Notes:

Hello Readers,

The next chapters of 'The Unforgivables' are in the works and on their way, I assure you - but for whatever reason, this wouldn't leave me alone until I got it out of my system. A bit of lighter fare for these two before completely delving into the shadows required for that one.

Hope you enjoy. As always, your reviews are dearly appreciated.

. . . .

Chapter One

The comforting thought came to Hermione, as she assembled her hair into a somewhat satisfactory arrangement of ringleted chaos atop her head, that one certainly cannot be blamed for one's physical attractions.

At this assertion, she placed a sticking charm on her bobby pins, pulling a few strands loose to hang about her face. Despite the knot in her stomach, she felt confident and beautiful.

Five years away from the agony and wreckage of the war and Hermione finally felt she'd finally been able to heal enough to find grounding and joy in her life. She felt like a woman, not a girl – a woman who had learned through grueling work how to hold her past traumas with empathy for her younger self.

But despite all that work, this damn feeling wouldn't leave.

Anytime he was around. Any meeting. Any passing in the Atrium. Her breath held, her stomach fluttered, her skin heated – making her ears turn embarrassingly red.

It's nothing.

In fact, how could anyone be expected to have control over such a violently possessive biological force, when in the end it all came down to the chemical makeup of our animal bodies and the subsequent chemical reactions that do or do not spark between two such bodies.

Magic or no magic, we are all still at the mercy of our physical forms.

That's all attraction is: Just two cocktails of chemicals, however strangely paired, drawn to one other.

Canceled out immediately by the more significant qualifiers of a person's character.

She couldn't be expected to rule her body as sovereignly as she ruled her mind. Though, by Circe's tit, she wished it – now more than ever.

The Ministry's Annual Fundraiser Ball for St. Mungo's was beginning in less than half an hour, and the 'Golden Trio,' as they'd so reluctantly been branded, were absolutely expected to attend.

And he would be there, most likely in one of his ridiculously ornate robes – silver threaded serpents coiling about his person. That insufferable arch of his eyebrow disdaining the quality and taste of everything around him.

Likely you won't even see him. Kingsley will herd the three of you around like prized cattle, eliciting donations and political endorsements.

Merlin, how Ron loved it. He never grew out of the need to prove himself, even after all that had happened. He soaked up the accolades and applause and privilege like Gilderoy Sodding Lockhart. Another doubly disturbing reminder of her record of taste in men.

She'd really dodged that bullet. Friends? Sure. When the three of them were alone they still enjoyed each other's company immensely – but Hermione was grateful she and Ron had seen reason before starting a serious relationship. Every public function – even just walking down the street - reminded her of it. He positively swooned from the attention. It was hard to stomach.

She slipped on her heels, tucking her wand in her garter strap and taking one last look in the mirror.

Just a few hours. Have a glass of champagne, stick with Harry and Ginny, and get it the hell over with. Tomorrow you'll be back at your desk marking up the new Bill draft like it never happened.

Even if you do run into him, remember, it's just chemicals. It doesn't say anything about you or your moral character for your body to find a man like that so - Stop it.

And yet, though loathe to admit it, she knew that her mind had been equally aroused.

The calculated vehemence with which he had argued his position at last week's meeting. The way he charmed and manipulated the committee members to his will. Thumbing the head of that stupid cane lazily as he listened. The poised, controlled, tactical argument he made confidently to the room.

But that's even more understandable!

Of course her mind was muddled and fixated. Hermione felt a calm settle in her stomach as she took in her newly formed answer. She simply had a natural respect for his abilities. He is a talented speaker and politician. She respects strong leadership as a general rule, why should that not apply to him?

How open-minded and magnanimous, she congratulated herself - for perceiving and appreciating qualities in even your enemies. She smiled slightly before a countering question crossed her mind.

Is that what he is? Once, surely – but now? Does one regularly discuss annual spending budgets with one's enemies?

Regardless. Rest assured that now they have been recognized: the few admirable qualities he possesses, they need never be thought of again.

But there are other qualities…

She finds that the exasperating perfection of his profile haunts her. It buzzes into her thoughts unexpectedly throughout the day.

She imagines she hears clicking behind her as she walks down the hall; the forceful tempo of his cane as he strides through the annoyingly cavernous building.

She even finds herself almost hoping he'll oppose her recommendations to the committee, just so she can hear him speak.

Absurd!

But the precision of his thought… every word carefully chosen… the enunciation; teeth, tongue, lips, jaw -

STOP.

You're going to be late.

One last scratch of Crookshank's head, followed by his usual bat of playful insolence and the pop of apparition speeds her away.

. . . .

That simple phrase - 'Killing Time.' Rather violent, isn't it?

We slaughter our unplanned moments. By any means necessary.

The unfilled, undesired seconds-minutes-hours we face, draw such abject fear from us as to provoke the most desperate of responses.

Lucius prided himself on having risen above this base insecurity.

He planned his days with meticulous purpose. Were he faced with unplanned or unwanted moments, he had several ways of ensuring that they came to please, rather than agonize him.

If all else failed, his final method was to initiate a game with himself. One played with whatever hoard of disappointing humanity he happened to be forced into company with; sampling their unguarded thoughts.

His years in service to the Dark Lord had cost him nearly everything – a painful lesson that never left his awareness. However, his torments had provided decades to hone and practice the arts of Occlumency and Legilimency.

The act of invading another's mind cost him a certain amount of energy, but he found the results could be immeasurably worth the sacrifice. (And ever so satiating in the spell's new illegality.)

In general, witches and wizards were mind-numbingly predictable.

What shall I make for dinner? - Will I get the promotion over ministry-minion such and such? - Is my wife cheating on me?

However.

Once in a Beltane moon, Lucius would come upon the sweetest, most illicit of treasures.

The Secretary of Commerce was skimming off more galleons from the Department's books than he could keep track of. Why, Perseus, how difficult for you.

Luckily most fools were more than willing to trade political favors for his silence – and more for his guidance in managing their indiscretions.

Old habits, as they say.

Handing his cloak to a rather nervous looking House-elf, Lucius took in the assembly of witches and wizards before him.

The Atrium was filled to the brim with the dancing, drinking, gossiping masses.

Ludicrous giggles and belly-laughs echoed above the music. To his right a few yards away the Weasley boy tastelessly groped an overly-painted sycophant of a witch hanging off of his every dimwitted word.

Merlin.

Just a few hours. Have some champagne, indulge in the game if need be, and get it over with.

Without his seemingly redemptive position at the Ministry Post-War, he'd have never been able to reintegrate into good society.

Shacklebolt had the nerve the remind him of his 'unwarranted second chance' regularly.

Always under his sickeningly proud, soon to be twice-elected, imperial boot.

Lucius almost wished he could trade places with Narcissa – make off with half of his family fortune in the divorce and hold up in the Alps somewhere hiring attractive 'companions' to placate and satisfy his every whim.

But he had to repair the path for Draco – rebuild the name. Suffer the inevitable reparations. At least his efforts seemed to be working.

Draco had been accepted into an apprenticeship with the finest Healer in Britain – an opportunity that would have been barred from him at the first mention of his name just a few years earlier.

He was even seeing a girl, so he'd heard. His son barely visited and rarely wrote, but when he did it seemed as though the old wounds might slowly be mending.

Now if he could only find the spell that could remove these eternal brands from their forearms.

An ashen-looking waiter approached with a tray of champagne and offered it meekly, bowing his head and averting his eyes to the ground.

This was a daily occurrence. There were still many witches and wizards who avoided eye contact with him – either from fear or from contempt. The latter clearly applied to this boy. He reeked of it.

Lucius took a glass slowly and nodded, dismissing him.

He scurried away, attempting to maintain as much professionalism as his terror would allow.

Taking a taste - Mediocre. Is this all the Ministry can afford to serve these days… - a glance about the room revealed that the ludicrous giggles he'd heard upon entering belonged to none other than Ms. Isabella Fawley (née Mrs. Rowle, since the imprisonment of and coinciding divorce from her husband.)

She was surrounded by her usual nest of vapid clucking hens, hanging off of her every word.

Even Narcissa had loathed to invite her to gatherings at the manor. But she was as pureblood as they came, loyal to the cause and therefore common rule had dictated that she and Thorfinn be included.

All the endless hours spent listening to that woman drone on and on.

She'd become an even worse thorn in his side since the end of the war. The moment the ink was dry on his divorce papers Isabella had pursued him and his remaining fortune with the relentless vigor of a Harpy in heat.

She'd spotted him. The saunter she put on in approach was even more exaggerated than her last attempt.

Sweet Circe. Must you?

"Why, Lucius, how wonderful to see you here this evening – looking very handsome, I might add."

"Isabella."

Her eyes sparkled at his speaking her name. A few of her friends approached behind and she shewed them away without an inkling of finesse or tact.

There was no denying that for all her faults, Isabella Fawley was a beautiful woman. She had the ethereal grace and poise common to many pureblood women. It was of a particularly classical variety in the Fawley line. She would suit the setting of her portrait perfectly when she died.

None of these qualities interested Lucius.

He had been approached by many a pureblood widow and divorcee who did their best to tempt him. But one substanceless husk of marriage based purely in alliance had been enough.

It wasn't that he didn't crave it. He did. He had come to rely upon the structure and simplicity of the arrangement he and Narcissa had come to. Even the fondness that grew within the familiarity.

What's more, he was a man with certain physical appetites.

But none the less, he had found himself settling into a kind of self-imposed abstinence.

Not until it frightens you as much as it tempts you, he'd thought to himself.

Not until it comes with personal risk.

Because for all that Lucius had lived through and all the lessons he had learned, he still craved that divine stimulation. The thrill when the stakes were high; victories made sweeter by the danger of the endeavor.

He valued his comforts, of course – but without some precipice beside them? Not nearly as satisfying.

Isabella was inching ever closer to him. "Are you here alone, then?"

"Clearly."

Isabella ignored his clipped reply. She traced a finger down his forearm, angling her cleavage in his direction. "Would you care to dance with me?"

Lucius regarded the trail of her caress as it moved along his sleeve.

Removing her hand from his arm, he met her eyes, employing that burning gleam in his stare that women seemed to find most alluring.

Raising her hand towards his lips, he stopped an inch or so away, savoring the anticipation in her expression.

"…Not for the Order of Merlin, my dear."

Lucius let her hand fall, then leaned in, switching to a chilling tone of voice he hadn't had the pleasure of threatening with for far too long.

"Don't touch me again."

Isabella shuddered visibly, shock and embarrassment breaking the plastered smile as her cheeks took on a slight purple hue.

She, too, scurried away.

Though that amusement would sustain him a short while, he could already feel the beginnings of boredom creeping back in.

The game, then. This would certainly be a useful venue for it.

After a short assessment of the attendants, he zeroed in on the famous 'Golden Trio,' together again – surprise, surprise.

They were gathered in conversation with Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office and Potter's direct superior. A few others also made up the group.

Lucius found a marble pillar nearby to lean against and settled in.

Let's have a taste, shall we…

A whispered "Legilimens."

Potter first. The boy-who-lived was presently nuzzling his grinning face into the hair of his beloved Ginerva Weasley.

Has your Occlumency improved over the years, Potter?

Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Lucius gently attempted to pry open the door. It gave easily.

Too comfortable in your newfound security, boy.

Lucius listened, as he saw Potter's hand ghost ever so slightly over the Weasley girl's abdomen. She smiled, secretive and giddy.

|| "A boy. Our baby boy." ||

Nimue help us. Potter-Weasley hybrids terrorizing the world with their combined brash heroism. Arthur's every dream.

He could barely contain the sneer that curled his lip as he imagined the elation lighting up Arthur Weasley's bespectacled, ruddy face.

Entertaining - but not particularly useful. Onto the next… "Legilimens."

He pushed at the door of the Weasley boy's mind. It caved like mush – rotten fruit left in the sun. His already weak mind was soaked with alcohol.

|| "Yeah, bet you like that, huh? My hand on your tight arse. Bet you're hopin' you'll get fucked by the famous Ronald Weasley so you can tell all y –" ||

Lucius slammed the door shut and swallowed back his impulse to heave.

Predictable. Utterly nauseating.

He turned his attention to the Granger girl. She looked as nauseated as he felt. He watched her roll her eyes in disgust, taking a long drink from her glass and turning from Weasley to wander out of the group.

"Legilimens." Pressing at her mind's door, he felt a slight resistance.

Not as simple as your friends, are you? But then you never were.

He exerted more energy and forced slightly more, feeling her first defaulted barrier open.

There.

As she perused the room, her brown eyes fell on his. They widened a fraction and her cheeks flushed as she quickly averted her gaze.

|| "Fuck. So much for avoiding him. I'm sick. Should just go ahead and check myself into St. Mungo's. One look from him and I'm wet." ||

Lucius nearly dropped his glass.

…Really.

His mind was reeling as he watched the flustered witch take another long swig of her champagne and cross her arms in guarded discomfort, staring at the floor.

|| "Can't find anyone you'd care to date - haven't had an honest to goodness orgasm with anything but your 'TwitchWitch' vibrator in years - but lo and behold, Lucius bloody Malfoy wets your knickers. You are well and truly fucked, Hermione." ||

My. Now that is useful. What delectable insight…

The evening suddenly wasn't a complete waste after all. Lucius took her in. He realized he hadn't ever really done so since the final battle.

He was too dazed at his trial, too focused on keeping his head down since.

But that day on the Hogwarts grounds she had been a thing of magnificence. All ragged bravery and hope. Fire in her eyes. Purpose. He had feared her. Envied her.

Now she was…a vibrant, brilliant, dauntless, passionate, ambitious and yes - alluringly beautiful - woman. He began to wonder at his not having noticed.

Lucius was certainly noticing now.

The burgundy satin gown she wore hugged her form in all the right places. The curve of her neck - divine. She seemed to him a woman who knew her worth – who truly valued it.

And the thought of her wet - for him - left him quickly losing control of his own physical faculties.

Frightening and tempting enough for you, old boy?

He wasn't advanced enough in his Legilimency to be able to maintain the channel and hold a conversation at the same time, but he'd heard plenty. Taking a new glass from a passing tray, he shut his mind's connection and made his way towards her.

"Galleon for your thoughts, Ms. Granger?"

She jumped with a slight start, looking over her shoulder to him. After a moment of settling herself, she took another sip from her glass and turned her attention back to the room.

"None of your fucking business, Mr. Malfoy."

Ah. Still loathe me, then. How confusing that must be for you.

Lucius came to stand beside her. "Language, Ms. Granger. And at a Charity Function? What would the Minister say…" he flashed a look of mock outrage her way that dissolved into a slight smirk.

Hermione stared at him. Was that sarcasm?

He was looking with disdain at Shacklebolt who stood a few yards from them. "Do you abhor these…carnivals, as much as I?" he asked.

"Yes. Particularly at this moment."

He returned his back attention to her, quirking an eyebrow. "Have I offended you in some way?"

Hermione continued to look out at the crowd. "Your very presence within the Ministry offends me."

"I see. And here I'd hoped a new chapter could be turned." A moment of strained silence passed between them. "I don't believe we've spoken once since the war, outside of the committee's boardroom."

"By my express design, I assure you. What do you want, Malfoy?" she said, turning to look at him with indignation.

"Not quite so different from you, I imagine. Simply a respite from this sea of ingratiating degenerates. You seemed to me the only safe harbor in sight."

Hermione huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "I've known you to be the model example of an ingratiating degenerate. It's a wonder you don't feel right at home."

A perplexing combination of rage and arousal flooded through him.

Why you little Hellcat. That may be true, but to have the gall to say it to me... I want you more every minute.

He smiled slowly. "A fair point. Our own vices are often the first we tire of in others." Another sip of his drink. "At least mine are known to me now."

"Really? You see yourself for the cockroach you are? Congratulations. May we all be so apt in the self-awareness of our – 'vices.'"

"Despite the crude sarcasm in your remark, I believe you speak wisdom. I confess myself rather curious as to yours."

"My what?"

"Vices, Ms. Granger."

"Mm. Well, nothing to rival torture, attempted murder or installing a genocidal dictatorship."

Lucius looked into his drink, nodding once with an amused smile in his eyes.

Another silence passed as they continued to stand beside each other.

"How silly of me to forget - 'The Golden Muggleborn' is immune to human fault." he mused.

Hermione glared openly at him. "Are you quite certain that's the term you meant to use?" she challenged.

He returned her stare. "Quite."

They regarded each other silently for some time.

Lucius cocked his head. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you looked vaguely disappointed…As though you almost wished I had used the other word."

"Of course not. It's just slightly disconcerting - coming from you."

"Yes. I suppose life does become rather disconcerting when Black and White turn to Grey, doesn't it?

Hermione felt a twinge of shame at her behavior. He noticed and softened his voice somewhat.

"Can you not at least attempt a civil conversation?"

She regarded him cautiously before taking a small sip of her drink and returning her gaze to the party before them with an exasperated sigh. "…I'll be submitting the amended Bill on Thursday."

"Work, Ms. Granger? Bad form yet again. There must be other subjects in that mind of yours. I didn't seek your company to be further enlightened on the intricacies of Werewolf Agency."

Her walls came up in full force again. "I think we have very little else to say to each other."

Working so hard, aren't you? Allow me…

"Perhaps." he said, then slowly bent to whisper lustfully in her ear, "Though I'm sure between the two of us, we can come up with something."

Hermione pulled back slightly and stared up at him, thoroughly unnerved and more than a little aroused by his sudden, honeyed tone.

"I – um – " There was unmistakable desire in his eyes. Deep rose flushed across her cheeks and ears. "E-Excuse me –"

Hermione Granger scurried away faster than any of them.