A/N Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews of my last chapter.

As you can see this installment is quite long. I just couldn't see where to split it so I've left it all as one chapter. I apologise as I know there are mistakes here. I had a bit of a disaster and all of Vitellia's corrections were lost - so my disastrous punctuation will be even worse than usual. Please excuse any other errors too.

Content warning - I considered whether this should be labelled as non-con or dub con and I don't think it deserves such a label. However, for anyone who is easily triggered, it isn't necessarily the nicest of chapters - please feel free to contact me for an edited version or a summary of what happens before you read on.

Hermione taps her foot against the flagstone floor. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest. If she had a wristwatch, she would be pointedly examining it.

Snape pauses in the act of uncorking and sniffing a vial of Pepper Up Potion.

"Do you have something to say, Miss Granger?"

"Oh no." Hermione ceases her tapping and begins to pace instead. Snape returns to his methodical scrutiny of the one hundred and eighty neatly stoppered bottles she has produced. He appears entirely unhurried. As if it is not already late afternoon and Hermione has not been waiting all day for him to come and oversee the next step in the brewing process of Felix Felicis.

She comes to a halt beside him.

"These are for the Hogwarts infirmary, right?"

"Yes." Snape delicately wipes his nose. The bottle he is sniffing steams slightly and his eyes are red from repeated exposure to the potent potion. He seems undeterred by the fumes emanating from the vial and inhales again before he replaces the cork and puts it neatly back in the crate.

"Do you really think I would tamper with a potion intended to treat innocent school children?" she asks.

Snape gives her a long look. "I have always considered you a most unpredictable Individual."

Hermione is oddly flattered by his response, but is unwilling to be deterred from her argument. At the rate he's going she will do no more than watch him give himself a Pepper Up induced nosebleed before the evening is out.

"However unpredictable you might consider me, I'm no fool. Why would I do something so random as to poison a single vial in a batch of cold remedy when I've got no idea who the end recipient would be? Credit me with a little intelligence, Professor."

Snape doesn't look at her again. "Constant vigilance," he mutters as he continues in his laborious task. Hermione almost thinks she detects a smirk around the corner of his mouth. Did Snape just make a joke? She shakes her head as if to dispel the alien idea.

Seeing that arguing with the Potion's Master is futile, she retreats to a stool and takes a seat. She swings her legs idly as she watches his long-fingered hands crawling like pale spiders across the bottle tops. She has been Occluding fiercely since he entered the laboratory. In fact, she Occludes all the time now. Ever since she learned of her propensity to shout. She has no desire to project her thoughts for anyone sensitive to hear. The action has become second nature to her.

She is piqued that after he complained so vociferously about her projecting the last time she saw him Snape has made no comment on her newly acquired skill. Purposefully, she lowers her shields for a moment and allows her disappointment to blast across the room. Snape winces visibly and almost drops the vial he is holding. He glares at Hermione who slams her shields in place once more. There is a lot of stuff in her head which she has no desire to share with Severus Snape.

"You are a constant source of disappointment," Snape sneers. "No sooner do I credit you with a modicum of maturity and self-control than you erase any admiration I might have had for you with a childish display such as that." He resumes his inspection. Hermione gapes at him. Her mouth opens and closes a couple of times as desperately tries to think of a retort. She feels about six inches tall. A blush heats her cheeks and she prays he won't look up and see it. Is she truly just as bad as she has always been; an insecure adolescent desperate for her teacher's praise? Apparently so.

Snape gives a heavy sigh. "I am indeed a 'horrible man'. I have never made any pretense of being otherwise." He replaces the final bottle in the first of three crates and moves it onto the floor so he can start to examine the one below. "If you are so desperate for me to test your skills then I shall do so once I am finished examining these potions. Now, for the love of Merlin will you do something about your infernal whining?"

To her horror, Hermione realises that, in her distress, her shields have become leaky and her dislike for Snape along with her upset at his failure to praise her and the realisation that she is still no better than a pathetic schoolgirl have all oozed out around her, now inefficient, barricades. She struggles to bring herself back under control and to re-erect the shield she had been so proud of minutes earlier.

He takes an age to finish. Hermione's impatience has been overtaken by boredom and she sits staring into space her mind straying back to Lucius and the dilemma he presented her with. She is exhausted. Sleep has eluded her for the last few nights. Ever since Lucius made his clumsy proposition, she has found his presence even more difficult to bear than usual.

He is not speaking to her. But the not speaking is much more pointed than his habitual ignoring. It has an offended, irritated edge to it. His condemnation is loudly expressed without the need for words. And then there's the way he looks at her. His cold grey eyes ignite with an unmistakable hunger which both terrifies and excites Hermione in equal measure. He has done nothing. He has neither attempted to renew his address nor tried take things forward physically, but his obvious desire for her permeates the room when they are together. It thickens the air making it almost impossible for Hermione to breathe. Sleep is certainly beyond her. She and Lucius lie in the pregnant darkness scarcely breathing as they each pretend not to be awake. It is an untenable and exhausting situation.

"Legilimens!" Snape's attack is so sudden and unexpected that Hermione is knocked physically backward off her stool. She lands on the floor in a puddle of robes and tangled limbs. The breath is knocked from her body and she flails desperately on the floor gasping like a landed fish. Snape ignores her distress. He stands over her his wand still partly raised, and his black-eyed gaze fixed on her own.

Hermione can feel him in her mind. His presence is less intrusive, but no more welcome than that of Voldemort. He rifles through her memories and Hermione can do nothing but batter futilely at him like a toddler pulling ineffectually at the skirts of its mother. She can feel his disappointment in her as he romps unimpeded through her thoughts, but she seems powerless to resist. Any attempts to shield are brushed aside as easily as she might brush away an irritating cobweb.

He stumbles across the previous week's nightmare and pauses to watch. Hermione desperately tries to shut down the memory. She has no need to relieve the horror during her waking hours, besides she can't have Snape see what happened after. Lucius' voice intrudes into the nightmare and forces her into action. Hermione stops fighting. Snape is too strong for her to expel. She remembers the lessons of his book and allows him to float along on the current of her memory. Lucius is shaking her awake now. She battens down her panic. She knows what to do. As the nightmare ends, she changes Snape's trajectory and edges him seamlessly onto another memory. They watch together as she adds a dangerous amount of aconite powder to one of the vials of Pepper Up potion. She smiles wickedly as she reseals and shakes the bottle before replacing it in the middle of the crate.

Snape is abruptly gone from her mind. Hermione is still on the floor. She clutches her aching head afraid her brains might be leaking out of her ears. Snape strides back to the crates of potion. A deep frown bisects his forehead. He quickly finds the vial he had watched her poison and unstops it before raising it to his large nose. He inhales deeply but appears unsatisfied with his olfactory assessment. He decants the potion into a small cauldron and stirs it carefully. Eventually, he straightens and turns to Hermione who hasn't moved from the floor.

"That was quite remarkable." His pale countenance s even paler than usual and the frown has not left his face. He continues to stare at her for several more seconds before he strides across the room and begins to prepare a cauldron and ingredients.

"Quite remarkable." Hermione thinks he repeats.

"Well, do you wish to finish your potion or not?"

Hermione is still on the floor her fingers rubbing soothing circles against her temples. She clambers unsteadily to her feet. Snape's assault has left her both physically and mentally bruised. She crosses the lab and stands beside him as he decants the base for the Felix Felicis into a copper-bottomed cauldron.

Neither of them speaks. Hermione's pounding head prevents her usual barrage of questions and Snape is even more taciturn than usual. They work together for more than half an hour with only Snape's occasional requests for utensils and ingredients breaking the silence. It is oddly comfortable, although Hermione avoids any eye contact with the Headmaster. She felt his curiosity as he invaded her mind and she doesn't trust him not to slip back in when he thinks her guard is down.

She is in the process of passing him a hummingbird feather when he suddenly winces and grips his left forearm with his right hand. The feather falls unheeded to the ground.

"Professor, are you all right?" Hermione is surprised at the concern she feels. The fleeting look of agony on Snape's face arouses in her a sympathy she's not sure he deserves.

"I'm fine," he snaps with his usual venom. "I need to leave. We will have to complete the potion another evening."

"But why?" Hermione asks without thinking. "It's at its most sensitive point. We can't leave it now without risking it being ruined."

Snape's grip on his forearm tightens and he winces again.

"Unfortunately, the Dark Lord is less willing to prioritize potion making than you, Miss Granger. I am being summoned and my master is not a patient man."

"Oh." Hermione stares wide eyed at him. A thousand questions threatening to escape her lips. "So that's how he summons you. By causing you physical pain?"

Snape nods curtly and gives their potion a final stir before casting a stasis charm over the golden liquid.

"Surely he won't mind five minutes delay while we just finish this step." Hermione trails after him as he dumps the chopping board and knives in the sink. "I'll do that." She takes the dirty cauldron from him. "I mean, what if you were on the toilet, or asleep or…" she blushes "otherwise engaged?"

"The Dark Lord has no concern for any of these things." Snape is pulling on his heavy cloak which he had hung at the back of the door. "A summons is a summons and must be obeyed immediately."

"But you're an important member of his government," Hermione argues. "He can't treat you like a dog who must come when he's called."

"Do you actually remember of whom you speak, girl?" Snape snarls. His face is twisted with pain and beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. "Do you think the Dark Lord's meetings involve lemon drops and a chummy discussion in which everyone's opinion is considered? He is to be obeyed in everything without question and those who are foolish enough not to follow that simple rule are lucky to escape his presence alive."

"But...But...you're his henchmen…" Hermione stammers in confusion. She can't quite comprehend a world in which Voldemort's followers are as afraid of their master as she is.

Snape pauses in the act of doing up his cloak and stares down his long nose at her.

"For an intelligent young woman, you are remarkably naive," he says with surprisingly little malice. "Be grateful for the choices you made." He pulls up his sleeve to reveal the dark mark which seems to writhe against his pale skin. "If I am able, we shall finish the potion tomorrow." He touches his wand to the dark mark and disappears with a loud crack.

Hermione stares at the spot on the floor previously occupied by Severus Snape for several moments.

Eventually, she makes her way to the sink and begins to wash up the dirty cauldrons and utensils the muggle way. At times like this she is grateful for her muggle heritage. Surely it would be so much harder to be forced to carry out such menial tasks by hand if she had grown up using magic. It's been so long since she cast a spell she sometimes wonders if she even still could. Brewing is the closest she has come to magic in years. She knows enough of magical theory to know that it is her innate magical core which allows the ingredients to combine into a supernatural potion as opposed to a muggle mess, but still, it's hard to think of herself as a witch when she no longer has the ability to do magic.

For once, these thoughts are fleeting. She is much too busy thinking about Snape and his most recent revelations. As is so often the case following her run ins with her ex-professor, she is left feeling wrong-footed and foolish. Her early experience of the likes of Draco and his father had led her to believe that following Voldemort was a choice made willingly, eagerly even. She had assumed that his followers, subscribers to the same dogma as their leader, would delight in his victory and that life within the Voldemort institution would resemble a Death Eater's idea of utopia. But Snape seems afraid and perhaps slightly resentful of his master. Which makes a lot of sense considering Hermione has witnessed his death at Voldemort's hands once already. Still, she had thought Snape a favourite of the Dark Lord. He holds the exalted position of Hogwarts Headmaster after all. And Lucius certainly seems in favour too.

Is Lucius as frightened as Snape? The thought comes to her suddenly and at first, she dismisses it. To her Lucius is infallible. Physically beautiful, powerful, wealthy; he epitomises pure blood perfection. But none of these things will necessarily protect him from Voldemort should he get on the Dark Lord's wrong side.

Now she has begun to consider their situation it is hard to ignore the air of tension which has permeated the household for the entire duration of her incarceration. Lucius certainly does not have the demeanour of a man now enjoying the culmination of his life's work. And Voldemort killed Narcissa in a cold-blooded execution. It seems to Hermione that no leeway had been given. Years of loyalty were disregarded, and Lucius had presumably been left with the choice to continue to serve or to meet the same fate as his wife.

Hermione struggles to remember the Malfoys as a couple. She had only encountered them together on a few occasions, but she thought she remembered a haughty affection between the two. Draco had boasted frequently about the extravagant gift giving between them, although Hermione wasn't necessarily sure that this was indicative of any deep feeling. The most significant evidence she has to examine is her recollection of Lucius' face when he told her of Narcissa's death. He had looked, very briefly, devastated.

Hermione scrubs the potions bench and tries to put thoughts of Lucius and Snape from her mind. They have made their own beds. She should be glad that they are now being forced to lie in them.

Lucius is reading a letter from the business manager of Gringotts bank when the burning in his forearm begins. He winces but continues reading. The tone of the letter is terse. Goblins are not by nature verbose creatures and Lucius usually enjoys his forthright dealings with the grumpy Gringotts staff. However, under these circumstances he would prefer if the manager had minced his words even a little. He sighs and places the letter carefully down on his leather topped desk. His arm throbs again and he clutches the burning flesh even though he knows it does nothing to alleviate the pain. It's too soon. He needs more time. He glances down at the letter once more. It doesn't matter how much time his is given. It won't make a blind bit of difference.

He is about to give in and answer the summons when the door to his study flies open and Draco bursts into the room. He too is clutching his arm and Lucius feels a heavy weight in his stomach. Draco is rarely summoned and there was a full cabinet meeting only the previous week. Every time his son is called before the Dark Lord Lucius is terrified that the boy is to be used as leverage against him.

"Is something wrong, Draco?" He forces himself to project a calmness he doesn't feel.

"I've been summoned." Draco pushes his hair from his face. He has been running. His cheeks are flushed, and his breathing is uneven. "Haven't you, father?"

"I have," Lucius confirms.

"I have a bad feeling about this." Draco comes further into the room. His hand returns to his left forearm. "He never summons me."

"I'm sure it's nothing." Lucius gets to his feet and moves to place his arm around Draco's shoulder. He feels as if his heart is encased in lead. This boy...this boy who has somehow become a man and is soon to be a father is all that he has left. If anything happens to Draco… he forces himself not to complete the thought. Draco is his Achilles' heel, and everyone knows it. How he wishes he hadn't played the overprotective father quite so ardently. Every quidditch match he'd attended, every time he'd stormed into the school to right some wrong, real or imagined, even his behaviour during the Battle of Hogwarts. It had all confirmed the fact that he was as malleable as mercury. The Dark Lord knows how weak Lucius truly is and he will not hesitate to exploit Draco in order to further his own ambition. Lucius cannot bear for Draco to suffer for his failures, but in this instance, he doesn't know how to succeed.

He shows not a hint of fear as he pulls up his sleeve and readies his wand above the ugly mark on his arm. Draco must never know how frightened his father is.

They arrive together in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor and, as usual, Lucius tries to ignore the disarray in his former home. Even as he lowers himself to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robe, he is carefully assessing the other occupants of the room. What he sees causes the lead fist around his heart to tighten even further. Aside from Draco, only the inner circle is present. This does not bode well for his son.

They take their seats around the large table. Lucius slides in next to Severus and pulls a chair out for Draco on his other side. His friend is as inscrutable as ever. Lucius wishes that, for once, Snape might give something away.

"My friends." Voldemort looks around the table and the whispers of the assembled Death Eaters are instantly silenced. His eyes fall upon an empty seat. "Where is Antonin?" he asks. His tone is soft. One might almost mistake it for indulgent. Lucius keeps his eyes downcast. Perhaps Dolohov will arrive late and distract the Dark Lord's attention from him.

"Well?" Voldemort is striding around the table like an angry teacher. "Somebody must know. Thorfin, you and he are friends, are you not?"

"We are, My Lord." Thorfin Rowle avoids looking at Voldemort as he answers.

"Then where is Antonin? Did he mention he had a prior engagement this evening, one which might supercede a summons from his master?"

"No, My Lord." Lucius can hear the tremble in Rowle's voice.

"Then where is he?"

"I don't know, My Lord." Rowle pushes back his chair with a scrape and draws himself to his full height. He is an impressive figure even with his head bowed and his eyes turned to the floor. "If it pleases you, My Lord, I will go to Antonin's home and see what's keeping him."

There is a long and pregnant silence. Under the table Lucius tightens his fingers around the snake top of his cane.

"Very well, Thorfin. Please go and retrieve our mutual friend. Make sure to inform him that I am most displeased by his absence.

Lucius fancies the entire table lets out a long relieved breath as Rowle leaves the room. He thinks that if the blond wizard has any sense, he will not return without Dolohov to act as a foil for Voldemort's wrath.

"Well." Voldemort paces the room his malevolent gaze flicking from one wizard to another. Nobody dares to look at him. Save Bellatrix who follows his every move with a look of terrifying anticipation.

"Severus." Voldemort stops behind Snape's chair.

"My Lord?" Snape doesn't even move. Lucius can't help but admire the man's balls.

"Your staffing crisis only intensifies, does it not?"

"I wouldn't call it a crisis, My Lord." Snape's tone is bland. Lucius is surprised he doesn't examine his fingernails.

"Are you arguing with me, Severus?"

"I would never presume to argue with you, My Lord." Snape's tone is obsequious. "But as one who is closer to the situation, I only wish to assure you that everything is under control."

"Under control," Voldemort repeats. He looks as if he is about to move from his position behind Snape but suddenly his is bending over the dark wizard his wand pressed against the soft flesh beneath Snape's chin. "Under control," he hisses. "Alecto and Amycus have been forced to remove four professors in the last month due to gross insubordination. Does that sound like control to you?"

"No, My Lord." There is a note of defeat in Snape's voice. His eyes flick towards Lucius' and for the first time he sees fear.

"So, tell me, Severus." To Lucius' surprise, Voldemort releases Snape and straightens up once more. "What steps are you taking to rectify this crisis." He twists his wand between his long fingers as he speaks.

Snape clears his throat. "Well, I have written to the head of every pureblood family in the country to ask them to recommend family members who might be willing to teach-"

"Why only the purebloods?" Voldemort interrupts.

"All of the teachers removed by the Carrows were half-bloods," Snape explains. "Their loyalties were divided. I thought that-"

"Purebloods would be more likely to understand our cause?" Voldemort completes the sentence.

"Yes," Snape replies. He shifts a little in his seat.

"But…" Voldemort pauses as if thinking hard. "Aren't you a half blood, Severus?"

"I am, My Lord. But I assure you that my loyalty lies, as it always has, with you.

"Hmm." Voldemort continues to twirl his wand. He sounds decidedly unconvinced. "What say you, Bella?" He looks across at Bellatrix who licks her lips with unconcealed enthusiasm.

"I think it sounds like Snape isn't doing is job right." She stalks around the table to join her master. Lucius wonders how much of their double act is prerehearsed. "Perhaps you need me to reprimand him, My Lord?" She looks up at Voldemort with sickening eagerness.

"Good idea." Voldemort stands back. "I'm sorry Severus, but I believe you need reminding of just who is in charge here and at Hogwarts."

"My Lord," Severus began. "I can assure you that-"

He is not allowed to continue. Bella's curse hits him between the shoulder blades and he is thrown forward across the table.

Lucius spends the next fifteen minutes trying not to watch his friend being tortured. Snape bears the entire thing with amazing fortitude. He is almost completely silent save the occasional grunt when his body is thrown against the wall or floor. Personally, Lucius thinks he would have done better to scream. Bella is clearly becoming frustrated by his lack of response and perhaps if Snape were more vocal in his suffering her sadistic desires might be satisfied and she would desist from her play. As it is, it is only once Severus is unconscious and slumped against the wall with a thin stream of blood trickling from one ear that Bella is called off. She returns, panting, to her seat which Voldemort politely pulls out for her. She surveys the group with eager eyes. She does not expect Snape to be her only victim. Lucius feels Draco shift uncomfortably next to him. He longs to comfort the boy, but he doesn't dare show any sort of weakness.

"Lucius."

He flinches inwardly as the Dark Lord eyes him across the table.

"Yes, My Lord."

"How go the negotiations with Gringotts."

Lucius braces himself. "Not well, My Lord. The goblins have rejected my most recent offer."

"Then double it." Voldemort waves a negligent hand. "I won't have our banking system governed by Goblins. They are not even human, lower even than Muggles." There are mutters of assent from the assembled wizards. Lucius hates every one of them. He knows the bastards are all just grateful that it isn't their necks on the line.

"Of course, I agree entirely," he says smoothly. "But the problem is that Gringotts bank isn't for sale."

The room falls silent. For at least a minute all Lucius can hear is the pounding of blood in his ears. He frantically searches his mind for a way to retract what he has just said.

"Everything is for sale, Lucius." Voldemort's voice is soft. If Lucius knew him less well, he might think it reassuringly so. He moves to stand behind Draco and runs a long-fingered hand through his platinum hair. The boy stays motionless. "You just have to name the right price." Voldemort's nails dig into the fragile skin of Draco's neck. Lucius grips the head of his cane and internally counts to five.

"So good of you to bring Draco with you this evening, Lucius." He resumes stroking the boy's hair.

"Thank you for the summons," Draco's voice is unsteady. "It was an honour to be included."

"The honour is all mine, I assure you." Voldemort runs his hand down Draco's cheek. "Now, tell me, Draco. How is your Award?"

Draco's eyes flick towards Lucius, but he is powerless to assist him. Even if he did know of a response that might pacify the Dark Lord there is no way for him to communicate it.

"She is well," Draco responds.

"Good, good." Voldemort resumes pacing behind the seated Death Eaters. Draco's shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. "She is with child, is she not?"

Draco's shoulders rise again. "She is, My Lord."

"And the child is yours?"

"Yes, My Lord. A healer has confirmed it."

Lucius feels a flash of relief that he had insisted on ascertaining the parentage of the child even though his son and Miss Weasley had been deeply offended by the inference.

"Well, well." Voldemort fixes his cruel red eyed gaze on Lucius. "Lucius Malfoy, about to be a grandfather. You must be pleased."

"I am, My Lord." Lucius knows better than to argue with his master. He clearly has an agenda and there is no point in trying to divert him from it.

"It would be such a shame, would it not, if something were to go wrong with Miss Weasley or the pregnancy. I understand a witch is very vulnerable in the weeks leading up to her confinement."

Lucius feels Draco tense further beside him. He risks laying a hand on his son's knee in order to steady him.

"I'm sure nothing will go wrong," he says smoothly. "I find the presence of Miss Weasley and her unborn child a great inspiration to me. I am quite sure I will have completed my negotiations with the goblins before my grandson is born. He meets Voldemort's gaze head on.

"Good, good," the Dark Lord purs. "I am so glad to hear it, Lucius. I look forward to hearing of your success."

The meeting turns to other things. Lucius sits as silently as possible only chiming in where it is absolutely necessary. Inside his heart, a tiny flicker of hope blooms. Could he really have escaped punishment yet again? He doesn't think he can take it as stoically as Snape. Worse still, he knows he could not sit idly by and watch his son tortured. As soon as Voldemort lays a hand on Draco, or orders Bella to punish her nephew, Lucius knows his own fate will be sealed.

Finally, they are dismissed. Lucius and Draco rise eagerly and join the other Death Eaters filing out of the room.

"Lucius?"

He stills in his tracks.

"Won't you take Severus back to Hogwarts. He's bleeding all over this fine carpet." Voldemort rubs Severus's blood into the priceless Persian rug with one dirty bare foot.

Together, Lucius and Draco drag the unconscious Snape to the apparition point.

"I'll take him back," Lucius says. "You get back home. Miss Weasley will be worried about you."

"Is he going to be all right?" Draco looks anxiously at Snape.

"I should think so." Lucius shifts Snape in his arms. For such a skinny man he is surprisingly heavy. "I've seen him endure far worse. Madam Pomfrey is still at Hogwarts, I imagine she'll patch him up."

"I hope so." Draco looks around to ascertain that they are alone. "What are you going to do, Father?"

"About what?"

"About Gringotts. I see all your correspondence. The goblins are nowhere near selling out and the ministry couldn't afford it even if they were, but you told The Dark Lord it would be a done deal in a matter of weeks!"

"Keep your voice down," Lucius hisses he glances around them again. "I'll think of something."

"You'll think of something!" There is a note of what sounds dangerously like hysteria in Draco's voice. "The Dark Lord has threatened Ginny and the baby and you're telling me you'll think of something. That's not good enough, Father."

"I'm aware of that, Draco." Lucius shifts Snape's weight again. "However, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss this. I can assure you that I will not allow anything to happen to Miss Weasley or my grandson. Now, I must get Severus back to Hogwarts. I shall see you later."

"Yes Father." Draco looks at least partially reassured by his father's words and Apparates away back to their Yorkshire home without a second look.

"That was very reassuring," Severus mutters. "You had me entirely convinced."

Lucius almost drops the other wizard. "How long have you been awake for?" he demands.

"Long enough." Severus squirms. "Now, could you please take me back to Hogwarts." He spits out a mouthful of blood. "I have two broken ribs, I fear at least one of my internal organs is bleeding and I've chipped a tooth."

Hours later, Lucius wearily makes his way up the staircase to his own bedroom. Severus had lost consciousness once more during their Apparition to the gates of Hogwarts. Lucius had then been obliged to levitate him all the way to the school entrance where a troupe of worried looking house elves had taken over. Poppy Pomfrey was less than pleased to see Lucius, but she had assured him that Severus had indeed endured worse and that he would be back on his feet in no time.

Lucius had made his way home and to his study where he had nursed a large glass of firewhisky. He was exhausted. His entire body was coming down off a massive adrenaline high as his tired brain struggled to cope with the situation, he now finds himself in. He has made promises to the Dark Lord that he has no way of keeping. All he has done is buy Miss Weasley a few more weeks of safety. But what will happen when his next offer to the stubborn goblins is rejected and the next? Eventually, Voldemort will realise that Lucius is bluffing and then retribution will be taken on those he loves the most.

He drinks more firewhisky and tries desperately to think of a solution to his problems. None is forthcoming. Eventually, he drags himself wearily up the stairs. At least the girl will be fast asleep. That is yet another situation he has no idea how to handle. She has rejected him. No woman has ever turned him down before. Since he hit puberty his looks, wealth and privilege have had him fending off advances right left and centre. It is ridiculous that he has become fixated on the one woman who he cannot have. And the worst irony? Since she responded with such disgust to his proposition, he only desires her more. He wonders if he will ever be free of her spell.

It is late and Hermione can't sleep. She tosses and turns on her futon and eventually climbs out of bed in order to stare out of the window. She would never dare to do such a thing were Lucius present. Usually, she bears her insomnia in uncomfortable silence afraid even to turn over for fear of disturbing Lucius. Now, it is his absence which is keeping her from sleep.

She has no idea how late he is, but it has been many hours since dinner and her internal clock tells her he ought to have been in bed long ago. She can't help but worry. Was Lucius summoned too? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is he even coming back? And if he doesn't, what will become of Hermione? This cannot be his first summons since her incarceration with him, but he has never been so late to bed.

She paces the room her nightgown fluttering around her legs. Her feet are chilled despite the plush carpet and she finds herself wringing her hands in anxiety. Is she really worrying about Lucius Malfoy? No. She tells herself. She doesn't care about the man. She only cares about herself and the repercussions if Lucius loses custody of her. She refuses to believe that she may have grown fond of him. Now is not the time to dwell on his occasional acts of kindness, of his gentle hands washing her hair, or the way he pulled her from the depths of her nightmare. Or the feel of his lips against hers.

She doesn't like him. Doesn't care about him. Doesn't want him.

The grey light of dawn is beginning to creep around the curtains when Hermione finally begins to dose sat up in bed with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her head leaning against the wall.

The click of the door opening rouses her, and she sits up properly as Lucius comes into the room. He is briefly silhouetted by the light from the landing before he moves into the room and ignites his reading orb. Hermione is surprised at his consideration. She would have expected him to slam into the room with his usual arrogance igniting every light in the place as he did so.

"Are you all right?" The question escapes her before she can consider the wisdom of speaking.

He pauses in the act of unfastening his heavy cloak and looks at her in surprise. He looks tired. There are fine lines bracketing his mouth and eyes and he is even paler than usual.

"Since when did my well-being give you cause for concern?"

Hermione scrambles to her feet. "You were summoned." She twists her fingers. "I was worried something might have happened to you."

Lucius removes his cloak and lays it across the end of the bed. His movements are deliberate and controlled, but there is an edge to him. The air crackles with nervous tension and Hermione shivers despite the warmth of the room.

"You are, no doubt disappointed then by my safe return."

Hermione shakes her head and wraps her arms around herself.

"I'm not disappointed."

He looks inquiringly at her. One hand is poised to begin teasing off his black leather gloves, but he remains motionless as he awaits her response.

Hermione takes a step toward him. Aware that she must look like a frightened schoolgirl she drops her arms to her sides although she can't prevent her fingers from balling into fists and her nails from digging into her sweating palms.

"I've changed my mind." The words sit in the crackling silence between them. Hermione isn't sure who is more surprised, Lucius or herself. She hadn't known what she was going to say until she had spoken, and yet she knows it is irrevocably true. Her rejection of Lucius was a response to the way he asked, not a true reflection of her innermost desires. Hermione sees now that she will never have him the way she might want. He will never love her. He will never see her as more than a Mudblood girl and consequently she will never be able to develop any real feelings for him. But she can still have him. And it has recently come to her attention that a meal of dry bread, whilst not nearly as appetising as a feast, is still palatable when one is starving.

"With regard to what?" Lucius' grey eyes are fixed on hers. He's not going to make this easy for her.

"You know what." Hermione takes a step closer. Her confidence grows a little. She has not forgotten the way he watches her. The way his body tenses as soon as he realises she is in a room. The subtle hitch in his breathing that tells her he is affected by her presence. He is the vulnerable party here.

"Perhaps." Lucius takes a single step back. His gloves apparently forgotten as he places his hands on his hips. "On the other hand, only days ago you preferred death to sleeping with me. You can hardly be surprised if I am a little confused by your sudden about face."

Hermione shrugs. "There's a saying in the Muggle world-" she pauses to allow him to respond. He doesn't disappoint, a sneer crosses his lips "-it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. As I said, I have changed mine."

"Why?"

Hermione hesitates. The truth is much too complex for her to articulate. She's not entirely sure she understands her own motivations. "I decided it was pointless to sacrifice my own pleasure for the sake of my principles."

The barb sinks home and he scowls in response. But she can see that she has won. He is staring at her as if she is an oasis in a desert or the last piece of pudding at a busy buffet.

Summoning all her courage, she closes the distance between them and raises her face toward his. At first, she thinks that she will have to kiss him. To coax and tease until he finally gives in, his wounded pride preventing him from taking what he wants. She is wrong.

He kisses her with the same desperate brutality that has been the hallmark of almost all their encounters. She welcomes it with her own aggression and bites at his lip her arms coming up and around his neck so she can tug his hair and rake her fingers across his scalp. She is almost relieved that he is not gentler. That they can still desire one another without any of the parameters of their relationship being forced to change. That the overriding and defining characteristic of their relationship will still be mutual hatred. He is angry. She can feel the tension and rage seeping off him and bleeding over into their kiss and yet he does not stop.

Hermione feels the heady sense of power trickle into her belly like a particularly rich gravy. She is under no illusion that Lucius hates her as much now as he ever did, and yet he cannot stop himself. He is here, his body pressed hard against hers, his teeth grazing her neck, his erection hot against her belly. He is here without coercion or seduction on her part. He is here because he cannot stay away. She has brought him to this.

Her satisfaction is only tempered by the knowledge that she is equally lost. There is nothing to be gained from this tryst. Lucius may well hate her more rather than less after he has had her. There is no love or affection or even liking here. There is only lust. Hermione knows that such an emotion can be used to manipulate. In her, admittedly limited, experience men are weak creatures who can be led around by their cocks and forced to do all kinds of things in order to secure sexual favours. But she fears that Lucius may prove immune to such manipulation. Besides, the sad truth is she wants this just as much as he does.

He is panting as he rips open her robes. His feral gaze scorches a path from her breasts down across her belly to the apex of her thighs where liquid heat soaks the fabric of her underwear. Hermione makes no attempt to cover herself. She shrugs the ruined robes to the floor and steps out of them. She feels no imbalance that she is now dressed only in her knickers and bra whilst he is still fully clothed including his gloves. Part of her longs to run her eyes over the elegant lines of his body, whilst another wishes him to remain as he is, dark, sneering, aloof and untouchable. He is every fantasy she has denied herself for the last three months.

He is on her again his large hands at the back of her bra. When the catch fails to undo on the first attempt, he rips the entire garment from her. Then he is propelling her backwards onto the bed and biting at her breasts gloved fingers twisting her nipple. Hermione writhes beneath him. She is humiliatingly close to orgasm already. She has done all these things, or had them done to her, with Viktor with far more finesse and gentleness and yet it was nothing, nothing like this.

His fingers are between her legs and he shreds her knickers with as much care as he took with the rest of her clothing. Then they dip inside her and she winces a little at the incursion. Lucius frowns and she thinks he has noticed her response. But no, he brings his gloved hand to his face and there is triumph in his expression as he sees the glistening moisture coating his first and second finger. He deliberately holds her eye as his long pink tongue swipes against the leather.

He kisses her again and there is a whisper of herself on his tongue. His hips are grinding against hers and she grinds back. She is close, so close if he will just… Then she thinks he must be able to read her mind because his fingers are between her legs once more and she whimpers at the strange feeling of something wholly alien inside her. He is watching her his grey eyes calculating as his fingers move. She is uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. She feels like a specimen in a lab to be dissected and analysed. Then his thumb comes to rest on the hot swollen bud of her clitoris and she can't even keep her eyes open let alone care that he is looking at her. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip in an attempt to stop herself from making any further sounds. It seems as if every gasp of pleasure he rips from her is an admission of her own weakness. His thumb is rubbing back and forth now. The leather of his glove, coated in the liquid of her arousal, moves without friction as his agile fingers continue to thrust within her.

Hermione can only grip onto his shoulders and ride out the sensations playing out across her overstimulated body. She feels like she did when her father took her on a roller coaster at Alton Towers. She is terrified, lost, out of control and, at the same time, she is hyperalert, every sense is heightened, and she is more gloriously alive than she has ever been before. Pleasure is brewing within her. She can feel her orgasm building to the point that it has become inevitable. Voldemort himself could walk through the bedroom door and it would not stop her from coming. Then Lucius crooks his fingers forward as if he is attempting to pinch her clitoris between them and his thumb and she is pushed abruptly over the edge.

Waves of pleasure radiate out from her clitoris to her belly and she arches her hips involuntarily. She is vaguely aware of the almost inhuman noises emanating from her and later she will wonder that she was even capable of such a vocal range. Gone is any idea of remaining silent as pleasure rips cry after cry from her jerking body. She clenches tightly around Lucius' fingers and he continues to move them lazily inside her drawing out her orgasm for far longer than she has ever experienced.

Limp and wrung out and aware of her own vulnerability she opens her eyes once more. Lucius is still regarding her with the same intent look although there is a hint of smugness now. He leans down and kisses her again. It is just as hard and demanding as before and, to her surprise, Hermione's exhausted body immediately responds. Her heart rate, which had only just begun to slow, accelerates once more. The exhausted muscles of her stomach tighten and, despite his fingers still buried inside her, she feels an aching sense of emptiness. She still wants him. An orgasm is not enough. She needs to fully know him. She buries her trembling fingers in his hair once more and crushes her lips against his. This time she bites at his lip as she arches up toward him trying to incite him into giving her what it is she so desperately needs.

He rips her hands out of his hair and pins them above her head with one of his own. Then he is fumbling at his fly his fingers occasionally brushing her sex as he moves. Hermione is wild beneath him. She struggles and bucks as she tries desperately to maneuver him into the right position. She wants more contact, to touch him, more everything. She has waited too long for this and now it is imminent she cannot wait a second longer.

He gives a groan of relief and his cock tumbles down onto her belly. Hermione is aware of its scorching heat before his hand is between her legs once more and then he is inside her. For a split second she feels nothing. Like the time in third year potions when her knife slipped and cut deep into her thumb and for a few blissful seconds she simply stared at the gushing blood and marveled at the lack of feeling. Then, just as it had done all those years ago hot agonising pain lances through her.

She screams a full-bodied throat ripping scream. She contorts every muscle desperately trying to get away as he pounds into her repeatedly. And it's nothing like she imagined. There is no gradual reduction in pain to find it slowly replaced by pleasure. There is no joy in the pain itself. There is only him, massive and unstoppable tormenting her aching burning flesh rendered even more sensitive by her recent orgasm. He is going to split her in two. She can feel her body beginning to crumble. He will break her open and when he pulls out, she be left to exsanguinate on the bed. She cannot take it. It is too close, too personal, too private a pain. It is even worse than the Cruciatus curse because it is right there where nobody has ever touched her before.

"Stop please," she screams the words, but her voice is garbled. Even she can't understand what she is saying. "Mr Malfoy, Lucius...please." Tears are streaming down her cheeks and trickling away to soak the pillow. He pounds even harder and then his whole-body tenses and his cock becomes even larger and even more painful inside her and she can feel him coming. There is a strange pulsing sensation followed by a feeling of warmth deep inside which must be his ejaculate spilling into her. And that is good because it means this torment, this torture is nearly over. And she forces herself to look at him because knowledge is power and even in the midst of his orgasm Lucius Malfoy is beautiful. Evil, bigoted, selfish and now she knows sadistic too, but still beautiful.

Then it is over. He stops moving. His eyes open and she thinks she registers surprise as he looks down at her tear stained face. She winces as he pulls himself out of her and then he stands and moves toward the bathroom with her dirty muddy blood smeared across his penis and thighs. The door slams behind him and she is alone.

He leans against the tiled wall the steaming water pounding across his shoulders. It's too hot. The rivulets of water are like tiny needles penetrating his skin and still it is not hot enough. He will never be clean again.

He looks down at the streaks of blood on his thighs. Did she do it on purpose? Did she conceal her innocence from him knowing he would be marked by her? Knowing that nothing would horrify him more than to be despoiled by her filthy blood. He reaches for a flannel and wipes it away the water around his feet turning pale pink for a few moments before the evidence of his downfall disappears down the drain.

He thinks of Narcissa; his beautiful wife. The culmination of hundreds of years of careful breeding. The product of thousands of hours of training in etiquette and social graces. A perfect paragon of beauty and pureblood virtue. He had loved her dearly. And yet...never had he felt such raw unbridled desire for Narcissa. Never had he taken her with such force, with such an animalistic lack of control. Of course, the Mudblood is barely more than an animal he tells himself. She did not need or deserve the careful cosseting he would have afforded a pureblood witch.

He is briefly assaulted by the image of the girl's tear streaked face before he left her. He hadn't meant to hurt her. At least, not in a way that was not mutually enjoyable. Their previous encounters had been a savage outpouring of mutual loathing that manifested as potent physical attraction. He has no reason to think that bedding her ought to have been any different. He had expected her to give as good as she got and the screaming and hair pulling had been wholly expected and not unwelcome. It had all been so perfect. She had been just as wild and feral as he had expected. She had come apart around his fingers screaming her pleasure and begging for more. The desire he felt had been by no means one side. He had been certain of it. Until he had opened his eyes and seen her face. Until his lust-soaked brain has actually processed what she was trying to say. Until he had come to his senses enough to acknowledge that the girl beneath him that he has deflowered so brutally was barely twenty years old and had been screaming not with pleasure, but with pain.

He abruptly shuts off the hot water and gasps as the icy blast hits him. How was he to know? She'd been on the run with Potter and Weasley for a year. He'd thought at least one, if not both would have had her. Everybody knew that Muggle women were promiscuous and during his schooldays, which was the last time he'd had any real contact with Muggleborn witches, it had been said that they were the same. Look at Potter's mother; leading on Severus one day then spreading her legs for James Potter the next. He will not feel guilty about what has transpired between them. He is the one who has shamed himself. He is the one who has fallen. He is the one who has allowed himself to be governed by lust and has sullied his family name in the process.

He steps out of the shower and dresses quickly seething anger boiling within him. How dare she bring him to this? He expects her to be gone. He had forgotten to ward the door when he came in that evening. She notices everything. There is no way the opportunity to escape will have been missed. She won't get far, and he will be grateful not to have to tolerate her insolent stare and grating questions. He is halfway to the bed when he realises it is still occupied. The girl is fast asleep in a cocoon of tightly wrapped blankets and tangled brown curls. Her impossibly long eyelashes rest upon tear stained cheeks and there is a line of finger shaped bruises along the curve of her jaw. He doesn't even remember touching her there.

Looking down at her sleeping form something tired and long forgotten turns over inside him before it is quickly surpassed by irritation.

"Get up, girl." He grabs one of the blankets and yanks it roughly partially uncovering her.

"What?" She starts awake and immediately scrambles into a sitting position as she clutches the remaining blankets across her chest.

"This is not your bed," Lucius growls. He points imperiously to the futon in the corner of the room. The girl glares at him the sheer venom in that one look is terrifying. She climbs from the bed one of his blankets still wrapped demurely around her chest.

"That is not yours."

She stands completely still the blanket pulled around her. Then, her look changes to one of insolence and she drops the square of fabric at his feet as she walks past him. She climbs into her own small bed without so much as a glance in his direction and pulls the cover right up over her head.

Lucius looks at his empty bed. There is a large brown stain directly in the centre and he can taste the coppery tang of blood in the back of his throat. He vanishes the sheets with a shudder and summons a house elf to come and remake the bed. The task takes only minutes to complete, but by the time he is ensconced under clean covers and they are alone once more he can tell from her level breathing that the girl is fast asleep.

A/N I'm sorry that the sex wasn't nicer...I'm sorry that Lucius isn't nicer... Just generally sorry!