Entry tags:

challenge: exchanges, pairing:hp:hermione/lucius, pt:100quills:hp:hermione, pt:challenge_the:hp:general, pt:lions_serpents:hp:gryff/slyth

[Fic] The Dream In Me (Hermione/Lucius, NC-17)
Title: The Dream In Me
Author: Envinyatar (aka envinyatar15)
Pairing: Hermione/Lucius
Rating: (light) NC-17
Highlight for Warnings: **
Canon-compliance: mostly up to DH - Voldemort-doesn't-die-AU
Word Count: 4,686
Summary: Even in the most persistent immovability, nothing is fully motionless.

Notes: Written for curia_regis in the dearsanta exchange. So much fun was had with this! Many many thanks go to significantowl for pinching in to beta. Also, despite having modded a gazillion things, this particular fest showed how much I occasionally fail at festing and/or life in general. *headdesk* Inspired by Seether's "Fine Again".

For 100quills: #15 weary; challenge_the: #024 exhaustion; lions_serpents: #27 grey.

The Dream In Me

I feel the dream in me expire
And there's no one left to blame it on
I hear you label me a liar
'cause I can't seem to get this through

***

The wizarding world stands still; trembling, waiting for the inevitable day to come.

Suspense drives every day's activities. The tension that runs through every movement, that is instilled in every breath, that looms in the dark circles underneath sunk-in, red-rimmed eyes - this tension is, if Hermione has to define the climate of the era, the epitome of this war.

With Albus Dumbledore and, a year later, Harry Potter dead; with Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks gone; with Severus Snape, who, it turned out, had been faithful to the Order after all, bled to death; with Kingsley Shacklebolt cursed to pieces; with everyone who had been at the core of the cause passed on to the world beyond, Hermione has found herself the head of a movement she feels too young and inexperienced to lead. Ron at her side is her steadiness, the one who never loses faith. He is as physically marred by this war as she is mentally, has lost hand and eye, yet still he doesn't deflate. In the gloom his belief is the torch leading them to what might turn out to be the daylight at the end of a dark tunnel.

Most days Hermione doesn't know about that, but for Ron's sake and everyone who still follows them, she tries.

***

The Ministry and Diagon Alley are taken by the Death Eaters, having been made into their collecting point; Hogsmeade and Hogwarts belong to the Order - or what's left of it - and have likewise been made into a training camp and refuge for all that seek safety.

There are not many of them. The general throng of movement goes south from London, to the Canal and beyond, or west, to Wales and Ireland. These days, a known allegiance seems more dangerous than Blood Status. Warriors of both sides, if they dare to leave their territory, are killed on sight by their opponents, and not seldom are their associates - family and friends - among the victims, as well.

Hermione asked a half-blood mother of two once, who had lost her civilian husband when he had been caught in a battle between the Order and Death Eaters, why she was fleeing, why she didn't fight. It had been four years since Harry Potter's death then.

The mother countered: "Do you still know what you are fighting for?"

Hermione would have liked to answer her. For the future of your children, is what she would have said. But it seemed pointless in the face of the woman's silent grief and her children's tears. They were all she had left, and she was all they had left; it seemed cruel to suggest risking to tear this family further apart. What future do orphans have in a world ruled by martial law?

With each passing year, the level of aggression among the warriors of the Order spikes further, until these days it is just as likely to be caught up in a life-threatening rivalry among Order members as it is among Death Eaters. With no outlet, the anger has turned in on itself. Many weeks have gone by since the last confrontation; months before that since the last fray. Fighting evil with evil is their directive these days, born out of necessity. It's hard to hold back, hard to watch the other side slash through your ranks while you keep Stunning, just to have your opponent reanimated by another adversary.

Hermione hasn't been trying to change this practice, for she knows the exhilaration of diminishing the other side's numbers is all that keeps many upright. George Weasley fights for revenge, killing because they killed, too. Ginny's robes, in battle, are as bloody as any Death Eater's, fury shining in her eyes, and even Neville has become unyielding.

Hermione watches as the Order walks the road of decay, detached because she needs to be. Moralities they once held high fly out the window as the Order of the Phoenix becomes grey and greyer, until they are only one shade lighter than the Death Eaters.

***

Hermione walks down from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade to visit a family whose child has fallen ill. The few mediwizards left are busy with the more severe cases of injuries up at the castle, so Hermione has taken it upon herself to do as much to help as she can.

As she walks through the village, careful not to notice the deterioration surrounding High Street, she thinks she sees the spark of magic to her right. She has studied the signs extensively; she can feel it on her very skin when magic is used close to her, the ripple going through atoms as they change, multiply, vanish. And right she is: in a side street, Lucius Malfoy is visible for the fraction of a second before his Glamour is working again.

Their eyes meet across the distance. Then Hermione removes her eyes and walks on, as if nothing has happened at all.

***

Muggle-born witches and wizards, one by one, leave England to find an easier, better life on the continent. Hermione hardly faults them for being tired of fighting a war that has been dragging on for five years. For all of them victory is an abstract goal, difficult to find faith in, and their exhausted struggle leaves them weary to the soul.

Finding hope while life is caught in equilibrium is the most difficult task of all.

On the other side, she sees the same happen with the Dark Lord's Pureblood forces. One by one the old families' wealth fades and diminishes into nothing, until all that distinguishes a Lucius Malfoy from a Walden Macnair is the ancient name and, on good days, the aristocratic mannerisms. The war has come to an impasse. The lines are drawn in stone.

And yet, even in the most persistent immovability, nothing is fully motionless.

***

"You have no right to be here," an easily recognisable voice murmurs into her ear, making her freeze. Its silky ease and the blond lock falling over her shoulder can only mean one person: Lucius Malfoy. Relief floods through her as she relaxes minutely. His chest presses against her back intimately. Something pokes into her spine, just above the cleft of her arse, and it would be too optimistic to think it might be an erection. Yet Hermione still presses back against him, tilting her head to the side so he can access her neck. Her eyes, as she feels his hot breath on her skin, then soft lips against her pulse point, are fastened on the Dementor standing guard at the entrance to Gringotts.

"Fair trade," she whispers.

"I cannot let you walk into the bank. Merlin knows what you have in mind, Mudblood."

"You'd already have taken care of me if you intended to. We both know it." Hermione exhales as she lets her eyes fall half-closed. "Besides, you owe me."

A pause, then, "True. I will help you escape. Next time, you are dead."

Hermione allows herself a tiny smile, too fine an expression to be mirrored in the face she is wearing.

She turns to him, careful not to show much at all on her face and in the depth of her eyes. She slings her arms around his neck and leans up to him, fitting herself against his body. It must look real. She wears the body of a prostitute, so she must be one. It's not her first time to be caught in a situation like this, but it's the first time she has been recognised for who she really is. Malfoy must have picked up on her magical signature in Hogsmeade.

"Come, pet," Lucius murmurs to her as his hands run down her curves. He nods to Antonin Dolohov, who is passing them with nothing more than a cursory glance of interest: a Pureblood with a whore is hardly scandalous, though this kind of openness about it is a new addition to - or rather, subtraction from - the rules of politeness.

***

"What are you here for?"

Hermione merely keeps looking at him. Her one side is being warmed by the fireplace, its flames flickering violently, as if they want to reach her. She ignores it. She is wearing her own face now, as accustomed to being herself as she is to being the whore and the landlady looking for refuge. All her bodies have been well-worn over the years - beyond the time their original bearer could. Hermione is proud of her development, but the price paid is high. She doesn't want to be proud of developing magical skills based on other's deaths. Yet here she is.

Lucius, intent, takes a step forward, and says, "Trade."

Hermione nods. "You first."

His grey eyes glint dangerously at her, but he doesn't argue. His clothes are ragged, and he looks filthy - not because he is, but because he used to shine. Anything less, and it makes Hermione realise just for how long this war has been going on, and what toll it has taken.

"My objective was to find out your numbers, and your commando structure, if I could find such information."

"The Dark Lord's order?"

"Yes."

Hermione nods again. "I came to find out your alliances. Diagon Alley is the melting pot, so here I was. Until you found me. Did you abort your mission in Hogsmeade?"

Lucius smiles, coldly, the amusement not reaching his eyes. Hermione knows how that feels. "No." He would have been killed by his own forces, if he had.

At least her Order hadn't yet resolved to cruelty to hold their ranks together.

"You can go now," Lucius says, breaking the watchful silence. His grey eyes are unreadable, and Hermione knows better than to search for any indication of his motives. For all she knows, the man doesn't have any left. It's what desperation does to people.

She turns from him to put the Glamour back on, but then whirls back and steps close, mere inches separating them. "Listen," she says, urgently, because this might be her only opportunity. "You can't be satisfied with how this war is going."

He raises one careful eyebrow at her, eyes glinting warningly. "I will not turn traitor."

Smiling, Hermione shakes her head and feels it on her scalp as her hair brushes against his shoulder. She looks at him steadily and says, "That is not what I'm suggesting."

"What then?"

"Come and find me if you know."

Another pause, then: "I need to be able to trust you."

She can feel his eyes on her as she briefly turns away, heavy and calculating before their weight slides away. She is used to playing with all she has, but the idea forming in her mind is risky; might be too risky. But as soon as she lets the thought progress and expand, she feels a tingle starting at the base of her spine. It's been so long for her, and it's all she has to offer.

Tilting her head minutely, she looks him directly in the eyes, a small smile playing around her lips. "I want to show you." Shyness has little place in a warrior's personality. You learn to take what comfort you can get.

He turns his head to look at her then, haughty arrogance shining from his posture and the gaze he favours her with. "I can have whoever I want. I don't need a Mudblood trying to bed me." His nostrils flare in indignation.

"Your wife refuses you."

Lucius just watches her, and with a sudden burst of clarity Hermione understands. She smiles humourlessly. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a romantic, but here you are, trying to be faithful. Do you think Narcissa is, too?" She keeps her tone level, gentle, because she knows that if she seems to try to best him, he will turn his back on her. Persuading a Slytherin is difficult, but not unmanageable.

"Why would I want you?"

She takes a step closer. "Because it's the easiest way to test me."

"What exactly would fucking you prove?"

"Everything." Hermione watches as Lucius exhales, running his eyes down her body slowly and, she hopes, appreciatively. When she captures his eyes, she makes sure to let all her determination and stubbornness show through, both of which she has plenty; she wants this. She doesn't know if she can trust Lucius. She just offered him everything she is. But that's not important; important is the rush of fear running through her, making her skin itch in anticipation. What matters is the way he only has eyes for her, and nothing else. It's an incredible risk she is taking here, and she can't help but think that maybe, it could be worth it. She leans into him, little by little closing the distance separating them. He remains unresponsive and tense as her lips meet his, a gentle press that does not mean anything yet. The next moment, when Hermione keeps still against him, her breath held because she needs this to turn out positive, he melts and grabs her arms strongly. His fingers dig into her skin, and with a growl he pushes her down onto the floor, where he follows, coming to a stop half on top of her.

"So this is how it's supposed to go?" he asks, voice rough. Hermione thinks she discerns something violently awake in his gaze now, which makes her shiver. Half of his face is obscured by shadows, the other half starkly highlighted from the flames. It would almost seem comical, like a caricature of him, if this weren't so real.

He descends on her then, his grip on her hips tightening brutally as he kisses her. His mouth slides wetly against hers, and his tongue pushes at her lips and teeth. The kiss, as she allows it to grow deeper, is intimate, intense, and panting, Hermione arches against him as he draws back momentarily to draw breath. She tries to reach up, get him back down to her, but he wouldn't comply; pulling one hand from her hip, he catches her wrist and pushes her arm down, against the rag of fur they'd landed on. One of his knees wedges itself between her legs, effectively pinning her into place.

"I think not," he growls, a dark sound that makes Hermione swallow heavily. Her skin begins to tingle, and she tenses against him. Then he is kissing her again, his tongue dominating, controlling. There is something incredibly exhilarating in the way he, her declared enemy, has her completely in his power, and Hermione feels heat beginning to accumulate low in her belly. His thigh rubs lightly against her crotch. She can feel his half-hard cock against her waist. Even as she is trying to stay completely pliant under his hands, she can't help herself and bucks up against him, searching for friction.

The danger of this situation is exactly what she needs to feel alive.

He takes his time to undress her, obviously relishing the power he has over her. She wonders, fleetingly, when the last time was that he had such power at home, but the thought evaporates into pleasure as she feels his hand on her skin, slipping under her shirt and lifting it up. He is warm against her, bringing her more comfort than she has felt since her love for Ron got buried under the weight of this war and died. "Lucius," she whispers, because she knows he will not be able to turn down her begging. "Please. I need -"

"Be quiet," he growls back at her. He bites his way down from her ear to her collarbone, the tips of his teeth momentarily painful spots on her skin. His hand idly wanders south over her stomach down to the waistband of her jeans; there is no need to wear robes. In battle, they are more of a formal hindrance, so she discarded them early on in this fight. His fingers skim over her skin teasingly, sending jolts of frustrated pleasure through her. She needs more.

Finally, when she is panting against his ear and sweat is beginning to break out on her skin, he slips his hand into her trousers and knickers. Hermione moans freely then, clutching at whatever surface she can reach. His fingers barely move against her, touching, teasing.

"God," she feels herself breathe out, because every fibre of her being is concentrated on that one spot where his fingers lay against the entrance to her core.

He withdraws his hand, making her whimper in dissatisfaction. "Lucius," she breathes.

It must have been a tad too demanding, because he yanks up her other arm; his finger against her elbow is wet, a little sticky. "There is no God," he says, surely. He drags up her shirt then, up and over her head. "I thought you might have been a witch," and he fumbles her jeans open, "but you're just a Mudblood after all."

It's as if he looks right through her and knows what to aim for. His words hit exactly where it hurts. He looks her over as she lays naked under him, motionless, pinned to the rug that is soft and smooth against her back. His expression betrays no emotion. Hermione begins to feel foolish, but she won't fight against him. It's her own fault she finds herself in this position. She won't give up so close to her goal.

But his decision is made. He rolls off her then and in another moment he is up, towering above her. She keeps looking at him, straight in the face as she keeps lying still.

His expression still betrays no emotion as he turns and walks away, out of the door. As it falls shut behind him, all the tension flees her muscles and leaves her on the floor, cold and shivering, no more than a heap of flesh and blood and skin.

***

Ten weeks and two days later, after nightfall, there is a knock at her door. She has taken care to do the same he did - focus on his magical signature until she can pick it out of a crowd - and so knows before she's at the door that it's him. The last glimmer of hope she thought had extinguished ignites fiercely as she opens and invites him into her house with a nod.

"It seems dangerous to be living off Hogwarts territory when you are the leader of a faction with a murderous opposition," he tells her. Still, after so much time gone by, no twitch of muscle betrays his feelings.

Hermione smiles, tightly. "I have my guards. Maybe I'm in less danger down here than up at the castle, because no-one expects me to be living in the woods. Did you?"

"Point taken," he says, and shrugs out of his coat. It's ragged, its colour fading, but it seems warm enough for the slight breeze picking up in this late spring night. A storm might be coming.

It would be a relief.

Lucius settles in one of the armchairs in front of the chimney, staring at the fire restlessly flickering from side to side. Hermione slides into the other armchair, facing Lucius.

"I will not turn traitor," he reiterates. The yellow-red flames reflect on his pale skin, making him look otherworldly, ethereal. It seems surreal that he should be here, in her house, sitting in her armchair, after what came to pass upon their last meeting.

"I'm not asking you to."

"But you are asking for something equally monstrous."

"We both know this war cannot go on," she says, pointedly looking at him. "Lucius." When he doesn't react, she slowly unfolds. She gets up, straightens herself and, with minimally swinging hips, walks over to him. "The Dark Lord will cause the Purebloods to become extinct. The wizarding world will decay. Knowledge is disappearing even as we speak, with each burning book and each dying magical being. Money will be worthless. Can you risk this?"

Lucius smiles, a private curling of his lips, as he keeps looking ahead. "The Order cannot offer me enough."

Hermione nods. "You misunderstand. I am not seeking to have you turn to us. I merely would like - to come to an agreement."

Lucius is still then, for a moment, the corner of the eye she can see crinkled with thoughtfulness. "I see."

Hermione lets out a relieved breath. "The Order will not be able to stabilise the wizarding community by itself. I am not blind to that fact. But maybe, with your help and your influence... We couldn't stand to lose even more of our population."

"You want us both to turn traitor."

There is nothing Hermione could say to that, so she remains silent.

***

They both have the same dream: to end the war. Their vision of how the world will look after that – this they have to bring into accordance.

A structure for a possible future slowly unfolds as they plot and plan for months on end; sometimes they meet daily, sometimes, due to other responsibilities, weeks go by until they see each other again.

Hermione is sure they will be discovered, a queasy feeling in her gut that refuses to go away, but the days drag by and nothing at all happens. The tension threatens to make them break – she sees it in the tense line of Lucius's spine, his squared shoulders, his minute reaction to every sound. Even when they are not together, he dominates her thoughts. He is what she can focus on in the wake of nothing else.

Is it a surprising development? Not quite. He is as stubborn as she is, challenges every single thing she suggests. With him, there is no giving without taking in return. Hermione learns this quickly - it's a facet that fascinates her to no end. If she hands him something, he is not able to respect her; power is an integral part to his personality, and in his eyes, whoever gives in and submits is weak. His knowledge is extensive, his sense for politics supreme. Hermione supplies the ideals, and Lucius puts them into a context with reality. He goes cold whenever her heritage comes up, but as time wears on Hermione finds it simpler to speak about something else, distracting him. She knows he knows what she is doing, but it appears to matter little to either of them; they both ignore the impossibility of them for the sake of the dream they share.

He is the only ray of sunshine on her horizon, the touch of a freezing spring sun on wintry wasteland. Feeling cold is better than feeling nothing at all, and under his touch, she thinks warmth might just be possible. She has never been able to turn down the promise of change. Change is what she has been fighting for all her life.

***

"We're done," Hermione whispers, reverently. Her eyes are fixed on the parchment on the desk, as blank now as it had been full with tight scribblings just moments earlier. Every detail that used to be on it is committed to memory, no sign of their endeavour left to endanger their mission at the last moment.

"We are," Lucius says beside her. Hermione looks over at him, and as he shifts to look back, she feels a brilliant grin breaking out across her features.

"We're done!" And she throws decorum to the wind.

She steps forward and embraces Lucius, inhaling the scent of his skin as she does so. He stiffens against her. Hermione breathes in one last time, ready to step back - but then his arms come up to encircle her, and he pulls her fully against his body.

"We did it," she whispers against his neck. All the tension that had been building up between them collapses then, as Lucius pushes her back minutely and then leans down, catching her eyes, before he kisses her.

"It's about time we celebrate," Lucius murmurs against her lips in between kisses. Hermione finds herself agreeing wholeheartedly, pulling away and grabbing his hand to guide him to the bedroom.

***

"Look at me," she asks of him. "Look at me."

He pauses and stills. Hermione tightens her thighs around his hips, pressing him until he reacts.

"Look at me."

And he does. When their eyes connect a chill runs up her spine, because she sees fire in his eyes, and passion.

He thrusts forward then, and the powerful snap of his hips as he enters her has her throwing her head back. She moans, and her fingernails scratch over the skin of his back, leaving red marks because she can. Because she is allowed to.

This is change. This is what she has been waiting for, fighting for.

***

After, they are catching their breath. The bed looks a mess, but the two of them are havens of tranquility in the middle of chaos.

"We can bring this to a head," Lucius says to her, his grey eyes unfathomable.

A smile spreads across Hermione's features. She nods, threading her fingers through his and squeezing his hand.

"We shall."

And she thinks, maybe this light that she feels going through her is what being in love feels like.

***

"I have received intel," Hermione says, loudly, clearly, to the crowd blossoming in front of her, "that tomorrow at this time, the Dark Lord will launch an attack on Hogsmeade and Hogwarts." Hermione can see the wizards and witches in the first row turn to each other, disbelief written across their faces. The crowd murmurs, a hectic up and down of voices that sink into the sea of the mass. Hermione raises her voice to be heard above the collective noise. "I cannot reveal the source of this intel, but have complete faith in the correctness of this information. Therefore," she says, and waits for the assembly to quiet down. "Therefore I propose we launch a counter-attack." The crowd in front of her, faceless, grows quiet and still. "We can go in the offensive. The Dark Lord's forces are weakened. We can win this war, once and for all."

Hermione is no skilled speaker, too used to being in her head only, but her warriors don't appreciate words. They appreciate actions.

Somewhere in the crowd, an inconspicuous-looking woman slips away and Apparates to the Dark Lord's side to report this new development.

And so it begins.

***

The day dawns, a chilly, sunny morning in late October. A red sun rises in the east.

Hermione smiles up at the sky as the first rays of sunshine begin to caress her face. She feels like she is waking from hibernation, every stretch of muscle new and welcome. Every detail to register with her seems full of life, the very air surrounding her vibrating.

To herself she promises that if she lives, she will meet everything with this kind of positive anticipation. She laughs, a startlingly free and genuine sound, as she watches a little boy run away from his father and then trip over a small stone. His father swings him up, laughing, and the boy squeals in delight.

Soon after, she gathers her forces and coordinates the Apparition to the first stop of their journey south. As they appear on the reaped cornfield, they stand facing the army of Death Eaters on the far side. A confused mumble reaches Hermione's ears from every side around her, but it quiets down to determination quickly. The Order knows what to do; they are veterans. They assemble around her and wait for the signal. Still Hermione hasn't lost her smile.

As the battle commences, she wears this expression of joy as her shield. Her eyes meet Lucius's across the battlefield - and even as curse after curse slashes by around them, Hermione has a moment to spare a nod to him. However it's going to be, it's going to be good.

Maybe they have managed to turn the tide. Maybe their dream will survive.