing deeper into his consciousness.

“You can’t treat her as you’ve treated everyone else. She won’t be swayed by power or status. Hermione wants authenticity, Father. She wants to be valued for herself."

Lucius sighed deeply, pressing his fingertips to his temples, feeling the weight of decades of carefully crafted masks and intricate games pressing heavily upon him. His entire life had been built on precision, manipulation, and maintaining control—a façade he wore seamlessly. But this was different. This was Hermione Granger. And Hermione Granger did not play by the rules he knew.

He shifted uneasily in his chair, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar vulnerability. Never had he encountered someone who could see through his polished exterior with such ease, someone whose penetrating gaze unsettled him and yet somehow intrigued him beyond reason. The very thought of her made his pulse quicken, a response he once would have dismissed as weakness but now found strangely exhilarating.

Lucius stared into the flames, recalling her challenging gaze, the fearless way she stood before him—unyielding, defiant, yet undeniably compelling. She deserved better than deception, more than superficial gestures or empty promises. Draco was right; she sought honesty, respect, and genuine affection—qualities Lucius had long since buried beneath layers of pride and self-preservation.

Was he even capable of shedding those layers, of revealing himself without artifice? Doubts crept in, whispering that perhaps he was too damaged, too entrenched in old habits to truly change. Yet, beneath those doubts stirred a quiet determination. The prospect of losing Hermione forever, of never exploring the rare connection that had ignited between them, was suddenly unbearable.

He would have to learn how to speak her language—a language of authenticity, sincerity, and vulnerability—no matter how foreign it felt.

"Very well," he whispered again, his voice firmer now, more resolute as he leaned forward, eyes fixed upon the fire as if it held answers within its flames. "No more games. No more hiding behind distance."

Lucius felt an unexpected warmth bloom within him, mingling with apprehension. This was uncharted territory—frightening, yes, but undeniably exhilarating. For Hermione Granger, he would willingly venture into the unknown.

The real pursuit had begun, and Lucius was ready, perhaps for the first time in his life, to meet it honestly.

Hermione balanced precariously on the ladder, carefully shelving the latest shipment of spellbooks on Ancient Runes, when the soft chime of the bookstore’s door caught her attention. She glanced down with a welcoming smile, pleasantly surprised to see Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott stepping inside.

"Good afternoon, boys," she greeted warmly, climbing down and dusting her hands. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just checking up on our favorite bookworm," Theo grinned, his eyes bright with amusement. He glanced appreciatively around the shop. "Place looks good. You've done wonders with it."

"It's got your touch," Blaise added smoothly, inspecting a nearby shelf lined meticulously with rare editions. "Refined, organized, and a bit intimidating."

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately. "Are you two here just to flatter me or is there something I can help you find?"

Theo chuckled, leaning casually against the counter. "Flattery mostly, but we'll also take recommendations if you have them."

She smiled softly, relaxing in their easy presence. Over the past few months, she'd grown quite fond of Draco’s closest friends—something that would have seemed impossible only a year ago. "I've just restocked the Defense Against the Dark Arts section if you're interested. Some intriguing new manuals on defensive enchantments from America."

Blaise nodded thoughtfully. "Might give them a look, although we're more interested in making sure you're alright."

Hermione’s smile softened, sensing the sincerity in his tone. "I'm alright, really. A little overwhelmed at times, but—"

Her words trailed off as a gentle tapping drew her attention to the store's front window. A regal-looking owl perched patiently outside, clearly waiting to be acknowledged.

"Normal delivery?" Theo asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione hesitated, stepping toward the door. "Should be," she murmured, opening the window just enough to allow the bird inside. Her pulse quickened as she noticed the unmistakable Malfoy crest sealing the delicate parchment tied neatly to its leg.

She carefully untied the letter, her cheeks flushing slightly as she became aware of Blaise and Theo exchanging knowing glances behind her back. Her fingers fumbled slightly in haste, breaking the seal and revealing the contents—a single, beautifully pressed flower, delicate and vibrant despite its fragility.

A small note was tucked beneath it, the handwriting elegant and unmistakably Lucius’s.

"Even after being pressed, beauty remains—perhaps even more lovely for having endured. - L."

Hermione felt her breath catch, warmth spreading slowly through her chest as she gently traced the pressed petals with a fingertip. She hadn’t expected such tenderness from Lucius, not like this. The sincerity behind his gesture was unmistakable, gently dismantling her defenses.

"Everything alright, Hermione?" Blaise asked gently, observing her closely.

She cleared her throat, folding the parchment carefully as her cheeks darkened. "Yes, quite alright."

Theo smirked lightly. "I take it things are progressing rather interestingly?"

She gave him a pointed look, though she couldn't suppress a shy smile. "Perhaps."

Blaise laughed softly, nodding approvingly. "About time someone captured your attention."

Hermione shook her head, her lips twitching into a reluctant grin. "You two are impossible."

"That's what friends are for," Theo said cheerfully, leaning over to gently tap the pressed flower Hermione still held. "Though I must say, Malfoy senior certainly has a surprisingly romantic side.” Hermione blushed deeper, carefully placing the flower and note safely beneath the counter.

"Apparently so," she admitted softly, the echo of Lucius's thoughtful words lingering warmly in her mind.

Lucius Malfoy was not a man accustomed to uncertainty, yet here he stood, outside a quaint little bookstore in Diagon Alley, gripping the leather-bound book in his hands as though it might suddenly vanish. It was an unusual sensation, this hesitation, and he paused for a moment to steady himself, studying his reflection in the bookstore window. Confidence was his trademark; vulnerability was foreign territory.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Lucius finally stepped forward, pushing open the door. The soft chime echoed gently through the cozy space, prompting Hermione to glance up from behind the counter. Surprise briefly flickered across her face, quickly replaced by guarded curiosity.

“Good afternoon, Hermione,” Lucius greeted softly, inclining his head respectfully as he approached. His eyes traced her face briefly, noting the faint blush that rose to her cheeks as she straightened her posture, clearly uncertain of his intentions.

“Lucius,” Hermione acknowledged evenly, eyes flicking briefly toward the book he held protectively in his grasp. Her curiosity deepened, yet caution lingered in her expression. “This is unexpected. What brings you here?”

He hesitated for the briefest moment, feeling strangely exposed as he gently set the book upon the counter between them, his fingers lingering reluctantly on the leather cover. “I wanted to offer you something meaningful, something that reminded me of you.”

Hermione's eyes fell to the elegantly bound volume, her brows rising slightly in surprise. She gently lifted it, running her fingertips reverently over the embossed title: a beautifully preserved first edition of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.

“A book?” she questioned softly, surprise coloring her voice as she turned the pages carefully, marveling at the pristine condition. “Not what I expected.”

Lucius gave a faint smile, sincere yet reserved. “Flowers fade and are easily forgotten. But a book—a story—can last forever. I remembered overhearing you mention this one to Draco once. You said it spoke deeply to you, about resilience and second chances.”

Her eyes softened, visibly touched by his attentiveness, though her guard remained firmly in place. “You were paying attention?”

He inclined his head gracefully. “More than you realize.”

Hermione studied him quietly for a moment, her fingers idly tracing the spine of the book. “And is this another calculated gesture, Lucius? An attempt at manipulation disguised as thoughtfulness?”

Lucius held her gaze steadily, sincerity shining clearly in his pale eyes. “No manipulation, Hermione. No strategy. Just an honest attempt to understand you better—to show you that I am capable of listening, of learning what truly matters to you.”

She took a slow breath, searching his face for any hint of deception but finding none. With cautious deliberation, Hermione nodded slowly toward the cozy reading nook tucked away near the fireplace.

“Very well, then. Sit,” she invited softly, her voice gentle yet firm. “If your interest is genuine, we can discuss it.”

Surprised yet pleased, Lucius took the offered seat, settling comfortably into the plush armchair opposite Hermione. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor the simple intimacy of the space—so different from the grand, impersonal rooms at Malfoy Manor. Hermione joined him, settling gracefully into the seat beside his own, and gently reached out to take the book from his grasp. Her fingers brushed lightly against his, sending a quiet warmth flooding through his veins.

She held the book tenderly, almost reverently, flipping through its pages with practiced ease. Lucius found himself entranced by the gentle way her eyes softened when she spoke, her voice rich with genuine enthusiasm.

“The story,” she began gently, glancing up at him with a faint smile, “is about second chances. It explores the courage it takes to understand one’s own mistakes—to truly see oneself clearly—and then to be brave enough to admit those mistakes and try again.”

Lucius tilted his head thoughtfully, absorbing her words with careful deliberation. “Something I’m slowly learning,” he admitted quietly, his tone earnest and reflective. He paused, watching the flicker of curiosity dance briefly in her eyes. “I've spent my life building walls and wielding power, believing strength meant never admitting fault. Yet now, I find strength may lie precisely in the opposite—in being vulnerable enough to acknowledge my failings.”

Hermione regarded him thoughtfully, her eyes deepening with cautious intrigue. “That’s a profound realization coming from you, Lucius. If I may be blunt, it surprises me.”

He offered a small, self-deprecating smile. “It surprises me too. Perhaps age or circumstance has finally caught up to me.”

She relaxed slightly, sensing sincerity in his openness. Her fingers traced lightly over the page of the book as she continued softly, “After everything we’ve been through, I think all of us have had to confront parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore. The war forced me to face things I wasn’t ready for—loss, grief, and even my own capacity for anger. Sometimes I barely recognize myself compared to who I was.”

Lucius leaned forward slightly, listening intently. “Yet you have emerged stronger for it.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione conceded, thoughtfully meeting his gaze. “But strength doesn’t erase scars, Lucius. I've lost people I cared deeply about. Friendships strained to the breaking point because of decisions made in impossible moments. It’s difficult to let go of bitterness and regret.”

He nodded slowly, understanding the weight behind her words. “Indeed. Regret is something I am intimately familiar with. Decisions I made long ago—choices driven by pride and ambition—cost me dearly. It’s only now, looking back, that I see clearly what those choices have wrought.”

Hermione’s expression softened further, revealing a genuine compassion that startled him with its depth. “We can't change the past, Lucius, no matter how much we wish we could. But we can shape our futures by learning from it. I suppose that's the essence of second chances.”

Lucius held her gaze steadily, feeling an unexpected surge of hope at her words. “And would you grant me such a second chance, Hermione? Despite everything?”

She hesitated, studying him carefully, as if weighing the sincerity behind his request. Finally, she spoke gently, “I think we’re already sitting within it, Lucius. The mere fact we're having this conversation speaks volumes.”

Lucius smiled softly, feeling gratitude bloom within him—a genuine emotion, untainted by strategy or manipulation. “Then perhaps this is exactly where I need to be.”

Their conversation flowed naturally from there, drifting seamlessly between literature and philosophy, gradually delving deeper into personal experiences. Hermione found herself opening up in a way she rarely had before, sharing quiet anecdotes of rebuilding her life after the war, her bookstore becoming a sanctuary of peace amidst lingering chaos. Lucius listened intently, genuinely captivated by her honesty, intelligence, and the gentle vulnerability she allowed him to see.

As they spoke, the afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over them both, illuminating possibilities neither had dared imagine until now.

Chapter Text

Weeks passed in quiet, meaningful encounters, each moment gently breaking down barriers Hermione had once sworn were impenetrable. Lucius appeared regularly at her shop, always thoughtful in his gestures—sometimes bringing carefully selected blooms such as delicate violets or radiant lilies, chosen not just for their beauty but for the meanings behind them. Violets symbolizing faithfulness, lilies sincerity. Other times he surprised her with beautifully handwritten letters, each word deliberately chosen and steeped in thoughtfulness. He shared reflections about novels she'd recommended, insights into the characters' complexities, and often included lines of poetry or literary quotes that resonated deeply with Hermione's heart.

One evening, as Hermione finished restocking shelves, the shop's gentle chime rang softly, drawing her attention. Looking up, she couldn't suppress a smile when Lucius entered, impeccably dressed as always, a small velvet pouch in his hand.

“Back again, Lucius?” she teased, warmth evident in her voice despite herself. “Anyone might think you have nothing else to occupy your days.”

He offered her a graceful, slightly self-mocking smile, closing the door behind him. “I find myself remarkably free lately,” he responded smoothly, a playful glint in his pale eyes. “Or perhaps, I've simply realized there's nowhere else I'd rather be.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head in amusement as she moved toward the door, flipping the sign to 'closed.' She paused, watching him from beneath her lashes. “And the infamous Lucius Malfoy truly has no ulterior motives?”

Lucius stepped closer, his expression turning earnest, genuine sincerity clear in his features. “None beyond earning your trust—and perhaps your affection.”

Hermione paused, her breath catching as she bit her lip thoughtfully, studying him with cautious tenderness. “Lucius…”

“I know trust must be earned,” he acknowledged quietly, sensing the delicate shift in her posture. He stepped back slightly, giving her space, clearly determined not to pressure her. “I intend to earn yours fully.”

She exhaled slowly, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks. The sincerity in his voice was impossible to deny, and Hermione found herself genuinely moved by the effort he was making. “You've certainly shown remarkable patience,” she admitted softly, allowing herself a small, genuine smile.

Lucius tilted his head slightly, his voice gentle yet assured. “Patience was never my strongest virtue, but for you, Hermione, it seems natural. The anticipation of seeing you has become something I look forward too deeply.”

Her blush deepened, and she glanced downward, her voice softer still. “You surprise me, Lucius. I never imagined you'd be capable of this level of sincerity.”

“Neither did I,” he confessed quietly, stepping closer again, careful but confident. “You've changed me in ways I didn’t think possible. I find myself thinking of you constantly, wondering how you might react to something I've read, seen, or thought.”

Hermione lifted her gaze, searching his eyes. “Truly?”

Lucius gently took her hand, raising it slowly to his lips, pressing a soft, respectful kiss against her knuckles. “I assure you, Hermione, this is unlike anything I've ever done. No games. No ulterior motives. Simply a man attempting to show a woman he cares for her deeply.”

Her heart fluttered, warmth blossoming steadily in her chest. “Well,” she whispered, smiling gently, “then perhaps you might join me for tea upstairs. I'd like the chance to hear more of your thoughts—honestly.”

Lucius smiled broadly, genuine delight clear in his eyes. “It would be my honor.”

As they climbed the stairs together, Hermione felt something within her shift profoundly—a softening, a readiness she'd resisted for too long. Lucius had indeed proven himself patient, sincere, and genuine. Perhaps, she realized with cautious hope, trust—and even affection—was no longer out of reach.

Hermione led Lucius up the narrow staircase toward her apartment, quietly unlocking the door and pushing it open. Lucius paused briefly on the threshold, taking in the space with visible admiration. The apartment was warm and inviting, filled with elegant touches: shelves overflowing with neatly arranged books, plush chairs upholstered in rich fabrics, tasteful art lining the walls, and the faint scent of lavender permeating the air.

“Your home is beautiful,” Lucius commented softly, stepping carefully inside. He turned slowly, noting how everything was neatly organized yet somehow managed to feel effortlessly comfortable. “Posh yet approachable. Just like you, Hermione.”

She smiled shyly, closing the door behind them. “I suppose that's a compliment?”

“It is,” he affirmed gently, moving toward the sitting area and sinking gracefully into a plush armchair. “Your apartment feels exactly as I'd imagined—elegant, refined, but filled with genuine warmth.”

Hermione sat across from him on a small, tasteful sofa, tucking her feet underneath herself. “Thank you. I wanted a place that felt safe, peaceful—somewhere that reflected who I’ve become.”

He nodded thoughtfully, studying her face closely. After a moment, he took a deep breath, visibly gathering his thoughts. “Hermione, there's something I must say clearly. I've spent my life maneuvering through society, seeing relationships as strategic moves in a game I needed to win. It was cold, impersonal, and ultimately hollow.”

He paused, leaning forward, his voice lowering with sincerity. “When I began this pursuit, I approached it wrongly—like another game. I didn’t see you clearly, not at first. I underestimated you, and for that, I owe you a profound apology.”

Hermione's expression softened noticeably, her eyes gentle yet searching as she watched him closely. “Lucius, I—”

“Please, let me finish,” he interjected softly, holding up a hand. “I've never been good at apologies or vulnerability, but with you, it’s different. You've forced me to look inward, to confront my worst impulses and insecurities. The more I’ve come to know you, the more clearly I understand how wrong I was to treat you as something to win rather than someone to cherish.”

Hermione's gaze was tender as she reached forward impulsively, touching his hand lightly. “Lucius, thank you for saying that. It means more than you know. But you aren't the only one who should apologize—I judged you harshly, too. I was quick to assume the worst, to dismiss your sincerity because of who you once were.”

Lucius squeezed her hand gently, offering her a reassuring smile. “You had every right to be cautious. I gave you little reason to trust me. But I promise you—I’m done with games, with cold calculations. With you, I want only honesty and sincerity.”

“I believe you,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible but resolute. Her eyes held his for a lingering moment, communicating trust and acceptance in a way words couldn't fully capture.

Eventually, Lucius rose gracefully, sensing it was the right time to leave. Hermione walked him to the door, their footsteps quiet against the wooden floors. As he stood in the open doorway, Lucius paused, turning to her with warmth radiating from his expression.

“Thank you for tonight, Hermione. For listening. For giving me a chance.”

She smiled softly, her cheeks lightly flushed. “Thank you for being honest, Lucius.”

Gently, Lucius reached out, brushing his fingertips against her cheek before leaning in to press a tender, respectful kiss upon it. His lips lingered for just a moment, soft and warm against her skin, leaving a pleasant shiver in their wake.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he murmured, drawing back slowly. “Until tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Lucius,” she replied softly, watching as he disappeared down the staircase into the night.

Closing the door behind him, Hermione touched her fingertips gently to the place where his lips had pressed, warmth spreading steadily within her chest. For the first time, she allowed herself to embrace the depth of feeling stirring inside her.

Perhaps second chances were truly possible.

One evening, as Hermione carefully locked the bookstore doors and dimmed the lights, a gentle tap on the window startled her. Turning quickly, she recognized the elegant black owl perched patiently outside. A smile curved softly at her lips, and she let the bird in, eagerly taking the parchment tied delicately to its leg.

She unfolded the letter carefully, eyes tracing over the graceful, familiar handwriting illuminated by the soft candlelight. Each word was meticulously crafted, resonating with sincerity:

"In shadows I've walked, in silence I've yearned,
Seeking the truth your heart gently spurned.
Yet your kindness has guided my weary soul,
Toward honesty, toward hope—making me whole."

Warmth flooded her chest, her defenses gently crumbling beneath Lucius's carefully penned words. She bit her lip thoughtfully, her resolve wavering before finally taking parchment and quill, and sending back a simple reply:

Dinner tomorrow?

Lucius’s reply arrived swiftly, precise but full of eager anticipation:

It would be an honor.

The next evening found them in a quiet, discreet restaurant, softly lit with candles and secluded enough that Hermione felt comfortable. Lucius watched her carefully, a gentle smile warming his usually guarded expression.

“I admit,” Hermione said softly, stirring her tea thoughtfully, “I was certain you'd tire of this eventually. All the letters, the flowers, your constant presence at the shop—it felt too good to last.”

Lucius leaned forward slightly, his eyes tender. “On the contrary, Hermione, each moment spent with you only deepens my fascination. Tiring of you seems impossible.”

She met his gaze shyly, eyebrows raised slightly in gentle skepticism. “Impossible? That's a strong word coming from someone so cautious.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, smiling faintly. “Yet, you've made me rethink everything—how I've lived, how I've loved. You've challenged me to look honestly at who I've been, and for that, I find myself deeply grateful.”

Hermione hesitated briefly before impulsively reaching across the table, her fingers gently covering his hand. “Thank you, Lucius. For everything you've done to show me you're sincere.”

Surprise flickered briefly in his eyes before softening into genuine delight. “No, Hermione. It’s I who should thank you. You've shown me kindness when I least deserved it and allowed me the chance to earn your trust.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, Hermione's fingers lingering on his hand, drawing quiet strength from his touch.

After dinner, Lucius walked her slowly home beneath the clear, starry sky. They walked closely, shoulders brushing occasionally as the silence wrapped gently around them.

At her doorstep, Lucius paused, turning to face her fully, his voice steady yet gentle. “When this began, Hermione, I confess it was about proving myself. About winning you over. Yet, somehow, it became far more meaningful than I ever imagined.”

Hermione stepped closer, feeling the warmth radiating from him, her voice barely above a whisper. “It became real.”

Lucius gently took her hand, raising it slowly, his lips softly brushing against her knuckles as he pressed a tender kiss there. “Indeed, it did. And I promise you, Hermione, it will remain so.”

She watched him retreat slowly down the street, her heart beating steadily, warmth blossoming fully within her chest. No longer a game, no longer a strategy—this was genuine, sincere, and entirely hers.

The real pursuit had truly begun, and she was finally ready to let it flourish.

Lucius paced thoughtfully in his study, the rich green carpet muffling the sound of his measured footsteps. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the walls, casting elongated shadows that mirrored his restless mind. His usually calm expression had become tightly drawn in contemplation, silver eyes narrowing occasionally as he considered each possible scenario that lay ahead.

“Pacing doesn't suit you, Father,” came Draco’s dry, amused voice from the doorway. Lucius paused mid-step, turning slowly to face his son with an arched eyebrow. Draco leaned comfortably against the frame, arms crossed casually, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Ah, Draco,” Lucius remarked dryly, straightening his shoulders and regaining some of his usual poise. “I wasn't aware you'd returned home.”

“Clearly,” Draco drawled sarcastically, folding his tall frame gracefully into the large leather armchair opposite Lucius’s polished mahogany desk. He lounged comfortably, an air of amused expectancy about him. “Though perhaps it was your distracted state that made you miss the rather loud floo announcement.”

Lucius sighed quietly, offering his son a mild glare before seating himself carefully behind his desk. He leaned back slowly, steepling his fingers thoughtfully beneath his chin. “Since you're here, perhaps we might speak candidly for a moment.”

Draco raised an eyebrow dramatically, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “Sounds delightfully ominous. What exactly requires this sudden bout of candor?”

Lucius sighed, irritation flickering briefly across his features. “Must everything be an opportunity for sarcasm, Draco?”

“Absolutely,” Draco replied dryly, leaning back further, stretching his legs casually out before him. “Life is dull otherwise. Go on.”

Lucius paused again, gathering his thoughts carefully, and met Draco’s curious gaze. “My pursuit of Hermione Granger—”

“Oh, yes, your ‘pursuit,’” Draco interrupted lightly, eyes glittering with suppressed amusement. “Is that what we’re calling your romantic crisis now? Quite dignified, Father.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes at his son, lips tightening slightly. “I am attempting to have a genuine discussion about your feelings regarding Hermione. Despite your incessant mocking, I do care about how this affects you. I’m aware you've grown close to her.”

Draco leaned back further into the chair, regarding his father thoughtfully. “You’re genuinely concerned my feelings might be hurt? Lucius Malfoy, concerned about something other than reputation and influence? This must be serious indeed.”

Lucius bristled slightly, running a frustrated hand through his silver hair. “Draco, must you persist with this?”

Draco chuckled softly, raising a placating hand. “Alright, alright, I'll behave. Ask your question.”

Lucius cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, suddenly feeling the weight of vulnerability press heavily upon him. “What I need to know is whether my pursuit of Hermione Granger troubles you. Your friendship with her has become important, and I am keenly aware that my actions could damage it.”

Draco leaned forward slightly, his teasing demeanor softening into genuine contemplation. After a moment, he sighed dramatically, shaking his head as though deeply inconvenienced. “Are you seriously asking my permission to date Hermione Granger?”

“Yes, Draco, I suppose I am,” Lucius replied sharply, annoyance mingling with a touch of genuine vulnerability. “Your friendship with her matters, and the last thing I want is to jeopardize that.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, the humor fading slightly into genuine warmth. “You truly do care about her, don’t you?”

“More than I ever thought possible,” Lucius admitted quietly, the sincerity evident in his voice. “But not if it costs me your respect.”

Draco rolled his eyes lightly, but his smirk softened into a genuine smile. “If you're waiting for my blessing, Father, consider it given. Hermione is brilliant, loyal, and surprisingly tolerant of Malfoys. She's good for you—far better than you deserve.”

Lucius exhaled slowly, visibly relaxing at Draco’s approval. “Your honesty, however cutting, is appreciated.”

Draco stood, straightening his robes with an exaggerated flourish. “Of course, if you start expecting me to call her 'mommy,' we might have a serious issue.”

Lucius glared pointedly, though his lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “Draco…”

His son laughed warmly, heading toward the door. Pausing, Draco glanced back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Don't worry, Father. I'll make sure to write to Mother about your newfound romantic side. She'll be thrilled.”

“Out, Draco,” Lucius growled, though a small smile betrayed his amusement.

Draco vanished down the corridor, leaving Lucius shaking his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. Though his son’s sarcasm grated, Lucius felt unexpectedly lighter. Draco’s approval meant far more than he would ever openly admit.

Straightening his robes and regaining his composure, Lucius allowed himself a small, relieved smile. With Draco’s blessing secured, the final barrier had fallen away.

Now there was nothing left standing between himself and the woman who had utterly captivated him—Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

At the bookstore, Hermione stood atop a short wooden ladder, carefully rearranging the newest shipment of Charms textbooks. Her sleeves were rolled up, hair pinned back loosely, and she hummed softly to herself, lost in thought. A sudden cough startled her, and she glanced down, smiling knowingly when she spotted Blaise and Theo leaning casually against her front counter, wearing matching smirks.

“Honestly, you two again?” Hermione teased, shaking her head fondly as she descended the ladder, placing the heavy volume carefully on a nearby shelf. “I’m starting to wonder if either of you actually have a real job.”

“Of course we do,” Theo countered playfully, adjusting his tailored robes with mock indignation. “But keeping an eye on you has become a delightful new pastime.”

“Yes,” Blaise added with his characteristic smoothness, examining his fingernails nonchalantly, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. “And with recent developments, you’re certainly more entertaining than any Ministry business.”

Hermione blushed despite herself, averting her eyes briefly before placing her hands firmly on her hips, feigning exasperation. “If you’re here just to interrogate me about Lucius again, you may as well leave. I've told you both enough already.”

“Hardly an interrogation,” Theo scoffed gently, pushing off the counter and strolling slowly around a display of antique spellbooks. “Think of us as concerned friends with an overdeveloped sense of curiosity.”

Blaise chuckled quietly, nodding in agreement. “Exactly. Friends who simply want to make sure that this new…arrangement is making you genuinely happy. We do feel somewhat responsible, after all.”

Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Responsible? How on earth do you figure that?”

“Oh, come now, Hermione,” Theo teased, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Without our careful interference—and excellent matchmaking skills, I might add—you and Lucius might still be tiptoeing around each other.”

“Your ‘careful interference’ was more meddling than matchmaking,” Hermione retorted playfully, her tone softening as she watched the two men exchange satisfied grins. “Though, admittedly, your meddling wasn't entirely unwelcome.”

“Entirely?” Blaise raised an elegant eyebrow, voice dripping amusement. “You wound me, Hermione.”

She laughed lightly, leaning against the counter and shaking her head, visibly relaxing. “Fine. Perhaps I owe you both some gratitude. But truthfully, I'm surprised you two aren't already tired of this particular drama.”

“On the contrary,” Theo interjected swiftly, taking a mock-serious tone. “It's like a fascinating soap opera, and we're far too invested to lose interest now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes again, though warmth flooded her expression. “And here I thought Slytherins prided themselves on emotional detachment.”

“Usually,” Blaise conceded smoothly, stepping closer and leaning conspiratorially toward her. “But you're something special. You've managed to turn even Lucius Malfoy into a lovesick teenager. How could we possibly resist?”

Theo snickered quietly, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong. I caught Lucius humming yesterday. Humming, Hermione.”

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief, unable to hold back a delighted laugh. “Lucius Malfoy humming? Now I know you’re exaggerating.”

“Swear on Merlin’s grave,” Theo insisted dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “The man is completely smitten.”

Hermione’s blush deepened, and she bit her lower lip, her smile growing softer. “Well…if you must know, I'm happy. Truly happy. Lucius has been nothing but sincere, thoughtful—”

“And positively besotted,” Blaise added, smirking.

“Fine, yes,” Hermione relented with another laugh. “He's been that as well.”

Theo smiled warmly, clearly pleased. “Good. You deserve someone who’s genuinely devoted to you, Hermione. Even if that someone is Lucius Malfoy.”

Blaise nodded in agreement, eyes suddenly sincere. “As long as he continues treating you well, we'll try our best to tolerate his newly acquired lovestruck behavior.”

Hermione gave them both a grateful, affectionate glance. “Your overwhelming approval means so very much.”

“It should,” Theo replied, grinning broadly. “Our approval is notoriously difficult to earn.”

She chuckled softly, feeling genuinely touched by their care beneath the teasing. “In all seriousness, thank you—both of you. I appreciate your concern, even if it comes wrapped in sarcasm.”

Blaise gave a mock salute, his eyes twinkling. “Always here to serve, Granger.”

As they moved toward the door, Theo glanced back over his shoulder, voice suddenly mischievous again. “By the way, Hermione—if Lucius starts writing poetry about your eyes or sending us invitations to moonlit serenades, we’re holding you accountable.”

Hermione threw a crumpled piece of parchment in their direction, laughing as they ducked through the doorway, their laughter echoing warmly behind them.

Left alone once more, she felt a peaceful certainty settle within her. Her friends approved, Lucius had proven himself genuine—and despite the teasing, the warmth she felt was undeniable.

This was exactly where she wanted to be.

Later that afternoon, as Hermione finished shelving a series of freshly arrived history texts, a gentle tap at the bookstore window drew her attention. She glanced up, heart skipping a beat at the sight of a sleek, dignified owl perched patiently outside, its dark feathers gleaming in the fading sunlight. Recognizing it immediately as Lucius's personal owl, she hurried to the window, quickly opening it and allowing the bird to flutter gracefully onto her counter.

The owl extended its leg politely, offering Hermione the rolled parchment sealed elegantly with the Malfoy crest. Her fingers trembled slightly with anticipation as she carefully broke the wax seal, unrolling the letter slowly, savoring the familiar, refined script that had now become dear to her.

"Hermione,
Would you do me the great honor of joining me tomorrow evening at the restaurant where this all began? It seems fitting, after our journey thus far, to return to that place—to start anew, openly and sincerely. I have something important I wish to discuss, something that cannot adequately be conveyed through letters or brief exchanges at your shop. I find myself counting the moments until I see you again.
Yours sincerely,
 Lucius."

Hermione’s heart fluttered wildly, a warmth spreading swiftly through her chest as she reread each careful word, savoring the sincerity and tenderness Lucius had effortlessly woven into every sentence. She smiled softly to herself, imagining his elegant hand guiding the quill across the parchment, a faint, vulnerable expression on his typically guarded features.

Without hesitation, she moved swiftly behind the counter, pulling out a fresh parchment and her favorite quill, her heart racing with excitement and a gentle, joyful nervousness. Her reply flowed easily, a smile lingering softly on her lips:

"Lucius,
I’d love nothing more. Tomorrow evening can't come soon enough.
Yours, Hermione."

She carefully tied the parchment to the waiting owl’s leg, stroking its soft feathers affectionately before sending it back into the sky. Hermione watched until the bird disappeared from view, still smiling softly to herself. The butterflies in her stomach only intensified, excitement blending with anticipation as she realized the significance of his invitation.

Something was shifting between them—something deeper and infinitely more meaningful. Tomorrow would change things, she could sense it, and for the first time, Hermione was fully prepared to welcome it.

The following evening found Hermione seated across from Lucius at the very table in the quiet, dimly lit restaurant that had first sparked their unexpected journey. Warm candlelight flickered softly, illuminating Lucius’s elegant features as he watched her thoughtfully from across the table. His eyes traced her face appreciatively, lingering over her soft curls and the gentle smile she wore.

“I confess,” Lucius began lightly, his voice warm with subtle humor, “I never thought I would be the one sitting across from you at this famous table, prepared to surrender entirely.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, amused. “Surrender? My, Lucius Malfoy, are you admitting defeat so quickly?”

He chuckled softly, his lips curving into a graceful smirk. “Only in matters involving you, my dear. I have finally met my match—though I find myself strangely content with this defeat.”

She laughed gently, shaking her head in playful disbelief. “This truly is a historic moment.”

Lucius smiled slowly, his eyes glittering with genuine amusement. “Make no mistake, Hermione—I surrendered willingly. And rather happily, I might add.”

“I’m honored,” she teased lightly, her eyes twinkling with delight. “It seems I've accomplished what the entire wizarding world deemed impossible.”

Lucius chuckled softly, shaking his head slightly as he reached forward to pour her another glass of wine, his voice deep and rich with genuine sincerity. “When this began, Hermione, I believed it to be a challenge. A game. An intellectual pursuit. I was quite convinced of my superiority.”

“And now?” she asked gently, leaning forward slightly.

He exhaled, eyes holding hers steadily. “Now, I realize how utterly foolish I was. You've surpassed every expectation, shattered every assumption, and left me thoroughly humbled in the most delightful way possible.”

She smiled warmly, reaching over to rest her hand atop his, squeezing gently. “I never imagined I'd hear such honest self-reflection from you.”

Lucius raised her hand slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles, his voice dropping lower, sincere yet teasing. “Nor did I. But here we are, Hermione. Apparently, even a Malfoy can learn humility in the right circumstances.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head again. “You truly are full of surprises tonight, Lucius.”

“Only the best kind, I hope,” he replied smoothly, offering a charming smirk that brought warmth rushing to her cheeks. His gaze softened into seriousness once more. “Hermione, my intentions now go beyond merely courting you quietly. I wish to pursue you openly, publicly. Properly. I find myself deeply, irrevocably, fascinated with you. I want the world to know it.”

Hermione’s breath caught at the depth of sincerity in his voice. She felt warmth blossom fully in her chest as she met his gaze, earnest and unwavering. “Lucius…I never expected such words from you. But I welcome them.”

Lucius gently took her hand in his, brushing a tender thumb across her knuckles. “Then permit me the honor of courting you formally, publicly. Allow me to show the world exactly how fortunate I am.”

“Yes,” she whispered warmly, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “Yes, Lucius. I would like that very much.”

He visibly relaxed, relief mingling with joy in his features. “You have no idea how happy that makes me, Hermione.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she replied with soft laughter, squeezing his hand gently. “The feeling is quite mutual.”

Lucius leaned back slightly, eyes sparkling with quiet satisfaction. “Checkmate, indeed.”

The night air was cool and soothing as Lucius walked Hermione back to her apartment, their conversation shifting between comfortable silences and gentle banter about the evening they had just shared. The cobblestones beneath their feet echoed softly as their pace slowed, each reluctant to reach the moment they'd inevitably say goodnight.

When they finally arrived at her doorstep, Lucius turned to face her, admiring how the moonlight highlighted the softness of her curls and the warm blush in her cheeks. His chest tightened slightly, an unfamiliar but welcome sensation. Hermione paused at the door, fiddling briefly with her keys, before turning slowly to face him, a soft smile gracing her lips.

“Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” she offered quietly, her voice gently inviting, eyes filled with quiet anticipation.

Lucius hesitated, his eyes briefly betraying a vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see. "Are you certain that's wise, Hermione? I meant what I said earlier—I would hate to push you beyond what you're ready for."

Hermione stepped closer, warmth radiating from her as she tilted her head gently, meeting his cautious gaze with steady determination. “Lucius, you've spent weeks convincing me of your sincerity. Believe me when I say—I'm quite certain.”

He searched her eyes carefully, his voice softer, filled with a raw honesty that surprised even him. “I would never wish to jeopardize what we've built. I've rushed things before, made mistakes—”

“Lucius,” Hermione interrupted gently, her voice steady and reassuring as she reached out to lightly rest her hand against his chest. “I'm not afraid. This—us—it's real. It's honest. I trust you completely.”

Lucius exhaled slowly, feeling the last of his resistance dissolving under the warmth of her earnest expression. His lips curved into a soft smile, rich with affection and longing. “Then I could never deny you.”

She smiled warmly, turning toward the door and unlocking it with steady fingers, leading him up the stairs into the soft, comforting familiarity of her home. The apartment was bathed in moonlight, casting silvery patterns over the furniture and walls, creating an atmosphere both intimate and inviting.

Hermione moved gracefully toward a small cabinet, retrieving two crystal glasses and a fine bottle of red wine. Pouring carefully, she handed him a glass with an inviting smile. "I trust you're familiar with this vintage?"

Lucius’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he took the glass from her fingers, allowing them to linger briefly against hers. "Indeed, excellent choice—although I must admit, your company has vastly improved my taste."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “And there's the Malfoy charm I've come to expect.”

He chuckled lightly, swirling the wine gently in his glass. “Only the best for you, Hermione.”

They stood close, sipping quietly, eyes meeting often in the gentle silence. The tension between them grew warmer, the air charged with something deeper than mere anticipation. Finally, Lucius broke the silence, his voice thick with longing yet restrained by respect.

“Hermione, if we continue down this path tonight, I fear restraint may no longer be possible. I want you more deeply than I can adequately convey, but the last thing I want is to rush—”

Hermione set her wine glass down deliberately, stepping closer with gentle certainty. She reached out, resting her hand softly against his chest, feeling his heart quicken beneath her fingertips.

“Lucius, perhaps restraint is exactly what we no longer need,” she whispered confidently, her gaze locked firmly with his. “We’ve spent so long dancing around this, and I'm ready—ready for us.”

Lucius’s breath caught sharply, eyes darkening with desire and gratitude. He placed his own glass aside, cupping her face gently, thumb tenderly tracing her cheekbone. "Are you certain, Hermione? Truly certain?"

She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut momentarily, savoring the warmth of his skin against hers. "Yes, Lucius. Completely certain."

At her quiet reassurance, Lucius finally allowed himself to fully embrace the depth of his feelings. He moved closer, leaning down to capture her lips in a slow, tender kiss, tasting the sweetness of wine and her soft sighs. Hermione responded eagerly, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling gently in his silver-blond hair.

Breaking the kiss softly, Lucius rested his forehead against hers, voice warm with restrained passion. "You must tell me if I go too quickly, Hermione."

She smiled up at him, eyes shining affectionately. "Lucius, for once—stop thinking. Just feel."

He chuckled softly against her lips, eyes dancing warmly with playful charm. "Who am I to deny a lady’s wishes?”

As Lucius's words whispered against her lips, Hermione's smile deepened, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. His eyes, warm and inviting, seemed to hold a promise of pleasure and passion. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, and he responded by deepening the kiss. Their tongues danced together, slow and sensual, as Lucius's hands began to explore her body.

He traced the curve of her neck, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin, and Hermione felt a moan build in her throat. His touch was like fire, igniting a passion within her that she couldn't contain. Lucius pulled back, his eyes locked on hers, and whispered, "You are so beautiful, Hermione. So intelligent, so fierce, and so captivating." His words sent shivers down her spine, and she felt her heart swell with emotion.

He guided her to the bed, his hands gentle but insistent, and Hermione felt herself melting into his touch. As they lay down together, Lucius's lips trailed down her neck, his whispers growing softer, more intimate. "I want to feel you, Hermione. I want to taste you, to touch you, to make you mine." His breath danced across her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

Hermione's hands threaded through Lucius's hair, pulling him closer as his lips explored her body. He kissed her shoulders, her breasts, his tongue tracing the curve of her nipple. She arched her back, her body responding to his touch, as he whispered, "You are so responsive, so alive. I love the way you react to my touch."

As his lips closed around her nipple, Hermione felt a jolt of pleasure run through her. She moaned, her voice barely audible, as Lucius's tongue danced across her skin. He sucked, his lips gentle but insistent, and Hermione felt herself melting into his touch. His hands explored her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips.

Lucius's fingers brushed against her thighs, and Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine. He whispered, "Open your legs, Hermione. Let me touch you, let me taste you." His words sent a flush through her body, and she felt herself responding to his touch. She parted her legs, and Lucius's fingers brushed against her core.

He whispered, "You are so wet, so ready. I love the way your body responds to me." His fingers danced across her skin, tracing the curve of her, the swell of her clit. Hermione felt a moan build in her throat as Lucius's touch grew more insistent, more demanding. He whispered, "I want to taste you, Hermione. I want to feel your come on my tongue."

As he spoke, Lucius's lips trailed down her body, his tongue dancing across her skin. He kissed her thighs, his tongue tracing the curve of her folds. Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine as his tongue brushed against her clit. She moaned, her voice barely audible, as Lucius's tongue danced across her skin.

He explored her, gentle but insistent, and Hermione felt herself melting into his touch. His lips closed around her clit, and he sucked, his tongue dancing across her skin. Hermione felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, and she moaned, her voice growing louder. Lucius's touch was like fire, igniting a passion within her that she couldn't contain.

Hermione's hands threaded through Lucius's hair, pulling him closer as his tongue danced across her skin. She whispered, "Lucius, please...I need you inside me." Her voice was barely audible, but he seemed to understand, his touch growing more insistent, more demanding.

He whispered, "Not yet, Hermione. I need to feel you come on my tongue." And as he spoke, he licked her, his tongue gentle but insistent. Hermione felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, and she moaned, her voice growing louder.

As he continued his exploration of her, Hermione felt herself building towards a climax. Her body was tense, her muscles coiled, and she knew that she was on the edge of something amazing. Lucius's tongue danced across her skin, his lips closed around her clit, and she felt a wave of pleasure wash over her. She whispered, "Lucius, I love you..." Her voice was barely audible, but he seemed to understand, his touch growing more gentle, more intimate.

As she came down from her climax, Lucius's lips trailed up her body, his tongue dancing across her skin. He kissed her, his lips gentle but insistent, and Hermione felt herself melting into his touch. She whispered, "I love you, Lucius. I love the way you touch me, the way you make me feel."

Lucius's eyes locked on hers, and he whispered, "I love you, Hermione. I love your strength, your intelligence, your beauty." And as he spoke, he slid inside her, his movements slow, gentle, and deliberate. Hermione felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, and she moaned, her voice growing louder.

As they moved together, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, Hermione felt a sense of completion, of fulfillment. She was home, she was exactly where she was meant to be. And as Lucius's lips closed around hers, she knew that she would never let him go, that she would never let this moment slip away.

Their bodies moved together, their rhythm slow and sensual. Lucius's touch was like fire, igniting a passion within her that she couldn't contain. Hermione felt herself building towards another climax, her body tense, her muscles coiled. She whispered, "Lucius, I'm going to come again..."

And as she spoke, Lucius's movements grew more insistent, more demanding. He whispered, "Come for me, Hermione. Come for me, my love." His words sent shivers down her spine, and she felt a wave of pleasure wash over her. She came, her body shuddering, her muscles releasing.

As they lay together, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, Hermione felt a sense of completion, of fulfillment. She was home, she was exactly where she was meant to be. And as Lucius's lips closed around hers, she knew that she would never let him go, that she would never let this moment slip away.

And for the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy realized something remarkable—something beautiful:

She had won.

Chapter Text

Lucius stirred awake slowly, blinking against the soft sunlight streaming gently through Hermione’s bedroom curtains. A faint smile curved his lips as memories from the previous night returned—each detail vivid, each sensation etched deeply into his mind. Turning his head, he felt warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of Hermione curled beside him, her curls spread wildly across her pillow, breathing softly, completely at peace.

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle, brushing her hair gently from her cheek. Hermione stirred at the gentle touch, her eyes fluttering open sleepily, lips curving instantly into a sleepy smile.

“Good morning,” she murmured, stretching lazily beneath the covers.

“Good morning,” Lucius replied softly, voice deep and filled with warmth. “Sleep well?”

“Better than well,” she laughed softly, eyes sparkling mischievously as she stretched. “Though I think we thoroughly ruined these sheets.”

Lucius smirked slightly, arching an amused eyebrow. “A small price to pay.”

She giggled, shaking her head gently, then reached out to touch his face tenderly. “Last night was…unexpectedly wonderful. I never thought I’d wake up with Lucius Malfoy in my bed.”

“And I never imagined I’d wake in yours,” Lucius admitted softly, eyes gentle and sincere. “But here we are.”

She leaned closer, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “And I'm glad we are.”

After a few lazy moments, Lucius rose, stretching comfortably before grabbing a robe from Hermione’s chair, wrapping it around himself as he glanced toward the small kitchen. “Hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” Hermione replied cheerfully, watching him with amusement. “Are you offering to make breakfast?”

Lucius gave a slight smirk, striding confidently into her kitchen and beginning to rifle through cupboards with surprising familiarity. Hermione lingered in bed a moment longer, reveling in the unexpected domestic bliss before slipping on her own robe and padding barefoot into the kitchen doorway.

Her eyes widened in surprise, laughter bubbling from her lips at the sight of Lucius Malfoy—robes rolled up neatly to his elbows, a tea towel tossed casually over one shoulder, carefully cracking eggs into a sizzling pan.

“Cooking the Muggle way, Lucius?” she teased, leaning against the doorway with amused curiosity.

He flashed her a charming grin, one she’d come to adore. “I thought you'd appreciate the gesture. Besides, my wand skills in the kitchen leave much to be desired—at least with cooking. I figured you’d rather your flat remained intact.”

She laughed warmly, stepping closer to peek over his shoulder, inhaling appreciatively. “And here I thought you didn't even know what a frying pan was.”

Lucius glanced at her, feigning offense. “I may have grown up spoiled, but I’m hardly incapable.”

“Clearly,” Hermione agreed, eyes twinkling as she watched him expertly flip an omelette. “I might just get used to this.”

They fell easily into comfortable conversation, sharing soft banter and quiet smiles as the scent of breakfast filled the apartment.

But the tranquility shattered abruptly with the unexpected sound of her apartment door swinging open, followed by unmistakably familiar voices drifting in loudly from the living room.

“Granger! We brought coffee and pastries!” Draco’s voice echoed cheerfully through the flat, immediately followed by Blaise and Theo’s laughter.

Hermione froze, eyes wide. Lucius paused, turning slowly toward the entrance to the kitchen, eyebrows lifted in stunned amusement. The three younger men halted in the doorway, eyes comically wide at the sight before them: Lucius Malfoy standing barefoot and tousled in Hermione’s kitchen, Hermione herself blushing furiously beside him, clearly wrapped in only a robe.

“Oh Merlin,” Draco groaned dramatically, covering his eyes in mock horror. “Father, Hermione—honestly?”

Theo laughed loudly, clapping Draco sympathetically on the shoulder. “Relax, mate. They’re consenting adults.”

Blaise’s grin widened wickedly as he leaned forward, setting the pastries on the counter. “Well, this certainly escalated nicely. Good morning, Lucius. I see you’ve made yourself quite at home.”

Lucius shot Hermione a pointed look, humor dancing in his eyes. “Tell me, Hermione, do you make it a habit to have your exes over for breakfast?”

Hermione flushed brightly, glaring playfully at Blaise. “No, not real exes, at least.”

Lucius’s eyebrows rose sharply. “And precisely what does that mean?”

She sighed, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Blaise and I had one very brief…encounter once upon a time. Hardly enough to be considered a proper ex. We’re friends who used to flirt occasionally, nothing more.”

Lucius’s expression darkened slightly, turning slowly to Blaise, who raised both hands in amused defense. “Completely harmless, Lucius, I assure you. Hermione’s always had excellent taste. Present company included, of course.”

Draco groaned dramatically again, rubbing his temples. “Can we please avoid the details? This is traumatic enough without imagining any more complications.”

Lucius glanced pointedly at Hermione, eyes dancing with barely suppressed amusement. “Then tell me dear, do you make a habit of welcoming your ‘brief encounters’ for breakfast regularly?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head at his teasing, eyes affectionate and warm. “I promise, Lucius. This is an unfortunate first.”

Blaise snickered, reaching eagerly for a pastry. “No offense taken, Lucius, but I’d have expected you to have made a more dramatic exit by now.”

Lucius fixed him with a perfectly cool Malfoy glare, though amusement still lingered beneath the surface. “Your expectations aside, Blaise, I've grown rather attached to Hermione’s company. Perhaps you might consider announcing yourselves before bursting into her flat next time.”

“Noted,” Blaise replied smoothly, eyes glinting mischievously. “Though I must say, this impromptu breakfast seems worth the social awkwardness.”

Draco groaned loudly again, grabbing his coffee and shaking his head dramatically. “I’m still not calling her ‘Mother,’ Father. Consider this my final warning.”

Lucius chuckled, turning his gaze warmly toward Hermione, whose laughter had softened into quiet amusement. Their eyes met, full of affection and shared understanding.

Despite the unexpected interruption, Lucius felt entirely at ease—perhaps more comfortable than ever. Because this was genuine, sincere, and real.

He reached out gently, brushing his fingertips lightly against Hermione’s hand. “Tea, everyone? I’ll even pour it the Muggle way.”

Draco groaned once more dramatically, burying his face in his hands as Hermione laughed, feeling utterly happy, entirely whole, and finally, truly loved.

In the weeks following that unexpected yet unforgettable morning, Lucius Malfoy made it abundantly clear to Hermione—and to the world—that he intended to pursue her openly and wholeheartedly. Gone were the subtle strategies and veiled manipulations that once defined his every move; instead, he embraced sincerity, charm, and vulnerability, as natural to him now as breathing.

At first, Hermione approached this new openness with careful caution. Yet each day spent with Lucius chipped away steadily at her remaining defenses, and it became increasingly difficult to deny the warmth blooming steadily in her chest whenever he was near.

Their romance became the talk of wizarding society after a photograph appeared in the Daily Prophet—captured discreetly by some particularly eager reporter. Hermione had blushed furiously when she saw herself and Lucius pictured in front of her bookstore, caught mid-laugh, Lucius pressing a tender kiss to her cheek. The headline read dramatically:

"Malfoy’s Mystery Match: Lucius Malfoy Seen Courting War Heroine Hermione Granger!"

“Good heavens,” she muttered, staring at the article as Lucius stood beside her, smirking softly.

“Would you prefer ‘notorious Death Eater captures heart of beloved heroine’?” he teased gently, his voice warm with gentle amusement. “Honestly, this headline is rather flattering, considering.”

She laughed softly despite herself, nudging him playfully. “I'm sure your reputation will survive the scandal.”

“My reputation could hardly suffer more than it already has,” he chuckled softly, drawing her close, placing a reassuring kiss atop her head. “And truthfully, my dear, it matters little. I'm happy to have the entire wizarding world know where my affections lie.”

Hermione smiled softly, her cheeks flushed as she leaned into him, allowing the warmth of his presence to comfort her. “You’ve truly surprised me, Lucius.”

He tilted her chin gently upward, meeting her gaze steadily. “Good. I find I enjoy surprising you.”

They continued their dates openly—dining publicly at elegant restaurants, strolling leisurely through Diagon Alley, and attending galas and charity events together as a couple. The whispers and stares slowly faded into the background, becoming irrelevant in the face of their growing affection.

One crisp autumn evening, after a particularly lovely gala, Lucius walked Hermione back to the bookshop. The streets were nearly empty, stars glittering brightly above them. He paused outside the bookstore’s familiar entrance, gently taking her hand.

“Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” Lucius murmured warmly, brushing a thumb tenderly across her knuckles. “I confess these events are significantly more bearable with you at my side.”

She laughed softly, squeezing his hand lightly. “I never imagined you'd enjoy social functions quite this much.”

“Only with the right company,” he replied smoothly, stepping closer, voice low and intimate. “With you, Hermione, everything feels more meaningful.”

Her breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his eyes, heart racing gently as she reached up impulsively, cupping his cheek tenderly. “You really have changed, haven't you?”

He smiled faintly, pressing into her touch. “I have. Because of you. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She smiled softly, eyes glistening with quiet affection. Unable to resist any longer, Lucius gently tilted her chin upward, pressing his lips softly yet passionately against hers, entirely unconcerned with who might witness the tender exchange. Hermione melted into his embrace, letting herself savor the warmth of his kiss, admitting to herself that she was undeniably, irrevocably falling hard for this man.

Pulling back gently, Lucius rested his forehead lightly against hers, breathing deeply. “Goodnight, Hermione,” he whispered softly.

“Goodnight, Lucius,” she murmured quietly, eyes sparkling warmly as she stepped slowly inside her shop, turning to give him one last lingering glance before closing the door.

Later that week, Lucius invited Draco to dinner at the Manor, a gesture that Draco accepted with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement.

The grand dining room felt unusually warm that evening, candles flickering softly against the polished surfaces, casting gentle light over the lavish meal before them. Lucius was quieter than usual, though his silence wasn't uncomfortable—merely thoughtful.

Draco set his fork down, leaning back in his chair as he studied his father, a faint smirk forming on his lips.

“Something on your mind, Father?” Draco asked lightly, sipping his wine with a knowing expression.

Lucius glanced up from his plate, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise. “Is my silence so noticeable?”

“Quite,” Draco replied dryly, his lips twitching in amusement. “Let me guess—Hermione?”

Lucius exhaled quietly, offering his son a rare, genuine smile. “Is it that obvious?”

Draco chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Painfully so. But for what it's worth, I approve. Hermione brings out a rather admirable side of you—one I hadn’t realized existed.”

Lucius’s eyes softened as he regarded Draco carefully. “She has changed me, Draco. More deeply than I thought possible.”

“I know,” Draco replied quietly, sincerity replacing his earlier sarcasm. “I’ve seen it firsthand. You’re happier, more at ease, more...human.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “High praise, indeed.”

Draco smirked again, eyes glinting warmly. “Don’t let it go to your head. But yes, I’m glad for you. Hermione deserves someone who truly appreciates her—someone willing to change. And you deserve a chance at happiness.”

Lucius paused, deeply touched by his son's words. “Your support means a great deal, Draco.”

“Just promise me one thing,” Draco said, smirking wickedly once more. “No lavish wedding speeches declaring Hermione your greatest conquest. I don't think my stomach could handle it.”

Lucius chuckled lightly, raising his glass in agreement. “I assure you, Draco, my taste has significantly improved.”

“Clearly,” Draco said with exaggerated relief, clinking glasses gently with his father. “Here’s to tasteful decisions.”

Lucius smiled warmly, raising his glass higher. “And to second chances.”

Draco nodded, eyes warm and sincere. “Indeed, Father. To second chances.”

Chapter Text

Hermione hummed softly as she finished fastening her earrings, glancing at her reflection in the mirror one final time. Her curls were arranged neatly around her shoulders, and she wore a deep emerald dress she knew Lucius particularly favored. It had been weeks since their relationship had become public, weeks since she’d truly embraced her feelings for him—and every moment felt right. Tonight was supposed to be another step forward, another beautiful evening shared together.

The gentle tapping at the window startled her slightly. Recognizing the Malfoy family owl, she hurried across the room, opening the window and retrieving the message tied to its leg. Her heart sank slightly when she saw Lucius’s familiar handwriting, a heavy feeling settling in her chest.

"Dearest Hermione,
I regret to inform you that an unavoidable matter has arisen at the Ministry which requires my immediate attention. Please accept my sincere apologies. I was greatly looking forward to tonight and promise to make it up to you soon.
Forever yours, Lucius."

Hermione sighed, slightly disappointed but understanding. She quickly scribbled her reply, reassuring Lucius she understood, before gently stroking the owl’s feathers and sending it back into the evening sky.

She had just settled onto her sofa with a glass of wine and a novel when another knock, this one louder and distinctly less delicate, echoed from her front door. Before she could rise, Draco’s voice sounded impatiently from outside, muffled yet unmistakably annoyed.

“Granger, open up! Blaise brought wine, and Theo has cake. You don’t get to sulk alone.”

Laughing softly, she opened the door, eyes widening at the trio of Draco, Blaise, and Theo—each with smirks and amusement clear on their faces.

“Word travels fast,” she teased, stepping aside and letting them in. “How did you even know?”

“Father sent a dramatic letter about cancelling,” Draco answered with exaggerated despair, handing her an expensive bottle of wine. “Thought you might appreciate some company.”

“Indeed,” Theo grinned, sprawling dramatically onto her sofa. “And besides, we’ve become rather fond of seeing you suffer through our company.”

“Always so generous,” Hermione laughed, taking the pastries from Blaise, who winked playfully.

Just as they were settling into comfortable conversation, another knock sounded. Hermione opened the door again, raising an amused eyebrow as Pansy swept gracefully into the room, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Oh, come on,” Hermione teased. “You too?”

“You didn’t think you could have a gossip session about Lucius Malfoy without me, did you?” Pansy retorted brightly, removing her gloves and gracefully accepting a glass of wine from Blaise.

Soon, laughter and playful banter filled the room, Hermione’s disappointment swiftly forgotten among her friends’ cheerful teasing and friendly interrogation.

“So,” Pansy began slyly, swirling her glass of wine, eyes fixed mischievously on Hermione, “how exactly is the infamous Lucius Malfoy in bed?”

Hermione sputtered, blushing fiercely as Draco threw his hands dramatically into the air. “Merlin’s sake, Pansy! I absolutely do NOT want to hear details about my father's bedroom habits!”

“Seconded,” Theo laughed, visibly cringing in mock horror. “There are some details we should never hear.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, utterly unapologetic. “Oh, relax, Draco. You're just jealous because he's clearly more popular these days than you.”

Draco scowled, feigning insult. “I'm ignoring you. I refuse to listen.”

Theo laughed loudly, nudging Blaise. “I think the more interesting question would be whether Blaise or Lucius was better. Since we're being indiscreet tonight.”

Blaise straightened instantly, dramatically smoothing his robes and giving Hermione a charming, expectant look. “Well, Granger? Let's settle this once and for all—care to weigh in?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, biting her lip, pointedly avoiding Blaise's playful gaze. “You know I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”

Blaise gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as though wounded. “You can't even look me in the eyes! I'm devastated.”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head affectionately. “I assure you, your ego will survive.”

Blaise slumped theatrically into the cushions, sighing dramatically. “Clearly, I never stood a chance. Apparently, age and experience trump youthful enthusiasm.”

Draco groaned loudly, pressing his fingers to his temples in exaggerated despair. “This conversation is traumatizing. I need something stronger than wine immediately.”

Pansy smirked wickedly, eyes gleaming. “Oh, Draco, relax. At least she’s not dating Snape.”

Hermione snorted, nearly choking on her drink, her laughter ringing warmly through the apartment. “Now that would be newsworthy.”

Theo chuckled, shaking his head. “I think Lucius might actually duel Snape over that scenario.”

“Oh, I’d pay good money to see that,” Draco muttered dryly, still pretending irritation but clearly amused by the turn of events. “Can we please steer the conversation away from my father’s love life? It’s giving me nightmares already.”

The conversation eventually shifted into lighter, safer territory—school memories, Ministry gossip, even friendly teasing about Hermione’s bookshelves and literary obsessions. Despite Lucius’s absence, the evening turned warm and comfortable, and Hermione found herself grateful for her friends and their care, however mischievously they expressed it.

When the group finally left, after hours of laughter and teasing, Hermione felt her heart grow lighter. She knew Lucius genuinely regretted missing their date, but the bond they’d built had grown strong enough to weather a missed dinner or two.

Still smiling softly to herself, she headed to her bedroom, pausing only when the gentle fluttering of wings sounded once more at her window. Another owl—this one carrying a small package. She opened it curiously, revealing a delicate necklace with a silver charm shaped like a book. The attached note made her heart flutter warmly.

"I regret deeply missing our evening, my darling. Perhaps you’ll allow me to make it up to you tomorrow. Until then, wear this close to your heart, as you remain always close to mine.

Yours, Lucius."

Hermione clasped the necklace gently around her throat, smiling softly. Despite caution, despite the teasing of her friends, and despite the lingering whispers of her own uncertainty, she knew one truth remained undeniable:

She was deeply, joyfully, in love with Lucius Malfoy.

__ 

Across town, at an exclusive private lounge in the heart of Wizarding London, Lucius sat back in his chair, swirling a glass of rich amber brandy as he listened with polite disinterest to the Ministry investors and officials around him.

The room was thick with cigar smoke, male bravado, and the exaggerated laughter of men who felt the need to boast openly about their latest conquests. Lucius, accustomed to such gatherings in his past life, found himself increasingly uncomfortable, his mind wandering repeatedly back to Hermione and the canceled dinner.

“So, Malfoy,” said Gerald Rowland, a younger Ministry official known for his arrogant charm and womanizing ways, leaning toward him with a smirk. “We've all shared. Surely you have some stories about your little Gryffindor conquest. She’s certainly captured your attention publicly. Must be something special.”

Lucius's gaze sharpened slightly, irritation flickering briefly behind his controlled expression. He leaned forward slightly, voice calm yet firm. “Hermione is indeed special. She's intelligent, strong, and entirely unlike anyone else I've encountered. She deserves far better than idle gossip at a gentlemen’s club.”

“Come on, Lucius,” laughed another official, James Bertram, waving dismissively. “You can drop the act with us. Granger’s famous, yes, but she’s still just a woman. I've heard whispers—tell me, is she really as fiery as everyone says?”

Lucius felt a brief flash of temper flare beneath his composure, his jaw tightening subtly. “Gentlemen, I'd caution you against speaking lightly about someone I hold in high regard.”

“Oh please,” Rowland chuckled arrogantly, leaning back and puffing on his cigar. “Don’t pretend you’re above it. We all know how it goes. You’re Lucius Malfoy—you could have her whenever you like. Women like that always come crawling back, eager for attention.”

Lucius's expression darkened, irritation seeping into his carefully composed demeanor. In a moment of prideful frustration, he snapped sharply, “Make no mistake—Hermione Granger was indeed a prize worth winning, and I assure you, gentlemen, I won. Some victories are worth being proud of.”

The words hung heavily in the air, their harshness echoing uncomfortably in Lucius’s ears almost immediately after they'd left his lips. The table erupted into approving laughter, the men raising their glasses to toast what they saw as Lucius’s impressive conquest.

“Exactly my point,” Rowland crowed triumphantly, his grin widening. “Even Malfoy admits it. Hermione Granger—a prize indeed.”

The other men nodded and murmured agreement, clearly impressed by Lucius’s apparent triumph. For a moment, Lucius allowed himself to bask briefly in the glow of their admiration, his old pride slipping through before the weight of his careless words fully settled upon him.

His smile faded slowly, a cold realization gripping him. He had meant to sound confident, perhaps impressive to these shallow men, yet now the harshness of his own words echoed back to him, empty and unsettling. Hermione was no prize—she was his equal, his partner. In trying to maintain his pride, he had betrayed the very sincerity he promised her.

Lucius quickly rose, excusing himself abruptly, heart sinking heavily. He had been foolish, reckless in his arrogance, and he knew without question that if Hermione ever heard his careless remark, it would wound her deeply. He needed to rectify this immediately—before it was too late.

Lucius paced restlessly in front of the grand fireplace in his study, the flames crackling impatiently as if mirroring his own agitation. The bitter taste of regret lingered stubbornly, each memory of his careless words twisting painfully in his chest. He couldn’t rid himself of Rowland’s triumphant smirk, the echoing laughter of those arrogant men—and worse, the sickening realization of how deeply he might have wounded Hermione’s trust.

Without further hesitation, he took a pinch of Floo powder and tossed it sharply into the fire, stepping urgently into the green flames.

“Hermione’s flat,” he spoke firmly, heart pounding with anxiety.

A brief flash of light—and he was thrown roughly back into his study. The Floo was sealed shut.

Lucius cursed softly under his breath, running his hand roughly through his hair in frustration. He’d forgotten Hermione always locked her Floo when alone—an instinctive precaution, something she’d done religiously since the war.

He turned toward his desk, eyes landing on a small, empty velvet box—the necklace he’d chosen for her had already been sent off hours earlier. He groaned in frustration, understanding exactly how it would appear now: a hollow, guilt-laden gesture, not the sincere apology he so desperately wanted to deliver himself.

"Damn it," Lucius whispered harshly, clenching his fists. His earlier arrogance, his careless words—they now felt like a weight pressing heavily upon his shoulders. The damage he'd done, unintentionally yet undeniably, gnawed sharply at him.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he considered writing a letter, an explanation—a sincere attempt to clarify the careless words he had spoken. Yet even as he picked up the quill, he paused. Words on parchment seemed insufficient now; Hermione deserved more than a hastily written explanation. She deserved to hear it from him directly, to see the truth reflected in his eyes.

The Floo had never rejected him before, and the sudden barrier made him realize just how deeply vulnerable Hermione still felt alone in her home. His heart sank further. He’d have to wait until morning—another agonizing delay that filled him with dread.

Resigned and frustrated, Lucius sank back into his armchair, staring blankly into the dying embers. Tomorrow couldn't arrive fast enough.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered softly through Hermione’s bedroom window, gently stirring her awake. A small, happy smile spread across her lips as she stretched languidly beneath the covers, the memories of recent days with Lucius warming her heart. Despite the missed dinner last night, she felt secure in their newfound closeness. She had no doubt he’d make it up to her—he always did.

Rising slowly, Hermione wrapped herself in her robe, padding softly into the kitchen to make tea. She hummed quietly, still feeling lighthearted from the previous night's impromptu gathering with Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy.

Just as she finished preparing her tea, a sharp tapping sounded at the window. Recognizing the Daily Prophet’s owl, Hermione hurriedly opened the window, placing a few knuts in the bird’s pouch and retrieving the rolled-up paper with mild curiosity.

She unfolded it casually, her spirits still buoyed from the evening she’d spent with her friends. The smile on her lips vanished instantly, replaced by a wave of shock and disbelief as her eyes locked onto the bold, harsh headline glaring from the parchment:

"Lucius Malfoy’s True Feelings Revealed: Hermione Granger—Just Another Prize?"

Hermione felt suddenly nauseous, her fingers gripping the parchment so tightly it crumpled beneath her touch. A chill settled deep into her bones, her breathing quickening as dread coiled tightly in her chest. Below the damning headline was a moving photograph, clear and undeniable. Lucius sat among a small circle of powerful men, his elegant features lit with a confident, almost arrogant smirk. He held a glass of brandy loosely in one hand, clearly amused by something being said, and then nodded along, leaning back as if to savor the next moment of his triumph.

Her stomach churned painfully, and Hermione forced herself to read the damning article:

"Late yesterday evening, Lucius Malfoy was overheard at a private gathering with several prominent Ministry officials, discussing his recent courtship of the war heroine, Hermione Granger. Sources confirm that when questioned by Gerald Rowland, head of International Magical Cooperation, Malfoy confidently declared Granger as 'the ultimate conquest.'

Malfoy was reported as saying, smirking proudly, “Make no mistake—Hermione Granger was indeed a prize worth winning, and I assure you, gentlemen, I won. Some victories are worth being proud of.”

Witnesses report widespread laughter and applause, with Ministry official Gerald Rowland confirming, 'Lucius made it clear he believes Granger is someone who can easily be swayed into his arms whenever he wishes.'

"Is this the real face of Lucius Malfoy?" the article concluded sharply, leaving readers with a pointed question. "Has Hermione Granger once again been fooled by the charming façade of a man accustomed to using others to bolster his image?"

Hermione felt suddenly nauseous, her fingers gripping the parchment so tightly it crumpled beneath her shaking touch. Her vision blurred as the words began to swim before her eyes, and she gasped for breath, her heartbeat echoing painfully in her ears. Each line felt like another blow, another betrayal delivered mercilessly, until her chest ached with the intensity of her hurt.

“He wouldn’t,” she whispered desperately, shaking her head fiercely even as the proof stared cruelly back at her. “Lucius…no…”

But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the photograph. His easy confidence, the calculated elegance of his posture, the proud smirk she’d once found charming, now mocked her, whispering painful truths she wished never to believe.

She crumpled the parchment in trembling fingers, tossing it onto the table as though it burned her skin. Her breathing quickened, panic tightening her chest, but beneath that ache burned a fierce, wounded anger. She felt betrayed—not simply by Lucius’s words, but by her own heart’s foolish willingness to trust again. How could she have been so naive, believing Lucius Malfoy could genuinely change?

Her head spun, memories colliding harshly, each one now painfully twisted, coated with suspicion. All those tender moments they’d shared—the quiet evenings curled up together, the gentle kisses he’d pressed to her forehead, the way his eyes softened whenever she entered a room—were they nothing more than masterful manipulations to lure her into believing he truly cared? Had his sincerity been entirely fabricated, each thoughtful gesture merely another calculated move designed to win the affection of the famous Hermione Granger?

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could physically ease the crushing ache that settled there, heavy and suffocating. Images flashed mercilessly through her mind—Lucius smiling warmly at her as they danced at the gala; Lucius carefully cooking breakfast in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, eyes twinkling with rare humor; Lucius whispering softly into her hair late at night, promising honesty, sincerity, and trust.

Each memory twisted cruelly now, bitter mockeries of what she had desperately wanted to believe was real. Had she truly been nothing more than a conquest—just another victory to bolster his pride among powerful, arrogant men?

“Damn you, Lucius,” she hissed bitterly, disgusted with herself for having fallen once more for empty words and shallow charm. Hot tears prickled sharply behind her eyelids, but she fiercely refused to let them fall. Hermione Granger would not cry—not for Lucius Malfoy. Not again.

She would not be reduced to tears by another betrayal, another broken promise whispered by lips she had foolishly trusted.

Taking a steadying breath, she pulled herself upright, her shoulders straightening defiantly as she willed her trembling hands to stop shaking. Her heart pounded heavily, each beat a harsh reminder of her misplaced trust. If Lucius Malfoy truly viewed her as merely another conquest, a prize won through manipulation and cunning, then he had severely underestimated who Hermione Granger truly was.

She sank numbly onto her sofa, the tea she'd brewed with care now forgotten and growing cold beside her. All the careful progress, all the sincerity she'd felt growing between them suddenly seemed unbearably hollow, nothing more than an elaborate performance she'd been blind enough to believe.

“No,” she whispered fiercely, continuing to shak her head in stubborn disbelief. “He wouldn’t… Not after everything…”

But doubt lingered, cruelly persistent, refusing to allow her to retreat into denial.

With a surge of determination fueled by hurt and simmering anger, she rose abruptly from the sofa, pacing restlessly across the room. Anger propelled her forward, steadying her resolve. She would confront him directly—force him to look her in the eyes and explain himself. She had trusted him, opened herself fully to him, and she deserved nothing less than absolute honesty.

Hermione threw her robe on, heart racing as she moved purposefully through her flat. She needed clarity, needed the truth. But first, she had to regain control of her emotions. Lucius Malfoy might have treated her as a prize, but she was no helpless victim; she was Hermione Granger, strong and proud and resilient.

If Lucius had indeed been playing another game, toying carelessly with her trust and affection, he would soon discover exactly what happened to men who underestimated her. She might be heartbroken, but Hermione Granger was no one's trophy—she would not crumble under the weight of Lucius Malfoy's arrogance.

Steeling herself with one final, steadying breath, she prepared to face him—to demand answers and ensure that he never forgot just how wrong he'd been to treat her as a mere prize.

__

Lucius stared blankly at the ornate ceiling of his bedchamber, his eyes bloodshot and stinging from a sleepless night filled with relentless anxiety. He’d tossed and turned endlessly, each attempt at rest interrupted by guilt and worry over the careless, arrogant words he'd allowed himself to utter. His own foolishness tormented him relentlessly, replaying his arrogance on loop—a cruel, mocking refrain he couldn’t silence.

Just as dawn broke, bathing the room in pale, unforgiving light, Lucius finally sat up, resigned to the fact that sleep had eluded him completely. His temples throbbed painfully, and a cold dread settled heavily in his chest. Hermione. He had to speak with Hermione first thing—before anyone else had the chance to twist his words further. 

A sudden, furious pounding on his bedroom door interrupted his anxious thoughts.

“Father!” Draco’s voice came, sharp and distinctly angry, from outside. “Open this damn door right now!”

Lucius stood immediately, pulling on a robe just as Draco burst unceremoniously into the room, slamming the door behind him. Draco’s expression was livid, his normally composed features twisted with unmistakable fury. He strode directly toward his father, eyes flashing dangerously as he tossed a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet sharply onto Lucius’s bed.

“What the hell is this?” Draco demanded, voice dangerously quiet, simmering with barely restrained anger. “Please tell me you didn’t say these things. Tell me this is a ridiculous misunderstanding!”

Lucius felt his stomach drop heavily, heart hammering in panic as he caught sight of the cruel headline glaring back at him from the parchment:

"Lucius Malfoy’s True Feelings Revealed: Hermione Granger—Just Another Prize?"

His jaw tightened painfully, pulse quickening in distress as his eyes skimmed over the harsh words printed beneath his photograph. He’d known it would be damaging, but seeing it now felt even worse than he’d imagined. The arrogance and callousness captured in black ink made his chest ache with shame.

“Draco, listen to me,” Lucius began hurriedly, desperation clear in his voice. “These words—this entire thing—it's twisted out of context. I was provoked, careless—”

Draco cut him off, eyes narrowed fiercely. “Out of context? You told those arrogant bastards that Hermione was a prize—some game you played and won? Merlin’s sake, Father! Did you even think before you opened your mouth?”

Lucius exhaled sharply, frustration mingling painfully with his regret. “I was wrong—I was reckless, yes. But you must believe me, Draco, I never meant it like this. Hermione is anything but a conquest, and you know how deeply I care—”

“Do I?” Draco interrupted, voice icy and cutting. “Because this looks exactly like the sort of manipulative shit you used to pull with everyone else. Except this time, you chose someone who deserves infinitely better than this rubbish.”

Lucius flinched visibly, guilt twisting painfully inside him. “Draco—please—”

“No,” Draco snapped, anger breaking slightly to reveal hurt beneath his cold glare. “Don't plead with me—I'm not the one who deserves your explanation. Hermione is. And Merlin help you, Father, if she's seen this already.”

The realization hit Lucius like a physical blow, stealing his breath completely. Hermione. If Draco had seen it, then surely Hermione had already read every damning word. She’d have woken to this betrayal—this ugly distortion of their relationship—and Lucius knew immediately how deep the wound would cut.

Panic rose sharply, tightening his chest and making his heart race with renewed desperation. “I have to see her immediately,” he whispered urgently, voice shaking with dread. “I must explain—I have to fix this before—”

“Before it's too late?” Draco finished bitterly, eyes still narrowed in harsh disappointment. “Let's hope it isn't already.”

Lucius nodded numbly, already moving to dress quickly, his mind racing with fear of losing her—fear of losing the only real, honest connection he'd managed to build in years. This wasn't a matter of pride or ego any longer; he stood on the edge of ruin, faced with the realization that his foolish arrogance might have already cost him the one thing he cherished most deeply.

And as he hastily buttoned his robes, Lucius could only pray he was not already too late.

The flames crackled loudly in the hearth of Malfoy Manor’s grand foyer, the sudden flare of emerald light illuminating the imposing walls of the ancient home. Hermione stumbled slightly as she stepped unsteadily out of the Floo, heart pounding furiously, pajama-clad and hair tangled from her sleepless turmoil. Her face bore no makeup, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with exhaustion, yet blazing with fierce determination.

“Granger?” Draco’s voice echoed from the nearby corridor, footsteps quickening as he entered the room. He stopped abruptly, eyes widening as he took in her disheveled appearance. The surprise quickly melted into grim understanding. “Oh, hell.”

“Where is he, Draco?” Hermione demanded hoarsely, not bothering with pleasantries. “Where is Lucius?”

Draco hesitated for only a split second, his heart sinking as he took in the anguished fury clearly etched across her features. “Hermione—look, this is probably a misunderstanding—”

“Where. Is. He?” she repeated, voice dangerously calm now, her eyes holding his with fierce determination. Draco swallowed, recognizing instantly she’d already seen the Prophet and there would be no reasoning with her—not now.

“Upstairs, in his chambers,” Draco said quietly, resignation clear in his voice. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the staircase, knowing better than to stand between Hermione Granger and her rightful anger.

Hermione stormed past him, climbing the staircase swiftly, heart hammering loudly in her chest. Draco followed behind, dread gnawing at his stomach, yet he knew he could not stop what was about to unfold. Perhaps Lucius deserved this—perhaps only Hermione could finally set him straight.

She burst through Lucius’s bedroom door without knocking, the heavy door slamming loudly against the wall. Lucius spun around in shock, half-dressed and clearly startled by her sudden arrival. Surprise and relief warred briefly across his face before quickly dissolving into anxious dread.

“Hermione—” Lucius stammered, quickly buttoning his shirt, silver hair still slightly damp from his hurried preparations. “I was just about to come to you—”

“Oh, really?” Hermione interrupted sharply, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, her eyes blazing with fury and pain. “Convenient timing, isn't it? Tell me—did you truly say it? Did you really tell those men that I was nothing more than some prize you’ve proudly won?”

Lucius faltered slightly, uncertainty flickering behind his guarded expression. The hesitation, though brief, spoke volumes.

Hermione’s voice hardened instantly, shaking slightly with restrained emotion. “Tell me you didn’t say it.”

Lucius took a breath, visibly gathering his thoughts, desperately trying to find the words to undo the damage. But the hesitation lingered a fraction too long again—just enough for Hermione’s heart to fracture a little further.

Wrong move.

Hermione laughed bitterly, stepping backward, as if to shield herself physically from his presence. Her voice was low, dangerously soft, trembling with betrayal. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Hermione,” Lucius pleaded urgently, stepping toward her, his eyes desperate, filled with regret. “Please listen—it’s not as simple as—”

“Oh, isn’t it?” she retorted coldly, tears stinging her eyes even as she fought furiously against letting them fall. “It seems perfectly simple to me, Lucius. I genuinely believed you had changed, that you actually cared for me. But it was all just another game, wasn’t it? You were just waiting until you slept with me and I fell in love with you, until you knew you’d won—really, Lucius?”

Lucius flinched visibly, pain shadowing his face as he stepped closer again, desperate to bridge the growing chasm between them. “No, Hermione, it was never like that—please, I swear to you—”

Hermione shook her head slowly, her voice thick with barely suppressed pain. “I trusted you, Lucius. More than I’ve trusted anyone in years. And this—this is how you repay that trust?”

Lucius’s eyes filled with genuine anguish as he reached out pleadingly toward her. “Hermione, please. I spoke foolishly, carelessly. It was arrogance—stupid pride. It was nothing more than a misguided attempt to maintain appearances before men whose opinions mean nothing to me now.”

Hermione shook her head fiercely, tears finally spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back. “Their opinion clearly meant more to you than I did last night - you spoke those words, Lucius. You called me a prize. A conquest. Something you’re proud of claiming, of winning.”

Lucius moved closer, voice shaking with remorse. “That wasn’t how I meant—”

“But you said it,” Hermione interrupted sharply, voice breaking. “You said exactly that.”

Lucius fell silent, jaw tightening painfully as guilt and regret clouded his expression. He lowered his gaze, knowing he had no honest defense for those careless, arrogant words.

Hermione exhaled slowly, trembling visibly now as she backed further away from him. Her voice softened, broken but unwavering in her resolve. “I’m done with games, Lucius. I have been done. I stopped playing them long ago. Yet here you are, still making moves.”

She felt Draco move silently behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder in quiet solidarity. Hermione turned slightly, offering him a small, sad smile of gratitude for his silent support before squaring her shoulders once more, facing Lucius with determination.

“Hermione,” Lucius finally pleaded, stepping cautiously forward once more, voice thick with remorse, desperate for understanding. “Please, let me explain—”

She lifted a hand sharply, stopping him in place. Fresh tears blurred her vision, but she refused to look away, determined not to crumble fully in front of him. “I gave you every chance already. More chances than I ever thought I would. But this…this is too much.”

She turned swiftly on her heel, brushing past Draco, who stepped aside without a word, though the pained glare he threw at his father spoke volumes. Draco followed quietly behind Hermione, close enough to offer comfort, but respecting her silent need for dignity as she retreated out the front door of the manor instead of towards the floo- saying she needed fresh air.

Lucius stood frozen, heart sinking painfully, feeling the bitter sting of loss settle coldly within him. He had done this—his arrogance, his foolish pride had cost him something precious, something genuine. His chest ached as he listened helplessly to Hermione’s retreating footsteps, the echo of her departure leaving only silence and heartache behind.

Lucius sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his own folly. He had allowed pride and vanity to destroy the fragile yet beautiful bond they’d painstakingly built. Now, his heart broke beneath the terrible certainty of what he had done:

He had lost her.

And the fault was entirely, irrevocably, his own.

Draco watched silently as Hermione disappeared down the long path leading to the gates, the early morning mist blurring her retreating form. As soon as she vanished, he turned sharply on his heel, fury radiating from him in palpable waves as he stormed back to Lucius’s room, shoving the door open so violently it crashed loudly against the wall.

Lucius sat slumped on the bed, his expression distant, vacant, eyes hollow with regret. At Draco’s abrupt entrance, he barely looked up, shoulders tense beneath the weight of his mistake.

“Honestly, Father?” Draco snapped harshly, voice thick with barely restrained fury. “You bed her, tell her you love her and then you say something as asinine as that? After everything you’ve been through—after everything you’ve promised her?”

Lucius flinched visibly, guilt flickering briefly behind his eyes, but he remained silent, unable to defend himself.

“She told you she loved you!” Draco continued, pacing angrily, his words sharp and cutting, each syllable dripping disappointment. “Do you have any idea what it took for Hermione to trust you like that—to love you, of all people? And your first instinct was to boast about it like some childish fool?”

Lucius winced, raising his gaze slowly, remorse clear on his weary features. “Draco, you don’t understand—it was careless, thoughtless. It was never my intention—”

“No,” Draco snapped, interrupting bitterly. “It wasn’t your intention, was it? It never is with you. But that hardly matters now, does it? She trusted you. She gave you everything—and this is what you show her?”

Lucius opened his mouth to protest weakly, but Draco sharply raised a hand, silencing him.

“You know, I was rooting for you,” Draco continued angrily, shaking his head in disbelief. “I actually believed you’d changed, that you might finally deserve her. Merlin knows, I even helped you! But no—you couldn’t resist throwing it all away. Hermione isn’t some conquest you brag about over drinks. She’s Hermione bloody Granger—one of the best people I’ve ever known. And if she told you she loved you—truly loved you—and you still behaved like this...”

Draco’s voice trailed off in disgust, eyes cold with bitter disappointment.

“Then you don’t deserve her,” he finished harshly, glaring at his father with undisguised contempt. “This mess is entirely yours. If you need it any clearer where I stand—it's not with you.”

With that final declaration, Draco turned abruptly on his heel, slamming the door behind him, leaving Lucius alone in deafening silence, heart heavy with loss, shame, and the realization of how devastatingly he had failed—both Hermione and his own son.

Chapter Text

Hermione paced restlessly in her small flat, the doors bolted securely and the Floo firmly locked behind a layer of protective wards. She felt numb, hollowed out by anger and hurt. The walls of her apartment, once comforting, now felt suffocating, pressing in on her relentlessly. She kept replaying Lucius’s faltering expression, his hesitation when confronted—the damning silence that had confirmed her worst fears.

A sharp tapping at the window startled her, snapping her from the bitter spiral of thoughts. Recognizing Lucius’s owl, her heart clenched painfully. Her first instinct was to ignore it, but the creature tapped persistently, its gaze fixed urgently upon her.

Resigned, Hermione reluctantly opened the window, taking the envelope quickly. The familiar Malfoy seal mocked her as she broke it roughly, fingers trembling slightly. Lucius’s handwriting was noticeably hurried, anxious—an unusual departure from his typical elegance:

Hermione,
Please—allow me to explain myself. I spoke carelessly, arrogantly. But my words were not intended as they were portrayed. Please give me a chance to make this right. I beg you.
Yours, Lucius

She read the words again, eyes stinging sharply with fresh tears. Bitter frustration welled inside her chest, and she crushed the note in her fist, throwing it aside with a disgusted sigh. How many times would she allow herself to believe empty promises from Lucius Malfoy? How many apologies could she possibly accept before learning the harsh lesson of misplaced trust?

Her gaze drifted toward the delicate necklace he had sent just the previous night, still lying untouched in its small velvet box on the edge of her table. She picked it up, running her thumb lightly over the intricate silver book charm, feeling a painful pang of regret tighten her chest. Its thoughtful charm now felt like a cruel joke—a shallow, meaningless gesture to soothe his own guilt.

Reaching for fresh parchment, Hermione scribbled furiously, her words sharp and cold:

Lucius,
I have no use for gifts meant solely to ease your guilty conscience. Consider this returned. I want nothing more from you—not apologies, not excuses, and certainly not meaningless trinkets.
Hermione

She folded the note tightly, placing it firmly inside the velvet box alongside the necklace before sealing it shut with resolute finality. Her fingers shook only slightly as she handed the package to the waiting owl, urging it quickly out the window, desperate to sever every lingering thread tying her heart to Lucius Malfoy.

She watched numbly as the owl disappeared into the gray morning sky, her throat tight with emotion. She’d done the right thing—she knew she had—but the bitter ache in her chest remained, a painful reminder of the shattered trust she’d so carefully and foolishly given.

At Malfoy Manor, Lucius paced restlessly, the returned note crushed painfully in his hand. Panic and grief overwhelmed him, his usually composed demeanor unraveling rapidly. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think straight. Without Hermione, he felt utterly adrift—desperate and helpless in a way he'd never known before. The loss of her had left a hollow ache that nothing could soothe, consuming every thought, every breath he took.

When Hermione’s owl returned bearing the velvet box he’d carefully selected for her, Lucius’s chest tightened unbearably. With trembling fingers, he opened it, heart sinking further when he saw the delicate necklace lying untouched atop her sharp, cutting note. Her words stung more bitterly than he'd anticipated:

"I want nothing more from you”

He sank slowly onto the edge of his study chair, his head bowed heavily in despair. This was worse than her silence—this cold dismissal, so sharply and rightfully delivered, twisted deeply in his chest, leaving him breathless and shaken. Lucius had never felt this helpless, this lost.

In a desperate attempt to bridge the distance, he reached for parchment, his hand shaking so badly that his usually refined handwriting came out strained, uneven, betraying his emotional turmoil:

Hermione,
I never intended the necklace as an empty gesture or as some hollow appeasement. It was meant to symbolize how deeply you have touched me—how profoundly I cherish you. I was a fool, and my words were careless, born from arrogance rather than sincerity. Please—let me explain. Let me repair this. I cannot bear the thought of losing you.
Lucius.

The owl returned swiftly, her response painfully brief:

No.

Lucius stared blankly at the single word, stark against the parchment, as the enormity of what he had done pressed heavily upon him. He couldn’t accept it—not yet. His heart refused to concede defeat. In one last attempt, driven by pure desperation, he ordered a lavish bouquet of deep crimson roses—her favorite blooms, carefully chosen, perfect in every petal, hoping the gesture might at least soften her resolve.

Within the hour, the roses returned untouched, accompanied by a brief, cold message:

Leave me alone.

Lucius’s frustration grew frantic, grief gnawing at him mercilessly. He ordered her favorite chocolates next—exquisite confections, imported from Paris, something he'd hoped would demonstrate his attentive care. But these too were returned swiftly, unopened and untouched, along with another cutting message:

Lucius, stop this. Gifts can’t erase what you said.

His desperation mounting painfully, Lucius finally abandoned subtlety, choosing instead to face Hermione directly. Driven by a mixture of panic and stubborn pride, he apparated to Diagon Alley, his pulse racing erratically as he approached the bookstore.

Through the window, Hermione spotted him immediately. Her body stiffened visibly, eyes narrowing sharply with hurt and betrayal. Before Lucius could even reach the door, she swiftly disappeared, retreating upstairs to her flat and bolting the door firmly behind her.

Lucius stood frozen in the doorway of the shop, his heart sinking hopelessly as he stared after her retreating form. Helplessness overwhelmed him, crushing every last shred of his once-impervious pride into dust. He had shattered everything between them—and for what? A fleeting moment of arrogant bravado?

With a painful ache burning deep within him, Lucius slowly turned away, retreating back to the Manor, knowing he had ruined everything beyond repair. Hermione had made her choice—and it was one he could not fault her for making.

That evening, Hermione sat curled on her sofa, wrapped tightly in a thick blanket, trying to lose herself in a novel she'd barely registered a word of. A soft knock at the door startled her, heart immediately skipping a beat with fear and unwanted hope.

Cautiously, Hermione rose, approaching slowly and opening the door just a crack. Her breath caught slightly at the sight of Theo and Blaise standing there, their expressions unusually soft, almost gentle with concern.

“Oh, Hermione,” Theo murmured, stepping forward without hesitation to wrap her in a comforting hug. “We saw the Prophet.”

Hermione drew in a shaky breath, her composure faltering immediately at the sincerity in Theo’s voice. She opened the door wider, letting them both inside, grateful despite herself for their presence.

“You didn’t have to come,” Hermione murmured softly, stepping back as Blaise entered quietly behind Theo, his usually playful eyes now serious, filled with genuine worry.

“Of course we had to come,” Blaise insisted firmly, his voice unusually gentle as he handed her a small, carefully wrapped box of pastries. “Besides, this called for reinforcements. Lucius is clearly an idiot, and you need friends more than ever.”

Theo moved closer, gently placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We're so sorry.”

Hermione’s throat tightened painfully at his words, the memory of the printed article, those cruel words from Lucius’s lips, still raw and aching in her chest.

“I thought it was real,” she whispered brokenly, fighting fiercely to hold back the tears that had threatened all morning. “I thought he was sincere—”

Theo squeezed her shoulder gently, guiding her toward the sofa and urging her softly to sit. “You weren't wrong, Hermione. He is sincere—he was just incredibly stupid and arrogant in that moment. Lucius always lets pride get the better of him.”

“Too much Malfoy pride,” Blaise muttered darkly, settling quietly next to Hermione, his warmth comforting beside her. “Trust me, Hermione, you deserve far better than his careless arrogance. And he knows it. Right now, he’s probably torturing himself with his own stupidity.”

“Good,” Hermione muttered weakly, although the venom in her voice was lacking. She sighed heavily, shoulders slumping as her resolve finally cracked under the gentle care of her friends. She blinked rapidly, desperately attempting to stop the tears, but they fell anyway—silent, bitter tears tracking quietly down her cheeks.

Blaise slipped an arm protectively around her shoulders, drawing her gently into his chest, letting her cry quietly. Theo stood close, watching them with a quiet, protective anger simmering behind his normally easygoing eyes.

“Lucius Malfoy is a stubborn idiot who’s finally realizing he’s lost the best thing that ever happened to him,” Theo said softly but fiercely, kneeling before Hermione and gently taking her hand. “You aren’t a conquest, Hermione. You’re strong, intelligent, kind—you’re the person who deserved to be treasured, not claimed.”

Blaise chuckled softly, attempting to lighten the mood slightly, nudging Hermione playfully. “If nothing else, at least now we’ve confirmed Lucius Malfoy is indeed fallible. And a complete fool.”

Despite her pain, Hermione managed a weak, watery laugh. “I don’t feel particularly victorious right now.”

Blaise squeezed her gently, smiling warmly at her. “But you will be. We promise.”

The gentle reassurance from her friends gradually eased the tightness in Hermione’s chest, though the ache of betrayal lingered stubbornly. She knew Blaise and Theo meant well, yet the hurt, the sense of deep betrayal, couldn’t be brushed away so easily. Lucius had betrayed her trust in the cruelest possible way—and now she felt uncertain whether she’d ever recover fully from this wound.

Her heart hurt deeply—aching beneath the weight of regret and lost trust. But with Theo and Blaise beside her, she felt at least a flicker of hope: the knowledge that even through heartbreak, she wasn’t truly alone.

Perhaps Lucius had shattered what they’d built, but Hermione refused to shatter with it.

She would survive this, no matter how much it hurt—and she would emerge stronger.

At the Manor, Lucius stood frozen, gaze hollow and vacant as he stared at the rejected gifts piled haphazardly on the polished table beside him—once vibrant roses now seeming wilted, chocolates and delicate packages lying unopened, their ornate ribbons taunting him like cruel reminders of his mistakes. He reached out, fingertips grazing lightly over the returned velvet box that held the necklace he’d chosen with such careful affection, now discarded, unwanted, and harshly dismissed.

His chest tightened painfully, pulse erratic and unsteady, each breath feeling strained and hollow. Panic clawed sharply at his throat, constricting with a bitter, choking regret. The Manor, usually a place of refined tranquility, now felt oppressive, suffocating—a tomb filled only with the echoing weight of his own foolish pride.

Draco’s furious words rang relentlessly in his ears, refusing to fade: “She told you she loved you…how could you be so stupid?”

Lucius flinched again at the memory, eyes squeezing shut against the relentless ache in his heart. Draco’s contempt had shaken him more deeply than he'd admitted, forcing him to face the unbearable truth: he had not only broken Hermione’s trust but also shattered his son’s newfound respect. The two people who mattered most in the world had turned their backs on him, leaving him alone with nothing but the bitter consequences of his arrogance.

He ran a shaking hand through his silver hair, feeling utterly, devastatingly lost. The confidence he’d once worn effortlessly was stripped away, replaced by confusion, guilt, and a deep, haunting loneliness he’d never known before. He'd destroyed everything—carelessly, foolishly—leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

He sank slowly onto the sofa, the strength abruptly leaving his body, hands trembling visibly as they came to rest heavily on his knees. He stared blankly into the cold hearth, haunted by the memory of Hermione’s hurt-filled eyes, her broken voice accusing him of treating her like some meaningless prize to be claimed and discarded.

She’d trusted him. She’d offered him sincerity, kindness, and ultimately, love—something pure and precious he never truly believed he deserved. And he had thrown it away in a single arrogant moment of pride and vanity.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he whispered brokenly, voice thick with anguish. “What have I done?”

The quiet around him mocked his despair, silence pressing mercilessly against him like a physical weight, amplifying the ache within. There were no easy answers now, no clever words or elegant gestures that could undo his damage. He had nothing left to offer, no strategy or charm that could mend the heart he had broken. The hollow void in his chest yawned painfully wider, forcing him to confront a devastating truth: he was entirely, painfully alone—and it was his own doing.

Lucius buried his face in his hands, shoulders trembling slightly as grief consumed him fully, leaving him no place to hide. The quiet of the Manor felt like judgment—an oppressive reminder of everything he had lost, and everything he feared he would never regain.

At dawn, Hermione stood quietly in her kitchen, staring absently into the pale, gray morning. Sleep had been elusive once again, leaving her drained and hollow. The quiet knock of the Daily Prophet owl tapping at her window jolted her from her weary thoughts, and she opened the window mechanically, handing over the coins without enthusiasm.

She unrolled the paper slowly, her stomach sinking immediately at the bold headline that greeted her, screaming its cruel triumph in large black letters:

“Malfoy and Granger: Wizarding World’s Romance of the Year Ends in Heartbreak!”

Her breath caught painfully in her throat, eyes flickering down against her will to the words printed beneath the sharp headline. The photograph showed her leaving Malfoy Manor, clearly upset, with Draco’s concerned face just visible behind her.

"Less than twenty-four hours after the Daily Prophet revealed Lucius Malfoy's shocking claim that Hermione Granger was nothing more than a 'prize' he'd successfully conquered, it appears the fairytale romance has ended abruptly. Witnesses confirm Granger was seen storming away from Malfoy Manor, visibly distraught, with Draco Malfoy—Lucius Malfoy’s own son—following closely behind her, clearly taking her side."

"Has Lucius Malfoy once again shown his true colors, proving that Hermione Granger was merely a trophy—a challenge he played until he won? Or has the celebrated war heroine finally realized what many suspected all along: Lucius Malfoy has never truly changed?"

"Sources close to both parties declined comment, but it appears the romance of the year has come to a bitter, definitive end."

Hermione’s throat tightened painfully, the cruel words blurring as tears filled her eyes. Her chest ached with a renewed wave of humiliation and anger as she dropped the Prophet carelessly onto the table, feeling it mock her anguish with each exaggerated line.

She sank heavily onto the sofa, drawing her knees tightly to her chest, trying desperately to numb the ache that spread painfully through her entire body. She'd known the truth of her heartbreak already—had lived it, felt it—but seeing it printed so bluntly, splashed across the front page for all to judge, felt infinitely worse.

She closed her eyes tightly, her heart aching bitterly with regret, grief, and wounded pride.

Hermione Granger had trusted Lucius Malfoy—and now she was paying the painful price of her mistake.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy stood silently by the grand window of his study, staring blankly across the pristine grounds of the Manor, unable to truly see anything beyond his own bitter reflection in the glass. It had been days since Hermione had walked away, days since the careless, arrogant words he'd spoken had torn apart everything he'd painstakingly built. Without her presence, the world felt achingly hollow—void of meaning or warmth.

His composure had cracked entirely, his carefully curated mask shattered, leaving him lost and broken in a way he'd never imagined possible. He was hollow, numb, struggling to find purpose or motivation in anything.

"Father," Draco’s voice broke sharply into the oppressive silence, the younger Malfoy stepping firmly into the study. Lucius didn't bother looking up—he already knew the expression Draco wore, the familiar disappointment, anger, and frustration clear in every line of his son's face.

“Draco,” Lucius murmured quietly, exhaustion heavy in his voice. “I'm hardly in the mood for another lecture.”

Draco sighed deeply, tossing something sharply onto the table. Lucius turned slowly, heart tightening painfully as he saw the latest edition of the Prophet lying before him, its headline clear and cruel:

"Malfoy and Granger: Romance of the Year Ends Bitterly in Public Scandal!"

Lucius felt his heart sink even further. “Draco, I’ve seen enough.”

“Have you?” Draco retorted sharply, his eyes narrowing bitterly. “Have you really? Because you look perfectly content to sit here wallowing in self-pity rather than fixing the damage you've done.”

Lucius flinched, unable to argue, eyes drawn helplessly back to the mocking headline and accompanying photograph—Hermione leaving Malfoy Manor, clearly distraught, heartbroken. The very sight felt like a blade twisting slowly into his chest.

“I've tried everything,” Lucius admitted brokenly, shaking his head slowly. “She's rejected every gift, every apology. She refuses to see me. She refuses my letters. What more can I do?”

“You could stop treating her like an obstacle and start treating her like the woman you love,” Draco snapped sharply, his voice filled with exasperation. “She's right, Father—no more games, no more grand gestures. Just honesty. Real, vulnerable honesty. If you can't manage that, you've already lost her for good.”

Lucius drew a shaky breath, nodding numbly. Draco was right, painfully so. He'd spent days sending meaningless gestures—flowers, gifts, apologies—but he'd yet to fully strip away his pride, truly expose himself emotionally. If he wanted any chance at redemption, he had to do something he’d never truly done before—let down his walls entirely, for Hermione.

He looked up slowly, meeting Draco's gaze, voice quiet and raw with sincerity. “I'm terrified, Draco. I've never felt this vulnerable in my life. Without her, I feel lost.”

Draco softened, sympathy finally breaking through his anger. “Then tell her exactly that. Admit it—not to me, to her. You're miserable without her. Tell her that.”

Lucius felt a quiet resolve settle within him, the first clarity he'd experienced in days. Draco was right—there were no more games left to play, no clever moves remaining. The only thing left was honesty.

“Thank you,” Lucius murmured quietly, finally meeting Draco's gaze directly. “Truly, Draco.”

Draco sighed, expression softening slightly. “Just fix this. I can’t stand either of you like this.”

Lucius nodded firmly, knowing precisely what he needed to do. The path forward would be painful, humiliating perhaps, but he could bear anything—anything at all—to earn back Hermione’s trust.

Because life without her felt like no life at all.

Later that afternoon, Hermione was just finishing tidying the shelves in the bookstore—something she’d found herself doing repeatedly, a distraction from the ache in her heart—when a gentle knock sounded at the door. She looked up warily, relaxing slightly when she saw Draco standing in the doorway, hands tucked casually into his pockets, wearing a cautious, almost hesitant expression.

“Draco,” Hermione said softly, a cautious warmth entering her voice. “You know you can just come in.”

He offered a faint smile, stepping inside and gently closing the door behind him. He paused for a moment, surveying her carefully, as though measuring just how fragile she might be.

“I didn’t want to assume,” he replied gently, stepping closer. “How are you doing, Granger? And please, spare me the tough act—I’ve already seen Father’s version of stoicism this week, and it’s exhausting.”

Hermione laughed softly despite herself, setting aside the book she’d been holding. She sighed deeply, leaning against the counter, her expression weary. “I’ve been better, Draco. But I’ll survive. How about you?”

He rolled his eyes, though there was a softness to his voice. “Frankly, I've become the unofficial mediator of your disaster of a love affair, and it's driving me mental. But mostly, I'm worried—about you both, actually.”

Her gaze softened, though a bitter edge remained. “You shouldn’t have to mediate. This isn’t your mess.”

“No, but someone’s got to be the adult here and since he’s miserable and you’re a tad unreasonable.. ,” Draco retorted with gentle sarcasm, smirking lightly. He stepped a little closer, his voice losing its playful tone and shifting to genuine sincerity. “Listen, Hermione—I’ve spoken with my father. He's miserable. Genuinely, completely miserable. I know it doesn’t fix anything, but it counts for something. At least, I think it should.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly, defensive tension entering her posture. “Draco—”

He raised his hands quickly in surrender, interrupting gently. “Let me clarify something—I am entirely on your side here. Father acted like a thoughtless fool, and I’ve made sure he knows it, repeatedly. But I also heard his side of the story, and I genuinely believe that this nothing other than a stupid comment made to impress some arrogant Ministry bureaucrat and - you should at least give him a chance to explain.”

Hermione sighed deeply, frustration mixing with exhaustion. “Maybe. But how can I trust anything he says after this, Draco? After everything that’s happened?”

Draco’s expression softened further, his eyes filled with quiet understanding. “That's fair, Hermione. Completely fair. You have every right to feel betrayed, because you were. But I also know my father. I've never seen him like this before—so utterly unraveled, so completely out of control. I honestly believe he regrets every foolish word he spoke.”

She looked away briefly, struggling to hold back fresh tears. “Draco, I gave him everything. I told him I loved him, and the next day he made me into a joke—a prize to brag about.”

“I know,” Draco replied gently, stepping even closer, voice quietly soothing. “And believe me, he knows it too. He hasn’t stopped tormenting himself over it. I'm not asking you to forgive him outright—I wouldn’t ask that of anyone—but what you two had was good. Perhaps too good not to at least have a conversation when you feel ready.”

Hermione bit her lip, wavering visibly as she considered his words. Finally, she exhaled shakily. “I don't know if I'm ready for that yet, Draco. I know I have been a bit over the top but, I’m hurt. Deeply hurt. Trusting him again feels almost impossible right now.”

“I know,” Draco said gently, nodding his understanding. “Take your time. Just—can I at least set up some kind of meeting? When you’re ready. It doesn't have to be today or tomorrow, just whenever.”

Hermione hesitated, studying Draco carefully, seeing genuine concern and affection reflected clearly in his eyes. She finally nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it. That's the best I can offer right now.”

Draco nodded, visibly relieved. “That’s more than fair. And how about an owl in the meantime? A letter from him?”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head in resignation. “I suppose if he wants to send one, I'll read it. But I can’t promise I'll respond.”

Draco smirked warmly, familiar mischief returning to his expression as he moved toward the door. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you, Granger.”

With a soft chuckle, Hermione watched him step out of the bookstore, feeling strangely lighter despite herself. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to forgive, but the small warmth Draco’s visit brought was enough—for now.

Draco returned to Malfoy Manor just as twilight settled over the grounds, his expression thoughtful as he ascended the stairs toward his father's study. Lucius sat by the fireplace, staring pensively into the flickering flames, lost deep in troubled thought.

"Father," Draco announced quietly, stepping into the room and closing the heavy oak door behind him.

Lucius turned sharply, immediately rising, anxiety clear in his voice. "Draco—where have you been?"

"I went to see Hermione," Draco said calmly, watching carefully for his father's reaction.

Lucius stiffened visibly, eyes immediately flooding with worry. "And—how is she? Is she well?"

Draco sighed, shoulders sagging slightly as he leaned against the mantel. "Honestly? She's not great. She's hurting—badly."

Lucius exhaled slowly, guilt and anguish mingling painfully on his face. He turned away, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know whether that news should bring me hope or despair."

"Probably a bit of both," Draco said bluntly, crossing his arms. "But I did speak with her. I told her your side of things. And before you protest—I also made it clear that I stand entirely with her."

Lucius nodded slowly, eyes cast downward. "Of course. I would never expect otherwise."

Draco hesitated slightly before continuing, choosing his words carefully. "Despite everything, Hermione said she's willing to hear you out—at least, she's open to reading a letter from you."

Lucius immediately shook his head, frustration evident in his eyes. "A letter isn't enough. I want—no, I need—to speak to her in person. I must look her in the eyes so she can see the truth."

Draco narrowed his gaze, his voice firm but sympathetic. "Father, you need to accept what she's generously willing to give, especially considering the circumstances. Trust me, a letter right now is far more than you deserve. Don't squander it."

Lucius sighed heavily, the fight slowly leaving his posture. He knew Draco was right—Hermione’s willingness to even consider his words was already a profound act of generosity. A small, humbled nod was all he could manage.

"You're right," Lucius murmured quietly. "Of course you're right. A letter, then."

Draco's expression softened slightly, satisfied with his father's acceptance. "Make it count. You won't get another chance."

As Draco quietly withdrew from the room, Lucius moved to his desk with a sense of deep resolve. He carefully selected fresh parchment, and, with a trembling hand, began the most important letter he would ever write. Every word needed to be honest, raw, and entirely stripped of his once-impenetrable pride.

Hermione,

I hardly know where to begin, as no apology will ever be sufficient for the pain I have caused you. My words were arrogant, careless, and utterly thoughtless—and you deserve infinitely more respect than I showed you in that moment.

What began as something I foolishly considered a challenge quickly transformed into the most profound and sincere connection I have ever known. You have awakened parts of me that I never realized existed, and you have become the very center of my world.

I am sorry. Truly, painfully sorry. Not simply because I lost your trust, but because I betrayed the kindness, vulnerability, and love you so freely gave. I will carry this regret for the rest of my days.

Hermione, I am lost without you. The idea of never again seeing you, speaking with you, holding you—it terrifies me more deeply than I can express. But even as I write this, I understand that forgiveness is not something I have the right to request lightly. I only wish for you to know that my love for you is sincere, unwavering, and real.

If you grant me nothing else, grant me the knowledge that you understand the depth of my remorse. You are not a prize—you are a remarkable, brilliant, and strong woman who I am honored, humbled, and blessed to have known. Losing you has shown me clearly just how much you truly mean to me.

I love you. Now, always, and forever.

Yours entirely,
Lucius

Chapter Text

Hermione curled herself up on the sofa, wrapped snugly in her favorite blanket, nursing a generous glass of wine as the flickering flames in her hearth cast a soft glow around the room. The solitude was both comforting and painful—giving her space to think yet also amplifying the ache of loneliness she still felt sharply in her chest.

She sighed softly, setting her glass down when a familiar tapping at the window interrupted her reverie. Her heart quickened instinctively as she recognized the sleek black owl perched outside, its posture regal, bearing the unmistakable Malfoy crest. Hermione’s pulse fluttered nervously as she hesitated before opening the window, carefully removing the neatly rolled parchment.

She stared silently at the letter in her hands for a long moment, heart pounding rapidly, uncertain whether she truly wished to hear anything more from Lucius Malfoy. Yet curiosity—and perhaps a deeper longing she refused to fully acknowledge—compelled her to gently break the seal, unfolding the letter slowly.

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly as she read, a quiet breath catching sharply in her throat at the clear sincerity behind each carefully penned word. This was not the elegant, carefully composed Lucius Malfoy she’d grown accustomed to; this letter bore the raw, honest emotion of a man truly humbled by his mistakes. His words were earnest, stripped entirely of arrogance, pride, or any trace of manipulation.

Her fingers trembled as she traced softly over a particular line:

“You are not a prize—you are a remarkable, brilliant, and strong woman who I am honored, humbled, and blessed to have known.”

The ache in Hermione’s chest eased slightly, replaced by a fragile warmth she hadn’t felt since their argument. She folded the letter carefully, placing it beside her, and allowed herself a long, thoughtful moment. Lucius’s sincerity was unmistakable, and his admission of guilt felt genuine—but forgiveness, she knew, was more complicated.

She reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, picking up her quill slowly and deliberately, careful in her response. Her heart was still raw, yet his words had softened her resolve.

Lucius,

Thank you for your letter. Your apology—and your honesty—means more than you realize. I won’t deny that I was surprised by the sincerity and vulnerability in your words.

I won’t pretend that your actions didn’t deeply hurt me. For so many years, I’ve tried desperately to distance myself from the title of "the Golden Girl," the heroine everyone expected to see. So many men have viewed me as a conquest, someone desirable solely because of reputation or fame, never seeing the woman beneath the stories and headlines. To hear that same sentiment echoed—even unintentionally—from you, someone I trusted completely, someone I loved, was devastating.

The connection I felt with you was real and profound. To have it reduced to mere bragging rights among your peers left me questioning everything—especially my own judgment.

However, your letter showed a side of you I desperately wanted to believe existed—the side Draco repeatedly assures me is genuine. (Although, who would have guessed Draco Malfoy would become our mediator? I hope you appreciate the irony.)

I can’t promise you forgiveness—not yet—but perhaps I can offer you a conversation, when I’m ready.

Until then,
Hermione

Hermione rolled the parchment slowly, feeling a cautious sense of relief. She secured the letter to the owl’s leg, gently sending it back into the night sky. As the owl vanished into the darkness, she settled back onto her sofa, heart lighter than it had been in days.

Perhaps this was only a small step toward mending what had been broken, but it was a step nonetheless—and Hermione finally felt a glimmer of hope, no matter how faint.

Lucius stood in his study, heart hammering uncharacteristically fast as he saw his owl approaching through the tall windows, moonlight tracing the elegant arc of its flight. He crossed the room swiftly, barely breathing as he carefully took the rolled parchment from its leg.

His pulse quickened, nervousness tightening his chest—a strange, unfamiliar feeling for a man accustomed to perfect control. As he unfolded her letter, eyes anxiously scanning each carefully chosen word, a powerful mixture of relief and renewed sorrow swept over him. He had not entirely lost her; Hermione was offering him something, a glimmer of hope—yet her lingering pain resonated profoundly in every line, making his chest ache bitterly.

He lingered on one passage in particular:

“For so many years, I’ve tried desperately to distance myself from the title of ‘the Golden Girl,’ the heroine everyone expected to see. So many men have viewed me as a conquest, someone desirable solely because of reputation or fame, never seeing the woman beneath the stories and headlines. To hear that same sentiment echoed—even unintentionally—from you, someone I trusted completely, someone I loved, was devastating.”

The sharp truth of her words twisted painfully within him. He had wounded her more deeply than he'd ever imagined possible, and the guilt of knowing he'd betrayed her trust threatened to overwhelm him once more. Yet she had offered him something extraordinary—a chance.

With shaking hands, he sat at his desk, breathing deeply as he composed his reply carefully, each word chosen deliberately, entirely from the heart:

Hermione,

Your letter brought both relief and a deep sense of shame—relief, because you offered a possibility of forgiveness; shame, because I’ve hurt you so profoundly and caused you to doubt yourself. I never intended my careless arrogance to echo those sentiments you have fought so hard to escape. Knowing that I’ve contributed to such pain breaks my heart more than I can adequately express.

I see you—clearly and completely. Never once did I think of you merely as ‘the Golden Girl.’ You captivated me entirely because you are precisely yourself: brilliant, compassionate, fierce, and real. You’ve challenged every belief I held about myself, about love, and about what matters in life. The connection between us is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and my careless words undermined something truly precious.

You deserve nothing less than sincerity, respect, and devotion. And if you grant me the privilege of another conversation, I promise you that you will never have reason to doubt my honesty again.

And yes, I certainly appreciate the irony of Draco acting as our mediator—I never imagined I’d see the day when my own son would be guiding me through matters of the heart. You have inspired growth not just in me, but in my relationship with him as well.

When you are ready, please tell me. I will be waiting—for however long it takes.

Forever yours,
Lucius

He rolled the parchment slowly, attaching it carefully to his waiting owl, heart finally easing just slightly as he watched the bird disappear into the night sky. His fate now rested entirely in Hermione’s hands, a fact that both terrified and humbled him. Yet, strangely, it felt right.

Lucius knew without question that she was worth every moment of vulnerability, every anxious heartbeat. For the first time in his life, surrendering control was something he did willingly—and gladly—for the woman he loved above all else.

Hermione sat quietly on the edge of her bed, the soft glow of candlelight dancing gently across her room as she carefully unfolded Lucius’s letter. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for whatever emotions his words might stir—yet nothing could have prepared her for the tenderness and sincerity radiating from each careful line.

As she read, Hermione felt a fragile warmth bloom gently in her chest, slowly melting away some of the ache she'd carried for days. His words resonated deeply, soothing the raw hurt that had lingered stubbornly since their fight. It was as if Lucius had somehow reached across the space between them, wrapping her heart gently in reassurance and comfort.

Her eyes traced softly over one line, lingering there, rereading it repeatedly:

"Never once did I think of you merely as ‘the Golden Girl.’ You captivated me entirely because you are precisely yourself: brilliant, compassionate, fierce, and real."

Her chest tightened—not with pain, but with something more hopeful, something cautiously healing. Tears filled her eyes, this time softly and without bitterness, as she folded the letter again and pressed it gently against her chest. Lucius’s sincerity had reached her in a way she hadn't expected, leaving her feeling lighter, almost comforted. For the first time in days, she felt the gentle stirrings of optimism, a possibility that perhaps this wound could mend after all.

She reached for another sheet of parchment, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she wrote—not to Lucius, not yet, but to Draco, whose stubborn interference had brought them back to this fragile place of possibility.

Draco,

Despite my best efforts to be angry with you for your incessant meddling, I find myself forced to admit you might have done something right for once. Your persistent interference is infuriating, yet I’m grateful for it all the same.

Thank you. (Though, don’t let it go to your head.)

Yours,
Hermione

As she sent the owl off into the night, Hermione felt a quiet sense of peace settle over her heart. She wasn’t ready to fully forgive, nor to fully trust again—but the gentle sincerity of Lucius’s words had cracked open the door, offering a hopeful glimpse of healing and perhaps something even deeper.

It was enough—for now.

Days slowly transformed into weeks, and Hermione had begun to regain a sense of normalcy. The routine of the bookstore soothed her troubled heart, the familiar warmth and scent of parchment and ink grounding her as she tried to find equilibrium amid the lingering ache left by Lucius’s betrayal. Yet despite this, her thoughts frequently drifted to his last heartfelt letter, his earnest words softly echoing in the back of her mind.

It was a crisp Saturday morning, sunlight gently streaming through the bookstore's large front windows, casting a soft golden glow over the shelves. Hermione hummed softly, reorganizing the display of rare classics when the front door opened, the soft chime signaling the arrival of a visitor.

She looked up, smiling warmly as Draco Malfoy strolled casually into the shop, hands tucked gracefully into his coat pockets, his characteristic smirk softened by an unmistakable warmth. His silver-blond hair was slightly windswept from the chilly autumn morning, lending him an almost boyish charm. Hermione felt a wave of fondness—though she’d never admit it aloud—at seeing how much Draco had changed, how effortlessly he now entered her world.

"Good morning, Granger," Draco greeted easily, leaning comfortably against the counter, letting his gaze drift lazily over the neatly organized shelves filled with rare and beloved books. "I see you're keeping yourself busy as always. Honestly, don't you ever tire of alphabetizing? It seems terribly tedious."

"Draco," Hermione replied gently, amusement twinkling softly in her eyes, "to what do I owe the pleasure of your unsolicited critique of my organizational skills? Or should I assume you're merely here to meddle further in my personal affairs?"

Draco chuckled, shaking his head playfully, feigning a look of mock offense. "Come now, Hermione—give me some credit. Perhaps I genuinely enjoy your charming, albeit obsessive, company."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically, arms crossed loosely over her chest, though a soft smile teased at the corners of her lips. "Right. And you just happened to drop by for tea and some light conversation?"

"Precisely," Draco affirmed smoothly, eyes sparkling mischievously. He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice dramatically. "Though I will confess, your note did rather intrigue me. You practically admitted I was right and begged for my return—I couldn’t possibly resist the temptation."

Hermione scoffed softly, laughter bubbling up despite her attempts at severity. "Begged you? Merlin, Draco, don’t flatter yourself."

Draco straightened slightly, grinning warmly as he stepped closer, his expression softening into sincerity. His voice shifted to something more gentle, losing its playful edge. "In all seriousness—how are you, Hermione? Truly."

She hesitated briefly, fingers nervously adjusting a book on the shelf beside her—Jane Austen, ironically enough—before meeting Draco’s patient gaze. She felt safe enough to answer softly, honestly. "Better. Your father’s letter helped, if you must know. It was…unexpectedly sincere."

Draco nodded knowingly, expression thoughtful, eyes filled with quiet understanding. "He’s genuinely miserable, you know. Completely and utterly lost. It’s rather surreal—even for me, his son—to watch Lucius Malfoy humbled like this."

Hermione sighed softly, her gaze drifting to the window as she considered Draco’s words carefully. A slight pang of guilt twisted uncomfortably inside her chest. "Draco, it’s not about making him suffer—I’ve no desire for revenge. I just—"

"You just want honesty," Draco finished softly, knowingly, his voice gentle yet firm. "You deserve that, Hermione. My father knows it now, too. I promise you that."

She turned slowly to meet Draco’s eyes once more, vulnerability shining openly within her own. "It scares me," she admitted quietly. "For years I’ve fought to become more than just 'Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl.' Men have chased that name, chased that reputation, never bothering to see who I truly am beneath it all. And your father—Lucius, of all people—was the last man I expected to reinforce that fear."

Draco stepped forward instinctively, placing a gentle, comforting hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so effortlessly kind that Hermione felt herself soften immediately beneath his touch.

"For what it’s worth," Draco murmured quietly, sincerity clear in his pale grey eyes, "I honestly believe that wasn’t his intention at all. Yes, he was an arrogant fool—spectacularly so—but malicious? No. Hermione, I have never seen my father as genuine or as vulnerable as he has been with you. He truly does care for you. I’ve seen it, and frankly, it’s astonishing."

Hermione smiled softly, feeling an unexpected warmth ease the tension in her chest. She gently placed her hand over Draco’s, squeezing lightly in gratitude. "You know," she teased gently, "you’re surprisingly good at this mediator role. Maybe you missed your true calling in politics."

Draco chuckled softly, his trademark smirk returning. "Careful, Granger, you'll tarnish my perfectly cultivated reputation."

Hermione laughed, genuinely lighter now, shaking her head fondly. Draco Malfoy had become a truly unexpected ally and confidant, and despite everything that had transpired, she found herself grateful—more deeply than she ever thought possible—for the surprising friendship they had built.

Before Hermione could respond, the front door chimed again, and they both turned in surprise to see Theo and Blaise strolling casually into the bookstore, matching mischievous smiles gracing their faces. Theo carried a small box, while Blaise immediately made himself at home, lounging dramatically against one of the bookshelves.

“Another spontaneous gathering?” Hermione teased warmly, eyebrows lifted in playful curiosity. “Did I miss the memo? I swear, the three of you are practically living here these days.”

“Well, we couldn't risk leaving you alone with Draco for too long,” Theo quipped smoothly, stepping forward to pull Hermione into a quick, affectionate hug. He handed her the small box, eyes twinkling brightly. “And besides, we figured you could use some cheering up.”

Hermione peered curiously into the box, her expression brightening instantly at the sight of fresh éclairs from her favorite bakery. “You two know me far too well. This is clearly bribery.”

“Call it protective measures,” Blaise chimed in with mock seriousness, folding his arms as he eyed Draco suspiciously. “Someone has to be here to supervise Draco. He might start meddling again and Merlin knows we can't have that.”

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Supervision, really? How charmingly thoughtful of you. Though I assure you, I was doing quite well on my own.”

Theo chuckled softly, clapping Draco firmly on the shoulder. “Forgive us for being skeptical, mate, but your track record speaks for itself.”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head fondly as she placed the pastries gently onto the counter. “You do have a point, Theo. Draco’s meddling has been quite the persistent feature of my life lately.”

“Ah, but you secretly love it,” Draco interjected confidently, flashing her a playful smirk. “Besides, my meddling has only had your best interests at heart. It's practically altruistic.”

“Practically saintly,” Hermione teased back, her laughter filling the warm space of the bookstore. She felt herself relax more completely than she had in days, comforted by the easy friendship and camaraderie that surrounded her.

Blaise leaned forward conspiratorially, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear. “In case you were worried, Hermione, consider Theo and me your personal bodyguards against the dangerously irresistible Malfoy charm. It clearly runs rampant in that bloodline.”

Draco scowled playfully. “Honestly, with friends like you two, who needs enemies?”

Theo grinned widely, nudging Draco lightly with his elbow. “Oh, stop whining, Draco. You know you're secretly grateful.”

Hermione watched the exchange with amusement and genuine affection, warmth spreading gently through her chest as their easy banter washed away lingering shadows of loneliness. For the first time in days, she felt truly at ease—comforted by the knowledge that, even amidst heartbreak and confusion, her friends would always be there, guiding her through with laughter, pastries, and endless teasing.

Later that evening, when her friends had finally departed after hours filled with laughter, teasing, and quiet reassurances, Hermione found herself alone once more in the quiet sanctuary of her flat. The warmth of their presence still lingered—echoing in the half-empty teacups, the box of leftover pastries on the counter, and the comfortable disarray of cushions where they had lounged and spoken freely.

Yet despite the comfort their company had brought, the silence now felt heavier, filled with unspoken thoughts and emotions she had carefully pushed aside all day.

She moved slowly toward the window, wrapping her arms around herself as she gazed out at the darkened sky. The moon hung low, casting a soft glow over the rooftops, and the stars blinked quietly, as if watching over her in patient understanding. A cool breeze drifted in through the slightly cracked window, stirring the edges of parchment left on her desk.

Her thoughts, no matter how much she tried to resist, inevitably drifted to him.

Lucius.

His name still carried weight in her mind, settling deep in her chest with a mixture of longing, pain, and hesitant hope. The memory of his letter—the rawness, the sincerity of his words—still lingered, replaying over and over in her head. It had been different from his usual controlled elegance, stripped of calculation, laid bare in a way she had never seen before. It had made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t expected.

And that was what scared her the most.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand lightly over her heart, as if she could steady the rapid beat beneath her fingertips. She had spent days trying to reconcile her emotions, trying to separate the Lucius who had betrayed her trust from the Lucius who had also made her feel deeply cherished.

But the truth was, she could not run forever.

It was time, she realized. Time to stop avoiding, to stop hiding behind her fear. Time to face him, to give them both the honest conversation they deserved. Not for his sake, but for hers.

Slowly, carefully, she moved toward her desk, fingers hovering briefly over the parchment before she sat down. The candlelight flickered beside her, casting golden hues over the page as she dipped her quill into ink, hesitating for only a brief second before she began to write.

Lucius,

Perhaps we should finally have that conversation.

If you are willing, so am I.

Hermione

She stared at the words for a long moment, heart pounding at their simplicity—at the door they would inevitably open. She folded the letter neatly, securing it before calling softly to the owl perched by the window.

“Take this to Lucius Malfoy,” she murmured, tying the letter carefully to its leg. The owl hooted softly in response before spreading its wings, launching gracefully into the night.

Hermione stood by the window, watching the bird disappear into the darkness, a nervous, hopeful flutter stirring deep in her chest. She didn’t know what awaited her on the other side of this conversation—didn’t know if this was the beginning of something repaired or the closure she needed to fully walk away.

But she knew one thing for certain.

She was ready.

Ready to confront Lucius directly. Ready to speak honestly, without barriers or pride standing between them. Ready to finally acknowledge what had been broken, what had been real, and what, if anything, could be salvaged.

They stood poised at the edge of possibility, the space between them finally narrowing—not with manipulation or strategy, but with truth.

At last, Hermione felt prepared to face whatever came next—with courage, strength, and, perhaps, even the first steps toward forgiveness.

Chapter Text

Lucius sat in his study, staring blankly at the crackling fire in the hearth, the warmth doing little to thaw the cold weight of regret that had settled in his chest. Days had passed in excruciating silence, each rejection from Hermione a fresh wound, each reminder of what he had lost another blow to his pride—not the superficial arrogance he once carried so effortlessly, but the deeper, more fragile pride he had only recently learned to value.

He had lost her.

And worse, he had no one to blame but himself.

The Manor had never felt so empty. Every lavish hallway, every grand room now seemed to echo with his mistakes, reminding him of what he had foolishly thrown away. He hadn't realized how much life Hermione had brought into his world until she was gone.

He had spent his nights restless, haunted by the look in her eyes that final day—the mix of betrayal, hurt, and something even more devastating: disappointment.

Lucius had never feared failure. He had faced losses, challenges, and disgrace before, but this—losing Hermione—was unlike anything he had ever endured.

And then, a sharp, familiar tapping at the window.

Lucius turned swiftly, his breath catching slightly as he caught sight of the owl perched patiently on the windowsill. His heart pounded, hands tightening on the armrests of his chair. He knew that owl. Hermione’s owl.

He moved quickly, almost knocking over his chair in his haste to reach the window. With a deep breath, he unlatched it, allowing the bird to hop inside gracefully, holding out its leg. Lucius reached for the letter with careful hands, his fingers unsteady as he untied the parchment, his heart hammering so violently he could feel it in his throat.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the folded parchment, as if afraid that opening it would turn it to dust. He had not dared to hope for another response.

With great care, he unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the words slowly, deliberately, as if engraving them into his soul.

Lucius,

Perhaps we should finally have that conversation.

If you are willing, so am I.

Hermione

The breath whooshed from his lungs in relief, his grip on the parchment tightening as he read the words over and over, ensuring he hadn't imagined them.

He sat back heavily in his chair, exhaling sharply, pressing the letter against his lips as his eyes closed for a brief moment. He had expected cold rejection, another sharp rebuff, but this—this was hope.

His mind raced. How should he respond? What should he say? What could he possibly offer that would convince her that he was worth this chance?

He knew this wasn’t forgiveness—not yet. It was simply an opening, a sliver of possibility that he could not afford to squander.

Still gripping the parchment tightly, he stood abruptly, moving toward his desk with renewed energy. He pulled out fresh parchment, his mind already composing the most important response of his life.

His quill hovered for a moment, his breathing steadying as he forced himself to focus. There would be no elaborate words, no attempt at poetic persuasion—just honesty. The truth, stripped bare.

Hermione,

Your letter is the first true breath I have taken in weeks. I know this is not forgiveness—I know this does not erase the pain I have caused you. But your willingness to even consider a conversation is more than I dared hope for, and for that, I am grateful beyond words.

I am at your mercy, Hermione. Say the word, and I will come to you, wherever and whenever you wish. No more arrogance. No more pride. No more games. Only the truth, whatever it may cost me.

Thank you.

Lucius

He sealed the letter quickly, ensuring that he would not second-guess himself.

With a sharp whistle, he called for his owl, tying the parchment securely before sending it off into the night, praying that she would accept this small offering.

Lucius remained standing by the window long after the owl had disappeared, staring out into the darkness, feeling something foreign and unfamiliar settle in his chest.

It was hope.

Fragile, tentative, but real.

For the first time since losing her, he felt as though he had a chance.

The soft tapping at the window startled Hermione out of her thoughts. She had been curled up in her reading chair, a book open in her lap though she hadn’t turned the page in over twenty minutes. Her mind had been elsewhere, drifting through the possibilities of what the upcoming conversation with Lucius might bring.

With a deep breath, she rose and moved toward the window, her stomach tightening as she recognized the owl perched patiently on the ledge. She knew this wasn’t Draco’s owl or a casual delivery—it was his.

Lucius had responded.

She hesitated only for a second before unlatching the window and letting the owl inside. It held out its leg dutifully, waiting as she carefully untied the parchment. The letter was smaller than the last, sealed simply with his initials—no grand embellishments, no unnecessary flourishes. That alone made something tighten in her chest.

Taking a slow breath, she unfolded it, her heart pounding slightly against her ribs as her eyes scanned his familiar script.

"No more arrogance. No more pride. No more games. Only the truth, whatever it may cost me."

Hermione’s fingers clenched around the parchment, her emotions twisting sharply inside her, an ache building deep in her chest. She had prepared herself for another carefully curated response, something measured, something crafted with the precision Lucius Malfoy was known for. She had braced herself for manipulation hidden beneath poetic words or an attempt to charm her back into his favor.

But this… this was something entirely different.

This wasn’t Lucius Malfoy, the composed, infallible man she had known before. This wasn’t the dignified aristocrat who had always held the upper hand, the man who calculated every move before making it. This was someone else entirely. Someone stripped bare, uncertain, and willing to lay himself at her feet, offering no promises beyond the truth.

Her breath shuddered as she reread his words, her vision blurring slightly.

"I am at your mercy, Hermione. Say the word, and I will come to you, wherever and whenever you wish."

The sheer vulnerability in those lines made her throat tighten, a foreign, disarming thing to witness. Lucius Malfoy—a man who had spent a lifetime ensuring he was never at anyone’s mercy—was telling her he would risk everythingfor just a conversation with her.

For her.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

It was both terrifying and painfully disarming.

A part of her—the part that still stung from his betrayal, from the way he had so effortlessly reduced her to a prize in the eyes of his peers—wanted to crumple the letter and be done with it. To walk away completely, to protect herself from whatever damage he could still do if she let him back in.

But the other part of her, the part that had felt something so real, so profound in his presence, couldn’t ignore the weight of sincerity in his words.

What if this was real?

What if the man she had come to love wasn’t just another version of the Lucius Malfoy the world knew, but someone different, someone who had been unraveling right alongside her?

She exhaled sharply, pressing the letter against her chest for a brief moment, grounding herself before she moved toward her desk.

With careful fingers, she smoothed out a fresh sheet of parchment, her quill poised above it, but she hesitated, tapping the end against the wood.

How could she even begin to articulate everything that was racing through her mind?

How could she possibly put into words what it felt like to have trusted someone so completely, only to be reminded of every single reason why she had always been afraid to?

How could she explain the anger, the hurt, the hollow feeling in her chest when she realized he had done the very thing she had spent her entire adult life fighting against—reducing her to a name, a title, a possession rather than a person?

And yet… how could she ignore the way her heart still ached at the thought of him?

Hermione swallowed, gripping the quill tighter.

No, she wouldn’t let this be about emotions she wasn’t ready to untangle yet. This was about truth. About honesty. And if he was truly willing to face that, so was she.

She dipped the quill into the ink, her heart steadying as she finally wrote:

Lucius,

I received your letter, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. Your words were sincere, and I don’t doubt that you meant them.

This hasn’t been easy—for either of us, I imagine. I won’t pretend that what happened didn’t hurt me, or that I’ve moved past it entirely. It caught me off guard in a way I wasn’t prepared for, and I need time to untangle what that means for us.

That being said, I do want to talk. I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t believe that. This isn’t about fixing things overnight or pretending they never happened—it’s about honesty. I need to know that if we are to have any path forward, it is one built on trust, without pretense or expectation.

I’ll be at the bookstore tomorrow evening. If you are truly ready for that kind of honesty, then meet me there after close.

Hermione

She sat back, exhaling slowly as she read the words over, ensuring they said exactly what she needed them to. No promises, no illusions—just the simple truth of where she stood. There was no commitment, no false hope—only the possibility of understanding.

That was all she could offer right now.

And she wasn’t even sure if it would be enough.

Her fingers lingered on the parchment for a moment longer, hesitating—not because she doubted her words, but because sending this letter meant taking the next step. A step toward him, toward whatever conversation awaited them tomorrow. Toward clarity… or toward something that might break her all over again.

She swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts aside, and secured the parchment carefully to the owl’s leg, smoothing its soft feathers gently before whispering, “Take this to him.”

The owl tilted its head, almost as if sensing the weight behind her request, before taking off swiftly into the night, disappearing beyond the glow of the street lamps.

Hermione stood by the window long after it was gone, arms folding tightly over her chest, watching the dark sky stretch endlessly before her. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink, as her thoughts swirled like the cool wind drifting through the open pane.

Tomorrow, she would see him again.

The thought sent a shiver through her—not of fear, but of something far more complicated.

She had spent the last several weeks hurt, furious, and unwilling to let Lucius Malfoy hold space in her heart again. Yet now, standing alone in the quiet stillness of her flat, she realized something unsettling.

She wanted to see him.

She wanted to look into his eyes and determine for herself whether his remorse ran as deep as his words suggested. She wanted to hear his voice, to watch his mannerisms, to see him, unguarded and vulnerable, in a way she had only glimpsed before.

And yet… she wasn’t entirely certain what she hoped would happen next.

Did she want resolution? Closure? A chance to rebuild?

Or did she just want to prove to herself that he could never hurt her again?

The answer remained frustratingly elusive, hanging in the air like the stars above—just out of reach.

Lucius paced the length of his study, his steps measured yet restless, the usual elegance of his movements giving way to something more anxious—more uncertain. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his mind racing with every possible outcome of the letter he had sent. He had prepared himself for silence, for rejection, for another cruelly short note telling him to stay away.

But now, with the night stretching long and unbearable before him, he realized something: he wasn’t prepared for hope.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the study walls, reflecting the turmoil within him. He had spent decades mastering control, ensuring he was never left at the mercy of another’s decisions, yet here he was, heart pounding over the prospect of a single letter from her.

The soft shuffle of footsteps outside his door barely registered until a voice cut through the silence.

"Alright, this is getting pathetic," Draco drawled from the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. "Pacing like a caged animal isn’t going to make the owl arrive any faster, you know."

Lucius exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned to his son. "I assume you're here to mock me."

Draco smirked but stepped further into the room, eyeing his father with a mixture of amusement and something softer—something dangerously close to sympathy. "I wouldn’t dream of it," he said, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I just figured I’d check to make sure you weren’t about to start rearranging the furniture out of sheer desperation."

Lucius scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he forced himself to still. "I am not desperate."

Draco raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Right. And I suppose you’ve just developed a deep and sudden love for repetitive movement?"

Lucius opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, a sharp tap at the window made both men freeze.

Lucius turned immediately, his heart seizing in his chest as his eyes landed on the owl, perched patiently on the ledge, waiting.

Draco whistled lowly. "Well, would you look at that?" He turned to his father, smirking. "Bet you’re regretting that ‘I’m not desperate’ comment now."

Lucius ignored him entirely, striding toward the window with a tension he couldn’t hide. His fingers trembled slightly as he unlatched it, allowing the owl to hop onto his desk, its bright eyes watching him intently.

He swallowed, carefully untying the parchment from its leg as Draco stepped closer, watching the entire exchange with an almost annoyingly smug curiosity.

Lucius stared at the folded letter for a long moment, as if merely holding it would prepare him for whatever Hermione had written. He took a slow, steadying breath before unfolding the parchment and reading.

Lucius exhaled, tension flooding from his body all at once. His grip on the parchment tightened, his fingers ghosting over her signature as if committing each curve of her handwriting to memory.

“She wants to meet,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Draco peered over his shoulder, reading quickly before stepping back with a satisfied smirk. "Well, that’s promising. I mean, she’s not inviting you over for wine and candlelight, but at least she’s not setting your letter on fire."

Lucius shot him a look but couldn’t quite bring himself to feel irritated. Not when Hermione wanted to see him.

A chance.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t reconciliation. But it was something, and something was more than he had yesterday.

Draco leaned against the desk, watching his father closely. "Alright, so what’s your move?"

Lucius let out a slow breath, setting the letter down with careful precision. "I will respond, of course," he murmured, already reaching for parchment.

"Obviously," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I meant tomorrow. What’s your move when you see her? What’s the plan?"

Lucius hesitated, staring at the blank parchment in front of him. For the first time in his life, he had no strategy. No carefully laid-out steps. No assured outcome.

For the first time in his life, he was not the one in control.

Draco watched the hesitation flicker across his father’s face and sighed. "Look, I know you’re probably thinking about grand speeches and dramatic declarations, but if you want my advice?"

Lucius glanced at him warily. "Do I?"

Draco ignored the comment. "Just go in with the truth. No games, no charm, no Malfoy arrogance. Just you—no embellishment, no calculated moves."

Lucius tapped his fingers lightly against the desk, considering. "And you think that will be enough?"

Draco’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. "I think if you truly love her, and you show her that in the right way—without expectations—then yes, it might just be."

Lucius nodded slowly, the weight of the upcoming conversation pressing fully upon him now. He had to get this right. There was no second chance after this.

With renewed determination, he dipped his quill into the ink and carefully penned his reply.

Hermione,

Thank you for allowing me the chance to speak with you. I know this is not easy, nor do I take this lightly. I will meet you tomorrow evening at the bookstore, and whatever you need from me in that moment—answers, explanations, honesty—you will have it.

No pretense. No expectations. Only the truth.

Lucius

Lucius sealed the letter, tying it securely to the owl’s leg before releasing it into the night. He stood at the window long after the bird had vanished, the weight of tomorrow pressing heavily upon him.

"Well," Draco said, stretching slightly as he turned to leave. "At least you’re making progress. Let’s just hope you don’t screw it up."

Lucius huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Your faith in me is overwhelming."

Draco smirked. "You’re lucky I have any at all."

With that, he strode out, leaving Lucius alone with his thoughts.

Tomorrow, he would see her again.

And for the first time in his life, he had no idea what would happen next.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy had always been a man of routine—his mornings were structured, his days planned with meticulous precision. But this morning, nothing felt routine.

He woke earlier than usual, staring at the ceiling as the dawn light crept through the heavy drapes of his bedroom. His body was still, but his mind raced relentlessly, churning through every possible scenario for tonight’s conversation.

Would Hermione still be angry? Would she even be open to hearing him out, or had she simply agreed for closure? Would he be able to say everything he needed to without ruining things further?

One thing was certain—he was not going into this conversation with the intention of convincing her. He had no grand plan, no calculated moves, no expectation that one night could undo the damage of his mistakes.

He just wanted her to see him—to see what she meant to him, how much he had changed, how much he needed her in his life.

Lucius sighed deeply, pushing himself up from the bed. He ran a hand through his silver hair, staring into the mirror across the room. He suddenly found himself second-guessing everything, including what to wear.

He smirked bitterly at the thought—since when did he care what he wore to impress someone? But this wasn’t just anyone.

This was Hermione.

And for once, he didn’t care about looking powerful—he cared about looking honest.

His fingers lingered over a deep navy suit before shaking his head. Too formal. A softer grey? More approachable.

He opened his wardrobe fully, eyes drifting over the dozens of tailored suits, silk cravats, and finely pressed robes. Everything about this collection screamed Lucius Malfoy—elegance, control, status.

But tonight wasn’t about status. Tonight was about her.

And suddenly, an idea struck him. An idea so foreign, so utterly out of character that it almost made him laugh—except he was seriously considering it.

Lucius Malfoy, in Muggle jeans.

The very thought was absurd. And yet… he knew Hermione would appreciate the gesture, if not find it downright amusing.

He smirked, running a hand through his hair. Well, if he was going to do this, he needed help.

With an air of resigned determination, he strode toward the door and summoned Draco.

A few minutes later, Draco strolled into his father’s room, expression bored until he saw the pile of denim sitting atop the bed. He stopped dead, blinking slowly as if trying to process what he was seeing.

"Father…?" he started cautiously, dragging his gaze from the offensive material to Lucius’s face. "Are you feeling well?"

Lucius exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. "I need your opinion on something."

Draco gestured toward the jeans like they were a dangerous artifact. "Is this a cry for help? Should I fetch a Healer?"

Lucius shot him a warning glare. "Draco."

Draco raised his hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face didn’t fade. "Alright, alright. I’ll bite. Why in Merlin’s name are you considering dressing like—" he gestured vaguely, "—a commoner?"

Lucius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Because tonight isn’t about appearances. It’s about showing Hermione that I am willing to meet her on her terms, not mine."

Draco raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. "So, you’re dressing as a Muggle to… prove a point?"

"Not a Muggle," Lucius corrected stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with the phrase. "Just… less like myself. Less like the man she believes only cares about control and status."

Draco let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. "I never thought I’d live to see the day Lucius Malfoy willingly wore denim."

Lucius scoffed. "I never thought I’d live to see the day you played matchmaker, yet here we are."

Draco rolled his eyes but grinned, shaking his head. "Alright, fine. Let’s get this over with. Let’s find you a pair that doesn’t make you look entirely ridiculous."

Lucius stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his grey cashmere sweater, looking almost… unsure.

Draco stood beside him, arms crossed, still clearly amused but giving his approval nonetheless.

"Well?" Lucius asked, glancing at his reflection critically. "Do I look… presentable?"

Draco tilted his head, giving his father a once-over. The black jeans, well-fitted but comfortable, were paired with the soft grey sweater, a departure from his usual sharp, structured suits. It was still Lucius Malfoy, but different—less calculated, more human.

"Honestly?" Draco smirked. "It’s disturbingly normal. You actually look like someone who reads in coffee shops and has feelings."

Lucius shot him a dry look. "Charming. Truly. Do I at least look… appropriate?"

Draco let out a thoughtful hum before nodding. "It works. You don’t look like you’re trying too hard, but it’s obvious you put in the effort." He smirked. "And let’s be honest—Hermione’s going to lose her mind when she sees you in jeans."

Lucius allowed a small smile to tug at his lips. "I imagine she will find it… amusing."

Draco shook his head with a grin, stepping back. "Well, old man, I’d say you’re ready for your big moment. Try not to ruin it."

Lucius straightened, smoothing out the front of his sweater. "I don’t intend to."

Draco studied him for a moment before nodding. "Good. Because she means more to you than that ridiculous pride you used to carry, doesn’t she?"

Lucius’s expression softened, his voice quieter. "Yes. She does."

Draco smirked, satisfied. "Then don’t fuck it up."

Lucius let out a breath, glancing at himself once more in the mirror.

Tonight, he wasn’t going as Lucius Malfoy, the proud, untouchable aristocrat.

Tonight, he was just Lucius—a man trying to prove he was worthy of the woman he loved.

And for the first time in his life, that was all that mattered.

Hermione woke with a strange mix of nerves and anticipation settling in her chest, the kind that made her feel restless before she was even fully awake. She stretched her limbs, forcing herself to sit up, blinking against the early morning light filtering through the curtains.

The thought of seeing him again tonight was overwhelming.

She had spent so long convincing herself that she didn’t need to see him—that she could move past this, put it behind her, and rebuild without allowing Lucius Malfoy a place in her life. And yet, here she was, hours away from choosing to meet him again. Allowing him a conversation.

It wasn’t about forgiveness. Not yet.

She needed clarity.

She wanted to look him in the eyes and see if his words matched his heart. She wanted to hear the truth directly from him, unfiltered by her own pain, untainted by the ink of the Daily Prophet. She wanted answers to the questions that had plagued her since that awful article—questions that had kept her up at night, replaying in a vicious loop.

But beyond that, what did she want?

Did she want him to fight for her? Did she want him to prove that this was more than just regret—that she was more than just a mistake he wished to correct?

Or did she just want closure—the finality of knowing, with certainty, that they could never go back to what they were?

She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples. She didn’t know.

And that was the part that scared her the most.

She had always been someone who knew. Knew what she wanted, what was right, what was wrong. She was logical, methodical, thoughtful in every decision she made.

But when it came to Lucius Malfoy, logic didn’t seem to matter.

She sighed, pushing the thoughts away for now as she made her way to her closet, yanking it open with more force than necessary. Only then did she realize—she hadn’t even thought about what to wear.

She stood there, staring at the rows of neatly arranged clothes, her mind spiraling into another round of internal debate.

Casual or polished? Soft or guarded?

The choice of clothing felt symbolic—armor or vulnerability?

She could dress as though this meeting meant nothing. Cool, detached, effortless. She could make it clear that she was unaffected, that whatever happened tonight was purely transactional—just a conversation, nothing more.

Or she could let herself be seen. Let herself be open to the possibility that this wasn’t the end, that there was more to be said, more to be understood.

Her fingers drifted toward her structured, high-neck blouses—the ones she wore when she wanted to project confidence, professionalism, control. But something about them felt wrong tonight. Too stiff, too impersonal.

Instead, she reached for something softer—a warm, earth-toned sweater that felt like her. It wasn’t formal, wasn’t calculated—it was comfortable, real. She paired it with fitted trousers, something simple yet put together. Nothing too formal, nothing too inviting.

Just her.

And that, she decided, was the version of herself she needed to be tonight.

Not the woman still aching with hurt.

Not the woman who wanted to guard herself against further disappointment.

Just Hermione—someone who had loved and lost, someone who was willing to listen, someone who deserved honesty.

The familiar chime of the bookstore door jingled, momentarily pulling Hermione from her thoughts as she tucked a newly arrived copy of Ancient Magical Architecture onto the shelf. Before she could even turn around, the sound of two distinct voices, filled with equal parts mischief and entitlement, made her sigh in recognition.

“Granger, darling,” Theo’s voice was smooth, teasing, already laced with amusement. “We come bearing gifts.”

Hermione turned, eyebrows raised as she took in Theo and Blaise, both looking far too pleased with themselves. Theo carried a bag from her favorite café, placing it onto the counter with an exaggerated flourish, while Blaise leaned against a nearby shelf, arms crossed, smirking in that infuriatingly charming way of his.

“Brought you lunch,” Theo announced grandly, as if bestowing her with the highest honor.

Blaise tilted his head, feigning innocence. “And before you ask—no, it’s not a bribe. Unless it works, in which case, yes, it absolutely is.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, though amusement tugged at her lips. “Alright, I’ll bite. What am I being bribed for?”

Theo leaned on the counter, his gaze far too knowing, fingers tapping lazily against the wooden surface. “To spill whatever it is that’s making you look so contemplative this morning.”

Blaise nodded, his smirk widening. “Agreed. You’ve been lost in thought since we walked in. Which means one of two things: either you’re plotting someone’s untimely demise, or—” He paused dramatically, watching as Hermione groaned, already knowing what was coming. “—you’re meeting Lucius tonight.”

Hermione sighed, long and pointed, before reaching for the sandwich in the bag. “You’re impossible.”

“So it’s true?” Theo’s expression shifted slightly, the teasing edge softening into something more serious. “You’re actually meeting him?”

Hermione nodded, taking a careful sip of her tea before answering. “After I sent the letter, he responded almost immediately. He’ll be here when I close up the shop.”

Blaise and Theo exchanged a quick glance, one of those silent conversations they often had between them—one Hermione had long since given up trying to decipher.

Blaise was the first to speak again, this time with a touch more caution. “And how do you feel about it?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers smoothing over the wax paper of her sandwich as if gathering her thoughts. “I… miss him.” The admission felt heavier than she expected, sitting somewhere between longing and hesitation.

She exhaled slowly, watching as her own honesty settled between them before continuing. “But I’m still hurt. I’m still not sure how to trust what he says. That’s what tonight is about—I need to see if his words match his actions.”

Theo studied her for a long moment, his usual amusement giving way to something quieter, more thoughtful. Finally, he nodded in approval. “Fair. Just… make sure you don’t go into this expecting too much or too little. Give yourself the space to feel whatever you feel.”

Blaise, however, wasn’t one for serious emotional conversations for long. He leaned against the counter, smirking once again. “And if he says something idiotic, let us know. We’ll hex him. Respectfully, of course.”

Hermione laughed, feeling lighter than she had all day. Somehow, even when they were at their most insufferable, Blaise and Theo had a way of making everything less daunting, less suffocating.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, shaking her head.

For the first time that day, the weight of what was coming didn’t feel quite as unbearable.

The bookstore had been busy as the evening hours stretched on. Hermione had spent most of the afternoon distracting herself with work, focusing on shelving, reorganizing displays, and helping customers find their perfect book. But as the last customer gathered their things and stepped out into the cool evening air, a different kind of weight settled over her.

This was it.

She moved toward the door, gripping the CLOSED sign before flipping it—but she didn’t lock it.

Instead, she took a deep breath, stepping back.

She was ready.

Or at least, she thought she was.

But the moment she caught sight of him outside the glass, her breath hitched in her throat.

Lucius.

At first, her brain barely registered anything beyond the usual striking presence of him—silver hair catching the glow of the streetlamp, his tall, imposing frame, the careful way he carried himself, exuding elegance with every breath. But then… she noticed something else.

Her stomach dipped.

He wasn’t wearing his usual finely tailored suit. No pristine black robes, no expensive cufflinks or silk cravat.

Lucius Malfoy was wearing jeans.

And, bloody hell, he looked good in them.

The dark, fitted denim hugged him in a way that made her want to curse out loud, and the soft grey cashmere sweater he had paired it with only added to her frustration. It made him look… approachable. Casual.

Unfairly attractive.

Hermione blinked, stunned, her mind short-circuiting for a brief second as she desperately tried to process the image before her.

She had spent years knowing him as a man of polished arrogance, of impeccable robes and controlled elegance—yet here he was, standing outside her shop, wearing denim and holding flowers.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream. She wanted to be unaffected, unimpressed, unmoved.

But she wasn’t.

Their eyes met through the glass, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, Hermione stepped forward and opened the door.

Lucius hesitated, searching her expression for any hint of where she stood before finally stepping inside. The shop’s warm light cast shadows over his face, highlighting the lines of tension near his mouth, the quiet storm in his eyes.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he said softly.

Hermione’s gaze flickered over the bouquet in his hands—not red roses, thankfully—but soft, elegant white blooms intertwined with delicate greenery. Thoughtful.

But her mind was still stuck on the damn jeans.

Her lips twitched, and before she could stop herself, she let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as she gave him a once-over.

"Lucius Malfoy," she mused, arms crossing over her chest, eyes still full of disbelief. "In denim. I truly never thought I’d live to see the day."

Lucius smirked just slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement, though his eyes remained steady—watching her carefully, cautiously.

"I suspected you might find it either endearing or hilarious," he admitted smoothly, "and either way, I thought it would earn me at least one smile."

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

"That desperate, are you?"

Lucius exhaled a soft chuckle, stepping slightly closer. "You have no idea."

Her stomach flipped unhelpfully, her grip tightening slightly around the bouquet.

She cleared her throat. “Another apology?”

Lucius exhaled, shaking his head. “No. Just… a gesture. No expectations, no meaning beyond the fact that I wanted you to have them.”

She studied him for a long moment before slowly taking the bouquet, her fingers brushing his lightly. The brief contact sent an unwelcome but familiar warmth up her arm, making her curse herself again.

She straightened, forcing herself back to the present. “We should talk.”

Lucius nodded. “Yes. We should.”

As she led him toward the back of the shop, toward the conversation that could change everything, Hermione felt the strangest sensation settle over her.

She wasn’t sure if it was fear or hope.

Perhaps a little of both.

Chapter Text

The bookstore felt smaller somehow as Hermione led Lucius toward the back, weaving through rows of bookshelves, her fingers tightening slightly around the bouquet he had given her. The delicate white blooms brushed softly against her knuckles, their scent light yet distracting—much like the man walking just behind her.

She refused to let her mind drift back to the damn jeans.

It was almost cruel, really. She had spent the past several days fortifying herself, preparing for this conversation, for the confrontation that she knew would leave her feeling raw, vulnerable, uncertain. And then he had to show up like this—in casual clothes, looking like a man rather than the aristocratic, untouchable figure she had tried so hard to keep at a distance.

Lucius followed her in silence, his steps deliberate, measured, yet she could feel the weight of his presence pressing against her—not imposing, not demanding, but waiting. Cautious. Restrained.

That alone was unsettling.

The Lucius Malfoy she had known was a man who commanded a room the moment he stepped into it, who spoke with the ease of someone who never expected to be challenged. And yet, tonight, there was none of that arrogance.

Just him. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

She swallowed, leading them into the small seating area at the back of the shop. The glow of the hanging light overhead cast a warm, golden hue over the well-worn wooden table, illuminating the space in a way that felt too intimate, too delicate for the weight of the conversation ahead.

Hermione set the bouquet down carefully, almost too carefully, as if stalling for time. She inhaled deeply before turning to face him.

Lucius stood there, watching her, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

He looked composed—but not in the way she was used to.

The Lucius she had known was always composed, always precise, his expression carefully controlled, his emotions buried beneath layers of elegance and calculation.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she could see something raw beneath the surface, something he was barely keeping in check.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Hermione wasn’t sure who would break first, but the tension in the air was thick and suffocating, pressing against her ribs with an almost unbearable weight.

Finally, she sighed, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Lucius followed, lowering himself into the seat across from her.

She studied him, really looked at him.

And what she saw disarmed her completely.

The usually immaculate Lucius Malfoy, the man who carried himself like he was untouchable, now sat before her in Muggle jeans, a soft grey sweater, and something even more unexpected—uncertainty.

It was infuriating.

And unsettling.

She was supposed to be angry, wasn’t she? Furious. Unyielding. Prepared to hold onto that pain and wield it like a shield.

But somehow, the sight of him like this—stripped of his usual pretense, his usual arrogance—made her feel something far more complicated.

Her breath was steady, but her pulse wasn’t.

She exhaled slowly, folding her hands on the table, trying to push past the storm of emotions rising within her.

The truth was, she had never seen him like this before. And if she wasn’t careful, it might make her forget why she had been so angry to begin with.

Hermione inhaled slowly, steadying herself against the weight of the moment. Her fingers curled slightly against her palm, a small, barely noticeable movement—but one that betrayed the storm of emotions stirring inside her.

"Alright," she said, her voice steady, carefully controlled. "I'm here. You're here. Say what you need to say."

Lucius nodded, his throat working as he swallowed, as if the words he needed to say were difficult to force past his lips. His posture was deliberate, measured, but Hermione could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed slightly against the table before settling, like a man trying desperately to maintain control of something slipping through his grasp.

"I owe you more than an apology, Hermione," he began, his voice lower than usual, softer—careful in a way that Lucius Malfoy rarely was. "And I know that words alone cannot fix what I’ve broken."

Hermione said nothing, just tilted her head slightly—waiting.

Lucius exhaled, rubbing his fingers together before forcing himself to meet her gaze directly.

"I want to start by saying that what I said that night—what you read in the Prophet—it was never my intention to diminish what we had." His jaw tightened slightly, like he was angry with himself for the memory of it. "I was arrogant. Thoughtless. And I let my pride make a mockery of something that had become—" He paused, as if the next words were heavy on his tongue, as if saying them aloud made them more real. "—something that had become the most important thing in my life."

Hermione’s chest tightened, but she didn’t look away.

Lucius continued, his fingers pressing lightly against the table’s surface, as if grounding himself, as if forcing himself to stay in this moment rather than retreat behind carefully chosen words.

"I was a fool," he admitted, his voice raw, stripped of the precision and control he so often wielded like armor. "I allowed myself to fall into old habits—habitual arrogance, posturing for men whose opinions mean nothing to me anymore. And in doing so, I destroyed the one thing I never wanted to lose."

Hermione let out a quiet breath, her expression unreadable.

"You hurt me," she said simply, her voice steady, but laced with something undeniably real.

Lucius’s jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. "I know."

"You made me feel like—" She hesitated, gathering herself before continuing. "Like I was just another conquest. Another object to win."

Lucius flinched.

Actually flinched.

She had expected a reaction, but not this one—not this sharp, visible recoil as though her words had physically struck him.

"That was never my intention," he said quickly, his voice almost urgent now, his composure cracking at the edges. "You were never a game to me, Hermione. Never. But I spoke thoughtlessly, and I allowed my past—who I was—to infect something that should have remained untouched by that kind of ugliness."

Hermione studied him, searching his face, his eyes, looking for any sign of deception, any trace of the man who had let her down so profoundly that night.

She found none.

Instead, she found remorse.

Sincerity.

Pain.

She swallowed, her fingers pressing lightly against the table’s worn surface. "Do you even understand why it hurt me so much?"

Lucius exhaled sharply, nodding without hesitation.

"Because you’ve spent your life being seen as something to claim. The war hero. The Golden Girl. You never wanted to be reduced to just that, and I—" He looked away for half a second, before forcing himself to meet her eyes again. "—I made you feel like you were."

The truth of it hit harder than she expected.

Because he did understand.

And that, somehow, made it both easier and harder all at once.

Hermione swallowed, her throat tight, her fingers lightly tracing a knot in the grain of the wooden table.

"You did," she admitted quietly. "For a moment, you made me feel like I was nothing more than my name. My title."

Lucius’s fingers curled into tight fists before slowly relaxing. "That is my greatest regret," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "That I made you doubt what we had—even for a moment."

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She wanted to hold onto her anger. She had spent days wrapping herself in it, using it to protect herself from the ache in her chest, the lingering memory of how easily Lucius’s words had unraveled everything between them.

But the man sitting before her now wasn’t the man who had hurt her.

He wasn’t the man who had spoken so carelessly in that lounge, boasting for an audience he didn’t even respect.

This Lucius was different—open, unsteady, and fully aware of what he had done.

And that terrified her.

Because it meant she had to decide—not whether she could forgive him, but whether she even wanted to.

For the first time in the conversation, she looked away, staring at the bouquet still resting beside her, the delicate white petals soft and uncomplicated in a way she envied.

"You can’t take it back," she murmured.

"I know."

"You can’t undo it."

"I don’t want to undo it," Lucius said quietly. "I want to be better than it."

Hermione’s fingers trembled slightly against the table.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust that the Lucius sitting before her was the real one, not the man who had once reduced her to a prize in the hands of powerful men.

But trust wasn’t something that could be given back in an instant.

It had to be rebuilt.

And she wasn’t sure if she was ready to start.

She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze again. "I don’t know where that leaves us."

Lucius studied her carefully, his voice quiet, measured. "Then let me show you."

Her breath hitched slightly at the certainty in his tone—not demanding, not expectant. Just offering.

Offering her the choice.

And for the first time since this entire mess had begun, Hermione realized—it was hers to make.

Hermione stared at him, his words hanging heavy in the space between them.

"Then let me show you."

It was a simple sentence, devoid of his usual flourishes, lacking the careful curation she had come to expect from Lucius Malfoy. And yet, it felt more powerful than any declaration he could have made.

Because there was no expectation in it.

No demands. No attempts to persuade her with charm or wit or carefully chosen words.

Just him, stripped bare, asking her to let him prove himself.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she traced an idle pattern along the tabletop with her fingertips.

"You say that now," she murmured, her voice quiet, contemplative. "That you want to show me. That you want to be better than what happened." She swallowed, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "But what happens when this moment is gone? When I’m no longer angry? When the guilt of what you said isn’t pressing down on you?"

Lucius flinched slightly, just barely, but enough that she saw it.

"You’re used to control, Lucius. Used to having the upper hand. I need to know that this isn’t just a reaction to your mistake. That you won’t fall back into old habits when things aren’t—" she hesitated, searching for the right word, "—difficult."

Lucius nodded slowly, absorbing her words with a quiet thoughtfulness she wasn’t sure she had ever seen in him before. His fingers flexed slightly against the table, his expression unreadable for a long moment before he finally spoke.

"You’re right," he admitted, his voice rough around the edges, as if forcing himself to say something uncomfortable but necessary. "I have lived my life in control. And I was arrogant enough to think that what we had was untouchable, that I would never be in a position where I had to fight for something that mattered." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I was wrong."

Hermione’s chest tightened.

"And that’s why this scares me," she whispered, feeling the words tumble out before she could stop them. "Because I did trust you, Lucius. I trusted you completely. And then, suddenly, I didn’t. Suddenly, I was just—" She clenched her jaw, looking away briefly. "I was just another thing for you to add to your collection."

Lucius closed his eyes for a brief second, as if the weight of that realization physically pained him.

"You were never that," he said firmly, reopening his eyes and meeting hers without hesitation. "Not to me. Not for a single moment. I know my words that night made it seem otherwise, and I will never forgive myself for that. But Hermione, I have spent every day since losing you realizing just how much I need you to understand that I never—never—saw you that way."

She wanted to believe him.

Merlin, she wanted to believe him so badly.

But trust wasn’t something she could just give him again.

She took a shaky breath, choosing her next words carefully. "I’m not asking for promises, Lucius. I don’t want words—I’ve had enough of those." She swallowed, feeling her heart hammer in her chest. "I want to see it. I want to know, not just tonight, not just when it’s fresh, but when it’s hard. When it’s inconvenient. When it’s easy to fall back into old habits."

Lucius nodded, his expression unreadable, but the sincerity in his eyes unwavering. "Then I’ll show you," he said again, but this time, it wasn’t a plea.

It was a vow.

Hermione inhaled deeply, feeling the tension in her shoulders lessen just slightly.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

Not yet.

But maybe—just maybe—it was the first step toward something real.

She leaned back, exhaling softly. "Alright," she murmured. "Then show me."

Lucius’s lips parted slightly, as if he had expected another wall, another barrier between them, but instead, she had given him something he hadn’t dared to hope for—a chance.

A flicker of something passed through his expression—relief, determination, gratitude—before he nodded once, firm and certain.

"I will," he said simply.

And for the first time in weeks, Hermione felt something unfamiliar but unmistakable.

Hope.

The silence that settled between them wasn’t heavy this time—it wasn’t suffocating like it had been when she first sat across from him, bracing herself for whatever would come of this conversation. Instead, it felt… lighter. Uncertain, but open.

Hermione exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the table as she nodded to herself. “Alright,” she murmured, more to solidify her own thoughts than anything else. “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Lucius inclined his head slightly. “I agree,” he said softly, though there was something in his eyes—a quiet reluctance. He didn’t want to leave, she realized. But he wasn’t going to push either.

She stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her sweater, feeling the weight of everything they had discussed settle comfortably instead of painfully in her chest. “I’ll walk you out.”

Lucius followed her through the shop, steps deliberate but slower than before, as if neither of them quite knew how to end this moment. As they reached the front door, Hermione hesitated, pressing a hand lightly against the wooden frame before turning to face him.

Lucius met her gaze, his lips curving into something almost amused, though his expression remained careful, searching. “Would it be wildly presumptuous if I asked to kiss your hand?”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Lucius, you’re wearing jeans, and you still manage to be the most dramatic person I know.”

Lucius smirked, but before he could say anything else, Hermione leaned up on her toes and placed a soft, lingering kiss against his cheek.

It was gentle, brief, but deliberate. A silent acknowledgment of everything they had just worked through—everything still left to figure out.

When she pulled back, she smiled at him, something small but real. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For… this. For being honest.”

Lucius let out a slow breath, something like relief passing over his features. “I should be the one thanking you.”

She shook her head but said nothing, opening the door for him.

Lucius stepped outside, adjusting the cuffs of his sweater as he prepared to apparate—only to pause when he noticed something across the street.

Hermione followed his gaze and immediately burst into laughter.

Leaning casually against the building opposite the shop, watching them unabashedly, stood Theo, Draco, and Blaise—arms crossed, smirking, and looking far too pleased with themselves.

Theo lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

Lucius sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as Hermione laughed harder, pressing a hand against her stomach.

Draco stepped forward slightly, eyes narrowing playfully at his father. “You’re lucky she’s still smiling. Otherwise, I’d say we’d have to follow through on that hexing threat.”

Blaise tilted his head. “We still could. Just for fun.”

Lucius exhaled sharply, looking entirely unamused, but Hermione was still grinning, shaking her head as she turned to them. “You three are unbelievable.”

Theo smirked. “You were alone in a closed shop with a Malfoy. We had to make sure you were still alive.”

Lucius sighed again, rubbing his temple. “I don’t suppose I should expect any level of discretion from any of you?”

Draco smirked. “Absolutely not.”

Hermione giggled, and for the first time in weeks, Lucius felt something warm settle inside him at the sound.

He turned back to her, expression softer, but still controlled. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Lucius,” she replied, still smiling.

He took a step away, preparing to leave, but before he could fully turn, Hermione called after him, voice laced with amusement.

“Oh, and Lucius?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

She bit her lip, eyes flicking over his frame in mock assessment before grinning. “You should wear jeans more often.”

Lucius smirked, something knowing flashing in his gaze, and without another word, he disapparated—leaving Hermione standing in the doorway, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

And as he stepped back into the Manor, Lucius Malfoy—for the first time in a very long time—felt something more than just regret.

He felt purpose.

Chapter Text

Lucius hadn’t slept much.

Not because he was upset or tormented—no, this was different.

He had spent most of the night in his study, staring into the dying fire, replaying the details of last night over and over again, dissecting every word, every glance, every pause.

The way Hermione had looked at him—guarded, but listening.

The way she had challenged him, pushed him, forced him to be honest, stripping away his usual armor with nothing but her unwavering stare and sharp mind.

And, of course—that comment.

"You should wear jeans more often."

Lucius smirked to himself, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his silver hair, the warmth of that moment lingering in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected.

Merlin, she had always been dangerous.

She had made him question things before—his beliefs, his assumptions, his very way of seeing the world. But now? Now she was making him question things as small as his damn wardrobe choices.

And the worst part?

He didn’t mind.

Not at all.

Because for the first time in years, Lucius wasn’t entirely in control—and yet, as unsettling as that should have been, he found that he was… hopeful.

Hopeful, because Hermione hadn’t told him to leave and never come back.

Hopeful, because she had walked him to the door instead of dismissing him outright.

Hopeful, because he had seen the way her expression had softened, the way her walls—while still standing firm—hadn’t been entirely impenetrable.

Hopeful, because—for the first time in longer than he could remember—he had a real chance to prove himself.

He just had to be patient.

And patience, for a man who had spent his entire life shaping the world to fit his desires, would be his greatest challenge yet.

But for Hermione Granger?

He would learn.

Because for the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy knew what it meant to truly fight for something worth having.

By mid-afternoon, Hermione had managed to throw herself into her work, letting the familiar routine of shelving and organizing soothe her thoughts. There was something comforting about the order of books—the way they always had a designated place, the way things could be neatly arranged, stacked, categorized. Unlike her feelings, which remained stubbornly chaotic.

She had just placed a fresh stack of newly arrived books onto the counter when the familiar chime of the bookstore door echoed through the quiet space.

Two all-too-familiar figures strolled in like they owned the place—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely out of character for them.

Hermione didn’t even bother looking up.

"Twice in two days?" she said dryly, still flipping through the pages of the book she was cataloging. "What an honor."

"Don’t flatter yourself," Theo said smoothly, plopping into one of the reading chairs with far too much ease, stretching out his legs like he had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

"We came to make sure Malfoy Senior didn’t break you emotionally beyond repair after you had the night to process," he added, crossing one ankle over the other.

Blaise, already grinning, strolled up to the counter, leaning against it with an air of amusement. "I did offer to hex him, but for some reason, you seemed to be in good spirits last night."

Hermione rolled her eyes, finally closing the book she had been scanning through. She crossed her arms, fixing them both with a look.

"I don’t need protecting, you two," she said with mild exasperation. "I’m perfectly capable of handling Lucius Malfoy myself."

"Oh, we don’t doubt that," Theo said easily, grinning. "But we’re nosy, and you know it."

Blaise nodded, as if this were an unarguable fact. "Exactly. You know how much we love a good scandal."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head, but despite herself, she smiled. "It was… a conversation. A good one, actually."

Theo and Blaise exchanged a quick glance, their expressions shifting just enough to make her immediately regret saying anything.

"Good?" Blaise repeated, feigning shock. "Well, that’s unexpected."

Theo hummed in agreement. "Honestly, I thought it would end in either dramatic heartbreak or passionate snogging."

Hermione’s cheeks burned immediately, and she hated that they had the power to make her embarrassed so easily.

"Oh, for Merlin’s sake—" she began, shaking her head.

Blaise, grinning wickedly, cut her off with obnoxious delight. "So no dramatic heartbreak, then?"

Theo elbowed him, but his gaze was more serious when he turned back to her. "So, where does that leave things?"

Hermione exhaled, running a hand through her curls, trying to collect her thoughts.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "But I told him to show me. If he really meant what he said, I told him I need to see it, not hear it."

Blaise considered this for a moment before nodding approvingly, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful.

"Smart," he said finally. "Malfoys are notoriously good liars, but actions? Those are harder to manipulate."

Hermione shrugged. "Exactly."

Theo watched her closely, his gaze sharp, assessing. Then, slowly, a smirk crept across his face.

"So…" he drawled, leaning forward slightly. "Are you planning on seeing him again?"

Hermione hesitated.

She felt Blaise’s eyes on her, felt Theo’s annoyingly smug anticipation, and hated that she knew what they wanted her to say.

But she also hated lying to herself.

Finally, after a long pause, she sighed and admitted the truth.

"I think so," she murmured.

Theo’s grin widened instantly. "Ah. Intriguing."

Blaise smirked. "A slippery slope, Granger. Next thing you know, you’ll be shopping for cravats and drinking the expensive wine."

Hermione rolled her eyes, grabbing the nearest book and lightly swatting Blaise on the arm with it. “Oh, do shut up."

Their laughter filled the store, and despite everything—despite the uncertainty, despite the unresolved emotions still lingering in her chest—Hermione felt lighter.

Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as lost as she thought.

The bell above the bookstore door chimed once again, but this time, Hermione didn’t even have to look up.

She felt him before she saw him—the shift in the air, the quiet power of his presence settling into the space.

Theo and Blaise, who had been midway through yet another interrogation, immediately straightened, turning toward the entrance just as Lucius Malfoy stepped inside.

And Merlin help her, he was still in the damn jeans.

Hermione barely restrained her expression, but Theo—who had never been one for subtlety—let out a low, dramatic whistle. "Well, well. Would you look at that? He kept the casual look. I almost feel honored to witness history."

Blaise smirked, crossing his arms. "I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned."

Lucius cast them both a dry glance, but his focus shifted almost immediately back to Hermione, his gaze steady, searching, intent.

"Hermione," he greeted, his voice warm but composed, as if he had spent the last several hours preparing himself for this moment.

"Lucius," she returned, feeling strangely breathless despite herself.

Theo and Blaise exchanged a glance, clearly far too entertained by this entire exchange, but Lucius ignored them, his full attention locked onto her.

"I came to see if you’d allow me the honor of your company tonight," Lucius said smoothly, his voice lower, softer, but still tinged with that undeniable confidence that always lingered beneath his words.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard, though the warmth in her chest told her she had already made up her mind before she even answered.

"Dinner?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Lucius nodded once, his gaze flickering over her face. "At the Manor. Just the two of us." A pause. "Unless, of course, you suspect me of nefarious intentions, in which case, I’m sure your watchdogs—" he gestured toward Blaise and Theo with an elegant tilt of his head, "—will be more than happy to unexpectedly drop in and check on you. Again."

Theo and Blaise snorted at the not-so-subtle jab.

"You have to admit, Malfoy," Blaise said, grinning. "That was an iconic move on our part."

Lucius sighed heavily, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "Yes, well, if you insist on repeating the performance, I would ask that you at least wait until after dessert before barging in this time."

Theo smirked. "Noted. So what time should we plan our ‘unexpected’ visit?"

Lucius smirked right back. "Dinner should conclude around eleven. If you arrive at precisely 11:01, I will not be surprised."

Blaise laughed, nudging Theo. "Damn. We’ve been called out."

Hermione, despite herself, laughed too, shaking her head as she crossed her arms.

Lucius turned back to her, his gaze softening just slightly, something almost reverent flickering in his expression. "I missed that," he said quietly.

Hermione paused, her amusement fading into something more tender.

"Missed what?" she asked.

Lucius’s lips curved faintly, his gaze unwavering. "Your laugh."

Something in her chest tightened, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she could trust herself to speak.

So instead, she just nodded. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet understanding.

Lucius inclined his head, taking one step back, but his presence still lingered heavily in the space between them.

"I’ll see you tonight, then," he said smoothly, his voice laced with something deeper, something Hermione wasn’t ready to name.

She inhaled, feeling light, warm, anticipatory in a way she hadn’t in weeks.

"Tonight," she confirmed.

Lucius gave her a final, knowing glance, before turning toward the door.

Theo and Blaise waited exactly three seconds after he exited before turning fully toward her with matching smirks of absolute delight.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," Theo grinned.

Blaise crossed his arms, looking far too pleased. "Dinner at the Manor. Well, Granger, it appears you have a date."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but even she couldn’t suppress the small, excited smile tugging at her lips.

Maybe, just maybe, she was ready for this.

Hermione stood outside the grand entrance of Malfoy Manor, feeling equal parts excitement and apprehension as she smoothed her hands over the fabric of her dress.

This was different than last night.

Last night had been about confrontation—hard truths and difficult conversations. Tonight… tonight felt like something else entirely.

Something unknown.

Something that made her stomach flutter in a way she refused to name.

With a steadying breath, she lifted her hand and knocked.

She had barely lowered her fist when the massive double doors swung open, revealing Lucius Malfoy dressed in yet another pair of jeans—this time a deep navy—and a fitted white sweater.

But that wasn’t the most shocking part.

Over the sweater, he was wearing an apron.

A cooking apron.

Hermione blinked, stunned, her brain short-circuiting for a moment at the image before her.

Lucius Malfoy—former Death Eater, aristocrat, notorious snob—in jeans and an apron.

She had officially stepped into another reality.

Her lips curled into an amused smirk. "Another pair of jeans? This is starting to become a habit, Malfoy."

Lucius smirked back, his posture casual, though there was an unmistakable glint of mischief in his silver eyes. "They're growing on me," he admitted smoothly, his tone far too self-satisfied.

Then, before she could retort, he added, "But mostly, I rather like the way your eyes linger when I wear them."

Hermione felt it immediately—the warmth creeping up her neck, the way her stomach tightened involuntarily, and the very obnoxious truth that he was not wrong.

Damn him.

Still, she refused to let him see how much that comment had affected her. Instead, she rolled her eyes, laughing softly before gesturing toward his apron.

"And what exactly is this?" she asked, raising a skeptical brow.

Lucius stepped aside, motioning her inside with far too much ease, as if she hadn’t just caught him in the most absurd attire imaginable.

"Well, Miss Granger," he said, his voice smooth and deliberately casual, "I thought I would cook for you tonight."

Hermione’s steps faltered slightly as she crossed the threshold, nearly tripping over her own surprise. She turned to him, fully staring now, trying to determine if he was being serious.

"You?" she repeated in pure, absolute shock. "Cooking?"

Lucius smirked, as if completely unfazed by her blatant disbelief. "I did make breakfast for you once," he reminded her, closing the door behind them.

"Breakfast and dinner are very different things," Hermione pointed out, folding her arms as she watched him.

Lucius tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. "Ah. So you’re saying I need to prove myself again?"

Hermione snorted, shaking her head. "I’m saying that slicing fruit and scrambling eggs is hardly the same as preparing an actual meal, Lucius."

"That is true," he admitted smoothly, his steps measured and unhurried beside hers. The warm glow of the chandeliers overhead cast flickering shadows across the polished marble floors, adding to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

He gestured forward, subtly guiding her toward the formal dining room, where the scent of something warm and rich drifted faintly in the air. "Which is why, if it turns out to be completely inedible, I have a backup plan."

Hermione narrowed her eyes playfully, tilting her head in mock suspicion. "And what, exactly, would that be?"

Lucius shot her a sideways glance, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, his silver eyes flickering with something unreadable.

"We’ll have to order take-out," he said smoothly. Then, after a calculated pause, he added, "As I gave the house elves the weekend off."

Hermione stopped walking altogether.

Her feet froze to the floor, her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly, as if her brain was still processing what she had just heard.

"You what?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, almost not trusting her own ears.

Lucius turned to face her fully, his expression calm, steady—yet entirely unreadable.

"I gave them the weekend off," he repeated, his tone neutral, as though they were discussing something as mundane as the weather.

Hermione still couldn’t quite believe it.

"You—gave—them—the—weekend—off," she echoed slowly, almost as if saying the words out loud would make them make more sense.

Lucius inclined his head slightly, his posture as elegant and composed as ever, though there was something lighter in his gaze. "Yes," he confirmed simply. "I pay them, of course, and they receive extensive vacation time."

His lips quirked slightly, as if anticipating her reaction, though he said nothing further, allowing her a moment to absorb what he had just told her.

Hermione stared at him, her chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with pain, anger, or betrayal this time.

"You did this…" she started, her voice softer now, almost disbelieving. "Because of me?"

Lucius exhaled quietly, giving a small shrug, as if it weren’t a significant gesture at all.

"I did this," he corrected smoothly, "because it was the right thing to do." He held her gaze, his voice steady, deliberate. "But yes," he admitted, his tone carrying something far more personal, "I was rather inspired by you."

Hermione’s throat tightened, and she hated that she suddenly felt so unmoored—so entirely thrown off balance by this.

It was so much more than just a gesture.

This wasn’t about proving a point or winning her favor. He hadn’t done this to earn her trust back with pretty words and shallow declarations.

He had done it because he listened.

Because he understood.

Because, despite everything, he still cared what she thought.

Her lips parted slightly, her breath unsteady, as she looked up at him, really looked at him, seeing not the aristocrat, not the man who once reduced her to a prize, but the man who had chosen—on his own—to change.

And before she could stop herself, before she could even think—

She closed the space between them, throwing her arms around his neck, pulling him to her in a kiss that held nothing but sheer, unfiltered emotion.

Lucius stiffened in pure shock—but only for a fraction of a second. Then, as if something inside him finally clicked into place, his hands moved instinctively, one slipping around her waist, the other ghosting up her back, fingers weaving lightly into her wild curls as he cautiously, reverently returned the kiss.

It was soft, but deep—not the hungry, desperate clash of lips that might have happened under different circumstances. This was something else entirely.

It was an answer.

A silent, whispered understanding between them.

Hermione broke the kiss first, pulling back just enough to see his face, her fingers still lightly gripping the fabric of his sweater.

Lucius’s breathing was slow and measured, but his expression… Merlin, his expression.

She had never seen him look so undone.

But as beautiful as that was, the shock on his face made reality crash back down onto her.

"Oh—Merlin," she whispered, suddenly mortified, taking a half-step back. "I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

Lucius let out a breath of laughter, his lips still slightly curved, but his eyes—his goddamn silver eyes—were watching her with something warmer than amusement, deeper than curiosity.

"You are," he murmured, voice like velvet, "more than welcome to do that whenever you want."

Hermione’s cheeks burned, but before she could stammer out another apology, Lucius’s expression shifted, turning gentler, more careful.

"But," he added, his voice quieter, "I don’t want you to feel pressured for anything physical before you’re ready."

Hermione swallowed, feeling utterly undone by his honesty, by the sheer deliberate care in his tone.

She nodded, cheeks still flushed, clearing her throat as she took another measured step back, attempting to gather herself.

"Right," she murmured, still feeling the ghost of his lips on hers. "Um—dinner?"

Lucius chuckled, the sound low and rich, before shaking his head with pure amusement.

"Come along, then," he said smoothly, guiding her toward the dining room once again. "Let’s see if I manage to poison us both."

And this time, Hermione followed without hesitation.

To Hermione’s genuine surprise, Lucius was not a terrible cook.

She watched as he moved around the kitchen with ease, his movements graceful and sure, as if he’d been doing this all his life instead of just occasionally stepping into a kitchen for aesthetic purposes.

He plated their meal with precision, setting a perfectly seared steak in front of her, accompanied by roasted vegetables and a light, creamy sauce that smelled entirely too tempting.

Hermione took a slow sip of wine, watching him with undisguised amusement.

"Alright," she admitted, tilting her head. "I have to say—I didn’t think you’d actually pull this off."

Lucius placed his own plate down, sliding into the seat across from her with a smirk that was entirely too pleased with itself.

"You wound me, Hermione," he said, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest.

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "Excuse me for doubting that Lucius Malfoy has ever spent time in a kitchen that wasn’t just for display purposes."

Lucius chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a sip. "I do have skills beyond being devastatingly handsome, you know."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, lifting her fork. "I suppose I should see for myself, then."

She took a bite, fully expecting mediocrity at best—but the moment the flavors melted on her tongue, her expression froze in surprise.

Lucius raised a brow, watching her closely.

Hermione set her fork down dramatically, fixing him with a flat look.

"I hate you," she declared.

Lucius’s lips twitched, his smirk widening just enough to be infuriating. "That good?"

Hermione sighed, exasperated. "Annoyingly, yes."

Lucius took another satisfied sip of wine, his grey eyes shining with amusement.

And just like that, the tension that had lingered between them for weeks seemed to dissolve.

Over the course of dinner, they talked easily, the conversation flowing as effortlessly as it once had, slipping back into a rhythm that felt undeniably natural.

They discussed books—Lucius scoffing at a recent Magical History publication that had somehow managed to misquote half of its sources, while Hermione argued that at least the book was attempting to bring knowledge to the masses.

They discussed politics—Hermione teasing him about the very obvious scowl he wore whenever a particular Ministry official was mentioned, to which Lucius dryly replied, "Some people deserve to be scowled at."

And, of course, they discussed the absurdity of Theo and Blaise’s protective streak, which Lucius found both amusing and infuriating in equal measure.

"Don’t pretend you don’t secretly appreciate it," Hermione said, twirling her fork as she gave him a knowing look.

Lucius scoffed. "I appreciate their loyalty to you. Their lack of subtlety, however, leaves much to be desired."

Hermione laughed. "They mean well."

"They mean to give me grey hairs," Lucius muttered, taking another sip of wine.

Hermione shook her head, grinning. It was easy, this—falling back into conversation with him, slipping back into something that felt so incredibly… right.

And then, at one point, Lucius leaned back, watching her with something soft and unreadable in his gaze.

"You really are extraordinary, Hermione," he said simply.

Hermione blinked, feeling her stomach flip unexpectedly.

"That’s quite a compliment coming from you," she teased, raising an eyebrow, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through her chest.

Lucius smiled. "Yes, well, you should get used to them."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "We’ll see."

But as the evening continued, as their laughter echoed softly through the halls of Malfoy Manor, Hermione realized something important.

She didn’t feel like she was waiting for him to prove himself anymore.

She wasn’t testing him, questioning his intentions, waiting for him to slip up.

Instead, everything felt like it was clicking back into place.

Like this—the way they talked, the way he looked at her, the way he had gone out of his way to cook for her, to listen to her, to change without expectation—was exactly how it was always meant to be.

And suddenly, Hermione knew.

She wanted this.

She wanted him.

And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, she wasn’t afraid to admit it.

She set her wine glass down, exhaling slowly before meeting his gaze with quiet certainty.

"Lucius," she began carefully.

His eyes flickered with curiosity, as if he could already tell that whatever she was about to say mattered.

Hermione hesitated for only a second before leaning forward slightly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

"I want this to work," she admitted, soft but firm.

Lucius stilled, his expression unreadable for a fraction of a second before it softened entirely.

Then, he nodded—slow, deliberate, certain.

"So do I," he murmured.

And just like that, everything changed.

Chapter Text

The air between them shifted—no longer just playful conversation, no longer just an easy dinner. It was something more now, something heavier but not suffocating. Something real.

Hermione inhaled deeply, steadying herself, her fingers absently tracing the stem of her wine glass as she looked at Lucius—really looked at him.

"I missed you," she said, her voice softer now, but there was no hesitation in it. "I missed this."

Lucius’s posture changed slightly, his fingers flexing against the table, his silver eyes locked on hers. He didn’t speak right away, didn’t rush to fill the silence—he just listened, the weight of her words settling between them.

"I want this to work," Hermione continued, exhaling slowly. "And… I believe you when you say you're trying. I see the steps you're taking, and I know how much it means that you chose to change—not just for me, but because you realized it was the right thing to do."

She hesitated, her heart hammering in her chest. "And I—I think I’m ready to forgive you."

Lucius froze, his breath caught mid-inhale.

For the first time since she had known him, he looked completely unguarded, as if her words had knocked the breath out of him.

His lips parted slightly, his normally unreadable face now awash with quiet disbelief, relief, and something deeper—something Hermione wasn’t sure she had ever seen on him before.

"You…" he started, but didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence. He shook his head slightly, his hands curling into loose fists, as if grounding himself before he spoke again.

"Hermione," he murmured, his voice raw, edged with something he wasn’t even bothering to mask anymore. "You are… everything I ever wanted. Everything I never dared to hope for."

His silver gaze darkened slightly, filled with emotion, but there was no arrogance in it, no expectation—only gratitude.

"I do not deserve your forgiveness," he admitted, shaking his head slightly. "But I will never stop being grateful that you allow me to remain a part of your life."

Hermione swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat, but she forced herself to push through it.

"There won’t be a third chance, Lucius," she said seriously, her voice firmer now. "I can’t do this again."

Lucius nodded immediately, no hesitation, no argument. "There won’t need to be."

"You can’t just say that—"

"I’m not just saying it," he interrupted gently, his voice steady, unwavering. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, closer now. "I know I can’t promise that we’ll never fight. I can’t promise that I won’t say something foolish or act in a way that frustrates you. But what I can promise—what I swear to you, Hermione—is that I will never disrespect you again. I will never do anything intentionally that could make you doubt my sincerity or my devotion to you."

Hermione’s chest tightened, because she believed him.

She truly believed him.

And that realization—that certainty—felt like a relief she hadn’t even realized she had been holding onto.

For the first time since everything had fallen apart, she could breathe again.

She nodded slowly, a small, genuine smile creeping onto her lips. "Then I guess we’re doing this," she murmured.

Lucius exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "Yes, we are."

And as the words settled between them, Hermione realized something important—

This time, she wasn’t afraid.

Without warning, she stood up, her movements fluid and deliberate, and sat down straddling his lap, her warmth spreading through his clothes like a wildfire.

He was startled, his eyes widening in surprise as he felt her heat radiate through his jeans, sending a jolt of arousal through his body. His hands instinctively went to her waist, his fingers wrapping around her like a vice as he pulled her closer. Hermione's eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a soft, teasing kiss. But it wasn't long before the kiss deepened, their mouths moving in perfect sync as they devoured each other.

Lucius' hands were in her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he pulled her closer, his lips never leaving hers. Hermione's hands were on his chest, her fingers digging into his skin as she felt the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart. They were hungry for each other, their months apart only fueling the fire that burned between them.

As they kissed, Hermione felt a sense of freedom, of release, that she hadn't felt in months. She wasn't afraid, not anymore. She was ready to let go, to give herself over to the passion that had always burned between them. Lucius seemed to sense it too, his kiss growing more urgent, more demanding.

"I missed you so much," Hermione whispered, her lips barely leaving Lucius', her voice trembling with emotion.

Lucius' response was a low, husky whisper, his breath hot against her skin. "I missed you too, Hermione. I missed your touch, your taste, your everything."

Hermione's hands were on his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, her touch sending shivers down his spine. "I missed the way you make me feel," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Lucius' eyes locked onto hers, his gaze burning with intensity. "I missed the way you make me feel alive," he whispered back, his lips brushing against hers once more.

The touch sent shivers down his spine, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue probing the depths of her mouth as he felt her melt into him. The world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the intensity of their passion. Hermione's hands were in his hair, her fingers tangled in the strands as she pulled him closer, her lips devouring his.

In one swift motion, he stood up, Hermione still wrapped around him, and walked over to the table, his eyes never leaving hers. He placed her down on the cool surface, her dress riding up her thighs as she lay back, her eyes never leaving his. He stood between her legs, his body towering over hers, as he leaned down to claim her lips once more.

The kiss was fierce, passionate, and all-consuming. His hands were everywhere, roaming over her body, touching, caressing, and exploring every curve and contour. Hermione's hands were just as busy, her fingers tracing the lines of his face, her touch sending shivers down his spine. The air was thick with desire, the tension between them palpable as they lost themselves in the heat of the moment.

As they kissed, the world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the passion, the hunger, and the love that had always burned between them. They were raw, unbridled, and unapologetic, their desire for each other consuming them whole. And in that moment, Hermione knew that she was exactly where she was meant to be – in Lucius' arms, with his lips on hers, and his heart beating in time with hers.

Heat coiled low in her stomach as Lucius groaned softly, his hands skimming beneath the hem of her dress, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles along the bare skin of her thighs.

Hermione shivered, arching into his touch, pressing herself closer, feeling him—

And then—

With zero warning—

The Floo flared to life.

"Lucius, do you—?"

A voice—no, voices—filled the room, just as the green flames burst higher, and in the next horrifying second, Theo, Blaise, and Draco stepped through the fireplace and into the sitting room.

Everything froze.

Hermione’s brain short-circuited.

The three men stood there, staring—utterly horrified, while she remained half-naked, legs spread around Lucius’s thighs, his hands still firmly on her ass, her dress bunched up indecently high.

Theo was the first to react.

His entire face lit up, and before Hermione could even process the full level of mortification, he let out a loud, delighted laugh.

"Oh, this is even better than I ever could have imagined."

Lucius sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a brief moment before dropping his forehead against Hermione’s shoulder.

"I hate them," he muttered against her skin.

Hermione, still frozen in complete horror, let out a strangled sound—something between a groan and an actual cry for divine intervention.

Blaise, meanwhile, looked obnoxiously pleased. "Well, well, well," he said, crossing his arms, grinning like a devil. "And here I thought your rebellious phase was over, Granger."

Before Hermione could even think of a response, his voice cut in again, smooth as silk, but with just the right amount of teasing malice to make her want to die on the spot.

"You know," he mused, tilting his head, "I honestly never thought I’d see you in this state of undress again, Hermione."

Hermione’s entire body seized.

Lucius stilled beneath her, his fingers—previously resting comfortably on her waist—now gripping her far more possessively.

Blaise was still smirking, entirely too amused with himself, but Hermione could feel Lucius’s posture shift just slightly, a dangerous energy simmering beneath his calm exterior.

It took a full three seconds before Lucius responded, his voice even and sharp as a blade.

"Out."

Theo and Blaise both grinned wider, while Draco—who had yet to say anything—stood there absolutely frozen in horror, his face a portrait of pure, absolute disgust.

Theo, noticing Draco’s silent breakdown, turned to him with a smug expression, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Well,” he drawled. "I believe you owe me twenty galleons."

Draco, who looked like he was actively trying to repress the last three minutes of his life, finally found his voice—and it was nothing short of outraged.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Draco snapped, his hands flailing wildly toward them, gesturing at the entire scene before him.

Hermione buried her face in Lucius’s chest, groaning loudly. "Oh my god, please kill me."

Draco, however, was not finished.

"I CANNOT UNSEE THIS! I CAN NEVER UNSEE THIS!" He whirled on Theo, face red with rage. "And they are NOT ON THE DAMN COUNTER, THEODORE! YOU DON’T WIN THE FUCKING BET!”

Theo, completely unbothered, simply shrugged. "A technicality, really - It was close enough."

Draco let out a pained, strangled sound, running both hands through his hair as if he was actively spiraling.

"I EAT HERE!" he bellowed, voice pitched high with distress. "I CAN NEVER EAT HERE AGAIN! I CAN NEVER SIT THERE AGAIN—LUCIFER, WHAT THE HELL?!"

Lucius, who had clearly had enough, let out another deep sigh, rubbing slow circles against Hermione’s back, as if to calm both of them down.

Then, with the calm of a man who had endured many, many years of suffering, he leveled a look at Draco.

"Then don’t sit there."

Draco made a choked sound, fury and despair warring on his face, before pointing a shaking hand at Hermione.

"And YOU!" he continued, looking deeply betrayed. "I—YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE BETTER TASTE THAN THIS! I- THIS - IT’S MY DINNING TABLE FOR MERLINS SAKE!”

Lucius arched a brow. "Careful, son."

Draco looked skyward, as if praying for patience, then pointed at Theo and Blaise.

"And YOU TWO!" He gestured violently. "WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?!"

Blaise, grinning, shrugged elegantly. "Curiosity, mostly."

Theo smirked. "And a bet. Which I won."

Draco let out a full-body groan, pacing in tight circles, muttering curses under his breath.

Lucius, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaled slowly before fixing the three of them with a pointed look.

"Get. Out."

Theo, still laughing, turned back to Draco and Blaise. "Shall we?"

Theo nodded, still grinning far too much for Hermione’s liking. "Yes, before we witness something even worse."

Draco, still spiraling, stormed toward the Floo first, muttering about needing therapy and maybe a full memory wipe.

Blaise smirked over his shoulder. "You know, Lucius," he mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "I must say, I did not expect you to be so… athletic."

Lucius snapped.

"OUT!"

Theo and Blaise doubled over laughing, absolutely delighted with themselves, while Draco disappeared into the Floo like he was fleeing a crime scene.

As soon as the green flames flared again, signaling their departure, Hermione let out a loud groan, dropping her forehead against Lucius’s chest.

Lucius sighed heavily, rubbing slow circles against her back again.

"I should have let them die in the war," he muttered darkly.

Hermione snorted, despite her humiliation, before tilting her head up to look at him.

His eyes were still filled with amusement, affection, and something far more dangerous—something deep, consuming, real.

And somehow, despite everything, Hermione found herself smiling.

Because this—this was her life now.

And honestly?

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

After the boys left -  they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, Lucius pulled back slightly, a hint of a smile on his face. "I don't want to assume anything, but... may I apparate us to my room?" he asked, his eyes locked onto hers, his voice low and husky.

Hermione's response was immediate, her lips crashing down on his in a hard, passionate kiss. "Yes, please," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her hands already working to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Lucius chuckled, his eyes flashing with excitement, they materialized on the soft, plush carpet, the bed looming large behind them. But they didn't make it that far, their bodies already entwined, their lips still locked in a fierce kiss.

As they stumbled backwards, Lucius' hands were everywhere, roaming over Hermione's body, touching, caressing, and exploring every curve and contour. He pushed her back onto the bed, his body following hers down, his lips never leaving hers.

But as they kissed, Lucius' hands began to wander, his fingers tracing the lines of her thighs, his touch sending shivers down her spine. Hermione's legs parted, inviting him in, and Lucius took advantage, his mouth leaving her skin to trail down her neck, her chest, and finally, to the junction of her thighs.

He pushed her dress up, his hands parting her legs, as he gazed up at her, his eyes burning with desire. "I've missed this," he whispered, his voice husky, his breath hot against her skin. "I've missed the taste of you, the smell of you, the feel of you."

Hermione's hands were in his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands, as she pulled him closer, her body arching up to meet his mouth. Lucius' tongue darted out, licking her, tasting her, and Hermione's eyes flew open, her body shuddering with pleasure.

"Oh, Lucius," she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands pulling him closer. "I've missed this so much. I've missed your touch, your mouth, your everything."

Lucius' response was a low, husky whisper, his breath hot against her skin. "You're so sweet, Hermione. You're so delicious. I could eat you all day."

As he spoke, his tongue continued to dance across her skin, licking, tasting, and teasing her. Hermione's body was on fire, her pleasure building, her climax looming. And when it hit, she screamed, her body shuddering, her legs closing around Lucius' head, as she pulled him closer, her fingers tangled in his hair.

But Lucius wasn't done yet, his body still hard, still hungry. He pulled back, his eyes locked onto hers, as he stood up, his pants undone, his cock springing free. Hermione's eyes widened, her gaze fixed on his erection, as she sat up, her hands reaching out to touch him.

"I've missed this too," she whispered, her voice trembling, her fingers wrapping around his cock. "I've missed the feel of you and claiming you as mine."

Lucius' eyes flashed with excitement, as he watched her, his body tense with anticipation. "Then claim me.” he whispered, his voice husky, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Take me, Hermione. Suck me, taste me, make me come."

Hermione's response was immediate, her mouth opening, her lips wrapping around his cock, as she took him in, her tongue dancing across his skin, her fingers wrapping around his base. Lucius' eyes flew open, his body shuddering, as he felt her mouth, her tongue, her lips, and her fingers, all working together to drive him wild.

"Oh, Hermione," he whispered, his voice trembling, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer. "You're so good, so sweet. I've missed this, I've missed you."

Hermione's mouth was still wrapped around his cock, her tongue dancing across his skin, her fingers wrapping around his base. Lucius' body was tense with anticipation, his pleasure building, but he didn't want to come yet. He wanted to feel her, to be inside her, to make her his.

With a gentle touch, Lucius pulled out of Hermione's mouth, his cock springing free, as he gazed at her with longing. Hermione's eyes widened, her gaze fixed on his erection, as she sat up, her hands reaching out to touch him. Lucius' eyes flashed with excitement, as he watched her, his body tense with anticipation.

"I want to be inside you," he whispered, his voice husky, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer. "I want to feel you, to make you mine."

Hermione's response was a soft, gentle smile, her eyes locked onto his, as she whispered, "I want that too, Lucius. I want to feel you, to be yours."

With a gentle touch, Lucius laid Hermione back on the bed, his body following hers down, as he positioned himself between her legs. Hermione's legs parted, inviting him in, as Lucius gazed at her with desire. He could see the wetness between her thighs, the pink flesh inviting him in, and he couldn't wait any longer.

With a slow, gentle thrust, Lucius entered Hermione, his cock sliding into her, as she gasped with pleasure. Hermione's eyes flew open, her gaze fixed on his, as she felt him, felt the length of him, the thickness of him, the heat of him. Lucius' eyes locked onto hers, as he gazed at her with desire, his body tense with anticipation.

As he began to move, his hips thrusting back and forth, Hermione's body responded, her hips arching up to meet his, her legs wrapping around his waist. Lucius' eyes flashed with excitement, as he watched her, his body tense with pleasure. He could feel her, feel the tightness of her, the warmth of her, the wetness of her.

"Oh, Hermione," he whispered, his voice husky, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer. "You feel so good, so tight, so warm. I've missed this, I've missed you."

Hermione's response was a soft, gentle moan, her eyes locked onto his, as she whispered, "I've missed you too, Lucius. I've missed this, I've missed us."

As they moved together, their bodies entwined, their pleasure building, Lucius could feel himself getting closer, getting closer to the edge. He could feel Hermione's body responding, her muscles tensing, her hips arching up to meet his. He knew she was close, close to coming, and he wanted to be there, wanted to feel her come.

With a slow, gentle thrust, Lucius pushed deeper, his cock sliding, as she gasped with pleasure. Lucius' eyes locked onto hers, as he gazed at her with desire, his body tense with anticipation. And then, in a burst of pleasure, Hermione came, her body shuddering, her muscles tensing, her hips arching up to meet his. Lucius' eyes flashed with excitement, as he watched her, his body tense with pleasure. He could feel her, feel the contractions of her muscles, the wetness of her, the heat of her.

As Hermione's body relaxed, Lucius began to move again, his hips thrusting back and forth, as he chased his own pleasure. Lucius' eyes flashed with excitement, as he felt himself getting closer, getting closer to the edge. And then, in a burst of pleasure, Lucius came, his body shuddering, his muscles tensing, his cock erupting, as he filled her. Hermione's eyes flew open, her gaze fixed on his, as she felt him, felt the heat of him, the wetness of him. Lucius' eyes locked onto hers, as he gazed at her with desire, his body tense with pleasure.

As they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, Lucius pulled out of Hermione, his cock springing free, as he gazed at her with longing. Hermione's eyes widened, her gaze fixed on his, as she smiled, her body relaxed, her pleasure satisfied. Lucius' eyes flashed with excitement, as he watched her, his body tense with anticipation.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice husky, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer.

Hermione's response was a soft, gentle smile, her eyes locked onto his, as she whispered, "I love you too, Lucius.”

The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of Malfoy Manor, casting a warm, golden glow over the bedroom. The silk sheets were luxuriously soft against Hermione’s skin, the air heavy with the lingering scent of last night—expensive cologne, wine, candle wax, and him.

And him—Lucius Malfoy—lay beside her, still asleep, his silver hair tousled against the pillow, his bare chest half-covered by the sheets, his breathing slow and even.

Hermione turned onto her side, watching him, memorizing every detail of this moment.

It still felt surreal, waking up beside him like this. The last few months had been tumultuous, filled with hesitation and uncertainty, but now? Now, she felt at peace.

The weight of the past wasn’t entirely gone, but it no longer sat so heavily on her chest. It had been replaced by something new, something real—something that felt dangerously close to forever.

Her lips curled into a small, private smile, her fingers reaching out to trace the sharp angles of his face—the defined line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the delicate crease between his brows that always seemed present, even in sleep.

"Merlin, I love him."

The realization was so effortless, so natural, that it almost startled her.

It wasn’t new.

She had been falling for him for months, trying to fight it, trying to be cautious—but it was impossible now. There was no denying it.

She loved him.

She loved him, and for the first time since their relationship had begun, she wasn’t afraid to admit it to herself.

A small noise rumbled from his throat, his brow furrowing slightly before his silver eyes fluttered open, still laced with sleep.

He blinked slowly, adjusting to the light, before his gaze focused on her—and when he saw her watching him, his lips curved into a lazy, knowing smirk.

"You’re staring, darling," he murmured, voice husky from sleep.

Hermione chuckled, not bothering to deny it. "I am."

Lucius stretched beneath the sheets, his arms flexing as he reached above his head before rolling onto his side to face her fully.

"Should I be concerned?" he teased, brushing a strand of wild curls from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

Hermione let her eyes flutter shut for a brief second, relishing the warmth of his touch, before exhaling softly.

"Just thinking."

Lucius’s thumb brushed along her jaw. "About what?"

She hesitated for a second, her heart thudding lightly in her chest, before she answered honestly.

"You." She swallowed, voice quieter now. "Us. Forever."

Lucius stilled.

His fingers froze against her skin, his silver eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to determine whether he had imagined those words.

"Forever?" he echoed, his voice curiously unreadable.

Hermione immediately blushed, her confidence wavering as she realized what she had just admitted aloud.

"I—I shouldn’t talk like that," she stammered, suddenly flustered. "We just reconnected, and I—"

Lucius silenced her with a kiss.

Soft. Lingering.

His lips brushed against hers once, twice, before he pulled back just enough to study her expression.

"Don’t be embarrassed, love," he murmured.

Hermione swallowed, searching his gaze, trying to determine what he was thinking.

"I suppose I just…" She hesitated, fidgeting slightly with the sheets. "It’s just something I never really thought I’d get to have."

Lucius’s thumb traced slow, deliberate patterns against her hip. "A future like this?"

Hermione nodded. "Someone to build something with." Her voice was softer now, almost hesitant, as if saying it out loud would make it too real.

"I always imagined having a family," she admitted, her gaze flickering away for a second. "But as I got older, I wasn’t sure if it was in the cards for me."

Lucius studied her, his eyes intensely focused, as if committing every word to memory.

"You never thought you’d get married?"

Hermione hesitated, then shook her head. "I suppose I thought about it when I was younger," she said, offering a small, sheepish smile. "But as time passed, it seemed like something that was… meant for other people, not for me."

Lucius hummed, considering her words carefully.

"And if the right person came along?"

Hermione’s breath caught slightly, her heart hammering in her chest.

"I—I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed," she admitted, her cheeks heating.

Lucius’s smirk returned, though his gaze held something deeper beneath it.

"So it’s not entirely off the table?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, laughing softly. "Not if the right man were to ask."

Lucius exhaled a soft chuckle, his hand moving to rest over her stomach, his fingers spanning the warmth of her skin beneath the sheets.

"Good to know," he murmured.

Hermione tilted her head. "And what about you?"

Lucius’s expression turned pensive, his voice quiet but firm.

"Marriage was not something I ever actively pursued after Narcissa," he admitted, choosing his words carefully. "But…" His gaze flickered over her with meaning, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. "For the right woman, I could see it."

Hermione’s chest tightened in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Lucius saw the way she hesitated, the way her eyes lowered slightly, as if another question was lingering on the tip of her tongue.

"What is it?" he prompted gently.

Hermione inhaled slowly, then finally asked the question she had been too afraid to ask earlier.

"Would your version of a family include more children?"

Lucius went very still.

Hermione felt her stomach twist, worried she had spoiled the moment.

"Lucius, I didn’t mean—"

Before she could finish, Lucius silenced her with another kiss.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His fingers traced along the curve of her spine, grounding her, holding her in place.

When he pulled back, his voice was calm, certain.

"If I should be so lucky to be yours," he murmured, his silver eyes piercing into hers, "then I will give you anything you want."

Hermione’s breath hitched, her vision blurring slightly.

"Anything?" she whispered.

Lucius nodded once, his lips curving into the smallest, most genuine smile.

"Anything."

And just like that—Hermione knew.

She didn’t have to wonder anymore.

She didn’t have to question if this was real, if this was temporary, if he would ever leave again.

Because he wouldn’t.

Because this was forever.

Chapter Text

Hermione had never consciously planned to move into Malfoy Manor—it had just… happened.

At first, it was one night here and there. Then, it became entire weekends spent tangled in silk sheets and whispered conversations, mornings filled with leisurely breakfasts and teasing smirks, evenings spent curled up in the grand study, her feet tucked under her as she read while Lucius worked at his desk.

And then, before she even realized it, she was waking up in Lucius’s bed more often than her own.

Her books, potions, and clothes had started appearing in the manor on their own accord, as if the universe itself had quietly made the decision for her before she had even realized it.

A fresh stack of books she had sworn she left in her London flat somehow ended up on Lucius’s nightstand.
Her favorite tea mysteriously found its way into the kitchen pantry.
Her potions were now lined up beside his in the ensuite, her robes draped over the chaise by the fireplace, her slippers waiting beside the bed every morning.

It was as if the manor itself had started absorbing her presence, adjusting to her belonging there, just as naturally as Lucius had.

Lucius, of course, noticed immediately.

One evening, after a long day at work, she arrived at the manor, sighing as she toed off her shoes, stretching out the tension in her shoulders. She expected to be greeted by the usual warmth of the space she had slowly begun to claim, but instead, she found Lucius waiting for her in the doorway of their bedroom, arms crossed, expression full of mischief.

"Granger, do you plan on moving in officially, or do you enjoy keeping me in suspense?" he drawled, eyebrows raised as he gestured toward the evidence of her slow but inevitable takeover.

Hermione paused, her brow furrowing slightly as she followed his gaze—taking in the overwhelming amount of her things scattered throughout the room.

Had she really brought that many books?

She glanced at the neatly arranged potions in the ensuite, her robes hanging next to his, the drawer in the closet he had cleared for her, the half-drunk cup of tea she had abandoned that morning on his desk.

It looked like… she already lived here.

Lucius watched her closely, his silver eyes shining with amusement, waiting for her inevitable realization.

She hesitated, suddenly struck by the weight of his question.

Moving in was a big step. An important one.

It wasn’t just about logistics—it was about trust, about making them truly permanent.

Was she ready for that?

The logical part of her wanted to weigh every detail, to think it through rationally—but in her heart, she already knew the answer.

She belonged here.

Lucius seemed to sense her hesitation, because his teasing smirk softened, replaced with something gentler, more patient.

Before she could even begin to formulate a response, he stepped forward, closing the space between them, his fingers brushing lightly along her jawline, his touch unmistakably tender.

"This is your home, Hermione," he murmured, his voice steady, sincere. "If you want it to be."

Hermione swallowed, her heart flipping wildly at his words.

"You want me here?" she asked softly, though she already knew the answer.

Lucius exhaled slowly, his lips curving into something small and private, his hand now resting at the small of her back, pulling her just a fraction closer.

"I already find your presence inescapable," he smirked, but then, quieter, "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Hermione’s chest tightened with an emotion she wasn’t quite ready to name, but she felt it—deep and overwhelming.

Because this was real.

This was him, offering her everything—not in a grand, elaborate declaration, not as part of some carefully constructed move, but simply because he wanted her here.

Because he needed her here.

Hermione let out a soft breath, her lips curving into a genuine, unguarded smile.

"Alright," she said, her decision clear.

Lucius arched a brow. "Alright?"

She laughed, swatting his chest lightly. "Yes, Malfoy. Let’s make it official."

Lucius’s smirk returned, though this time, there was something different behind it—something warmer, something certain.

"Good," he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Because I wasn't planning on letting you go anyway."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her heart felt full.

And just like that, Malfoy Manor was no longer just his home.

It was theirs.

Draco Malfoy had been called many things in his life—cunning, sharp-witted, arrogant—but unprepared had never been one of them.

And yet, as he sat across from Hermione in a small, charmingly modest café in Diagon Alley, midway through a perfectly good lunch, he found himself completely caught off guard.

His fork froze in mid-air, hovering inches above his plate, as he blinked at her, his expression utterly unreadable.

"You’re moving in with my father," he said finally, his voice flat, disbelieving, as if he needed to hear the words out loud just to fully process them.

Hermione, completely unfazed, took a slow sip of her tea.

"I am."

Draco set his fork down carefully, inhaled deeply, then pinched the bridge of his nose as if she had just informed him that she was, in fact, planning to marry a troll.

"You’re sure about this?" he asked, his tone too calm to be anything but deeply concerned.

Hermione frowned, setting down her teacup. "Of course, I’m sure. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Draco gave her a long, pointed look, his pale fingers drumming against the table.

"Granger," he started, tilting his head slightly, "this is my father we’re talking about. You are voluntarily signing up to live under the same roof as the most insufferable man in Britain."

Hermione smirked. "Funny, I thought that title belonged to you."

Draco snorted. "Please. I’m at least tolerable in small doses."

She raised a brow. "Are you?"

Draco ignored the jab, still staring at her as if she had lost her mind.

"Alright. Fine." He sighed, shaking his head. "But just so we’re clear—when you inevitably take over Malfoy Manor, I expect my old bedroom to remain intact. I have emotional rights to that space."

Hermione laughed, her shoulders finally relaxing. "Draco, I’m not kicking you out of your childhood home."

Draco took another long, suffering sip of his drink, as if trying to cleanse himself of this entire conversation.

"I still can’t believe you’re choosing to deal with him full-time," he muttered, more to himself than to her. Then, after a pause, he shook his head. "You are, without a doubt, the most patient woman in existence."

Hermione smirked, resting her chin on her hand. "Theo and Blaise said the same thing."

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Those two? They’ve been betting on this happening for months."

Hermione groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Of course they have."

Draco snickered, clearly enjoying her exasperation. "I believe Theo had a running theory that you’d move in before the end of the year, while Blaise was convinced it would happen after Father suffered some dramatic epiphany about not being able to live without you."

Hermione huffed, shaking her head. "Merlin, I really do need new friends."

"Yes, well," Draco smirked, stirring his drink lazily, "you made the mistake of keeping company with people who enjoy meddling in your love life. This is what you get."

Hermione gave him a pointed glare. "You mean like you?"

Draco tilted his head, pretending to consider. "I wouldn’t say meddling—more like... keeping an appropriate level of oversight."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

Despite all his dramatic sighs and grumbling about emotional distress, it was clear that Draco approved—even if he’d rather die than admit it outright.

Moving in officially meant Hermione needed space of her own, somewhere to read, work, and escape from Lucius when he was being particularly insufferable—which, admittedly, was often.

Lucius, as it turned out, had anticipated this need before she had even mentioned it.

Or rather, the house elves had.

It wasn’t until the day after she had formally moved in that she found it—a new door near Lucius’s grand library, slightly ajar, as if waiting for her to notice it.

Hermione frowned, tilting her head.

She could have sworn that door hadn’t been there before.

Curious, she stepped inside—

And stopped dead in her tracks.

The room was beautiful.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, already stocked with many of her favorite books—not just ones from Lucius’s collection, but her own as well, somehow arranged exactly the way she would have done it herself.

A large, wooden desk sat beneath a massive window, the afternoon light spilling in, making the space feel warm and inviting rather than formal and intimidating.

A comfortable, oversized reading chair was positioned near the fireplace, a small enchanted teapot permanently hovering nearby, ready to pour at her convenience.

Hermione blinked, stunned.

It was perfect.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the polished desk, the smooth spines of the books, feeling a lump rise in her throat.

Lucius stepped in behind her, his presence warm and steady, watching her carefully.

"Do you like it?" he asked, voice calm but laced with something vulnerable.

Hermione turned to him, speechless. "You—you did this for me?"

Lucius tilted his head slightly, smirking. "I may have overheard you muttering about needing space to work. And I know how utterly insufferable you become when you don’t have immediate access to books."

Hermione huffed a laugh, shaking her head, turning back to take in the space again. She ran her hands along the desk, the shelves, the plush armchair, trying to process just how much thought had gone into it.

"Lucius… this is perfect."

Lucius stepped forward, brushing a hand along her lower back, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

"Then it’s yours."

Hermione swallowed hard, emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

No one had ever done something like this for her before.

No one had ever seen her, understood her, the way he did.

And in that moment, she realized—she had never felt more at home anywhere in her life.

Then, as she was still processing the gravity of the gesture, another voice—a much smaller one—spoke up from the doorway.

"Master Malfoy!"

Hermione whirled around, startled to see one of the house elves standing there, looking exceptionally pleased with itself.

Lucius let out a slow, measured breath, closing his eyes briefly before turning toward the elf. "I told you to leave the credit to me, Tilly."

Tilly, clearly ignoring him, beamed up at Hermione, her ears twitching excitedly.

"The Master was not even thinking of the study at first!" she declared, clasping her hands together. "It was us elves who insisted! Mistress Granger deserves a place of her own! We asked Master to make it happen!"

Hermione’s lips parted slightly, eyes flickering to Lucius, who was now watching Tilly with thinly veiled irritation.

"They practically begged me," Lucius admitted grudgingly, rubbing his temple. "Apparently, they’ve decided you are ‘one of them’ now, and they were ‘personally offended’ that you didn’t already have your own room."

Hermione blinked rapidly, her chest tightening with so much emotion that she almost couldn’t breathe.

"You… you wanted to do this for me?"

"Of course, Mistress!" Tilly bounced slightly on her heels, looking absolutely delighted. "Mistress is kind and always asks us about our well-being! Mistress helped Master become better with the elves! Mistress belongs here!"

Hermione felt her throat tighten, her fingers clenching against the edge of her desk.

"Oh," she whispered.

Lucius, sensing that she was moments away from becoming overwhelmed, turned to Tilly and sighed. "That will be enough excitement for today, Tilly. Go tell the others that their mission was successful."

Tilly nodded rapidly, shooting Hermione one last delighted smile before disappearing with a loud pop.

The room fell into silence.

Hermione turned back to Lucius, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"You let them do this," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

Lucius smirked slightly, but his eyes were warm. "They weren’t going to let me rest until I did."

Hermione exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Lucius’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. "And yet, you adore me anyway."

Hermione laughed, despite the overwhelming emotions, shaking her head as she threw her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Lucius let out a soft huff of amusement, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Thank you," she murmured against his skin, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lucius’s grip tightened ever so slightly.

Later that evening, as they settled into bed, Hermione lay curled against Lucius’s chest, her fingers lightly tracing patterns along his skin.

She had meant to read, but instead, she had simply spent the last twenty minutes listening to his heartbeat, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.

"I don’t think I’ve ever felt this at home anywhere before," she whispered quietly.

Lucius tightened his arms around her, pressing a soft kiss to her hair.

"Then stay," he murmured, his voice low, sure, unwavering.

Hermione closed her eyes, smiling.

"I already have."

And as Lucius breathed her in, pulling her closer, Hermione knew—

This was forever.

Moving in had been easy—adjusting to living together full time was another thing entirely.

Hermione and Lucius were both independent, headstrong, and used to doing things their own way. And, unsurprisingly, neither was particularly willing to compromise easily.

It started with breakfast.

Lucius, ever the creature of habit, expected a full, extravagant breakfast spread every morning—freshly brewed coffee, an assortment of pastries, eggs, fruits, and enough elaborate dishes to feed a small army.

Hermione, meanwhile, was perfectly content with a simple cup of tea and toast.

"You call that breakfast?" Lucius had scoffed the first morning, watching her butter a single piece of toast while he sat behind a mountain of food, looking personally offended.

"Yes, because it is," Hermione had said, taking a deliberate bite of her toast while raising an eyebrow at him.

Lucius huffed. "That is a meager excuse for sustenance."

Hermione smirked. "And that," she gestured to his absurd spread, "is gluttony at its finest."

Lucius had muttered something about "uncultured breakfast habits" under his breath, but after two weeks, he had begrudgingly stopped pressuring her to eat like a proper Malfoy and merely pretended not to judge her tea-and-toast routine.

Then, there was the matter of Hermione’s books.

Lucius prided himself on order, precision, and an aesthetic balance in every room of his pristine manor.

Hermione, however, was a walking disaster of literary obsession.

At first, it was just a few books here and there—innocently left on the nightstand, beside the fireplace, on the study desk.

Then, more appeared.

And more.

And suddenly, bookshelves were multiplying.

One night, Lucius had walked into the sitting room to find a brand-new bookcase against the far wall—filled with her books, all stacked haphazardly.

He stared at it, expression unreadable, before turning to where Hermione was curled up with tea, using his coat as a blanket, reading in front of the fireplace.

Hermione, sensing his gaze, looked up. "Problem?"

Lucius exhaled slowly. "I leave for one day, and suddenly my home has become a sanctuary for overgrown parchment."

Hermione grinned. "A home isn’t a home without books, Lucius."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply.

"You’re doing this on purpose," he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at the second pile of books stacked beside the chair.

Hermione sipped her tea, utterly unbothered. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Lucius narrowed his eyes, then sighed, dropping into the chair across from her.

"You are absolute chaos," he murmured.

Hermione simply smiled, closing her book. "And yet, you adore me anyway."

Lucius chuckled, shaking his head. "Regrettably, yes."

And despite himself, he realized he loved it—the small bits of chaos she unapologetically wove into his life.

Because it meant that she was there.

And he wanted her everywhere.

For all his careful planning and control, Lucius had not anticipated one particular consequence of Hermione moving in.

Blaise and Theo.

They were, apparently, a package deal.

Unfortunately for Lucius, Hermione’s adjustment period also came with frequent, unannounced visits from her two most insufferable friends.

The first time it happened, Lucius had walked into the sitting room, fully expecting to find Hermione alone, curled up with a book—perhaps sipping tea, perhaps stealing his favorite cashmere throw despite having her own, perhaps doing anything quiet and reasonable.

Instead, he was met with chaos.

Blaise, Theo, and Hermione were sprawled out across the furniture, wine glasses half-full, plates of half-eaten pastries littering the coffee table, deep in what appeared to be a lively, scandalous conversation.

Theo was laughing far too loudly, Blaise was gesturing dramatically with his wine glass, and Hermione—his Hermione—was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, looking far too amused for Lucius’s comfort.

Lucius stopped in the doorway, staring flatly at the uninvited guests.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice dripping with unimpressed disdain.

Blaise, not even remotely fazed, leaned back in his chair, giving him an easy smirk.

"Checking in on Hermione, obviously."

Theo lifted his wine glass in greeting, grinning wickedly.

"Making sure you haven’t scared her off yet, old man."

Lucius’s eye twitched.

Hermione, clearly suppressing a laugh, patted his arm as she brushed past him toward the kitchen.

"Would you like a glass, love?" she asked, as if this was a completely normal gathering and not a blatant invasion of his personal sanctuary.

Lucius let out a slow, suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No," he muttered, massaging his temples as if this was physically painful for him.

Then, after a pause, he leveled them both with a sharp glare.

"What I would like is to know when exactly I lost control of my own house."

Theo didn’t miss a beat, grinning deviously.

"Oh, that happened the moment she moved in."

Blaise nodded sagely, sipping his wine.

"You didn’t stand a chance, mate."

Lucius exhaled heavily, muttering under his breath about regretting his life choices, but he didn’t tell them to leave.

Because if Hermione wanted them there, he’d tolerate their idiocy.

For her.

Unfortunately, that was not the last time they made themselves at home.

Lucius had thought—foolishly, optimistically—that this was a one-time incident.

He was very, very wrong.

The second time, they showed up just after breakfast—Hermione was still barefoot in his shirt, sipping tea, and Lucius was enjoying the rare peace and quiet when the Floo roared to life and out tumbled Theo and Blaise, looking far too awake for a Sunday morning.

"Morning, lovebirds!" Theo greeted cheerfully, stealing a croissant off Lucius’s plate without hesitation.

Lucius stared blankly at the two of them before turning to Hermione, who merely shrugged and took another sip of tea, entirely unbothered.

"Do they live here now?" he asked dryly.

"Basically," Hermione admitted.

Blaise smirked, throwing an arm over Theo’s shoulder.

"We’re like stray Kneazles," he said, grinning. "Once you feed us, we never leave."

Lucius inhaled deeply through his nose, counted to five, and reminded himself that murder was still illegal.

The final straw came when he walked into the sitting room one evening to find not just Blaise and Theo lounging on his furniture but Draco as well.

He stopped in the doorway, expression unreadable, as he took in the scene:

• Blaise was sprawled across an armchair, glass of whiskey in hand, looking far too comfortable.
• Theo had his feet up on the coffee table, tossing gold galleons in the air like he had nothing better to do.
• Draco was sitting across from Hermione, deep in what appeared to be a heated argument about some new Ministry legislation.

Lucius let out a long, slow breath, dragging a hand down his face.

"Why," he asked slowly, "are you all in my house?"

Blaise, without missing a beat, took a sip of whiskey and replied, "Because it’s fun to watch you suffer."

Theo nodded, not even looking up.

"And because Hermione feeds us."

Lucius’s jaw clenched.

"She is not running a soup kitchen."

Theo shrugged. "And yet, here we are."

Lucius turned to Draco, silently pleading for some kind of logical explanation.

Draco, however, merely smirked.

"Oh, I don’t want to live here," he said casually. "I just came to watch you slowly lose your mind."

Lucius stared at his only son, expression unreadable, before finally exhaling, turning to Hermione with the last shred of patience he had left.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?" he asked pointedly, gesturing at the utter lack of peace in his once-perfect home.

Hermione simply grinned, sipping her tea.

"Yes, love," she said sweetly. "I’ve made your life infinitely more interesting."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I hate you all."

"No, you don’t," Blaise corrected smoothly.

"Maybe just a little," Theo added.

Lucius shot them both a glare before turning back to Hermione.

She leaned up on her toes, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to his lips before murmuring, "Admit it. You’d be miserable without us."

Lucius sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his face again, before muttering,

"Regrettably… you may have a point."

Draco had been reluctant at first.

Not because he disapproved—but because he knew his father too well.

Lucius Malfoy did not do things lightly.

His father had always been a man of calculation and control, never one to let emotion dictate his decisions. Love—real love—had never seemed to be something Lucius sought after. It had been duty, obligation, appearances.

And yet, here he was, watching his father further and further in love with Hermione Granger of all people.

Draco needed to be sure.

Sure that this wasn’t just a temporary infatuation, some unexpected but fleeting romance that would burn out the moment things got too difficult.

Sure that Hermione wasn’t going to end up hurt, shattered beyond repair, caught in the wake of a Malfoy’s mistakes again.

So he watched.

Not with open skepticism, not with harsh judgment, but with quiet observation—because Draco had learned over the years that it was never about what Lucius said, but how he behaved.

And what he saw over the weeks slowly began to change his mind.

He saw the way the manor changed—how it felt different with Hermione in it.

It was warmer, less sterile, less like a museum of old legacies and more like an actual home.

The air no longer felt as heavy as it had since the war. There was laughter, there was life, and for the first time in Draco’s memory, Lucius looked… at peace.

And more than that—he saw the way they fit together.

Lucius had never been one for public displays of affection, and yet there were small, telling signs everywhere.

The way Hermione would casually touch his arm, the way Lucius didn’t just tolerate it, but leaned into it.

The way Lucius would watch her when she wasn’t looking, something unreadable but deep and unwavering in his gaze.

And then there was the way Lucius softened—in ways Draco had never seen before.

He still had his sharp edges, still had his pride, his arrogance, his unshakable sense of control—but around Hermione, there was something else now.

Something unguarded.

Something real.

And one day, when Draco stopped by for dinner, he finally admitted it.

They had just finished eating—Lucius sitting far too comfortably beside Hermione at the head of the table, their glasses still half-full, Blaise and Theo laughing about some ridiculous bet they had won against Draco earlier that week.

Draco swirled his drink, eyeing his father with a look of mild scrutiny, before speaking.

"You know," he said, voice calm, almost casual, "I think this is the first time in my life you’ve seemed… actually tolerable."

The table went silent for a half-second.

Then—

Lucius arched a brow, unimpressed but amused. "How generous of you, Draco."

Draco took a sip of his drink, smirking at Hermione.

"He’s still insufferable, obviously, but you seem to have made him at least somewhat pleasant."

Hermione grinned, feigning mock pride. "You’re welcome."

Lucius rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to Hermione, his fingers idly tracing the stem of his glass.

And Draco saw it.

The way Lucius looked at her.

It was subtle, but it was unmistakable—a look that held depth, certainty, possession in a way that went beyond claiming something temporary.

This wasn’t casual affection.

This wasn’t a passing phase.

Lucius wasn’t just in love with Hermione Granger—he was hers completely.

And Draco knew it then.

Lucius wasn’t letting her go.

And honestly?

Draco was fine with that.

As long as—

"Just do me a favor," Draco muttered, taking another sip of his drink, "keep the bedroom door locked."

Lucius smirked, but before he could make some insufferable remark, Hermione laughed outright, her hand squeezing Lucius’s forearm affectionately.

And in that moment, Draco realized—

She wasn’t just his father’s lover.

She was family now.

Chapter Text

A letter from Harry and Ron had been the last thing Hermione expected when she sat down at the large oak desk in her study one morning.

The parchment was slightly worn, the handwriting familiar, and she felt an immediate pang of guilt as she read their words.

Hermione,

It’s been too long.

We finally wrapped up the international case we were working on, and we’re moving back to England at the end of the month.

We know we’ve all been terrible at keeping in touch, and we’re partly blaming you for that because we know you’ve been busy.

Still, we miss you. Let’s meet up as soon as we’re back—just the three of us, like old times.

No excuses.

Love,
Harry & Ron

Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair, feeling a wave of guilt settle in her chest.

It had been too long.

After everything, they had all gotten so caught up in their own lives, and she had been so consumed with her relationship with Lucius, she hadn’t even thought about how little she had written to them.

And now, they were coming home.

Which meant she had to tell them.

About Lucius.

About… everything.

The pub was exactly the same as it had always been—the same dim lighting, the same aged wooden booths, the same rich scent of firewhiskey and butterbeer that clung to the air like a familiar embrace.

And yet, as Hermione slid into the worn wooden booth across from Harry and Ron, she felt something unexpectedly unfamiliar.

She felt nervous.

Harry grinned the moment she sat down, leaning forward and wrapping her in a quick but tight hug, holding onto her for a second longer than usual. When he pulled back, there was genuine warmth in his green eyes, but also something else—something searching.

"Merlin, Hermione, it’s good to see you," he said, his voice softer now, as if he too felt the space time had built between them.

Ron, never one for sentimentality, grinned as well, though his usual humor was already present. He reached for his drink, taking a long sip before setting it down with an expectant look.

"Yeah, yeah, you look great. But the real question is—who is the bloke?"

Hermione nearly choked on her own drink, coughing slightly before managing a weak, "What?"

Ron smirked, leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes glinting mischievously.

"Don’t play dumb, ‘Mione. You barely wrote, you’ve been all secretive—Harry and I both agreed that you’ve definitely been seeing someone - you know we haven’t been able to get copies of the Profit —.”

Hermione stared between them, completely thrown off guard.

Harry nodded in agreement, his arms folding across his chest as he studied her carefully.

"So," he prompted, raising an eyebrow, "who is he?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer—but before she could even form a response, a too-familiar voice cut through the air behind her, dripping with amusement.

"Well, well, well, if it isn’t the future Lady Malfoy."

Hermione’s entire body went rigid.

Harry and Ron froze instantly, their faces going blank with shock.

Slowly—painstakingly slowly— Hermione turned her head, feeling a pit of pure dread forming in her stomach.

Blaise and Theo were standing just inside the pub, smirking at her with obvious amusement, their postures casual and relaxed, as if they had just walked into the funniest scene of their lives.

Ron was the first to react.

"MALFOY?!" he practically roared, his chair scraping against the floor as he sat up so suddenly it nearly tipped backward.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed, his expression flickering between stunned and vaguely murderous, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to hex someone or simply demand immediate explanations.

"Nope. No bloody way," Ron continued, shaking his head, looking absolutely horrified. "Tell me it’s not Malfoy."

Hermione sat there completely speechless, her brain short-circuiting, her soul leaving her body.

She had meant to tell them—eventually, when the timing was right, when she could gently prepare them for the revelation that she was dating the elder Malfoy and living at Malfoy Manor.

This… was not how she had envisioned it happening.

Blaise and Theo, however, were both laughing, looking completely unbothered by the chaos they had just caused.

Theo grinned, patting Hermione on the shoulder as he leaned down slightly.

"This is awkward, love. We’ll see you back at the manor later."

Blaise smirked, winking at her before turning his attention to Harry and Ron, who still looked as if they had been hit with a Stunning Spell.

"Yes, do bring them by, will you? I'm sure they'd love a tour —should be quite the show."

And just like that, they turned and walked off, still chuckling to themselves.

Leaving her alone with the aftermath.

Hermione slowly turned back around.

Harry and Ron were staring at her, their faces a mixture of shock, confusion, and barely contained panic.

Then—

"THE MANOR?" Harry spluttered, his voice rising in disbelief.

"YOU LIVE AT MALFOY MANOR?"

Ron, still looking personally offended, slammed his hand against the table, rattling their drinks.

"WHAT THE HELL, HERMIONE?!"

Hermione sighed heavily, rubbing her temples as if this conversation was physically painful.

"Instead of explaining it all here," she muttered, choosing her words carefully, "maybe I should just… show you."

Harry and Ron exchanged wary glances, their expressions unreadable.

"Fine," Harry said grudgingly, though he clearly still had a million questions.

Ron muttered something about losing all faith in the universe, but he followed as Hermione led them toward the Floo, still looking as though he was expecting this to be some elaborate prank.

The moment they stepped through the Floo, Ron stumbled slightly, blinking as he took in the grand entryway of Malfoy Manor, his eyes darting around warily as if expecting Dark magic to lunge at him from the drapes.

"This place still creeps me out," he muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably.

Harry, standing beside him, subtly adjusted his wand holster, his Auror instincts clearly kicking in.

Before Hermione could reassure them that no one was going to hex them, a voice cut through the air, smooth and sharp as ever.

"Granger."

Draco was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with cautious curiosity. His gray eyes flickered between Hermione, Harry, and Ron, assessing the situation as if he were still trying to determine whether he was about to be hexed on sight.

Harry and Ron immediately tensed, exchanging quick glances before stepping forward in sync, their expressions steely with determination.

Ron was the first to speak, his voice firm, unwavering.

"Right. Listen, Malfoy—if you hurt Hermione, we will end you."

Harry nodded. "We mean it."

Draco blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His arms slowly uncrossed, his entire face morphing into pure confusion as his eyes flickered back to Hermione, as if she might translate this bizarre moment for him.

"I—I beg your pardon?" he asked, his voice slower, more measured, like he was trying to confirm he had heard them correctly.

"You heard us," Ron said, his voice deadly serious, eyes narrowing into a hard glare. "If you break her heart, we’ll make sure you regret it."

Draco’s brow furrowed deeper, his mouth opening slightly, as if trying to make sense of the absolute absurdity happening before him.

Then, suddenly, realization dawned.

His eyes widened.

His lips parted in astonishment.

And then—

"Oh, Merlin."

A slow, delighted smirk spread across Draco’s face as he turned his attention fully on Hermione, his expression filled with pure amusement.

"You let them think you were with me?"

Hermione, completely speechless, could do nothing but shrug helplessly, her lips pressing together in an effort not to laugh.

Ron, still stuck in confusion, scowled. "What do you mean ‘let them think’? If it’s not you, then who—"

Then, very slowly, Ron’s gaze shifted.

To Lucius.

Who had just entered the room with perfect, effortless timing, his presence as commanding as ever, his sharp silver gaze locking onto them with mild curiosity.

"Ah," Lucius murmured, his voice smooth and composed, “Mr. Potter - Mr. Weasley.”

Harry and Ron immediately stiffened, their backs going ramrod straight.

Ron’s face paled instantly, his eyes darting wildly from Lucius to Hermione, his brain visibly short-circuiting.

Harry, ever the professional Auror, quickly masked his initial shock, his gaze wary but polite as he straightened his stance.

"Mr. Malfoy," Harry greeted, his voice tight with restraint.

Lucius gave a small nod, his tone casually welcoming, as if he hadn’t just shattered their entire understanding of reality.

"Welcome to our home."

Silence.

Utter. Painful. Silence.

Ron’s brow furrowed in deep confusion, and he turned back to Hermione, his voice strained with desperation.

"Wait. Why is he here?"

Lucius arched a brow, but before he could respond, Draco suddenly lit up like it was Christmas morning.

He turned toward Harry and Ron with a positively wicked grin.

"Oh, this is beautiful."

Ron, still struggling to process, scowled. "What the bloody hell are you on about?"

Draco exhaled dramatically, shaking his head as if he were deeply, deeply disappointed in them.

"Look, I do have love for Hermione," he began, placing a hand over his chest with a theatrical sigh, "but I’m afraid you’re giving this whole ‘protective big brother’ speech to the wrong Malfoy."

Harry and Ron froze again.

Then, very, very slowly, Ron’s gaze shifted back to Lucius.

Lucius, ever composed, ever elegant, had just stepped closer to Hermione.

And then, with effortless ease, he reached up casually and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

Everything stopped.

Ron froze, his entire body going rigid.

Harry’s jaw physically dropped, his mouth hanging open as if words had completely escaped him.

Draco, watching the entire scene unfold, took a slow, deliberate step backward, as if preparing for an inevitable explosion.

And then—

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, HERMIONE?!"

Ron shouted so loudly that his voice echoed through the entire manor, probably waking up every portrait in the house.

Harry, still staring at Lucius in absolute disbelief, muttered, "Nope. Nope. I need to sit down."

Draco was grinning now, shaking his head in pure delight.

"This is the best day of my life."

Lucius, who looked far too pleased with himself, simply tilted his head, watching them with quiet amusement.

"I take it this wasn’t what you were expecting?"

Hermione sighed heavily, finally laughing as she turned to Harry and Ron.

"I was going to tell you, I swear."

Ron still looked like he was about to pass out, his face rapidly shifting between too many emotions to process.

Harry, after a long moment, rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling deeply.

"I need a drink," he muttered.

Lucius smirked knowingly. "By all means. Shall we?"

Ron, still in shock, sputtered. "NO, WE SHALL NOT! I NEED ANSWERS FIRST!"

Harry, however, was already moving further into the sitting room, his brain evidently deciding that alcohol was the only solution to this particular disaster.

Draco, still grinning, threw an arm over Ron’s shoulder as he led him forward.

"Come on, Weasley. Let’s go pour you something strong before you spontaneously combust."

And, with absolutely no idea how they had ended up here, Harry and Ron followed a very smug Lucius Malfoy into the room, their lives forever changed.

Chapter Text

Hermione had stood in front of the mirror for far too long.

Her deep red gown clung to her figure elegantly, the fabric pooling at her feet like liquid silk, the delicate embroidery shimmering subtly in the dim candlelight of Malfoy Manor’s grand dressing room.

It was stunning, objectively so.

Yet, she hesitated.

Because tonight was different.

Tonight, she wouldn’t just be Hermione Granger, war hero, former Ministry official, and bookshop owner.

Tonight, she was Hermione Granger—the woman on Lucius Malfoy’s arm.

And that? That was a statement.

A statement to the Ministry elite, the press, the wizarding world at large. A declaration that they were together, that she had chosen this, that Lucius Malfoy was no longer the man who stood behind pure-blood traditions, but beside her.

She smoothed her hands down the fabric of her dress, taking a measured breath, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted in nervous anticipation.

"Are you ready?"

Lucius’s voice was calm, assured, as it always was.

When she turned, she found him watching her closely, his silver eyes reflecting something more than just admiration.

He looked… steady, unwavering. But beneath that composure, there was something else.

Something intentional.

Something that said he knew exactly what tonight meant, too.

Hermione arched a brow. "Are you?"

Lucius smirked, stepping toward her, adjusting the clasp on his cufflink with slow precision.

"I was ready the moment you agreed to accompany me. The real question is—"

He lifted her hand, bringing it to his lips in an elegant, slow kiss—too casual to be a performance, too intimate to be anything but real.

"Are you?"

Hermione swallowed.

She had fought in a war, faced impossible odds, and rewritten her own future—but this?

Walking into a room filled with people who would dissect every moment, every glance, every touch between them?

This was a different kind of battle entirely.

Her mind flickered to the whispers she already knew would follow them.

“Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Granger?”

"What does she see in him?"

"She’s just another conquest—surely, she knows that."

Hermione forced those thoughts away, lifting her chin slightly.

Because she knew the truth.

She knew him.

And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Lucius would not let her face this alone.

"I suppose we’re about to find out," she murmured.

Lucius studied her for a beat longer, then nodded, offering his arm with a knowing smirk.

"Shall we, my dear?"

Hermione exhaled slowly, reaching for his arm—

And just like that, they stepped into the spotlight.

The moment they stepped into the grand ballroom, a hush fell over the crowd.

It was subtle—but unmistakable.

Wine glasses paused mid-air, conversations dropped into whispers, and eyes flickered toward them, a ripple of fascination and outright disbelief moving through the gilded, glittering space.

Hermione felt the shift immediately, the weight of dozens—no, hundreds—of gazes settling on her at once.

She could hear it already.

The murmurs.

"Lucius Malfoy… with her again?"

"Surely not."

"Of all people—Granger?"

A few guests barely concealed their shock, their champagne flutes wavering slightly as they openly stared. Others tried for discretion, casting sidelong glances while murmuring behind gloved hands, their expressions unreadable.

Hermione’s fingers tightened slightly around Lucius’s arm, her pulse quickening.

Lucius, of course, was unshaken.

"Steady, darling," he murmured, his voice low, velvety, unbothered, as if the entire room hadn’t just collectively turned into a pack of curious onlookers.

"They can stare all they like. It changes nothing."

And then, without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted their joined hands, bringing hers to his lips in a lingering kiss—slow, deliberate.

The air in the ballroom crackled.

Hermione felt it—the message, loud and clear.

Let them look.

Let them talk.

Lucius Malfoy didn’t care.

And if he didn’t care—if the man who had once dictated the highest echelons of Wizarding society wasn’t the least bit concerned with their judgment—then why should she be?

Hermione exhaled slowly.

Right. Time to own this.

She lifted her chin, smoothing the tension from her shoulders, and matched his confidence step for step as they made their way deeper into the ballroom, the sound of rustling gowns and hushed murmurs trailing behind them.

As expected, the responses varied wildly.

Some, like Kingsley Shacklebolt and Narcissa Malfoy, greeted her warmly, politely, as if nothing were out of place.

"Hermione," Kingsley said, his deep voice carrying easily through the noise, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "I can’t say I expected this, but I’m certainly not surprised. It suits you."

Hermione smiled gratefully, relaxing slightly at his acceptance.

"Thank you, Kingsley," she replied. "It’s… an adjustment."

"For them, perhaps," he said, casting a quick glance at the still-muttering guests, "but not for you."

Hermione felt something settle in her chest at that.

Lucius, meanwhile, had turned his attention to his ex-wife, who stood poised and entirely composed, a flute of champagne elegantly balanced between two fingers.

Narcissa arched a delicate brow, surveying him carefully, then let her gaze drift to Hermione, assessing her with quiet curiosity.

And then—the faintest hint of amusement danced across her face.

"Lucius, dear," she murmured, taking a slow sip of her drink, "I must say, I’ve never seen you look quite so... domesticated."

Lucius smirked, unfazed.

"And yet, here I stand."

Hermione, biting her lip to contain her laughter, squeezed his arm slightly.

Narcissa’s eyes flickered between them once more, and then—a small nod of approval.

"Well," she said lightly, turning toward Hermione with something dangerously close to an actual smile, "at least I know he’s in capable hands."

Hermione blinked in surprise, but before she could respond, Narcissa had already drifted away, leaving behind only a faint trace of her signature floral perfume.

"That went rather well," Hermione murmured.

Lucius chuckled, guiding her further into the room. "You expected a duel?"

"With your family?" She smirked. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

Lucius only laughed softly, shaking his head.

Then, there were the others.

The ones who clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Ministerial officials, business moguls, former socialites who had spent years following Lucius Malfoy’s every calculated move—now blinking at Hermione as if trying to comprehend a completely new version of history unfolding before their eyes.

One particularly flustered diplomat stammered awkwardly, nearly spilling his champagne as they approached.

"Granger, I mean—Miss Granger—" he fumbled, adjusting his tie with visibly sweaty hands. "You and Malfoy? That’s… quite unexpected."

Hermione tilted her head slightly, arching a knowing brow.

"It shouldn’t be."

The man blinked rapidly, clearly caught off guard by her confidence.

Lucius, standing beside her with easy dominance, chuckled lowly, his amusement undeniable.

"Unexpected?" he repeated, his voice smooth, yet sharp as a blade. "Perhaps. But hardly shocking."

The man laughed nervously, taking a large sip of his drink before mumbling something about needing more wine and disappearing into the crowd.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"They’re acting like I’ve gone mad."

Lucius smirked, leaning down slightly. "Perhaps you have."

"Oh?" she challenged, lifting her chin. "Falling for you was madness?"

Lucius’s eyes glittered in amusement, his hand pressing lightly against the small of her back as he leaned closer.

"Falling for me was inevitable, darling."

Hermione huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "You are so—"

"Charming?"

"Infuriating."

"Mm." He smirked, leading her further into the ballroom with unwavering certainty.

"Same thing."

And despite everything—the stares, the murmurs, the outright disbelief swirling around them—Hermione realized that for the first time that evening, she wasn’t nervous anymore.

Because Lucius hadn’t let go of her hand once.

And he never would.

By the time they left the event, the air was buzzing with speculation.

The weight of whispers, lingering glances, and hushed conversations followed them all the way to the manor, but Hermione could practically feel the moment the first batch of newspapers hit the streets.

As they stepped into the grand sitting room, the crisp crackle of an evening edition of The Daily Prophet awaited them on the coffee table, as if the universe itself had anticipated the public’s need for immediate scandal.

Lucius barely spared it a glance at first, tugging off his impeccably tailored jacket and handing it off to a waiting house-elf. Hermione, meanwhile, kicked off her heels with a sigh, stretching her toes in pure relief.

"They do love their theatrics," she mused, picking up the paper and scanning the bold, nearly comical headline.

"Lucius Malfoy’s Scandalous Affair—The Gryffindor Who Tamed Him?"

She snorted.

"Oh, this is going to be good."

Lucius, having poured himself a drink, arched a single unimpressed brow. "I doubt it."

Still, he took the paper from her, unfolding it with the same level of disdain one might have when handling something truly distasteful.

He skimmed the first few lines in complete silence, his expression unreadable—until, suddenly, his brow twitched.

Hermione recognized that twitch.

It meant something had offended him.

She smirked.

"Smitten?" he scoffed, tilting the paper toward her as if demanding an explanation. "I am not smitten."

Hermione leaned in, peering over his shoulder, her gaze flicking to the particularly bolded paragraph in question:

Sources report that Lucius Malfoy, long known for his cold demeanor and meticulous control, appeared utterly smitten with his unexpected companion. Witnesses claim he did not leave her side all evening, engaging in casual affection—unthinkable for the former Death Eater.

Hermione bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh, love," she teased, patting his arm affectionately. "But you are."

Lucius lowered the paper slowly, turning to her with a withering look.

"I am not."

"You kissed my hand at least four times in front of the entire room."

Lucius set the paper down with practiced patience, picking up his glass of whiskey instead. "That was strategic."

Hermione folded her arms, grinning now.

"You pulled my chair out for me."

Lucius took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. "That was courtesy."

"You introduced me to people as ‘my Hermione’."

Lucius paused mid-sip.

Hermione beamed.

He set the glass down with a slow, deliberate movement, inhaling through his nose as if considering his next words carefully.

Then, with excruciating grace, he exhaled and closed his eyes briefly, as if mourning his own loss.

"Oh, Merlin," he muttered.

Hermione laughed outright, leaning into him, her fingers curling around his forearm as she rested her head against his shoulder.

"It’s alright, Lucius," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his jaw. "You can admit it. The Prophet got something right for once."

Lucius huffed, but his hand drifted absently to her thigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against the fabric of her dress.

"I suppose," he admitted after a beat, leaning back against the cushions, "if one were to stretch the definition of the word, I might—possibly—be… somewhat attached to you."

Hermione smirked, tilting her chin up. "Somewhat?"

Lucius gave her a long look, his eyes flickering over her face, her lips, the knowing expression she wore like a victory.

Then, finally, he sighed.

"Utterly, then."

Hermione beamed, tugging his tie just enough to make him meet her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.

"See? That wasn’t so hard."

Lucius groaned softly, burying his face in the crook of her neck for a brief moment, as if accepting his fate was an unbearable burden.

"I do hope you find satisfaction in this, darling," he murmured, voice laced with reluctant amusement.

Hermione laughed against his skin, her fingers threading into his hair.

"Immeasurable satisfaction, actually."

Lucius huffed again, tilting his head down to brush his lips against her temple.

"I suppose I can live with that."

And with that, the great Lucius Malfoy accepted his fate—

Utterly and irrevocably smitten.

Chapter Text

The dining room at Malfoy Manor had never felt so intimate.

Gone was the usual formal grandeur, the vast, untouchable space meant for entertaining political figures and high-society guests. No endless table stretching the length of the room, no excessive displays of wealth meant to intimidate rather than invite.

Tonight, Lucius had transformed it into something entirely different.

A space meant for just them.

A soft, golden glow flickered from dozens of floating candles, their delicate flames casting dancing shadows against the high stone walls. The warm scent of firewood, vanilla, and aged wine wrapped around them, mixing in the air like something out of a dream.

At the heart of the room, a private table for two sat near the grand windows, where the silver light of the nearly full moon streamed in, illuminating the delicate arrangement of white roses and ivy that trailed down the table.

It was elegant, romantic in a way that felt timeless—crafted with intentionality.

Not just to impress.

But to mean something.

And at the center of it all was Hermione, seated across from Lucius, laughing softly as she twirled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, her curls catching the candlelight in soft waves of gold and chestnut.

Lucius watched her, his silver eyes half-lidded with quiet amusement, his fingers moving in lazy circles along the rim of his own glass.

"You’ve outdone yourself," Hermione mused, her voice light with amusement, though there was a hint of something deeper beneath it—something unspoken, waiting to be unraveled.

Lucius smirked, swirling his drink, his gaze never leaving hers.

"Have I?"

Hermione let her eyes wander, taking in the candlelit warmth of the room, the soft glow of the hearth, the faint flicker of magic woven into the very air itself, keeping everything just a little softer, a little warmer, a little more unreal.

"Mm," she hummed, setting her glass down, her fingertips trailing lightly over the rim. The fire crackled softly in the background, filling the luxurious silence between them.

Finally, she turned back to him, her brow arching playfully.

"If I didn’t know any better," she teased, "I’d say you were trying to seduce me, Lord Malfoy."

Lucius let out a low, velvety chuckle, the sound rich and smooth, effortless in its confidence. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief, and reached across the table, his fingers brushing over hers before fully capturing her hand.

"Darling," he murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles against her palm, "if I were trying to seduce you, you’d already be in my bed."

Hermione snorted, shaking her head as she bit back a laugh, but she didn’t pull away.

His grip was warm, firm, grounding in a way that made her pulse flutter just slightly.

"So, then," she said, arching a brow, her gaze curious now, searching his face as if trying to decipher what, exactly, was behind all of this. "What is the occasion? This is extravagant, even for you."

Lucius exhaled slowly, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful, more deliberate.

And for the first time all evening—for the first time in his life, perhaps—Lucius Malfoy hesitated.

It was so brief, so imperceptible, that anyone else might have missed it.

But not Hermione.

She felt it—the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly against hers.

Saw it—the almost imperceptible waver in his usually unshakable mask of control.

For one fleeting second, Lucius Malfoy—the man who prided himself on poise, on certainty, on always being a step ahead—looked… uncertain.

And suddenly, she understood.

This wasn’t just an elaborate dinner. This wasn’t just another one of his grand gestures of affection or indulgence.

This was something more.

"Lucius," she said slowly, her brows drawing together slightly.

Her voice was gentle, careful—because for the first time, she felt like she was speaking to a version of him that very few, if any, had ever seen before.

"What’s wrong?"

Lucius let out a measured breath, the weight of it settling between them.

His gaze dropped to their joined hands, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles against her skin—something subconscious, grounding.

"Nothing," he murmured, his voice softer than she had ever heard it before.

Then, after a beat, his lips parted once more.

"Everything."

Hermione’s lips parted slightly, her heart picking up speed.

That was not the response she had expected.

Lucius Malfoy did not do uncertainty.

Lucius Malfoy did not hesitate.

And yet—here he was.

For her.

Vulnerable.

Hermione’s stomach fluttered, a warmth blooming deep in her chest as she studied him.

The way his fingers never stopped moving against her palm, the way his jaw tightened as though warring with himself, the way his eyes—so often sharp, so often calculating—held something entirely different now.

Something raw.

Something real.

"Lucius," she said again, her voice quieter now, squeezing his hand just slightly, reassuringly. "Whatever it is, just say it."

Lucius exhaled slowly, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, as if annoyed with himself for being so transparent.

Hermione recognized the sound immediately—not frustration at her, but frustration at himself.

Because Lucius Malfoy was a man who always knew his next move.

And now, he didn’t.

Then, without ceremony, without preamble, Lucius Malfoy reached into the inner pocket of his jacket—his movements slow, measured, deliberate—and pulled out a small, elegantly crafted ring box.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

For a moment, time itself seemed to still.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, her mind catching up far too slowly to what her heart had already begun to understand.

Lucius said nothing at first, simply flicking the box open with one elegant motion, revealing a stunning, antique engagement ring—an intricate platinum band adorned with delicate diamonds and a single, breathtakingly brilliant emerald at its center.

The candlelight caught the facets of the stone, sending reflections of green and silver dancing across the table.

Hermione stared at it, the sight of it colliding into her all at once, her thoughts a tangled mess of disbelief, anticipation, and something so profound it almost frightened her.

Lucius watched her carefully, his expression calm, expectant—but not impatient.

He was giving her time.

And yet, her heart was already answering before her mind could catch up.

For a long, long moment, Hermione couldn’t speak.

Her mind was flooded with too much at once—

The unmistakable weight of this moment.

The way Lucius looked at her, steady and unwavering, as though this had been inevitable from the start.

The way her heart felt like it was about to burst from her chest, because this was real.

And then—

"Marry me."

Two words.

Smooth. Unhurried.

Spoken with the certainty of a man who had never been more sure of anything in his life.

And that—that was what undid her completely.

Hermione let out a disbelieving laugh, pressing a hand to her forehead as she tried to gather herself, but it was useless—her emotions were already spilling over, tumbling out in ways she couldn’t contain.

"That’s it?" she asked, half-laughing, half-crying, her voice breathless with shock. "No speech? No declaration? Just—‘marry me’?"

Lucius smirked, tilting his head slightly.

"Would you prefer I grovel?"

Hermione snorted, shaking her head as she wiped at the corner of her eye, the tears of laughter and sheer overwhelming joy making everything feel blurred and surreal.

"Merlin, you are impossible."

Lucius hummed, still watching her carefully, his expression soft with amusement, but unwavering in resolve.

"And yet," he murmured, "you adore me anyway."

Hermione exhaled sharply, letting out another choked laugh, the sound somewhere between exasperation and absolute certainty.

"Yes, you ridiculous, arrogant man."

She paused, looking at him—really looking at him.

The man who had been her enemy.

Her rival.

Her most impossible contradiction.

And now—

"Of course, I’ll marry you."

Lucius’s shoulders relaxed, his breath leaving him in quiet satisfaction, as if he had been holding it without realizing.

With slow, deliberate precision, he slid the ring onto her finger, the weight of it grounding her, cementing this moment as real.

He lifted her hand to his lips once more, pressing a kiss against her knuckles, his voice low and rich.

"Hermione," he murmured, "I have never wanted anything more."

Hermione’s heart stuttered, her pulse pounding beneath her skin, as she studied him—

This man who had once been so far removed from everything she thought she wanted—now the very thing she could never live without.

"Neither have I," she whispered.

And as he pulled her into a slow, soul-stealing kiss, she knew—

This was only the beginning.

Planning a wedding should have been a simple affair.

After all, Lucius Malfoy could plan an entire aristocratic event with the flick of his wand. And Hermione? She had organized the downfall of a Dark Lord—surely, planning a wedding would be a far less daunting task.

But Hermione had not accounted for Theo, Blaise, and Draco.

And Lucius had not accounted for Hermione.

Between the relentless meddling of her self-appointed groomsmen, Narcissa’s unexpected visit, and the battle of extravagance versus intimacy, it became abundantly clear:

This wedding was going to be a nightmare before it was a dream.

"A wedding," Lucius had said, his voice laced with certainty, as if this was an irrefutable fact of the universe, "should be a grand, decadent affair. A reflection of its importance."

Hermione had paused mid-sip of her tea, eyeing him over the rim of her cup with deep suspicion.

"Lucius," she said slowly, setting the cup down with careful precision, "are you proposing we host some over-the-top gala filled with people we barely tolerate?"

Lucius arched a single, unimpressed brow, his expression imperiously blank, as if her words were not just absurd, but vaguely offensive.

"Darling," he said smoothly, tipping his whiskey glass slightly in her direction, "that’s what weddings are."

Hermione stared at him, waiting for the trace of humor that never came.

Oh. He was serious.

She inhaled slowly, then folded her arms, her expression firm and unyielding.

"Not ours."

Lucius blinked once, setting his drink down as if preparing for an argument.

"No?" he asked, his tone perfectly polite, but she knew him too well.

"No," she confirmed, tilting her chin up. "I want something smaller. Intimate. Something that feels… real."

Lucius let out a deep, suffering sigh, reclining against the settee in a graceful sprawl, swirling the amber liquid in his glass like a man burdened by unreasonable circumstances.

"If we do this your way," he mused dramatically, "there won’t be a proper orchestra. No imported champagne. And—Merlin forbid—the guest list will be under two hundred."

Hermione deadpanned, unimpressed.

"You’re suffering. I can tell."

Lucius gave her a long, suffering look, then smirked, setting his drink aside and leaning toward her with slow, deliberate ease.

"And yet," he murmured, brushing a knuckle along the back of her hand, "I adore you anyway."

Hermione rolled her eyes but felt her lips twitch in amusement despite herself.

"Good," she said simply, tapping a finger against his chest, "because you’re going to have to make peace with a wedding that doesn’t look like a royal coronation."

Lucius sighed again, but this time, it was more amused than put-upon.

In the end, they compromised.

• A smaller guest list. (Lucius had tried to argue that anyone below ‘notable status’ didn’t count, but Hermione swiftly shot that down.)
• A stunning ceremony, but no unnecessary extravagance. (Lucius had tried to convince her that a charmed snowfall during their vows would be “a tasteful addition.” Hermione had flatly drawn the line.)
• A garden wedding, because Hermione wanted something beautiful, natural, and meaningful.

But of course—Lucius had to win something.

"Fine," he had said, exhaling in reluctant acceptance. "But the flowers will be imported from France."

Hermione had raised a brow. "Are you seriously suggesting that English flowers are beneath you?"

Lucius had tilted his head, not quite denying it.

Hermione had rolled her eyes again but, in the end, let him have it—mostly because he looked far too pleased with himself when he won small victories.

And that was how they planned a wedding—

One negotiation at a time.

Hermione had foolishly assumed that wedding planning would be a personal affair—something handled between herself and Lucius, with minimal interference, thoughtful discussions, and maybe the occasional mild disagreement over flowers or table settings.

She was very, very wrong.

Theo, Blaise, and Draco had taken it upon themselves to appoint themselves as the official Malfoy-Granger Wedding Planning Committee.

And they were utterly impossible.

"I’m just saying," Blaise drawled lazily, leaning back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, "you need an open bar. Otherwise, half the guests won’t survive the speeches."

Lucius, who had been absentmindedly reviewing a seating chart, didn’t even look up before interjecting smoothly—

"There will be no speeches."

Theo, who had been halfway through sipping his whiskey, choked.

"No speeches? Absolutely not. I’ve already started writing mine."

Hermione’s head snapped up immediately. "Should I be worried?"

Theo grinned. Too widely.

"No."

Blaise smirked. "Yes."

Draco, who had been quietly observing from the other end of the table, finally sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.

"For the love of Merlin, will you two at least pretend to be useful?" he muttered. "What about the reception?

Theo perked up instantly, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I vote for a dramatic first dance. Something that makes a statement."

Lucius arched a single brow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Such as?"

Theo tapped his chin thoughtfully, pretending to give it deep consideration.

"Something with a bit of flair. Maybe a bit of tango?"

Hermione blinked, horrified.

"Theo, I love you, but Lucius Malfoy is not doing a tango."

Lucius turned to her, his expression entirely unimpressed.

"I will have you know," he said with complete seriousness, "I am an exceptional dancer, Hermione - even the Tango.”

Theo’s grin widened.

"Oh, now we absolutely must see this."

Blaise snickered, shaking his head.

"I’m increasing the odds on the betting pool."

Hermione paused mid-sentence.

"Betting pool?"

Theo and Blaise exchanged a look, and then Theo grinned far too innocently.

"Oh, just a harmless wager."

Hermione sighed heavily, already dreading the answer.

"Do I even want to know?"

Blaise smirked, steepling his fingers like an evil mastermind.

"I bet you’ll cry first at the wedding."

Theo leaned in, grinning wickedly.

"And I bet Lucius will."

Lucius scoffed loudly, looking genuinely appalled.

"Utter nonsense. I have never cried in my life."

Draco, who had been largely disengaged up until this moment, lifted his glass and spoke in the driest tone imaginable—

"You teared up when you saw the final draft of the new laws on estate taxes."

Lucius’s head snapped toward him.

"That was different."

Theo and Blaise howled with laughter, while Hermione bit down on her lip, desperately trying not to grin.

"You are all impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.

Theo smirked, his expression nothing short of smug.

"You love us.”

Lucius sighed deeply, tilting his glass toward Hermione.

"Regrettably, I do believe that is true."

It should have been a simple decision.

Vanilla. Chocolate. Maybe a touch of fruit.

And yet, Hermione found herself locked in yet another battle of opinions—this time, over cake.

"A traditional white wedding cake is the obvious choice," Lucius declared, his tone suggesting that there was no debate to be had.

Theo snorted. "Boring."

"It is classic," Lucius corrected smoothly.

"It is dull," Theo countered. "Hermione, back me up on this."

Hermione, who had been silently watching the chaos unfold, took a slow sip of her tea.

"I like chocolate."

Blaise perked up instantly. "Yes! Now that is an excellent choice."

Lucius turned toward her, giving her a long, assessing look.

"Chocolate?" he repeated, as if the mere suggestion was borderline scandalous.

"Yes, chocolate," Hermione said firmly.

Lucius exhaled as if deeply inconvenienced, before turning to Draco for backup.

"Surely you agree that chocolate is far too pedestrian for an occasion such as this?"

Draco, who had been flipping idly through a list of potential wedding venues, barely glanced up.

"I honestly don’t care. As long as I don’t have to sit through a four-hour ceremony, you can serve whatever you want."

Lucius rolled his eyes but then turned back to Hermione.

"Fine. But I want it made by the finest pâtissiers in France."

Blaise raised a hand. "Actually, I know a guy."

Lucius gave him a slow, disapproving glance. "I am not eating a cake made by ‘a guy’ you know, Zabini."

Blaise shrugged. "Your loss."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, already dreading the next decision.

"All guests should wear formal robes," Lucius stated.

"No," Hermione said instantly.

Lucius blinked. "No?"

"No," she repeated. "Not everyone is comfortable in formal robes. Some of my guests will want Muggle formalwear, and I don’t want to make them feel out of place."

Lucius sighed, his aristocratic sensibilities visibly clashing with his love for her.

"Fine," he conceded after a long pause. "But no one may wear anything garish. This is still a Malfoy wedding."

Theo perked up instantly.

"Define ‘garish.’"

Lucius gave him a long, slow look.

"If you show up in anything remotely ridiculous, I will have you forcibly removed."

Theo smirked. "I accept that challenge."

Hermione groaned.

Despite the chaos, the arguing, the constant meddling, and the never-ending debates, Hermione wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Because somewhere between the absurdity of it all, she caught Lucius watching her, his gaze filled with something softer than amusement, deeper than admiration.

And in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of them, he would take her hand and murmur, "It will be perfect, Hermione."

And she believed him.

Because no matter what ridiculous decisions they had to make, at the end of the day—

She was marrying Lucius Malfoy.

And that?

That was the easiest decision of all.

The arrival of Narcissa Malfoy at the manor was both unexpected and precisely on time.

Hermione had never quite known what to expect from Lucius’s ex-wife. Their relationship was a complicated dance—two women from opposite worlds who had, over time, found themselves in a comfortable truce, something that resembled mutual respect, and on occasion, something close to friendship.

But today, Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t here to offer pleasantries.

She was here for something far more significant.

She moved with her usual effortless grace, sweeping into the drawing room with an air of purpose, a small, velvet box clutched delicately in her hand.

"I assume the wedding planning is going well?" she asked as she took a seat across from Hermione.

Hermione barely resisted the urge to laugh.

"That depends," she replied, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "If by ‘going well,’ you mean Theo and Blaise have turned it into a betting ring, Lucius and I have argued over the absurdity of imported flowers, and Draco is already planning his excuses to leave early, then yes—perfectly well."

Narcissa’s lips twitched in amusement, but she said nothing as she carefully set the box down on the table between them.

Hermione’s eyes flickered to it, curious, but Narcissa didn’t speak right away.

Instead, she studied Hermione, her expression unreadable.

Finally, with slow precision, she flipped the lid open, revealing something that immediately stole Hermione’s breath.

Inside, nestled on a bed of the finest silver satin, was an exquisite hairpiece—a delicate arrangement of silver filigree, laced with tiny emeralds, intricate and breathtakingly beautiful.

Hermione blinked, momentarily speechless.

"It’s stunning," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Narcissa inclined her head slightly, the faintest hint of something like approval in her gaze.

"It belonged to Lucius’s mother," she explained, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the box. "It has been passed down to Malfoy brides for generations."

Hermione froze slightly at that, feeling the weight of history, of expectation, of belonging settle over her.

Lucius, who had been standing quietly beside her, stiffened slightly, his expression carefully neutral.

It was subtle—just a flicker of tension in his shoulders, the slightest change in his posture—but Hermione noticed.

"You don’t have to take it," Narcissa continued, her tone lighter, but watchful. "But I thought you should have the choice."

Hermione hesitated for half a second, then reached out, her fingertips skimming over the cool metal, feeling the intricate ridges beneath her touch.

She imagined the women before her who had worn it, women with the Malfoy name, the Malfoy legacy, the Malfoy burdens.

And yet…

It didn’t feel like a chain, like an obligation.

It felt like a bridge.

"Thank you, Narcissa."

The words were simple, but they held weight.

And for the first time, Hermione watched as Narcissa smiled—a real, genuine smile, soft and fleeting, but undeniably sincere.

Despite the chaos, despite the never-ending debates, despite Theo and Blaise turning the entire process into one long-standing joke—

There were still moments of quiet.

One night, as they sat by the fireplace, Hermione curled against Lucius’s side, her head resting comfortably against his chest.

The room was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the only sounds the crackling fire and the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her ear.

Lucius’s hand traced idle circles along her back, his touch soothing, grounding.

"I wouldn’t change a thing," she whispered.

Lucius pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering just for a moment, his voice low, content.

"Neither would I."

And in that moment, amidst all the madness and laughter, all the betting pools and ridiculous arguments over cake flavors—

She realized—

This was exactly what forever should feel like.

Chapter Text

The week before the wedding was supposed to be calm—or, at the very least, manageable.

Hermione had foolishly believed that after surviving months of Theo and Blaise’s meddling, multiple debates over imported flowers, and Lucius’s endless insistence on only the finest champagne, she had faced the worst of it.

She was very, very wrong.

Because she had not yet accounted for the Weasleys.

It had been a rare moment of peace.

Lucius had taken the morning to oversee final preparations, Draco had gone into hiding to avoid further wedding-related discussions, and Theo and Blaise were mercifully occupied with their latest round of betting on which wedding detail would make Lucius snap first.

Hermione had been enjoying a quiet breakfast in the sunlit sitting room, sipping her tea, basking in the temporary silence of Malfoy Manor, when suddenly—

BOOM.

The Floo erupted violently, sending green flames bursting into the air, and before Hermione could so much as blink, a blur of red hair tumbled through the fireplace—

And then another.

And another.

And another.

She barely had time to register what was happening before the entire Weasley family had poured into the manor, one after the other, like an unstoppable army of chaos.

Ron, of course, was at the helm, looking deeply unimpressed as he dusted soot off his jacket.

"You’re telling me Malfoy doesn’t even have proper Floo dusting charms?" he grumbled, stepping aside just in time for Fred and George to arrive in a spectacular heap, colliding directly into the Weasley matriarch.

"OI—watch it!" Molly huffed, swatting at them, only for Arthur to step through gracefully, adjusting his glasses as if this was completely normal.

Bill and Charlie followed, each taking in their surroundings with varying degrees of suspicion, while Ginny simply raised an eyebrow, smirking.

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Good morning to you, too," she said dryly.

Ron scowled, crossing his arms.

"You’re actually going through with this?" he demanded.

Before Hermione could answer, Fred clapped his hands together, grinning.

"More importantly—where’s the groom? We brought champagne and hexes, just in case."

"Yes," George added. "Festivities or intervention. We’re prepared for both."

Hermione glared. "There will be no hexing of Lucius."

Fred grinned wolfishly. "We’ll see."

At that precise moment, Lucius Malfoy chose to enter the room, his expression calm, composed, and entirely unbothered by the absolute chaos of ginger intruders in his home.

His eyes flicked over the assembled Weasleys, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Ron, before settling on Hermione.

"I assume," he said silkily, "this is the Weasley invasion I was warned about?"

Ron’s scowl deepened.

"We’re here to make sure you don’t—" he gestured vaguely at Lucius "—do anything Malfoy-ish."

Lucius arched a single, unimpressed brow.

"Define ‘Malfoy-ish,’ Weasley."

"You know," Ron muttered. "Brood. Scheme. Buy off officials to make sure the wedding is legally binding before she comes to her senses."

Lucius chuckled, entirely too entertained by this.

"I assure you," he said smoothly, "if I were to scheme, you would never see it coming."

Hermione groaned.

"Lucius, you are not helping."

Lucius simply tilted his head, offering her a soft smirk.

"Oh, but I am, darling."

Ginny snorted.

"Alright, I’ll admit, I didn’t expect him to be quite so… suave. Bit unsettling, really."

Molly, who had been surveying Lucius with the sharp gaze of a mother assessing a potential disaster for her child, finally stepped forward, folding her arms.

"Right, well," she said firmly. "This is all very… unexpected. But if Hermione’s happy, that’s what matters."

Lucius inclined his head gracefully, but before he could respond, Theo and Blaise appeared in the doorway, looking absolutely delighted.

"Oh, now this is excellent," Blaise murmured, surveying the Weasley takeover.

Theo elbowed Lucius playfully. "We were starting to worry your side of the wedding was going to be too refined, but this? This is a perfect balance of chaos."

Ron looked between them, horrified.

"Who are you?"

"Groomsmen," Blaise said cheerfully. "Unpaid, under appreciated, and entirely in it for the drama."

Fred narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"So you’re saying this wedding already has a designated disaster department?"

Theo grinned.

"Naturally. Now, who do I bribe to ensure Ron wears Slytherin colors?"

Ron’s eye twitched violently.

"Absolutely not."

Despite the rough start, the Weasleys slowly relaxed as the day wore on, though not without constant commentary.

Fred and George explored the manor (“Very posh. Not enough booby traps.”), Charlie made himself at home by the fire, and Arthur spent an alarming amount of time examining Malfoy’s enchanted appliances.

But at some point, when the noise had faded into easy conversation, when Ron had finally stopped glaring at Lucius like he was a Dark Lord in disguise, Hermione looked around and realized—

This was it.

Her past and her present colliding.

And somehow, it worked.

Sure, Fred was still making threats. Theo and Blaise were definitely scheming. Lucius was only tolerating this madness for her sake.

But as Molly refilled her tea, as Ginny winked at her across the room, as Lucius’s fingers brushed against hers in silent reassurance, Hermione knew—

This was family now.

And honestly?

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

The day dawned crisp and golden, the sky a brilliant, unmarred blue as if the universe itself had conspired to grant them perfection.

It was, in every way, a perfect blend of their worlds—

Refined yet warm. Elegant yet intimate.

There were no unnecessary theatrics, no charmed snowfall, no excessive displays of wealth for the sake of status. Instead, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream—rows of ivory and emerald blooms, lanterns floating lazily above, the air filled with soft music and the quiet hum of conversation.

It was a wedding befitting Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy—

A merging of Gryffindor heart and Slytherin finesse.

And at the center of it all, Hermione stood, breathless and radiant, as she walked down the aisle.

She wasn’t nervous.

Not when her heart knew exactly where it belonged.

Not when Lucius was standing there, waiting for her.

Waiting, as if he had been meant to do so all along.

Lucius Malfoy had never believed in fate.

Fate, he had always thought, was for men who lacked control over their own lives, for those who placed their trust in the whims of destiny instead of their own actions.

He had spent his entire life shaping his future, crafting his choices with ruthless precision, ensuring that his path was dictated by strategy, not chance.

And yet—

As he stood at the altar, surrounded by family, legacy, and the weight of a life that had once been so carefully orchestrated, he felt something he had never accounted for.

As Hermione moved toward him, bathed in golden afternoon light, her gown flowing like liquid moonlight, her hair softly curled around her face, he realized—

He had been wrong.

Because she was his fate.

Not something predetermined by the stars, but something infinitely more powerful—

A fate that had been chosen.

By her.

By him.

She had rewritten the course of his life in ways he had never seen coming—had torn through his carefully built world and rearranged it with her fire, her heart, her impossible brilliance.

And now?

Now, he would spend the rest of his life ensuring that she never doubted her place in his world.

Never questioned where she belonged.

Because she belonged here.

With him.

She reached him, her eyes bright, her lips trembling slightly, her fingers shaking ever so slightly as she extended her hand toward his.

Lucius took it without hesitation, his touch firm and sure, grounding them both.

And as he gazed at her—at the woman who had become his heart, his home, his everything—he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice meant for her ears alone.

"My darling Hermione," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, "I have done many things in my life. Some I regret, some I cherish. But standing here, marrying you? This is the only thing I have ever done that feels like it was meant to be."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, her lips parting as emotion overwhelmed her.

Her eyes instantly welled with tears, her fingers tightening around his as if she needed to hold onto something real, something steady.

Because he meant it.

Every word.

She could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the way he held her, like she was the most precious thing he had ever dared to claim as his own.

Blaise, watching from the front row, leaned over to Theo with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Pay up."

Theo groaned, fishing out a handful of Galleons as he muttered, "Damn it, I really thought she’d hold out until the vows."

Lucius, without taking his eyes off Hermione, sighed.

"Do I even want to know what you two have wagered on this time?"

Theo grinned unapologetically. "Just friendly bets, Lucius. Nothing sinister. But for the record? You were my second bet."

Lucius exhaled slowly, then—without looking away from Hermione—smirked just slightly.

"You should know by now, Theodore," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, "when it comes to Hermione, I always win."

Hermione let out a watery laugh, shaking her head as she wiped at her tears.

"I hate you all."

Lucius tilted his head, his expression soft, warm, devastatingly tender.

"No, my love," he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips once more, his voice dropping into something only she could hear.

"You adore me."

Hermione’s chest ached—but in the best way possible.

"I do," she whispered.

And in that moment, with all of their friends watching, with the sunlight catching in her eyes and the weight of their forever settling between them—

Lucius Malfoy, for the first time in his life, realized that fate had never truly been beyond his control.

Because he had chosen her.

And she had chosen him right back.

Hermione stood before him, her hands warm in his, her eyes shining with emotion, and when she spoke, her voice trembled ever so slightly—but there was no hesitation.

"I spent so much of my life believing that love was something that had to be easy to be real."

She exhaled softly, her gaze never leaving his.

"That it had to be simple, obvious, expected."

Lucius felt something in his chest tighten—because he knew. He understood.

Because he had spent years believing the same thing—believing that love had to fit into neat, presentable boxes, that it had to follow certain rules, certain traditions.

"But then I met you."

A ripple of quiet laughter spread through the guests, because they all knew exactly how that story had begun—with years of rivalry, of sharp words and stubborn defiance, of two forces constantly at odds with one another.

Hermione smiled softly, shaking her head slightly, her thumb brushing against the back of his hand in a slow, deliberate caress.

"You were none of those things."

Lucius swallowed, his grip instinctively tightening around hers.

"And yet, you were everything I never knew I needed."

The air around them felt charged, heavy with meaning, with the weight of everything they had fought through to stand here now.

Lucius’s throat felt tight, something stirring deep within him, something he wasn’t sure he had the words to name.

But Hermione—his Hermione—had never needed grand, poetic declarations from him to understand what he felt.

"I choose you, Lucius Malfoy."

Her voice was clear, unwavering now, the quiet strength in it shaking him to his very core.

"Today, tomorrow, and every day after."

Lucius’s breath hitched.

"Because you are my home."

Her fingers squeezed his, and in that moment, nothing else existed.

"You are my always."

For the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy felt completely, utterly undone.

There was nothing left to say.

No words that could possibly match what she had just given him.

So when the officiant finally declared, "You may now kiss the bride,"

Lucius wasted no time.

His hands cradled her face, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was slow, deep, consuming—

A kiss that was not a performance, not a statement, not for the benefit of anyone else—but one that held the quiet certainty that they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

The guests cheered, applauded, whistled—

But for them, the world had faded away.

There was only this moment, this breathless, aching, perfect moment—

The moment where everything—every fight, every choice, every impossible road that had led them here—

Finally made sense.

The reception was a breathtaking affair, a candlelit dream beneath the starlit sky, glasses clinking, music weaving through the air like silk, laughter and quiet conversations rippling through the elegantly decorated garden.

Lucius had spared no expense—but it wasn’t extravagant for the sake of appearances.

It was for her.

For the woman who had turned his world upside down and made him want to build something real.

And now, as the soft glow of chandeliers illuminated the tables, and the guests settled into the flow of the evening, the moment had arrived—

The speeches.

Hermione braced herself.

Because between Draco, Theo, and Blaise, anything could happen.

When Draco stood up, there was an immediate hush.

Because no one expected him to actually give a speech.

Lucius arched a brow, clearly intrigued, while Hermione smiled encouragingly, giving him a small nod of support.

Draco cleared his throat, rolling his eyes at all the expectant looks before speaking.

"Right. Let’s just get this over with."

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.

"I could stand here and talk about how I never, in a million years, expected my father to marry Hermione Granger."

A pause.

Hermione bit her lip, fighting back a smirk.

"And I could talk about how none of us really saw this coming."

More chuckles from the guests, because, well—it was true.

Draco exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

"But if I’m being honest… I’ve never seen my father look the way he does when he looks at her. Not when he was married before. Not ever. And for that alone, I’m grateful."

A hush fell over the crowd.

Lucius stilled, his fingers tightening slightly around his glass.

Hermione’s throat tightened.

"So, Hermione—welcome to the Malfoy family."

Draco paused, then smirked.

"We’re terrible, but you already knew that."

Laughter, applause—Lucius lifted his glass toward Draco, a rare look of pride flickering in his gaze.

Draco cleared his throat again, suddenly uncomfortable with all the emotions in the air.

"Right, enough of that. Let's drink."

Before Hermione could fully recover from Draco actually being sincere, Blaise was already on his feet, smirking as he tapped his glass with his wand.

"My turn."

Hermione sighed, bracing herself.

Lucius visibly tensed.

Theo grinned, already pouring himself another drink.

Blaise, looking far too smug, surveyed the crowd before focusing on Hermione and Lucius.

"Now, I have to admit—when I first heard about this relationship, my first reaction was deep, soul-crushing disappointment."

Hermione’s brow furrowed.

"Because, quite frankly," Blaise continued, sighing dramatically, "I always thought that if anyone was going to seduce Hermione Granger forever, it would be me."

The crowd erupted in laughter, while Lucius arched a single, deadly brow.

"But alas," Blaise went on, grinning, "it turns out that even my charm is no match for Lucius Malfoy’s deep pockets and luxurious hair."

Hermione laughed outright, while Lucius merely sipped his drink, unamused.

"In all seriousness," Blaise said, tone softening slightly, "I have never seen Hermione happier. And for that, Lucius, I suppose I must acknowledge that you’ve done something right. Finally."

Lucius rolled his eyes.

"To Hermione and Lucius—may she keep him in check, and may he never stop being slightly insufferable, so we always have something to gossip about."

A chorus of cheers, the guests raising their glasses, Hermione shaking her head in amusement.

Lucius sighed, lifting his own glass in silent acknowledgment before muttering—

"You’re banned from future speeches."

Blaise winked. "You say that now, but you love me, Malfoy."

And then, of course—

Theo stood up, already looking half-drunk, clearing his throat dramatically.

Lucius sighed again.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," Theo corrected, pointing at Lucius. "It’s my turn."

Hermione groaned, resting her forehead in her hand.

"Alright, Theo," she muttered. "Just—try to behave."

Theo grinned devilishly.

"Hermione, my dear, do you remember when I first warned you about Lucius Malfoy?"

She raised a brow. "Theo, you encouraged this."

Theo paused, then waved that off. "Semantics."

Lucius exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I knew," Theo continued grandly, "that this would be a scandal. And oh, what a scandal it has been."

"Theo—" Hermione started.

"Let me finish," Theo insisted, holding up a finger.

He turned toward Lucius, his expression suddenly serious.

"You may be insufferable, Malfoy, but you make her happy. And somehow, miraculously, she makes you tolerable."

Lucius snorted softly, shaking his head.

"And that," Theo said, raising his glass, "is nothing short of magic."

The crowd cheered again, and Hermione felt her chest tighten, her heart too full, too overwhelmed by the sheer ridiculous love in this room.

Lucius turned to her, his fingers brushing over the back of her hand, his voice low and just for her.

"You are surrounded by fools, my love."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head.

"Yes, but they’re my fools."

Lucius sighed dramatically.

"Unfortunately, that means they are now mine as well."

As the night slowed, and the music softened, Lucius and Hermione found themselves alone on the dance floor, the world around them fading away.

Lucius held her close, his hands resting securely against her waist, his lips brushing against her temple as they swayed in perfect time.

"This is forever," he murmured.

Hermione closed her eyes, letting the words settle deep inside her, knowing—truly knowing—that he meant them.

"I know," she whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw.

And as they danced beneath the candlelight and the stars, surrounded by family, laughter, and all the chaos that had led them here, she knew—

This was exactly where she was meant to be.

As the evening wore on, the music slowed, the guests fading into the background as Lucius held Hermione close against him, their bodies swaying in perfect, unspoken rhythm. His fingers pressed lightly into the small of her back, the warmth of his touch sending a delicious shiver down her spine. Hermione tilted her head up, meeting his gaze—smoldering, dark with intent—and felt her breath catch. The way he was looking at her, like he was barely restraining himself, sent a flush of anticipation curling low in her stomach. Lucius leaned in, his lips ghosting along the shell of her ear, his voice low, knowing, unmistakably sinful. 

"Tell me, my wife, have we endured enough of our well-meaning guests for one evening? Or shall we continue to tempt fate on this dance floor?" 

Hermione bit her lip, heat pooling in her chest, then exhaled softly, letting her fingers trail over the lapels of his jacket. "I think," she murmured, her eyes glinting with mischief, "it’s time we retire for the night, Lord Malfoy.”

Lucius’s smirk was pure satisfaction, his grip tightening possessively. "Excellent decision, Lady Malfoy." 

And with that, he swept her off the dance floor, their exit going unnoticed by no one—not that either of them cared.

They barely made it to the door when Hermione’s hands trembled as Lucius, resplendent in his tailored black robes, grasped her waist, his fingers digging into the silk of her wedding gown. The opulent bedchamber, adorned with lavish tapestries and glittering candelabras, seemed to fade into the background as their eyes locked in a fierce, passionate stare.

With a deft motion, Lucius slid the zipper of Hermione's gown down her spine, the sound echoing through the room like a promise. The silk pooled at her feet, revealing the lace and satin beneath. Hermione's cheeks flushed as Lucius's gaze roamed over her, his eyes burning with a hunger that left her breathless.

As he drew her closer, his lips brushing against her ear, Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine. "Tonight, my dear wife," Lucius whispered, his voice low and husky, "I will claim you, body and soul." His words sent a thrill through her, and she felt her resolve crumble beneath the weight of her desire.

With a gentle yet insistent touch, Lucius guided Hermione toward the bed, the velvet coverlet soft against her skin. As they sank into the pillows, his hands explored her, tracing the curves of her waist, the swell of her breasts. Hermione's fingers, in turn, delved into the darkness of his hair, pulling him closer as their mouths met in a fierce, devouring kiss.

The world outside receded, leaving only the two of them, lost in a sea of sensation. Lucius's lips seared her skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Hermione's nails scored his back, her hips arching to meet the thrust of his. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and desire, the shadows cast by the candelabras dancing across the walls like dark, lascivious spirits.

As the night wore on, their lovemaking grew more frenzied, more intense. Hermione felt herself becoming one with Lucius, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. The sound of their ragged breathing, the rustle of fabric, and the soft, wet sounds of their passion filled the air, a symphony of desire that threatened to consume them both.

In the end, it was Lucius who claimed her, his body pounding into hers with a fierce, unyielding passion. Hermione's cry of release was lost in the darkness, her fingers clenched around his as they rode the wave of their ecstasy together. As they lay there, entwined and spent, the shadows seemed to deepen, the silence between them thick with the promise of a future filled with passion, power, and forbidden love.

Chapter Text

It started subtly at first—a little more exhaustion than usual, a little less patience for the endless social obligations that came with being Lady Malfoy.

Hermione chalked it up to stress, to the long days spent managing her bookshop, assisting with some lingering Ministry projects, and dealing with Theo and Blaise’s constant, meddlesome presence in her and Lucius’s home.

But then, the fatigue didn’t go away.

One evening, as she curled up with a book in the study, she barely managed to read three pages before her eyelids started drooping uncontrollably. Lucius, sitting across from her with his own reading material, watched closely, his sharp silver gaze flickering over her with concerned calculation.

"Darling," he said, his voice smooth yet edged with something firm, "this is the third evening in a row you’ve fallen asleep before finishing a chapter."

Hermione let out a small groan, rubbing her temples. "I’ve been busy, Lucius. And I think I might be coming down with something."

Lucius snapped his book shut instantly. "Then we’re going to see a Healer."

Hermione blinked at him, unimpressed. "I don’t need a Healer. I need sleep."

"And yet," Lucius countered, rising to his feet, "you’re barely making it through the day. You’re pale. Your appetite is inconsistent. You have dark circles under your eyes, and frankly, I have never seen you willingly turn down coffee before noon."

Hermione stared at him, caught between irritation and reluctant admiration.

"You’re keeping track of my coffee consumption?"

Lucius gave her a pointed look. "I keep track of everything when it comes to you."

She sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to win this fight.

"Fine," she muttered, standing slowly, her body protesting in exhaustion. "But if this turns out to be nothing, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ for the next month."

Lucius smirked, guiding her toward the Floo with a gentle hand at the small of her back.

"I’ll take that risk."

The Healer’s office was quiet and sterile, the smell of fresh herbs and parchment lingering in the air.

Hermione sat on the examination chair, mildly annoyed at the entire ordeal, while Lucius stood beside her, arms crossed, his expression one of perfectly controlled concern.

"Madam Malfoy," the Healer said, looking down at her notes with a small, professional smile, "I have your results."

Lucius straightened slightly, his focus sharp.

"And?" Hermione asked, expecting something trivial—low iron, maybe stress-induced fatigue.

The Healer’s smile widened.

"Congratulations, Lady Malfoy. You’re pregnant."

The world stopped.

Hermione froze, her mind grinding to a complete halt as the words sank in, each syllable hitting her like a crashing wave.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

"I’m…" she whispered, blinking in shock. "I’m pregnant?"

"Yes," the Healer confirmed, nodding warmly. "A few months along, based on the signs. Your exhaustion and appetite changes are all completely normal."

Hermione felt like she had been hit with a Confundus charm.

She had never even thought about it, never considered how quickly her life was changing, how quickly their family was growing.

She turned to Lucius instinctively—expecting him to react, to smirk in that self-satisfied way and say something insufferable like, "Of course you are, my love."

But he didn’t.

Lucius just sat down, right there in the Healer’s office, his hand running through his hair, his entire body still and unreadable.

For the first time since she had known him, Lucius Malfoy was completely, utterly silent.

A sharp pang of fear bloomed in her chest.

"Lucius?" she asked hesitantly, her voice softer now, edged with uncertainty. "Are you… are you alright?"

Still, he said nothing.

And for the first time, she wondered—was he not happy?

Did he not want this?

Was this—too much?

But then, slowly, he lifted his head, and when his eyes met hers, she saw something so raw, so deeply emotional, that it nearly took her breath away.

"I never thought I would have this again."

The words were quiet, barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of a lifetime of loss, of mistakes, of regrets buried beneath years of careful control.

And suddenly, she understood.

Lucius had already been a father once. He had raised Draco, had done his duty as a Malfoy patriarch. But this?

This was different.

This was not a legacy or an expectation or a burden passed down through bloodlines.

This was a child with her.

A child born of love, not obligation.

And when she reached for him, his hand met hers instantly, his fingers tightening like he needed something to anchor him to reality.

Then, without hesitation, Lucius sank to his knees before her, his hands settling on her waist, then carefully, reverently, against her stomach.

For a moment, he just stayed there, completely still, his fingers spanning across her abdomen as if he could already feel the life growing inside her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thick, hushed, filled with something Hermione had never quite heard from him before.

"You have given me everything."

Hermione’s eyes burned, her breath catching in her throat as she threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.

"Lucius," she whispered.

He looked up at her then, his silver eyes unguarded, filled with a quiet kind of awe, as if he had never expected happiness like this to be his.

And Hermione knew—

This was not something he had planned for.

This was not part of his carefully curated future.

But as she ran her fingers along his jaw, tracing the features of the man she loved, she saw it in him—

He wanted this.

With everything he was.

"We are having a baby," she murmured, as if saying it would make it feel real.

Lucius let out a slow, unsteady breath, pressing his lips against the fabric of her dress, just above where his hands rested.

"Yes, my love," he whispered, his voice filled with quiet conviction.

"We are."

It had been a few days since the Healer had confirmed it.

Hermione and Lucius had spent those days adjusting to the idea, existing in a strange state of quiet anticipation and disbelief.

But now, it was time to tell the others—and Draco came first.

Lucius insisted on breaking the news to Draco himself, which was how Hermione found herself sitting beside him in the study, watching as he summoned his son with an urgent tone, as though this were some grave, Malfoy-related emergency.

Draco arrived precisely seven minutes later, looking vaguely suspicious as he stepped inside.

"Right, what’s going on?" he said, eyebrow arched. "Did Theo and Blaise finally commit a crime large enough to be prosecuted?"

Lucius sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "No, but give them time."

Draco paused, glancing between his father and Hermione.

Then, his brows furrowed slightly. "Wait. This isn't another wedding-related revelation, is it? You’re not adding more vows or some ridiculous ancient ritual—?"

"Draco," Lucius cut in smoothly, his voice calm but firm, "you are going to be an older brother."

Silence.

Absolute, staggering silence.

Draco simply stared at them.

And then—

"You’re joking."

Lucius arched a brow. "I do not joke."

Hermione held her breath, waiting for his reaction, trying to read his face.

Draco opened his mouth, closed it, then sat down as though the weight of the news had physically forced him into the chair.

"You’re serious," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Merlin’s bloody beard."

Lucius, ever composed, poured himself a drink.

"Language, Draco."

Draco waved him off, still looking mildly dazed, his eyes flickering toward Hermione.

"And you’re… okay with this?" he asked her, as if she might have somehow been coerced into this situation.

Hermione laughed softly, nodding. "I’m more than okay with it."

Draco exhaled heavily, sitting back in his chair. Then, suddenly, he smirked.

"Well, at least this one won’t be raised under a Dark Lord’s reign. Should be significantly less traumatic."

Lucius glared. "Draco."

"Oh, relax," Draco grinned. "You’re going to be ancient by the time this kid can even walk."

Lucius rolled his eyes, clearly already regretting this conversation.

Then, Draco turned to Hermione, expression thoughtful.

"I’m happy for you. For both of you," he admitted.

Hermione smiled warmly, relieved.

Then, with no small amount of amusement, Draco added, "But just so we’re clear—I’m never calling you Mom."

Lucius sighed deeply. "Merlin help me."

Telling Draco had been one thing.

Telling Theo and Blaise was something else entirely.

Which was why Hermione had decided not to tell them at all.

Not yet, at least.

But as fate would have it, they were going to figure it out on their own—in the most ridiculous way possible.

It started innocently enough.

Theo and Blaise had dragged her out to The Three Broomsticks, claiming she needed a "stress-free afternoon" after all the wedding stress.

"Come on, Granger," Blaise had said, throwing an arm around her shoulder as they entered the pub, "you’re one of us now. It’s only right that we celebrate that."

"Drinks on Theo," Blaise added.

"Why me?" Theo demanded.

"Because you lost the bet about who would cry first at the wedding."

"Blaise, we both lost that bet."

"Fine. Drinks on us both."

Hermione had simply shaken her head, fondly exasperated.

They found a cozy corner booth, and before Hermione could even protest, Blaise was already ordering a round of fire whisky.

"You’ll love this vintage, Granger," he said smoothly, handing her a glass. "Only the best for Lady Malfoy."

Hermione hesitated, staring down at the amber liquid.

Then, quietly, she pushed it back across the table.

"I, um—I can’t drink that."

Theo blinked. "Why not?"

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "Granger, if you’ve suddenly decided to adopt Lucius’s absurd wine-only policy, I am deeply disappointed in you."

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. "No, it’s not that. It’s just…"

She hesitated, wondering if she should just come out and say it.

Then, Theo’s eyes suddenly widened.

Blaise stilled.

Then—

"Oh my God," Theo whispered.

Blaise’s jaw dropped open.

They stared at her, completely frozen.

Hermione sighed. "Surprise?"

Theo suddenly grabbed Blaise’s arm, shaking him.

"Blaise, we’re going to be uncles."

Blaise still looked stunned, then, just as suddenly, looked entirely too delighted.

"Sweet Merlin, this is the best day of my life."

Theo laughed outright, slamming his hand on the table. "Lucius Malfoy is going to be a father again. And this time, we’re involved. This child will be corrupted by us."

Hermione groaned. "Absolutely not."

Blaise smirked. "Oh, it’s happening, Granger. You think we’re going to sit back and let Lucius Malfoy shape this child alone?"

Theo nodded, grinning wickedly. "Imagine. Their first words could be ‘tax evasion.’"

Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I am regretting this already."

Blaise clapped his hands together. "This calls for a toast."

Theo pouted. "But she can’t drink."

Blaise waved that off. "Then we drink for her."

Theo raised his glass. "To corrupting the next Malfoy heir in the most delightful ways."

Blaise lifted his own glass with a smirk.

"And to Hermione, who is about to lose every last ounce of sanity she has left."

Hermione sighed deeply, already regretting telling them at all.

If Lucius had been overprotective before, it was nothing compared to what came next.

Hermione could barely move without being pampered into submission.

A single sigh led to an immediate invitation to rest.

A hand on her lower back resulted in instant concern over any possible discomfort.

She once mentioned she had been craving something from a specific bakery in Paris—within the hour, the bakery had sent a full catering order to the manor.

"Lucius," she muttered one evening, narrowing her eyes at the sheer volume of new silk robes he had ordered for her, "you have to stop."

Lucius, unbothered, poured himself a drink.

"You are carrying my child, Hermione. It is only fitting that you be adorned in luxury."

"Lucius."

He took a sip of his whiskey, entirely unaffected.

"Argue all you like, darling, but I refuse to let you waddle around in discomfort."

Hermione gasped in outrage. "Waddle?!"

Lucius immediately realized his mistake.

"I regret nothing," he replied smoothly, turning away before she could throw a pillow at him.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy had faced many things in his lifetime.

The war.
The fall of Voldemort.
The painstaking process of rebuilding his name, his family, his life.

And yet, nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the sheer, mind-numbing terror of watching Hermione go into labor.

For hours, he paced the halls of St. Mungo’s, his long, expensive coat billowing behind him like a storm cloud, his usually pristine composure utterly shattered.

“Where is the Healer? Why is this taking so long?” he snapped, for what had to be the fifth time in under ten minutes.

“Lucius, sit down,” Draco muttered, barely looking up from the copy of The Daily Prophet he was pretending to read. “You’re scaring the interns.”

Lucius ignored him entirely, whirling toward the nearest Healer who had made the mistake of walking too close. “If anything happens to my wife or child, I will personally see to it that this entire institution is shut down. Do I make myself clear?”

The poor young woman paled several shades.

“Y-Yes, Lord Malfoy. Perfectly.”

“Good. Now go ensure that everything is perfect.”

She all but fled.

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh and tossed his paper aside. “Merlin’s beard, you’re impossible.”

“I am being reasonable,” Lucius replied tightly. “The woman I love is screaming in pain, and our child is taking their sweet time making an entrance into this world. Forgive me for being slightly unnerved.”

“You’re acting like she’s the first witch to ever have a baby.”

Lucius glared at him, eyes sharp and dangerous. “She is my witch.”

Draco held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Point made.”

And then—

A cry.

High. Clear. Perfect.

Lucius froze mid-step.

Draco straightened instantly, the casual attitude evaporating.

The door opened, and a soft-spoken Healer stepped into the hallway with a tired but gentle smile.

“Lord Malfoy?”

Lucius’s heart stuttered. “Yes?”

“Would you like to meet your daughter?”

It felt like time stopped.

Lucius barely remembered how his legs carried him into the room, but suddenly, he was standing there, breath caught in his throat.

Hermione looked exhausted, her curls plastered to her temples, her cheeks flushed, her lips dry. But her eyes—oh, her eyes were radiant, alight with joy and awe and something so deep it undid him.

And in her arms—

Wrapped in the softest white blanket, tiny and delicate, with a dusting of the faintest golden-blonde hair—

Their daughter.

Lucius felt something deep inside his ribcage splinter.

“Come meet her,” Hermione whispered, voice hoarse but warm, her smile trembling with tears. She held the baby out gently.

He hesitated for a heartbeat—just one.

Then he stepped forward and took their daughter into his arms with a care and reverence he hadn't shown since Draco was born.

She was so small. Too small. So impossibly perfect.

His hands trembled slightly as he cradled her, thumb brushing across her tiny cheek. She made a soft cooing noise, and that was it.

Lucius Malfoy was undone.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, staring down at her as if the world had just rearranged itself around her tiny form.

“I never thought I’d get this again,” he said hoarsely. “This feeling. This… hope.”

Hermione reached up, her fingers lightly brushing his arm. “You deserve it.”

He lowered his head and pressed the faintest kiss to their daughter’s forehead.

“You have my word, my love,” he murmured, voice thick. “I will protect you. I will love you. And you will never—never—doubt how much you are wanted.”

Hermione wiped at her cheeks, laughing softly as she cried. “You’re going to make me start sobbing again.”

Lucius shifted closer on the bed, the baby nestled securely against his chest. “Let me have my moment. I’ve earned it.”

Hermione snorted, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“So,” she whispered after a beat, “have you thought about a name?”

Lucius exhaled slowly, stroking a gentle finger along their daughter’s impossibly small hand. “I have.”

“I’ve been thinking about it too,” she said, glancing at him from beneath thick lashes. “Want to say them on the count of three?”

He nodded, amused. “Very well.”

“One… two… three—”

“Cassiopeia.”

“Lillian.”

They both paused, blinking at one another.

Hermione arched a brow. “Cassiopeia?”

Lucius smirked, entirely unrepentant. “A strong, noble name. Dignified. Regal. An ancient star queen.”

Hermione snorted. “Of course you’d name our daughter after a constellation. And regal? She’s two minutes old and sneezed on your cravat.”

Lucius looked down at the damp spot on his shirt. “…She has impeccable aim.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “And Lillian?”

He tilted his head. “Soft. Delicate. Unexpectedly muggle.”

“Because,” Hermione said, brushing her fingers through their daughter’s hair, “it means pure light. And that’s what she is. Light after darkness. After everything.”

Lucius went quiet, the meaning settling over him like a balm.

“Lillian Cassiopeia Malfoy,” he murmured slowly, letting the name take root.

Hermione watched as he repeated it under his breath, his lips curving ever so slightly.

“It’s perfect,” he said finally.

And just like that, Lillian Cassiopeia Malfoy’s name was decided.

Draco poked his head in a moment later, hovering awkwardly at the door.

Hermione beamed. “Come meet her.”

He looked skeptical. “Is she… slimy?”

Hermione laughed. “She’s clean, I promise. Come on.”

Draco stepped in slowly, almost nervously, and sat beside Lucius.

Lucius offered the baby wordlessly.

Draco blinked. “Wait—me?”

“You are her brother,” Lucius said simply. “Half or not.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Alright… okay… alright…” He held out his arms like someone expecting to catch a Quaffle, and Lucius gently passed the tiny bundle to him.

Draco stared.

“She’s… tiny.”

“That’s generally how babies work,” Hermione teased.

Draco stared at the baby for a long time, his expression unreadable. She squirmed once, letting out a soft breath, and her hand brushed his thumb.

Then she grabbed it.

And that was it.

Something flickered in Draco’s face—a softness Hermione had only seen once or twice in her life. A vulnerability he usually hid under sarcasm and expensive robes.

A single tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

“Bloody… bloody allergies,” he muttered, wiping at his face quickly.

Hermione looked away with a smile. Lucius didn’t.

Instead, he reached out and clasped his son’s shoulder.

“She’s family,” Lucius said softly. “And she’s lucky to have you.”

Draco nodded, throat tight.

Then the door burst open.

“Where is she?!” Theo’s voice echoed through the corridor.

Blaise followed, nearly running over a terrified nurse. “Don’t make us hex our way in, Malfoy!”

Lucius sighed. “She is not a golden snitch, gentlemen.”

“She is the most important thing in the hospital right now,” Theo replied, dramatically wiping an imaginary tear. “Look at her! Already more fashionable than her father.”

Lucius gave him a withering glare, but even he couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching.

And then—

“May I?”

Everyone turned.

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the doorway, holding a small, delicate silver box in her hands. Her eyes, for once, were soft. Almost… tender.

Lucius stood. “Cissy—”

She stepped forward, looking down at her granddaughter with awe.

“Every Malfoy child receives this,” she murmured, opening the box and revealing a tiny silver bracelet. “It was Lucius’s. Then Draco’s. And now hers.”

She fastened it carefully around Lillian’s wrist.

Hermione felt tears sting her eyes again.

Lucius slid his hand into hers and squeezed tightly.

And in that room, filled with family, old wounds, quiet laughter, and the tiniest spark of something new—

Lillian Cassiopeia Malfoy took her place in the world.

A new generation had begun.

An hour later, there was a tentative knock.

Lucius, still half-entranced by Lillian sleeping in his arms, raised an eyebrow. “Are we expecting anyone else?”

Hermione looked up. “Not… unless—”

The door creaked open.

And there they were.

Ron stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a small bouquet of daisies that looked decidedly rumpled. Harry hovered beside him, holding a stuffed Hippogriff that chirped softly with every bounce.

“Er—hi,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck.

“Hi,” Hermione whispered, her heart flipping strangely at the sight of them.

Ron cleared his throat. “We, uh… we heard.”

Lucius stiffened slightly but said nothing.

Hermione smiled. “Come in.”

Harry stepped forward, offering the stuffed toy. “We figured she should have something fun, even if she won’t remember it.”

The Hippogriff chirped again.

Lucius’s lip twitched despite himself.

Ron held out the daisies with a sheepish shrug. “Didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked for babies.”

“They’re perfect,” Hermione said, taking them and sniffing them dramatically. “Very Weasley.”

Ron flushed. “Thanks.”

Then his eyes fell on the bundle in Lucius’s arms.

“Blimey,” he breathed. “That’s really her?”

Lucius arched a brow. “No, Weasley. We borrowed a random infant for dramatic effect.”

Harry choked on a laugh. Hermione shot Lucius a look.

“Would you like to meet her?” she asked gently, sensing the tension behind Ron’s nervous fidgeting.

Ron hesitated. Just a heartbeat. Then he nodded.

Lucius glanced at Hermione, and when she gave the smallest nod, he passed Lillian over to her. Hermione adjusted her grip and turned toward her friends.

“She’s Lillian Cassiopeia,” she said softly. “And she’s perfect.”

Ron stared down at her, his face oddly unreadable. “She’s got your nose,” he said after a moment.

Hermione chuckled. “Thank Merlin it’s not Lucius’s.”

“Oi,” Lucius muttered dryly.

Harry leaned over her shoulder, peering down at the baby. “She’s beautiful, Hermione. Truly.”

“She is,” Ron said quietly. Then added, “And you look happy. Both of you.”

Hermione met his gaze and saw something there—a flicker of the past, of what once was, and the acceptance of what would never be again.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “That means more than you know.”

Ron nodded, swallowing hard. “I mean it. I just want you to be happy.”

And for the first time, Lucius stepped forward, extending a hand.

“Thank you… Ronald.”

Ron looked mildly startled—but he took it.

Hermione watched the moment with a full heart.

Peace. Finally.

Later, when the room was quiet and visitors had gone, Lucius reclined against the pillows with Hermione nestled at his side and Lillian asleep on his chest.

Hermione traced lazy circles along his arm, smiling at the way he kept watching their daughter like she held the entire world.

“She’s going to grow up so loved,” she whispered.

Lucius leaned down, brushing his lips over her hair.

“She already is.”

And in that room, tucked between ancient lineage and newfound beginnings, love settled like a benediction—quiet, fierce, and forever.

The manor was quiet.

Not the kind of silence Lucius had grown up with—all tense stillness and unsaid things—but a peaceful hush, like the house itself was holding its breath in reverence.

His study was dark, save for the gentle flicker of candlelight and the low crackle of embers in the hearth. He sat back in his armchair, an old leather-bound journal open on the desk in front of him, quill hovering above the page. But he hadn’t written a word yet.

Not when his eyes kept drifting back to them.

Hermione lay curled on the chaise near the fire, a thick quilt tucked around her shoulders, her curls spilled across the cushion like ink on parchment. She’d fallen asleep reading again, wand still clutched loosely in her hand, glasses askew on her nose. He would move them soon—he always did—but for now, he just… watched.

And next to her, in a small, enchanted bassinet with stars carved into the wood, lay their daughter.

Lillian.

Her tiny chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, her fingers curled in little fists near her cheeks. The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across her lips in sleep, and Lucius’ heart clenched so tightly he had to press a hand to it.

He had never known this kind of love could exist.

Not even for Draco had he felt this particular ache—this need to protect, to preserve, to shield from every shadow the world might cast. And Hermione… he’d loved her fiercely, desperately, but now he loved her again—anew—watching her become the mother of his child, watching her give softness to a man who’d never known how to be soft.

Lucius let out a shaky breath and turned back to the page. He dipped his quill in ink, closed his eyes briefly, and began to write.

To My Darling Lillian,

By the time you read this, you will no longer be the sleeping bundle of stardust and soft sighs I cradle in my arms each night. You will have grown—legs too long for your crib, questions too many for a single breath, eyes wide with wonder or, if you are anything like your mother, fire.

I don’t know what kind of woman you will become. That’s the miracle and the curse of fatherhood, I’m learning. I can’t protect you from time, nor would I want to. I want you to grow, to stumble, to fly. I want you to learn the sharpness of truth, the softness of love. I want the world to be kinder to you than it was to me, though I know that may not be possible.

There are things about me you may one day learn—things written in textbooks or whispered in corners when people think you cannot hear. You will hear of war. Of cruelty. Of a name I once bore like a shield and a shackle. You may even wonder, for a time, what kind of man your father truly is.

So let me tell you.

I was a coward, once. A proud one. I wrapped myself in power like armor and called it destiny. I hurt people. I stood by while others were hurt more. I believed blood and name and gold were all that mattered.

And then your mother walked into my life and shattered every wall I had so carefully built. She refused to flinch when I was cruel. She called my bluff when I tried to be cold. And slowly—so slowly it terrified me—she loved me anyway.

Then you came. And everything I was unraveled.

I have lived two lives, Lillian. One before you. One after.

I am not writing this letter because I want you to forgive the man I once was. I am writing because I want you to know how desperately I have tried to be better. For your mom and now for you.

When you were born, I held you against my chest and you stared up at me as if I were the first face you'd ever seen. Maybe I was. Maybe that’s why I wept. You looked at me as if I was already good. Already worthy.

And in that moment, I vowed to become the man you believed me to be.

You are the very best thing I have ever done. You and Draco are what I will leave behind in this world—not a name, not a legacy of grandeur, but my children.

You, with your mother’s heart and, Merlin help us, her temper. You, with your future untainted by the sins of your father. You, who will choose her own path, her own name, her own meaning.

I may not always understand you. I may try to shield you from pain when I should let you face it. I will make mistakes, and I will beg your forgiveness for them.

But know this: there is nothing—nothing—you could ever do that would make me love you less. You are the daughter of a man who has seen the worst of the world and still believes, somehow, that you are its best chance.

So go out into that world, Lillian. Laugh too loudly. Love too deeply. Fall and rise and fall again. But always, always come home.

My arms will still be open.

Yours until my final breath,
Papa

Chapter Text

The Malfoy estate had never felt like home before.
For years, the vast, sprawling manor had been a place of legacy and duty, of power and tradition—a structure built to withstand time rather than invite warmth.

But now?

Now, it was different.
Now, the air rang with laughter, the walls echoed with life, and the gardens—once pristine, untouched, perfect in their order—were now slightly unruly, full of Hermione’s favorite flowers, overrun with evidence of childhood adventures.

A child's toy broom lay half-buried beneath the hedgerow, glittering with rogue charm sparkles. There were muddy boot prints on the marble veranda. A small, lopsided wooden sign had been nailed to a tree that read “Princess Dragon Hideout—No Boys Allowed” in careful, misspelled letters.

And Lucius Malfoy?

Lucius Malfoy was content.
No—he was happy.

A sharp squeal of laughter rang out across the lawn, followed by—

"Lillian Cassiopeia Malfoy, you are in so much trouble!"

Lucius, reclining in a comfortable chair beneath the shaded terrace with a cup of jasmine tea in hand, turned his head just in time to see his daughter dart behind a rosebush, her small form disappearing beneath the overgrown petals.

“Mum, it wasn’t my fault!” Lillian cried, peeking around the bush with sparkling, storm-silver eyes. Her green dress was absolutely ruined, splattered with streaks of mud, a few twigs tangled in her wild blonde curls.

Hermione, holding a wand in one hand and a wet cloth in the other, looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Oh? And whose fault was it this time?”

Lillian didn’t miss a beat. “Scorp’s!”

From across the garden, where Draco and his wife, Astoria, were enjoying a sunny afternoon under a charm-cooled canopy, Scorpius gasped with great theatrical flair, throwing a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Lillian! How could you betray me?!”

“You told me to do it!” Lillian shouted back, grinning.

Lucius nearly choked on his tea, watching Hermione rub her temples like she regretted every social invitation they’d ever extended to Draco.

She turned to Lucius with a raised brow. “I’m blaming your bloodline for this chaos.”

Lucius gave her a slow, faux-apologetic bow of the head. “My bloodline produced brilliance and daring. Yours contributed the defiance.”

Hermione gave him a look—the same one that had felled Ministry officials and flustered Draco when she was still his Head Girl.

Lucius, naturally, smiled.

“You’re lucky I still love you,” she muttered, finally rounding the bush and catching Lillian mid-sprint. Their daughter let out a high-pitched shriek, laughing as Hermione swept her up in her arms and spun her around.

“I surrender! I surrender!” Lillian giggled.

“You’re not sorry at all, are you?” Hermione asked, pressing a kiss to her nose.

“Not even a little bit,” the girl whispered, proudly.

Lucius watched them with a gaze that had softened far more over the years than his enemies would ever believe. His wife. His daughter. His life.

He couldn’t help the ache in his chest. It was so full. So full.

As Hermione carried their still-wiggling daughter toward the terrace, she paused beside Lucius, arching a brow as if daring him to scold their troublemaker.

“She charmed the garden gnomes to sing sea shanties,” Hermione said, eyeing him. “In Latin.”

Lillian, clearly proud of herself, chirped, “They’re working on choreography!”

Lucius hummed thoughtfully. “We always did need more culture in the gardens.”

“Lucius!” Hermione gasped, swatting his arm with the cloth.

Lillian wriggled free from her mother’s grasp and scrambled up onto Lucius’s lap, muddy shoes and all. “Did you see the gnome dance?”

“I did,” Lucius said, smoothing a hand through her tangled hair, his touch tender. “I was especially impressed by their harmony.”

Lillian preened, eyes shining. “They practiced! I gave them a syllabus!”

“A syllabus,” Hermione repeated faintly. “She gave the gnomes a syllabus.”

“She is your child,” Lucius murmured.

“Don’t you dare.”

They exchanged a look—equal parts exasperation and amusement—before Hermione’s lips curved, warm and private, and she stepped into the space beside him. He reached for her instinctively, wrapping an arm around her waist as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“You, my love,” he said to Lillian, brushing his fingers along her cheek, “are a menace.”

Lillian beamed up at him, utterly unrepentant. “And you love me for it.”

Lucius huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Regrettably, I do.”

“I love you too, Daddy,” she whispered, curling up against him like she still fit in the crook of his arm.

She did. Just barely.

Hermione’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding him. He turned to her, met her gaze—brown eyes to grey, fire to ice, storm to stillness—and bent his head.

Their kiss was unhurried, familiar, full of every silent vow they’d already spoken and the ones they’d go on promising for the rest of their lives.

When they parted, Hermione’s fingers remained tangled in the lapel of his robes, her voice quiet, reverent.

“You’ve changed, Lucius.”

He blinked, brow furrowing.

“I mean it,” she said. “You’ve let go of so much. You’ve made this place ours. You’ve made it safe.”

Lucius looked past her to the garden—overrun with laughter and rebellion and a little girl’s dreams—and then down to the soft, warm weight of his daughter in his arms.

“I didn’t know I could,” he confessed.

“But you did,” Hermione whispered, pressing her forehead to his.

He swallowed hard. His voice nearly failed him when he murmured—

“I told you forever, didn’t I?”

Hermione’s lips curved into a knowing smile, and for once, she didn’t need to question it.

“Yes. You did.”

And as their daughter sang a made-up sea shanty to herself in his lap, as laughter echoed like music through the Malfoy estate, as Lucius Malfoy—once a man defined by legacy and shadow—held the woman who had rewritten his world and the child who would define its future—

He knew.

This was forever.

And he wouldn’t change a single thing.