Posted: 26 October, 2015

Author'S Notes: So, I finally caved and added to this story. The first chapter was Hazel's POV. This one is Lucius's side of the story. I guess I'd call this a two-shot now? This second part feels a bit too complete to just call it a bonus chapter. Hope you all like it.

Warnings: The sexual content warning still stands.

Chapter 2: Lucius

Lucius remembered when Draco was thirteen. He had approached he and Narcissa looking paler even than usual, and stood before them all but shaking as he admitted to an inclination for wizards rather than witches.

Narcissa, the more demonstrative parent, had drawn their son into her arms at once and kissed his brow, promising he was still loved.

Lucius had merely nodded acceptingly and asked if there was any particular boy that had caught Draco's fancy. He did his son the courtesy of pretending not to notice the way he slumped in relief, knowing how much Draco wanted to appear strong to his father. Lucius had been the same way with Abraxas.

In truth, Lucius had probably realised his son's preference before the boy himself did. He'd long ago decided to accept it, even if it was … problematic. After all, not even magic allowed two men to procreate together, and Narcissa had been rendered barren by the long-awaited but difficult pregnancy and birth of Draco.

Lucius knew he came across as a cold man, and in many ways he was. The one great exception however, was family. Family was precious, coveted, to be cherished and protected at all costs. Bonds of blood and magic were as good as sacred. It was what he'd been raised to believe.

As much as he was raised to cherish family, Lucius was taught the importance of preserving the family line. The Malfoy family was an old one, with a noble history, and the possibility of it ending was anathema to him.

Equally anathema however, was the thought of his beloved son—who later became the only thing he had left of Narcissa—being forced into a loveless marriage with a spouse he could never be attracted to, doomed to live a lie. Draco deserved happiness, to be able to find a life partner of his choice, the same way Lucius had with Narcissa…

He'd heard the gossips of course—that his first marriage was one of convenience, an arrangement to join two old pure bloodlines: Malfoy and Black. While it was true that their families fully supported the union, it wasn't they who brought it about. Lucius and Narcissa had started dating in fifth year of their own accord, were thoroughly infatuated by sixth, had bid their families create a contract between them in seventh, and married straight out of Hogwarts. Theirs was a love-match from beginning to end.

Draco deserved a love-match.

And so, Lucius had concluded, he would have to remarry and have a second heir—a child who could inherit from Draco so his eldest wouldn't have to marry a woman, let alone bed one.

Making the decision to remarry and finding a suitable spouse were two different matters.

Most of the Darker families wanted nothing to do with the Malfoys for betraying the Dark Lord. Lucius and Draco had finally broken from Voldemort after he murdered Narcissa at Hogwarts for lying about Hazel Potter's survival. Not that they had been avid supporters of him before that, not in truth. But Karkaroff's fate, shortly after Voldemort's return, had disabused many of the wisdom of trying to leave the madman's service. It was only thanks to a Fidelius-ed safe house, provided grudgingly by the Order of the Phoenix—quite the irony, given the many times they'd crossed wands previously—that the Malfoy family survived turning aside from the Dark Lord unscathed.

While the Order might have condescended to hide them—the sizeable gold donation he made to the organization doubtless helped quiet any objectors—it didn't change the fact that the Light, even their old pure-blood families, wanted as little to do with the Malfoys as the Dark did these days. Their reasons were twofold: one, because Lucius and Draco at one point had been loyal Death Eaters … if you could call 'served out of desperation to save family and self' true loyalty; and two, even if they could overlook the former point, many still decried Lucius and his son for their supposed 'cowardice' in running and hiding rather than simply switching to fight for the Light.

As for the Grey families, renowned for their avoidance of conflict, the Malfoys were far too politically volatile a proposition to tie themselves to these days.

Lucius had to admit it grated on his pride a bit. If he and Narcissa hadn't fallen in love, he would have had his pick of brides as a younger man. Even some of the Lighter families might have considered it, in those days when 'Malfoy' stood for influence and affluence and opened doors wherever he went.

He supposed with a sufficiently generous bride-price he might be able to convince someone. But not just anyone would do. No, as previously stated, the Malfoy family's reputation was in tatters. As much as Lucius intended to lift the burden of taking a wife off Draco's shoulders, he also wanted for his son, and any sons or daughters that would follow, to be able to walk down Diagon Alley with their heads held high, without scornful looks and whispers, with pride in their name.

He had only started seriously looking for a bride after the war ended, finding dead-ends at the end of each subtle inquiry. The only vaguely promising response had been from the Greengrasses. A Grey family, their patriarch had been a Ravenclaw yearmate and one of Lucius's few friends who hadn't joined Voldemort. Except … no, it wasn't promising at all, because Anton Greengrass had been interested in wedding his youngest daughter, Astoria, with Draco, which was the complete opposite of what Lucius was aiming for.

Incidentally, Lucius had never been more proud of his son than when he accidentally stumbled upon that correspondence. Rather than throw a fit, which would have been perfectly in character—Lucius was aware that they had spoiled the boy somewhat—Draco had confronted him and grimly said, "I understand. There needs to be an heir after me. And I– I won't put up a fuss. I'll do the family proud, father."

Draco's mingled expression of sheer relief to learn that Lucius had no intention of accepting the offer if possible, and deep discomfort at the thought of his father married to another woman, was … well, rather hilarious to be truthful. Draco had bristled like a cat petted the wrong way when Lucius made the mistake of showing his amusement with a smirk. His son had always had a prideful ego. Narcissa had blamed Lucius for that—"Like father like son," she used to say.

After several months of little success in the wife-searching business, the most perfect opportunity imaginable all but landed in Lucius's lap. Quite literally actually—he'd been sitting in the parlour, drinking his morning tea, when a Daily Prophet owl swooped in and deposited a newspaper on his knees before flying off again.

There on the front page had been the flashing headline: "Matriarch Longbottom Initiates Match Call for Witch Which Won!"

The Witch Which Won. Hazel Potter. Last of an old bloodline, which Lucius knew his ancestors would approve of. A half-blood, which they wouldn't. But at least the muggle connection was distant enough that none of their hypothetical children would have a muggle grandparent—the requirement to deem someone less than pure-blooded.

Also, given the family's standing of late, taking a half-blooded wife—winning the hand of The Witch Which Won in particular—would help mitigate the stain on the Malfoy reputation with the public in general and Light side in particular. The old Dark families, on the other hand, would consider her half-blood status something that could be overlooked for once, given Hazel Potter's power, achievements and political capital, and the aforementioned fact that any children would technically be pure-bloods. Extenuating circumstances and all that.

Yes, Hazel Potter would be completely, utterly perfect for his purposes.

Lucius wasn't fool enough, however, to think a former Death Eater such as himself would serve hers.

If he was serious about making an offer, serious about being accepted … he would have to be willing to make sacrifices. It was the only way to convincingly present himself as not only worth the risk, but as the best candidate.

It would be no small task, Lucius knew. But he wasn't a Slytherin for nothing. He knew ambition, and he knew cunning, and he had honed both.

It wasn't hard to locate a few of the early candidates who were interviewed by Matriarch Longbottom, and enquire as to the questions and information that the esteemed elderly witch considered relevant in searching for Hazel Potter's Match. Added to the results of the background search he commissioned, Lucius had a fairly good idea of what he need to do, to be and to sacrifice in order to have any chance of success.

In the end, as if Fate herself smiled on his efforts, the young Longbottom heir provided Lucius the perfect opening during his interview.

Neville had grown increasingly more agitated as Lucius's interview progressed and he managed to tick most of Augusta Longbottom's boxes and answer her questions to satisfaction.

"And how do we know he's telling the truth?" Neville finally demanded. "How can we simply trust his word? We can't."

"I would be willing to submit to truth serum," Lucius offered smoothly as planned. "Two drops, not three, of course. So that you can be assured of truth when I answer, but I can still retain my silence and privacy where necessary."

The younger man remained unimpressed, however. "Even if you pass that test, even if you mean every word now, it doesn't guarantee you wouldn't lapse into your old ways at a later date. You've done it before. No, nothing would convince me short of … an Unbreakable Vow."

Augusta sucked in a sharp breath, turning to reprimand her grandson for his gall—to demand such a thing was simply not done.

The boy remained defiant however, jaw set and eyes blazing. "It's Hazel, gran," he insisted. "I don't give a damn about proprietary, I care about her."

If nothing else, Lucius admired his dedication to his godsister's wellbeing. Augusta Longbottom's censure was no small thing to stand up to, but Neville did so in that moment without flinching.

As the sharp argument came to an end, Lucius came to a decision. He had responded to the Match Call, gone into the interview, with a goal firmly in mind, and wasn't about to back down now.

"Very well," he said. "An Unbreakable Vow it will be."

Their matched looks of shock were passingly amusing.

But then Neville's expression turned triumphant, and Augusta looked surprisingly calculative for a non-Slytherin as she pulled out parchment and quill. Lucius's whole focus was then taken up with haggling over the wording of the Vow, making it as well-balanced as possible between something which would convince Hazel Potter's representatives that he was her ideal Match, and being something he could truly live with being bound to.

Lucius couldn't say that the age gap didn't concern him a little. Of course it did, his wife-to-be was his son's age. If a man of Lucius's years attempted to become involved with Draco… Well, needless to say Lucius would itch for his wand and, if not for the Vow restricting his less-than-Light actions, there would also be a body to hide.

So yes, the age difference had indeed bothered him a little, even if the implied maturity had turned out to be a mark in his favour in Matriarch Longbottom's eyes.

But then came the day of their hand-fasting, and as Lucius watched Hazel Potter approach the altar, clad in naught but a simple but flatteringly-tailored robe … it was clear to all present that this was very much a woman and not a girl come to be wed.

When Lucius brought her to his bedroom afterwards, when they progressed to disrobing, and she stood shyly naked before him, her womanhood was all the more apparent.

Narcissa had been pale—white skin, fair hair, icy-blue eyes—and tall and willowy. Deceptively delicate looking, but sharp-edged. A regal, elegant sort of beauty.

Hazel's skin was milky-pale, but her eyes were bright emerald and her hair crimson. She was not as tall, but more curved, softer. Her hips were round, her waist nipped, and her breasts were full with pink nipples that he longed to taste.

Every bit a woman.

He took her to bed, any lingering reservations forgotten as he watched the flush spread from her cheeks, down her neck to colour her chest, while he worked his fingers into her till she cried out.

She blinked at him, still dazed, but welcoming, as he finally sheathed himself inside her and made her gasp and clutch at him as he brought them both to ecstasy. And if, as he did so, he bent to finally taste those nipples? They were as lovely as he'd imagined.

He woke some hours later, in the early dark of the morning, as a warm feminine weight shifted at his side. It had been a long time since he experienced such a thing—not since Narcissa, more than three years ago—and he was no longer used to the company. Not that Lucius had remained celibate all that time, not at all. But he hadn't slept beside a woman, let alone invited one to rest in his own bed, since his wife died.

Honestly, he hadn't expected that to change now either.

Lucius had gone into this, his second marriage, with his eyes wide open. It was a practical arrangement. Both sides were aware of that fact. They would be cordial, friendly, perhaps become friends.

But then, the evening before, the way Hazel had responded to him…

Lucius twisted a crimson curl around one finger as he contemplated his new wife. He knew that some sort of health issue had prompted her search for a husband. Augusta Longbottom had confided that much, if not the details, and Hazel had confirmed it last night. Lucius was well-tutored in magical theory however. He knew that any illness which required a marriage bond, a twining of souls, in order to recover from … could only be something very Dark. Curse damage, perhaps. A lingering remnant from the war, maybe even the doing of Voldemort himself.

The point being, Lucius knew his wife had married as much for necessity as he. Perhaps even more so. Pragmatism, not romance, brought them together. She needed no more from him than the official arrangement, and yet … it had been very clear that she was determined to see if there could be more than that.

Lucius himself had been raised expecting an arranged marriage, before Narcissa. He'd been taught how to treat a wife in such a circumstance, how to be tender and respectful and how to hopefully nurture an affection.

Hazel had reacted to every gesture and touch with a determined openness that was, quite frankly, stunning. And courageous. Admirably so. Even a Slytherin could acknowledge that. Perhaps especially a Slytherin—they knew quite well how emotional vulnerability could be leveraged against a person.

The courage it took aside, her reaction was logical really, when he took a moment to think about it. Whatever the individual reasons that brought them to this point, they were tied together for life now. They were family, and that was no small thing, not to him. Probably not to an orphan either.

And so, after they had consummated their union—gilt lines now marked their wrists—and once he was sure she was cared for, Lucius had found himself speaking impulsively, something most uncharacteristic for him.

"I've had the lady's chambers remodelled for your use," he'd said. "They're through the adjoining door there. Consider it your sanctuary, for I shall never enter without invitation. You're welcome to retire there." That much went as planned. The next bit however…

"You would be equally as welcome to rest here with me, in my bed, as often as you wish," he had told her, surprising himself even as the words escaped his lips, though he didn't let it show. And yet he hadn't even considered withdrawing the offer when she sought to confirm his sincerity.

Coming back to the present, Lucius absentmindedly smoothed a hand up Hazel's bare back. A small smile spread across his lips as she sighed softly in her sleep and unconsciously shifted closer to him.

Yes, perhaps this marriage could be about more than heirs and Draco's freedom, the Malfoy reputation and Hazel's health. Perhaps there could be affection and passion and maybe, if they were very lucky, love.

Narcissa, he was sure, would hex him thoroughly if he didn't at least try to find what happiness he could.

Above their bed, some enterprising house-elf had preserved and hung a flowered wreath.

Normally Lucius would chide the servant in question—he preferred private rooms not to be altered, furnished or decorated without permission. When he saw the way Hazel's emerald eyes lit up on spotting it however, before she sent him a softly pleased look … he changed his mind and instead found the elf later and praised it discretely, sending the creature into tearful raptures.

Sometimes he would just take a moment to look at the wreath, at his wife's wedding crown, remembering again the deep thought he'd put into choosing the flowers. It hadn't been easy, given their history and their abrupt marriage, but he was in the end quite proud of what he put together: a symbol of marriage and fidelity of course, but also conveying his honest admiration for her and her achievements, and a hope they could start anew and achieve a happy union.

His two wives were both strong, courageous, loyal women. But they were different as well. Learning those differences, learning Hazel, was something Lucius found he quite enjoyed, even if it took him off guard at times.

Narcissa, as was the case in most ancient pure-blood houses, had been raised to present a restrained, aloof image to the world. To family she could be soft and loving, but to strangers she was ice and grace. She would show no more attachment in public than absolutely necessary. Outside their home she might walk with her hand in the crook of Lucius's elbow, or favour Draco with a motherly hand to the cheek, but that was the extent of her public displays of affection.

Hazel was a very different sort of woman. No less well-mannered and graceful in her own way—Augusta Longbottom had seen to that—but so much more open. Once assured that Lucius welcomed her affections, Hazel thought nothing of threading her fingers through his, even as they walked down the middle of Diagon Alley. She would lean into his side at times, and whisper in his ear when she wanted to speak to him, and kiss his cheek when they parted no matter who was watching.

The forward behaviour had startled Lucius at first, but he quickly found he liked it.

A tiny corner of his mind lamented that he never had such openness with Narcissa while he could, but having been raised in a similar manner, the idea that it could be different never occurred to him. It had taken his second, courageous Gryffindor wife to lead the way.

Oddity and enjoyment of it aside, Hazel's behaviour amused him too, for how it set tongues wagging. A very many people, Lucius suspected, had concocted theories of some secret romance between them during the latter year of the war, and that their marriage was a love-match rather than an arrangement, Match Call or not. The theories certainly didn't hurt Lucius's reputation, or the Malfoy family name for that matter.

Upon returning from one such trip to Diagon, a month into their marriage, Hazel inquired if he minded the rumours. In response, Lucius carefully admitted the benefits he saw.

Hazel just stared at him for a moment. "Is that the only benefit you see in it?" she asked quietly.

Lucius was shaking his head before she even finished. "No, not at all." He cupped her face in his hands, seeing and disliking very much the carefully-hidden but still-visible hurt in her eyes. "I only mention it because I Vowed to tell you no lies. And this is the truth also: Even without the social advantages, I quite like how free you are with me. I like you near. I like your touch, and your kisses."

Her lips, which had slowly turned up as her eyes grew bright with happiness, were soon much too busy for smiling. He kissed her until she was panting as she pulled back to whisper, "Take me to bed?"

"It would be my pleasure," he murmured, swept her into his arms, and headed upstairs.

Another way his wives differed was in their … connubial activities.

Narcissa was a gently-bred lady in all ways. Aloof in public, more fond in private, but still maintaining a certain reserve. Even in their coming together as man and wife she was delicate and … proper probably wasn't the right word, given the activities. Sweet. She had liked things sweet, and careful, and adored being treated gently and lovingly like she was the most precious thing to him, which she very much had been. And they never made love outside their bed, in their suite, in the evenings.

Not to say that Narcissa was anything close to one-dimensional. Sometimes their lovemaking had been more intense, sometimes it would last forever as they stared into one another's eyes, overwhelmed by their love. And once in a blue moon Narcissa's need for sweetness would slip entirely in favour of something more … wild.

The first time it happened, the first time Narcissa's soft sighs transformed into delighted screams, and she left bloody scratches down his back, had been … a revelation. It had shocked and excited Lucius—a young, less experienced man back then—so much that he nearly embarrassed himself and took his pleasure too early.

Secretly, Lucius suspected one of these rare occasions had been behind Draco's conception. He never mentioned it of course, because it would have mortified Narcissa if he did—she had always flushed pink and insisted on healing the marks she left on him, even if he might have preferred to keep them a little longer. Telling Draco was of course utterly unacceptable, utterly improper, though Lucius imagined his son's reaction would doubtless be hilarious.

But he digressed: Mostly, Narcissa was sweet. And, on rare occasion, wild.

Hazel was something different entirely.

Having come to the marriage bed untouched—a surprise which, if he was to be honest, pleased him some—his first joining with Hazel had been shy on her part and careful but thorough on his. As time went on however, she found her confidence, an ease in her body and pleasure with him. And her approach changed, as he had expected it to, bold Gryffindor hero that his new wife was.

Once they settled into a rhythm, their bedroom activities were more uninhibited: sometimes playful, often sensual, frequently intense.

Hazel was unapologetic and stunningly open in her desires. She could be utterly hedonistic, demanding his attentions frequently—not that it was any burden to comply. And yet she wasn't a selfish lover. If anything, she was quite generous, playfully inviting Lucius to tell her his fantasies so that they could explore them.

Explore, exploratory… Yes, that was a good word for his lovemaking with Hazel. They learned each other as much through touch and taste and passion as they did their more platonic moments, not having the advantage of several years' proper courting before they'd been wed as he had with Narcissa.

Another difference with his new wife was that their bedroom activities were not, despite the name, restricted solely to the bedroom.

Case in point…

"This isn't our bed," Hazel mock-chided as he finally set her down and began to strip their clothing. "It looks very much like the bathroom."

"Hmm, the alley was dusty. I thought we could bathe first."

They settled in the tub, her back to his chest. She all but melted as he washed her hair. Next he ran a washcloth over her body, enjoying the way she hummed when he paid perhaps more attention to her breasts than was necessary, and then gasped softly when he dipped between her legs.

"Lucius," she moaned as he let the washcloth float away but continued to massage her there. Lightly though, teasing and taunting and not quite enough.

"Yes, my dear?" he asked, attempting an unaffected tone. But Hazel was getting rather good at reading him, he had noticed. She no doubt heard the slight huskiness he couldn't hide, and also the underlying laughter.

Sure enough, she gave a huff and swatted his hands away, then turned around with an accusing pout. He blinked at her in his best guileless fashion. Her eyes narrowed, then she smiled ever-so-sweetly, shifted to straddle his lap and sunk down.

His head fell back with a hissed groan, hands clamping on her hips. "Demon," he accused.

She settled herself comfortably, like he wasn't inside of her, and reached for the shampoo.

"Really?" he asked. "You think now is the time to return the favour?"

She blinked at him, returning his earlier guileless look. "You don't want me to wash your hair?" she asked softly.

He was almost one hundred percent sure that she was playing him. But then she bit her lip as her face fell and looked away and… Truthfully? Lucius was not quite capable of rational thought in that instant. He challenged any man to be so when their woman was warm and wet and tight around him.

"Of course I would like that," he said.

Her smile was all things victorious.

He let her think she had won, because he knew she truly did enjoy washing his hair, as much as she liked him washing hers. She was rather enamoured with his hair in general actually—"It's terribly unfair you know," she had told him one morning. "Even just out of bed your hair is sleek and smooth and tangle-free—I can even run my fingers through it! But mine, curse my father's genes, is a horrible mess at the best of times."

He had replied, quite honestly, that he thought hers was lovely, that her tumble of wild crimson curls made his fingers itch to bury his hands in them. This had been only a week or so into their marriage, and the compliment combined with his husky tone had made her flush … and then he'd kissed her and she had grown flushed for a different reason.

So yes, he would let her indulge in washing his hair, and thinking she had won. But he was Lucius Malfoy, Slytherin to the bone, and he did not play fair.

"Everything all right, my dear?" he asked when she faltered.

"What are you doing?" she asked, as if she didn't know. Her hands resumed their washing motions, slower than before.

"Oh, I believe I missed a spot earlier," he murmured, continuing to massage her breasts.

She huffed, but he could tell it was mostly amusement, her annoyance feigned. "That's two spots."

"Why, so it is."

"And I'm fairly sure you didn't miss them."

"I misspoke. I didn't miss these spots, I was simply not … thorough enough," he said, making his tone as deep and provocative as he could, smirking when she shuddered.

Her eyes narrowed on his smirk, and a silent 'challenge accepted' flitted through her eyes, right before she clenched down on him. And then again, and again, in an unceasing rhythm that made his head fall to her shoulder.

She laughed, the wicked, delightful thing. He pinched her nipples in retaliation, making her gasp and involuntarily grip his hair tighter, tugging his head back.

"Demon," he accused again, meeting her gaze.

"What sort?" she asked, moving on to rinsing his hair.

"Oh, a succubus. No doubt about it." When she was done he lifted her off him, biting back a groan as she whined. "I shall have to take control, lest you steal my sanity entirely."

"Oh?" she asked, eyelids drooping. "Control, hmm…?"

One of the fantasies she had managed to get him to confess to, which they had explored and quite enjoyed, was the concept of dominance and submission. Nothing so gauche as whips and chains—although he had let her tie him to the bedposts once. She'd ridden him to her own completion over and over, whilst he gritted his teeth, until finally, exhausted and trembling, she had slipped off him and slid down and took him in her mouth. Lucius had been fairly certain at the time that he'd never come so hard in his life.

Mostly though the give and take of control was subtle: his weight pressing her down as he caught her wrists; or her hands wrapped in his hair, directing him as she spread her thighs and let him kiss her in that intimate place; his teeth at her neck; her hand on his cock, too light for satisfaction, pulling back when he tried for more…

Here and now, he turned Hazel around and pushed her towards the edge of the sunken tub, then bent her over it. She pressed a flushed cheek to the cold mosaic tile floor and bit her lip. He nudged her legs apart and began to explore her exposed sex from behind until his fingers were slick with her and she was whimpering.

"Lucius," Hazel sighed in relief when he finally stopped teasing and pressed into her properly. Her fingers scrabbled at the tiles and, unable to find purchase, pressed flat instead. "Please. Oh…"

He brought her release twice, screams echoing in the tiled chamber, before growing impatient.

"But you haven't–" Hazel tried to object when he pulled them both from the bath.

"I want you in our bed after all," he confessed.

They dried with perhaps more haste than thoroughness, then he swept her into his arms. Hazel automatically wrapped her legs around his waist and gave a satisfied cry as she found him. He stumbled as she undulated in his arms, head falling back, practically inviting him to suck a bruise into her neck.

He somehow managed the last few steps to their adjoining bedroom without dropping her or embarrassing himself. Though she didn't make it easy, especially given the soft, dissatisfied sound she made as he slipped from her when he spilled her onto their bed, and how her hand quickly slid down between her legs.

He froze for a long moment, just watching, until her back arched and she came on her own fingers and settled again, panting. It was the wickedly knowing look in her eyes, the barely-hidden smirk, that finally jolted him into action.

"Demon," he accused once more, voice barely-recognisable. He crawled atop her, pressed her knees back, and sheathed himself in one smooth movement, admiring the way Hazel's eyes rolled back and her mouth opened on a wordless cry. "There we go."

"Yes, there," she gasped back as he thrust. "Like that. Please."

As they lost themselves in one another again, Hazel's nails left half-crescent marks on his shoulders and arms—little bloody remnants of their pleasure. The tiny corner of Lucius's mind not caught up in hot-wet-tight-good-mine-take-give decided that he would keep the marks till they healed, already looking forward to the way Hazel would flush whenever she caught sight of them, torn between sheepish and a smug possessiveness he found rather fetching upon her.

Lucius choked on his tea. His hacking cough was completely undignified, but he thought he could be forgiven, considering. The cause was more than sufficient.

At his side, his wife gently patted his back, but a glance her way showed a barely-suppressed hilarity beneath her shock. He favoured Hazel with a mild glare, and watched her face twitch before she curled closer and buried it in his shoulder, wrapping an arm across his waist.

Draco, meanwhile, looked about ready to vomit. For once it wasn't due to his father and stepmother's gestures of affection—"Nauseating!" Draco once declared when he came down to breakfast one morning and caught them kissing across the table in the solarium. "I may fully support this marriage, but I don't need to see such things!"—but down to sheer nerves instead.

Lucius reminded himself that he had to be a good father now, that was the priority, even if he would prefer to get up and leave and pretend he never heard his son's words. Perhaps he'd even Obliviate himself for good measure.

Taking a deep, even breath, he said, "Draco, no matter what you do, no matter who you lo–" He paused to clear his throat, pointedly ignoring the muffled snicker at his shoulder. "No matter who you love," he choked out, "I will always accept you, support you. You are my son. This is unconditional."

"Truly?" Draco's tone was, understandably, rather disbelieving. "You did hear who has been courting me, did you not?"

"Yes. And I thank you for having the courtesy to inform me before making introductions."

"I was unsure as to how you'd react. I felt a warning may be prudent to avoid … unpleasantness." Draco was beginning to look a bit more confident. "So I have your approval?"

"Yes," Lucius managed to say with minimal wincing.

Hazel finally managed to gather herself enough to join the conversation. "Well," she said, sitting up straight again, "I'd suspected you had a thing for redheads, but I thought it was a different one that caught your eye."

Identical blank looks turned her way.

"I had this theory," Hazel explained earnestly. A bit too earnestly, and Lucius's eyes narrowed as he braced himself, familiar by now with his wife's impish moments.

"Theory?" Draco asked. The poor boy didn't know any better.

"Yes. Like pulling pigtails, you know. You and Ronald did spend an awful lot of time bickering like besotted, emotionally-stunted toddlers."

Once more, Draco looked like he wanted to vomit. Lucius was fairly sure his face looked the same—he had encountered the ill-mannered, temperamental, youngest Weasley son a time or two.

His wicked, evil wife fell into a fit of giggles.

"No," Draco finally managed to spit. "Merlin and all the gods, never."

"You sure?"

"I am absolutely, completely positive that it's Charlie I'm seeing, not…" Draco trailed off, shuddering.

"I admit to great relief at hearing that," Lucius confessed. "While I haven't encountered the second of Arthur's children as often, those times that I did he seemed vastly more mature and well-mannered than Ronald."

"He is," Draco said, expression turning soft and … well, enamoured. Lucius warmed at the sight of it, because wasn't that exactly what he'd hoped Draco would find? "He's a little rough around the edges, I'll admit, but he's been a perfect gentleman–"

"He'd better have been," Lucius muttered, making Hazel giggle again.

"–and very sweet, and he shares my passion for dragons. He's recently transferred to the Welsh Dragon Reserve, where I'm doing my studies, so he can be near his family. That's how we met."

"Well," Hazel said, tone still amused, but also genuinely warm, "I wish you both every happiness."

She and Draco had formed a hesitant friendship of sorts since her marriage to Lucius. Provided Hazel and his father weren't doing anything Draco found scandalous—though Draco, it seemed, found even the sight of them standing close and holding hands to be too much for his poor eyes and delicate stomach—they got on quite well, and she was clearly pleased for him.

"You invited him for Christmas, I hope?" she asked.

Draco lit up, but threw a questioning glance towards Lucius. When Lucius nodded, Draco grinned. "His harpy of a mother demands his presence Christmas Day, but he says he will definitely make himself available for Christmas Eve."

"That'll work quite well actually. We were intending to invite Neville and Augusta over, but they usually spend Christmas Day at St Mungo's visiting Neville's parents. We can have Christmas a day early, and everyone will be able to come." She nodded firmly, and like that it was all decided.

Lucius meanwhile was glad that Christmas was still three weeks off. It gave him more time to come to terms with the horrifying fact that his son was being courted by a Weasley.

Malfoy ancestors were rolling over in their graves.

Christmas Eve, to Lucius's surprise, had gone quite smoothly. It had even been—dare he say it?—pleasant.

If someone had told his past self, even as short a time as a year ago, that he would enjoy a dinner hosted at Malfoy Manor, with the invited guests all from prominent Light families, one a Weasley no less… Well, his past self wouldn't have believed it for a moment. And yet, it had happened.

Charles Weasley had been … tolerable, he supposed, though it grated to admit it. And really, any wizard who presumed to court Lucius's beloved son couldn't hope for any more than that from Lucius.

"Stop pouting," an amused voice said from his side. "You know you like Charlie–"

"Like is perhaps being overgenerous."

"–and he makes Draco happy, which I know is important to you."

He sighed. "Yes, I suppose. But I reserve the right to be irrationally resentful of him despite that. Or perhaps because of it. It is a father's prerogative."

She laughed into his chest and Lucius looked down, admiring the nude form splayed across his as they lay on the grass. Sunlight shined on every tempting dip and curve. He traced a finger up her spine and smiled as she all but purred in contentment.

Draco would probably have a fit at them 'defiling' the garden—and also the solarium, the library and the parlour before they'd finally made their way outside—but as his son was away and not expected back till the morrow, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

As to why Draco was absent, his beau had invited him to the rather … quaintly-named 'Burrow' to meet his family. Draco, for reasons unknown to Lucius, had actually accepted.

"Don't worry," Charles had whispered to Lucius before they left that morning, "it'll be awkward but everyone should be polite. Except maybe Ron. But if he gets too much, I'll make our excuses and we'll leave for mine early. Mum'll be furious at Ron for driving me off and ruining Christmas. She'll chew him out so thoroughly he'll be afraid to breathe wrong around Draco for a while, let alone be insulting."

Lucius had raised a mildly impressed eyebrow. "You show surprising cunning for a Gryffindor," he'd said, making the other wizard laugh.

"You sound like Draco. Not sure why you Slytherins think you have the market cornered on being tricksy, but I assure you, you don't."

He'd thought of his wife then—her wickedly tempting ways, and the mischievous games she sometimes played with him—and had to concede the point.

"Hmm, stop that," Hazel said, making him realise that his hands had begun to … wander, as his mind did.

"Stop? Are you sure?"

Her first, "Yes," was less than convincing. The second one was firmer, and then she pushed his hands away and sat up, straddling him.

"This," Lucius drawled, sitting up and leaning back on his hands, admiring the view, "is not helping me keep my hands to myself."

She laughed lightly, and rested her arms over his shoulders and kissed him. It was fairly chaste as kisses went. Soft and sweet, and when Hazel pulled back she stared into his eyes with an emotion he couldn't quite place.

He raised one hand to her cheek. "What is it?" he asked in a hush, though he wasn't sure why. It just seemed like the moment called for quiet.

Her smile was slow to spread, but luminous. "I want to give you your Christmas present."

"You already did that yesterday, if you recall?" They and their guests had exchanged gifts before dinner.

"Hmm, but there's something else." And then she gently took his hand from her cheek and lowered it, pressing it to her abdomen.

It took him a moment, but then his eyes went wide. He sat up fully, free arm going around her, unconsciously protective and possessive. He stared from his hand on her stomach, actually shaking where he touched her, then back up to meet her eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked, choked.

She nodded, beaming. "I caught it early. My menses is only a week late. But the test was conclusive. I'm three weeks along."

Really, there was only one possible response.

He kissed her.

Kissed her with more passion than he'd ever kissed her before.

The wreath hung above their bed was framed rather artistically with four curling ribbons—the ones Hazel had selected for their hand-fasting. She had chosen just as well as he had with the flowers, Lucius would reflect, whenever he looked at it.

There was the traditional white for marriage of course. Blue for patience and understanding, something two previously-adversarial individuals would need going into a marriage with hope of success, which was represented by the gold ribbon. Finally was a soft green one, a plea for children, for fertility and virility.

Lucius could remember how Hazel had blushed as she presented it to Augusta during the hand-fasting, but kept her chin high and didn't waver. She knew what she wanted and didn't back down.

Courageous, that's what his wife was. And as he watched her grow fuller with their child, he had never been more grateful for it. It had taken Lucius and Narcissa years to conceive Draco—he and Hazel had been married less than a half of one when she made the announcement.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the ribbon. Or perhaps it had everything to do with it. Either way, every time he saw the framed wreath Lucius couldn't help but smile.

"She'll see you now, Mr Malfoy."

He barely managed to nod at the healer, but the woman, if he would have cared to look, seemed more amused and understanding than offended as he rushed past her.

His hurried pace slowed as he entered the room, eyes riveted to the sight that met his eyes. Hazel, tired and sweaty and somehow more beautiful than ever to him, sat reclined on the bed. In her arms a tiny swaddled form was held to one breast and she gazed on it with awe.

She dragged her gaze away when he sat himself carefully on her bedside, and for a moment his breath caught as that awed gaze was turned his way.

"Lucius," she whispered, voice threaded with amazement and joy, "look what we made."

He looked down into the face of his secondborn for the first time. Just as he had with Draco, Lucius fell immediately in love. He reached out for the hand that had escaped the swaddling and a lump caught in his throat as tiny fingers gripped his pinky finger. His thumb brushed ever so carefully over a head of wispy, strawberry-blond curls.

"She's beautiful," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "Have you chosen a name?" Traditionally, fathers named the sons, and mothers the daughters.

"I was thinking … Anastasia."

His eyes snapped to hers, and she smiled gently at him. "My mother?" he asked, remembering the beautiful, graceful woman who he'd loved and desperately missed when she died. He'd only been twelve when it happened. "I thought you'd choose Lily."

"I considered it, but I don't know, she just feels more like an Anastasia to me. Annie, I'll call her." She gave him an amused look. "Though no doubt you'll insist on being more formal."

"But of course," he drawled, though inwardly he expected he'd end up calling her 'princess' or 'sweetheart'—something terribly soppy—and be wrapped around her little finger. For now though, he would maintain a façade of dignity. "Middle name then? Anastasia Lily Potter."

But again Hazel shook her head. "Anastasia Malfoy Potter," she said softly, and pressed a kiss to his chest over his heart when he swallowed, knowing how much it meant to him. "Potter heiress she may be, but her daddy's a Malfoy. I won't deny that."

Lucius traced two fingers under Hazel's chin, lifting it, then pressed his lips to hers. It was soft and slow, and he poured every ounce of his affection and gratitude and awe into it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. He waited till her eyelids fluttered open again before saying, "Thank you," with more sincerity than he'd ever done before. What he didn't say was 'I love you', but he suspected very much that it wouldn't be long before that changed. And, if the tender look in her eyes was any indication, he was not the only one.

"You're welcome," she whispered in return, then reluctantly pulled away when Anastasia finished feeding, letting Lucius hold their precious daughter as she fixed her gown back up to preserve her modesty before suggesting, "Why don't you tell the others they can come in now. They've been almost as eager to meet her as we have."

He carefully eased Anastasia back into her mother's arms and went to do just that, only to pause halfway to the door, spin on his heels and return for another kiss. "Thank you," he murmured against her mouth, in that same reverent tone as before.

Then he finally left to call in the others, especially looking forward to introducing Draco to his new sister.

Lucius had gone into his second marriage with his eyes wide open.

It was a practical arrangement.

But the more time passed, the more certain he was that it would be a love-match after all.

Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).