Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter are not mine, though I would happily beg for Lucius! (And I don't mean my dog, I didn't have to beg for him, and yes, my dog's name is Lucius).

AN: This is my first foray into the HP world of writing, so I pray you don't judge me too harshly. This is not beta read, so if there is something glaringly out of place (and I'm certain there is), please feel free to PM me. Suggestions and concrit are kindly received if kindly given. I wasn't going to post this until it was finished, but I thought to see if it was worth continuing and if I'm at least in the right ballpark. I do hope you enjoy my meager offering.

I am also taking suggestions for a proper title as titles are my bane. *lol* Well, without further ado...

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Chapter 1: "Burning Cinders"

"In order to rise
From its own ashes
A phoenix
First
Must
Burn."

― Octavia E. Butler

Hermione stood stiffly in a darkened alcove, trying desperately to divert attention away from herself. She knew those in closest proximity had witnessed the barely hissed argument between Ron and herself, but more than that, Ron leaving with a bright red handprint across his cheek and another witch on his arm had drawn more attention than she thought she could abide. She was certain the Prophet would be gleefully spouting the story of their separation to the public by morning, something they had managed to keep strictly under wraps until now. The wizarding gossip mongers would surely love nothing more than to sink their teeth into the story and speculate how their falling out would affect the dynamics between "The Golden Trio" now that the cat was so spectacularly out of the bag.

She was equally mortified that she'd let her emotions get the best of her at all, but at a social event? Even more humiliating, at a charity benefit held at—ironically—none other than Malfoy Manor. She'd almost laughed aloud when she received the invitation to be a guest speaker, but the ensuing onset of trepidation resulting from the location had effectively snuffed the urge. With trembling fingers, she'd screwed up her Gryffindor courage and owled her acceptance.

The purpose of the speeches and subsequent festivities were designed to encourage the raising of funds for the continued support of children orphaned by the war, a cause she championed, and her sole reason for even considering stepping foot into the loathsome mansion once more. There were no good memories for her here, despite the apparent efforts of the Malfoy's to continue redeeming themselves and their name. However, as a leading charity supporter and post-war heroine, she had a requisite position to fulfil, even if it was self-imposed.

The nerve of that prat, she fumed silently, her thoughts coming around to bear on her current situation once more. Slinking further into the shadows of the alcove, she fought to maintain her composure. She knew she could be hot-tempered, but she had thought she'd learned to show more restraint than that. And if Ron thought inspiring her to jealousy was the way to rekindle the spark in their relationship, he was sadly mistaken. Instead, it only served to show her that, perhaps, there was nothing left in their relationship worth salvaging. The burgeoning fire she had felt for him during the war and the subsequent short handful of years following had slowly died to a few stubborn coals among the ashes. Tonight, he had effectively snuffed the last remaining embers. She thought she should feel something over it, sadness at what they no longer shared, or anger at his pathetic attempt to manipulate her. Well, she did feel anger, but not for the reasons he'd intended. She felt anger and... regret. Not regret over a relationship lost, but regret at years wasted trying to keep a semblance of their relationship alive. She was stubborn that way; it was not in her nature to just give up without a fight. Perhaps that was the Gryffindor in her. Perhaps if he'd ever tried romancing her instead...

Hermione shook her head.

No.

Ron didn't have a romantic bone in his body. His charm was superficial and woefully one-dimensional when it came to her. She'd found it sort of sweet once, but as time wore on, she began to feel more suffocated by it than charmed. She leant back against the wall, her downcast eyes taking in the vibrant crimson of her Muggle evening gown. Red... the colour of love...or rage, she mused. How ironic. Both were acclaimed emotions with a strong basis in passion, but she'd never felt the intensity in the former that she presently did in the latter. That kind of fervour had never existed in her relationship with Ron. In fact, beyond the ardour of lust found in the first blush of new love, she wasn't sure it existed at all. Maybe that was why romance novels were written in such profuse abundance, as a way to bring the fantasy to life for hundreds of souls seeking to satisfy that elusive connection in their mundane relationships.

She picked at the material of her gown. Knowing the calibre of the guests that a social function orchestrated by the wealthy family was likely to draw, she'd done some serious fashion research and then shopped specifically for this event. She'd ended up with a simple, but stylish piece. Never one to be too ostentatious, she was satisfied with her final selection. The floor length gown she'd chosen boasted no sparkling adornments but was a deep and vibrant hue of crimson, the halter-top plunging into a daring V between the swell of her breasts to be arrested by a sash of burnished gold. Made of a rich, voluptuous satin that hugged her torso and fell in a gossamer cascade from her waist, it also boasted a decadent chiffon overlay that swirled behind her like waves cresting on a blood red ocean, and when she moved, it revealed a provocative slit in the side that soared nearly up to mid-thigh. Coupled with an elegant chignon, some strategically placed curls, and a pair of matching opera length gloves, the total effect was that the empire styled gown made her feel beautiful, confident; the proverbial Cinderella going to the ball instead of the sacrificial lamb returning to the altar of its once near-demise.

She was certain that her feelings about the manor would never change, no matter how many pretty garlands were strung from its rafters. She had seen with her own eyes the darkness that had once dwelled here, now hidden behind the gaiety. And now, more than ever, she wished midnight would strike the hour and end the nightmare her evening had become. She was only thankful that speeches had been spoken, the banquet indulged, and the function had moved into the ballroom proper for social intermingling and entertainment. A light touch on her arm startled her out of her dark musings.

"Are you okay, Hermione?"

She looked up into the worried eyes of her dearest friend, Harry. "Yeah, I'll be all right, for tonight at least. Who knows about tomorrow?" she shrugged.

He nodded, his brow furrowed in concern. "Here, I thought you might like a drink," he said, handing her one of the two flutes of champagne he held.

"Thank you, Harry, that was very thoughtful of you," she responded quietly, taking a small sip of the fizzy, golden liquid. The effervescence of the champagne was entirely too cheery as it danced over her tongue, she thought, somewhat uncharitably.

Harry seemed to vacillate over what to say to her next, his expression one of uncertain consideration. "I know now isn't the appropriate time," he finally said, his voice pitched for her ears only, "but if you want to talk, I'm here for you, Hermione."

"I know," she gave him a small smile. "I think I just need to get through this night and then get away for a bit."

The look he gave her was questioning, but he said nothing. Hermione could clearly read the silence as if he'd spoken aloud, however.

"Don't worry, Harry, nothing so drastic. I still have my dignity. I was thinking maybe it's time I took a holiday, that's all. Spend some time rethinking the direction my life is taking while all this blows over." She made a vague gesture toward the general vicinity of the main room.

"Of course, Hermione, that sounds like a sensible plan," but his tone belied his uncertainty as he placed his hand on her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She sighed. Despite his well-meaning intentions, she really just wanted to be alone. "Look, I'll talk to you later, all right? I promise. But if you don't mind, I think I'm going to finish this glass of champagne and find a way to gracefully exit this nightmare."

Harry nodded at her as she excused herself from his company, his demeanour clearly one of the sympathetic friend. She'd barely made it thirty paces along the wall from the alcove before she felt the brush of fingertips along her upper arm. With fire flashing in her eyes, she spun around to meet the pale, ice blue eyes of Draco Malfoy.

"Everything all right, Granger?"

She gave him a twisted smile that bordered on the edges of being a sneer. Even though they had not attended Hogwart's for several years now and she had since married, the younger Malfoy male had never ceased calling her by her maiden name—not that she had more contact with him than was absolutely necessary. Somehow, the Malfoy men invariably participated in many of the same committees and fundraisers she did, and while they still kept to themselves with that characteristic insouciance that seemed bred into the pureblood families, their circles had crossed paths more often than she'd thought would be possible after the war. She had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that they did seem sincere in their stance to reconcile with the community, either by donating to—or outright funding—many of the post-war charities that had sprung up afterwards to rebuild the school and support the children of those families they had helped to destroy.

Hermione saw it as an underhanded attempt to make wizarding Britain beholden to the wealthy family once more. A hidden agenda that wouldn't be revealed until they were ready to step back into politics and ultimately clear their name. Where every galleon they'd spent in "charity" would curry favours carefully nurtured to return some sort of political dispensation from within the Ministry.

"Sure, Draco. As I'm sure you have seen, everything is just dandy, isn't it?" her tone was caustic.

Cool amusement lit his eyes at her response, but her sarcasm didn't ruffle him. "As you say, Granger, but my father would be terribly disappointed in my abilities as a host if I didn't make myself available to offer you a moment's reprieve away from prying eyes and ears." He looked pointedly at a pair of older witches who were trying to mask their obvious interest in their exchange. Realising they'd been caught, they hurriedly shuffled into the crowd.

Hermione huffed and took a sip of her champagne. "Your offer is kind, Draco, but I think it would be best if I just called it an evening."

Draco cocked his head at her. "How unlike a Gryffindor to run away at the first sign of trouble."

Hermione bristled, then seeing the smirk on his arrogant face, realised he was baiting her and relaxed. "I call it a tactical retreat. And besides, wouldn't a 'reprieve' also be considered running away?"

"Perhaps, though I would consider it more along the lines of regrouping with the intent to return."

"Doesn't that sound an awful lot like 'he who fights and runs away will live to fight another day?'"

He gave her a sly smile. "Depends on your definition of 'tactical retreat,' Granger. Though similar in nature, a reprieve suggests a brief rest, whereas, a retreat is usually defined by a complete withdrawal." He held out his hand to her, palm up, a clear invitation to join him.

"I guess you would know," she replied somewhat snidely, staring at his hand as though it might bite. She really didn't have any particular reason to be civil to him beyond the fact that he was one of the hosts for the evening's event. In fact, this was probably the most they'd spoken to each other in years, and she saw no reason to be more polite than necessary. A difficult task, given their history. She was wary of his magnanimity, still trying to figure out what sort of angle he was getting out of being overtly nice to her. General publicity, perhaps? A chance to cash in on her public humiliation and be the hero?

As if he could see the wheels turning in her head, Draco rolled his eyes at her. "Don't get your feathers in a tizzy, Granger. Think of it like this: talk is unavoidable, but if they are going to talk, then at least give them something to really talk about. Or has that Gryffindor courage you're known for finally deserted you?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at him. He was starting to sound a lot like his father, and she'd had far more dealings with him in her charity work than she liked. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, after all, she mused. Taking another sip of her champagne, she realised that it was now nearly gone, and in the same instant, that she had apparently decided to throw caution to the wind as she placed her hand in his. Ignoring the brief flash of triumph in his eyes, she allowed him to draw her alongside him. Belatedly, she realised she had no idea where he intended for her to take her 'reprieve.'

As it turned out, Draco was the perfect gentleman. She wasn't sure what surprised her more, the fact that he was being perfectly amenable to her, or the fact that he'd shown any interest in her well-being at all. Perhaps he'd just wanted to remove her from the scene lest the residual aura of her row with Ron cause more damage to the atmosphere than it already had. Whatever his true motives, he'd drawn her hand through his arm, curled her fingers over the crook of his elbow, and when he'd felt her tense, given her a sardonic tilt of his brow that was so reminiscent of his father, she'd felt momentarily paralysed. Some things, regardless of present and past attempts at reparation, she wasn't sure she would ever be able to overcome, and the idiosyncratic expressions of Lucius Malfoy was one of them, even if she'd brought herself to step into his accursed home. She'd drawn a deep breath, and when Draco felt her relax, began to move her toward the edge of the room where the doors that led to the inner sanctum of the manor stood.

He did not hurry their pace, however, but instead kept up a slow progression of movement with her at his side as he socialised among the crowd. He didn't seem in any hurry to whisk her out of the room, and she was forced to re-evaluate her initial perception of his motives. Glancing at him from time to time out of the corner of her eye, she took note of the fact that he seemed perfectly relaxed; her presence didn't appear to affect him at all. But, why would it? she thought. Even if she did embody everything his family abhorred, he was the one who subjected her to this, not the other way around. And, surprisingly, rather than looking aggrieved by the situation, he seemed quite...sedate about it. But then, it wouldn't do for him to appear piqued in such a social situation, either. Wouldn't want to risk tarnishing the family name any more than it had already suffered, or ruin what polishing had already been achieved toward rehabilitating it since.

Attempting to quash her less than charitable thoughts on Malfoyistic overtures, she took to watching the crowd of people that inevitably swirled around them, gauging their reactions. The looks she received being on the arm of the younger Malfoy did not go unnoticed—she'd have to be blind not to see—but in the face of their clear bewilderment, she held her composure steady. She smiled coyly at those who looked on with curious interest, boldly met the eyes of those who failed to adequately hide their disapproval, and engaged in nominal pleasantries when it was expected of her. When she finished her champagne during one such encounter, Draco had casually replaced her flute with another in a motion so smooth she nearly missed it. She frowned slightly at the realisation that she was completely at ease in his presence, as if they had been long-time friends and not once-bitter enemies. She was briefly reminded of one of her favourite childhood cartoons, The Jungle Book, and feeling a bit like Mowgli being hypnotised in the serpentine clutches of Kaa, she had to suppress the irrational urge to giggle at the comparison.

Eventually, in the space of a few short conversations, Draco led her to an alcove that turned out to be a cleverly hidden door that opened into the dimly lit foyer outside the ballroom. Long hallways stretched to either side of them, lit by the soft glow of lanterns in elegant sconces along the walls. He turned them to his right and led her down the corridor, the click of her heels and the softer thud of his boots echoing hollowly into the air over the drifting tones of orchestral music left behind them. As they passed the door to the drawing room, she couldn't help the shiver of apprehension that coiled up her spine upon seeing it. Swallowing thickly, she noticed Draco looking at her, a glimmer of apology in his eyes when she glanced at him, and briefly, Hermione thought perhaps he might truly be sincere.

Moments later, he drew her up to a similar door along the same wall, ushering her into the darkened room and closing the door behind them. Hermione fancied she heard the click of a metal prison gate along with the soft snick of the catch, giving her a slight sense of vertigo and causing her skin to prickle in response. Her hand tightened on Draco's arm as she raised her other hand, pressing the champagne flute to her forehead to allow the cool condensation to help restore her sense of equilibrium. She felt Draco reach for his wand, and a flutter of unease tickled briefly along her senses.

"Incendio," he murmured, his wand flicking toward the wall where a fire suddenly flared to life within a stately marble fireplace. As the flames took hold, a gentle, golden light was cast into the room. Her hand dropped away from his elbow as he moved into the room, lighting candles to give it a more warming atmosphere. That task done, he turned to face her. "This is the Music Room. I would have taken you to the library, but knowing you, we'd have had to send a search party just to figure out which shelf you'd burrowed yourself into."

She huffed and turned her head away from the smirk that played over his lips, crossing her arms in a show of wounded pride, but she couldn't help the upward tilt of her lips at his jibe. Even her schoolyard nemesis knew her only too well. Surprisingly, she found herself warming to his friendly, if snarky, demeanour.

Draco seemed to hesitate for a moment when she didn't immediately issue forth a returning barb, but recovering quickly, he continued. "Well, then," he turned toward the door, "you're welcome to stay in here as long as you need, Granger. I trust you can find your way back when you are ready to re-join our guests?"

She nodded, marvelling at the strange sort of peace falling between them. "Thank you, Draco, you've been very kind. Even if you are still an arse."

He smiled at her. "Careful, Granger, you sound almost...affectionate."

She snorted. "As if."

"Nevertheless, take a few moments to come to your right senses. Wouldn't want people to think you're having a change of heart."

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, biting back a less than charitable retort about former Death Eaters.

Draco smirked, obviously delighting in her reaction. "I'll leave you to it, then, Granger, but I would advise you not to take too long, or someone might have to come looking for you."

He gave a slight bow, turned and left, leaving her in a semi-stunned silence at this little revelation into his character. Hermione shook her head, awareness of her surroundings beginning to press in on her psyche.

"Bloody hell, what's got into me?" she murmured to herself as she began to look around the room.

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Not much happening yet, just trying to set the stage, though I realize this probably reads a bit like a half dozen others. I'm not a great storyteller, and I had no intention of writing in this fandom for awhile, but this little idea that happens later kept prodding me. Please don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts.

Pleasant journeys,
~*~ Lumionessence

Chapter posted 7/24/17