It was obvious.
She did not belong here.
Lucius stood by the window, fingers curled lightly around the stem of a glass he had long forgotten to drink from.
The afternoon light streamed through the high panes, casting fractured shadows over his desk, over the polished silver of the decanter, over his own reflection in the glass.
He paid none of it any mind.
Outside, in the gardens, Hermione Granger walked beside his son.
Lucius had always wanted a daughter.
He was never granted one, but fate, ever cruel, ever wry, had delivered this instead. A poor substitute. An unwelcome one.
Draco tilted his head toward her as they walked, speaking, explaining something, a lazy, drawling gesture of one hand. She smiled. It was not the polite, restrained smile of a guest uneasy in unfamiliar surroundings. It was something else—too comfortable, too natural.
He set the glass down soundlessly, stepping closer to the window.
The gardens had always been Narcissa’s domain. The manicured hedges, the pristine pathways, the riot of roses—hers. Now, Granger stood among them.
Lucius did not like that at all.
The line of his mouth thinned. She moved with too much familiarity, her gaze lingering on the stone archways, the twisted yew, the fountain in the center of the walk—memorizing, mapping. He could see it. The way her eyes flicked over the contours of the estate as though committing them to memory.
An old habit, no doubt. The war had made spies of them all.
She was dangerous, of course. Not like a Dark Lord, nor like a battle-hardened Auror. No—her danger lay elsewhere, in the way she did not flinch, did not falter. In the audacity to look upon the world she had once fought against and decide, without doubt, that she would carve a space for herself within it.
All fire, no fear.
Lucius had never had patience for it.
Below, Draco reached out, plucking a wayward leaf from her curls, something small, something thoughtless. She turned her head toward him, eyes warm, lips parting as though in thanks.
Lucius did not hear the words. He did not need to.
He had seen enough.
His fingers brushed against the cool glass once more, trailing absently over its edge. A daughter.
He had always thought, once, in some distant life, that it might have been a joy. That a daughter might have softened the sharp edges of the Malfoy name, might have been a balm rather than a blade.
But not like this.
Not like her.
Outside, Draco turned his head at something she pointed at. His expression flickered—not the impassive mask he had perfected, but something softer, something dangerously close to admiration. Lucius had thought he had stamped that foolish tendency out of his son long ago.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
She had no place here. No right.
A breeze swept through the garden, rustling the hem of her cloak, lifting strands of wild hair from her shoulders. She was speaking now, hands moving as she spoke—nothing like the pureblood daughters who had been taught to hold their emotions close, to guard their words as tightly as their family secrets.
Draco was listening. Truly listening.
Lucius’ jaw locked.
She had bewitched his son. She truly did.
His reflection in the glass stared back at him. He was not a fool. He knew what Draco saw in her—a challenge, a force of nature wrapped in intellect and fire. But Lucius knew better. He saw what lay beneath—something dangerous, something that could unravel everything.
And yet—
The autumn sun gilded her hair, turned it to burnished gold.
She should not have fit here. But, as Draco reached for her hand, Lucius knew with a sinking certainty—
The manor had already begun to make space for her.
It was irritation.
Just a passing, fleeting disturbance—one he should have ignored.
Lucius was not in the habit of revisiting old portraits. The gallery was Narcissa’s indulgence, not his. A corridor of ancestral faces, oil and canvas meant to impress guests, to remind them exactly who the Malfoys were.
Regardless, he found himself here.
Not alone.
Lucius slowed his steps.
Ahead of him, standing in the dim afternoon light,
Hermione Granger was studying one of the paintings.
Not one of the grand, imposing ancestors.
Not Abraxas Malfoy, nor the countless generations of pale-haired figures draped in finery, looking down at the world they once ruled.
She was looking at Septimus Malfoy.
Lucius stopped just short of her. He did not speak. Not yet.
Septimus was an unusual choice. A quiet figure in family history, a man of intellect rather than power. The only Malfoy who had been buried with books instead of wealth.
Lucius watched her eyes track over the painting.
“An odd selection,” he murmured at last.
Hermione turned slightly. She did not startle.
“Why?” she asked. “Because he didn’t hold a seat of power?”
Lucius’ gaze flickered over the painting.
“No,” he said. “Because most people don’t even know his name.”
She hummed thoughtfully, looking back at it. “I read about him once.”
Lucius arched a brow. “Did you?”
A faint smile curved her lips. “Don’t sound so scandalized, Mr. Malfoy. You’re not the only one with access to well-kept libraries.”
Lucius did not react. Not outwardly.
“Most find this hall daunting,” he said instead.
Hermione’s expression remained even.
“Most,” she repeated lightly. She turned then, fully facing him, eyes sharp. And there—just for a flicker of a moment—Lucius saw it.
Curiosity. Curiosity about him.
He was not sure whether he wanted her to ask whatever was lingering on the tip of her tongue—
Or whether he wanted to turn and leave before she did.
She tilted her head slightly.
He did not give her the chance.
Lucius stepped past her, deliberately moving toward the end of the gallery.
He did not look back.
But somehow—he knew she was still watching him.
It was nothing.
And if he told himself that enough times, perhaps it would become true.
A passing moment. A trivial thing.
So why was he still thinking about it long after it happened?
The morning had been cold, the kind that seeped into stone and lingered. The manor was no stranger to winter’s chill, but today, even the halls carried a sharper bite.
He had not expected to cross paths with her.
He had not expected to stop.
But when he had stepped out onto the front terrace, about to summon a house-elf for something mundane, he had seen her.
Hermione stood near the outer steps, tugging at one of her gloves.
Or, rather—fighting with it.
Lucius watched—only for a second.
The leather had stiffened in the cold, the material resisting her pull. She was about to tear the damn thing.
Lucius narrowed his eyes.
Not his problem. Not his concern.
Before he could think better of it, he was already moving.
Foolish.
He stopped beside her, not speaking.
She glanced up, startled—not by his presence, but by his pause.
Lucius extended his hand. A simple gesture. Wordless.
Hermione hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then, with a pointed look, she placed her gloved hand into his palm.
Not bare skin. Not touch.
But still—something.
The leather was ice-cold beneath his fingers as he pressed against the base of it, loosening the fit. A practical motion.
Nothing more.
The glove slipped off with a quiet rustle of fabric. Lucius placed it neatly into her waiting palm. His fingers never brushed hers.
He had ensured it.
It was a coincidence.
That was the only reasonable explanation.
The Ministry had never been a place of comfort—not now, not after the war, not with its corridors filled with people who remembered.
And yet—he was here.
Politics demanded presence, even in places he detested.
The halls of the Department of International Magical Cooperation were filled with the usual bureaucratic faces, voices murmuring about trade agreements, border policies, and bloodline-neutral hiring practices.
Lucius had tolerated it for years.
What he had not expected—was her.
Hermione Granger stood near the end of the corridor, deep in conversation.
Not with Draco.
With Potter.
Lucius stilled.
The two of them stood close, their conversation low, familiar. Not in the way of lovers, no—but in the way of those who had fought side by side, who understood each other without needing words.
Lucius exhaled slowly.
This was her world. Not his. Not anymore.
He knew how the Ministry saw her.
Granger, the war hero.
Granger, the brightest witch of her age.
Granger, the reformist.
Lucius’ fingers curled slightly at his side.
He did not care.
Potter murmured something. Hermione rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Then—she laughed.
Lucius turned sharply and walked out.
He did not pause. Did not look back.
In the end, the sound of her laughter followed him all the way back to the manor.
It was unnecessary.
But he had already been thinking about her before he walked in.
Lucius had come to the auction house for one purpose.
There were certain things best acquired quietly—old heirlooms, lost magical artifacts, pieces of history that had slipped through the cracks after the war.
The private gallery was dimly lit, lined with relics of another era—some valuable, some merely sentimental.
Lucius had barely glanced at the catalog. He had come for one item and nothing more.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
Lucius exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the parchment in his hands. The ink blurred slightly. Not because of poor lighting.
His scowl deepened. Focus.
The auctioneer’s voice droned on, shifting from one artifact to the next. And when the next item was unveiled, his breath stilled.
A book.
Not just any book.
A rare, leather-bound edition of Magical Law: A History of Judicial Practices in Britain.
Lucius’ fingers twitched.
He had seen this book before.
More precisely, he had seen her with it.
His mind reacted before reason could suppress it.
Granger, seated in the library, one hand absently tracing the spine as she read.
Granger, standing before the Wizengamot, citing legal precedent with sharp precision.
Granger, treating law like a weapon, wielding it without hesitation.
Lucius looked away.
He did not bid.
The book stayed where it was.
The thought of it did not.
It was a shock.
A visceral thing, curling low in his stomach.
The first time he was close enough to her to smell her, Lucius felt it like a strike to his chest.
Honey. Amber. The faintest whisper of something floral. It wasn’t perfume—nothing cloying or deliberate—just a scent that clung to her, something light, something maddening.
She was in the library, curled in one of the high-backed chairs, fingers pressed against her temple as she read.
Lucius had entered for something trivial—he did not even remember what anymore.
But then—she had looked up.
Brown eyes, warm and dark, meeting his with neither fear nor deference.
He should have left. Should have turned on his heel, ignored the way the light fell over the column of her throat, the way her curls shifted against her shoulder as she tilted her head, considering him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stepped further into the room.
“I would have expected you to choose the East Wing library,” he murmured, pacing toward the shelves, his fingers skimming over the spines.
Control. Keep control.
“I like the light in this one,” she answered simply, turning back to her book.
Lucius felt the corner of his mouth twitch—irritation or amusement, he wasn’t sure.
He watched her for a moment longer, allowed himself the smallest indulgence before retreating, before she could notice the way his gaze lingered.
It was a surprise.
Not that she argued—of course, she would.
Hermione Granger was incapable of silence, least of all in a room full of men who clung to old power with white-knuckled desperation.
Lucius had expected her righteousness. Her defiance.
But he had not expected this.
The evening had been a predictable affair. Narcissa had gathered ministry officials, old pureblood families—the kind of people who wielded their names like weapons.
Lucius had settled into the night as he always did—detached, watchful, offering only as much conversation as was necessary.
Hermione had played her part well at first. She had smiled, polite but unimpressed, answering inquiries about her work at the Ministry with carefully measured restraint.
She had sat beside Draco, fingers brushing his wrist absentmindedly as he leaned in to murmur something to her. Lucius had watched, waiting for the inevitable moment when her temper would slip, when she would let the lion’s teeth show.
Not so long after, the conversation turned.
Restoration.
Wizarding society had not yet settled from the war. There were reparations to be paid, estates to be returned, seats of power to be reassigned. And, inevitably, the topic had shifted to inheritance rights.
A new law had been proposed in the Wizengamot—one that would alter the way magical estates were passed down. Traditionally, property, titles, and vaults could only be inherited by direct blood heirs. If none existed, assets reverted to distant pureblood relatives, ensuring that old money and influence never strayed far from its origins.
But now, the Ministry wanted to change that.
The new law would grant inheritance rights not only to direct blood descendants but also to magical wards, adopted heirs—and even, most offensively to the men at this table—half-bloods and Muggle-borns with familial claims.
Lucius had expected the usual protests. The murmured horror at the idea that some orphaned half-blood child might one day claim a sacred pureblood estate.
What he had not expected was for Hermione Granger to take them apart piece by piece.
“I assume,” she said lightly, setting her glass down, “that those opposing the law have read the full proposal?”
Draco shifted beside her. He knew what was coming.
Lucius saw the flicker of tension in his son’s shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against the linen of the tablecloth. He did not stop her.
Parkinson scoffed. “We understand the law perfectly, Miss Granger. It is nothing but a thinly veiled attempt to rewrite history. To rob old families of what is rightfully theirs.”
Hermione tilted her head slightly, considering.
“‘Rightfully theirs,’” she repeated. “You mean the way the Malfoy estate was rightfully yours, before the Ministry seized it and returned it only by special appeal?”
The room changed.
The shift was not loud. It was not dramatic. But Lucius felt it.
A flicker of something sharp crossed Parkinson’s face.
Lucius’ fingers curled against his glass, but he did not intervene.
She continued.
“You argue for tradition,” she mused. “But how much of that tradition is simply convenient? Blood inheritance laws were never about protecting families. They were about keeping power small, keeping it controlled, keeping it locked behind ancient names and careful marriages.”
Draco exhaled softly through his nose. Lucius knew the sound—restraint, calculation. He had heard it many times when his son had stood before the Wizengamot, when he had learned the delicate art of maneuvering through politics instead of battle.
But this—this was different.
Hermione turned her attention back to Parkinson, her fingers resting idly on the table.
“If you were to pass tomorrow, without an heir,” she said, tilting her chin slightly, “should your estate go to some distant cousin in France whom you’ve never met—simply because of blood? Or should it go to your sister’s son, who has spent the last twenty years managing your affairs, strengthening your investments, preserving your family’s legacy?”
A pause.
Then—
“Even if—” a faint smile, razor-sharp—“his mother married a half-blood?”
Silence.
Not the stunned, gasping silence of outrage.
Something worse.
Something contemplative.
Draco reached for his wine, taking a measured sip, glancing at Hermione but saying nothing.
Lucius saw it.
That look.
It was admiration, pride—dangerously close to something softer.
Something that set his teeth on edge.
One of the men cleared his throat, reaching for his own drink. “The law is still a disgrace,” he muttered. “It dilutes our traditions, undermines the rights of those with true magical lineage—”
Hermione hummed.
Not in argument. Not in protest. Just a thoughtful, almost absent sound.
“Tradition,” she repeated, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. “Yes, that’s always the word used, isn’t it? As though tradition is inherently sacred. As though it must be preserved simply because it has always been.”
She let the words settle.
Draco shifted beside her. Not obvious, not disruptive—just enough. His fingers brushing lightly over the back of her hand before disappearing beneath the table.
Lucius did not have to see where his hand landed. He knew. He saw the way Hermione’s fingers stilled around the stem of her glass. The way her breath caught—so briefly, so subtly, that no one else would have noticed.
But he did.
It was nothing. A gesture. A silent claim.
Mine.
Hermione did not react, not in any way that would betray her. She only smiled slowly, tilting her chin slightly toward Draco in acknowledgment.
Lucius forced his attention back to the conversation.
This time, he found the taste of the wine had sour in his mouth.
It was a temptation.
And he was a fool to stay.
She was standing by the fireplace, barefoot, her robe slipping off one shoulder as she reached to adjust the mantle clock. The flames painted her in gold and shadow, highlighting the delicate curve of her collarbone, the softness of bare skin.
Lucius stopped breathing.
He should speak. Should make his presence known.
Instead, he watched.
The robe slid further, revealing the edge of her nightgown. He swallowed, something thick and dark curling low in his stomach. This is a mistake.
She turned.
For a second, just a second, something flickered across her face—surprise, then something sharper. He wondered if she could see it, the sin curling in the depths of his gaze.
He inclined his head.
“Miss Granger.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Mr Malfoy.”
His name on her lips was a mistake, an invitation neither of them had meant to make.
Something coiled tight inside him. He would leave. He would walk away.
He did not.
“Trouble sleeping?” His voice was lower than intended, rougher.
She shook her head, fingers tightening around the edge of her robe.
He let his eyes linger, just long enough to see the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, the way she refused to look away first.
Then, with deliberate care, he stepped past her, close enough that the silk of her robe brushed against his sleeve. Close enough that he could hear her breath catch, just slightly.
He left without another word.
But something had changed.
Something had shifted.
And he knew—this was only the beginning.
It was disarming.
She was wearing green.
Not Slytherin green, not the sharp shade that symbolized his house and his bloodline—but a softer, deeper hue. It did nothing to remind him of his past victories, but everything to remind him of her.
It shouldn’t have suited her.
It did.
Lucius had only meant to pass through the parlor, a fleeting presence as he went about his evening. But then—Hermione had turned at the sound of his steps, and he had frozen where he stood.
She was adjusting an earring, her fingers grazing the curve of her neck as she studied her reflection in the gilded mirror.
She was beautiful. He had known that.
But now—watching the way the fabric clung to her, the way her hair cascaded in wild waves down her back, the way she bit her lip in concentration as she fastened the last clasp—
Beautiful was not the word.
It was something else. Something ruinous.
Her gaze met his in the mirror, her fingers halting their movement.
“You’re staring.” Her voice was smooth, but there was something beneath it.
Lucius did not look away.
Neither did she.
A challenge.
He should say something. Break the moment. Restore order.
Instead, he turned without a word, leaving before the treacherous heat pooling in his gut could pull him deeper.
It was the rain.
It had soaked her through by the time she reached the entrance, her cloak heavy, curls clinging to her skin, droplets sliding down the pale column of her throat.
Lucius was already there.
He had been on his way out when the storm struck. Now, he stood just beyond the doorway, watching as Hermione fought with the ties of her sodden cloak, shivering from the cold.
She hadn’t noticed him yet.
Her dress was damp, the fabric sticking to her form in a way that should have been unremarkable—but wasn’t. Not when his eyes caught on the curve of her hip, the rise and fall of her breath, the way her fingers trembled slightly as she peeled the fabric from her skin.
Lucius clenched his jaw.
Control. He still had control.
Then she looked up.
Brown eyes locked onto his and she swallowed. He saw the way her lips parted, the way her shoulders straightened, as if steeling herself against something unseen.
He should move. Should look away.
He did neither.
Instead, he stepped closer.
It was slow, deliberate. He reached out—not quite touching her, but close enough to brush a single raindrop from the air between them.
She did not step back.
The storm raged outside. Inside, something far more dangerous began to brew.
Then—her breath hitched, and she turned sharply on her heel, vanishing up the stairs.
Lucius exhaled, pressing his fingers to his temple.
This was becoming a problem.
It was a trap.
The corridor was quiet at this hour, the sconces flickering low, casting restless shadows along the walls.
Lucius did not expect to find her awake.
But there she was.
She was leaning against the railing of the upper landing, her posture deceptively relaxed, her fingers tapping idly against the polished wood.
Waiting.
For him?
Lucius approached slowly, stopping just short of her.
Hermione turned her head, her gaze trailing over him in a way that made his throat tighten.
“You avoid me,” she murmured.
Lucius arched a brow. “Do I?”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You leave rooms when I enter them.”
He smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. “Perhaps I simply have better places to be.”
Hermione let out a soft hum, not quite convinced.
Then—without hesitation, without fear—she closed the distance.
A step closer. Then another.
Lucius did not move.
His breath was slow, measured. He felt the heat of her proximity, the warmth radiating from her skin.
Then, just as deliberately as before, she reached out—fingers brushing lightly against the cuff of his sleeve.
An experiment. A provocation.
Lucius remained still.
But inside—
Inside, something snapped.
It was a dare.
She was in his study.
She had no reason to be there.
Lucius found her by the window, fingers skimming the edge of his desk, her presence an intrusion and an invitation all at once.
He closed the door behind him. Slowly.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
Hermione turned, her expression unreadable. “I know.”
She did not move to leave.
Lucius took a step forward. “And yet you remain.”
Something flickered in her gaze. Not defiance. Not exactly.
He took another step.
She did not retreat.
Lucius exhaled slowly, fighting the unbearable tightness in his chest. This was dangerous. Reckless.
She watched him without a word.
Lucius’ fingers curled at his sides. Restraint. A battle he could not afford to lose.
The moment stretched—too long, too thin.
He turned away first.
It was the silk.
Not her. Never her. That lie would have to be enough.
It was the silk.
The sleeve of her gown brushed against the back of his hand as she passed him in the hall—soft, weightless, a ghost of a touch.
Nothing at all. But, Lucius felt it like a brand.
He stopped. His body stilled, every nerve suddenly attuned to her presence.
She should have kept walking.Should have pretended it hadn’t happened. But she didn’t.
Instead, she paused just ahead of him, her back still turned, her fingers tightening ever so slightly against the fabric at her sides.
She had felt it too.
Then, without another word, she stepped forward and disappeared down the corridor.
Lucius let his breath out, closing his eyes.
This was getting out of hand.
It was a mistake.
Lucius knew it before it even happened.
But knowing and stopping were two very different things.
She was in the dining hall, pouring a glass of wine, the deep red catching the candlelight as it swirled in her grip.
“That bottle,” he murmured, watching as she brought the glass to her lips, “is older than you.”
Hermione paused mid-sip, her gaze flicking up to meet his. A flicker of amusement.
“Still,” she said, lowering the glass, “I think I appreciate it more than you do.”
Lucius laughed. “Is that so?”
She took another sip—slower this time. He watched the way her throat moved, the way the wine left the faintest stain on her lips.
He should not be watching.
She was holding herself carefully tonight. Not the way she did in court, back straight and sharpened by righteousness, but in a way that suggested something had pressed too hard against her ribs today.
He knew.
Not because she told him. She would never tell him.
But he knew.
She had lost.
A case. A ruling. A verdict that had not gone her way.
Not enough to break her.
But enough to bruise.
He had known before she walked through the manor doors. He had known the moment she stepped into this house, the moment she poured the drink herself.
But he did not say that.
He only watched.
And—though he had not been looking for it—he noticed something else.
She had not gone to Draco first.
That, more than anything, confirmed it.
Because she always did.
It was reflex by now—the way she sought him out, the way they found each other at the end of long days. Even if they did not speak of it, even if all that passed between them was a glance, a hand at the small of her back, a quiet reassurance..
Tonight, she had not.
She had walked past the corridor that led to Draco’s study. Had poured herself a drink. Had sat in silence.
Alone.
Lucius tilted his own glass, watching her over the rim.
So.
She had lost.
“A long day, then?” he mused, tilting his own glass.
Her fingers shifted slightly on the stem. “You could say that.”
A truth, but not all of it. She did not elaborate.
Good girl.
She was learning.
Lucius stepped closer. “Some would say drinking alone is unwise.”
Hermione huffed softly. “I’m not alone.”
“No,” Lucius murmured, reaching for a glass of his own. “You are not.”
Hermione gave him a slow look. Assessing.
He let her.
Good. Look at me. Try to understand. Try to work out what I know. You won’t.
She lifted the glass to her lips again, her movements fractionally looser now, a little more at ease. The edges of tension had not faded, but they had softened, just slightly, under the weight of the wine and the quiet.
And then—
She reached for the bottle again.
He was already there.
Not rushed. Not forceful.
Simply there.
The backs of his knuckles brushed against her wrist.
She pulled back first, stepping away as if nothing had happened.
Lucius looked after her.
A mistake.
And one he would make again.
It was hunger.
A hunger that followed him into the spaces where he had no defenses left.
He dreamt of her.
Lucius had never been a man prone to indulgence, much less fantasy. His mind was a fortress, his discipline unshakable.
But that night—
That night, he woke with the ghost of her touch still burning along his skin.
He did not move. Did not breathe.
The room was dark, the manor silent, and yet—her presence lingered, etched into the depths of his subconscious, as though she had been there, as though she had left something behind.
Lucius clenched his jaw, staring up at the ceiling.
This could not continue.
It was one thing to watch. To indulge in fleeting moments, in harmless proximity.
It was another thing entirely to let her follow him into his sleep.
And yet—
His fingers twitched against the sheets.
And yet—
He closed his eyes.
And saw her again.
It was a curse.
Lucius felt her before he saw her. Every glance, every breath, every accidental touch—it was poison, seeping into his veins, infecting his thoughts.
And she knew.
Lucius was certain of it.
Lucius saw it—not in anything she said, but in what she did not say.
Tonight, it was the library again. She was reaching for a book, fingers brushing over the spine, when she felt him behind her.
She did not turn immediately.
Lucius should have stepped back. Should have let the moment pass.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he reached past her, plucking the book from the shelf himself, close enough that her back grazed his chest, that he could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her dress.
Hermione exhaled slowly. When she turned her head, her lips just a breath away from the sharp line of his jaw.
Lucius’ grip on the book tightened.
She did not speak.
Neither did he.
They both knew there was nothing left to say.
It was a pattern.
Narcissa always left first.
It was not cowardice—no, not quite.
It was self-preservation.
She had done it during the war, vanishing into well-placed shadows before the Dark Lord could demand too much of her. She had done it in court, when the trials came, standing at Lucius’ side just long enough to ensure her son’s safety before slipping into silence.
And now—she was doing it again.
Lucius had known it was coming.
The trunks had been packed for days, the arrangements made with the same quiet efficiency Narcissa applied to all things. A measured exit. No dramatics, no pleas. Just certainty.
The carriage stood at the entrance of the manor, the night air cool and dry. A house-elf stood beside it, eyes lowered, waiting for instructions.
Narcissa stood near the doorway. Regal. Unshaken.
She did not look at him as she fastened the clasp of her traveling cloak.
As Lucius watched her hands move,he felt nothing.
No regret. No anger. No grief.
Yes, they had once been something more.
But those years were long behind them, buried beneath the quiet, brittle distance that had stretched between them.
Now, they were only a name, a history, a well-kept arrangement. And that arrangement no longer served either of them.
Finally, she spoke.
“Draco will visit.”
Not a question. A fact.
Lucius exhaled. “Of course.”
She nodded. Adjusted her gloves.
Lucius waited for more. He wasn’t sure why.
But Narcissa had always been one to leave before the fire reached her.
She turned to face him fully. “I hope,” she said softly, “that you recognize what is happening.”
Lucius stiffened.
Narcissa tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “You think I don’t see it?”
He said nothing.
Her lips curved—not a smile, not entirely.
“I would hate,” Narcissa murmured, “for Draco to get hurt.”
Ah.
Lucius inhaled slowly, tipping his head. “How fortunate, then,” he said smoothly, “that you will not be here to imagine it.”
Narcissa did not flinch. Instead, she smiled—a quiet, knowing thing. And that was the part Lucius hated the most. Because she had already seen where this would end.
She was not staying to stop it. She was not staying to protect her son. She was leaving before she had to watch. Just as she always had.
Narcissa stepped toward the carriage, but just before she climbed inside, she hesitated.
“Goodnight, Narcissa.”
A pause.
Then—a small wave.
Not affection.
Not warmth.
Resignation.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I suppose it is.”
She stepped into the carriage. The doors shut.The wheels lifted.
Lucius did not move.
Because it had never been a question of if Narcissa would leave.
Only whether he would let her see what came after.
It was fate.
It always had been.
Lucius had avoided her all evening.
It had not been difficult—he had mastered the art of avoidance long ago. A well-placed conversation, an excuse of business, a single glance that kept lesser men at bay.
Until Lord Parkinson spoke.
“Surely, you should offer Miss Granger a dance.”
Lucius turned his head slowly, expression blank.
Parkinson’s tone was too casual to be innocent. “She has charmed half the room until now. And you are the host, after all.”
A trap.
Lucius did not react. Instead, he lifted his glass to his lips, masking the impulse to sneer. Foolish men enjoyed their foolish games.
But he felt it.
Not just Parkinson’s amusement.
His eyes lifted, moving past the sea of silk gowns and polished robes, past the golden candlelight and gleaming marble—
Until they found Draco. Standing across the room near some Ministry officials, glass of wine in hand, his expression unreadable.
And beside him—her.
Hermione had already turned. She ha already heard.
She was already watching him.
Lucius should refuse. He should smirk, murmur something cutting, let the request die before it took shape.
Instead—
He extended his hand.
A statement.
The room shifted. A faint ripple of interest.
Hermione hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then—she stepped forward.
Her fingers brushed against his.
A mistake.
But neither of them let go.
Lucius led. Because of course he did.
Their steps were measured, precise, as they moved across the marble floor. The music was slow, deliberate—a pureblood’s waltz, one of inheritance, not affection.
Hermione followed flawlessly.
She had done this before. Not here. Not with him. But elsewhere.
He resented it.
And yet—
The silk of her gown brushed against him with each step. Her pulse was steady beneath his hand. And when she looked up at him—truly looked at him—Lucius felt something shift.
His grip tightened. Just slightly.
A misstep.
Draco noticed.
Lucius didn’t have to look. He felt it—his son’s attention, sharp as a blade. Across the room, Draco had lowered his glass. A fraction. Not enough to break decorum, but enough to watch. Truly watch.
Lucius knew that gaze. He had taught it to him.
The music swayed around them, curling through the air like a slow-moving vice. The chandeliers flickered. The dance continued.
Draco said nothing.
But something had changed.
Hermione must have felt it too. Because when the dance drew to its final movement, she was the first to step away.
Not rushed. Not flustered.
But deliberately.
As if she knew exactly what had just happened.
As if she had just walked across a razor’s edge and survived.
Lucius let her go.
She inclined her head—polite, composed—then turned and walked outside the ballroom.
Lucius did not watch her leave.
But he felt it.
Draco’s gaze.
Not on Hermione.
On him.
Lucius turned.
Draco tilted his head slightly, watching him like one might study an opponent they had already beaten. He smiled.
Not the kind of smile meant to soothe. Not even the one he used to charm his way through the Ministry.
No, this one was sharper.
The kind that was meant for him alone.
“You should be careful, Father,” Draco murmured, swirling the wine in his glass.
Lucius said nothing.
His son took a slow sip, breathing like he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long.
“The wine,” he continued then, tipping his glass in the barest mockery of a toast. His voice was light, almost idle. “Older than she is.”
Then, softer—like the twist of a knife—
“And yet… not the most tempting thing in the room.”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.
Lucius did. He turned sharply, his robes sweeping behind him as he strode away. But he didn’t need to see Draco’s face to know.
His son was still smiling.
It was a reckoning.
Lucius had avoided this moment for too long. It had found him anyway.
He had not meant to linger.
The ballroom had settled into the late hours, the evening thinning into private conversations and half-empty glasses of wine. He had excused himself long ago, intent on retreating to his room—away from the lingering heat of the dance, away from the way his son had looked at him.
Lucius paused in the corridor just beyond the west terrace, concealed by the heavy velvet drapes framing the doorway.
The voices rose.
Draco. Hermione.
“You shouldn’t have danced with him.”
Draco’s words were sharp, edged with something not quite anger, but close.
A fight.
Silence stretched for a moment before Hermione’s voice cut through it. Quiet, but steady.
“He offered his hand. Would you have preferred that I refuse?”
Lucius could picture it—her standing tall, arms crossed, unyielding. The way her chin lifted just slightly when she knew she was right.
Draco scoffed. “Don’t turn this into a lesson in etiquette. You know damn well what I mean.”
Interesting.
Lucius remained still, fingers resting lightly against the carved frame of the doorway. The wood was cool beneath his touch.
Hermione exhaled sharply. “I know that you’ve been in a foul mood all night, and I know that you refuse to just say what’s actually bothering you.”
A pause.
Lucius could hear the faint rustling of fabric, the shifting of feet against the stone floor.
Then—Draco’s voice again, quieter this time. Rougher.
“It’s him, Hermione.”
Lucius stilled.
Draco knew.
Hermione’s breath hitched, so faint that Lucius almost missed it.
Then—
“That’s ridiculous.”
It was said too quickly. Too firm.
Draco let out a humorless laugh. “Is it? Because I saw you.”
Silence.
Lucius exhaled slowly. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his ribs, could taste the inevitability of it on his tongue.
“I saw the way he looked at you.”
Another beat of silence. Then, softer—almost disbelieving:
“…I saw the way you looked at him.”
Lucius had expected anger. A demand. Accusation.
Instead—Draco sounded… wounded.
The rarest thing of all.
Lucius had taught his son control. To guard his emotions. To wield them as weapons, sharp and unforgiving.
And yet—here he was.
Unraveling.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
A challenge.
Hermione did not answer.
Not immediately.
She could have denied it. She should have denied it.
But the silence stretched too long.
Lucius felt something in his chest tighten.
Then—finally—her voice.
Low. Unsteady.
“Draco…”
A name. Nothing more.
Draco let out a sharp exhale. He laughed, but there was no amusement in it.
“Right. Just—be careful, Granger.”
Not an order.
A warning.
A plea.
Lucius waited.
Hermione did not respond.
The night air carried the sound of footsteps—Draco’s retreating down the corridor, purposeful and quick.
A door shut somewhere in the distance.
Silence.
Lucius turned slightly, shifting just enough to see through the sliver of space between the drapes.
Hermione stood alone, arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing.
She did not move.
She did not follow.
Lucius watched. He waited.
Waited for her to turn toward the guest wing.
To go after his son.
To fix what had just fractured.
She didn’t.
She only stood there.
And then—
She turned.
Lucius inhaled.
Because he knew.
Because she did not walk after Draco.
She walked toward the winter garden.
It was a hollow victory.
Lucius had not heard Draco enter.
But he felt him.
Felt the shift in the air, the charged silence that pressed against the study’s dark wood-paneled walls. The door had closed behind him with a soft but deliberate click—no hesitation, no restraint.
Lucius did not turn immediately. He stood by the liquor cabinet, his fingers ghosting over the neck of a crystal decanter. A habit. A delay.
A final moment before the inevitable.
“I suppose you think this is funny.”
Draco’s voice was cold. Not sharp, not enraged.
Something worse.
Lucius exhaled slowly and poured himself a drink. “No.”
Glass against glass, liquid pouring smooth. The sound filled the silence like a slow-moving blade.
Draco let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, but without humor. “No,” he repeated, voice flat. “Of course not. You never find humor in anything. Even when you take something that isn’t yours.”
Lucius took a slow sip. His grip was steady. His expression remained impassive. “If you have something to say, Draco, say it.”
Draco’s footsteps echoed against the floor as he moved further into the room. Closer.
“You want me to say it?” His voice was quieter now, more dangerous. “Fine.”
The next words came like steel—cold, precise, merciless.
“You stole from me.”
Lucius had been called many things. Coward. Traitor. Loyalist. Murderer.
But never a thief.
Something in him bristled.
“Stole?” His voice was smooth, too smooth. He exhaled lightly, as if amused—though his grip on the glass did not loosen. “She is not a thing to be taken.”
Draco let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, so now we’re pretending this is philosophical?”
His voice turned sharp. “I don’t care how you dress it up, Father. I don’t care if you tell yourself that it just happened, or that she made her own choices, or that fate is some cruel joke.”
A step closer.
“You knew.”
Lucius’ breath was even, controlled. He did not turn to face him.
Draco did not care.
“You knew,” he repeated, voice softer now, more lethal. “And you did it anyway.”
A pause.
Then—
“Did you enjoy it?”
Lucius’ grip on the glass stilled.
The question landed like a blow, unexpected and brutal.
“Did you enjoy taking something from your own son?” Draco’s voice was steady, almost too steady. “Did it feel like a triumph? Does it feel like one now?”
Lucius finally turned.
His son stood before him, jaw tight, eyes burning with something darker than anger.
It was the first time he had seen his son truly look at him like an enemy.
Lucius set his drink aside with careful precision.
“She was never yours,” he said evenly.
Draco tilted his head slightly. Then he smiled. A cruel thing.
“Of course not,” he murmured. “You made sure of that.”
Silence. The air between them felt razor-sharp, like a moment just before the killing curse.
Lucius studied him. The boy—no, the man—before him.
His son.
The one thing Lucius had truly built, truly shaped. The only legacy that had ever truly mattered.
And he had broken him.
Draco inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, as if calming himself.
Then—he stepped back.
And it was not in surrender.
It was in decision.
“You’ve won, Father.” Draco’s voice was calm now. Lethal in its finality.
Lucius saw it then—the exact moment Draco decided that this was the last conversation they would ever have.
Draco turned and reached for the door handle. Paused.
His voice, when it came, was deathly quiet.
“I hope she destroys you.”
The door swung open.Draco walked away.
Lucius did not stop him.
This was the one thing he had never prepared him for.
How to survive when the man meant to protect you is the one who takes from you.
The door had closed softly behind Draco, but the sound rang in Lucius’ ears like the final toll of a funeral bell.
He should go after him.
He should fix this.
But even as the thought formed, Lucius knew—there was nothing to fix.
Draco had looked at him and seen a stranger. And worse, Lucius had looked back and felt nothing but inevitability.
Because he would not stop.
Because he could not.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, breath sharp as he forced air into his lungs.
This was madness. He knew it.
Knew it the way a man standing at the edge of a cliff knows the fall will kill him.
But that didn’t stop the wind from calling.
Didn’t stop the pull of gravity, whispering that there was no point in resisting, that the fall had already begun.
Lucius slammed his palm against the desk, the sharp crack of impact splitting the silence. His jaw clenched, every muscle in his body rigid.
What had she done to him?
No.
What had he done to himself?
His son had walked away from him, but he could not walk away from her.
That was the truth of it.
The rot beneath the skin. The sickness in his veins.
He did not just want her—he needed her.
And it was destroying him.
Lucius turned sharply, pacing toward the fireplace, his reflection flickering in the polished glass above the mantel.
He barely recognized himself.
The man in the glass was not Lucius Malfoy who had rebuilt power from the ashes of ruin.
No—this was a man undone.
A man who had already made his choice.
Lucius exhaled through his teeth. His hands trembled. He hated it.
But not enough to stop.
Never enough to stop.
The door was behind him. It would be so simple to walk away.
To leave her untouched, untaken, and salvage whatever twisted remains of dignity he still possessed.
But he would not.
He already knew where his feet would take him next.
He already knew who he would seek.
Hermione Granger was not his to take, not his to want, not his to touch—
It did not matter.
He would take her.
And he would not stop.
Damn the consequences.
Damn himself.
Damn them all.
It was over.
Lucius knew it the moment he found her alone in the winter garden, the storm slamming against the glass panes, the lanterns flickering wildly in the wind.
She was standing near the frozen fountain, breath curling in the cold air, the hem of her cloak brushing against frost-laced stone.
She turned at the sound of his approach.
And this time—
This time, he did not stop himself.
The distance between them vanished.
His fingers found her wrist first—barely a touch, a whisper of contact, just enough to feel the erratic rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips.
He should step back. He knew he should. Even now, there was still a choice. A chance to retreat, to stop this before it went too far. But she did not move away. She did not stop him. She only looked at him, steady.
It gave him all the permission he needed.
His hands at her waist, dragging her against him, the sharp inhale as she stumbled, as she caught herself against the solid press of his chest.
He could feel her warmth, feel the way her breath stuttered as she tilted her head to look at him, her lips parting.
It would take nothing to close the space entirely. Nothing at all.
But then—
She reached up, her fingers tightening at his collar.
A silent dare.
Lucius inhaled sharply, the taste of winter, of restraint stretched too thin.
This was his last chance to stop. He did not take it. He had fought long enough. Whatever battle this had been—it was already lost.
He fell.
Their lips met in a crash.
It was not gentle.
It was fire, the kind that burned through restraint, through reason, through the last fragile remnants of whatever line had once existed between them.
She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, fingers tightening at her waist, sliding lower, gripping the curve of her hip. His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, angling her precisely where he wanted her. She did not resist.
She met him, matched him.
Her hands fisted in his robes, clinging, pulling, her body arching against him in a way that made heat coil low in his stomach. She was soft beneath his grip, the fabric of her dress slipping beneath his fingers as he pressed her back against the cold marble edge of the fountain.
She moaned softly, her lips beneath his, and Lucius closed his eyes, something satisfied unraveling inside him.
He deepened the kiss, claiming, devouring, his lips moving from her mouth to her jaw, to the delicate skin beneath her ear. He could feel her pulse there, frantic against his lips, taste her skin, feel the shudder that ran through her when he bit down—just enough to make her react.
Her nails scraped against his scalp, threading through his hair, tugging as though she needed to keep him there, closer, closer.
“Lucius,” she gasped, half a moan, half a plea.
Something in him snapped.
He turned them, pressing her fully against the edge, one leg slipping between hers, pinning her beneath him. His hands roamed, exploring, fingertips pressing into the fabric at her back, mapping the shape of her through the thin material.
She let him.
Welcomed it.
Her lips crashed back into his, desperate now, fevered, her body moving against him as though she needed this just as much as he did.
He found the ties of her cloak, pulled them loose, pushed the heavy fabric from her shoulders. Cold air hit her skin.
She was burning.
And so was he.
His lips trailed lower, along her collarbone. She shivered, her head tilting to the side, offering him more, and Lucius felt something settle in his chest.
He could ruin her.
She could ruin him.
And for once—
He did not care.
It was their undoing.