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This story is dedicated to Anna Psarudaki, whose prompt I claimed.
...
Spring had arrived, but the countryside was not yet fully divested of its winter adornments. Daffodils and crocuses bravely poked their heads up through melting patches of snow, while elder and hazel trees donned their leafy raiments amongst stark oak and naked ash.
It was a windy morning, the delicate new foliage of the forest shivering in the breeze, causing a pleasant rustle in the damp air not yet familiar to the buzz of bumblebees or warbles of visiting southern birds.
In the middle of just such a pleasantly wooded terrain, a witch sat beneath the sheltering arms of newly-budding willow tree near the edge of a lake, gazing sombrely out over the wide stretch of water, rippling gently under a wispy layer of morning mist.
She cut a solitary, mournful figure, her shoulders hunched against the cool early-spring breeze, her legs drawn up and her arms encircling her knees, upon which she leant her chin.
To a distant observer, the figure might have seemed almost androgynous: slight and sparse of frame, dressed carelessly, even boyishly, in loose denim jeans and an oversized woollen jersey, a green backpack slung down beside her scuffed brown trainers. If not for the mass of dark curls cascading down her slender back, nearly meeting the swell of discernibly feminine hips, she might have been mistaken for a teenage boy.
But someone more closely situated, having once glanced upon her face, could mistake neither her sex nor her age.
It was a rare face, the kind which arrests and draws the eye, not to settle on in pleasure of its beauty, nor to contemplate with self-complacency its plainness; but rather to wonder at what sort of person belonged to such unworldly features, and how came by the owner of so intelligent, yet so melancholic an expression in her dark-amber eyes. The glow of youth's abundant vitality had all but vanished, taking with it any remnants of roundness and rosiness from her face, but the angular lines and pallid tints of adulthood were unmarked by the corrosions of age; she was yet a young woman, if not a happy one.
A sudden, strong gust of cold wind swirled down from the treetops to buffet about the figure, causing her loose clothes to flutter wildly, and whisking her long hair around her face. The young woman sought to contain her riotously-dancing tendrils with both hands, but as she did the wind caught open and pilfered through her backpack, capturing a loose piece of parchment and bearing it up and away, careening through the air.
With evident dismay, she began to frantically pat the ground in search of her wand, hindered by the curtain of billowing hair that blinded her. By the time she had located it and scrambled to her feet, the wind had died back down...and she was no longer alone.
Almost as if borne to her side upon that very blast of icy air, a wizard now stood before her, the escaped piece of parchment held in one bejewelled hand.
She froze, staring at the man with undisguised shock. For several moments the two wordlessly gazed at each other, one with an expression of dawning antipathy, the other with a placid though inscrutable smile.
This new arrival seemed in every way a contrast to the young woman. Standing a full, imposing foot taller than she, he exuded the ease and confidence of a man much used to wealth and privilege. Easily twice the witch's age, he belonged to that caste of well-moulded men whose attractions seemed only to increase with the accumulation of years; solid, splendid and indomitably masculine. Where her allure lay in its very ambiguity and fragility, his was all strikingly displayed, or rather exhibited—from his classically handsome features, framed by a curtain of satin-smooth blond hair, to his exquisite ensemble of clothes, more befitting an Edwardian ballroom than a forest landscape.
At last the silence was rent by the young woman's voice, harsh with anger and trembling with discomposure. “Why are YOU here?”
The wizard's head tilted slightly to one side as he continued to calmly survey the witch. Then, in a suavely sibilant tone, he replied, “As you see; I have brought you back your scroll.” He held it out to her, one eyebrow arching sardonically. “It is your scroll, is it not, Miss Granger?”
The young woman visibly flinched at the sound of her name on his lips. Hastily, she snatched the proffered item from his extended hand, then used her wand to direct it back into the confines of her backpack.
“You're welcome,” murmured the wizard, his pointed politeness designed to mock her lack of the same.
The witch shook her hair behind her shoulders, squaring them, and gripped her wand all the more tightly. Her lips were pressed in a humourless line; her eyes narrowed with suspicion and dislike. “Why are you here, Mr. Malfoy?” she repeated.
“We've known each other for so long,” he said in the same smooth tone, “won't you please call me Lucius?”
She ignored his facetious request. “Did you follow me here?” she asked bluntly.
“Follow you?” His tone of wounded surprise continued to mock her seriousness. “Whyever would I do such a thing?”
The witch's eyes flashed mistrustfully. “I can think of several reasons; none of them good.”
“Very well,” he said, looking faintly amused, “...let us imagine I did follow you here. What now?”
“I'd like to know why, before I hex you into oblivion.”
She raised her wand threateningly and planted her feet in the duelling position of attack.
Clearly unintimidated by this gesture, the wizard nonchalantly withdrew a slender cigar from his breast-pocket. Leaning elegantly against the willow, with one boot drawn behind to rest upon its trunk, he lit the cigar with a murmured spell and took a leisurely draw from it.
“I've always admired your spirit, Miss Granger,” he said at length. His strangely caressing voice was like liquid honey and poison running through her veins. Then, more wryly, he added, “...You can write that in your diary. Isn't that what little girls like you do?" She was too enraged to even form a reply, and the man continued with his gently taunting words. “You can write, 'Today I met Lucius Malfoy at the lake. He told me he had always admired my spirit'.”
“I am not a little girl!” she retorted, annoyed at herself for rising so quickly to his bait. “Except perhaps in comparison with you.”
She had hoped to return the sting, even pique his anger, but the wizard merely chuckled. “Touché, my dear,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her then leveling once more upon her angry, upturned face. “A palpable hit.”
She did not understand the expression in his silver eyes, nor that smile lingering on his lips. It could almost pass for...tenderness. And suddenly, with utter confusion and mortification, she felt a deep flush creeping over her cheeks.
Even more incensed by her body's betrayal, the witch snapped, “And if I happened to keep a diary—which I don't, by the way—rest assured, the last person whom I would ever immortalize in its pages, would be you!”
Lucius Malfoy softly laughed again, but whether at her words or at her obvious blush, she had no way to tell. She steeled herself for more derision, but was completely blindsided by his next words.
“...Ah, perhaps I deserved that...” he said with a sigh, a rueful smile replacing his mocking one. He took another draw from his cigar, then tapped the ash onto the ground beside him. “I'm afraid I have never quite curbed my habit of offending everyone with whom I speak. Would you believe me if I told you that I often weary of it? It can be a rather tiresome business, living up to one's reputation.”
Whatever she had expected him to say, this was not it. Unsure if he was still being facetious, she continued to glower at him. Yet the wizard's expression seemed sincere, and his eyes were thoughtful. He turned his head to view the serene prospect of the lake. “I come here every Sunday,” he said. Without acknowledging her gasp of disbelief he added, “...As do you, of course.”
“No, you don't,” the witch stammered, “I—I've never seen you before—you've never—not once—”
“My dear girl,” he interjected, “just because you (rather unwisely, I might say) choose not to Disillusion yourself, does not compel anyone else to follow your example.”
The flush on her cheeks spread furiously over the rest of her face. “You...you've been watching me?!” Her voice was a simmering concoction of rage, dismay and confusion. “Why the hell would you do that?!”
Lucius Malfoy shrugged, his eyes following a trail of smoke coiling up into the ether. “I don't know,” he admitted. “The first time was merely coincidence. It was early last autumn... My wife had just filed for divorce, my son had disowned me, and it seemed my life was going spectacularly up in Fiendfyre. It was a...lonely time. I started taking long walks, away from the public eye, to gather my thoughts and...lick my wounds. Then, one day, I happened to come across this place.” His mouth ticked up at one corner. “Imagine my surprise when I found that I was not the only person seeking solace in solitude.”
There was something so odd about hearing the ever-suave former-Death Eater admit to loneliness, that something stirred within her, something far too close to sympathy, and it frightened and enraged her even more. “So you just decided to spy on me every weekend?” she said accusingly, determined to stamp the feeling out before it could properly kindle. “Don't you know how creepy that is?”
The man turned back to face her, mild surprise arching his eyebrows. "I suppose so, when put like that," he said frankly but unapologetically. "I can't tell you why, but I've been fascinated to discover this part of you that no-one else seems to know about. Every week I see your name and face splashed over the front page of the newspaper, detailing your latest political triumph or dazzling social coup. Yet every Sunday I find you sitting here, all alone, for hour after after, come rain, shine or even snow. And...and strange to say, I no longer feel quite so alone, after all. I feel as if I have discovered in you, a kindred sufferer."
“You dare compare yourself to me?” she hissed.
“Indeed, I do dare. I've lately discovered that we have more in common than most.”
“We have nothing in common!”
The wizard did not immediately reply, instead, he took a final draw from his cigar, then Vanished it with a graceful flick of his wrist.
“Sadness is a lonely business for those with pride, is it not, Miss Granger?” he said at last. “Proud people cannot abide sympathy or pity, nor will we stoop to ask for help; we are afraid that even the smallest crack of vulnerability may be a harbinger of failure. And so we hide our fear and suffering behind a charade of infallibility. You, for example, hide your sadness behind your glittering career-witch image; I hide mine behind my ambitious business bravura... But it becomes a kind of prison, doesn't it? One is trapped inside one's public persona, clinging to one's pedestal, with nowhere to run, and no-one to catch us should we fall.”
The witch trembled. Everything he said was so true, so painfully true, but why did the truth have to come from him—him, of all people—the man directly responsible for so much of her suffering? How could it be possible for him to so casually, yet so accurately, articulate her pain?
Confused by the very thought of it, she clutched at the straws of her bitter rage. “So, watching me suffering made you feel better about yourself; is that it?” she spat. “Oh, you must have thought you were so incredibly clever, intruding on my space without my knowledge. No doubt, you were able to convince yourself of your superiority!”
“No,” he said. “No, I assure you that was never the case.” His voice seemed somehow to coil around her like the lingering smoke of his cigar.
“Are you sure it wasn't just some sick power-trip you were getting off on?” she carried on. “The big, bad Death Eater, stalking his helpless muggle-born prey?”
“I should hardly call you helpless, Miss Granger,” the wizard replied, amusement once more softening his sharp features. “Indeed, if there's one thing I've learned over the time since first we met, it is that you can take care of yourself better than almost anyone I know.”
She was silent for a moment. Then, in a low voice, trembling with venom, she spoke. “When exactly did you first work that out, Mr. Malfoy? Was it while you stood by and watched me being tortured by your crazy sister-in-law? ...Or was it earlier on, that night in the Department of Mysteries, when your buddy Dolohov cursed me so badly I still take potions for the pain?”
His face was grew visibly paler. “I never intended—”
“—Or maybe,” she cut him off sharply, “just maybe, it was that very first time we met, in Flourish and Blotts, when you looked down at me like I was no better than shit on your oh-so-shiny shoe?”
He winced, but did not attempt to reply.
“Well? I want to know which of the traumatizing incidents of my youth gave us so much in common, in your opinion?” She could hear her voice getting louder and higher, her words seemed to be welling up and pouring out like blood from some dark wound inside her. “Which moment do you think really made me the resilient witch you see before you? The witch who wakes up every single night screaming her lungs out? The witch who pushes away everyone she loves, for fear of losing them, like all the others she did lose! Who has everything on the outside, and feels nothing—NOTHING—on the inside? ...Oh, yes, she's doing a wonderful job of taking care of herself, thanks in no small part to you!”
She lunged forward and thrust her wand mere inches away from his stricken face. Her voice dropped back down to an almost feral snarl. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hex your eyes right out of your head, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”
There was a long silence, during which only her distressed breathing could be heard. The wizard's pupils momentarily trained on the tip of her wand, then raised to rest on her ireful, anguished eyes.
“Because you're a good person, Hermione,” he said softly. He reached slowly up and brushed her violently-shaking wand to one side. “You're a better person than I ever was, or could ever hope to be. And I'm...I am...” He paused, took a breath, then simply said, “I am sorry.”
Just like that. That one brief, little word, taking all of a second to slip from his handsome mouth. How long had she waited to hear it? How many years?
“I'm sorry, Hermione,” he repeated gently.
She stared and stared at him, frozen to the spot, her arm still outstretched, searching for some glimmer of mockery in his eyes or glib taunt in his voice, but she searched in vain. Somehow...somehow, she believed him.
Her wand dropped to the earth with a soft clatter and she whirled away as her face crumpled. He mustn't see them, her scalding, rushing tears. He mustn't see just how much of that hurt little girl she still really was. No matter that her body trembled and her shoulders jerked, no matter that she couldn't contain her gulping sobs. Just so long as he didn't see her tears...
“Hermione...” he murmured, unexpectedly close. He had moved to stand a few feet behind her, though he did not touch her, or speak again.
When her wracking sobs finally abated, she was left shivering and hollow. The brisk air pierced through the loose knit of her woollen jersey, through every layer of clothing and skin and flesh, down to her very marrow. Suddenly all she wanted was warmth. The warmth of human touch.
“P-prove it,” she said, in a trembling whisper. “If you're so sorry...if you've changed so much...if you're truly not disgusted by me...then touch me.”
There was a moment of stillness and silence, followed by the soft crunch of footfall on grass.
Then warmth.
The warmth of his hands slipping around her waist, the warmth of arms wrapping about her shoulders, the warmth of a body pressed close against her. The warmth of his breath, ghosting over the shell of her ear as bent over to murmur, “I'm not disgusted by you, Hermione. You are...truly beautiful.”
Seconds later, he turned her unresistant form to face him, drawing her nearer again, then he stooped down to catch her lips with his mouth.
In that moment something inside her, a kind of icy, brittle cage, shivered into a thousand pieces and melted away into her bloodstream, and for the first time in countless years her heart seemed to leap into vital, thudding life.
He kissed her deeply, his tongue slipping between her lips to twine with hers, his arms wrapping securely about her, cocooning her from the chilly air. She was disoriented by the sudden flood of heat through her body and the vivid burst of bright colours in her mind, and when the wizard finally released her, she sagged dazedly against his solid chest, her face tilted up to his, her breath panting shallowly through her open lips.
“Make me feel something again, Lucius,” she whispered pleadingly. “I want you...I need you...t-to thaw me...”
Intuitively, he understood her request. With a swift, elegant movement the wizard removed his thick fur-lined robe and spread it upon the dewy ground. Then, in a curiously chivalrous gesture, he sank to one knee upon it, as if in courtly obeisance to her, holding his hand out to her.
She gazed at him, drinking in the vision of her former nemesis, stripped of all arrogance and acrimony, kneeling humbly before her. And when she stepped forward to take his hand, she had never felt so certain, or so serene.
...
He took her gently and slowly, in the dappled light filtering through the rustling canopy of the willow tree.
Encased by the soft fur of his robe beneath her, the smooth pale flesh above, and the deep, anchoring thrust of him inside her, she at last found the safety and warmth she had craved for so long; an escape from the crippling loneliness that had desolated her life and blighted her heart.
She demanded proof; he gave it unsparingly, touching and caressing, licking and tasting every inch of her, wicking her relieved tears with his lips, those same cruel lips which had only ever derogated and derided, now crooning sweet names and soft words.
There was no denying or refuting the substantial fact of him—the solid breadth and weight of his body, the stroking warmth of his hands, and the heavy, rigid heat of his cock slowly sinking in and drawing out of her—there was no choice but to feel, to feel everything, every exquisite, infinitesimal sensation, like an unfurling flower, vibrating to the first poignant touch of air and light upon its fragile petals.
Never, in her wildest dream, nor even her darkest nightmare, had she imagined that he, Lucius Malfoy, would be the one to break her out of the suffocating darkness and back to life. How could she have known that his redemption and her resuscitation could be so inextricably entwined? And yet it was so. With each tender, passionate kiss upon her lips, each sweet lap of his tongue across her bare skin, and with each stretching, filling plunge into the core of her, she felt her hibernating soul quiver awake and her lungs expand as if breathing for the first time in aeons.
They came together, her channel clenching around his pulsing length, his eyes closing and brow furrowing and he surged forward with a hoarse groan to spill his seed inside her. His name, once anathema to her, now fell from her lips like a benediction, her body coursing with wild, euphoric elation.
Afterwards they lay quietly entwined together.
Somewhere far above them, from the topmost branches of the willow tree, the piping song of a chiffchaff rang joyously out, heralding its safe return from its winter retreat.
Spring had indeed arrived.