Heart to Heart
For days, Hermione avoided the corridor where Lucian’s portrait hung, her steps purposefully redirecting themselves toward quieter, less-frequented parts of the castle. She threw herself into her work, focusing on lesson plans, marking essays, and attending staff gatherings to distract herself from the knot of emotions tightening in her chest. Every time she passed the familiar turn that would lead her back to Lucian, something inside her ached, pulling her in, yet she resisted.
Her nights, however, were not so easily escaped. Each time she closed her eyes, Lucian's sharp gaze and biting words returned, twisting themselves into her thoughts. His anger from their last conversation haunted her, and her own words—"You're a portrait, Lucian. I can't—this isn't real"—echoed in her mind, over and over, until she could no longer separate what she felt from the undeniable truth of their situation.
Finally, after days of avoidance, she could no longer bear the weight of the silence between them. She needed to see him, needed to understand what had caused the bitterness in his words, and, perhaps, needed to confront her own heart.
The corridor was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. As Hermione approached Lucian’s portrait, she felt the familiar pull in her chest—a mix of dread, guilt, and something else she dared not name. When she stopped in front of him, he wasn’t lounging with his usual arrogance. Instead, Lucian stood in the painted background, his back to her, staring out over the rolling hills depicted in his portrait.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them, once filled with easy conversation or playful banter, now felt suffocating. Hermione swallowed the knot in her throat and finally spoke.
“Lucian…”
He didn’t turn immediately. His voice, when it came, was quieter than she had expected, the sharp edges dulled by something deeper, something more human. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
The words hit her harder than they should have. She hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected the vulnerability in his tone. “I didn’t forget,” she replied softly, stepping closer to the portrait. “I just… I didn’t know what to say.”
Lucian turned then, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or something more. “You didn’t need to say anything. I already knew.” He paused, the tension in the air thick between them. “I was harsh last time. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”
Hermione shook her head. “No, I deserved it. You’re right. I’ve been… confused. About everything. About you.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced herself to continue. “It’s just—this is all so strange, Lucian. You’re a portrait, but I feel… things. Things I shouldn’t. And it terrifies me.”
Lucian's gaze softened, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. “You think it doesn’t terrify me too?” he asked quietly, taking a step closer within his portrait, his figure looming larger. “Do you think I enjoy watching you—knowing I’m nothing but a memory on canvas, trapped here while you live out there?”
Hermione’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. She had never thought about it that way—about what it must be like for him. The idea that Lucian, even in death, felt just as trapped as she did unsettled her more than anything else.
“I didn’t realize…” she whispered, her eyes searching his face for answers, for something she could hold onto.
“Of course, you didn’t,” Lucian said, his voice softening further, tinged with melancholy. “I never spoke to you when I had the chance. When I was alive, I admired you from afar, but I was too much of a coward to say anything. I watched you—brilliant, stubborn, determined Hermione Granger—fight for everything, for everyone. And I just… I couldn’t.”
The confession hung in the air between them, heavy and raw. Hermione’s heart clenched as she stared at him, unable to speak for a moment. She had never imagined that Lucian Malfoy—the enigmatic, distant figure she had barely known in school—had harbored any thoughts about her, much less admiration.
“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You never showed any sign… You were always so distant.”
Lucian gave a bitter smile. “Distant because I didn’t think I deserved to be near you. I made terrible choices during the war. I stood in the shadows, watching the world tear itself apart, while you were out there, risking everything to make it better.”
Hermione stepped closer, her hand reaching up as though she could touch the painting, as though she could bridge the impossible gap between them. “But you did help,” she said firmly. “I’ve read about your involvement with the Order. You saved people, Lucian. You sacrificed yourself for the cause.”
His gaze dropped, and for the first time, he looked truly vulnerable. “It wasn’t enough.”
“It was,” she insisted, her voice breaking slightly. “It was more than enough.”
Lucian looked up at her then, his expression softening in a way that made Hermione’s chest tighten. “I never told you,” he murmured, “how much I admired you. Not just for what you did during the war, but for the person you were, even when we were students. I should have said something when I had the chance.”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as his words sank in. She had spent so long grieving the past, so long burying herself in work and routine to escape the pain of the war, that she hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear something like this.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice trembling with the weight of their conversation. “This… whatever this is between us—it’s confusing. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Lucian’s gaze softened further, his eyes locking onto hers. “I know. I feel it too. But you’re right, Hermione. I’m just a portrait. I’m not… I can’t be what you need.”
Tears prickled at the corners of Hermione’s eyes, the emotional vulnerability between them too much to hold back any longer. “Maybe not,” she whispered. “But you’re more real to me than anyone has been in a long time.”
The silence that followed was heavy with unsaid words, with emotions too complicated to untangle in one conversation. But for the first time since they had started speaking, the wall between them—the barrier of life and death—seemed just a little bit thinner.
Lucian gave her a sad, almost wistful smile. “I wish I had been brave enough to say all this when I was alive.”
Hermione blinked back her tears, managing a small smile of her own. “It’s never too late,” she said softly.
And as she stood there, staring up at the portrait of a man she never truly knew in life, but had come to know in death, Hermione realized that maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to heal. But as her heart opened up to Lucian’s memory, it also became clearer that their connection, no matter how strong, would never be simple.