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Soleil	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 7427 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives. The characters in this story belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic and/or WB. I do not profit in any manner by any means from the publishing or writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
“I’m worried, Draco. He’d never miss this…”

Around them at the Burrow, gingers of all shades made noise and had fun in celebration of Rose’s first birthday. Draco’d brought little Scorpius, currently Rose’s second best friend, to give Astoria time with their newest baby, Cissa — named for her grandmother.

“Mother. It happened today.”
“Merlin! Why didn’t you TELL me!?”
“I wanted to; he made me promise…”
“Oh, Draco… I should have asked after you as well; I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”
“Better than Father. Helps to have a family.”

The expression on his face — in those eyes — confused her.

“What do you mean? He has you and —.”
“C’mon Granger!” he cut her off, steering her by her elbow away from the party to gain some privacy, “You’re neither stupid nor naïve.”
“Draco, I’m not sure I…”
“Yes you are. You’re just too much of a coward to do anything about it — or are you NOT the woman who blubbered all over me four months ago that you’d never recover from losing him after he went 'Bloody Baron' all over Poliakov?”

Hermione spent some thoughtful minutes analyzing the grass at her feet before speaking.

“It was too soon after Ron’s death. Luc’s done so much for me — for Rose… I wanted… I didn’t want to hurt him… I didn’t know if I loved him or just appreciated the huge hole he helped me climb out of.”
“So it’s ‘Luc’, is it? Have you heard from Zabini?”
“Not since I sent my final payment. Why?”
“Bugger! Father will butcher his thieving arse for double-dipping when he finds out.”

Draco gave Hermione a long look and a resigned sigh before disclosing his long-held confidence.

“My father paid Weaslbee’s gambling debt after you found him 430,000 galleons [£2,150,000] in tax savings. For my wife and children’s sake please don't let on that you know or he’ll butcher me as a warm up.”

A perfect circle shaped her lips into the universal symbol for getting a clue.

“He doesn’t know how to move forward but he knows he sure as hell can’t go back. Pretty fucked up situation if you ask me.”
“She died on my daughter’s birth date…”
“Yeah, a year before to the day…” came raw and rough from deep in his throat.

When she ceased contemplating the growth rate of grass trampled everyday by Molly’s grandchildren, Hermione regained Draco’s gaze with a look of determination and trepidation tumbling behind those bark-colored portals into her heart.

“I’ll take care of him.” and she left with Draco no wiser about her plan.

After a private word with Molly, Ginny and George and a promise from them to keep Rose for as long as required, Hermione floo’d home to pack a small satchel then floo’d to the Manor. An hour later she was no closer to locating the missing lord of the manor in a house that felt six times bigger than Hogwarts.

Finding herself back in the mansion's main foyer, Hermione hurled a fistful of floo powder at the fireplace in pure irritation at her own incompetence and called for Draco.

“I can’t find him. I’ve gotten lost in this museum at least twice.”
“He’s probably in my parents’ wing. Here — step through.”

Hermione stepped through and found herself in Draco’s study. Scorpius amused himself by banging invisible nails into the floor with a wooden toy hammer, laughing and making an awful racket.

“Cissa has colic. Poor Astoria hasn’t slept in weeks.”
“Give me…” and the former medical potioneer reached her entire arm into that ever-expanding purse of hers to retrieve a stoppered bottle.
“One drop before every feeding. It relaxes the abdominal muscle over the stomach that contracts during meals and crying. She won’t need it once the spasms subside.”
“Your an angel of mercy! Get ready,” he warned her before shouting “Mother’s rooms at the Manor” and pushing her through before the wards reacted.

A shouted “Last door on the left” echoing down the hallway guided her steps.

Inside the target door the smell of antiquity and neglect hit her first, quickly followed by the darkness in a room with 8-foot high windows on three of the four walls. Ahead of her, nearly twenty feet away, a fire blazed and created shadows over the wingback chair wherein sat a very morose and very inebriated Lucius Malfoy.

Setting her bag by the door, Hermione inched her way over to the unoccupied wingback. A flick of her wand tidied the room without disturbing its contents.

“Rose missed you today. She kept asking for her ‘Pa-pa’.”
“Sorry to have missed the celebration. As you can see I’m… indisposed at the moment.”

Impeccable in manner and grooming, today the head of the Malfoy dynasty slouched in his chair — a disheveled mess.

Easily three days of stubble darkened his porcelain complexion as did the limp, slightly oily hair hanging loosely in his face. From where she sat downwind of him, Hermione guessed he hadn’t changed clothes during the three-day shaving hiatus nor had he bathed during the same period. Six empty bottles of something lethal stood neatly lined up on the floor; the seventh made its way to the adjacent table after he poured two long shots.

“Here,” and he passed Hermione her glass.
“What is it?”
“I won’t poison you, Hermione, despite my desire to expose our Rose to a better class of children.”

It was an old joke between them, a reminder of how far their differences had come.

“It’s a muggle creation — ouzo. Nectar of the gods from Greece. Throw it back; don’t sip it or it will burn like FiendFyre.”

She ignored him and paid the price, coughing and spluttering until the pain passed. Potent like a well-brewed potion, the little ouzo the stubborn Gryffindor’d imbibed spread instantly through her blood to her head.

“What brings you? Problem at the clubs?”
“I’m worried about you.”

Sad grey eyes — amber-tinted with reflected red-orange hues from the fire — stared at the anesthetic in his glass before setting it aside on the table and leaning back into the cushions.

“It’s an inauspicious day for me, really… Yet I can’t seem to move on. I’m sure you understand…”

Two month ago Hermione “called” in sick for the first time since joining the firm. Twelve months prior she’d been an expectant mother, wailing in a heap on the floor of her home with her best friend’s arms around her as he related the news of the death of her first and only love. Lucius listened to her crying for a full six seconds before stepping through the floo and into her small cottage near Ottery St. Catchpole.

He’d found her on the floor, curled in a ball around herself while Rose screamed in frustration and terror at her mother’s non-response. The child’s needs propelled Lucius into the small nursery. He’d rescued his precious “Bella” from her cot and taken her into the sitting room where she could at least see her mummy.
Once Rose quieted he’d bullied, shamed and cajoled Hermione into seeing after the only thing Ron truly left behind. Angered at her surrender to grief, he’d reminded her that somewhere in the world someone dealt with pain and loss but still managed to live. When she hesitated, he pulled the pin and lobbed the emotional grenade directly at her with a sneer on his face:
“Is it your intent to starve your child so she can join her dead father?”
Hermione responded with violence — attacking him while he shielded Rose from her punches and verbal vitriol. When she’d exhausted herself, he’d carefully handed the baby to her and helped Hermione lift her blouse to comfort her daughter with a feed.

They never spoke on it.

“What do you want, Lucius?” she questioned, soft as velvet covering a steel fist.
“I don’t understand…”
“Yes you do. Do you want to die and join your wife? Do you want to continue as you are now, pantomiming suicide once a year? Do you want to live — have a wife, more children? What do you want?”
“I haven’t —”
“Don’t lie to me; you have thought about it. Enough to teach Rose to call you ‘Pa-pa’ which means ‘father’. ‘Pépé’ means ‘grandfather’; much more suitable to a man who desires a more distant role.”
“I have a grandson who calls me Pépé.”
“And a daughter who calls you ‘Daddy’ in French. What do you want, Lucius?”

Rising, Hermione moved to stand in front of him then lowered herself to kneel before him.

“I want… I want…”

The normally articulate Slytherin stuttered out an incomplete answer.

“Tell me. Don’t run away from me.”
“NO!” he roared suddenly, hurling the glass and remnant of the alcohol into the flames.

Silently Hermione rose, tugging the melancholy aristocrat up with her and dragging him into the flat-sized en-suite to clean him up. She approached the sunken tub (big enough to swim laps in) and fiddled with the controls until she realized the charm would automagically fill the enclosure once he entered its confines.

Approaching the statue resembling Lucius Malfoy, his compassionate interventionist stifled a sigh; not one stitch of his foul clothing had left his smelly body while she puzzled out the bath controls.

Wrinkling her nose to communicate his absolute need for cleansing, she reached up and undid the button at his collar, expecting to be stopped. Only his eyes reacted, their expression of pain and defeat provoking empathy and irritation in her in equal amounts. Hermione continued until his shirt fell from his shoulders and floated to the floor.

Lucius Malfoy stood before her covered in chest hair, resembling a hobbit in many ways, and her desire to touch it — run her hands through it — overcame her good sense after the ouzo. She ran her fingers through the fine strands and across his chest, moaning at the feel of tethered silk in her hands.

“I lack my normal control, witch. Your touch could be dangerous…” he warned, too distracted to manage pulling her hands away.
“You’re safe with me.”
“But you may not be safe with me. Please… Stop.”
“Alright.” she acquiesced, cushioning his psyche in the steady gaze of those milk-chocolate calmatives she called eyes.

Without further ado Hermione’s hands moved to his trousers, undoing the buttons (Lucius swore that zippers were a constant danger to his favorite body part and too uncivilized for his taste) and spreading the opening wider to allow the fabric’s weight to pull them off his slender hips and down around his ankles. To arrest the protest rising in his chest she snatched his boxers down, squatting to untangle them and his trousers from his uncooperative feet.

The torso and legs of the man were covered in white-blonde down, curling ever so slightly and soft like a newborn’s hair — especially around the base of that proud organ waving gently at attention, heedless of the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the last days.

“Oh my stars…”

She mortified him with her unrepentant examination of his equipment.

“It’s a sign of poor breeding to stare. Your further interference is neither necessary nor welcome. I have been bathing myself for some time.”
“Not today. I’d prefer you not drown or slip and hurt something vital. Get in, please.”
“You are the most stubborn, most annoying, most —”
“Yes, yes, Lucius; I know. Now get into that damn swimming pool. Do you prefer flannel or a sponge?”

A soft, monogrammed cloth — easily four inches square and the same ruby hue as his boxers — floated over as did a tall, narrow pump bottle of liquid body wash. The scent, his scent, from the bottle stuck the crotch of her knickers to her nether hair.

After parking both bathing items on the ledge rimming the bath, Hermione methodically removed her outer clothing to avoid being drenched. From his reclined position in the tub, Lucius groaned at the sight of her matching bra and knicker set in deep gold with silver embroidery. The suds over his groin, a result of the bubble bath the bathtub jet added, swirled as his stiff, bobbing rod stirred them from its position underwater.

Her plan had her sitting on the steps inside the tub to improve her reach to the most offending parts of him. Stink removal would be accomplished with good, old fashioned soap and scrubbing. But the plan failed on execution when the water lapped up onto the step she chose (thanks to a surreptitious finger wave by the wily Lord of the Manor) and soaked her knickers. Resigned to being doused, Hermione reached behind to unfasten her bra.

“Don’t get any ideas, Lucius. I’m not letting this get wet. This set cost me a bloody fortune.”
“I believe I pay you a bloody fortune.” he chuckled — the first sign his depression hadn’t won.
“All of which I’ve put away for Rose. Look the other way.”
“I will NOT! This is MY —”

Laughing at the old lecher's outrage distracted him until she’d shed the bra and scooted two steps down while he ranted. Water covered her now to the shoulders, blocking his view of her. With a quick shimmy her soggy knickers flew out of the tub to join her bra on the bathroom floor.

“Much better. Relax, Lucius.”

After transferring copious squirts from the bottle to the cloth, the flannel hydroplaned across his shoulders, neck and chest, riding a cushion of rich, thick body gel. Plowing the soft fabric through the luxuriant hairs on his torso, the amused healer threatened to take a comb to it when Lucius attempted to take over.

Holding him at the wrist brought her attention to their slenderness and the tight musculature of his arms. Hermione scrubbed each clean, stopping at the copse of fine, white hair under his arms that still carried his essential male scent after washing.

“Scoot forward.”
“I do not take direction from the hired help,” he muttered — at which Hermione laughed louder and Lucius scowled.
“I need,” she informed him as she rose to stand above him — unabashedly naked, “to get to your back.”

One upward look at her drained any objection; the uncomfortable area between his legs swelled further at the sight of her. Suds and sheeting water did nothing to hide her womanly form, youthful yet curvaceous and soft from childbearing not two years ago.

“You are breathtaking…” he sighed on an exhalation, mouth agape and eyes blatant in their ogling.
“Thank you. You, on the other hand, are still ‘gamey’, as my grandfather would call it. Scoot!” and he did, making room between his body and the bathtub wall.

Her breast against his nearly hairless back raised his discomfort level up front as she leaned in to scrub at his nape and to wash his hair. Leaning against her as she reclined behind him undid his emotional shield.

“It’s been so long since someone touched me…”
“Can’t be helped —”
“— so innocently…”

She’d misread his admission.

“Sit forward, please, so I can get up.”

Again she gained her feet and moved without haste or embarrassment to sit facing him, her legs folded under her.

Grasping his right leg at the ankle, she pushed the cloth towards his thigh, increasing the pressure as the muscle thickened under her hand. His level of fitness surprised her; nothing about him felt “old” or “decrepit” in the slightest. Scrubbing the brawny underside of his thigh contracted a few of her own muscles and brought Draco’s words back:

"You’re too much of a coward to do anything about it…"

Ron… she sent in a whisper, We love him… He’s good to us…

When the room around her didn’t spontaneous combust at her incomplete request for permission to love a "bloody Malfoy!", Hermione took it as a sign that her first love had accepted her choice. George, Molly and Ginny had bestowed their own blessings at the party, consenting to mind Rose until Hermione resolved their romantic situation.

Upon finishing off his left leg, Hermione soaped her hands (hoping the gel’s thickness would withstand submersion into the warm water) and found the satiny hair at the anchor of that magnificent Malfoy instrument. Splayed fingers, much shorter than his own, detangled his thatch until his hands stopped her.

Strong beyond even her reckoning, Lucius lifted and turned her until she landed facing away from him in his lap. His erection nestled itself comfortably against the crease in her soft bottom.

“While I appreciate your concern, what ails me cannot be cured with a pity fuck.”
“Why,” she queried, turning sideways and leaning back to capture his gaze, “would you think I’d do that?”
“Because… Because I’ve become pitiable in your eyes. If memory serves in my dotage, your words were ‘You’re too old to act like a teenager dashing off to fight at every provocation’,” he repeated verbatim.

The night of the Poliakov intervention…

“That’s not what I meant, Lucius. I meant that I’m seldom attracted to men who act like boys —”
“— except your ‘Ronald’?”
“— except my Ronald. His gambling addiction nearly destroyed us. Thanks to my generous wages, I’ve paid Blaise Zabini the rest of what I owed.”
“WHAT!?” the seething Slytherin thundered from behind her.
“I paid him off — he settled for 20,000 galleons and my engagement ring.”
“You shall have it back, Hermione; every bauble and every sickle. I promise you I’ll deal with that back-stabbing Italian fucker in good time.”

Lucius’d gone flaccid with the tirade, his thoughts of slowly torturing the casino owner to an excruciating death dancing behind those stormy nimbus-silver eyes. To distract his anger, Hermione wiggled her bottom against him enticingly and continued her clarification of those clearly hurtful words.

“I’m actually more attracted to the thoughtful, considered type. You… shocked me when you went off half cocked to deal with the Poliakovs alone.”

Through their skin-to-skin contact, Hermione bore witness to his struggle for control. When calm breathing and half a hard-on returned, he spoke again.

“At the Manor,” he whispered — shamed by the memory, “The Dark L-… Voldemort took my wand from me. He rendered me helpless to protect my family… my home. He castrated me magically while Cissa.. Draco and the others — my peers — watched…”

Color drained from her face and neck and a quick shudder snapped her head to one side like a muscle tic. Behnd her his chest heaved like a bellows for moments before he went on.

“Never will another take what’s mine without consequences. And they will KNOW beyond DOUBT that they have crossed the wrong wizard…”
“Promise me you won’t kill Blaise. It was Ronald’s choice, after all, to wager money we didn’t have. And it was my obligation to repay it, Lucius, not yours.”

Twisting her gently to ensure she looked directly at him, he repeated his words.

“Never will another take what’s mine. You belong to me, Hermione… So does Rose…”

Lucius captured her lips, tilting her chin slightly upward with two fingers and rotating her head enough to give him access. Hot, soft flesh nipped small areas of her lips until they plumped, their swelling mimicking the change going on at her more southerly “lips”. Barely a second after contact Hermione acknowledged a “drowning” feeling as sensations throughout her body bombarded her brain. What reason remained to her accepted that she’d given herself to a man experienced in the art of romance, seduction and sex.

Her wizened suitor wrapped himself around her from behind, his arms criss-crossing the front of her. Cupping her breast in his palms freed his thumbs to delicately press on her nipples while moving them in small circles. Her moan disturbed the kiss and the water.

“I’ll abide no charity from you. I’m a man and I will take you as a man does.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“You are an incorrigible vixen sent to torment me since Voldemort failed miserably.”
“You are an overly talkative wizard. You have me at your mercy — what do you intend to do to me?”

His countenance bore an intense seriousness that required some sort of resolution.

“What???” she barked out at his studied hesitation.
“I’ll not have you regret this and sneak away as I sleep. Nor will I be a meaningless dalliance to satisfy an itch of yours that’s not been scratched in over a year. I am courting you with all intent to wed as soon as possible. I will be your husband and Rose’s pa-pa and I’ll settle for nothing less. Be sure, Hermione. If you try to leave me after this night, I will destroy you before I’ll see another man’s hands on you and in so doing destroy myself.”

Her tender gaze had him anxious and then afraid as she hadn’t answered.

“Is that your way of saying you love us?”
“Gods of Caerleon, witch! Have you not subjugated me sufficiently? Did I not just say that?”

Light laughter jiggled her soft bottom against his straining cock causing him to groan deep in his chest.

“Far too eloquently for a simple witch.”
“That’s preposterous! You’re a legendary magic-wielder and a brilliant woman in your own right!”
“Thank you, but I need to hear the words, Lucius.”

A huff escaped the petulant Lord of the Manor.

“Will life with you always be this… challenging?”
“I’d like to think I’ll keep you interested and… engaged. It matters.”

To her surprise and dismay (as she feared the feeling of flying), Lucius levitated her above the water until his feet held him upright in the bath. He then carried her, bridal-style, through a different door and into his chambers. By the time he lay her down both were dry from head to heel and the covers had folded themselves neatly at the bed’s bottom.

Climbing into the bed and onto her from the foot of the four-poster monster, her suitor made sure their eyes met before capitulating to her soft-spoken request.

“I shall love you in the flesh and in portrait for eternity. And with that you have a decision to make. Having your body will never satisfy me. I must have your mind and heart as well.”
“I love you. I’m yours. Rose has already claimed you… ‘Pa-pa’.”
“It’s about time. Should we discuss family size now or later?”
“I wasn’t planning to best Molly Weasley.”
“Then we’ll keep it to five,”

— and his mouth descended to her breast, sucking from the fullness there; she’d missed Rose’s evening feeding.

“Sweet Morgaine, Lucius! What are you doing to me?”

Not one intelligible word escaped his lips while they tantalized her breast, savoring her sweet milk as his prize. Satisfied that he’d refocused her head on love-making, Lucius set about distinguishing the efforts of an inexperienced boy from those of a skilled sexual connoisseur.

The distraction of his mouth creating sensations totally different than those of feeding Rose gave Lucius the opportunity to shift positions; “stepping” with his knees, he moved his lower half to the side of her. The besotted “older” man now had full access to the area below her navel.

At a pace that had Hermione whinging for “more”, her new beau kissed his way down the center of her torso, alternating slight nips with his teeth and pattern-drawings of the ouroborous with his tongue — the Malfoy crest’s snake eating its own tail — on her fevered skin. Her responses communicated her enormous inexperience in having a lover with a plan.

A kiss and a lick to her navel — followed quickly by a toothy nip to each of her hips — and he found himself buried face-first in the curly nest of brunette hair at the join of her thighs.

Thank Morgaine, the wizard smiled, that his witch appreciated the markings of womanhood as much as he did. The few times he’d run into women — always 20-somethings — whose nether regions looked like a young boy’s because they’d shaved themselves there (of all places), he’d lost “interest”, dropped a few galleons on the bed-stand for the Knight Bus and apparated away without further conversation or explanation. Enthralled with his new playground, Lucius indulged by dropping his face into the her private meadow and just…

Breathing…

Huge intakes of breath through the nose and mouth shocked the witch into rising to her elbows.

“Luc? Wh-Wh-What are you doing?”
“I’m about to slake my thirst with your nectar. One should always fill one’s nostrils prior to enjoying the repast.”
“I’m not sure that’s a g-g-good idea…”

Swiveling his head in her direction, Lucius processed the hesitation on her face: she’d never been pleasured this way.

Bad choices during the war aside, Lucius' analytical skills rivaled the best. Right this moment he balanced explaining his plan to her (for the hours and hours she would interrogate him) against diving unannounced into her “flowerbed” and letting her sensual side handle the outcome.

When his folded tongue rode the petals, ridges and bumps between the edge of her opening and the top of her bud, Hermione’s eyes rolled up in her head, her eyelids crashed shut and her head rocked backwards to open her throat for the near scream the sensation elicited —

“Merlin! That's feels so good!!”

Licking and lapping at her in a steady rhythm had Hermione rocking her hips into and away from that indescribable pleasure. She and Ron had maintained a regular schedule of enjoyable but fairly vanilla love-making — then she got pregnant and sick and uninterested in sex of any kind.

“Enjoying the ‘sport’, Chaton?”

Her newest nickname translated as “Kitten”, a playful allusion to her Gryffindor house mascot and to her ownership of an ill-behaved but beloved half-kneazle that ruined the cuffs on three separate pairs of Lucius’ linen trousers by raising his leg and ignoring the litter box not two feet away.

“Oh, Circe! I promise I’ll never cheat and give this up!” she moaned as her “education” advanced.

Vibrations transferred to her tender flesh from his smirking laughter catapulted her off the bed. Lucius exploited her investment in the goings on by inserting first one finger then two more to stretch her very tight tunnel. Delivering Rose did nothing to permanently widen Hermione’s passageway.

Given she’d gone more than a year without any penetration, Lucius executed his “Virgin Protocol” for her comfort: he’d not enter her until she threatened to hex his balls off if he delayed further.

Flattening the pad of his fingertips against an area three inches into her channel, Lucius sought the elusive “G spot”. Stroking lightly while his tongue kept up its quality work on the petal-like flesh north of his fingersh soon located the desired target.

“Lucius — I think-I think I’m…”

His efforts were met with a suddenly tighter glove squeezing his fingers together as rhythmic contractions undulated up and down the inserted digits. Steady lapping up of the juices released around those fingers brought another intense reaction from her, bolting her upright as she screamed her climax.

“Don’t-don’t-don’t stop! C-C-Coming!

At a measured rate, Hermione’s swain climbed her body to situate himself over the cradle formed by her hips as her climatic contractions intensified. Having expanded her sensual universe, Lucius confidently aimed himself at her entrance and let his greater weight sink his suffering phallus into her, taking the time to ensure her readiness after so long an intermission. Bracing on one elbow left an arm free to caress the exposed side of her breast beneath his chest where they lay pressed tighter together and to play with her trademark.

Her long, wavy, gorgeous hair...

Sometime after her marriage Hermione applied those prodigious potion skills to taming the chaos attached to that brilliant head. The result had caused priapism in Lucius for the past six months. As Hermione found satisfaction in the slow descent of his sizable assets inside of her, her paramour indulged his secret fetish — dragging his hand through her loose curls and whimpering at the reaction they caused much lower on his body. With regret, he forced himself to leave off any further hair-play lest he lose himself inside her like an "old" man.

His consolation prize for his restraint saw him kissing her breasts once more, nuzzling at the nipples. Each pillbox contrasted starkly to her skin, much darker than he would’ve suspected and much larger than he’d assumed breastfeeding would cause. The fleshy part fit perfectly in his hand which he took full advantage of, kneading and caressing the globe with glancing touches. Her applied scent wafted up to intoxicate him from the valley between her breasts, the hollow at the juncture of her neck and the crease just below her earlobes.

For her part, above and beyond her obvious responses, Hermione sought to communicate her love through touch. Lucius experienced the world from a distance, usually buttoned from head to toe in robes. His intense response to her ministrations in the tub informed her choice to just touch him in ways more approachable men would consider mundane. She ran her hands repeatedly through the hair on his chest, concentrating on keeping some pressure in her strokes, and was rewarded with his shivers, his gooseflesh and the most movingly murmured “thank you”’s she’d ever received. In short order she discovered a few secrets of her own about the man she’d build their future with.

It was a struggle not to fixate on those pale, champagne-colored nipples of his. The hint of a touch tightened them in a manner that looked almost painful. Her brief investigation discovered that he preferred a firm flick to lighter touches and he purred like Crooks when she sucked or licked them.

Free rein did not include his hair; he preferred her hands elsewhere. Lucius responded far more enthusiastically when she ran a single finger back and forth over his nape. Rubbing her palm across the hairs on the back of his neck induced a change in his rhythm inside her and energetic grunting as he sought deeper penetration while under the thrall of her hands in that locale. Hermione used that information later on to “move him along” when his uncanny stamina — coupled with her prior cascade of climaxes — would’ve rendered her unconscious if she hadn’t encouraged his completion.

Both gave kissing serious attention, Lucius’ focusing on her more well-known erogenous zones. Hermione explored more subtle destinations — his cheeks (which reddened under her lips), his throat, his forehead and the inside curve of his ears.

Both lovers acquired a wealth of information on the pleasuring of the other during this first joining, applying the knowledge immediately after discovery. So both found themselves riding downhill towards the sexual terminus at a rapid rate. Leaning back on his haunches, Lucius pistoned deeply into his partner while the knuckle of his index finger tracked up and down her incredibly swollen nubbin, pushing her towards bliss yet again. When he bent forward for another taste of her lips, her hands found his nape and worshipped it like only a supplicant can.

“Release me, witch, or I’ll spill before you’re finished.”
“I’ve finished about ten times! Come for me, Luc.”

The combination of his talent, her hands, his desire, her plea, his efforts and her love culminated in the one-two punch of ultimate release for both.

“Luc! I can’t… I feel… Baby!…”
“Witch! By Arthur’s Gods, you’ve sucked the marrow straight from me!”

Prickly warmth spread up and through her insides as his seed searched for its elusive partner in the hopes of achieving more than physical satiation. The future would reveal if both outcomes occurred from their joint explosions and the release of a stream of sticky Malfoy gel within her. Minutes passed before either could be said to be “finished”.

After three hours of consuming each other, the lovers arranged themselves comfortably, Lucius still more than half-hard and embedded in his witch, and slept.

Two hours later a sleepy readjustment in position encouraged a brief but meaningful conversation…

“Luc?”

Hermione’s call barely escaped her satiated yawn.

“Hmmm?”

Physically satisfied for the first time since before the war, “Luc” (a nickname he would only later admit he loathed — even from her) only managed a chesty hum in response, hopeful that she’d cozy up against him and return to slumbering.

“Did you cast the charm? I don’t take any contraceptive potions.”

Turning to spoon her, Lucius stopped a moment to relieve an itch on his arse cheek then engulfed her once more with his body.

“According to St. Mungo’s I am sterile. Result of pure-blood inbreeding. I shall have to spoil our little Rose as I did Draco before she leaves us for school.”

His answer fell on deaf ears — sleep reclaimed her before the echo of her own voice dissipated in the suite.

Four hours after their lengthy consummation Hermione awoke to a conversation happening within her hearing but without her participation. Her breasts were swollen with a familiar ache; Rose’s bedtime feed was fast approaching. Stretching silently under the covers in a strange bed, she cocked an ear to listen as awareness of her location slowly arrived in her still drowsy brain.

“Happy birthday, Bella. Your pa-pa is sorry for missing such a special day — truly bad manners on my part. Did those plebeians treat you well or do I have to hex them? You’re a brilliant witch like your mummy — yes you are; you’ll have those ginger cretins under your thumb by your third birthday and I, for one, can’t wait to teach you the spells to do so. Your big brother, Draco, will show you how to fly a broom and to play Quidditch and to charm sweets from your mother’s hiding places in her office. I’ll see that you have a wonderful life, little one.”

From her peeking place under the sheet, Rose’s mother fought for control of her giggles as Lucius “indoctrinated” their daughter in the finer points of “Malfoy” arrogance. Rose lay on his shoulder, one hand’s fingers in her mouth and the other’s playing in his hair.

“I’ll have the final say on flying and sweets, Lucius.”
“And the banshee awakes…”
“That’s not what you called me a few hours ago.”
“Not in front of the child, Hermione!”

Bracing her palms against the thick mattress, Hermione navigated herself to a sitting position, resting her back on the ornate hardwood headboard.

“Let me have her.”

Lucius abandoned his chair and lowered Rose into her mother’s outstretched arms when he reached the bed. The tired little witch latched on easily — her mother remained “au natural”.

“I’ll get you a gown.”
“Why?” she teased the clearly discomfited wizard, “Do I need to cover up?”
“Rose is here —”
“Is she staying here tonight?” Hermione poked innocently.

Lucius wasn’t fooled.

“I missed most of her birthday — which, of course, I take full responsibility for. I owe her some time…”
“Have you prepared the nursery for her?”

The Malfoy nursery, which her whole cottage would fit into, was once more in use after Scorpius’ birth.

“She should stay here tonight… with us. This will be her home…”
“She needs a clean nappy and a sleeping gown.”

The words were no sooner spoken than Bitsy “popped” in with a baby bag.

“Bitsy will look after young Miss Malfoy, Miss.”
“She’ll need a bath, if you don’t mind?…”

Lucius gagged as Hermione lifted the sleeping child and sniffed the likely sources of odor. Gryffindor's princess handed Rose over to the house elf with a grateful “Thank you” and received the strangest grimace-of-a-smile she’d witnessed in her elf-witch interactions.

“Come, little Miss. Bitsy will get your dragon toy for your bath, she will.”

Hermione’s expression — one eyebrow lifted in disapproval — wasn’t lost on Lucius.

“Lucius? What dragon bath toy in this mansion is Rose familiar with? And why?”

Old Slytherin habits die hard in maturing pure-blood former Death Eaters.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” he lied effortlessly.

Before she read him the riot act, Bitsy floo’d into the bedroom.

“The little Miss is sleeping,” she announced as she transferred a cleaned and sweet-smelling Rose to her master.

Deftly, Lucius put Rose in the middle of the bed and climbed in behind her. Now that his daughter dozed safely between them, the head of the Malfoy dynasty drifted off and considered that his life couldn’t possibly get better…

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Lucifer’s Tears

1 1/2 oz gin

1 tsp Galliano® herbal liqueur
1 splash creme de myrtille
1/2 tsp black sambuca
1 splash Strega® herbal liqueur
Stir and strain all but blueberry liqueur into glass, then dribble blueberry liqueur over top.

Ouzo

Ouzo is an anise-flavoured aperitif that is widely consumed in Greece and Cyprus. Ouzo can also be drunk straight from a shot glass. Ouzo can be described to have a similar taste to absinthe which is liquorice-like, but smoother. Ouzo production begins with distillation in copper stills of 96 percent alcohol by volume (ABV) rectified spirit. Anise is added, sometimes with other flavorings such as star anise, fennel, mastic, kakoulas (ginger cress), coriander, cloves, and cinnamon are also added. The result is a flavored alcoholic solution known as flavored ethyl alcohol. Wikipedia
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