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Hermione cracked open her eyes the next morning, hoping to find herself back in her bed in Harry’s house, but instead she found herself staring up at the Slytherin green canopy of the bed she had finally crashed in earlier that morning. She sighed in disgust, and turned to a movement she saw out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m glad to see you got a bit of rest, my dear,” said Lucius briskly as he entered the room. Hermione suspected he’d set a house elf to watch for her to wake and the creature and gone and told him when she’d stirred.
“I haven’t slept much lately,” she admitted, not bothering to sit up.
“This war has taken its toll on all of us,” he agreed in a voice she had never heard him use before. He almost sounded—sad. This of course would be understandable, since he’d lost his family during recent events.
Hermione almost allowed herself to feel sorry for him, until she remembered that the man had just abducted her so he could take her as his new bride whether she liked it or not. Her ire rose up within her, and she sat up lest he might get any ideas about joining her. The last thing she wanted was to fend off Lucius Malfoy while they were lying together in a bed, of all places.
“Yes, it has,” she agreed as she went over to the window to look out at the morning sun. She did so more to avoid meeting his gaze than because of any desire to see the sight, but still, she begrudgingly had to admit it was beautiful. There was a bit of a park below her window, with a bench and a few trees, and a pond with some swans in it.
“I gave you the room with the best view of all, you know,” Lucius told her as he stepped up beside her to look out as well. “You may not know it, but I have always been fond of nature. It’s a bit of a hobby of mine, you might say, cataloguing different species and such.”
“Yes, including the human ones,” Hermione answered darkly.
“Hermione, must you be like that?” he grumbled. “Isn’t there anything I can do to make amends? I know—we’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. Women love to go shopping, even the smarter ones.”
“You could let me go home and forget this whole half-baked idea,” she mentioned sweetly.
“No, I cannot,” he insisted. “The sooner you accept this situation, the better off you will be. I’m trying to be patient—I really am, but you know that patience is not one of my best qualities. Perhaps I am going about this in the wrong way. Perhaps patience is not what the situation requires.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione snapped, turning around to look up at him. His eyes were unreadable as he looked at her, and then they darkened as he stepped forward, grasping her around her waist as his lips suddenly descended upon hers. Hermione tried to pull back and slap him, but he had anticipated the move, and her wrist was suddenly in his grip as he continued the onslaught, just as unruffled as ever.
“Mmm! Stop it!” she growled against the pressure of his lips as she struggled to get free.
“You stop it,” he said. “Fighting will do you no good. You will be my wife—in every sense of the word—in two weeks. We’re going to have a big wedding, and you are going to play your part, and that’s all there is to it. Now, shall we go down to breakfast so you can practice being the lady of the house, or are you going to refuse to eat while you’re at it?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” she snapped, realizing that he had moved forward as he spoke, so that she suddenly found herself pinned against the wall, his body pressed tight to hers. “Hey—“
This time when he kissed her, he was much more insistent about it, but also somehow much more alluring. Hermione’s head began to swim, and she felt a heady sensation she could not simply dismiss. In all the time she’d fancied herself in love with Ron, he had never once elicited a response like this in her—she hated to call it desire, but what else could one call it, when she so wantonly felt the need for more?
She resisted it, of course. She would not willingly fall into this man’s plans just because he was apparently a good kisser. A great kisser, she amended after a few more moments. Then his tongue teased open her mouth, and Hermione’s wayward body completely ignored the vehement denials her brain was shouting. “You don’t want him! Stop him, you fool!”
Both of them were breathing a bit heavily when Lucius finally let her go. Their eyes met, challenging each other to deny what had just passed between them. His especially were fierce as he said in a husky whisper, “Best we go eat now, my dear. We have a busy schedule today. We need to get you fitted for your gown.”
For once, Hermione Granger had nothing to say. No snappy comeback, no razor sharp retort, she was just standing there, breathless, staring at him as if she’d just seen a ghost. Lucius rather liked it.
“Do you have nothing to say about that?” he inquired.
“You’re wasting your time, you know,” she told him. “I won’t be wearing it.”
“What, not wearing a beautiful gown to your own wedding?” he said lightly. “That would be a shame, since you would be so beautiful in it. And so beautiful when I take it off again.”
Hermione’s face went red at the imagery his words invoked.
“See, my dear, it is just as I said,” he told her as he took her arm and began to walk them out of the room. “Anticipation can be delicious, indeed.”
“Hermione, the table is an excellent place to tell one’s spouse about their day,” Lucius informed her when he finally was certain she was not going to start the small talk herself. She muttered something under her breath, and he added, “And we don’t mumble at the table, either, as I’m certain even your Muggle parents must have taught you.”
She blew out her breath of air through her clenched teeth, and ground out, “My parents taught me quite well enough, thank you. I’m just being rebellious, as well you know.”
“Yes, I do,” he assured you. “Come here with me.”
Hermione did not want to approach the other end of the table to stand before him. She had no idea what the man would do next. He might hex her, he might spank her, he might even kiss her again. Tears welled up in her eyes when she realized how much she would enjoy any one of those horrid things with equal fervor—well, maybe not the hex so much, but still. She should not be feeling anything at all about this man, a man who had always shown her nothing but contempt. She should be scratching his eyes out, not meekly standing so near to his knees that they nearly brushed against her legs as she waited to see what would happen.
“Hermione, must we fight all the time?” he asked her as he brought one of her small hands up to his lips, turning it over after he kissed the back so he could smooth his fingers over the palm. She knew that he was trying to read it when one of his fingers traced along her lifeline there.
“I don’t know, what does my hand say about it?” she scoffed. She had never been a great believer in all the fortune telling nonsense.
“It says right here that you really want to kiss me back,” he teased her, and Hermione was shocked to see a twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, really? Where did you learn to read palms, Knockturn Alley?”
“Sassy wench,” Lucius said as he pulled Hermione closer so she was between his knees instead of in front of them. “I know just what to do about that.”
Hermione was about to come back with a witty retort, but one did not seem to come to mind when he slid his fingers up into her hair, grasped gently, and brought her mouth down to his , holding her there, just a breath away from tasting. She didn’t know which was more maddening, the fact that he was about to kiss her, or the fact that he wasn’t.
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