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Hungry Thirsty Crazy	By : AndreaLorraine Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 47434 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 20
- 21
- 22
Author�s Note: Just wanted to say, from this point forward
if I don�t directly mention that L&H are using protection/their spells,
assume they are. :)

<hr>

The next morning:

�� She woke
with her cheek resting between his shoulder blades.� In the night she had evidently spooned
against his back.� His bare skin was soft
and smooth and he smelled heavenly in spite of the interruption in his bathing
routine the night before.� With a
contented little sigh, she burrowed closer to him.

�� She was
dozing when she felt him stretch, and his foot went between hers and rubbed
along her calf.� A few moments later he
turned to face her.� They were sharing the
same pillow now; sleepily, Hermione opened her eyes.

�� Merlin, she
would never get over the color of his.

�� Am I
hallucinating?� he murmured.

�� Hermione
smirked.� �Been doing that LSD again?�

�� He
smiled.� She noticed that there were the
faintest beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes.� It said a lot that in his mid-forties, they
barely existed.� She loved the mix of
youth and age that made up his face and didn�t think that would change much in
the years to come, but this was one set of wrinkles she wanted him to
have.� She made up her mind to do her
best to start etching them in.

�� Starting with a kiss.�
She leaned across the short distance and brushed her lips over his.� He responded in kind, reaching out to wrap
his arm around her waist and tug her against him.� For the first time, it felt completely
normal.� There were no more secrets, no
more hidden stresses; Hermione had made up her mind, she knew what to do, and
being firmly in control of her life and her choices made her just as happy as
the skillful touch of his lips.

Lucius had always known what he
wanted, even if he couldn�t quite articulate or believe it.� He was a selfish man, but who was not when
happiness was the commodity in question?�
Even so, the fact that he�d been willing to let her go, to let her make
her own decisions, said an awful lot about how he truly felt.� So did his stealthy removal of the Vow.

Someday, she reasoned as his mouth
trailed along her jaw, she would bring that up.�
Someday she would thank him.� She
wasn�t sure if he knew she knew, or if he believed that she had really been
asleep.� Such certainty had gone with
their telepathic link.

There was a brief flicker of wonder
in her mind; she couldn�t keep herself from contemplating whether or not those
few words in the dark of night had been precisely calculated - a trump card of
sorts.� It was not outside the realm of
his personality to carefully consider what would keep her with him, and do it
purely out of the desire to prevent her from leaving.

The thought of manipulation might
have alarmed her weeks ago.� But now she
knew him and realized that though she could awaken him, excavate facets of him
that had long been buried beneath hot and shifting sands, she couldn�t change
what he was at his core.� So even if he
had released her from the Vow with the intention of doing the one thing she
least expected, the one thing that would make her return to him, that was still
a momentous choice.� Any Slytherin
preferred security over trust, so even if his trust in her was planned, it was
still trust that hadn�t existed before.�
A Slytherin�s trust was not to be sneezed at; it was nearly comparable
with � dare she think it?� No.� Not just yet.

Besides, she was sure that by now he knew that she wasn�t blind to his
orchestrations.� An oblivious sheep she
was not.� Even if it had been pure
manipulation, he would have done it with the knowledge that she wouldn�t be
manipulated unless she wanted to.� In the
most twisted of ways, Lucius Malfoy plotting to keep her was one hell of a
compliment.�

He had ceased his attack on her jaw
and neck and now lay beside her in quiet contentment.� She smiled at his relaxed visage.� All rumination on manipulation aside, she
would never be sure what had guided him that night.� And surprisingly, she was fine with that, for
this was one case where his motivation mattered less than his actions.� And weren�t the two opposite sides of the
same coin, anyhow?

Ah, now she was thinking too
much.� She had come to recognize the
symptoms.� Lucius had given her a great
gift in that.� Hermione reached out to
stroke his cheek and consciously enjoyed the rough tickle of his morning
stubble against the pads of her fingers.

At first he didn�t open his
eyes.� Then, slowly, his lashes
rose.� The look they revealed was
entirely indefinable.� Her breath hitched
in and felt a slight sting above her right breast � the runes.� She spared a moment to be thankful they were
not on the other side, for her heart hammered enough under his gaze�

He moved, his body settling over
hers.� She had no idea how he managed to
make his weight pleasant rather than restrictive.� There he stayed for what was easily five
whole minutes, astride her, watching her, full of intensity.� She expected him to initiate sex � that
sensual dominance was radiating from him � but in the end, all he did was grip
her chin and kiss her.� Then he was gone,
retreated to the loo, and Hermione felt too light without his weight to pin her
to the earth.

He was quietly scarce for most of
the day.� She felt odd and fluttery in
his absence and in spite of the realization that she was driving herself crazy,
she thought for hours on end about what that look in his eyes had meant.� She was glad he trusted her enough with his
secrets not to require the threat of death, but Hermione had to admit that
without the Vow, she had no insight into what he was thinking.� At least before there had been little
snippets of thoughts to let her know where he was mentally.

She retired to his bed before he
did that night.� It was a pointless
endeavor, as she did not sleep.� When the
soft light of his Lumos entered the room just before midnight the clamp around
her heart released.

The light and shadows cast his
features into sharp relief.� It made him
look like his father, or what memory she had of the man from his dreams.� She took the wand from his hand,
extinguishing the light and that line of comparison.� The inky darkness enveloped them.

In seconds, he was all over her,
his hands and lips insatiable.� She could
feel the need in every move and knew she was echoing it.� The sex was passionate and frenzied and
somehow hotter for the lack of sight.�
She didn�t know where she was in space or what direction was up or down
in the thick, moonless night.� All she
knew was that Lucius�s arms and the long, heated stretch of his body were her
anchors.� They rocked like a ship, moored
to one another against the vast openness of night�s ocean.

He could barely be quenched.� Hermione�s breath was still quick in her
chest and the quake of orgasm not yet faded when he fumbled for another
condom.� She had only a minute to think
about how he was getting good if he could put it on in the dark before he
turned her over onto her hands and knees and aligned himself behind her.

It was the first, but hopefully not
the last time that she made love three times in one night.� They fell asleep at the height of what
muggles called the witching hour � the time when the earth�s magic was
strongest.� It lulled them into an
undeniable somnolence, curled tightly about one another.

In the morning�s light they would
laugh, for Lucius had come to bed with ink on his fingers and the sweaty heat
of their sex had left streaks of it all over both of them.

6 weeks later:

�Will you just make a choice
already?� Lucius said, exasperated.� It
had been six weeks and Hermione was no closer to choosing a school than she had
been when she pounced on him in the bathtub.�
She�d submitted all the applications, and of course every single school
had accepted her, but she was having a hell of a time ruling anything out.

She cast him an irritated
look.� �You should know me well enough by
now to know that I overanalyze everything!�

He fortunately had enough sense to
say nothing.� That was yet another thing
that put him in an entirely different league than her ex.� Lucius knew when to hold his tongue and when
not to, and though he occasionally failed at restraining himself, it was
nothing like what she�d endured with Ron.�
Simply put, Lucius had common sense.

�Hermione,� he said softly after a
few moments, �anywhere you go will give you what you need.�

�I know that, but�I only get to go
to University once!� I want it to be
perfect.�

�Nothing is perfect.�� His chin ticked up slightly.� �Except me, of course.�

She laughed � something she had the
luxury of doing with him.� �You just keep
thinking that, Malfoy.�

�I shall.�

She crossed her arms over her chest
and eyed him slyly.� �While we�re on the
subject of things we can�t seem to decide on, any progress on the ending?�

�Ugh,� he said, slumping in his
chair.� �No.��

As difficult as Hermione was
finding it to choose a school, he was finding it equally difficult to decide
how to end Soif.� He had written
furiously in the weeks since she had chosen him (she said it was a no-brainer
but he knew otherwise) and then he had crunched to a grinding halt.� For a full week now, he�d written
nothing.� He just had no idea how to
bring closure to a story that didn�t truly have any.

�You�ll figure it out.�

�I hope so.�

She smiled at him.� He had no idea how happy it made her to hear
him use that word � hope.� He�d had none
when she�d journeyed here with him eight short weeks ago.� Now he was an entirely different person.

More and more, she was seeing just
how right Sinistra had been when she said that Gryffindors and Slytherins were
cut from the same mold.� It was
impossible to tell until the masks were dropped.� Lucius had all but left his behind.� This was the real man, whose depth she never
could have begun to guess before.

With a grin, Hermione deposited
herself in his lap.� It didn�t faze him;
he simply wrapped his arms around her waist.�
She could hear his indrawn breaths as he smelled her hair.� That never got old for him.

�I think we need to get out,� she
said.� �Step away from our projects for a
while.�

�Did you have something in mind?�

�No,� she shrugged.� �Maybe a day trip
somewhere.�

�Where?�

�I don�t know.� Aren�t there places you want to go?�

�I�m fairly content with my place
right now, actually.�

She laughed; of course he was
content with a pretty girl on his lap.�
�But it would be better without clothes, right?�

�It�s always better without
clothes.��

She could hear the smirk in his
voice.� Hermione smiled and lounged
against him, enjoying the feel of his strong arms cradling her.� She had to admit that she was content right
here, as well.

�I think you�re right,� he murmured
after a while.� �We�ve both been trying
to force things�me with the book and you with your choice of university.�� He repositioned her in his lap so she was
draped sideways, her legs dangling off the side of the chair and her shoulders
and head supported by his arm.� �My
dear,� he announced, �I think we need a vacation.�

She stared up at him.� Hermione knew that all this time they had
been on a vacation.� A vacation from the
real world�

True, he took care of his business
at the Manor once or twice a week.� He
had also gone to brunch with Draco a few times.�
Without fail, he was quiet and agitated when he got back, but she didn�t
press him about it.� He talked to her
about many things, but Draco was not one of them�yet.� The fact remained, though, that he was not as
far removed from real life as she was.

She had scarcely been back to her
flat.� She�d gone home to Surrey for her father�s birthday two weeks ago.� Ron hadn�t initiated any contact with her and
she felt no need to contact him.� Harry
had sent one letter asking what she was up to and if she wanted to come to
dinner with him and Ginny one day.� But
other than that, she was barely present in what had once been her life.

Indeed, she was living a second,
secret one here.� One where she took
prerequisite classes three days a week in Florence down the street from the
Uffizi, where she returned home to a beautiful villa and a beautiful man that
had been completely off limits in her other life.� It was a life where money was no object,
where everything was simple and easy and right.�
It was almost too easy, and
sometimes that made her feel quite strange.

But the way he looked at her�the
way he touched her, the way he let her see all of him�it demolished all her
hesitation.� She should have been worried
that he clouded her mind.� The truth was
she was too damn happy to be worried!

That was what made her feel
strange.� She didn�t grudge her friendship
with Harry one bit, but she had to admit that it had caused her to anticipate
and even expect chaos, pain, and disappointment in her life.� In the absence of those things she wasn�t
entirely sure how to function.

She wondered if he felt the same.� If he did, he didn�t show it.� He was remarkably at ease; Lucius had really
taken his refusal to live in fear to heart.�
Hermione was getting there.�
Slowly but surely, she was accepting that she deserved this happiness,
and that it was real.

Still, she knew that at some point,
it would be challenged.� They couldn�t
hide forever.� But the more she hid with
him, the more she was convinced that he would be worth the insanity that was
sure to come when they were revealed.

��

��

�� In the end,
they decided on Iceland.� It was not a typical place, but they were not
a typical couple, and they could be fairly sure that no one would recognize
them there.� Iceland�s
wizarding population was small and confined almost entirely to one section of Reykjavik.� As long as they avoided that section, they
would be fine.

�� Truthfully,
that was what they planned, anyway.� The
wizarding world didn�t hold much appeal since they didn�t and couldn�t exist freely there, not
together.� So, they went as muggles in
everything except transportation.

�� It was
exactly what they needed.� From the very
unpleasant, yet hilarious meals of svio
and hrutspungur to the cooling winds
raising a pink flush on their cheeks as they made their way through the streets
to the way they would fall together upon returning to the hotel to thoroughly
warm each other up, it was perfect.

�� Perhaps the
most perfect thing was lounging in a hot spring during the fleeting night.� Darkness only lasted a few hours this time of
year, but those few hours were easily one of the most magical things either of
them had ever experienced.� They had
another moment in the warm, mineral-rich water, one in which all else faded
away as they stared with rapt attention at the shifting rainbow of the aurora
borealis playing across the sky.�
Hermione was getting quite good at shutting off her brain now, and that
was what she did, cradled against Lucius in the warm cocoon of the water.

�� Neither of
them wanted to leave when Sunday night came around.� But they did, dutifully apparating first to Dublin, then to Paris, and
then the rest of the way back to Tuscany.� They appeared outside the villa and were
instantly hit with a wall of heat; summer wasn�t yet finished in Italy.� Together they laughed as they stripped off
their coats, gloves, hats, and scarves.�
Anyone who saw them would have thought they were mad.

�� And they
were � for each other.

4 weeks later:

�� Lucius was
sitting with Paolo, sipping a heavy red wine and enjoying the scent of the
other man�s cigar.� He and Hermione had
taken to coming down on Sundays for dinner.�
Initially, it had required much cajoling, but now they joined the weekly
family dinner without hesitation.� It was
strange to really feel like
family.� This was a family dynamic that
Lucius had never known.

�� Today
Elisabetta�s sisters were here, sans husbands, so they were the only men over
the age of twelve.� The women were still
at the table talking, Hermione included; she had been sucked into the family
gossip wheel almost instantaneously.� She
laughed about it whenever they got back.�
She had no idea who cousin Emilia from Ravenna was and would
probably never meet her, but for some reason she found it inordinately
interesting that she was dating a Portuguese guitar player that Uncle Luigi
would never approve of.� A smirk touched
Lucius�s lips.� He wondered what she was
being regaled with today.� Doubtless,
he�d hear about it when they walked back up to the villa � Hermione had
realized that he actually liked gossip more than she did, though she was kind
enough to pretend that she didn�t know.

�� They are
so silly,� Paolo said, echoing his thoughts.�
He wore a fond smile.

�� What do we
see in them?� Lucius joked.

�� Hmm.� Bosoms?� Paolo suggested.

�� Lucius put
down his wine and chuckled.� �Right.� That must be
it.�

�� A comfortable
silence passed.� Lucius�s eyes strayed to
Hermione; she sat between two of Elisabetta�s sisters whose names he couldn�t
remember.� She was making funny faces at
a chubby baby situated on the lap to her left.�
The baby was giggling in delight.�
Hermione�s smile, when she looked up and caught him staring, was
radiant.

�� Paolo,� he
said impulsively, �how do you know if you�re in love?�

�� Paolo
appeared surprised for a moment.� �Well,
that is a very serious question, my friend.�

�� I suppose
it is.�

�� Have you
never been in love before?�

�� He shook
his head.� �I don�t think so.�

�� That is
unfortunate.�

�� Well, I
love my son, but that isn�t the same.�

�� No,� Paolo
agreed.� �What about your son�s mother?�

�� Lucius
pondered.� If what he had felt for
Narcissa was love, then he had no idea what his feelings for Hermione would be
classified as�obsession, perhaps?� Insanity?

�� It was an
arranged marriage,� he murmured.�
�I�respect her, and I loved her as a partner and the mother of my son,
but I don�t think I was ever in love
with her.�

�� You are
divorced, then?�

�� He nodded.

�� Paolo took
a drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out thoughtfully.� �We had wondered if you were just hiding from
your wife.� If Hermione
was your mistress.�

�� As
offensive as Lucius found that idea, he understood where it came from.� And he had to admit that he had been Hermione�s lover on the side for a few weeks.� He had known that she would never pick
Weasley over him.� She would never have
come to Tuscany
with him if she was not three-quarters of the way done with the boy
anyhow.� She had just needed that last
push.� They had pushed each other and
ended up with exactly what they needed.�
He had no qualms or fits of conscience on the matter; Hermione belonged
with him.

�� He settled
for a simple, �No.�

�� You are a
strange couple.�

�� You have no idea, he wanted to say.� He silently agreed instead.

�� But I
suppose you know that,� Paolo mused.�
�So, Luciano�how does one know he is in love?�� The muggle frowned and thought for a moment,
his eyes seeking his wife.� �Well, I
suppose it starts with always wanting to be around her.� Feeling better�happier�in
her presence.� Missing
her when she isn�t there.� Then
you start to�relate things to her, think about how she would like things you
see, or laugh at a joke.� You have to
stop yourself from talking about her.�
Then it moves into your guts and your chest�you feel this�strange��

�� He couldn�t
quite put words to it.� Paolo lifted a
hand and wiggled it, as if he was indicating something was so-so.� Lucius swallowed.� He knew what Paolo meant.� He had been experiencing that feeling every
now and then for the last month.� At
first he�d thought there was something wrong with him, some kind of heart
murmur; Tiresias, however, assured him he was perfectly healthy (or as healthy
as he could be, given his condition).

�� You feel
like you can tell her anything.� Like she understands you better than anyone else in the world.� You can barely keep your hands off her.� Waking up next to her is the best part of
your day.� Before you know it, you don�t
want to live without her.� She makes you
happy, and you make her happy, and when she�s happy you�re happier, and on and
on�� The Italian offered a rueful smile
as he trailed off.� �So what do you
think, Luciano?� Are you lost?�

�� He looked
once again at Hermione.� She was so
beautiful; the early evening sun lit up the streaks of blonde in her hair and
played over her skin, which was tanned a delicate hue of bronze.� He knew that bronze was continuous,
uninterrupted by the pale stripes of clothing, because up until the autumn
chill invaded the days she had sometimes sunbathed nude in the courtyard.� He closed his eyes at the thought of her
spread out upon the lounge in nothing but her sunglasses.

�� Luciano?�

�� Oops.� He had drifted off for a moment there.� Lucius returned his attention to Paolo and
his rather significant query.� Was he
lost?� He thought about all that Paolo
had described.� It was certainly the case
that he couldn�t keep his hands off Hermione; she joked that he ought to buy
stock in condom companies.� He was
half-tempted to do it, just to see how she would react.� Sarcastic investment advice aside, that was purely physical attraction and it certainly
wasn�t the only ingredient in love.

He did miss her when she was at
school or when he was at the Manor attending to some mindless business.� Even from the very beginning, the positive
effect she�d had on his writing was proof enough that he was happier and more
productive with her near.� He had told
her things that no one else knew, let her see parts of him that had long been
buried�and he trusted her.� That was no small thing.

Waking up next to her was one of the best parts of his
day.� She was always warm and fragrant
and in the most beautiful disarray.� He
liked to send her off to class with an orgasm still tingling in her center, if
she would let him.� Sometimes she was
late and he was sure the flush in her cheeks inadvertently told everyone
why.�

He really didn�t want to live without her.� Ever.

Bugger.� He was completely lost.� In the past, it would have terrified
him.� He had heard and read often enough
that love could be as awful as it was wonderful.� But, he supposed, it was only awful if you
lost it�and Lucius planned to do nothing of the sort.�

He gave Paolo a short nod of
affirmation.� The Italian man smiled and
raised his glass.�

�To your love,
then.�

�Yes,� he murmured, feeling elated
and uncomfortable at the same time, �to�my love.�� With the toast complete, he drank deeply of
the wine, knowing that all he had to do now was work up the courage to tell
Hermione.��

��

��

Two weeks later:��

�� Lucius
stifled a yawn behind his hand and then leaned down to put on his socks.� It was Saturday and he was having brunch with
Draco.� Hermione was still asleep, as she
usually was when he left for his weekly appointment with his son.� He frowned; he shouldn�t refer to it as
that.� But honestly, it felt that way
sometimes.

�� Draco came
every week, but he didn�t speak much.�
The war had changed his son as it had changed everyone, and Lucius
strongly suspected that much of that silence was a cover for the clamor of
thought and confusion that surely went on in Draco�s head.� Lucius had felt much the same in the direct
aftermath of the war.

�� Now he
felt�well, he felt like everything was finally as it was supposed to be.� That was a relative assessment, of course; he
was still sick, still in a relationship that couldn�t exist outside their own embraces, still had a terrible reputation among
the rest of his peers, and still had a son who wasn�t sure if he wanted to
forgive.� But in
comparison to before�

�� It was
difficult to believe, but when he had been married, powerful, healthy, and in
his son�s good graces, he had been absolutely miserable.� He had not recognized it as such, though,
because he had never known anything but
that underlying misery.� It was the
status quo and he had mistaken it for happiness.

�� Not so
anymore.� He summoned his shoes.� With each passing weekend, he felt more and
more like he was somehow drifting away, moving on where his son could not.� The wall of secrets between them seemed to
build upon itself, brick by brick.� Soon
he would not be able to crack it and that frightened him.

�� He had
sworn not to be ruled by fear, but this was one case in which fear was a useful
emotion.� He did not want history to
repeat itself.� Lucius didn�t think he
could bear it if Draco struck him from his life, as Lucius had with his own
father.� He knew he had not been perfect
and that fathers had been cut out for lesser things, but he hoped and prayed
that Draco found some redeeming quality in him.

�� Shoes
securely donned, he twisted to look at Hermione.� Maybe she was the only one capable of seeing
such things.� Or maybe he just had to
drop that wall and show Draco the few
qualities he had.� He had tried, really
he had, but Draco never seemed ready for it.

�� With a
sigh, he rose and went to retrieve his coat.

��

�� Draco was
mildly surprised at his father�s appearance.�
He looked immaculate as always, and still expensive, but he had foregone
his usual fur-lined cloak in favor of a decidedly muggle wool trench.� It wasn�t something he would have worn
willingly before.� Draco wasn�t the only
one looking because he wasn�t the only one who knew that.

�� His father
wove through the hordes of people deftly, hands in pockets.� Diagon Alley was busy because there were only
a few days until Halloween.� When at last
he made it through the crowd, he offered a tight little smile and lifted his
chin toward the caf�. �Draco nodded and
headed for the door.

�� Draco liked
to watch him.� Frequently, he could tell
more about his father in silence than in words.�
He never did know how much of what came out of his mouth was true.� But the set of his body, his gestures, the tics
of his face and flickering eyes � those were things that Draco knew and could
depend on for something real.� Since the
end of the war, his father didn�t bother to cover them when he was with him �
perhaps to his credit, or perhaps to his detriment, because Draco had learned
all too well at his knee how to exploit such emotional openness.

�� Draco
surveyed him now over his tea.� He had
gained some weight.� That was good, he
supposed, since he�d noticed that his sire had become quite thin.� Not skeletal by any means, but thinner than
he ever recalled in his lifetime.� It
wasn�t out of some sudden desire for fitness, either, for his father was
perfectly fit.� That led him to conclude
that it was out of stress or forgetfulness or both.�

�� His father
was distracted today.� His foot was
jiggling beneath the table and his eyes were everywhere, perusing the room and
fixing for a few seconds before darting to the next thing that caught his
attention.� His coffee was cooling and
would soon be undrinkable without a heating charm.� He had also said next to nothing since they
came in.

�� That was
strange.� Draco was usually the quiet
one, responding only when it was required or he actually had something to
say.� His father could talk about nothing
at length, a talent that Draco was thankful for, because it made it seem like
they were not as estranged as they were.�
Today was different.�

�� He put down
his tea cup.� He had been making it
difficult for his father on purpose, and he had to admit that he was somewhat
warmed by the fact that he�d continued to meet him every Saturday no matter how
silent or detached the last meeting had been.�
It meant that he cared.

�� Truthfully,
Draco hadn�t really questioned that.� He
knew his father cared, but every time he thought about it, he became so angry
that he could hardly breathe.� If he cared, then why had he done what he�d
done?� Why had he gotten in so deep that
they�d barely made it out?� Why, why,
why�that was all he ever ended up with, because his father didn�t talk about
himself.

�� Draco was
no better, because he didn�t ask.� He
didn�t stare the man down and demand to know.�
He wasn�t afraid of him, not in the least.� He was afraid of the answers he might get.

�� The window
was closing.� He could sense it.� His father had come every weekend for the
last two and a half months in the hopes that Draco would ask.� He couldn�t offer up the answers freely; that
just wasn�t how he or they or anyone like them worked.� But if he was asked�if the future of his
relationship with his son depended on it, he would speak.

�� The
dialogue had to be opened.� Lucius had
tried repeatedly since the end of the war, only to be shot down by Draco�s
stubborn and fearful silences.� Now he
wasn�t trying anymore.� Draco stared at
him and found that he hated the idea of his father giving up.

�� Father,�
he said, hands locking around his cup in a white-knuckled grip, �is something
wrong?�

�� Lucius�s
roaming eyes returned to him.� They were
cautious.� The strange combination of
emotions Draco saw there made him incredibly uncomfortable; there was hope,
vulnerability, pain, and�distrust.� His
father thought he was toying with him.

�� Was he that
cruel?� Yes.� He�d done it several times before.� Draco didn�t know why, because his rational
mind knew that it had never been his father causing him pain.� His father�s choices had landed him in the
grip of a madman, but his father wasn�t
that madman.� His father hadn�t Cruciated
him, beaten him, put him down, forced him to do terrible things and nearly
squander his life�he hadn�t made him do any of that.� But he still had a hell of the time
separating him from the psychopath who had.

�� Worse,
Draco knew that he could have refused.�
He was smart enough to have found a way out on his own.� The options weren�t glamorous, but neither
were the things he�d been too weak to fight.

�� He stared
at his sire, the question dangling between them like a hangman�s knot.� Draco felt as though he was about to slip it
around his neck but he pushed forward anyway; he had to.� What was ahead would be painful, but right
now the stagnancy of their relationship was only forcing them further apart.

�� Draco
reached into his coat pocket � a coat that was not all that different from the
one his father wore (and one he had started wearing solely to annoy the man) � and
fished out some galleons.� He laid them
on the table to pay for the drinks.

�� The
expression on his father�s face changed subtly.�
It was just a slight draw of the brows, the furrow between them
emerging, and a tension in his jaw.� When
had the man�s eyes become so expressive?�
He could tell from the pain he saw there that his father thought he was
going to get up and leave.

�� It was
tempting, but counterproductive.� Draco
didn�t want to lose his father.� Perhaps
he could not exist with him in perfect harmony, but he knew he would regret it
if he let their relationship die.� With a
shaky sigh, he reached out, grasped his father�s wrist, and Apparated.�

�� Lucius took
a moment to find his balance.� He hadn�t
expected the sudden Apparition. �Draco
held on to his wrist, probably sensing his disorientation.� Selfishly, he could admit that he was glad
Draco didn�t let go the moment they materialized.� There was some note of concern in the
prolonged physical support, even if it was just out of duty or habit.

�� A minute
later, he nodded at Draco.� His son
released him and Lucius looked around.�
They were not anywhere he recognized.�
Beyond the small walkway they had landed in, he could see a residential
street.� The houses weren�t distinct
enough to give him an impression of their location.

�� Ready?�
Draco said, with a sideways glance.

�� For what?�
he asked.� He was still a little thrown
by Draco�s sudden interest in his emotional state, not to mention his impromptu
departure from the caf�.

�� You�ll
see,� Draco responded cryptically.

�� In a show
of what could have been considered extreme faith, he followed his son without
question.� He was certain that wasn�t
lost on Draco.� His eyes had thawed
marginally when he stopped before the walkway to one of the nondescript houses
and looked back.

�� Once we go
in, promise you won�t leave.�

�� It was on
the tip of his tongue to speak a phrase about promises.� He stifled it.� The man that believed that barely existed
anymore.� Though he had no idea what he
was marching headlong into, Lucius nodded slowly.

�� I won�t
leave.�

�� Draco
swallowed.� �Okay.�

�� They walked
down the short stone path, up three stairs, and through a door that was painted
a generic shade of blue.� Once inside,
there was a short hallway and then a small room.� A woman sat at a desk on the far end.� She glanced up when they entered.

�� Oh,� she
said with a warm smile.� �Draco, you�re
early.�

�� I know,�
he said.� �Is that all right?�

�� Yes.� You�re the only morning appointment,
anyhow.� If you just wait a minute, I�ll
get him for you.�� She stood up and
disappeared into a door just behind the desk.

�� Him?� Lucius asked softly.

�� Draco
didn�t look at him.� �Healer
Newbery.� He�s a mind healer.�

�� You never
mentioned you were seeing one.� I am
glad.�

�� Really?�� Now his son
looked at him, a perplexed look in his eyes.�
�I thought you would be ashamed of me.�

�� For taking care of yourself?� Of course not.�� He frowned.�
�I�ve been told that I should see one, too.�

�� The door on
the other side of the room opened.� A
thin, tall balding man beckoned with his hand.

�� Well,�
Draco said nervously, �now you are.��

�� Lucius
returned to the villa feeling more drained than he had in ages.� Never having had therapy before, he hadn�t
known that it was an exhausting business.�
He felt like there were too many things in his head, pushing against the
boundaries of his skull and threatening to split it at the seams.� Why had he agreed to that?

�� He�d been
warned that therapy was an exercise in self-flagellation.� He wouldn�t go so far as to say that it was
true, but it was certainly uncomfortable to have think and speak about things
that he was more than happy to leave buried in his psyche.� Worse, it was extremely daunting to listen to
Draco.� His son had a lot of anger.� He supposed that any spawn of his would.� It seemed to be a family curse.

�� He had come
to one realization, though.� Sometimes he
forgot that trauma didn�t always have to come from the extreme, as it had with
him.� What Draco had seen and been forced
to do would haunt him, as would the remembrance of helplessness.� It still haunted Lucius and he was only now
beginning to grasp how helpless he had been.�
What things a man would do for the illusion of control�

�� Mentally
exhausted, he dropped onto his bed.�
Well, not really his�it was their
bed, and it still smelled like Hermione.�
He closed his eyes and breathed.�
Slowly, his pulse slowed, the adrenaline faded from his system, and his
muscles gave in to the fatigue.� He knew
it was lunch time and that he should eat because he and Draco hadn�t actually
consumed anything at brunch, but once he relaxed he simply couldn�t get up.

�� She found
him like that an hour later, facedown and fully dressed on the bed.� Even his gloves were still on.� Hermione had to smile.

�� She had
seen him like this a few other times.�
Occasionally, if he stayed up all night to write or think or whatever it
was he did when he stared out the villa�s giant window, he would drop off like
this.� She didn�t think he�d done that
last night as he�d fallen asleep before her, but he was a complex man and
complex men were often prone to bouts of insomnia.

�� It must
have been something like that.� She got
the feeling that his brunches with Draco weren�t overly taxing, so that
probably wasn�t the culprit.� The last
few times he hadn�t been as bothered when he returned.� Either things were getting better or he was
letting go of the hope that he�d ever reconcile with his son.

�� Absently,
she stroked his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear.� She knew it meant a lot to him and she
sincerely hoped that Draco was coming to his senses.� If their relationship was to fail, it
wouldn�t be due to a lack of trying on Lucius�s part.� It would be because Draco did not want to forgive.� That wasn�t really out of character for him,
but she thought he might have outgrown it by now.

�� She had
tried her best to blot out some of the negative feelings she reserved for
Draco.� Lucius had been cruel to her in
the past, but it had never been personal
the way it was with Draco.� Lucius had
disliked her because she was a muggleborn.�
Draco disliked her because she was a muggleborn, because she was
Hermione Granger, because she was a Gryffindor, because she got better grades
than him (though not by much), because she was best friends with Harry Potter
and Ronald Weasley�so many reasons.�
Draco had on several occasions gleefully gone out of his way to be rude
or downright vile to her.

�� Part of it
could be attributed to the stupidity of being a spoiled child and an entitled
teenager.� No one had ever told him no,
just like no one had ever told him the truth about the other people in the
world around him.� But she would never
forget the smug maliciousness that would spark in his eyes just before he
vented his spleen.� She had always made
it a point to look straight into them even though she knew what was
coming.� In some ways it was a victory,
because it would anger him, but in other ways�well, she would swear that by the
time they were in sixth year, he had come to expect her defiant gaze and even
enjoy it.

�� She wanted
to believe that he was different.� Lucius
had shown her that it was possible.� But
if Draco couldn�t see the change in his father, was he really able to see
change in anything else? �If he couldn�t,
then he was still the same spoiled, blinkered child he�d always been.

�� Hermione
sighed.� She ought to wake Lucius, for if
he slept much longer he wouldn�t be tired tonight.� However, she couldn�t find it in her heart to
disturb him.� He looked tired even in
sleep.� He looked like he had that first
morning after they had come when he fell asleep at the desk.

�� She settled
for kissing his temple and whispering, �He�ll come around.� I know he�ll come around.��

�� The candle
was burning low.� Lucius squeezed his
eyes shut, feeling a slight headache building behind his eyes from reading in
the dim light.� He expected Hermione to
have complained about the lack of electricity by now, or to be so annoyed by it
himself that he had it installed, but that hadn�t happened.� Lumos had become their guide in the dark
hallways and rooms, and large, slow-burning candles worked to light whatever
else they did after the sun set.

�� He closed
his book and glanced at her.� She had
been relatively still for the last hour, her feet resting on his thighs as she
studied for her Monday exam.� Now he saw
why; she had fallen asleep.� The textbook
was splayed open across her chest.� Her
pink lips were slightly parted as she breathed evenly.

�� A smile
tugged at his lips.� She was studying
anatomy.� It must not have been anything
interesting or anything that she could use him to see.� Last week, she�d charmed parts of his skin to
be transparent so she could look at the muscles and tendons beneath.� It had been very educational.� Better yet, they had both had very much
enjoyed the night she related the details of the reproductive system to him in
a hands-on manner.� He would not soon
forget her breathy voice explaining the stages of the human sexual response to
him as she evoked them.�

�� But he�d
best curtail that train of thought, because she was completely dead to the
world.� It was late and the only reason
he wasn�t tired was because of his three and a half hour nap earlier in the
day.� Sleep would be elusive tonight.

�� Carefully,
he lifted her feet from his lap and set them on the couch.� Then he leaned over to lift the heavy
textbook off her chest.� The urge to look
through it was easily suppressed for the time being.� He was
curious about the things she was learning; he had never made much of a study of
the human body aside from how to best inflict pain.� He knew how to make a person scream with one
finger applied to the right place in the right way, but all things considered,
that wasn�t a particularly useful talent anymore.� He wouldn�t pretend that it hadn�t ever been.

�� He would
wait until she was done with the class.�
Then he would read his fill; he could control his curiosity until
then.� Mindful of his back (because he
wasn�t getting any younger), he gathered her sleeping form in his arms and
carried her to the bedroom.

�� She didn�t
stir as he laid her down.� She was
already in her pajamas so all he had to do was remove her slippers.� They were red and fuzzy and Musca seemed to
have an obsession with them; as soon as they came off her feet, the kitten was
upon them, chewing, biting, batting, and pouncing.� Sometimes he did those things while they were
still on her feet.� Hermione thought it was adorable.� He just thought the feline was a few cards
short of a full deck.

�� Sure enough,
as the slippers hit the floor the ball of orange fur burst out from under the
bed and attacked.� Lucius rolled his
eyes.� Crookshanks seemed similarly
nonplussed; the older cat briefly looked up from cleaning himself and then
returned to his more pressing business.�
Now Musca was inside the slipper, wriggling and meowing vehemently.� Lucius let his smile break free since
Hermione wasn�t awake.� Whenever she saw
him smile at the kitten, she chuckled and gave him this knowing look that was
quite irritating in its smugness.�

�� He pulled
the blankets up around her.� Then he just
sat and stared.

�� As near as
he could remember, he had done nothing in his entire life to deserve her.� There was no rational reason for her to be
with him.� Each day he got to see her
like this, he became more and more aware of how bloody lucky he was.

�� Yet he
still hadn�t found the right words, time, or method to tell her any of it.� It irked him; he wasn�t used to not knowing what to do.� This was an opportunity, though.� This�

�� He leaned
down over her, putting his lips against her ear.� She was asleep.� She wouldn�t hear anything he said.� It would be a good opportunity to practice.

�� He moved
his lips.� There.� He could mouth the words.� That wasn�t so bad.� Now he just had to force the air through his
lungs.� First, a test to make sure she
was really asleep�

�� Mudblood.�

�� He braced
himself for the slap that would surely come if she was awake.� She didn�t move.� Truly asleep, then.� He made a face; the word had tasted foul in his
mouth.� There was nothing behind it, of
course.� He�d only chosen that because it
was sure to evoke a reaction from her if she was awake.� Though, he rather thought it was the last
time he�d ever use the term.

�� Assured of
her unconsciousness, he took a deep breath.

�� I�lo--�

�� At that
moment, she lifted her hand, put it against his cheek, and pushed.� He had been perched on the edge of the bed
and found himself completely off balance.�
Lucius went tumbling off the mattress with a muffled curse.

�� Fortunately,
he missed the slipper filled with wriggling kitten.� He did not miss the hard stone floor.� There was a moment of strong pain as his
elbow connected with it.� Pins and
needles shot down to his hand, but that was the worst of it.� Lucius spent a moment laying there, one of
his ankles still resting on the mattress.

�� Then, with
a grumble, he picked himself up.�
Hermione had shifted slightly but that was all.� She was still blissfully asleep.� Lucius shook his head and chuckled.� The movement of his lips against her ear must
have tickled her, and she had tried to remove the source of torment in her
sleep.

�� He sighed
and looked down at Musca, who had ceased squirming and now lay calmly on the
floor.

�� I
suppose,� he said, reaching down to briefly pet his strange familiar, �that
today I am the fly.�

�� He hadn�t
tried again.� When the time was right,
the words would come on their own and hopefully
Hermione would actually be awake to hear them.�
Though his elbow ached, he sat at his desk and took out his parchment,
ink, and quill.� He wouldn�t be getting
to sleep anytime soon and he was tired of reading.

�� But, as
before, the words didn�t come.� Soif was
stagnant, stuck at an impasse that not even Hermione could remedy.� For reasons he couldn�t identify, he felt the
same about the ending as he did about his eventual declaration of love.� Both would come when they were ready to.

�� Ah, but
what to do now?� He tapped the quill
thoughtfully against his lips.� He was
supposed to be a writer, and a damn good one if he believed
what people said.� That meant that he
could write things other than just his own story.

�� If he
really thought about it, he had been writing stories his entire life, just
never on paper.� He had spent hours
daydreaming as a child, at home, at school, concocting people and places and
events in his mind.� It was that quality
that had allowed him to plot so effectively when he was a Death Eater.� Of course, those stories did not always play
out according to plan, because he wasn�t an omnipotent narrator and the
characters weren�t under his control�

�� He blew out
a breath.� Then he dipped the quill in
the ink.� And as soon as the first drop
of ink soaked into the parchment, the words fairly exploded onto the page.
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