The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition- Round 12

Team: Falmouth Falcons

Author: MaryRoyale

Position: Beater #2

Prompts Used: Fine China, "The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." ― Ernest Hemingway

OTP: Lucius/Hermione (Lumione)

Title: A Slytherin Sort of Courage
Official Disclaimer: The original characters of this story are the property of the J.K. Rowling. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. It is my contention that this work of fan fiction is fair use under copyright law. No monies were received for receipt of this work.

Pairing: Lucius/Hermione (Lumione)

Rating: T (High T)
Word Count: approx. 3250

Author's Note: This round of the QLFC was all about our individual OTP. I actually don't have one. I'm willing to read almost any pairing/grouping as long as it is interesting and well-written. So this is for Four who loves Lumione and keeps hoping I'll give it to her. And a big, squishie hug to Nexie for helping me drag Lucius to a Muggle retail store forcing him to be a store Santa until he saw reason.

"What are we doing here Lucius?" Hermione asked softly

One white-blond eyebrow rose up his forehead and he glanced around himself. The acromantula silk sheets had been kicked to the foot of the bed at some point and Lucius reclined against the headboard. Hermione was sprawled on the bed still too boneless to move.

"I would have thought that that was fairly obvious," he drawled at last. Then he paused and frowned. "Although if you are uncertain perhaps I'm not doing something right."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "Not that. This," Hermione paused to wave her hands between them. "What is this Lucius?"

"Fun?" Lucius offered drily.

"At the moment, yes," Hermione agreed.

Lucius became utterly still. He watched Hermione watching him for several minutes. "What are you asking Hermione?"

"Do you see this relationship progressing at all?" Hermione asked him in a quiet voice.

"Progressing to what exactly?" Lucius countered.

"That's what I'm asking you," Hermione snapped her frustration leaking through.

He sat there for several minutes and Hermione was silent because she knew he was thinking. He liked that about her—that she was able to give him his space when he needed it. "Can't we just stay as we are?" He asked finally.

A shadow flickered in Hermione's face for just a moment. She bit her lip and normally that excited him, but at the moment he was too sated to do anything about it. She sat up and her wild curls fell into her face partially obscuring it from his gaze. Normally she would push it out of her way impatiently, but she left it where it was.

"Do you see yourself marrying me?" Hermione asked and her voice was unusually high and strained.

Memories of his marriage to Narcissa flooded him: the separate bedrooms, the cold stiff formality even behind closed doors, the cool disdain in Narcissa's eyes. He backpedaled from that only to have memories from his brutal divorce with Narcissa fill his mind—the Daily Prophet had taken such pleasure in dragging the name of Malfoy through the mud.

"No." He said perhaps more forcefully than necessary and he knew there was an expression of distaste on his face. He smiled weakly at Hermione. "I'd much rather stay as we are."

"I see," Hermione replied softly.

Silence stretched between them, but instead of the usual peace and contentedness Lucius felt an uneasy edge to the quietness; it grew thick and heavy between them becoming almost tangible. He watched Hermione shift on the bed still obscuring her face behind a curtain of hair. She was absently rubbing at the scar on her inner forearm again; he wished that she would not—it always bothered him to be reminded of what had been done to her.

"Do you have plans to take our relationship public?" Hermione's soft voice shattered the silence leaving a jagged-edged uneasiness.

The problem with having an over-active imagination was that Lucius was immediately flooded with images of he and Hermione going public with their relationship. A screaming, whirling group of Weasleys led by the Boy-Who-Lived all berating Hermione for lowering herself to sleep with a former Death-Eater. The Daily Prophet, taking the name of Malfoy for another spin through the mud, but this time dragging Hermione along for the ride. The Howlers that would find their way to Hermione from those that felt she was disgusting for being with Lucius Malfoy and those that felt she was a jumped-up tart trying to rise above her station. He felt a wave of nausea rise and a fierce need to protect Hermione from the outside world swamped him.

"No," he said. He knew his voice had sounded harsh and he struggled for composure.

Hermione didn't say anything else and Lucius relaxed against the headboard.

"I don't think that I can do this any longer," Hermione said stiffly.

Lucius stared at Hermione for a moment. "What are you saying?"

"I don't think that I can do whatever it is we're doing anymore," Hermione explained.

Lucius' chest felt tight and he struggled for control. He could feel the mask sliding over his face. "Very well," he drawled.

Hermione flinched at the icy tone and turned to look at him, her warm, chocolate eyes distinctly chilly.

"I think I should go," she whispered.

"That might be for the best."

"What do you mean no?" Draco demanded.

Lucius admitted privately that his son made an impressive sight—both hands planted on Lucius' desk, leaning forward slightly, grey eyes stormy with anger, his face flushed with emotion. Pride flared within him.

"I mean that I am attending the charity gala for St. Mungo's alone." Lucius spoke clearly and distinctly enunciating each syllable carefully.

Something dark flashed in Draco's eyes. "What happened with Granger?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Lucius shuffled the papers on his desk. Suddenly Draco was no longer impressive and instead had become annoying and tiresome.

"I know that you don't think much of me, but surely you don't believe me to be that stupid," Draco snapped.

Lucius frowned at his son. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I know that you were dating Granger." Draco's eyes flashed again.

"I wouldn't call it dating," Lucius muttered.

"Fine, shagging then," Draco growled.

Lucius sputtered. "Draco!"

"What happened?" Draco hissed at his father.

"She asked if I saw our relationship progressing," Lucius muttered in a stiff, embarrassed voice. Really, discussing one's love life with one's children was not something Lucius enjoyed.

"Father you didn't," Draco whispered horror flitting across his features.

Lucius glared at his son. "Of what crime am I being accused?"

It was possible that Draco had muttered stupidity, but he had turned away sharply so Lucius couldn't be sure. Draco began to pace up and down the carpet in front of Lucius' desk. Lucius sighed, leaned back in his chair, and waited for Draco to speak.

"You told her that you wouldn't marry her or even acknowledge her publicly, didn't you?" Draco demanded with a dark glare.

"Of course I did," Lucius snapped with a glare of his own. "I know my duties and responsibilities, Draco."

"That's just it Father. She doesn't. She's only been in our world for eleven years… and you know that Hogwarts doesn't teach anything about pureblood culture. She broke it off, didn't she?" Draco crossed his arms over his chest and eyed his father with a quirked brow and pursed lips.

An irrational urge to smack that knowing look off of his son's face rose within Lucius, but he throttled it down brutally. Draco's smirk grew.

"She thinks that you don't care for her Father. She believes that you are ashamed of her," Draco drawled.

"That's ridiculous," Lucius argued.

"Not to her, Father," Draco pointed out. "She compares the way you treat her to the way you treated Mother and she considers herself to be slighted."

Lucius goggled at his son. "She wants me to treat her the way I treated Narcissa?"

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Granger has no idea what went on behind closed doors. Granger also wasn't friends with anyone in our set so she wouldn't have a bloody clue about the rumours. Her only information came from what she saw and the Prophet."

"Hermione thinks the Prophet isn't good enough to substitute for a bog roll," Lucius tried to protest again.

Draco snorted. "You don't even know what that means, do you Father?" He asked with amusement thick in his voice.

Lucius glared at his son for several long minutes. "Not really," he admitted finally. He sighed and rubbed his temples. "I forgot," he said quietly.

"Forgot what?" Draco seemed to be confused at his father's apparent segue.

"That we're from two completely different cultures," Lucius explained. "It's so easy with Hermione. She's so intelligent and she always catches on to things so quickly that most of the time I have a hard time remembering she's not a pureblood."

"Ah." Draco watched the brief flickers of emotion in his father's eyes. "What are you going to do about it?" He asked.

Lucius allowed himself to frown. "I don't know."

"You know, Father, the best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them," Draco said gently and patted his father's shoulder.

The St. Mungo's Charity Gala was one of the major events of the social season in wizarding Britain; Lucius had attended every single year from the time he was seventeen. There was no one here he did not know and there was no one here that he actually wanted to see. The curled lips and the haughty disdain from these people was infuriating. Just because he actually bore a Dark Mark on his arm didn't mean that the other attendees at this little soirée were somehow innocent; in fact, several of the people who were pretending that they were somehow better than he was had done far worse during the war without the excuse of a Dark Mark.

The entire night seemed to stretch on forever. The gaping absence of Hermione's warm, witty, beautiful presence stung that much sharper. The original plan was that each of them would arrive alone, but Hermione would have found a way to come and speak to him. Even if she couldn't have done just knowing that she was here would have helped. The idea that she might never be there again or at least not there for him made his chest hurt, which only served to make Lucius' mood even fouler. He wasn't used to this sort of thing. He wasn't exactly sure how it worked and he hated being at a disadvantage in any situation. Lucius snagged another flute of champagne and tossed back the entire contents of the glass in one swallow. This was going to be a long night.

"Narcissa… what an exceedingly unpleasant surprise," Lucius said with a dark frown.

"I have absolutely no desire to spend time in your company Lucius," Narcissa sniffed. "I have come at Draco's behest. Something about helping you pull your head out of your arse before it was too late." Narcissa eyed him and pouted slightly. "I had hoped he meant that literally."

"Go away," Lucius muttered at her. He swallowed his headache potion and winced at the awful taste.

"Charming," Narcissa retorted. She picked up the fine china tea cup that the house-elves had set out for her and took a dainty sip of her tea. "Now Draco has informed me that you care for the witch; is this true?"

"None of this is Draco's business, nor is it yours," Lucius growled.

Light, sparkling laughter from Narcissa grated on Lucius' nerves and he glared at his ex-wife.

"Oh but this is too, too funny," Narcissa gasped as she tried to control her laughter. "You… the great and powerful Lucius Malfoy… oh," and Narcissa convulsed into giggles once again.

"I don't see what is so amusing about this at all," Lucius scowled.

Narcissa managed to get herself under control and what seemed to sympathy flashed in her eyes. Lucius' scowl grew darker. He didn't need anyone's sympathy — he was a Malfoy for Merlin's sake — he wasn't to be pitied! Narcissa sighed and patted him on the hand.

"Let's get started shall we?"

Mrs Bassington-Smythe was not a snoop despite what her husband tried to tell all of their friends. Peeking out of the window the first time was completely unintentional. Peering through her lace curtains the third or fourth time was merely coincidence. The fifth time showed her the same scene as all the others. Miss Granger's gentleman friend was standing outside Miss Granger's door with a truly impressive bouquet of flowers scowling at her door knocker. Mrs Bassington-Smythe blinked and pursed her lips. She knew that Miss Granger was at home. She had noticed her returning earlier from the market. Mrs Bassington-Smythe hovered in the window peeping out through her lace curtains for several more minutes before deciding to do something about the situation.

With a self-righteous air Mrs Bassington-Smythe snuck through her back garden and went through the little gate into Miss Granger's yard. She rapped smartly on Miss Granger's back door and waited impatiently until her neighbor answered. She opened her door cautiously and peered out at Mrs Bassinton-Smythe in confusion.

"Mrs Bassington-Smythe… what a pleasant surprise," she said with an air of uncertainty.

"Good afternoon Miss Granger," Mrs Bassington-Smythe replied with a small smile. "I just thought I should check on you. Are you well, dear?"

"I am, thank you," Miss Granger murmured and the look of confusion on her face seemed to grow. "And you, Mrs Bassington-Smythe?"

"Oh, I'm splendid as always," she paused delicately and cast a furtive glance toward the front of their houses. "I just thought I ought to make certain since your gentleman friend appears to be camped out on your doorstep. If you need me to ring the police for you I will."

"My gentleman friend?" At this point Miss Granger gave Mrs Bassington-Smythe a worried look as though she might be touched in the head.

Mrs Bassington-Smyth huffed impatiently. "You know, dear. The tall, blond gentleman who wears his hair far too long. My Robbie did that when he was a lad, but he grew out of it. I tell you, Miss Granger, it's important to keep a sharp eye on one's gentlemen callers. If one gives them an inch they feel it's acceptable to show up at the Hunter's Ball in khaki trousers. Why once when I was a girl—"

"Yes, thank you Mrs Bassington-Smythe," Miss Granger interrupted her.

She appeared unduly agitated so Mrs Bassington-Smythe forgave her when she shut the door in her face. "I hope everything works out well, dear," she murmured and hurried back into her own yard.

The door opened so quickly that Lucius didn't have time to rearrange his features and he found himself glaring dourly into the whiskey-coloured eyes that had been haunting his dreams. He blinked and pulled back in surprise. One slender chestnut brow rose in query.

"Lucius. Whatever are you doing on my doorstep?" She asked curiously.

Lucius glowered at the bouquet in his hand and then looked back at Hermione. "According to Narcissa I'm pulling my head out of my arse," he muttered.

Hermione blinked in surprise. "Narcissa?" She leaned passed him and looked up and down the street as though Narcissa might be lurking behind a parked car.

"I didn't bring her with me," Lucius drawled in the haughty tone with which Hermione was all too familiar. He held out the elegant bouquet and made a small, formal bow. "For you," he murmured in a more conciliatory manner.

"They're lovely," Hermione said honestly. She took them from him and then frowned into his grey eyes. "Lucius, I was serious. I can't do… that anymore. Flowers won't change my mind."

"I didn't expect them to do so," Lucius admitted.

Once the huge bouquet of flowers was gone it was much easier to see what Lucius was wearing. Hermione's eyebrows rose in surprise. Lucius was wearing Muggle clothes. It was some sort of suit—if Hermione had to guess, she would imagine he was wearing something hand tailored from Savile Row. Regardless, it was definitely not wizarding robes. Another person might not realize the ramifications of Lucius Malfoy standing on her stoop wearing Muggle clothes, but Hermione knew how important this was. This… this was… well, there might not actually be a word that encompassed how important this was to Lucius and to her.

"Would you please come in," Hermione heard herself say distantly. She wandered into the kitchen and found a vase for Lucius' flowers. She wandered back out and found Lucius sitting stiffly in her living room.

"I have come to speak to you about our arrangement," Lucius began, but then he stopped as if he weren't sure what to say next.

"What about it?" Hermione asked carefully.

"This is… difficult," he muttered. He gave a little sigh and then looked at her warily. "If you and I… if I acknowledge you publicly do you really understand what that will mean?"

"I think so," Hermione replied slowly. She frowned at him. "Am I missing something?"

"People don't like me," Lucius pointed out. His silvery gaze pinned Hermione to her seat.

"No," Hermione agreed. "You're rather difficult even on the best days." She paused and nibbled at her lower lip. "Are you worried that people won't like me because you're dating me?"

"Wizards like me don't really date," Lucius explained with a sardonic smile. "We either shag willing witches, set up a mistress, or get married."

"So… people will assume I'm your mistress?" Hermione looked up at Lucius to see if she had it right.

Lucius shrugged. "Most likely," he admitted.

If Hermione insisted that she wasn't Lucius' mistress that would only convince the media that she was. After so many years, Hermione was well aware of how the media worked. It was even more illogical than the rest of the wizarding world and that was saying something. She sighed and shook her head. Lucius apparently took that as some sort of rejection because he reached out and took her hand.

"I am willing to take you however you will allow me," he said with quiet dignity. "If you want to be my wife—I would be proud to have you on my arm. If you want to be my mistress then I am amenable to that as well. Just know that whatever choice you make there will be a price."

"I understand," Hermione replied. She cupped Lucius' cheek and smiled fondly at him. "This may come as a great surprise to you, but as the Muggleborn best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived I haven't been exactly popular."

Lucius frowned. "You will give me the names and addresses of the people who sent you howlers or cursed mail."

Hermione laughed—a joyous sound that made Lucius' lips curl into a slight smile. Lucius took her hand from his cheek and kissed it absently before bringing it to join her other hand.

"But what is your answer?" He demanded.

"If we marry we sleep in the same bed in the same room," Hermione informed him with narrowed eyes. "There will be no outside dalliances and I expect you to eat dinner with me every night."

Lucius blinked in surprise. Had someone told her about his marriage with Narcissa? "Very well," he said and tried to hide his pleasure at her demands.

Hermione stared at him in shock. "So… wait… are we getting married?"

"Is that not what you want?" Lucius frowned.

"Is it what you want?" Hermione asked stiffly.

Lucius scowled at her. "I have told you that I will take you however you will let me, witch. Do you not believe me?"

"And you'll go public with our relationship?" Hermione was eyeing him skeptically.

"One generally announces intentions to marry," Lucius observed aloud.

In one quick moment Lucius had a lap filled with warm, willing witch. His warm, willing witch. He smiled against her lips as she proceeded to kiss him breathless. He would give her the ring later. Perhaps tomorrow over breakfast.