Longing and Denial
Hermione’s nights had always been restless, plagued by the ghosts of the past—friends she had lost, battles she had fought, and the weight of decisions that still haunted her. But recently, her dreams had taken on a different shape. It was no longer the chaos of war or the trauma that had once defined her nights. Instead, there was him.
Lucian.
At first, it was just his voice, echoing faintly in her mind as if he were still speaking from his portrait. Then came the images, vivid and startlingly clear. His platinum hair catching the sunlight, the glint of mischief in his eyes, the way he smiled just before teasing her. His presence was so tangible in her dreams that she would wake up in a haze, half expecting to see him standing beside her bed. But of course, he wasn’t there. He never would be.
The realization gnawed at her. What was she doing?
Hermione pulled her quilt tighter around her as she sat up in bed, staring into the darkness of her room. She knew better than this. She was always the rational one, the logical one. And yet here she was, allowing herself to be drawn into a relationship—if it could even be called that—with a portrait. A shadow of someone who no longer existed in the real world.
“This is madness,” she whispered to herself, rubbing her temples in frustration.
And yet, the pull was undeniable.
Every day, she found herself thinking about him more. Their conversations had become the highlight of her day, his voice lingering in her mind long after she left the corridor where his portrait hung. His charm, his wit, his depth—it all felt so real, so compelling. But the rational part of her brain kept reminding her of the harsh truth: Lucian Malfoy was dead. This was nothing more than an enchanted image, a magical representation of who he had been, frozen in time.
But that didn’t stop her heart from reacting every time she passed his portrait. It didn’t stop her from remembering the way his gaze had softened in their last conversation, the way he’d looked at her, as if he saw something no one else did.
Hermione closed her eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but the more she resisted, the stronger they became.
That night, as she drifted into sleep, Lucian appeared again in her dreams. But this time, it wasn’t the portrait—it was him. The real Lucian, as he had been in life, standing before her. His figure was sharper, more defined, as if her mind had pieced together every detail from the fragments she had learned over the past few weeks. He looked at her with the same intensity as he did in the portrait, but there was something more—something alive in his eyes.
“Hermione,” he whispered, his voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down her spine.
She reached out to touch him, her fingertips grazing the sleeve of his robe. It felt real, impossibly real. Her heart quickened, and she could feel the warmth of his presence, the closeness of him as he leaned toward her.
She gasped, suddenly awake, her hand still outstretched into the empty air. The room was silent, save for the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears. Hermione pulled her hand back, her chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.
It was just a dream, she told herself, but the weight of it clung to her.
For the next few days, Hermione avoided the corridor where Lucian’s portrait hung. She threw herself into her work, her lectures, grading, anything to keep her mind occupied. She even took long walks around the grounds, hoping that fresh air might clear the fog that had settled over her thoughts.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was running away. Running from the connection she felt, from the way Lucian had started to invade not just her days but her nights as well. And it wasn’t just about the dream—it was the way she missed him, missed their conversations. Missed him.
The more she tried to distance herself, the more her heart seemed to pull her back. And it frightened her.
“What am I doing?” she muttered under her breath one afternoon as she stood at her desk, sorting through papers. But she already knew the answer, and it terrified her. She was falling for a man who didn’t exist anymore. And that wasn’t just irrational—it was impossible.
But her heart, it seemed, didn’t care about what was possible.
That evening, after hours of struggling to distract herself, Hermione found herself walking toward the corridor again, her footsteps echoing softly through the quiet halls. She had told herself she wouldn’t go back, that she needed distance. But it was as if something—some unseen force—was pulling her there.
When she rounded the corner and saw the familiar frame, her heart skipped a beat. Lucian was there, as always, leaning casually in his portrait, but there was something different in his expression. He looked at her as if he knew—knew that she had been avoiding him, knew the conflict that had been raging inside her. His eyes held a quiet intensity, as though he had been waiting for her all this time.
“You’ve been gone a while,” Lucian remarked, his tone light but laced with something deeper.
Hermione swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I… I’ve been busy.”
“Busy avoiding me, perhaps?” he said, raising an eyebrow, his smirk returning. But there was a softness in his gaze that made her chest tighten.
She couldn’t deny it. “Maybe,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lucian’s expression softened even further, and he took a step closer within the frame, his gaze never leaving hers. “Why?”
Hermione hesitated, the words caught in her throat. She could feel the weight of her emotions pressing down on her, the reality of what she had been trying to deny. “Because…” She trailed off, her fingers twisting together nervously. “Because this—what we’re doing—it’s not real.”
There was a pause, and Lucian’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. “It feels real to me.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. And in that moment, Hermione felt the full weight of her feelings crashing down on her. It did feel real. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
Hermione turned away, her heart pounding. “It’s not that simple.”
“No, it’s not,” Lucian agreed, his voice softer now. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”
She stood there, her back to him, struggling with the war inside her—the war between her head and her heart. Every rational part of her told her to walk away, to forget about him, to remember that he was just a portrait. But her heart… her heart was already lost.
After a long pause, Hermione finally turned back to face him, her eyes searching his. “What are we doing, Lucian?”
Lucian’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever it is, I’m not ready to let it go.”
Neither was she.
And that was the most terrifying truth of all.