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Wicked Waltz	By : TheTVJunkie Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 5524 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own 'Harry Potter' or anything related to it. There's no money made off of my stories; no copyright infringement intended!

Chapter List
- 1-Puppet On A String?
- 2-Chapter 2 - Trading Barbs
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- 2
Hermione Granger has dedicated her adult life to bringing the acceptance of true equality between Muggleborns, Half-Bloods, and Purebloods to the wizarding world. The process has proven to be slow, tedious, and marked by constant throwbacks which leaves the young witch increasingly bitter and cynical. When she is required to attend a Ministry Ball as a spokesperson for said cause, Hermione is confronted with her ideological nemesis, Lucius Malfoy. Heated debates and cunning manipulations ensue, unexpected sparks fly. But when the young witch accidentally stumbles over a dark and dangerous secret, her chances of leaving Malfoy Manor no worse for wear are drastically dwindling...
We all know where this ends. Let the hunt begin!
A/N: This naughty little fic is dedicated to severusluciuslover on tumblr who came up with the tag c-c-p (chase-catch-punish). I'm not so sure if the "punishment" is actual punishment, but I hope all in all it will live up to your expectations. :) For the dancing scene, please listen to the first 2:05 minutes of this classical, dark waltz song:
wwwDOTyoutubeDOTcom/watch?v=fPp3Qh-GRqs
Stifling a yawn, Hermione idly watched the bubbles in her champagne flute ascend. Ginny was nowhere to be seen, her only hope to get halfway sane through this ordeal which seemed to drag on forever. The bigger part of the afternoon she had been dutifully shaken dozen of hands, those of Muggleborns and wizards alike, faked smiles and pretended to listen to asinine drivel that unfortunately came with the tiresome social obligations part of her position at the Ministry of Magic.
Her ego stroked by being considered a war-hero, Hermione had embraced her new role of Representative for Muggleborn Equation, her main aspiration being to render extinct the stubborn and still wide-spread belief that blood purity still came with certain privileges and irrefutable superiority. The young witch was known for her ardent speeches and campaigns, all focusing on establishing Muggleborns as true equals to Half-and Purebloods in the minds of post-war wizarding society which was only warming to that idea, very, very reluctantly. Which is why Hermione's enthusiasm turned sour little by little, leaving her cranky and easily irritated most of the time these days.
It was her "Just-look,-I'm-such-a-precious-Muggleborn" poster girl status that had brought her into her current predicament of having to partake in this ridiculous Ministry ball; bored half to death while "celebrating (theoretical) equality" in a surrounding that made her feel anxious and uneasy on top. She had a traumatic history with this house and with this very room in particular.
Frowning, the disgruntled young woman took in the scenery unfolding before her. – Gone was the dark and gloomy atmosphere, gone the stench of seared flesh along with the haunting sound of breaking bones and Bellatrix Lestrange's lunatic cackling. As if in mockery, the Drawing Room of Malfoy Manor now shone in new and glorious splendour; heavy, dark mahogany-panelling lined the walls from floor to ceiling, many of which were adorned with sumptuous, gold-rimmed moving portraits of long-deceased, and strikingly exclusively silver-blond ancestors, of the history-charged and oh-so noble bloodline of the Malfoy family. Many of the portraits, though, were unoccupied. Only a handful of the high-borns had deigned to pay attention to the scandalous gathering of way to many Muggleborns sullying their ancient halls, an outraged look of disgust on their chiselled features as they could do nothing but watch in agonised silence while the unworthy "Mudblood scum" mindlessly kept on sipping an innumerable sum of Galleons' worth in champagne from the aristocrats' priceless, centuries-old crystal glasses.
An inviting fire flared up in the over-sized hearth on the far wall when the sun eventually set, the flames refracting their light beautifully in the softly clanking prisms of the richly ornate chandeliers that magically floated over the merry crowd in slow circles.
Her frown growing deeper, Hermione downed the sparkly content of her flute in one go, as unrefined as possible so, in mute protest of her unwanted participation in this presumptuous travesty.
"Ah, Miss Granger, there you are," A familiar voice ended her train of thought. Gleefully, Mr. Big-glesworth, Hermione's boss, a round-faced, older wizard of short build shook her hand. "Glad you could make it, my dear!"
"It's not that I had much of a choice, did I now?" Hermione, frowning anew, replied accusingly.
"Now, now," Mr. Bigglesworth said, taking her empty glass. "Why don't you enjoy yourself a bit? This place is magnificent!"
"Oh yes, it is magnificent all right, " the witch retorted, "and it completely defies the purpose of my job's mission." She waved a dismissive hand about the room for emphasis. "If this doesn't scream privilege to you I don't know what is!"
Hermione made to pass by him. "If you'll excuse me now, Sir, I've shaken enough sweaty hands for one day and I've surely lost enough brain cells by dumbing down for all that useless and superficial chit-chat that has been bestowed upon me for hours on end. Good night, Sir."
"Miss Granger, wait," Mr. Bigglesworth seized her arm firmly. "There's one more thing you'll have to do for the Ministry, will you?" he smiled at her sweetly, "A dance is all I ask for."
"A dance?" she asked incredulously. "Does your wife know about this?"
"No, no, not with me, dear," the chubby wizard laughed nervously while subtly dragging Hermione in the direction of the dance floor. "With the master of the mansion, that is."
"I. Will. NOT. Dance. With. Draco!" Hermione exclaimed heatedly, before pointing towards her stilettos, "And just for your information, my feet hurt like crazy from having to wear these instruments of torture. Do you have any idea what you're putting me through?"
Bigglesworth ignored her whining, helplessly wondering why this stubborn female found no joy in playing princess for a day, unlike other ladies her age would do with great pleasure. Truth be told, he had never seen her wear any other footwear than comfy shoes and Muggle jeans and jumpers underneath her official robes, but didn't all girls dream of events like this? Probably not. This one was too head-strong to reduce herself to be a pretty, but somewhat hollow caricature of her true self.
"I brought the press," the old codger whispered and it was just now that Hermione noticed the bunch of reporters, cameras at the ready, which her sneaky boss had in tow. "To make sure the wizarding world sees the progress, the fruit of our labour of Muggleborns and Purebloods meeting on equal footing, so to speak." He scratched his head, choosing his wording carefully.
"Hermione, you're a Muggleborn icon," he tried to appease her, deciding it would be more strategic to give her the approval she was after in everything, appeal to her Gryffindor values which she held true to the day. "As much as he's the embodiment of Pureblood status. He even went as far as offering his premises for this event to take place, just imagine, this mansion, a bastion of blood purity, purest of the pure, to Muggleborns."
Hermione's boss ranted on excitedly before adding with a flinch, "His ancestors probably turn over in their graves this very moment we speak… Now come on, for the greater good, as in the olden days…, please?"
Much to Hermione's dismay, Mr. Bigglesworth's words had indeed struck a chord in the young woman and so she begrudgingly gave in.
"Fine, but after this stupid charade I'm free to go." She insisted.
"Yes, yes, of course, my dear," Her boss answered in the affirmative, happy to have succeeded in changing her mind. "Just do this and stay for a wee hour after it, then you'll be free to go wherever you wish!"
"Bring on ferret boy then," Hermione said, lackluster. "Let's get this over with quickly."
"Oh, about that…" the old wizard cleared his throat, "I'm afraid you won't be dancing with the young Sir."
"No, she won't." A suave voice directly behind her startled Hermione and she spun around, alarmed. "She'll be dancing with me, one and only Master of this mansion."
The witch's amber eyes grew wide and instinct immediately dictated her to take a step back, thereby treading on her boss's foot with one of her pointy heels. He gave a pained whimper which she couldn't care less about.
"You???" Hermione breathed in sheer disbelief. Before her stood, tall and proud, none other than Lucius Malfoy, like an uncanny ghost of a long-gone past whom she had never expected to cross paths with ever again.
Rumour had it that, after the war and Azkaban prison Lord Malfoy had become a recluse, completely withdrawn in one of his many country estates that lay scattered all around the globe. Rita Skeeter had claimed that one of her dubious sources had spotted the former bon vivant somewhere at the French coast, but not a single word of his actual whereabouts had made it into the news whilst those two years.
Hermione vividly remembered Lucius from her earlier, equally unwanted, stay at Malfoy Manor. – He'd been a broken man, battered and bruised. A mere shell of his usual self, dishevelled, scruffy, and rather hobo-esque in physical appearance with dark circles under his eyes; matted, dull hair, and stubble on his sickly sunken cheeks.
That pathetic memory couldn't be further from the present reality, though. Much like the infamous Drawing Room, its owner had undergone a bewildering transformation for the better.
He looked doubtlessly vital, very much alive and kicking. His very posture emanated ethereal beauty as he stood stately and regal, dressed in immaculate finery that flattered and accentuated his broad-shouldered frame. Not a single stubble could be found on his smooth skin and Hermione couldn't help but envy him for the shiny, platinum-blond tresses that, meanwhile grown a bit longer than she recalled, silkily framing his angular face.
For a moment she wondered what nefarious deal with the devil he must have struck to regain such a stunning rejuvenation. Glumly, the young woman was reminded of just how much time and effort it had taken her to wrestle the tangled rat's nest she called hair into a half-way decent, pinned up-do.
Life just wasn't fair. On so many levels.
It was the popping of flashbulbs that made her snap out of her stupor and she had to blink a few times.
"Miss Granger," Lucius purred, watching her intently down the length of his aristocratic nose. "How kind of you to join my festivities."
The current scenario gave the young witch a strong feeling of déjà vu; and her mind instantly went down memory lane to the day at Flourish & Blott's when Lucius and she had first met, aeons ago at the beginning of her second year in Hogwarts.
"Positively delectable!" A traitorous little voice piped up in the confused witch's less rational part of her brain.
Hermione blinked rapidly, shaking off her newly found fascination, and had just started to spit out a sharp-tongued comment on how he selfishly made this event his pompous re-initiation into wizarding Haute volée instead of acknowledging its original purpose when she left the rest of the sentence hanging mid-air.
The musicians of the orchestra on the far end of the ballroom had started tuning their instruments and the lively buzz of chatter of the guests, happily engaged in meaningless conversation, slowly but steadily died down.
"Shall we?" Lucius asked politely with a curt nod, extending his left hand as an offer to dance. Once again, a frenzy of flashing cameras blinded the young woman momentarily, capturing the headline-grabbing gesture for the public.
The lights dimmed magically, save for the monumental chandelier directly above the marble dance floor and the guests rallied around it in gleeful anticipation of a scintillating performance. Mr. Big-glesworth shot Hermione a pleading glance not to make a scene and when the orchestra began to strike up a soft tune that indicated a waltz, the young witch reluctantly seized the proffered hand.
Hermione allowed herself to but hovered into the classical promenade position, ignoring the lump that had started to form in her throat the second she had first set eyes on her surprise dancing partner. Luckily, she was adept enough in ballroom dancing for her feet to move of their own volition properly, yet her mind seemed to draw a blank every time she was trying to wrap her head around her current situation.
For a while they covered a lot of ground, the usual rise and fall action allowing at least a modicum of distance between them.
But all of a sudden there was a shift in music.
The tempo upped, the melody grew darker and a feeling of impending doom crept up in Hermione who soon found herself being sent into whirls, pivots, and twirls before she could even begin to fathom what was happening.
The mesmerised witch was rolled out with gusto, only to be rolled back in in the same, heated fashion; repeatedly bumping against Lucius as the physical contact, no longer so subtle, increased with pirouette after pirouette. Hermione never realised just when she had succumbed to just naturally following his lead, audacious as it were. At some point, her surroundings did no longer register on her and she was unable to break eye-contact with the smug blond wizard who so skilfully swept her off her feet. When the wicked waltz came to its inevitable end, peaking in a dramatic crescendo, Hermione was bent in an equally dramatic, final ending figure that had her dipped deep enough for her hair to almost touching the floor before she was recovered at an agonisingly slow pace.
Seconds that felt like hours dragged on by before a photographer broke the spell, immortalising the charged moment for prosperity. It felt like everybody in the room had held their breaths, staring, envying, and prying. A frenzy of flashing cameras followed and the ill-assorted pair came to stand next to each other, facing the crowd. They were treated to vociferous standing ovations which culminated as Lord Malfoy breathed a media-effective kiss on Miss Granger's hand in consummate chivalry.
Hermione stood rooted to the spot, gawking after the older Malfoy in sheer astonishment as he vanished in the surrounding crowd. The latter took their host's disappearance as their cue to venture onto the dance floor in merry consensus. An unexpected, sharp tug on the witch's arm eventually made the flabbergasted young woman snap out of her stupor.
"Hermione," came Ginny's urgent voice, the redhead clicking her fingers in front of Hermione's face. "This is getting embarrassing. Let's go. Now." The curly-haired witch followed Ginny suit; hastily rushing from the dancing area towards a nearby exit. When they came to a halt, Hermione was shaking her head dizzily as if trying to ban a bad dream from her waking thought.
"What the heck was that?" Ginny stood in front of her, arms akimbo, "Since when are you, you of all people, susceptible to such blatant manipulation? I almost joked on my quiche when I saw your puppet-on-a-string performance."
All Hermione could do was blink, the right words for defending herself eluding her. They just wouldn't come.
"I…don't know," she tried lamely, "I was…sort of swept away by the moment. I have no idea as to why."
"That creep must have hexed you in some way." Ginny suggested.
"No, no, I felt now magic settle." Hermione replied in the negative, shaking her head for emphasis.
"Mh-hm." Ginny arched an accusing brow, but it ran from her face as she continued. "Well, I have an idea as to why," The red-head chuckled despite herself. "But….uggghhhh," Ginny wrinkled her nose in unveiled disgust.
"Obviously, I wasn't thinking." Hermione interrupted her sarcastically, slowly coming to her senses.
"Oh, I wouldn't say you weren't thinking," Ginny conceded, smiling mischievously as she continued, "But with the wrong part of your anatomy, I'm afraid. You know, I understand the appeal, theoretically, but,"
Once again, she was cut short. "Ginny?"
"What?"
"Shut it." Some of Hermione's feistiness came back. "I made myself a fool. Period. Won't happen again."
Ginny nodded. "Then let's go home. I'm tired of this pretentious nonsense."
Hermione shot her wrist-watch a look then sighed in exasperation. "I'm not of the hook yet," she cursed under her breath. "Still about an hour to go for me. Damn that man Bigglesworth."
"It's alright, dear, it can't come any worse now, can it?" Ginny tried to console her and hugged her friend heartily. If only she knew how wrong her words would turn out to be.
"You will be all right. Just go to the lavatory and freshen up a bit. See you on Monday, luv!"
"Yes, splashing water in my face seems like the right thing to do," Hermione agreed, softly touching her cheeks only to find them burning. "See you!"
Ginny and Hermione parted ways and, with some difficulty, the curly-haired witch was restroom-bound. She followed the signs, climbing steep stairs and crossing polished hallways, striding through richly ornamented doors and ivory-crested archways until she came to the sobering conclusion that she must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Worse than that, she was completely lost. The sound of her own footsteps, the tell-tale clicking echo of her blasted heels began to unnerve her and a feeling of dread spread in her.
"You're an easy target, giving away your whereabouts so noisily," her inner voice of insecurity whispered.
"Target? You're no target, there's nobody here but you in this blasted mausoleum right now. Get a grip, girl!" her voice of reason chimed in.
Hermione tried her best not to let apprehension get the better of her, still, she opted for slipping off her shoes nonetheless. Better safe than sorry, right?
Minutes felt like hours as she wandered around in eerie silence, losing her bearings completely as a look out of the window crushed any remainder of hope to find her way back. The soft lights of the Drawing Room were opposite of her and seemed far away, confirming what the witch had feared for a good while. She was in a whole different wing altogether.
Blimey! Blimey! Blimey!
What to do? For a moment the witch stood perfectly still, inwardly cursing the Ministry decree that this feast was to be a safe, wand-free event. The only source of light she had at her disposal was the dim wall lamps which, much to her dismay, only added to fuel her ever-growing feeling of imminent calamity. Shadows danced ominously in the corridors and alcoves at her every cautious step, the snoring portraits doing nothing to soothe her.
When she came to another dead end, Hermione felt like crying. This horrid mansion was a nightmarish maze!
In an impulsive, desperate attempt to end her odyssey she found herself calling into the dark.
"Hello?" her own voice reverberated back to her, spookily. "Is there anybody? I lost my way. I,….I,…. need to get back to the entrance hall, please, I…."
Long seconds ticked by while Hermione tensely listened for an answer to shred the overwhelming silence surrounding her. Nothing.
Nothing, but her drumming heartbeat.
Suddenly, there was a plopping sound behind her and Hermione gave a short scream of surprise as she spun around to face whoever they may be, clutching her high heels to her chest as she did so.
The tense girl let out a breath she didn't know she was holding at the appearance of…
a house elf.
A grumpy looking, old, tatter-clad house elf. But still just a house elf. Hermione didn't know what she had been expecting in her frightened state and she already felt stupid for acting so foolishly.
"Miss is lost?" the small creature asked unbelievingly.
"Yes, yes, I'm afraid I got lost," Hermione replied, heaving a sigh of relief, "Can you please bring me back to the entrance hall? I really need to get out of here."
She looked at her watch, frowning. She had spent almost 25 minutes wandering about.
The house-elf shook his head vehemently and Hermione's hopes sank once again. "House-elves is not allowed to apparates with visitors. Miss musts go by herselfs."
"But I told you I was lost!" Hermione began to bargain, "I don't know where to go to find the exit! Or at least the damn bathroom!"
The house-elf considered her for a little while, unmoved by her desperate pleading. "Miss goes there," he indicated towards a nearby hallway, "Down the nexts corridor to the rights, then turns lefts and down the stairs. Is only three rooms away from Drawing Room. Bathroom has lights on."
He then looked at her with what Hermione could have sworn was mockery. "Satras not understands how Miss could have misseds it."
"Why," Hermione replied sheepishly, ignoring the jibe that came from the uncooperative little elf who went by the name Satras, as it seemed. "Thank you, I'll be on my way then."
She swiftly hurried past the elf, blissfully unaware of the vicious little grin the small creature sported. It gloated to itself in complacency, its high-pitched, malicious cackle resounding from the cold walls of the huge hall as Satras popped out; the echo fading into nothingness.
Satras would not have to iron his hands today; that he was sure of.
Meanwhile, Hermione did as she was told and practically ran towards the corridor that had been pointed at. Eagerly, she followed Satra's instructions, turning to the left and to the right, swiftly down the stairs and…
stopped dead in her tracks.
Confused, she looked in each direction, then back up the stairs behind her.
There was only one door, right before her. However, no other adjacent rooms, let alone in closer proximity. All other corridors ended in pointed windows.
The door was closed, but through the keyhole fell a soft light and marked a spot on the floor.
"This just has to be it," Hermione mumbled to herself as if willing her words to be true by force, "He said there would be lights. This MUST be the facilities."
Inhaling sharply, the witch braced herself and pushed the heavy doors open with some effort, its creaking hinges a testament to its incredible weight.
This was no toilet.
Not even close.
While expecting some pompous facilities with golden faucets and white marble, Hermione found herself in a spacious hall instead, some parts of it stretching over two floors at the far end. It took her eyes a few moments to grow accustomed to the dimness, but as if on cue, the fire in the hearth of the entrance area, low and sputtering so far, sprang up noisily and began to burn a bit brighter and higher, startling Hermione who gave a squeak of surprise. Along with the hearth's fire, at least a dozen sconces that ran about the sheer endless walls flared to life, emitting a warm glow and thereby allowed her a tad bit better view. The witch gasped as she became aware of the fact that every inch of wall space, floor to the high ceiling, was lined with books, heavy, ancient tomes that must have held many a Wizarding mystery or dark secret, crammed in ornate shelves.
She squinted her eyes, making out some decorative magical artefacts and statues on pedestals, neatly placed at the beginning of each transverse row of books.
Most of this place though was still swallowed by darkness, save for the pale moonlight that fell through an occasional window and the flickering shadows dancing around her kept Hermione from venturing much further into the room. She was out of Gryffindor courage for the day, her mind and body still tense from all that had transpired so far.
Letting her shoes drop to the floor, she took in her closer surroundings and spotted a liquor cabinet. After some moments of pondering, she decided the high-proof liquid might calm her nerves and allow her to bring herself to make it at least to the first row of books. This was such a unique opportunity after all! No way in hell would she get official access to the infamous Malfoy library, probably the most exclusive private collection in whole wizarding Britain. A millennium, if not more, of meticulously collected first editions and long out-of-print volumes, plenty of them probably restricted, banned or its existence even obliviated from the public's memory.
Thus, the overzealous book worm in her took over, guiding her to the cabinet promptly where the witch produced a crystal decanter of Firewhiskey from it. She filled a glass a good three fingers full, downing it without further ado, her face contorting at the awful taste. Hermione put the Whiskey and glass on the low table that sat between the two tufted, leather wing-back chairs that faced the fireplace, uncertain if she would want some more liquid courage.
Straightening, the young woman carefully made it to the first transverse row books opposite the hearth. Eagerly, she eagerly scanned title after title, some of them making her eyes go wide in sheer disbelief at their existence, caressing the spines of other books with a faraway and wistful look. She was sure she could spend years in this library and still not be sated in her thirst for knowledge.
When she came to the corner of the last shelf in row one, she reeled with excitement as she discovered an extra special volume. Reverently, she took it from the shelf, her fingertips ever so carefully roaming over the heavy tome.
This book she had only heard of through the grapevine; not had it been just banned centuries ago, no, all known issues in existence had been destroyed since it held the most wicked and malevolent darkest magic, stirring warmongering racism and the book being a dark artefact in itself.
The fascinated witch inwardly snorted. – In Muggle terms, this book was basically the equivalent to a lovechild of a purple unicorn shitting rainbows paired with the pureblood wizard ideology version of "Mein Kampf". So, of course, if anyone were in its possession, it had to be the Malfoys.
Extinct. Rare. Evil. Ticks all the boxes.
And still, despite herself, Hemione was itching to have a quick look for herself…just one teeny-tiny look…
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the witch who was so immersed in her sensational find, she never heard the measured creaking of the door nor when it clicked shut with momentous finality.
A/N: Evil cliffie, I know. ;) Chapter 2 is in progress; please let me know if you enjoyed chapter 1! Thx!
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Wicked Waltz