The First Conversation
Days passed, yet Hermione found her thoughts continually circling back to Lucian Malfoy. The portrait lingered at the edges of her mind, a quiet, persistent presence that wouldn’t be shaken. Her curiosity, fueled by what she had learned about his secret role in the Order, had grown into something far more consuming. The mystery of his involvement in the war, the enigma of his silence, gnawed at her. And yet, there was one thing she hadn’t done—something she’d avoided since her initial discovery.
She hadn’t spoken to him.
For all her research, for all the revelations she’d uncovered in dusty ledgers and half-forgotten records, the idea of engaging with Lucian directly left her strangely unsettled. It wasn’t that she feared what he might say, but rather, the notion of having a conversation with someone who wasn’t truly alive—who existed only as a shadow, a painting, a memory. Even though portraits in the wizarding world could talk and move, Hermione had always regarded them as echoes of the past, not quite real but not entirely illusion either.
And yet, something about Lucian drew her in.
After another sleepless night, her mind tangled with questions, Hermione made up her mind. She would speak to him. Even if it unnerved her, even if it stirred feelings she didn’t yet understand, she needed answers.
That afternoon, after her last class had ended and the halls were quiet, Hermione made her way back to the corridor where Lucian’s portrait hung. The familiar rhythm of her footsteps echoed in the stillness, but this time, there was an added tension in her step, as though she was walking toward something she wasn’t prepared for.
As she approached, the portrait seemed to sense her arrival. Lucian’s figure shifted slightly in the frame, his pale hand resting on the arm of his painted chair. His gaze turned toward her, a slow, deliberate motion, as though he had been waiting for this moment.
Hermione stopped in front of the portrait, her eyes meeting his. The stillness stretched between them, the air heavy with an unspoken understanding.
“Good afternoon, Professor Granger,” Lucian said, his voice as smooth as the stroke of a paintbrush. It was deeper than she had imagined, calm and measured, with a faint undercurrent of amusement. “I see you’ve returned.”
Hermione blinked, startled by the familiarity in his tone. She hadn’t expected him to know her name—then again, portraits were often given knowledge of the world beyond their frames.
“I… yes,” she replied, finding her voice after a moment. “I’ve been curious about you. About why your portrait is here.”
Lucian’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Curiosity has always been your strength, hasn’t it?”
She frowned, uncertain how to interpret his words. He spoke as though he knew her, as though he had watched her for years, but how could that be possible? They had never crossed paths in any meaningful way during their time at Hogwarts. Lucian had always been a shadow, a ghost of a name in Draco’s more prominent legacy.
“You remember me?” Hermione asked, her tone more incredulous than she had intended.
Lucian’s eyes, painted grey and sharp, held hers with a quiet intensity. “I was in the same year as you, after all. It’s hard to forget someone like Hermione Granger.”
There was something about the way he said her name that made her pulse quicken, though she couldn’t quite place why. He had a way of speaking that felt intentional, as if every word held weight, as though he could see beneath the surface of things. It unnerved her.
“You were… quiet,” Hermione said after a beat, trying to regain control of the conversation. “I don’t remember you much.”
Lucian leaned back in his chair, his painted figure shifting as though amused by the understatement. “I preferred to observe from the sidelines. The Malfoy name carried enough attention without my contribution.”
Hermione nodded, though the simplicity of his answer didn’t satisfy her. “But why didn’t I know about your involvement in the war? Why didn’t anyone? You were in the Order, weren’t you?”
For a moment, his expression darkened, his smile fading into something more serious. He regarded her with a deep, pensive look, as though weighing his response carefully.
“I was,” he confirmed, his voice soft but steady. “But my role wasn’t one that would be remembered by history. It was better that way.”
“Why?” The word slipped out before she could stop herself, and Hermione felt her heart race with the question that had haunted her since discovering his name in the ledger.
Lucian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying her with that same calm, observant gaze. “Some people prefer to make their sacrifices in the shadows, Hermione. Not every hero craves recognition.”
The words hung in the air between them, and Hermione felt a chill run down her spine. She didn’t know if it was the way he spoke, or the weight of what he was saying, but something about him unsettled her. He was charming, yes, but there was a quiet sadness in him, something elusive she couldn’t quite grasp.
Her fingers curled tightly around the hem of her robes, her mind a whirl of questions she wasn’t ready to ask. “Why didn’t you fight openly?” she asked softly, the question slipping out before she could think.
Lucian’s painted form shifted again, his hand lifting to rest on his chin, as though considering her question carefully. “I had my reasons,” he replied, his voice quieter now, almost distant. “Reasons that go deeper than what most would understand.”
Hermione’s breath hitched at his cryptic response. She wanted to push further, to demand answers, but something in his tone made her hesitate. He had secrets—secrets she wasn’t sure she was ready to unravel just yet.
“I see,” she said quietly, though she didn’t truly understand.
There was a pause, the silence between them stretching as Lucian regarded her with that same knowing gaze. His expression softened slightly, and his smile returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You’ve changed since our time at Hogwarts,” he remarked, shifting the conversation unexpectedly. “The war has left its mark on you.”
Hermione flinched at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than she cared to admit. She had changed. The war had taken pieces of her, left her with scars that still ached in the quiet moments. She wasn’t the same bright-eyed girl who had fought for justice and equality. She was older, wearier, and perhaps a little lost.
“How would you know that?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. “You didn’t know me.”
Lucian’s gaze softened, a hint of sadness flickering behind his painted eyes. “Perhaps not as well as I should have,” he admitted. “But I watched, from afar. And sometimes, watching tells you more than you think.”
Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. His words stirred something in her—a strange, unexpected connection she hadn’t anticipated. Lucian had been watching her? All those years, from the shadows? She didn’t know what to make of it.
Before she could respond, Lucian straightened in his chair, his expression shifting back to its calm, enigmatic charm. “But enough about the past,” he said lightly. “You’re here now, and I suspect you’ll have more questions for me in time.”
“I will,” Hermione said, the weight of the unspoken questions heavy in her chest. She wasn’t done with him. Not by a long shot.
With a final, lingering glance at the portrait, Hermione turned to leave, her heart racing and her mind more confused than ever. As she walked away, Lucian’s voice echoed softly after her, a whisper in the stillness of the hall.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
And somehow, Hermione knew he would be.