Hermione did not sleep well that night.
There was a simple explanation for it, one that she could no longer deny: she could not stop thinking about Lucius Malfoy.
And not because of his intriguing manner, dangerous past and clear intelligence.
She was attracted to him.
She was attracted to his mind, his personality, to his physical presence.
She tossed and turned all night but could not shake from her mind his fine features and cool grey eyes. He was ingrained there. In her imagination, his face was fixed in the arrogant smirk she had come to associate with him so long ago. Admittedly, it had been largely absent since she had started work at the manor, but nonetheless, that was the image that remained in her head.
But then, as she squeezed her eyes tight shut, the haughty face within her vision would descend closer to her, his dark red lips inching ever so nearer to hers. In her lonely little room, Hermione sat bolt upright and groaned in frustration.
What a pathetic weak creature she was.
Had all the horrors and torments she had suffered in her short life taught her nothing? She knew she was physically aware of her body's needs, she always had been, but is this what she had been reduced to - a few months denial of sex and she becomes a dribbling wreck at the sight of the first attractive man who comes her way?
But this wasn't just any attractive man. This was Lucius Malfoy.
Her instincts, from the start, had told her to beware him, keep away from him, but when the time had come, there had been no need. He had, on the whole, been equable, polite, well-informed ... interesting. She knew better than to hold the past against someone. He had clearly been shunned by his supposed friends. She saw no reason now why this should be the case. Was she to be the only one who could tolerate him, converse with him? She - Hermione Granger?
Had the attraction arisen merely from the fact that they were two lonely people cooped up in an oppressive house?
She feared not.
As she lay in the dark of the night, silence encompassing her, she let her mind wander. It wandered far. In her fervent ramblings, she pictured herself out dining with him, going to the theatre, for walks ... as a couple. And she did not recoil from it. It seemed, she could only admit, to work.
Work? It was ridiculous!
She swore aloud. She couldn't entertain the idea of having a relationship with Lucius Malfoy. He alone would never conceive of it.
Would he?
Another groan escaped her. It had become clear that her feelings for him were not entirely unreciprocated. But that was mere convenience on his part, surely? She was a young woman in his house, the only human company he had. It made sense that he would wish to talk to her.
She was a Muggle-born, for god's sake. Once she had left his house, he would forget all about her and return to his life.
His life.
What sort of a life was it? A worthy, fulfilled one? Hardly. For a man of his experience and intelligence there was so much more to be achieved, to be given. He just needed someone to believe in him again.
Hermione grimaced. Why should she care? This was a man who had looked on while she was tortured to within an inch of her life.
But people could change, couldn't they?
Her brain was throwing so many insurmountable paradoxes at her that it hurt. But as she lay alone in her house, Hermione realised that her scalp itself stung with sharp pain, not just the dull throb of thinking too much. She lowered her hands, and with them came many long strands of hair; she had been twisting her fingers so hard into her head.
At four am, Hermione gave up on sleep and got up, going to the bathroom and washing her hands. She glanced down as the suds frothed over her fingers. She rubbed them hard, remembering a large, firm hand atop hers the day before. Turning off the taps quickly, she decided to try getting some work done. Unfortunately, all her work had to do with documenting the books discovered in Malfoy's library.
There seemed no escape from the man.
It was not right that someone should consume her thoughts so powerfully. It had not felt like this since sixth year and that pathetic hormonal turmoil with Ron. She was thirty now. There was no way she was going to go through all that rubbish again.
In the bitter desolation of that lonely and surreal time that was the earliest hours of morning, Hermione made a decision.
At the first opportunity, she would go to Kingsley and inform him she did not wish to continue working at the Manor.
She arrived at the Ministry at eight o'clock.
She should have been pleased to be back, but it felt wrong. The mundane trivialities of office tedium, the relentless grind of bureaucracy, the sea of nameless and faceless workers blotting out the existence of all but their own unimportant little tasks ... This is what she had been struggling to escape from.
And she had escaped from it. She had found her place of comfort, of security, amidst swathes of books, in a beautiful setting, where she could work uninterrupted, apart from the occasional welcome discourse with one of the most intriguing people she'd ever met.
Strong, firm hands enclosing hers. Lips descending to her neck, arms gripping her waist.
She rubbed her eyes and pulled out a parchment relating to a matter unconnected to Malfoy Manor.
Good. It would all be over once she had seen Kingsley. Malfoy could have someone else to trawl through his library.
She had been unable to get an appointment with the Minister until two o'clock. Time crawled oppressively slowly. The flutter of an owl's wings and the latest gossip from the Magical Creatures Department seemed to have lost their charm. And still her mind allowed her to picture only one thing - a similar image to one she had seen in the book yesterday. But these were not anonymous, unidentifiable lovers in her head. She knew exactly who the two were. They were her and Lucius Malfoy.
At five to two, she stood abruptly and marched to Kingsley's office. Knocking once and entered, barely waiting for a response.
"Hermione!" The Minister for Magic nearly jumped. "I wasn't expecting to see you so promptly. How are you? Please sit down."
She did so quickly and proceeded to lean far forward in the chair, her foot tapping. Kingsley frowned in surprised concern.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, thank you."
"How's your assignment to Malfoy Manor going? I never see you these days. Not that it's a problem, as long as everything is progressing smoothly. Is it?"
Hermione opened her mouth to speak. At that moment, the door opened and Shacklebolt's PA swept in.
"Minister, these documents urgently need your signature. They are the ones you approved yesterday."
"Sorry, Hermione, excuse me a moment."
Kingsley bent over the parchments, perusing each one again before signing at the bottom.
Hermione could hear her blood pulsing round her head.
"Don't forget Minister, there is the meeting to discuss the regulation of squibs retaining magical items passed down through generations at three. It's vital you attend."
"Of course, Cynthia. Hermione, would you like to join us for that meeting? If you're not otherwise engaged, that is?"
Hermione smiled non-committally. She could go, couldn't she? It wasn't as if she had anything else to do. Her other assignment was about to end. A meeting. A normal meeting, in a bright, airy, room, all sitting comfortably around a table. With normal, boring wizards and witches, discussing squibs and their heirlooms.
A sudden feeling of nausea swept over her.
"Anyway, I'm sorry to delay you. What can I do for you?" Kingsley focused on her at last.
She didn't look at him but sat with a slight frown on her face, staring at the floor beyond him. She had hardly heard a word he had said.
"Hermione?"
At last turning her gaze to the Minister, she was almost surprised to find him there.
He leaned in with concern. "Is everything alright at the Manor? Is Malfoy treating you well?"
She stared hard at Shacklebolt for a moment more.
What was she doing here?
She recalled her conversation of the night before. She had assured him she would return. He needed her to. He wanted her to. She wanted to.
"Yes. Very well, thank you. In fact, I just came in to tell you that the task is fascinating. It's going smoothly but is still likely to take several weeks, if not months. So, I doubt I will be here much at all for a while longer. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to owl. Goodbye, Minister. I must be going. I'm late as it is. Mr Malfoy will be expecting me."
With that she turned and hurried from his office, leaving a dumbfounded Kingsley in his chair.
She returned to her office only to pick up her coat and bag and was outside ready to apparate within five minutes.
When the dizziness passed, she found herself once again outside the Manor.
Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, did not quit.
She would work. She would enjoy the house, the library and his company. She was an adult. Just because there was an attraction, it did not mean she had to give into it. She would not.
Still, it was so very good to be back.
She practically raced up the drive to the steps and rang the doorbell. It was opened almost as soon as her fingers had released it.
There, standing before her, was Lucius Malfoy himself.
Hermione could not stop beaming.
He looked down at her. Hermione was sure she saw relief sweeping his face, but he soon composed himself and regained his haughty appraising stance.
"Miss Granger."
The low drawl had never been so welcome.
"Hello." She was smiling and out of breath after her run up the drive. Certainty had carried her swiftly up it.
"You are late ... I thought perhaps ..."
"What? What did you think?" She surprised herself at her own insistence.
"Your manner of departure last night was somewhat ... hasty ... I was not certain ..."
"If I would return?"
"Hm." He could bring himself to say no more.
"Why would I not have returned, Mr Malfoy?"
He looked down at her and the heat spreading through Hermione grew beyond containment. But she held her composure and kept staring up at him, daring him to voice what was on both their minds.
With a faint sigh of frustration, Malfoy answered non-committally, "Perhaps you were finding the magnitude of your task daunting. Perhaps you had ... grown tired of being here."
She did not immediately answer. His cheeks were tinged with pink.
"No, Mr Malfoy. I haven't grown tired of being here. I will complete my task, no matter how long it takes."
His breathing visibly slowed.
Neither spoke again, until at last he said abruptly, "Right. There we are then."
Another silence.
She was still panting, her exertion also clear in the flush on her face. It didn't go unnoticed.
"May I come in?"
They both seemed to have forgotten that she was still standing outside in the cold of a gathering gloom. The wind had got up and rain was starting to fall in large heavy drops. The weather was changing. Malfoy drew himself up and stepped aside for her. She entered the house. It was as dim as ever inside, but Hermione was happier to be there than she thought possible.
She turned to face him, smiling yet again.
"You are in a remarkably good mood, Miss Granger."
His eyes contained that glow she so rarely saw. But when she did, it entranced her.
"Yes, I am. I like working here. It brings a certain contentment."
The eyebrow arched predictably, but his face had softened to such an extent as to result almost in a smile.
"I see." A predictable pause. "And did it take you until now to realise that?"
"Yes."
There was yet another silence. The two people simply stood in the vast dark hallway looking at each other. After what seemed minutes, Hermione at last spoke. "So, as I like it so much, I suppose I should go and get on with said work."
"I suppose you should."
She smiled briefly before walking past him up the stairs.
"Tea at four o'clock."
Hermione stopped and looked down at him. "Thank you. I'd like that very much."
Lucius Malfoy watched her until she disappeared into the dark at the top of the stairs. It was already two thirty. Tea time was not far off. He would go and inform Grimble immediately.
Hermione was back in her library.
She shook her head and laughed to herself at the thought. Who was she kidding? This would never be her library. She would never presume ...
But staring up at the books, she couldn't deny the sweeping happiness which again gripped her. How she had thought she could return to the mundane horror of the Ministry was beyond her. Just because someone was nice to look at, did not mean that had to influence your whole perception of a situation, did it?
Long limbs pressed against hers, kisses planted on flushed cheeks, fingers working ever downwards ...
She shook herself and reached for the book she had abandoned with haste yesterday. She sat and worked.
That was what she was good at.
Hermione was almost relieved when she heard the clock striking four and realised she had not been clock-watching. But she didn't want to keep him waiting, so with more haste than usual, she pushed aside the document she was writing on and hurried downstairs.
The warm smells of afternoon tea drifted out of the sitting room immediately.
"Grimble's done well again, I see," she said as she approached Malfoy, seated as ever in his chair by the fire.
"He has his uses."
Did he sound a little aggrieved with his elf?
He leaned over and reached for the teapot, letting it hover over her cup. "May I?"
"Please." She had never known anyone so well-mannered when they chose to be. She doubted that was the term the muggles he had tortured had used to describe him. Hermione tensed. It was rare that she visualised his past as clearly as that. But she had no wish to spoil the atmosphere around her and shook the memory off.
They sat in contented silence for some time. It was Lucius who eventually broke it. "Were you at the Ministry this morning?"
She presumed he asked it for something to say, but there seemed to be a genuine need to know in his voice.
"Yes."
"How is it these days?"
"Tedious, choking under its own bureaucracy and dull. Dull, dull, dull."
"What? Even more dull than the company of a former Death Eater and his belligerent house-elf?"
She looked up, startled for a moment, then found herself laughing aloud. He smirked a little.
"Most definitely."
"I used to spend considerable time there," continued Malfoy.
"Yes."
"No longer."
Silence.
"You could go back."
He looked into the fire, but the smirk had returned, this time with amused disdain. "I think not."
"Time has passed, Mr Malfoy. A lot of time."
"What makes you think I want to go back?" His voice had grown cold.
She shrugged with embarrassment.
He added, "If you do not find the place enthralling, why should I?"
"Well, if not to the Ministry, there are other places you could go."
The man across from her sneered.
"You have many interests. How about the theatre, or a concert or lecture of some kind?"
He didn't respond.
"If you're worried about seeing people you know, you could go to something outside the wizarding world."
His eyes widened and he turned to her with an expression of disbelief.
She was not deterred. "I could go with you, if you like."
Malfoy continued to look at her, his eyes ablaze with a significance she could not identify - it was either horror, admiration, or both.
Hermione swallowed hard. She had confused herself. Asking someone out to a concert was hardly the way to dull an attraction.
She picked up her cup and saucer and sipped her tea, relieved for once that he didn't answer her.
"I saw Draco after you had gone last night."
Now it was her turn to stare in disbelief.
"He was in need of money. That is the only reason he comes over these days. He did not announce himself. Nothing changes."
"Is he well?"
"Apparently."
"Well, that's good. It must have been lovely to see him."
Silence.
"Family is so important. He wouldn't come if he didn't want to see you. There are other ways of gaining access to funds. You are fortunate in many ways. I don't see my parents at all. They're in Australia. They don't remember me or even that they ever had a daughter. Their memories were erased after the war to protect them."
Hermione hardly ever thought about it. It was too painful.
She picked up a sandwich. A tear fell onto her hand. She hadn't realised she was crying. She fumbled for a tissue. Almost immediately, a white silk handkerchief was held out to her.
"There you are." His voice was gently tender.
"Thank you."
Apart from the low tick of the clock, there was silence. Hermione cursed herself for allowing her emotions to show so openly in front of him.
He spoke again. "I am sorry."
She looked up in surprise. The words were almost whispered across to her. He was looking at her with genuine regret on his face. It brought a dimension to his demeanour she had never before seen. In the glow of the fire, not only did he at that moment look as handsome as never before, he also looked completely human.
Hermione opened her mouth, partly to draw in more breath, partly in preparation to say something in return. But both her breath and her words stuck in her throat. There was a tension deep within her, as if an enormous weight was pressing down on her, desperate for relief. It was not due to the sadness wrought by her parents' absence.
"Thank you for the tea."
It was all her numb mind could manage. She stood to leave.
"I'll go back upstairs. There's a lot to do. I lost time today. I may stay a little longer than normal tonight, if that's alright."
He had looked away from her. He seemed disturbed, as he had the day before. He nodded once.
His hand was resting on the arm of the chair.
He had shown her tenderness. She could reciprocate. She could reach over and touch his hand - so firm and strong. Her body was compelling her to do so.
Hermione curled her hand into a fist, and turned and walked from the room.
Lucius Malfoy was once again left alone.
He had spent the morning expecting the woman to come. She had said she would return. When she had not, it had raised those feelings of frustration in him that he had not needed for many years. The house seemed odd without her.
Her presence. Her luminous skin, raging hair, raging mind, and tender lips.
The house had grown used to it.
He had grown used to it.
He had put on his coat to go out, but had found himself instead pacing the halls, listening for her arrival. Lunchtime had come and gone. He hadn't eaten.
And then, just before two-thirty, the air had shifted. She was approaching, he knew it. Every fibre of magic in his being was tuned into her arrival. He was at the door practically before she had rung the bell.
And there she had been.
He had thought he would confront her, inquire with anger as to why she was so late.
But looking down on her, all resentment, all negativity had evaporated. She was there. That was all that mattered.
And she had smiled, a smile so illuminating it had dispelled the gloom of the dismal encroaching night.
How welcome it was. That he must admit to.
He picked up the sandwich she had been eating. Her teeth marks could be seen where she had bitten into a small part of it. He examined them, then took a bite from around the place she had eaten.
Hermione shut the door of the library tight behind her. She walked slowly into the room, running her hands over the books as she went. Crossing to the window, she looked out over the gardens. It had grown dark and the trees were writhing in the increasingly vicious wind. Hermione crossed her arms against the chill and stared out through the leaded glass to the walled garden. A low rumble of distant thunder juddered through her. A shiver ran down her spine. She didn't like thunder. It reminded her ...
Putting all thoughts as firmly behind her as possible, she settled at the desk and focused on her work. The minutes on the clock in the hall ticked by steadily.
The wind outside was by now howling ferociously at the very bones of the building. Hermione lit several more candles in an attempt to dispel the unease that was seeping into her soul. She glanced at her watch. It was approaching six. She must go.
With a sigh, she rose from the desk and started to prepare her things.
There was a knock behind her. She turned to find Malfoy standing there. He held himself as tall as ever but seemed unable to meet her gaze. Then, at last, he looked her firmly in the eyes and spoke.
"You will stay here tonight. Apparition or floo travel are not recommended in storms. I have instructed Grimble to ensure your room is ready."
The room was lit up by a sudden sharp flash of lightning. There was only a short pause before the following thunder resounded piercingly. Hermione flinched. She had no qualms about accepting his offer.
"Thank you."
"He will bring you supper in your room."
She was a little disappointed. Couldn't they eat together?
"Thank you."
He stood, tense, his face exhibiting a strange confusion. Then, with a nod and a curt, "Good evening, Miss Granger," he turned and left.
"Good evening," she muttered after his retreating form.
Hermione stayed and worked for a while longer, then at seven retired to the same room she had slept in before. She remembered the way with remarkable ease. It didn't strike her as being quite so distantly buried in the depths of the house as it had before.
Supper was waiting for her - thick homemade soup, bread, cheese and salad. A bottle of wine accompanied it. After finishing her food, Hermione ran a long bath, soaking in the soothing heat of the water for some time before wrapping a thick towel around her and climbing into the large, high bed. The room, despite its location and history, was comforting and calming in the midst of the ferocious tempest raging outside its walls. She poured herself her third glass from the bottle and settled down to read. The storm continued unabated outside. Each crack of thunder rattled her soul, but here at least, however strange, she felt safe.
At eleven, Hermione got up quickly to brush her teeth, then hurried back into the bed, blew out the remaining candle, and snuggled down to sleep. It took a while but at length she found herself slipping into her dreams.
She slept undisturbed for some time.
But then her dreams shifted.
She was running. Someone was laughing. Not a warm laugh of shared humour, but manic, shrill, all too familiar.
Hermione ran on. The walls were dark, wooden, images adorned them, faces she couldn't make out, staring with dead eyes. She ran on, turning endless corridors, relieved that at the end of each, there was always another. Still, the laugh behind her followed.
And then no more corridors. Nowhere to go.
She spun around. The laugh was closer, the hand raised. Bellatrix's face was indistinct, hidden behind wild hair and a hooded cloak, but it was her. Hermione waited.
The wand was raised. The mouth opened. That word, that word she had heard too often, over and over, rent the air, and with it a flash of blinding light, and a crack, a crack so shattering it ripped her apart, not only with pain, but with the sheer blinding sound of it.
Hermione screamed so loud, it rivalled the noise of the crack of thunder which had distorted her nightmare.
She woke up, sitting bolt upright, her heart beating wildly, her eyes trying to pierce the darkness.
Hermione fumbled for her wand, muttering, "Lumos." Immediately, a calming glow dispelled the fear and darkness which had gripped her. She breathed deeply, her heartbeat stilling slowly.
The nightmares were not uncommon, certainly not in thunderstorms.
And here she was in the house in which the living nightmare had occurred.
Hermione looked into the room. Strangely, it had never disturbed her before that she had been crucioed time and time again in this very house. She could no longer remember the room in which it had happened. She had certainly never been in it since. Her mind had closed itself in on that time so effectively that her current surroundings held no fear in that respect. It was the memory which had tormented her, precipitated by the pounding of thunder, not the place.
But she would find falling back asleep difficult.
She recalled Grimble's warning not to wander around the house, but she knew she needed to change her surroundings, even if only for a short time.
Throwing back the covers, she wrapped the night gown provided tightly around her. Then, with her wand held in front of her, she opened the door and tiptoed along the corridors. She could go to the library, she supposed. There would be comfort there. But as she approached it, she passed the staircase.
There was a faint light from downstairs. Instinctively, she headed towards it, not stopping to question herself.
The light was coming from the sitting room.
Hermione's feet continued to bear her towards it. Company. That was all she needed.
She reached the door and, forgetting to knock, she pushed it open. Malfoy was sitting in his chair.
Her soul stilled further.
There was a sudden and unexpected flash of lightning, accompanied immediately by the loudest crack of thunder. She screamed.
The man in the chair stood in shock, spinning round and staring at her with clear alarm.
"Miss Granger!"
"I'm sorry. Sorry." She hung her head in embarrassment. "I couldn't sleep. I needed to ..."
She didn't finish her sentence.
He stood and looked across at her for some time. She saw his eyes flit down her body, only partially concealed in her thin night clothes. Without thinking, she pulled them tight around her, hugging her arms around her body. He averted his eyes. Then he motioned for her to join him.
"Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb you."
She sat in the chair opposite, immediately curling her legs in under her.
"Firewhisky?" He was holding a decanter. She couldn't normally stand the stuff. "For the nerves, of course." He had a teasing lilt to his voice.
"Why not?" she smiled ruefully.
He poured her a tumbler and held it out to her. She took it and in the process inadvertently brushed her fingers over his. She pulled the glass back to her, breaking the contact quickly.
"Thank you."
They both sat silently, looking at the comforting flames flickering in the hearth.
"I slept so well last time I was here. It's the storm. I don't like thunder. I had a dream ..."
He turned his head to look at her inquisitively before speaking calmly.
"Having difficulty sleeping is an all too frequent occurrence for me. I often find myself awake in the middle of the night. However, on this occasion, I have simply not yet been to bed."
She looked at him curiously, surprised by his candour. "It's two o'clock in the morning."
"Indeed it is."
She took a sip of firewhisky.
"And of what were you dreaming, Miss Granger?"
"Of a time long ago."
"Something real?"
"Yes."
"Something that happened in my house?"
"Yes."
"You are remarkably honest."
"There is no reason not to be. You know better than anyone what I went through. You and Draco."
She looked straight at him. He returned her gaze. In the firelight, his intense countenance caused a twist to her belly. But it was not with fear. She knew that.
There was further silence.
"Do you really not get lonely?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"You've asked that before."
"I know but ... here, in this house, with just you and Grimble?"
"It is how I want it."
"But still ... we all seek companionship, confirmation of our existence through another."
He didn't reply for some time; he seemed to be thinking hard on her words. But then his face shifted, and he spoke, deep, smooth, but the words chilling.
"Loneliness? There is no such thing, save for the loneliness of Azkaban. If one has not experienced that, one has never been truly alone. There, one does not even have one's own soul for company. Here, I am not alone."
He took a drink.
His openness staggered Hermione. It was only a few words about a time she knew would have flayed the soul, but for him to voice it so clearly to her ... She almost wept.
Staring across at him at that moment, she had never seen anyone so beautiful.
"No, you are not alone,' she said then added, hardly aware she was speaking, "I am here."
His head slowly turned to look at her. His grey eyes danced in the firelight.
Hermione looked away quickly, smiling with the sudden embarrassed awareness of what she had said. "I mean, if you ever wanted anyone to talk to. It's good to talk." Her smile faded, and she looked into his eyes with the same ferocious intensity still contained in his. "I like talking to you."
Thunder rumbled. But it was now distant, retreating. The storm was at last passing. The two people in the room were still staring at each other. Hermione knew her resolve was wilting. Her belly churned, her pulse raced. She had not felt it for so long. But, this time, she had no desire to shy away from it. She wanted it. The man beside her was so close, his hand resting on the arm of the chair.
Touch.
I want to touch you.
She turned her head swiftly and squeezed her eyes tight shut.
"I must go back upstairs. I will be good for nothing tomorrow otherwise." She stood up. "Thank you for the drink. It's helped. Good night, Mr Malfoy."
He was not looking at her. She could scarcely breathe, so suffocating was the stranglehold of need within her. She turned away, ready to walk away.
"Miss Granger."
She stopped. Malfoy stood and took a step towards her.
So close.
"You are right. It is good to talk."
She looked into his eyes, so unfathomable, but at that point as in need as her.
Hermione did not think about what she did next. It simply happened.
Her arms reached up behind his back and she held him to her, pressing her head against his chest.
Warmth, strength, heartbeat.
She could hear it beating hard against her ear. It comforted her more than any amount of firewhisky ever could. Her hands held him against her, her fingertips feeling the firm muscles of his back.
Lucius Malfoy froze. His arms rose to the sides.
There was a woman in his arms.
A Mudblood. Granger.
He breathed in deep.
She smelt so good, so nourishing ... so alive.
Her slight body pressed itself against him, her hands, remarkably strong, gripped his body. He reeled. Were it not for her holding him, he would have stumbled.
It had been so long ... so long since anyone had held him, since he had held anyone. So long since he had felt that warmth of the human touch, of the softness of skin, the firmness of bone and strength of muscle. So long since a simple hug had dispelled anxiety and disorder, if only for a minute.
It felt so good.
Not just anyone. Her.
Slowly, his arms moved down to enfold, to enclose her into him.
And there before the firelight he held her, his hands reaching around her back, pressing her into him as tightly as she pressed him to her.
And it was good.
There was no wish for anymore. Not then. Their bodies fitted together, nestling into the dips and swells of each other.
It was Hermione who at length pulled back and looked him in the eyes.
"Good night, Lucius."
And with that she was gone, out of his arms and out of the room.
It was only then that Lucius Malfoy staggered and collapsed back into his chair.