Chapter Text
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, a stark contrast to the emotional tempest that had been raging within Hermione since her confrontation with Severus and her subsequent revealing conversation with Draco. She had spent most of Friday in a haze of introspection, her heart aching with a dull, persistent throb every time she replayed Snape’s rejection, his insistence that they had "crossed a line." Yet, Draco’s words, his belief that Severus did care but was merely afraid, offered a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of hope she tried desperately to extinguish. It was too painful to hold onto.
She was just finishing a solitary cup of tea when a sharp, decisive knock echoed through her small flat. Puzzled – she wasn't expecting anyone – she opened the door to find the landing empty, save for a very large, elegantly wrapped box tied with a silver satin bow, resting on her doorstep. There was no card, no indication of the sender, but she knew. A small, anticipatory flutter went through her. It was the gown Draco had told her about, the one Lucius was sending for their date tonight. Deep down, despite the turmoil in her heart, despite the lingering warnings of her sensible side, she was actually, undeniably, ecstatic to see what it looked like.
She maneuvered the surprisingly light box inside, her curiosity overriding her reservations. She carried it into her bedroom and carefully sat it on her bed, her fingers fumbling slightly as she worked at the intricate bow. With a final tug, the ribbon fell away, and she lifted the lid.
She gasped. Nestled within layers of shimmering, silver tissue paper was the most magnificent gown she had ever laid eyes on. It was a whisper of moonlight and starlight, crafted from a fluid, silver charmeuse that seemed to pour like liquid mercury. An off-the-shoulder design, with delicate straps, hinted at a daring décolletage, while the cut promised to cling and flow in all the right places. It was impossibly elegant, breathtakingly beautiful, and utterly, undeniably, Lucius Malfoy. A small, involuntary squeal of delight escaped her lips.
Without a second thought, she began stripping off her comfortable weekend clothes, her earlier melancholy momentarily forgotten in the face of such exquisite craftsmanship. She had to try it on. Immediately.
Holding her breath, she stepped into the gown, the cool, slinky fabric gliding over her skin like a caress. It settled around her, and as she turned to face her full-length mirror, she gasped again, this time in sheer, unadulterated astonishment. The dress fit her as if it had been spun from magic just for her, a perfect, flawless glove. It showcased her figure in a way she hadn't known was possible, nipping in at her waist, flaring gently over her hips, the off-the-shoulder neckline highlighting the curve of her collarbones and the elegant line of her neck. The silver fabric seemed to shimmer with an inner luminescence, making her skin glow, her eyes sparkle. Looking at her reflection, Hermione felt… beautiful. Truly, breathtakingly beautiful.
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her. Despite still being deeply, painfully upset about Severus, she found herself, to her own surprise, genuinely looking forward to her date with Lucius this evening. A fierce, almost defiant resolve began to solidify within her. Why should she let life keep passing her by? Why should she keep turning other men down, keep putting her heart on hold, in the faint, desperate hope that her impossible crush on Severus Snape would somehow, magically, be returned? No. He had made his position abundantly, painfully clear. He never would. It was time, she decided, squaring her shoulders as she gazed at the transformed woman in the mirror, to move on. Or at least, to try. Tonight, she wouldn't be "plain Jane Hermione Granger." Tonight, in this magnificent silver gown, she would be someone else, someone desired, someone who might just find a different kind of magic.
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The rest of Saturday passed in a surprisingly pleasant, almost dreamlike haze of anticipation for Hermione. The raw ache from Severus’s rejection still throbbed beneath the surface, a persistent bruise on her heart, but the prospect of an evening with Lucius Malfoy – an evening where she would be unequivocally desired, where there were no forbidden lines or professional repercussions to fret over – offered a potent, if perhaps perilous, distraction.
She took a long, scented bath, soaking away the lingering weariness from the week's tumultuous events. She styled her hair not in its usual practical updos or sensible plaits, but in soft, tumbling waves that cascaded over her bare shoulders, a deliberate, almost defiant contrast. Her makeup was applied with a careful, artistic hand, aiming for an understated, luminous elegance that would complement the dazzling silver of the gown Lucius had sent. When seven o'clock approached, she felt a distinct, nervous flutter in her stomach, but beneath it, there was also a thrill of something new, something that wasn't entirely tinged with the constant, hopeless ache of unrequited longing for Severus Snape.
A sharp, polite knock sounded at her door precisely on the hour. Hermione took one last, steadying glance in the mirror. The woman who looked back, draped in shimmering silver, her eyes shining with a mixture of trepidation and a newfound, almost reckless confidence, was someone she barely recognized. She opened the door.
Lucius Malfoy stood there, looking devastatingly handsome. He was dressed in impeccably tailored black dress robes that bore a subtle, almost invisible silver trim, a perfect echo to the color of her gown. His platinum hair was perfectly styled, swept back from his aristocratic features, and his silver eyes, when they landed on her, widened almost imperceptibly before a slow, deeply appreciative smile spread across his face. He took her offered hand, his touch cool but firm, and raised it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers, making her feel like the sole focus of his entire universe.
"Hermione, my dear," he murmured, his voice a silken caress against her knuckles, his eyes drinking her in from head to toe. "You are… utterly breathtaking. The gown, I see, found its rightful owner." There was a possessive gleam in his eyes, a hint of masculine triumph, but it was predominantly overshadowed by a look of genuine, almost reverent admiration that made her blush deeply.
"Thank you, Lucius," she replied, her voice a little breathless, her own confidence bolstered by his reaction. "It's truly the most beautiful dress I've ever worn."
"Only because it is worn by the most beautiful woman," he countered smoothly, his eyes still holding hers captive. He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
Instead of suggesting Apparition, he held out a small, ornate gold coin. "A Portkey, my dear. For expediency, and a touch of… discretion." He looked at her, and she must have shown a flicker of nervousness at the unexpected mode of transport to an unknown destination.
"Trust me, please, Hermione," he said softly, his gaze reassuring. "I promise you will love where we are going."
With an unsure nod of her head, she pushed her momentary worry aside and decided, for tonight at least, to live in the moment, to embrace the unexpected. She took hold of the large gold coin Lucius held out. The familiar, disorienting pull at her navel activated, whisking them away not to a crowded Diagon Alley establishment or a stuffy Ministry ballroom, but to a discreet, unmarked door nestled in a quiet, elegant corner of wizarding Paris. As the door swung silently open at Lucius’s touch, it revealed Le Ciel Argenté – The Silver Sky – an exclusive, almost mythically renowned restaurant whispered about in only the highest echelons of magical society. The interior was a breathtaking symphony of shimmering silver, intricate crystal chandeliers that dripped diamonds of light, and tables bathed in soft, enchanted candlelight. Quiet alcoves, draped in silver velvet, ensured absolute privacy for its discerning clientele. The very air hummed with sophisticated, ancient magic and the low, melodious murmur of refined conversation.
They were shown to a secluded table, perfectly positioned overlooking a moonlit, magically enhanced Seine, the lights of wizarding Paris twinkling like fallen stars beyond the enchanted windows. Lucius was the epitome of charm and attentiveness throughout the exquisite, multi-course meal. He spoke, not of Ministry politics or dark artifacts, but of art (a subject he knew she appreciated, though he approached it from a wealthy collector’s rather than a diligent scholar’s perspective), of amusing society scandals from decades past, and even, surprisingly, of his adventurous travels in his youth, before his marriage and before… the war. He was witty, engaging, and made her laugh more than once with his dry, often cynical, yet undeniably amusing observations. He asked her about her work at the DMF, listening with flattering, unwavering intensity, though she carefully, deliberately, steered the conversation away from any specifics regarding Severus Snape.
Hermione found herself, to her own profound astonishment, actually, genuinely, enjoying herself. Lucius's sophisticated charm, his undivided attention, was a potent, soothing balm to her recently bruised ego and aching heart. He made her feel interesting, captivating, desired . For fleeting, blissful moments, the dull, persistent ache in her heart for Severus would recede, almost forgotten, only to resurface with a sharp pang when a particular turn of phrase, a shared intellectual spark, or a fleeting expression in Lucius’s eyes would inadvertently remind her of him. She would then consciously, determinedly, push the thought away, focusing instead on the man before her, the man who was so overtly, so elegantly, and so uncomplicatedly, showing his profound interest in her .
There were no manipulative undertones tonight, no subtle power plays she could discern, no hidden agendas. Lucius was simply… a devastatingly charming, incredibly wealthy, and undeniably attractive older man, seemingly intent on wooing her with all the considerable resources at his disposal. He refilled her wine glass before it was empty, anticipated her needs with an almost telepathic intuition, and his gaze, whenever it met hers across the candlelit table, was filled with an almost reverent admiration that was both deeply intoxicating and, if she were honest, slightly unnerving in its intensity.
As the magical evening drew to a close over rich, dark coffee and a sinfully decadent chocolate confection that seemed to melt on the tongue, Lucius leaned forward slightly, his silver eyes
serious, the earlier playful glints replaced by a sincere, almost vulnerable expression. "Hermione," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that sent shivers down her spine. "I find myself… remarkably captivated by your company. More so than I have been by anyone in a very, very long time."
A warm blush rose to her cheeks at his earnest declaration. "I've had a wonderful evening too, Lucius. Truly. Thank you."
"The pleasure, I assure you, Hermione, has been entirely mine," he replied, a soft smile touching his lips. He didn't press for more, didn't suggest extending the evening to his penthouse this time, didn't push for any commitment. He simply offered his hand across the table. "Allow me to see you home."
They port keyed directly back to the doorstep of her small London flat. The contrast between the opulent, dreamlike Parisian restaurant and her humble, familiar abode was stark, yet Lucius, standing beside her in the dim light of the landing, seemed entirely unfazed, his aristocratic poise unwavering.
At her door, he took both her hands in his, his gaze searching hers. "Thank you again, Hermione," he said softly, "for a truly… memorable evening."
"Thank you, Lucius," she repeated, her voice equally soft, a confusing swirl of emotions within her.
He hesitated for a moment, his silver eyes dropping to her lips, and she wondered, with a sudden catch in her breath, if he would kiss her again. A part of her, the part that still stubbornly, foolishly yearned for Severus, recoiled slightly at the thought. Another part, the part that had basked in feeling desired and cherished for an entire, magical evening, was strangely… undeniably… curious.
But Lucius merely raised one of her hands to his lips, bestowing a soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles, his eyes holding hers over her hand. "Until we meet again, my dear," he murmured, his voice a husky promise. He began to turn, clearly intending to Disapparate.
Before he could, before the moment was lost, Hermione acted on an impulse born of wine, weariness, and a desperate, reckless desire to feel something other than pain and longing. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, stopping him.
"Lucius, wait…."
He turned back, an intrigued, questioning look in his silver eyes.
Hermione was tired. So incredibly tired. Tired of being sensible, plain Jane Granger. Tired of being cautious and unadventurous. Tired of her deepest desires being unmet, ignored, or deemed "inappropriate." She summoned up every last ounce of her Gryffindor courage, the reckless bravery that had seen her through a war.
"Kiss me… please," she said, her voice breathy, barely a whisper, her eyes locking with his.
A slow, predatory grin spread across Lucius Malfoy’s handsome face as he stepped closer, his hands coming to rest possessively on the curve of her hips, the silver fabric of her gown cool beneath his touch. "As you wish, my dear."
He leaned down and pulled her firmly against him, his mouth claiming hers in a deep, intoxicating kiss. Hermione felt a fire, long dormant, begin to roar deep within her belly, a dizzying, potent heat. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his soft, platinum hair, and kissed him back greedily, all her earlier reservations, her fears, her lingering heartache for another man, momentarily consumed by the intoxicating reality of Lucius’s embrace. She could feel his powerful body reacting to hers, could feel the hard ridge of his erection pushing insistently against her hip, straining against the fine fabric of his expensive trousers.
He broke the kiss only to trail a burning path of kisses down her jawline, along the sensitive column of her neck, leaving a fiery blaze on her skin that made her gasp. She let out a low moan of pure pleasure and arched into him, needing to feel more, needing to lose herself in the sensation.
He breathed in deeply against her skin, his eyes closing for a moment as he relished her sweet, musky scent. It seemed to make something within him snap, some carefully maintained veneer of aristocratic control. When he opened his eyes again and gazed into hers, his pupils were completely blown out, steely dark pools of undiluted hunger. He stroked her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the fire in his eyes, and leaned down to whisper, his breath hot against her ear.
"I can smell your arousal, dear," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. "I can smell your need… your want. Merlin, I wonder… if you taste as good as… you… smell." He punctuated the last words with tiny, nipping kisses along her earlobe, causing another flood of molten desire to course through Hermione’s veins.
She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her own eyes heavy-lidded with a lust she hadn't felt in years, if ever. Suddenly, astonishingly emboldened by Lucius's raw, honest words, by the way he was looking at her, by the fire he had ignited within her, she had never felt so wanton, so completely uninhibited before.
"Why don't you find out, Mr. Malfoy?" she said, her voice a husky invitation she barely recognized as her own.
Lucius closed his eyes for a moment, a shudder running through his powerful frame. Her words, her challenge, sent a scorching wave of pleasure straight to his already aching cock. He wasted no more time. In one fluid, powerful movement, he scooped her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, shouldered open her flat door, and carried her through to her bedroom, laying her gently on her bed. He hastily removed his outer dress robes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, before undoing his cufflinks with swift, practiced movements and rolling up the fine
linen sleeves of his shirt. He unbuttoned the top few buttons, his gaze never leaving hers, ensuring he wouldn't be hindered in his imminent endeavors.
Hermione looked up at him from her bed, her heart hammering. Another wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through her, soaking her silk panties at the sight before her. Lucius Malfoy, divested of his usual polished perfection, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes blazing with intent, looked so unlike his usual well-put-together, aristocratic self. He looked like a man on a mission, a man consumed by desire. And it thrilled her, with a shocking, primal intensity, to know that she had done that to him. She had made this powerful, controlled man come apart at the seams.
She was drawn from her thoughts when she felt his hands on her finally, pushing the exquisite silver gown up around her waist with an almost reverent touch. Lucius wasted no time, his earlier patience now replaced by a raw urgency, tearing the delicate silk panties from her body with a low growl. He leaned down between her thighs, burying his face in her curls, taking a deep, intoxicating breath, smelling her unique, feminine scent. He let out a deep, guttural moan that seemed to vibrate through her very bones, causing her thighs to slicken further with her own burgeoning desire.
He wasted no more time. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her tightly, almost reverently, in place and began slowly, exquisitely, licking her, tasting her. He licked in lazy, deliberate circles around her swollen, aching clitoris, his tongue a master of exquisite torture, causing her hips to buck involuntarily against his mouth, her breath to hitch in her throat.
Dear God, she thought, her mind reeling. She had never… never had anyone go down on her before. Not like this. Not with such devastating skill, such focused intent. Gods, she had been missing out, because this… this was pure, unadulterated, mind-shattering bliss.
Lucius, sensing her rising pleasure, eased a long, knowing finger into her hot, tight, wet channel. "You're so wet for me, aren't you, my dear?" he groaned out against her slick folds, his voice thick with arousal. He began sliding in another finger, then rhythmically, expertly, began pumping them in and out of her. "So wonderfully wet… and… tight!"
"Gods, Lucius! Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Please… please don't stop!" she cried out, her voice a strangled plea as she tried to writhe around beneath him, but Lucius held her firmly, masterfully, in place. He smirked down at her, clearly enjoying the way she was coming apart in his hands. He leaned back down, his tongue flicking expertly between her slick, swollen folds, still pumping his fingers rhythmically, deeply within her.
She let out a raw cry of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a sound she didn't recognize as her own, causing Lucius to smirk again, his eyes glittering with triumph. He then began his final, merciless assault on her clitoris with his tongue, his rhythm becoming faster, more demanding. He could feel her delicate inner walls tightening convulsively around his fingers; he knew she was incredibly close. He doubled his efforts, applying more direct, intense pressure with his
talented tongue while simultaneously curling his fingers within her, seeking, finding, and mercilessly stimulating her G-Spot.
Hermione let out a high-pitched, piercing shriek of pleasure as her vision completely whited out, her body arching almost completely off the bed, every muscle clenched, every nerve ending on fire. Her body convulsed violently around Lucius’s fingers, her legs instinctively circling his head in a vice-like grip as the orgasm, the most powerful, earth-shattering one of her entire life, ripped through her. As she began to crash back down to earth, boneless and trembling, she felt a sudden, gushing wetness between her legs. She saw Lucius lift his head, a predatory, satisfied smirk on his face, his chin and lips still glistening with her juices.
He wiped his mouth on his rolled-up sleeve, his silver eyes blazing into hers, and leaned down on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows, to kiss her deeply. She could taste herself on his lips, a sensation that seemed almost taboo, illicit, yet undeniably, profoundly erotic. Lucius pulled back, tipping her chin to look directly into her dazed, sated eyes.
"You, my dear Hermione," he murmured, his voice husky with spent passion, "are absolutely exquisite."
She could feel his hard, throbbing erection pressing insistently against her belly, straining for its own release. With a newfound, wanton boldness she didn't know she possessed, she moved her hand down, her fingers tentatively, then more confidently, stroking his rigid length through the fine fabric of his trousers. He flushed a darker red beneath his aristocratic pallor and let out a small, sharp groan of pleasure. He grabbed her hand, momentarily halting her explorations. "Hermione," he said, his voice suddenly serious, his eyes searching hers. "You don't have to. Not if you don't want to."
Something in her, however, some newly awakened, adventurous part of her, pushed her on. With a surprising surge of strength and determination, she gently pushed Lucius off her and onto his back. With a quick, silent flick of her own wand, she cast a spell to undo the intricate fastenings of the silver gown, and with a shimmy of her hips, she slipped it off over her head, leaving her completely, gloriously naked before him.
He watched her, his eyes like molten silver, drinking in the sight of her, his breath catching in his throat. She leaned down and, ever so slowly, unfastened his trousers, pulling them down just enough to free his magnificent, straining erection from their confines.
She gasped when his cock sprang free, thick and proud. He was, she noted with a thrill of both intimidation and excitement, considerably larger than anyone she had ever been with before, both in length and impressive girth. His cock was beautiful though, perfectly formed, a pale column of blatant, masculine power. She bent down between his spread legs and began stroking it, her fingers marveling at its heat, its velvet-smooth texture. A low, guttural moan escaped him. She saw a bead of precum begin to drip from the engorged tip, and with a sudden, wicked impulse, she leaned down and swiped it up with her tongue, savoring its salty tang. He hissed in raw pleasure, his hips bucking slightly off the bed. With renewed
reassurance, she began licking his impressive length, slowly, deliberately, up and down, before finally taking him fully, deeply, into her mouth.
He grabbed her hair at the back of her head, not roughly, but firmly, guiding her, helping to set the perfect, intoxicating rhythm for her ministrations. She could tell he was beginning to get close, his pace quickening under her attentions, his breathing becoming ragged, and she could feel his balls begin to tighten and draw up in her gently cupped hands.
"Hermione!" he gasped out, his voice tight with warning, his body arching. "I'm going to…"
She knew. She pulled back just slightly, her mouth still slick, and began stroking him with a fevered, rapid pace, her eyes locked on his face, watching him unravel. His hips began bucking uncontrollably beneath her touch. It didn't take long. With a final, strangled cry of her name, ropes of his hot, thick seed shot from the head of his cock, landing, warm and sticky, on Hermione’s perfectly perk, flushed breasts.
Hermione reveled in the sight, in the raw, primal power of it, at seeing this incredibly powerful, controlled man beneath her come completely undone by her touch, her skill. She laid down on her back beside him on her bed, both of them panting, their bodies slick with sweat and spent passion, as he caught his breath.
He turned his head on the pillow and grinned at her, a wide, boyish, utterly un-Lucius-like grin, a glint of something that looked remarkably like… happiness, true happiness, in his silver eyes. "Granger. My dear, delightful Hermione," he breathed out, his voice still husky. "That was… absolutely superb!" He playfully swooped a finger down at the sticky mess on her chest, his fingertip circling one of her hard, sensitive nipples with his own seed. The sensation, even now, caused Hermione to groan again with a fresh wave of desire.
They spent the rest of the night, or what was left of it, tangled together in each other's embrace, limbs intertwined, drifting in and out of a contented, exhausted sleep, both feeling, for once, surprisingly, profoundly, at peace.