No Looking Back

Written for my lovely friend, Dynonugget. Rawrrrr


I don a pair of navy blue silk pajama pants and sprawl across the massive bed. Propped against the cream damask pillows, I look at the journals beside me, pondering their secrets.

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My early journals deal with my trial and subsequent acquittal and, later, the return of my property by the Magical Law Enforcement. The defense I had outlined worked; the Wizengamot was convinced that I had acted in the only way possible for the safety of my family and the community. I was doing what was necessary to protect as many wizarding families as I could, though not all; to do so would have put my own in jeopardy.

I flip through the entries describing the trial, taking note of Narcissa’s behavior. Narcissa had taken the wait-and-see attitude regarding these proceedings. While she was not an outspoken detractor, neither did she stand alongside me. A habit in her later years, it would seem.

I open a leather-bound book and begin reading at a random date:

2 May 2000
He is dead three years today.

Celebrations continue throughout the community, but I will spend this day as I have for the past three years, with Severus. His transformation has been remarkable, to say the least. Oh, how he would hate me calling it that, but what else could it be called, a miracle? He’d like that even less. After all those years of living with terror and madness, of recriminations and guilt and regret, he has moved on. He has forgiven himself.

3 July 2000
Of all the preposterous ideas the new Ministry could dream up, they have truly achieved a new level of stupidity. While I admit the incentives they are offering will contribute to Malfoy Industries’ bottom line quite nicely, the requirements are nothing short of vulgar. A Muggle Liaison Coordinator. I can only imagine what type of wizard would debase himself to interact regularly with Muggles.

If an MLC is to be foisted upon me, I’ll let it be known I have no intentions of following the advice of some Ministry lackey. Gods save me from some Muggle-loving do-gooder.

9 August 2000
I am going to Avada her if she wears that patently false smile one more time while she attempts to coach me on Muggle relations. As if I didn’t know how to speak in a civilized manner. She says I have a condescending tone. Indeed? Does she forget to whom she speaks? Stupid chit.

12 September 2000
It is beyond all comprehension! The witch is insisting on accompanying me to business meetings for Malfoy Industries. It reeks of the Ministry and their to-date unsuccessful attempts to insinuate government oversight into my business. I made the deal, and I’ll keep my end of the bargain, but I will not have some silly girl accompanying me while I conduct business with grown-ups.

I lay the book on my chest and chuckle . Having read my ledgers, I realize that Hermione Granger is more than likely Malfoy Industries’ biggest asset. It is amusing to read these details of our somewhat rocky beginnings, knowing the outcome ahead of time. Despite the lateness of the hour, I am not tired, and I have more than a little interest in Ms. Granger.

Jumping ahead several months, I open the journal and begin reading once more.

6 March 2001
I am going to curse the witch if she dares suggest one more time that perhaps my negotiating skills lack finesse. I have been conducting business for longer than the silly girl has been alive, yet she shows no respect. If it wasn’t for the monetary incentives the Ministry is handing out to participate in this travesty, I’d Obliviate her, Portkey her round bottom somewhere far away, preferably someplace with cannibals, and be done with it.

That her bottom is shapely is one more strike against her, in my opinion.

Ahah! Finally. While I have the uncomfortable sensation of being a voyeur of my own life, I continue skimming through the journals for more references to Ms. Granger’s round bottom, or any other part of her shapely anatomy, for that matter. What is this unnatural fascination I have for the witch? Why does her face draw me? Will I find the answers here, as Severus has suggested? Stretching a bit, I continue on.

30 July 2001
Ms. Granger continues to wear revealing robes to our weekly strategy sessions. My office is quite warm in the afternoons, but to use the library across the hall as Gobbert suggested would deny myself the pleasure of seeing Ms. Granger’s cheeks pinken when I point out her highly inappropriate dress. Gobbert has begun mumbling to himself when removing and replacing the Cooling Charm on the day of her visits. I must speak with him.

13 August 2001
This afternoon I spied Ms. Granger removing what appeared to be a Personal Cooling Charm from her person. How long has she been doing that, I wonder?

30 October 2001
Ms. Granger wore a completely unacceptable jumper to this morning’s appointment with the realtor. It was a deep blue that set off the honey-depth of her hair and molded her remarkable pair of breasts.

I am noticing what she wears. When did I stop caring that she is a Mudblood? I wonder. Somewhere between her third negotiated acquisition and that jumper, if I had to wager. She is as remarkable as she is irksome. That I cannot stop her image from appearing when I close my eyes is ridiculous, and yet…. She is a vision.

27 December 2001
I have no idea what the silly woman was going on about this afternoon. She was waving the symphony tickets I’d given her as a Christmas present in my face, which led me to believe they were the topic of her caterwauling. When I handed her my handkerchief so that she might compose herself, thus regaining a small measure of dignity, she flung her arms about my shoulders and cried on my new set of robes. What else could I do but wrap my arms around her?

She feels as if she was made for me. It was with that realization that I forcibly put her from me. On her face was an expression of such pain that, before I could reassure her of my honorable intentions, she ran from the room.

Honorable intentions? Honorable? Just what were my intentions towards this woman? My journals thus far have not stated, and I find myself uncertain if I want to proceed. Whatever we are to each other, I am convinced there is more to this partnership than a mere business arrangement.

My head is beginning to pound. I am determined to keep my memory loss a secret for the time being, for to show weakness of this magnitude would undermine all that I have worked so hard to achieve. That I have three individuals to help me is a relief, but Gobbert is at the Manor, and Severus is… damn. I don’t know where Severus is, exactly. The only one close is Ms. Granger. A completely unacceptable, but clearly, unavoidable arrangement.

Pushing the journals away, I reach for the strip of leather I keep at my bedside and tie my hair back before muttering Nox and slipping off to sleep.

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Bleary-eyed, I open the door from the master bath and make my way back to my bed. While it is morning, I feel as if it is still the middle of the night. Once again, I was haunted by visions of one witch. A soft swish stops me in my tracks. I am not alone.

Am I dreaming? Hermione stands in the doorway, softly calling my name. She steps into the room and partially closes the door behind her. Before she can make her way to my bed, I catch her arm and push her against the wall.

“Lucius,” she gasps softly.

“Why are you here?” I press myself into her, speaking softly into her ear. My hands rest on the wall on either side of her, trapping her.

“I thought… something was wrong. You never sleep… later than six o’clock.” She sounds as if she is trying to catch her breath.

My senses are reeling. My brain cannot distinguish between what is real and what is a dream. I want to lower my mouth to hers, to taste her soft lips.

“Why are you here?” I repeat. My hand drops off the wall and onto her shoulder; my fingers dip into the depression above her collarbone before moving up to the base of her neck.

“Why, Hermione?” I lean down and press a soft kiss to her ear.

“I… I was worried. Someone Obliviated you. You… haven’t seen a Healer.”

I say nothing, not sure if I am awake or dreaming. She cries my name softly, and I come to my senses. She is real. She is here.

“You are in my bedroom, witch.” My hand moves of its own accord; my fingers trail a path to her breast and trace large circles over her softly covered flesh. She moans softly.

“What is between us?” My fingers pinch her nipple through her clothing, and her breath hitches.

“Noth… Nothing,” Her answer comes out in a rush of hot air.

“Liar,” I whisper harshly. “You let me kiss you, hold you. Touch you.” My fingers ease the strap of her dress off her shoulder. Underneath, she wears a scrap of lace and silk, and I trace her hot skin above the bra. Her breath hitches once more, and my body responds; my pajamas are now tight over my swollen cock.

I trail kisses from the curve of her neck to her breast. I gently bite her nipple, and the hands that had been clenched at her sides are now in my hair, holding me fast. Pull down the lace covering her delicate flesh, I put my mouth to the softest skin I have ever encountered. Her breast is a pale, round globe, more than enough to fill my hand, and her nipple is hard. I flick the pink pebble with my tongue, and in response, her fingers weave through my hair, her nails scrape lightly over my scalp. A shiver runs down my spine at the overwhelming sensations. That she can make me respond so forcefully with so little encouragement is unsettling, but I push the thought away.

I leave her breast, slowly covering up her beauty as my tongue wets a path between her breasts to her mouth. My lips slide over hers, mapping out their softness, the plump bottom lip that is slightly roughened from her teeth and her thinner top lip that is silken. My tongue tastes the corner of her mouth, lightly running the seam until her lips part, and I gain access to the hidden treasures within. My tongue finds hers, and an erotic dance begins. But I want more; more flesh in my hands and mouth, more cries of need keening in my ears. I want to lick the sweat between her breasts as she works herself above me, frantically working for release. I want to feel the softness of her hair that I smooth off her face while she is writhing beneath me.

“Tell me, Hermione.” My fingers run down her arm, to her waist. I tilt her hips until her mound is crushed against my straining flesh, and slowly I roll my hips to tease her further. Shifting my weight, I break contact, and her hips follow me, arching her back off the cool wall. She moans, her frustration evident. I want her with an intensity that jars my senses. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her breathing is labored.

My hands find the edge of her dress, and the soft material gathers about my wrists as my fingertips skim the backs of her legs and thighs. At her round bottom, I gather the material, twisting and gathering it around my hand. I begin suckling her neck, strongly enough to leave a reddened mark, but not so hard as to bruise her tender flesh. She tastes of a not-yet-ripened peach, tart but with a hint of sweetness, a promise of what awaits the patient man.

She braced herself against the wall and parts her legs. Tilting her hips, she offers herself for my exploration. I will not refuse her offer. She has not yet given me what I desire, her answer. Right now, against this wall, my need to know battles with my need to feel her delectable responses to my touch.

“Do you like my mouth on you, witch? Do you like the feel of my hand covering your body?” My free hand runs up the length of her inner thigh until I am cupping her heat. My middle finger slips past the feeble excuse for knickers to feel her swollen lips; her clit is engorged and eager. I have made her needy, and that knowledge shoots straight to my cock, now pulsing with its own need.

“Tell me who we are to each other, witch.” I demand gruffly. My breathing is no less labored; her scent is permeating the very air around us. Her desire is a living thing, pulsing and breathing, newly awakened and eager to play; and I am on the edge of a high precipice, fighting for control and firm ground. I slide my hand inside the gossamer material to cup her fully. She is hot and wet. Two fingers slide down to dip inside her, and my name escapes her lips in a gasp. She is more exquisite than I could have ever imagined. She is perfection in my arms.

I kiss her fully as she begins to ride my hand. Her hands have left my hair and are now grasping for purchase on my body. She finds my hard cock and encircles me through the thin silk. She strokes me. I fight the urge to pump into her hand as she rolls her hips, grinding her clit against the heel of my palm as my fingers work her furiously.

She begins quivering, and her wet walls clench tightly around my fingers. She is not quiet in her pleasure; her soft screams and long, drawn-out moans escalate my need, and my weeping cock stains my silk bottoms. With blood thundering in my ears, my heart beats its pounding rhythm in my chest. There is no sight more beautiful than seeing this woman lose herself in her release.

I pull her to me. She buries her face in my shoulder, but her hand hasn’t stopped its wicked movement. I begin to thrust, slowly at first, but the ancient rhythm cannot be denied. I want to drown in the pleasure she gives me, and I thrust my cock hard against her hand. She increases both her speed and pressure. Oh, that I could bury myself in this woman.

“Hermione,” I groan as I come against the hot silk she holds in her hand.

We stand for long minutes, wrapped in each other, silent but for our shuddering gasps for air as we attempt to steady our thudding hearts.

“You don’t remember me. You don’t remember us,” she sobs softly against my skin.

“I have no memory of you, but my body remembers you. And in my dreams, you are mine.” I grasp her chin to look into her eyes, eyes that are shining softly in the morning light that has made its way past the draperies.

“Are we lovers?” I do not want her to be my lover. I have only met her, but I trust her on some inescapable level, deaf to my voice of reason and rationality. This is the witch. My woman. I do not want to offer her less than what she deserves, and for all its loathsomeness, I am still married.

“No,” her voice sounds strained. She draws in a shaky breath and steps out of my arms. She takes a moment to straighten her clothes, as if she is settling her armor about her.

“You didn’t want me.” Her voice is flat, as if she is has convinced herself that this unmistakable lie could somehow pass for the truth.

“Gods, woman, I want you.” The words are past my lips before I can censor my thoughts. The words are admitted as a growl, but they are nevertheless the truth. The evidence is now drying in my silk drawstring pants.

Her eyes are now bright with unshed tears. “I’ve missed you.”

I wrap my arms around this woman, this witch. My witch. I have no answers, but for now, I have enough.


Many, many thanks to my friends and betas, Wildcatcdc and Sc010f.