Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And what is love, really,

if not two broken people

finding a rhythm

that lets them pretend

they aren’t bleeding anymore?

The Ministry had rebuilt its marble façade, now more grotesque than ever in its lucre but the old cracks still showed, as if meant to remember something.

As if  the architecture gleaming with fresh wards and opalescent charms could stop too many ghosts still wearing names. As if   smiles, stitched tight over wounds nothing could heal, might be set somehow right with a falsity and pretence.

Ginny Weasley had worn black.

Not because it was appropriate. Because, let’s be honest here, it wasn’t. And that was the point of it exactly, wasn’t it?

She refused to pretend that nothing bad happened at all and that she was a young lady with bright and great future awaiting her. Because she wasn’t, not anymore. She felt dead inside, suffocating, like bright and wealth and positivity could drown her inside its  shine. She craved silence, and pain over all this, wanted to be elsewhere but here. Just wanted to vanish against the velvet tablecloths, as if she was nothing but a bleak shadow. And vanish she nearly did, skirting past goblets of elderflower wine and predictable men in dragonhide boots, all talking about reconstruction and politics as if war had been a minor inconvenience.

Harry stood near the Auror’s table, stiff and distant. Laughing too loudly at something Ron said.

She knew that laugh too well. Flinched every time it reached her ears. It repulsed her, all of this repulsed her really.

Because she knew it. Knew it like the back of her hand. Like all the times he pretended. That same laugh, always the same. After funerals, after nightmares. Or when she touched him in bed and he recoiled, like she’d burned him. Why was he still with her, she could not grasp. And more importantly, why was she even bothering with all of it…

She didn’t approach him. Not at first, at least.

But eventually, he noticed her, and that was when the real problem bloomed.

“Where have you been?” he asked, quietly, through his teeth, with smile too tight plastered on his once loved face.

“Getting air,” she lied, smiling.

“You look drunk, Gin.”

“I’m not.”

He took her arm, pretending gentleness, but the grip hurt like hell. She will be bruised next day, she was certain of that.

“Can we not do this here, please?” Harry hissed through the clenched teeth, his mask starting to drop inch by inch. Ginny gawked at him in silent bewilderment as if watching a cheap theatre and laughed suddenly

“What? I’m not doing anything. You are the one making a scene of nothing, Harry Potter.”

“You…” Harry’s mouth tightened. “You’re wearing that dress like you want to provoke. And pretending you don’t. But that’s not it right? I am not that stupid, Ginny. I can see it. You want someone to notice, to notice you too desperately that you lower yourself to wearing something so inappropriate like that.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “Right, Harry, as always, and you know what? Maybe I do. What will you do about it?”

He flinched but that she didn’t give a damn anymore.

“And you know what, Harry? If I do,” she said again, lower this time, “it’s because the person I was supposed to be with doesn’t even fucking see me anymore.”

They argued in tight, quiet tones. Like a married couple in public, fighting through a smile. But it wasn’t a partnership— not anymore. And she wasn't smiling.

When she finally turned from him and walked out of the ballroom with her jaw tight, it was in silence. She grabbed a flute of something sharper than wine and swallowed it too fast. He made her feel nauseated, she could not stand him anymore, the hissing, accusations, coldness. She needed air or she would explode.

 The gala was obscene. Opulent and overlit, every chandelier in the Minister’s new wing burning like they were trying to keep hell itself from leaking through the ceiling. Smell of waxed wood, perfume, and wizarding politics filled the air; thick with hidden grudges dressed in politeness and costly charm. Lucius Malfoy had barely made it through the first hour before deciding the night was a mistake not worth his precious time.

 Still, he stayed, because leaving early would’ve been noticed and that he could not afford. Because the speech from Savage was still to come  and he was, unfortunately, still useful.  

He had been watching, standing apart,  as he always did, from the second-chance aristocrats pretending the world hadn’t cracked open beneath them, near the outer edge of the ballroom, holding himself high, cane in hand. He was in fine health. What he lacked was tolerance and patience for this.

Then he saw her.

In that moment, he knew the only reasonable thing he should’ve done was turn around. Slip into the Ministry's corridor perhaps, or disappear behind some excuse — an urgent memo, a floo call, a whisper of tired old blood needing rest. There were exits for men like him, entire languages built for silent retreat without disgrace.

Yet he stayed.

It was the look on her face to hold him in spot.

Not fury. Or, not yet. Just the brittle bridge between the polite young lady she was raised to be, and the rage straining beneath it. A temper disguised as restraint,still enough to cover her if it was the only thing left to wear.

Ginny Weasley was halfway down the stairs, standing still though she looked like she might shift at any moment. One of her heels had slipped backward, awkwardly. He was sure she was about to fall down, with it hanging onto the edge of the step. Now, that would be a spectacle worth it all. The half-gone champagne glass in her hand wobbled a tiny bit as she gripped the banister, too tight for balance.Still. Not moving.

But calm wasn’t part of it.

Like she was holding something back. Not the words perhaps, just the heat behind them.

Her smile, though practiced and polite , didn’t quite meet her eyes.

There was a tightness in her posture, a heat just under the surface. Not quite anger, not yet. Just that familiar edge of temper, calm on the outside, but close enough to break through if pushed.

She could smile, if she had to. She usually could.

The expensive looking black dress, quite inappropriate for a Ministry salary, caught the light. Her hair was pinned up in that deliberately careless way that only ever comes after hours in front of a mirror.

She hadn’t seen him. Not at first. So he watched.

Watched the way a little boy might eye the locked front of a sweetshop; knowing better, but already halfway gone. Not because he needed what was inside. Because he shouldn’t. Because he already knew better. And because knowing better did absolutely nothing to stop him. He should’ve walked away. A man in his position, with his name, with his past should’ve had the control. He’d meant to look only once. But something in the sight of her caught and held. A strangest sort of twisted fascination, cold and buried too deep in disgust, blooming out of nothing in the span of mere seconds.

Her back was turned, shoulders squared, neck held high like someone who had too many eyes on her and had grown used to surviving under it.

The hem of her dress was slightly uneven.

Curious.

What had she done to ruin such an expensive thing?

And where, exactly, had it come from?

And more to the point, who had paid for it?

She was poor, he knew the family too well. Disgrace, filth, all of them. Loud and lacking in manners and breeding like rats, as though the world owed them room for that. They repulsed  him deeply. Always had.

And yet, yet… the thought of it aroused him immensely.

Not her, not Ginny Weasley per se. Just the idea emerging in his bored mind.  Her, in that ruined dress, cheap in essence, even when pretending it to be otherwise, and same cheap gold hanging on her pale neck aroused him. The sheer vulgarity of it,  the sort of arousal born in revulsion. Like what any common man might be stirred by the sight of a cheap whore. Nothing but an urge. Not for love, pleasure or admiration. Just something to empty frustration into and leave behind with a coin.

And wasn’t that exactly what she was?

Her lipstick was smeared. Standing too still for  someone pretending to enjoy herself. And doing exactly that she was, wasn’t she? Standing at the edge of a conversation, dutiful and composed, like a little slag taught to fake smile for the world’s approval. Her fingers clasped too hard behind her back, like a schoolgirl forced to wait for punishment.

A dutiful little piece of ornament letting herself be seen, playing her piece for the room to believe she was meant to be there.

He hated that.

Hated it enough to keep watching.

And when she finally turned, the way a woman does when she’s done pretending she doesn’t feel someone ogling her, he saw it.

The fight. Still fresh in her face, pulled tight across her jaw, wrapped silent around her eyes. She hadn’t broken, or rather not fully yet. But she was a breath away from cracking open, if someone said the wrong thing in the wrong voice.

Lucius turned away too late. Their eyes had already met and he felt it fully now, the wave of want that had nothing to do with beauty. He didn’t want her. He wanted to watch her lose that control.

And he would.

He didn’t approach immediately.

Lucius Malfoy had learned long ago not to move toward fire without knowing its fuel.

Instead, he stepped to the drinks table — brandy, thank God — and waited patiently for her to come to him. Let her, because that, too, he had expected. How predictable, the little slut.

He spied amusedly as she moved like someone rehearsing boldness. Chin high, eyes too bright. Was she tipsy? It seemed so by her slightly unsteady moves. He ogled her heels, clicking too fast on the marble floor, like she was trying to outrun something she hadn’t named yet.

She stopped by the drinks table. Not facing him but near enough for it to be intentional.

Of course she did, stupid girlie pretending it to be casual. No woman sashayed that way if she didn’t want something. And most certainly not her. It was getting more and more ridiculous.

She swept her gaze covertly taking in her surroundings;  to see if the coasts were clear, probably. And as she reached for a champagne, turning just so so slightly, her eyes found his and she pretended to look surprised.

He arched an eyebrow with silent dare. Let her make the first move.

“Mr.Malfoy.”

He ignored her at first, just staring coldly into her too large pupils.

“Good evening, to you too,” she continued, quite irritated by now and turned to leave.

“If you are sure, Miss. Good evening indeed.”

That stopped her. She turned on her heel, wavering slightly in the motion.

“Nice of you to offer a simple courtesy.”

“I offer only what is worth.”

She narrowed her eyes, but probably decided to let the offense pass, because she continued conversing. Was she really that desperate for attention? Or what really was she playing at? Making Potter jealous? Whatever it was, he resolved himself to let her have her act for a bit longer.

“You’re not drinking,” she rised an eyebrow, flipping red hair off her shoulder. The strands shimmered briefly in the candlelight like fiendfire. Lucius gave her a sideways glance, chin still. “Pity the same can’t be said about you.” Ginny gave a dry little hum. “Trying to insult me? No success. Bad for you .”

He picked up a fresh glass of firewhisky and handed it to her without a word. She took it, surprised, and took a sip, watching him over the rim.

“I heard your wife’s in France,” she continued while holding his gaze. That irked him.

“I imagine you hear a great many things.”

“And Andromeda’s not here either.”

That made him stop for few second. With held breath, Lucius turned his head just enough to regard her properly. Really properly this time. She looked satisfied with his reaction it seemed, by slight upturn of her lips. Little impudent wrench. What was she up to, bringing in the sleeping demons of his past? She must have been really intoxicated, or more probably ­ she must have truly lost it. He did not have patience for this anymore.

Lucius turned fully to her, resolved the get rid of her fast.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not yet.” She let out a low laugh. “But that is a plan, yes.”

This one hit a little closer to the bone.He looked away, rolling his eyes and then handed her his glass. She accepted it without hesitation and drowned it all in one go.

It must have burned like hell down her throat, yet she didn’t so much as blink.

“Helping me with it? That’s nice of you.”

“I take it the evening didn’t go as planned, if I may say. Not that it surprises me in any way.” Ginny stared at her reflection in the polished surface of the drinks table hard, hating him for his false concern, or maybe for spelling it all so blatantly. “It went precisely exactly how I thought it would. No surprise here,” she said flatly , watching herself the way one might a stranger.

He inclined his head, just slightly. “That’s worse.”

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“I thought you were still with Potter,” Lucius said, finally making it to the point.

“I thought so too.” She shook her head with irritation.

Then after a pause, he pressed. “And what about now, what is it you are thinking now?”

She shrugged, feigning  nonchalance and failing absolutely abysmally. “That I don’t like being a symbol. Or a reward. I don´t care to be his appendage, not anymore.”

Lucius studied the room, body turned slightly from her, but still moving stealthily closer. “You always were too sharp for that.”

She noticed, though and tilted her head. “You disappoint me, Mr.Malfoy.”

He turned to her fully at that, quirking one eyebrow in the mock of it.

“I still wait for you to make some comment about my dress.”

Lucius smirked faintly. “Is it so? It is remarkable. But not in the way you flatter yourself to think.”

She glanced at him now. “Oh? Do tell.”

“It makes your legs show. And yet, you hide yourself in the borders. And the colour,” he said. “You’ve chosen black.  At a gala full of men pretending not to remember the dead. You’ve chosen to remind them. But what is the most interesting, you have chosen me to provoke with it. Mocking me with my wife and sister in law.”

Her brow arched. “And that bothers you?”

“No,” Lucius said. “Why should it?”

A silence passed.

She sipped her drink.

“So,” she said, voice flat. “Why are you really here? Looking for someone to polish your cane and nod at your politics?”

He gave her a long look. “And you? Are you waiting for Potter to change?”

Something flickered across her face.

Lucius stepped closer. “He won’t.”

“No, he won´t.” She repeated ,looking at him through the glass, holding his stare, finally acknowledged after the years  spent waiting for someone to see her.

“I know what people say about him,” she went on. “I know what they think about me.”

“You care too much what they think,” Lucius said softly.

“No,” she murmured. “I care too little. That’s the problem.”

“Why did  you really come to me, to pry or to insult me, Miss Weasley?”

Ginny’s head tilted even so slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make the difference.

“Do you want me to?”

He turned to her fully then, eyes pale and unreadable.

“You have no idea what I want.”

“No?” she said. “Because I think I do. You want something that won’t ask anything of you. That won’t need your loyalty or your time or your heart. Just a warm body to prove you’re still in control. Still dangerous. Still wanted. Desired.”

Lucius’s mouth curved into something like a smile not quite  reaching his eyes.

“And you? What is it you want, Miss Weasley?”

She met him evenly. “I want to feel. Feel whatever that  isn’t guilt. Or silence. To feel something.”

Their silence this time was different. Expectant and heavy in the void.

He leaned in, just enough for the words to hit only her ear.

“Be very careful what you ask of me, Ginevra.”

She didn’t flinch as he expected her to. “I thought you liked danger.” she said, suddenly but then stopped, taking a breath. “And… he doesn’t touch me anymore.”

Lucius didn’t move.

She turned to face him.

There was a moment, sharp and deliberate, where neither of them spoke.

Then she said, “Take me somewhere else.”

He didn’t ask what she meant.

Didn’t need to.

“West wing, second floor gallery. You first.”

She left with a satisfied smirk.

His gaze followed until the crowd swallowed her.

Then, he moved, half hard already.

Chapter Text

Lucius hadn’t come for spectacle . Just to be seen, to let them all know that he still was someone important enough,that was all what this was about. Until it wasn’t.

He was a leader, a man in power.

Not one to fool with. Composed and calculating.

But now… he followed. Like a hungry dog  catching the scent of fresh meat, or something wilder. Running on instinct. No dignity or plan. Just need, ugly and demanding.

She was already in the Ministry’s side wing, in the gallery corridor with tall windows and too many fading portraits. The war had stolen more than people, it changed everything and everyone beyond recognition.

Ginny leaned on a banister, glass with champagne dangling carelessly from one hand. He approached like he would a magical beast. Measured. Cold. Unafraid. Like a master would approach his … what exactly?

Not his pet. She wouldn’t yield. Not a prey. He most certainly didn’t intend to kill her. Or not now at least, he thought amusedly. And not a lover. Not really. That was not what he planned to use her as. But something more volatile he’d failed to stop craving the taste of.

She fixed him with a steady stare as he neared and raised the glass a little higher.

“Lord Malfoy.”

His lips twitched a little. In a smile, or a threat, perhaps. She could not be sure, but didn’t care either way. So she went on.

“I assume the Ministry’s Chief Treasury Advisor doesn’t usually conduct inspections in such hour.”

“Not unless the economy’s in crisis,” Lucius murmured. “And I assure you, Miss Weasley — it always is.”

„Will you be inspecting me?“

„Are you involved in anything illegal, perhaps? Then yes, I might be inclined to look more closely.“

She chuckled silently.

He moved towards her.

“You look comfortable,” he said, gaze flicking down to the way her hips leaned into the rail.

“And you look like you’ve lost your leash,” she answered, too soft to be overheard.

His hand brushed hers as he took the flute from her fingers — too close, too casually.

"I never needed one," he said with a blank face.

She studied him, with her back resting on the railing.

“Really? It is yet to be seen.”

“And I wouldn’t lean too far, you know” he added smoothly after a pause. “The railing here has been loose since the war. But of course, perhaps that’s the point.”

She said nothing to that and sipped her drink earnestly.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice lower, “there’s a lounge above this gallery. Not well advertised. Pureblood-only. Excellent scotch and even better soundproofing. Private, if that’s agree with you.”

She didn’t laugh.

Just fixed him with resolution in her eyes.

“I might head just there, follow if you feel like that.”

With that, he pushed past her heading towards the stairs leading up without looking back.

After a while, she followed him.

Not because of the scotch and champagne mixed heavily in her system. And not because she wanted him. She didn’t, probably. Or did she? Maybe, yes.

But most of all, she  was just tired of wanting people who didn’t see her, never anymore.

The upper hallway outside the lounge was quieter, the Gala noises distant now, muffled by thick rugs and the slow hush of charmed lamps. Her heels were making pointed little hollows in her stride. Like a fox in the snow. Was she a fox? Then what exactly made that him to be?

Ginny laughed at herself silently, then closed the door with a resolve that was more for a show that a real courage. She didn’t speak. Just leaned against it, breath uneven, cheeks still flushed.Because she felt nervous now, even though her inebriated state. Her mind was still clear enough to understand perfectly what was she about to commit. It hasn’t stopped her. She would rather die than let him show a weakness.

The lounge smelled of dark liquor and old glamour charms fraying to nothingness, concealment wards swirling just so faintly under the strain of too many dirty secrets.

Lucius was already in, his gloves tossed carelessly  on the table. Didn’t bother to sit, as if waiting on the pry, with loosened collar, glass in hand, spine pressed against the mantel like it might be holding the whole room up.  He didn’t bother to turn fully as he addressed her.

“So. You followed me. I suppose it means you want me to have you.”

She let out a small laugh. “Now, don’t flatter yourself and stop making it all about me,” she said.

“ Because you want it the same, if not more. What? You weren’t that hard to figure out.”

Lucius turned slowly then, with the precise disdain of a man who knew he’d been seen and didn’t care. His gaze trailed over her in one long, deliberate line. From the smudged kohl at the corners of her eyes to the neckline of her dress pretending to be modest and she hadn’t bothered to button back up properly.

“And you, you still reek of Potter,” he said. “And desperation.  I might even be inclined to wipe that out of you completely.”

She stepped toward him. “And you reek of big mouth and false grandeur. Tell me, is this how you pretend you're still dangerous?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll find I’m far less civil than your boy hero.”

Ginny’s hand twitched. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not?” Lucius said, voice low and clean. “He’s left you twisting in public. Again. That little scene by the fountain? Hardly subtle. You should thank me for sparing you worse.”

“Oh, please,” she snapped. “You were ogling me like a hungry vulture.”

He took  just one step toward her. Calculated. Small but that made it more lethal. “And you, my dear, you responded to that. I merely acted on what was offered to me freely.”

Her eyes, suddenly clearer now, met his and her voice took the hushed tones all of sudden.

“You know what? You are right. Oh, do not look so smug. I want this yes. But  this doesn’t mean anything. If you ever got the idea of something else.”

Lucius put his drink aside on the mantel and stepped closer. “Good for you to understand that. It will spare us the awkwardness of the after.”

She looked a bit offended by that.

“Don’t try to patronise me. I’m not a girl anymore.”

“No,” he said, “you’re not, I suppose.”

A flicker of something  resembling heat, threat and irony mixed all together like an allurement potion laced with poison passed between them at that moment.

“Say it,” she said.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, perplexed. “Say what?”

“That I’m not her. Just me, this, here. I will not be a substitute for anything.”

“Hm,” he tilted his head, lips just slightly parted. “I am not sure what you mean but I am pretty aware who exactly you are.”

Lucius crossed the final distance,  taking the glass from her hand and drank the last of it without asking. Then set it aside.

Silence followed.

Their eyes locked. Red-rimmed brown and winter-grey, both of them tense, vibrating with something harder. Spite,  hunger perhaps. Displacement.

“I don’t want your pity,” she said finally with resolution .

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I have none. And you’re too bold for your own good.”

“So are you. That make us two.Now, what will you do about that?”

He closed the distance and pressed her back against the wood.

The unexpected movement made the wood groan behind her back. Her hands came up instinctively to steady herself.

Their mouths met each other in a kiss that wasn’t a kiss really. More a punishment. A drag of teeth, the taste of anger and expensive whisky. Her nails raked the side of his neck and he shoved her hard against the door, one hand locking around her jaw.

“Still want to play woman, Miss Weasley?” he breathed against her mouth.

“Still pretending you’re a man?” she bit back.

Lucius, as a man of practical approach, didn’t waste time.

His fingers slid under the bodice seam of her silk dress , peeling it like skin, and he took in the sound of her breath against his cheek, sharp and real, like he hadn’t heard a human inhale with such unfiltered urgency in years.

“You’re trembling, lost the courage?” he murmured, licking her jaw.

“I’m not,” she said. Or more like lied.

Let her.

He pinned her wrists to the doorframe, just briefly, just enough to test. She didn’t pull away.

“You’re a reckless girl,” he muttered.

“I’m a woman,” she said, flushed, jaw taut. “Treat me like one or walk away.”

Lucius released her wrists. Gave her one full, deliberate glance and then  dropped to his knees.

She gasped from the sudden heat of his breath between her thighs, from the jolt of dominance that didn’t feel like conquest but offering.

She had no idea where one of her shoes went, if she somehow lost it or if he pulled it off while sniffling her inner tight. Her dress was hiked up to her hips, one leg bare, the fine stockings ruined to pieces now, the other hooked over his shoulder, and when he pushed two fingers inside her with no warning, just smooth, cruel precision, she bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Lucius didn’t look up. His mouth found her in sync with his hand, tongue slow, deliberate, then fierce. Like punishment. Like absolution. Like he was trying to scrub the Potter out of her with every flick of his tongue.

“Fuck,” she let out, eyes screwed shut.

“Language,” he said into her, then sucked her clit just sharply enough to make her jerk.

She came with one hand braced against the door, the other twisted in his hair, her moan low and broken, dragged up from somewhere far uglier than pleasure.

 He stood after that too fast, much faster for a man his years.  Far more dangerous and stronger than she gave him credit before.

Ginny caught her breath, dress half-fallen, lipstick ruined.

“Do you want to stop? Last chance. Run. Or stay. But don’t complain later.” he asked.

She looked up at him, flushed, sweat-bright, defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I am staying.”

Lucius nodded.

“Good. It means you want all of it. The thing is, can you take it?”

She didn’t flinch as he expected her to. Interesting that.

“I’ve taken worse from better men than you,” she said, voice low, rough with heat and challenge.

Lucius blinked once. Then grinned  slow and dangerous, as if she’d just drawn blood.

“That so?” he murmured, eyes darkening with something primal. “Then you’d better pray I’m the worst man you’ll ever survive.”

He stepped in, his body flush against hers in a heartbeat, hand lightly at her throat, to make a point, reminding her who had the reins, and who had given them up willingly.

And she, she only lifted her chin. Daring him.

He growled then. Literally growled like some unhinged animal and dragged her forward, turning her with brutal precision. Her back slammed against the edge of the cabinet. His hand caught her thigh, pulled it up high against his hip.

She gasped, not in pain, not in protest. Just heat.

He’d undone his belt before she could even blink, less even reach for it. Her dress ripped down the side seam as he shoved it up roughly, and her knickers hit the floor with a soft, humiliating sound.

Lucius didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.

He pushed into her in one smooth, unforgiving thrust.

She gasped again  and this time, it was pain. Or pleasure, or both. Gosh, he was large. Quite larger than everyone she had until now. Her fingers scraped at the cabinet’s edge. The varnish cracked.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t ease.

And she didn’t want him to.

The room stank of sex and shame. Her back arched with every collision with his hips. Her pussy was stretched in incredible ways with every movement. Like she might burst. Bruised by its sheer intensity it drove into her. His hand wrapped in her hair, forcing her to meet his eyes as he fucked her against the furniture like something he owned, like something neither of them would ever talk about again.

“You think this makes you powerful?” she whispered hoarsely.

“No,” he hissed. “This makes you mine.”

A low, broken noise slipped out of her. He caught it in his mouth, kissing her again, this time more brutal than before, as if he could bury every insult they’d ever swallowed, every person they couldn’t be.

She came like it was punishment. Biting her lip to keep from screaming. Clinging to him not out of affection but survival.

Lucius withdrew from her suddenly and turned her around. With one hand far too strong to fight off — not that she really wanted to — he bent her over the drinks cabinet, and pulled her hips back until she cursed again. This time not from pleasure. From the way it stripped everything false away, easing her cheeks apart forcefully. The gleaming rose of her rear entrance laid before him like last dinner to be ravished.

Let´s see if you still can play brave.

Her breath hitched, hips forced back against the cold wood, her arse bared and burning.

Lucius leaned into her and rasped hoarsely as he positioned the tip of his highly aroused cock on it: “Darling, I am going to have you every way possible. Just say a word and I will stop.”

“You really think I’ll beg?” she snapped, fingers curling against the polished surface.

That made him smile cruelly. “Will you? Just say no,” he rasped behind her, the head of his cock brushing where he knew she hated to love it. “One word.”

She said nothing. But she didn’t pull away either. Not even when he entered her with one swift push.

Her cry rang out sharp. Maybe from pain,  but not entirely. It was something else hidden beneath it.

“Just say a word, darling, say a no. Nothing? May I take it as a yes, then?” he whispered against her ear maliciously, but arousal made him sound a bit off. More broken than he intended to. The heat in his voice was ragged, something darker trembled underneath the cruelty. A hint of need. And fear. Fear of what she did to him, what did it say about him when he got off on the way she twisted under him, flushed and panting, not pulling away. Not fighting.

Instead, hissing at him through her teeth. “Take it, then. If you think you can handle me.”

Lucius froze for half a breath.

Then he just growled, the sound scraping low from his throat. “Thought so,” and drove into her without hesitation, rhythm brutal, claiming.

This, he though, is what you deserve for your impudence.

She glared at him with something akin to heated, passionate fury in her eyes as he kept her pinned to the table with iron grip, driving into her like a man possessed. He was about to explode from the sheer tightness of her white little ass. The sweet started to clouding his eyes, yet he kept going, deaf to her broken  half-moans, soft curses and harsh breath as she trashed under him. After a while, she let herself go limp beneath him. Not from defeat, but from surrender and just lay against the hard surface motionless. He claimed her. She was his, in this moment, to do as he wished. By her own will. What does that made her, for fucks sake? Was she really out of her mind, to let him do this with her? To let him claim her in all the unthinkable ways she never allowed anyone before?

Lusius worked her ass, the arousal clouding his mind red. But then he noticed a single tear down her cheak.

“Ginevra,” he rasped out, slowing for a bit, ten stopping, now more serious than she ever heard him before. “ Should I stop? Please just tell me if you don’t want this, darling.”

He was nuzzling her neck, nearly gently.

Not like Lucius at all.

The man who moments before had driven into her with unrelenting force now seemed to hesitate. His breath, once sharp with control, faltered where it met the curve of her skin.

His voice came again, hoarse, quiet, real.

“Do you want this?” A whisper. No growl, no sneer. Just the question, plain.

Ginny tensed. That unexpected shift in him unsettled her way more  the ferocity ever had.

His hand moved slower now, up from her hip to her waist. The grip softened. His thumb brushed that dip just above her navel. “I’ll stop,” he murmured, lips against the side of her throat now. “Say the word, Ginevra. Just say it.”

Her mouth was open but empty. Because he wasn’t mocking her. Not this time.

And then, he kissed her. Soft. Too soft. Like it cost him something.

One kiss to her shoulder, one to the edge of her jaw. Another where her temple pressed against the polished wood of the cabinet. Each one quieter than the last.

“Do you want it?” he asked again. Not a demand. Not a dare. A question.

For a breath, Ginny froze. Then her heart lurched, slamming once against her ribs. Then again. And again.

“I want it,” she said.

Lucius made a sound; guttural, grateful, gutted. His fingers slid slowly down her belly, almost reverent. “Good, then,” he murmured. This time his voice held no cruelty, only something quieter. Something real. Undone.

She wasn’t sure what stunned her more — the way he kissed her now, slow and deliberate, or the absence of anything to push against. The rough hands that had pinned her moments ago moved as if she were glass now. One traced the side of her ribcage. One slid up her spine, not to hold her down, but to feel her breathe.

“I want it,” she’d said. And it was the truth. Gods help her.

She felt him shudder against her, the weight of him heavily settling. Like he needed the contact. Why was he clinging to her like that? Like she was the only thing holding him together. It didn’t add up. And worse, it was starting to shake something in her too. And what was worse, it felt terribly human.

Lucius dragged his mouth along the curve of her neck, then up again, where he exhaled as though something vital had broken free inside him. His voice was a rumour when he spoke.

“I don’t think, Ginevra, you really understand what you do to me.”

His hand brushed over her stomach, then lower, no longer demanding, just feeling her. Mapping her like something he’d never been allowed to touch gently before. Like a privilege he hadn’t earned.

“You’re not afraid,” he murmured.

“I was,” she said, breathless. “Maybe I still am.”

That made him pause. She felt it in the tension that rippled through his arm. But then he kissed the nape of her neck, and said  with no performance this time .“You make me want to be kind. That’s far more terrifying.”

His fingertips curled around hers on the edge of the cabinet. He laced them together. Not ownership. Not even dominance. Just contact.

A moment.

“You still want this?” he asked, again.

She turned her head enough to meet his eyes. No veil this time. Just truth.

“Yes, Lucius. I want it all.”

And this time, when he entered her again  slowly, almost cautious, it was not to conquer her. It was to be inside the only place in the world he wasn’t unwanted.

She made no sound. Not a plea, not a protest. Just breath and sweat and heat beneath him. It wasn’t submission though. It was something worse. Acceptance.

Somehow, that undid him more than any fight she’d ever picked. His grip clenched around her hips, knuckles pale, his pace deliberate and punishing. She took it. All of it. Like she knew what he was trying to punish, like she could name every weakness in him. And was daring him to do it anyway.

Lucius looked down at the arch of her back, too exposed and too intimate, the flush rising on her skin and sweat gathering at her shoulder blades.A shudder passed through him, vile and holy.

And if it was the arse of Ginevra the blood traitor, so be it.

He was starting to stop caring.

He laid his trembling belly against her ass, stopping for a second, inclining to her red ear and whispered, smiling slightly: “Now you are mine. You are no longer a virgin down there. Not anymore, Ginevra. Not anymore.”

She didn’t respond, just glared at him, her breath coming out in shallow rasps. That made him smile even more.

“Just go on, Lucius, or are you tired?”

With that, he growled and resolved in earnest, highly aroused by her trembling body under his. She let him. Let him do that. Never asked him to stop. She truly was something….

She bit the wood beneath her hands. He didn’t speak. Didn’t sweeten the moment with a lie.

This wasn’t about kindness. Or love, romance. Or hate.

It was two creatures too tired to be gentle. Two people done pretending.

He held her by the hip, fingers tightening, the other hand caught in the mess of her hair. His movements stayed sharp, deliberate. Each time she whimpered, he shifted, adjusting without a word. Every breath she choked on, he met it with control. Until she stopped flinching. Until she started meeting him thrust for thrust.

He reached with one hand towards her lower belly, palming her mound, then sliding his fingers down, to her pussy. He eased two of his long large fingers inside her all the way up, all the while his thumb flicked over her swollen clit. She started to tremble after some time and that kept him going even with more gusto. After minutes of his ministration, she started to move more frantically.

Was she?

His fingers increased in intensity, and after a while, he felt her squeezing around them.

Incredible, this little pimp. Like a cat in heat.

She came trembling on his hand, on his cock in her ass as the last

Lucius followed a breath later, teeth bared, hand tight around her throat, not choking, but close,  with the brutal honesty of two people who had nothing left to prove.

Afterwards, they didn’t move.

Her thigh was trembling. His chest was heaving.

When the heat of moment passed, he pulled out of her slowly, studying his reddened cock. The semen dripping from him, and from her too, marred by little red droplets did not seem to bother him in the slightest as he cleaned himself with a monogrammed handkerchief lazily, then tucked it inside his shirt pocket as if it was the most casual thing to do.

She watched it all incredulously, eyes wide with confusion while still sprawled helplessly over the cabinet, still not able to speak. Was he crazy?

He marked her. Marked her like a dog pissing on its bone.

Like an animal. And she let him.

That made her even crazier, probably.

And the worst part? She really wanted him to do it again.

Lucius didn’t say a word. He fixed his  robes a bit too casually, like he wasn’t still catching his breath. Then he stooped down.

She thought he might hand it back. The little torn thing at her feet. Her knickers. What was left of them, anyway.

He didn’t. Just tucked it away like it meant something. Or like it didn’t. Like she hadn’t noticed the flicker of hesitation before he did.

Hard to tell with him.

Was it a keepsake? A warning perhaps? She was more and more confused.  He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just stood there as if daring her to comment.

And then just poured himself another drink and looked at her as if she were someone else entirely.

He sipped slowly, then approached her and laid a hand on her waist. Their eyes met for the first time after. As if something melted the ice of them. He adjusted her dress like it mattered. Like any of this hadn’t already happened. And tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then leaned in and kissed her head. Only once. Gently.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t gloat. Just looked at her like something sacred and ruined all at once.

Ginny didn’t move when he stepped back and held still even as the firelight flickered  suddenly to life on the glass behind him, casting his silhouette like a phantom, or more like demon across the wall. Her knees ached. Her throat felt scraped raw. But she held still, as if her bones might betray her by trembling too loudly.

The silence crackled. Too intimate. Too heavy.

And then she laughed. Quietly. Raggedly.

It wasn’t humour. More like a bitter crack in something already splintered.

“You think that meant something?” she said hoarsely, still facing the cabinet.

Lucius didn’t answer at first. He reached into his robes and retrieved a small silver cigarette case, snapped it open, lit one. The flare of fire on his face revealed… nothing. No triumph. No shame.

“Everything means something,” he said at last. “Especially the things we pretend don’t.”

Ginny pushed herself upright with a wince of fading pain, or discomfort rather, pulling the hem of her dress down her bare tights as she turned slowly to face him. Her cheeks flushed crimson. Her mascara was smeared. Her knickers were gone.

But her eyes were steady now. Red-rimmed and glassy  but steady.

“You’re still a bastard.”

Lucius exhaled smoke. “I’ve never denied it.”

She took one slow step forward.

Then another.

He didn’t move.

When she was close enough for reaching up, she plucked the cigarette from his lips.

His nostrils flared when she just flicked it into the fireplace without blinking..

She leaned in, mouth just beside his ear. “Don’t mail them back to me.”

A pause.

“Why?”

Ginny’s voice was low, dry, exhausted. “Because then I’ll have to see you again. And I don’t know if I’ll stop you next time.”

She stepped back.

He caught her wrist.

And for the first time all evening, his voice was soft.

“Don’t.”

That one word carried more weight than the entire evening’s brutality.

Ginny looked pensively down at his hand still on her wrist, then up, searching his face.

Why she didn’t shake him off was hard to name even for her. But she didn’t lean in either and that she counted as a victory as she just stood there, tethered by her own goddamn curiosity.

“I should hate you,” she murmured.

Lucius tilted his head. “You will.”

He drained the glass and finally said, “There is a meeting next week. I count on long sitting, hours probably. I await your presentation without flinching, Ginevra.”

Ginny laughed, raw, bitter. “You are a true bastard, aren’t you?”

And then she left.

Chapter Text

The wards of Mannor  sealed behind him with a loud thud, maybe too loud for this late hour.

He didn’t light torches. Just walked into the dark of the parlour and stopped, still wearing half his fine dress robes, now ruined beyond repair.  One glove was probably lost somewhere on the way back and his cravat hung undone around his neck. His jaw still smelled of her perfume. He touched his face and it hit him all of sudden. The scent. Her. He sniffed his fingers again. It hit him — warm, bitter, wrong. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Circe, was he really this desperate? Standing there like that, frozen, hands half-curled, not even knowing why.

And still his heart wouldn’t calm, as if something inside him was restless and wanted out.

The quiet in the house was supposed to smother it somehow. Should. But it didn’t. The silence only made it all that much worse and the lack of noise turned memory into sound.

The slap of skin. Harsh breathing. That last laugh, wrecked and furious, right before she turned and walked away.

And he was still hard for her. Why, he coud not understand. He could not undertand anything much, it seemed. Did someone slipped him something? It seemed like that was the case. Her? Probably not, seeing as she was affected as well. But then, he couldn’t put it past that possibility, either.

He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. Disturbed deeply, he just stood in the centre of the room with his hands curling unconsciously, as though they could close around something that not existed anymore. Like waiting for yesterday to come.,.

It hadn’t been planned. That much was true.

He’d provoked her. Deliberately. Just to have a- what exactly? A quick fuck? It wasn’t like him. He didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, the least to himself. And yet, he strayed. With someone like her to that, so very far bellow him. And it was easy,  very much so. He’d always knew how far to push. Always did.

But not this.

Not that.

He hadn’t meant to break her, just use and dispose. Just to feed the hunger he haven’t felt in years.

And she hadn’t broken. Few  wouldn’t, probably . He couldn’t be sure as he was not one to engage in such things. Not ever. It took a power from one. Unless... unless it broke the one before that power was transferred to him.

That was the part he kept coming back to. Not the vulgarity of it. Not the obscenity. Not even the way he’d taken her, or more like pushed, dragged her, with the kind of force he hadn’t touched in years.

It was how she’d met him there. Matched him.

And the way his body had needed it. Not as a game, a punishment or whatever that was supposed to be. But as something closer to retribution.

Not for her. For himself.

He unbuttoned his cuffs slowly and loosened the last knot of his collar with trembling hand. It moved without meaning, as if trying to peel away the deed from his own skin.

Her mouth. Her neck. Her thighs. Her voice, shaking,  ruined but never afraid.

He hadn’t said her name during that. Not once.

Now, he couldn’t decide if that was restraint or cowardice.

She’d let him. That’s what troubled him most. Not submission. Or helplessness. Because she’d made the same choices he had. Returned every word and taken every insult thrown her way. Ripped at his dignity and dared him to strike back.

And he had.

And she’d moaned for it.

He scrubbed a hand down his face once again, then through his hair. It was damp near the roots. Gross.  Now he  was even sweating like a pig.

He thought about going upstairs.

About showering, changing, burning the ruined cravat in the fireplace.

He just stood there a moment longer, then went to the cabinet. Poured a splash of brandy — more than he meant to, and downed it before the glass even settled.

Still hard. Maybe more than before.

Yet, he didn’t touch himself.

Not because he was ashamed, per se. At least not in the way most men would be. Regret was not something he placed his belief into, not really. But something had cracked.

Something that wouldn’t close neatly.

He’d touched her like a man trying to claim something. As if he had the right. As if he could force the world back into its proper place by laying claim to the only thing in reach.

And she’d let him.

She wanted him. Him. Not his power, not some privileges, favours. Just him, raw and intense and half crazy.

Or maybe she wanted to destroy something. Maybe they both did.

Because, and that was the bare truth of it, he wasn’t one of those chasing youth. There was no hunger for innocence, of that he was sure. And above all, no nostalgia for some kind of softness.

What he wanted, what had driven him into her like a starved beast, was permission.

The kind only a woman with nothing left to prove could offer.

Not lust, at least not the exact need for fresh flesh. Not pride in bedding younger naive thing. No victory in it. None.

Only permission. Only acceptance stripped of pretence.

And he hadn’t realised how badly he needed that until it was already done.

Lucius stood by the cabinet for a long time, brandy untouched, yet her scent still lingered on his skin.

A sharp, reluctant breath escaped him  as he leaned into the fireplace edge. He hadn’t felt this bare in years. Maybe longer.

Not undone, weak.

But… human.

And he hated it. Hated it from the depths of his very being.

The stairs creaked beneath her step.

She didn’t bother with her shoes. Didn’t light a candle. Just let the darkness press in as she moved up, one slow, dragging step at a time. Her legs ached. Her throat burned. Her knuckles were scraped from hitting the corner of the fountain earlier  when she slipped, when she staggered, when she didn’t care.

She made it to the landing.

The flat door wasn’t even locked. She eased it open with her hip and let it fall shut behind her, soft and final. The wards gave a faint shimmer in the corners, undisturbed. No one had been in.

She hadn’t even been here in days.

The robes came off in pieces. One sleeve still smelled like him. A faint imprint of his hand remained on the hem where he’d pulled, tugged, torn. And her knickers had been gone, ruined. He had even shoved them into his pocket. She wanted to laugh, replaying the sight of it. Didn’t know he was that dirty.

She dropped everything on the floor.

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t flash with images or voices or memories the way it did in books or war stories. There was no music in her head. No thunder. Just this, this emptiness that rang, slightly, like air pressed too tight around a wound.

She didn’t cry.

She wanted to. She thought she might. But it didn’t come.

Her skin hurt.

She went to the mirror. The small, cracked one over the washbasin. She looked  for too long. Not at her face, but at her throat. The bruised flush at her collarbone, the smudged lip gloss, the faint trace of fingers along her hip... none of it felt like hers.

Her body did not feel like hers anymore. Like it belonged to someone else.

And even cold water splashed over her face didn’t help shaking off that.

She sat.

The floor was cold. The boards pressed into her hip. Her tights were still sore from how he’ve had  her. She closed her eyes tightly as she folded her arms across her chest as if bracing herself from it all.

She wasn’t sorry.

That was the part that scared her most.

She’d wanted it. Not like that, not to that degree, not exactly, but she hadn’t stopped him. She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t cried. Hadn’t begged.

She’d fought.

She’d matched him.

And when he’d said that word — mine — she’d nearly come just from the sound of it.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

She pressed her forehead to her knees.

This wasn’t like before. Not with Harry. Not with the others. There had been anger, sometimes, frustration. Even shame.

But this was something else.

This was undone.

She didn’t want to tell anyone. Not ever.

Not because she was afraid. But because no one would understand.

He hadn’t hurt her. Not really. Not physically. Not in the way that counted, at least not in any way she hadn’t wanted on some level, hadn’t invited by baring her teeth and saying fuck you first.

But he’d seen her.

Seen right through her  and torn something open.

She didn’t even know if she wanted to close it again.

Her thighs trembled. Stomach twisted when a sharp  twisting passed through her,  and she scrambled to the loo just in time to be sick.

After, she lay on the tile, forehead against the porcelain, panting.

Only then did the tears come. Just two. Maybe three. Hot. Silent. Gone quickly.

She crawled to the bed.

Didn’t undress. Didn’t wash.

Pulled the blanket over her and let the dark have her.

She wasn’t done with him.

Not by a long shot.

And she hated that truth more than anything else.

When she woke from restless sleep, it was still too early, considering the darkness outside. The curtains were drawn open and sharp streetlights folded the bedroom in eerie reflections. She dragged herself from rumpled, sweaty sheets, too hot to stay in any longer.

What time was it,anyway?

Her vision blurred, head spun.  And her limbs were barely functioning.

She’d been home for hours. Came after midnight, probably. She was not sure. She …. remembered leaving the Gala in haste, hoping she looked  at least half-decent. Hoping no one noticed the state she was in after and—

 Gosh.

Did it really happen? Like, really?

 Her mind reeled from the memories suddenly hitting.

The flat felt unnaturally  quiet, impossibly clean, emptied of air as well as sound. The cold, lame kitchen light was the only thing on.

Ginny grabbed a dressing gown on her way, tossed it around her carelessly and then just sat slowly at the table.

Her back itched. Her hair was still pinned, but several strands had pulled loose at the nape of her neck. One of her earrings sat beside her glass, the clasp bent. She didn’t remember pulling it off.

The water she’d poured sat there, still full, untouched. Left. Waiting. Like her.

She didn’t turn on the wireless. Now not even the clock was ticking. She’d silenced it after the first twenty minutes. The noise too much. Too sharp, too constant, reminder of how alone she really was. She hadn’t moved in what must have been an hour, maybe more and just sat there, fingers wrapped around a glass she hadn’t touched. When she finally did, the water hit her stomach wrong. Cold and too real. She flinched. Or maybe it was a shiver. She didn’t know anymore.It would be better to keep going on whisky, probably. Drunk was the best way when dealing with him those days.

And when the door to the flat finally opened, with a dawn creeping, she didn’t look up, didn’t bother to stand.

She heard him, or rather the sound of boots over the floorboards, the keys hitting the ceramic dish, the soft groan of the coat hook as he hung his cloak. Familiar sounds. The same ones every night. Like a routine that had once meant something.

Harry didn’t speak at first. Only moved around the front room like a man walking into a house where everything was as he’d left it. He only noticed her when he stepped into the kitchen.

“You are here? I figured you’d be asleep.”

She looked up slowly. Her expression didn’t shift. “Yes. I imagine you did.”

He tilted his head in suspicion, suddenly confused. No clue whether that was an answer. Accusation. Or just her way of brushing him off.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he muttered again as he reached past her, fingers brushing the cupboard door.

“I’m not up,” she said. “I’m waiting.”

He hesitated for a bit, but then shook his head. Took down a glass and filled it from the tap. The casual rhythm of someone who lived here. Someone who didn’t realise the room had been hostile for hours.

“Long night,” he added.

She didn’t respond. What should she even say?

Harry drank it, all while watching the floor. Not even looking at her.

“You didn’t say anything before you left,” he said.

“Oh, really? And what exactly was  there to leave from, Harry?”

He sighed, rubbing his face as he leaned back against the counter. Still in his shirt sleeves. The collar was askew.

“Me, obviously. You left without saying goodbye.”

She turned her glass in her fingers. “You didn’t notice for how long?”

“I saw you talking to someone.”

“No. They were talking. I was standing next to them.”

Silence.

He didn’t sit.

“You wore black,” he said finally.

“I know what I wore.”

“I just mean—”

“You mean you didn’t like that.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. Right. You never say it. You just act like I should have known better.”

Harry set his glass down too hard. Water sloshed. He didn’t apologise.

“I’m not trying to fight,” he said.

“I don’t think you’ve tried anything in months.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not designed to be.”

He crossed his arms. Looked at her for the first time properly. At her face. And something hard, unnamed, crept into his hardened features.

“You’ve been different lately,” he said quietly, the edge of accusation sharp beneath.

“Different? And how, exactly? I’ve been present. As you wanted me to.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Gin. You’ve been…. I don’t know. Off. Or something.”

“I’ve been ignored, Harry. For far more I find tolerable.”

“Now, we get to it, finally,” he spat angrily. “Wounded pride, right? Just because it was not all about you, you didn’t have to leave like that and embarrass me.”

“If you didn’t want me to leave, you shouldn’t have to let them talk over me.”

“I was—”

“With Kingsley. And Savage. And everyone else who thinks they won the war alone. I was quiet, as you wanted. So they assumed I didn’t matter. And you let them.”

“You weren’t alone, I was...”

“No?” she interrupted him, anger shining her eyes maliciously. “You so sure? Did you even notice when I left you? Or were you so high on your fame  that it clouded your better judgement of how a fiancé should be treated? Maybe Snape was right about you all along. Arrogant, attention-seeking…”

Harry’s face froze.

He stared at her a full three seconds, breath caught halfway to a retort.

Then he snapped, voice low, shaking with something far more dangerous than shouting.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare quote him to me.”

Ginny only raised her brows. “Why not? You’ve quoted him often enough. Every time you ignore me. Every time you walk into a room and pretend I’m not in it. You’ve been doing it for months.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Am I not? I’m dead serious, I assure you.”

Harry, face red and twisted,  pushed away from the counter so hard the glass tipped and clattered. Didn’t break. She almost wished it had.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he growled. “Dragging Snape into this? Merlin, Ginny, do you even hear yourself?”

She stood now, slowly, deliberately. Her limbs still heavy, but her eyes very clear. “I hear myself fine. Better than I hear you lately. Which is saying something.”

“Snape hated me.”

“Snape knew you,” she said flatly.

The silence after that was the kind that swallowed everything else. Even the tick of the silenced clock was too loud in her ears.

Harry’s mouth opened. Shut again. Then he just laughed. Ugly, loud, sharp, a noise closer to disbelief than humour.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m sober, Harry. That’s what makes this worse.”

He looked at her like he didn’t recognise her, not anymore. Like maybe this was someone else wearing her skin.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through. What I carried after the war. I was everywhere. Holding everything together. And you, what? You think because I didn’t check in on your little dress or hold your bloody hand at a Gala that I’m some arrogant prick?”

She crossed the room in three strides. “No. I think you became one.”

His eyes flared. “And what does that make you, huh?”

“Angry.”

“Oh, well done. Excellent character growth.”

“You don’t get to mock me anymore,” she snapped. “You’ve spent half a year using silence as your defence and the other half acting like you were the only one who suffered.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” he shouted.

“No. But you didn’t refuse it either!” Her voice rose with his. “You loved being the centre. You basked in it. I saw it, Harry. I see it. You don’t want a partner. You just want someone who can smile at the right time, shut up when you’re pretending to talking politics, and keep her opinions to herself until you’re done with your day.”

“Now, that’s not true, you are making the things up to suit you.”

“No,” she said again, stepping in closer, into his personal space. “This isn’t fair. None of this is. But I’m done pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. His hand twitched at his side, open, then clenched again.

“You think I don’t feel anything?” he said tightly. “You think I don’t see what’s been happening to us? You think I wanted to come home and find you like this?”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have stayed out until dawn,” she spat.

“I was working!”

“With who? Savage? That blonde who always touches your arm when she laughs too loud?”

His nostrils flared. “That’s it. That’s what this is. You’re jealous.”

“Of who? The Auror Department? The Prophet’s darling? Of being invisible in my own fucking house?”

“Of anyone who isn’t still hung up on what didn’t go your way.”

Her hand shot out and slapped the wall beside him. “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Say it again, Harry. I dare you.”

His lips parted, but this time he didn’t speak. She saw it — the flicker of restraint. The knowledge that he’d gone too far already. She’d cracked something open, and now it wasn’t going to shut.

“You hurt me,” she said quietly, suddenly trembling. “You didn’t mean to, maybe, but you did. And you never once asked why I’d gone quiet. Or where I went this night. Or what it meant.”

He didn’t made a move when she muttered, bitterly.

“I’m not going to fall apart, Harry. Not for you.”

His voice came low, hoarse. “Where were you really, Gin?”

She looked at him.

And for a moment, just a moment, she almost told him.

But instead, she only said, “Out. Somewhere I was seen.”

She stood then, chair pushed back with a small scrape. Crossed to the sink, poured the rest of water out, rinsed the glass slowly under the tap.

Then, without looking at him, she said:

“You can keep the kitchen. I’m going to bed.”

She paused at the doorway. Just long enough to be heard.

“Next time you’re looking for someone who won’t make a scene, bring someone invisible.”

And she left the room.

She hadn’t slept after their argument. Just lay in the bed.

Why really did she all of it?

Why did she sleep with Lucius Malfoy, of all men she could have? It was not about Lucius, not at first, at least. And honestly, it was not about Harry, either.

She was hurt. For far too long.  Humiliated. Treated like a prop, and that not only at the Gala. And Harry, he didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak to her, for her. But then, no one really does these days.

And Lucius did, even if cruelly. Even if it was a predator’s gaze, it was still a recognition of force. She responded. Not for romance or for revenge. She was too tired of such trivialities anymore. For herself.

 Because if she was going to be a decoration, she’d choose whose arm to hang on.

And it damn sure wasn’t going to be someone who ignored her.

She was done with men treating her like that, as if she was nothing more than a mere presence.

It was becoming to be all about power. Real power, of her own decisions.

And she wasn’t seduced by his looks, status . She seduced him, knew too well Lucius was watching like a hungry shark. And she liked it, leaned into it. The smeared lipstick stayed. The uneven hem, her false smile, it was her plainly saying:

You want to fuck beneath you? Fine. Here I am. Just don’t act surprised when the package is more than you can stomach.

Sober, now?  Regret? There was none. She didn’t feel violated. But she might feel too known, too visible in those moments. She handed over the mask, and he didn’t flinch. Worse — she liked it. And that, perhaps, was the only true violation: of her own self-image.

And after that realisation, she just stared.

The ceiling had gone from grey to blue to nothing. And now it was grey again. She didn’t know if the colour changed or if her eyes were just giving up. Beneath the ceiling: a crack. Faint, diagonal, like a wand mark sealed and painted over.

She’d stared at it. How long? For hours, maybe.

 The flat was quiet, the only exceptiopn here was the couch in the living room. Harry snored when he drank. Not a full rasp, not quite enough to shake the frame, but just enough to make her jaw clench. He hadn’t even tried to make up with her after the argument.

Barely made it to couch, muttered something nasty about her, about “what a bloody bitch she’d been”, and then collapsed.

She didn’t wake him. Why should she? To be insulted even more?

To pick up their endless arguments?

It was nearly all they had those days, anyway.

So, she lay there. Staring. At her yesterday’s dress, tossed across the floor. She hadn’t bothered to hang it. Let the creases stay. One stocking, twisted and torn, lay there like a memento of what happened.

Her thighs ached. Her whole body ached. Even her head now, from the hangover, or from their litigation from earlier.

Harry hadn’t touched her in weeks, in any way whatsoever.

 Her eyes flicked toward the edge of the mattress. Watched the slow swing of light, rising to life through the curtains. The whole flat smelled faintly of  fading arousal, and whatever that cologne was he’d used.

 Not Harry.

 The other one. Lucius.

 God.

She closed her eyes. Pressed her fingers to her eyelids until stars bloomed. What had she done? No. Not regret. Not guilt. Just the dull throb of realising how easy it had been.

She sat up. The bedsheets stuck to her spine. Her mouth tasted like a pub floor. She stood, padded barefoot into the kitchen. Poured water. Drank it, too fast, too easger.

Harry shifted suddenly on the couch and she tensed for a moment. She prayed he didn’t wake up.

And my, he looked stupid like that. Mouth half open. Sock twisted. Famous hands twitching toward nothing.

She watched him for too long.

 Did she love him? Maybe. No. Maybe she used to.

Now she just hated how he talked like the world owed him sleep, while she was still angry for being seen — by someone she wasn’t supposed to want. 

She headed to the bathroom, feet dragging, head still thick from sleep or drink or whatever this was. Slow, uneven steps echoing in the quiet. Her mouth tasted stale. Her knees ached. And there was a pulse between her legs she couldn’t quite place. Not pain exactly, not pleasure either.

She needed to piss. That was all.

Except the moment she sat down, it hit her.

A sharp, scalding burn.

Jesus.

She whimpered, hand catching the edge of the sink for balance as she leaned forward. It wasn’t just sore. It was raw. Swollen. The kind of ache that said they hadn’t exactly been gentle.

Had it really been that rough? Had they—

She clenched her jaw in pain, blinking fast. Her thighs shook a little when she tried to stand properly, from the way he’d taken her.

So. It really had happened.

Everything ached in places she hadn’t realised could.The urine only made it worse.

She hissed through her teeth as the sting tore through her, sharp and wet and yes, filthy. And then,

Fuck.

She was wet again. Not from the toilet.

Something inside her clenched, deep and low.

It wasn’t just pain. It was worse.

She was turned on.

Her breath caught. She stared at the floor tiles, at the little chipped crack near the grout. Anything not to feel it. Not to remember the way he’d—

No. She remembered. She remembered it all. The way he’d held her face down. The way his fingers dug into her hips. The way she’d cried into her hand because it hurt and she’d still begged for more.

Her stomach turned. Her thighs twitched. Her body, that fucking traitor, pulsed again.

She hated this. She hated how full she’d felt. How used. How needed. How thoroughly, brutally fucked.

And yet, a deep, quiet sound escaped unwanted, before she could do anything about it,  stop it,  whatewer. Quiet. Shameful. Real.

She buried her face into smelly pillow, not sure weather to feel desperate or amused.

 Amused? Really, now?

How deep was the shit  she just stepped into?

 Bemused, she  sat there on the toilet a bit longer, legs spread, ruined and aroused, trying not to cry.

The flat felt even colder, now when she stepped out of the hot water’s  warm comfort.

Back in the bedroom, fingers hesitating for a moment yet long enough to feel ridiculous, opened the drawer. Not the top one. Second down. Where the things lived she didn’t wear anymore. Lace. Cheap. Black. Nothing too obvious or dramatic. Not vulgar. Just remembered. She held them up and after a bit of hesitation, folded them once. Found an envelope and wrote in her neatest, most upright hand:

I believe you like them black. Consider this a thank-you. Or a dare.

No name. She sealed it. And smiled. Something dark, sharp, and rising in her chest. It wasn’t love. But it was finally, finally feeling like someone might see her burn.

She didn’t look at the couch. Harry was still there, now curled sideways, wand hand under his cheek, dreaming of something he’d never tell her.

She towelled her hair roughly. Pinned it up. No curls. No gloss. Not today. The blouse she chose was white. Starched. One of the few things she still ironed herself. She pulled it over the black bra she hadn’t bought for anyone, and the skirt was stiff wool, cut to the knee. Not a single visible line. She looked good. Professional. Like a woman who did not send lingerie to her boyfriend’s political rivals.

Chapter Text

He woke up hard.

Not in the usual way. Not with a groan and a curse and a hand down his front.

This was different.

His body felt wrecked. His thighs ached. His hips. His fucking wrists. The sheets were tangled, twisted, like he’d fought something in his sleep perhaps. He lay still, eyes fixed the marble veins of the ceiling, frustration setting his jaw tight, too aware of the space between his legs.

It hurt. He could still feel the edge of her teeth. The scratch of her nails.

And God help him, he was hard.

He ground his teeth, frustrated, until it ached. Tried to will it away. Thought of war. Of blood. Of shame.

Nothing.

He could still see her back arched, lips bitten open, nails in his chest like she wanted to tear him apart. Could still hear the sounds she made when she begged for more. When she broke.

His hips twitched against the mattress. He groaned.

What the fuck was wrong with him.

It hadn’t been kind. It hadn’t even been sane. He’d used her like he hated her. Like she was the reason his life had turned to shit. And the worst part —

She’d let him.

No. That wasn’t true.

She’d fucking met him there. Matched him. Wounded him back. Called him by name when she wanted him deeper. Scratched down his ribs like she wanted blood.

He swallowed.

It should’ve repulsed him. It did, in theory. In memory. In the cold, detached way he understood that people like him, like them, shouldn’t fuck like that. Shouldn’t fuck at all.

But his cock throbbed again. Hot. Unforgivable.

He reached down without thinking. Then stopped.

Didn’t move.

Nearly didn’t dare to even breathe. Just lay there, stiff, in silence, as the morning light crept through the curtains, and hated himself for wanting her again.

The cold tiles felt brutal under his feet. He didn’t bother with slippers. He needed the sharpness.

The bathroom mirror, fogged at the edges even though he hadn’t showered, was avoided by his eyes. He didn’t look into it. Not yet.

He just unfastened his trousers with fingers that didn’t want to work properly.

It should have been relief. Routine. Piss, wash hands, back to the empty room.

But the moment he let go, he hissed.

Pain, sharp and raw, licked up his most sensitive nerves. Wait now. Was it coming from the base of his—?

Fuck.

The sink bit into his hand, his grip too firm, knuckles white with effort.Forced himself not to look down.

The urine burned. Not just stung. Burned.

He let out a rough, involuntary noise. Not a groan. Something smaller. Angrier.

She’d ridden him until he bruised. Scraped.

Merlin. He hunched over, breath still coming fast. There was it. A streak of something dark. Thick. Unmistakable. His stomach turned.

Blood? He didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

He stood there, cock still half swollen, half sore, suspended in a state that should have been revolting.

And it was.

But it was also—

Arousing.

Still. Even after all that. After the things they’d said. The way she’d turned her face away. The way he’d gripped her hip like a handle, gritted her name through his teeth, kept going.

He pressed the heel of his palm into his eye socket.

Stop thinking.

Stop wanting.

He flushed.

Didn’t bother with his trousers. Just stood there in his shirt, wrinkled and twisted, trying to breathe through the ache in his gut and the sick pulse between his legs.

He reached for the tap.

Cold water. No soap.

The mirror still fogged over.

Good.

He didn’t want to see himself.

The breakfast room was already bright, too bright, the sun cruel against the polished marble. Lucius blinked once, regretting not staying in bed for the rest of the damn day. His temple throbbed faintly, not from drink though.

He wasn’t foolish enough to get drunk last night.

This ache had other origins.

Coffee. Burnt and bitter. The scent reached him first, too strong, overdone, whatever. He walked in without fixing his collar, shirt twisted at the waist where he’d turned too many times in his sleep during the night. Or morning. Or what remained of the hours after. His usually lush hair was matted, sweaty at the nape, and most certainly unbrushed.

Narcissa sat at the far end of the table, already halfway through her eggs, now buttering toast with the kind of precision that always grated when he was in a state.

 She didn’t glance up.

Didn’t even give him a single look when he entered.

“You’re late,” she said. And that was all.

Lucius ignored the remark and sat. Carefully. Too carefully.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

“Long night?”

“I was not there for a whim, Cissa. I was working.”

He reached for the coffee instead of food, poured slowly, aware of the stiffness in his thighs, the dull soreness across his hips and the inside of his knees. She’d torn his back open at some point. Probably with her nails. Or her mouth.

“With your tie still in your pocket and a scratch on your neck?”

Lucius sipped. His hands were steady. “You’ve taken to inspecting me like a corpse. Should I worry?”

She turned the page of the Daily Prophet with a single flick. “You only look half-dead. Not a total loss.”

He didn’t respond. His coffee tasted bitter and smoky, but it settled his throat.

“I do hope,” she continued, “that whatever you were doing wasn’t political. You tend to lose all discretion when you’re, say, distracted.”

Lucius looked up from his cup, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m hardly a schoolboy, Narcissa.”

“No,” she agreed coolly. “Schoolboys are more subtle.”

He gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “You’re wasting your breath.”

“Am I?” She placed the cup down. Lightly, yes, but the tension in her knuckles said enough. “You look many things, Lucius. Productive isn’t one of them.”

He didn’t answer.

“And you certainly don’t smell like one working hard.”

At that, his gaze sharpened. Briefly. Just a flicker of warning. But she pressed on.

“There’s a scratch behind your ear,” she said. “And bruises along your collarbone. I may not be in the habit of counting them, but I know what’s new. I know what doesn’t belong to me.”

Lucius took another sip, letting the silence stretch. A slow, deliberate swallow, his usual retreat into control. But she could see it in the way he set the cup down a beat too hard. He wasn’t unaffected.

She leaned back slightly, folding her arms. “Tell me it was an accident.”

He didn’t flinch. “Would you believe that?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no point, is there.”

Narcissa’s inhale, sharp, restrained, made her nostrils flare even though her voice didn’t rise as he expected it to. And that made him really wary, bit resolved at the same time.

“Who exactly is she, Lucius?”

“No one. No one that matters, anyway.”

The lack of denial on his part stopped her cold.

She stared at him.

“You didn’t—”

“I said no one that matters,” he repeated, more quietly this time.

Her jaw tightened. “So it was beneath you, then. Convenient. Quick.”

Lucius looked away.

“Oh, Merlin,” she muttered, breath catching. “You let some filth touch you like that and you don’t even care? Did you really let yourself go so thoroughly?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he cut in, resigned. “And it won’t again.”

She laughed once, brittle and breathless. “How very noble. That’s your excuse?”

“I didn’t offer one.”

“No,” she said, standing slowly, “you didn’t. You never do.”

He stayed seated, posture rigid. “I never had to before.”

She blinked, once. Just once. And then the fury crystallised into something colder.

“Don’t delude yourself, Lucius. I’m not angry because you strayed. I’m angry because you never did. Because you always held yourself so far above it ,above them. And now what am I looking at?” Her fingers twitched toward him, toward the tight set of his shoulders, the raw skin just under his collarbone. “You reek of someone. A stranger. And it doesn’t even embarrass you. I can even smell her on your collar.”

He didn’t move. Not even a blink. She went on, softer now.

“I may not know who she is,” she said, “but I know that look. And I know the state you’re in.”

Lucius leaned back slightly. His voice was measured. “Then perhaps you should stop pretending you care.”

“I don’t,” her eyes held his. “If you think no one’s going to notice, think again. People see more than you give them credit for. And whoever she is, she’s marked you. Visibly.”

“It didn’t mean to be like that.”

“Oh, that’s worse. Don’t you think?”

Silence stretched between the, muted and final.

Lucius stood at last. Slowly. “Do you want me to grovel?”

“I want you to answer me.”

He met her eyes. And for just a moment, he was exactly the man she’d once married but barely remembered these days anymore. Proud, refined, terrifyingly self-contained.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

She stared at him. Chest rising, lips parted, but whatever she’d been about to say faltered.

Lucius stepped away from the table. “I’ll change now, if you excuse me.”

She didn’t follow him. Didn’t speak. Only stood alone in the harsh morning light, hands trembling slightly at her sides.

When Ginny finally left her flat later that morning, the light was already too much, too bright. Her eyes hurt. Her head probably more.

She took the tube in silence, observing the strangers silently. After a long ride, she finally, finally got out, towards the Leaky Cauldron. Her boots bit her sore legs and struck the cobblestones too hard. With more force than necessary.

She hadn't really slept. Nor had she eaten, over a day probably. Half her hair was shoved under a green wool beret, brushed hurriedly and without much care, just out of habit. And wrinkled coat, being tossed carelessly over a chair the night before, hung crooked on her shoulders. She didn’t bother adjusting it.

At the hearth, she moved on autopilot. A pinch of Floo powder, a muttered destination

“Ministry of Magic. Atrium.”

And then the drag of heat, ash, and spinning pulled her forward, ribcage first.

She landed upright, somehow, in the polished hall of the Atrium. The hush, or rather the lack of it, surprised her. Too few voices. Too little movement. A few witches and wizards drifted by in no rush, their voices low, movements unhurried. Everything, the echos, felt a little too much.

Ginny, perplexed, brushed off the soot from her coat sleeves, and adjusted the strap of her bag to get more time. To make sure the world hadn’t gone somehow wrong in her absence. The security desk was strangely void of guests. Odd. The central fountain burbled along, serene and ridiculous. Something about it all felt wrong. Or not wrong, exactly—just slightly out of step. As though she’d walked into the tail end of a party that had already forgotten her.

The Ministry was exactly the same as always, except too few people around. Same wet boots on stone. Same crushed paper cups of coffee jammed into the rubbish bin. Same flurry of morning memos like startled birds.

She stepped briskly across the gleaming floor towards the lifts and hit the button. The grate opened almost immediately, the elevator completely empty. She let the doors slid shut behind her. And only then, she allowed herself to lean against the brass railing, exhausted. As if she run a marathon.

And she did, if  she though of that.

She exhaled a silent snort through her nose.

She’d hoped for noise. People. Activity. Anything that would drown out the mess still rattling around in her skull.

The lift chimed at Level Seven—Department of Magical Games and Sports—and she stepped out, boots thudding dully against the old flooring.

In the corridor, she walked straight to the end where the Internal Post Receptacle was. A chute carved in the wall. Reinforced. Warded. One brass label above the drop slot:

For Interdepartmental Correspondence Only.

No personal letters. No parcels. No jokes.

She fed it in anyway. Black envelope. No outer markings. Just her seal pressed into wax.

Deed done. With that, she just walked away.

The hallway was looking strange, not fully lit. Half the sconces flickered, but what was somehow unsettling, the rest hadn’t even bothered to turn on. She walked past the row of desks, boots quiet on the floor. Her desk was a mess—she hadn’t left it that way—and the workspace opposite sat completely abandoned. So did the next one down. No sign of life. Not even a leftover mug. Even the little corner coffee setup near the main conference room looked dead. Even the charmed carafe, usually refilling itself with something drinkable, was cold. Useless. Sitting untouched.

 Ginny, pausing just long enough to register the wrongness, frowned pensively. Then, then just kept walking.

Mornley’s door was shut. She knocked, too lightly, just out of politeness, but pushed it open before waiting for an answer.

 Derrick Mornley looked up, blinking behind smudged spectacles that had slid down to the very tip of his nose. His desk was a wreck. Parchment everywhere. Ink pots, stacked folders, at least three unopened memos from the looks of it. His robes looked like they hadn’t seen a hanger in days.

“Oh, Weasley,” he said, distracted. “You’re in.”

“I am,” Ginny said, narrowing her eyes. “Bit dead in here, isn’t it?”

He gave a tight shrug and didn’t look up again. “Most people were given today off.”Ginny blinked. “Why?”

“The Gala,” he said. “Standard courtesy. High-level invitees and Ministry hosts get the day after off. It’s been policy for years.”

“I was at the Gala,” she said, arms folding. “So why the hell wasn’t I told?”Mornley’s quill scratched for a moment longer before he paused, peered at her properly, and said with infuriating calm: “I told invited guests, Weasley. Not their companions.”

That hit like a slap.

Ginny stared. “Right,” she muttered. “Nice.”

The silence that followed felt loud.

Mornley ignored her, already back to his paperwork, sorting scrolls nervously, quick, impatient flicks of his wand. Then he just spat her way:

“In any case, Weasley, I’m here because there’s still work to do. Particularly on the Quiditch League restructuring proposal. Which, if I recall correctly, is your project.”

She didn’t move. Her jaw was locked.

“Unless you’d prefer to take the day, of course,” he added, not bothering to sound sincere.

“And why would I? I am already here,” she said, sharper than she meant to. “No. I’ll get started.”

“Excellent.” He nodded once, already back into a dense table of figures. “And Weasley?”

She turned in the doorway.

His tone was dry. “Try not to let last night affect your formatting this time.”

She gave him a flat smile she didn’t feel and left without answering.

Back at her desk, Ginny sat down heavily, shrugging off her coat. But when her nether regions, manhandled from the night, hit the chair with a dull thud, she winced in pain. Great. How was she even supposed to work like this? So, she just stared at the blank parchment in front ofher, fingers abusing her quill, yet not moving.

Not invited.

Not even considered.

And Harry hadn’t said a damn thing. Not this morning. Not last night. Not when she’d left the Gala practically in tears.

She stared at the blank, crisp parchment a while longer, willing the pain to subdue. As if it would go somehow, by the sheer will.

But wishes were for fools.

So, she just slowly picked up the quill and with a sigh, drew a thick black line straight through the middle of it.

Then another.

And another.

“Sir.”

 Lucius didn’t look up immediately. He was reading something not particularly urgent, but his posture said it was. One gloved hand rested on the desk. The other held the parchment as if it might try to crawl away.

“Sir,” repeated the voice.

Measured. Dry.

He finally lifted his gaze.

“Yes, Miriam?”

“There was something in the post bin. No return seal. Black envelope.”

He arched one pale brow. “No seal?”

 “I didn’t say such thing, Lord Malfoy.”

She placed the envelope on the desk with two fingers, delicately, like it might still be warm.

“It bears the sender’s crest. A personal one. Not Ministry-registered.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked to it.

Unmarked, save for the black wax. The press was deep. Intricate. He didn’t recognise it immediately  and that irritated him more than the delivery itself. He set the parchment aside. “Leave it.”

“Of course.”

But she lingered a fraction too long. Watching. He gave her a long, flat look. She turned and finally, finally closed the door behind her.

He waited. Just long enough to be sure she was gone for good. Then took the envelope between his hands. He ran his thumb along the edge. The parchment was good quality. The kind you bought for announcements. Private invitations. The scent was faint. Not perfume, just something soft. A laundry powder, perhaps? Feminine, but not deliberate.

He checked the suspicious envelope multiple time, with every spell he could summon to his mind.

Nothing, at least not in terms of enchantments, but of the rest, he was less sure.

Slowly, with faint tremble, he cracked the seal. Opened the flap and then paused, stunned.

What was that, for fucks sake?

Black lace. Folded. Neat. Unworn, but not new.

And the card.

I believe you like them black. Consider it a thank-you. Or a dare.

He read it once. Then again. Then folded it slowly. Precisely. Placed it back in the envelope. He did not smile. But something in the stillness of his jaw said very well, then.

Hour dragged. Incredibly so.

And the amount of work was not helping.

Ginny was on her third coffee by midday. And she’d already checked her inbox few times. What was saying that about her? Was she really that desperate?

Still. She expected something, some form of reaction.

She waited. Not for a reply. Not explicitly. She just kept passing by. The fourth time, she caught herself doing it. And hated it. She wasn’t fifteen. She wasn’t some intern sending her knickers to a boy two floors up. She’d written the note in ink, folded the card with steady hands, sealed it herself. And she’d dropped it through Ministry channels. Where anyone could trace it. Where he could. But nothing. No note. No firecall.

Lucius Malfoy was pretending it hadn’t happened. And that, that made her furious.  Was not one man ignoring her enough already?

She sat through next couple of hours in a fog of contradiction.

Because wasn’t that the point? To make him squirm? To put something filthy on his spotless desk and watch him try to pretend it didn’t excite him?

Or was that a lie, in the end? Was it all about Harry? Was it the sight of him, dozing on the couch with one shoe still on, smelling like whiskey and pretending?

The sound of him laughing with Shacklebolt over someone else’s joke? The way he’d left her in that ballroom alone, all those eyes on her like she was just another old scandal he didn’t feel like explaining? Not even interesting anymore to gossip about?

 She didn’t know.

She just knew it wasn’t fun anymore.

Because what she did yesterday, and even today, was downright crazy.

Was she bipolar, or what the heck muggles called it these days?

What was wrong with her? Did she forget about what he did so easily?

Lucius Malfoy had once ruined her life with a flick of his wrist. A diary. A cursed relic, dropped into her cauldron like a stone into a well, not caring what consequences it had, then. How trapped she was for a year. And sometimes, even now. Sweet Tom, whispering half-truths in her dreams.

 And now, all these years later, she’d dropped something back.

And he, he still hadn’t blinked.  It was not fair. Not at all.

By late afternoon, she sat alone in the tiny office kitchenette, again, stirring milk into bad coffee, too aware of every second ticking past. What was she doing? What was she hoping for? Did she even want him to open it? Did she want him to keep it? Or worse — did she want him to drop it somewhere visible?

She pressed the mug to her lips, suddenly nauseated. She wasn’t playing with teenage boys anymore. And maybe that was the whole fucking problem.

She hadn’t cried. That’s what he remembered first. Not the skin. Not the breath. Not the half-bitten sounds. But that she hadn’t cried. Not during. Not after. She’d left the Gala without hesitation. Followed him out like it meant nothing. And when he took her, against the marble wall of his private lounge, dress up, her back arched. And she, she hadn’t begged, hadn’t wept, hadn’t gasped anything tender. She’d looked at him. And he hadn’t liked what he saw.

 She’d been angry.

 He’d recognised it too late. Angry the moment he pressed into her and she let him. Angry when he lifted her thigh and she helped. Angry when she moaned not soft, but contemptuous. Like he was the one being used.

Was he? Did he really let fool himself that much?

He blinked. The lace was still on his desk. Still folded. The envelope sat beside his quill. The seal cracked open, mocking him. She was supposed to be a little fuck. A show of power. A mouthful of wine to wash down the tedium of the Gala.

Instead, she  sent this.

Via internal post, to that. With a note. A dare.

 He picked up the lace again. Turned it in his fingers, frowning slightly, confused. It wasn’t the garment that disturbed him. He’d received worse. Done worse. It was the implication. That she remembered. That she thought he would, should. That she believed herself important enough to haunt him. A little Weasley slag, bred like rodents, desperate for gold and name.

Why this one? Why was she still playing?

He folded the lace once more. Reached for a drawer. Dropped it in, between parchment contracts and ink orders and closed it quietly. There was something in his throat. Not regret. Just the residue of something unfinished.

Lucius stood from his chair. Sudden movement, like something had tugged him against his good judgement. Invisible strings. The drawer, that one, clicked shut behind him, the envelope hidden now beneath layers of bureaucratic irrelevance. He adjusted his cuffs as he walked, movements smooth, feigning calm. Something inside him paced.

He left his office in a rush, too fast, nearly forgetting the door. Expensive cloak swinging behind him as he turned down the narrow hall that led toward the antechamber. Just beyond the doorway, Miriam looked up from her desk. Neat as ever, quill still hovering above the day’s correspondence, the surprise on her face was brief, quickly replaced by that usual mix of reverence and quiet apprehension.

He knew that look, reserved only for him.

 She waited for something.

 An order. Explanation.

 It came to Lucius mind too late for her not to notice.

"Cancel my midday. I'll be at Level Seven," he said, not quite looking at her.

She blinked. "Department of Magical Sports, sir?"

"Quidditch board coordination. Routine," he said shortly. "You know the file."

"Of course."

He didn’t wait for a reply.

The lift was mercifully empty. A descent, slow and humming, gave him too much time with the sensation still under his skin. Ginny Weasley’s mouth, her voice, the fucking note. He exhaled through his nose as the grilles opened.

Level Seven was quieter than usual. Fewer people around after the Gala, no doubt sleeping off the Ministry’s alcohol and egos. He walked past glass-panelled doors and scuffed floors until he reached Derrick Mornley’s office.

Lucius knocked once and entered without waiting.

Mornley straightened as if spring-loaded. "Mr Malfoy. I wasn’t expecting—"

"You said next Thursday. I’d prefer to go over the funding projections beforehand."

"Of course, sir. Of course. Have a seat, here, here."

Lucius didn’t.

Mornley scrambled for a folder, muttering something about pitch maintenance budgets. Lucius nodded, eyes casually sweeping the room. Too casually. He didn’t let them snag, but they wanted to.

There.

Far corner. There she was. Tucked away, in that cramped little corner, always left empty. Until it wasn´t. Not since she came to work there, anyway.

Weasley.

Hair pinned half-heartedly, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Neck still slightly mottled if you knew where to look.

Lucius kept his back straight. His expression, neutral. He didn’t look, was not that transparent. Not once. Or ,at least, not directly.

Ginny seethed. Here he was, finally, when she did not expect him, and honestly nothing, anymore. She kept her eyes down. She would not give him the satisfaction of her attention. Her quill scratched too hard against the parchment, jaw tense. And then,she shifted, deliberately, rising just enough to lean for a file on the higher shelf.

Her skirt rode up.

Lucius blinked, just once, and swallowed like the air had changed pressure.

She turned. Saw him.

Met his eyes, slightly bulged, caught in the moment. Held them.

Mornley was still going on, not that Lucius listened to him in the first place, something about youth recruitment.

Then he stopped.

Because Lucius had looked away.

And Mornley followed his gaze. Saw her. Saw Ginny Weasley standing there like a flame in an otherwise grey room.

The man’s mouth curled in distaste.

"Oi, Weasley! This isn’t a fashion show. If you’re done flaunting yourself, we’ve got actual work to do."

She didn’t even flinch, damn bitch. Just raised an eyebrow and turned back to her desk.

Lucius closed the folder in front of him.

"We’ll discuss this next week."

"Sir? But I—"

"Next week."

He left.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

After their brief, unsatisfying encounter, three more days passed. No reaction. No parcel on her desk. No mention from his secretary. No smirk in the corridor, or at least a sneer in the lift. That bastard. She was not worth of a sideways glance, even.

He’d seen it. He’d read it. She knew he had.

 Because Miriam the secretary didn’t miss things. And that envelope, it had gone directly into his office.

 Yet, he’d done nothing. Nothing at all.

On Wednesday, she kept checking the hall. Discreetly, because the buzz was back with everyone back to work from their blessed day off. Every time she passed Level Five, her chest tightened like a muscle waiting to spasm.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

That she was fine with silence. That he was the one caught off guard. But nothing came.

The next day, she burned the inside of her mouth on hot tea. Twice. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about it. About whether the lace was still in his office. About whether he’d tossed it. Or worse — hadn’t.

On Friday, he walked past her in the Atrium. Tall. Elegant. Cloaked in silver-lined black, boots clicking like he owned the fucking floor. She froze for a second. He didn’t break stride, damn bastard. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t blink.

Oh, great.

She could’ve been a statue. Or a broom cupboard.

That night, she drank. Alone, while everyone else was outside, enjoying the beginning of the weekend. Harry was nowhere to be seen since the night after the Gala.

 And she didn´t care.

She drank because it was easier.

No, not to forget. Not even to feel better. Because the mess she was in was impossible to drown with few drinks. She drank just to dull the ache of something unspoken.

 Why was it bothering her?

Why was she letting this reptile in silk crawl into her thoughts?

And, most importantly, why?; why, indeed?; was she still lying awake at 2 a.m.?

That rough snap of her tights against her thigh, the absence of anything since? With that fucking sound of his voice, going on and on inside her head. She should be angry.

 And angry, she was.

 At herself, in the first place.

For letting it affect her so deeply.

She should be wise, at her age. She was, probably, but not in the right ways.

But she was something else, too.

Stung.

Like a girl who tried to punch up, and missed.

Entirely.

He didn’t touch the drawer.

Not once.

Not when his hand passed over it for a quill.

Not when Miriam mentioned the envelope in passing, with that particular hesitation she reserved for dangerous correspondence.

Not even when he knew she— Ginevra— was watching him during few brief, casual encounters on the opposite sides of the halls. Because she was. Of course she was.

He could feel it when he entered the Ministry lifts, her gaze slicing sideways from the far wall. He could see it in the way she lingered too long in the hallway outside Atrium, before the elevators, pretending to study her notes. He heard it in her laugh, tighter than usual, strained through gritted teeth when others were nearby.

Of course she wanted him to react.

And so, he didn’t.

That, that was the beauty of it, really. A girl like her, flame-tempered, impatient, unrefined, didn’t know how to cope with stillness. She’d launched her gambit with theatre and nerve. A filthy, silk-lined gesture meant to provoke. But he’d seen it for what it was. Desperation. Not sexual, no. Something deeper.

Something fouler.

A need to reclaim something she couldn’t name. Power? Maybe. Or memory. Control. The too late served revenge for a shadow of a diary. For the echo of old shame.

She wanted to reverse the spell.

 But Lucius didn’t believe in rewinding time. He believed in making people live with it.

And so, the lace stayed in the drawer. Folded once. Edges even. A quiet threat, sealed shut in wood. He didn’t mention it. Didn’t smirk when they passed. Didn’t write back.

Because he didn’t need to.

She would come undone without him lifting a finger.

He saw her again on Friday. In the Atrium. Standing alone. She didn’t speak. And neither did he. He passed her like mist, didn’t so much as pause. But back then, afterward, in his office, he poured his most expensive brandy. It went down in one go. Because it was all he could do about it, about the scent of her still lingering in his cloak. And she didn’t even know it.

That Saturday, the room was colder than usual. Or maybe it was just her. He hadn’t meant to come to her again. Not after the last time, with her. But the sharp, rabid, clinging need had refused to die down. He’d wanted to bury it. Subdue it.

Replace her with what was his.

What had always been his.

Narcissa, one arm stretched lazily across the sheets, just lay still, beneath him, her hair immaculate even now.

He was inside her already, thrusting in rhythm, harder than before, jaw clenched, every breath ragged. She didn’t moan. Didn’t shift. Just looked at him with something bordering on amusement.

“Trying new things now, are you?” she murmured as he gripped her wrist and pressed it over her head. He said nothing. Just thrust harder. “You’ll pull something at your age.”

His grip tightened.

“You’re not even looking at me,” she added after a while. “Is it that hard to pretend?”

He was sweating. Her body beneath him was soft, unresisting, hollow. Like a shape carved from silk and salt. Elegant, lifeless. He changed the angle. Slid down slightly. One hand between her thighs.

She flinched in irritation.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Lucius—”

He kept going. Determined now. Jaw locked, mouth dry.

“I don’t need your performance,” she hissed. “What is this? A last stand before you crawl to her like a whipped boy?”

His fingers were slick now, but not from arousal.

It was clinical. Futile.

He kept trying anyway.

Longer. Rougher.

 As if he could force it . Not the climax, but the meaning.

Narcissa just stared up at the ceiling. When she laughed, it was low and humourless.

“This is sad. Even by your standards.”

Something in him collapsed. He stopped moving. Pulled out. And sat back on his heels, panting. For a moment too long, just silence stretched between them. Ugly, but true.

Angrilly, she tugged her gown down with enaugh force to tear it on the side. With a steday hand, smoothed her hair, and stood like a statue. Sliding back into its niche.

 “You want her to want you,” she said coolly, “but you can’t even make your own wife come.”

He didn’t answer.

“Tell me, do you think she’ll find that charming?”

 Still nothing.

She reached the door and paused.

“You reek of her. Her sweat, her filth. I hope she destroys you.”

And then she was gone.

He stayed there, kneeling on the bed, his cock soft, his hands wet, his mouth dry. And in that moment — for the first time in years — Lucius Malfoy felt disgusted with himself.

One boot still on, Lucius sat on the edge of the bed, not daring to move. His eyes on the other, discarded beside the armoire. She left, but here he was, staying like this for a long time. Shirt half unbuttoned, belt dangling. The silence was not peaceful. It was thick like tar.

He looked at his hands, still damp. The scent of her clung faintly to his skin. Or rather what was left of it.

Not perfume. Not sweat. Not even sex.

Just something sterile.

Powdery.

Distant.

Like the scent of something mouldy, old. A dressing room, or cellar,closed for far too long. He shuddered, deeply disgusted. It hit him hard, as he wiped his fingers. Then stared at the damp smear down the front of his trousers, trailing like an accusation. He wanted, wanted to say something ugly, scream after her. His jaw worked, hard, but nothing came. Not even a curse. What would he even say?

He stood and started pacing, irritated.

Back and forth. Back and fort.

From the fireplace to the bed, then back again.

Like a caged thing.

The whisky decanter sat untouched on the shelf. He didn’t bother with a glass. Just uncorked it, tipped it, drank straight from the crystal neck until it burned. The fire had gone low. He didn’t bother stoking it.

He hated this room. Hated the sheets. The trim. The perfect untouched dressing table, still lined with her silver-tipped combs and folded handkerchiefs. The mirror caught his reflection — mouth slack, shirt crooked, eyes rimmed red from drink and rage and something worse.

There was a tightness at the base of his throat. Not pain. Not nausea. Just revulsion. Not at her. At himself.

It had been years since he’d let that part of himself take over. The brute. The pathetic, rutting thing that surfaced only when something inside him couldn’t be silenced.

He thought he’d buried it. Thought he could control it with routine, with ritual, with wealth and name and Narcissa’s cold acceptance. But tonight, it had clawed its way out.

And for what?

He’d had her body.

And it had felt like nothing. Not even failure.

Worse than that.

Irrelevance.

He poured another mouthful of whisky and let it sit on his tongue.

Swallowed.

He knew what this was.

It wasn’t about Narcissa. Not really.

It was about her. The other her. The one with fire in her voice, anger in her step, hands that gripped him like they meant to own him. Ginevra. He didn’t even like saying her name in his mind. It made him feel unsteady. Lucius Malfoy did not lose control. He did not get turned inside out by women half his age with old family names and dirt on their shoes.

Except… He had. He was.

And all the polished sex in the world couldn’t put the monster back in its cage now.

The sun barely broke through the grey August haze, but it was already hot, maybe too hot for his taste. The soil had hardened beneath his boots when he left Manor without breakfast. The rose beds, lined with a film of light dust despite last night’s spell of rain, caught his eyes.  Lucius didn’t bother with gloves. He never had. The pain of a thorn, when it struck true, was grounding in a way most magic could never be.

He’d been out since morning, but it did not help. Nothing helped, really. Because even now, hours later, with his sleeves rolled back, trousers mud-smeared, and sweat drying on the back of his neck, even now, he felt too much to his liking. Narcissa hadn’t spoken to him. Not since yesterday. Not after what passed between them. It may not been an argument, exactly. Not that there wasn’t too many, over the years. Just, the silence that followed this one, was worse somehow.

He reached for the clippers with a hard exhale. The scent of the roses—his mothers, deep carmine—was cloying today. Too much. Everything was too much. His back ached. His jaw ached. His fucking pride ached.

By noon, the sun had risen enough to sting his eyes. He stripped off his overshirt and tossed it onto the bench. There was a smear of blood across one cuff, old and brown. He didn’t remember how it got there. Perhaps from yesterday. Perhaps not.

Ginevra.

He hadn’t meant to think of her.

But there it was, again. Like a weed he couldn’t pull. Her hair, her scent, the way her mouth hadn’t softened beneath his. The way she’d looked at him when it was over. Not coy. Not flattered. Not even triumphant. Just… clear-eyed. As though he were some stupid boy who’d kissed the wrong girl on a dare.

He gritted his teeth and sheared another stem in half. Too close. It would die.

Fuck.

He abandoned the secateurs on the path and pulled his hair back with one hand. It was damp at the roots, curling unpleasantly at the nape. He should’ve stayed inside. Should’ve hexed something. Should’ve—

He cursed again, ugly and vulgar, under his breath. Not the thing one could immagine coming out of him. Man, but was he desperate... Letting it all, and what was that all indeed, come to him so close?

Lucius, now disgusted with himself more than before, more than ever, took off toward the woods. Toward the edge of the cared for grounds, into the wild, just away. Miles away from everything. And mostly, from himself. The soil of the forest path under his feet, uneven and narrow, was little more than a trail.  Carved out by years of habit, of frustration, escape. He ran it often. Sometimes at night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Or deep in winter, when the trees stood bare and the cold carved through him like something earned. In ways he knew he deserved.

Now, the forest held no peace. His legs carried him far too easily, his breath never quite losing rhythm, his chest never aching the way it needed to. There was no release. No forgetting. Only Ginevra’s face, and the sound of her silence, and the unbearable fact that she’d walked away from him looking unbothered.

He stopped only when he couldn’t hear the gravel under his feet. The trees swayed overhead. And sweet, it clung to his spine, but didn’t help in the slightest. because he still wanted her.

 He pressed his palm to the bark of an old elm, leaned into it, eyes closed.

 It wasn’t supposed to matter.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

But she did.

And he had no idea, not a single one, what to do with that.

That afternoon, the kitchen at the Burrow smelled of cinnamon and cheer too loud for her liking. And something faintly scorched. Ginny set the blueberry jam jar down far  harder than she meant to, watching the lid rattle across the wooden table. Nobody noticed.

Thank God for small mercies.

Her mother had everyone crowded in again. Even Charlie was visiting this time. A Sunday spread. Tea cakes, fresh bread, the same old teapot charmed to refill itself every time someone sighed. Eight hands of the family clock on the living room wall were positioned on at home, wobbling just slightly from age.

Except one.

His stayed on lost, just under the word, a little askew. Like the magic didn’t know what to do with him. Like none of them did.

It still unsettled her, even now. The emptiness. The space.

Ginny sat at the end of the table, opposite Percy, who was droning on about Ministry regulations concerning spellwork in Muggle-adjacent properties. No one was really listening except George, and even he seemed more interested in his tea.

She hadn’t been spoken to directly once since she’d arrived. Not in any real way. A passing comment from Arthur about the Harpies' last match, but he hadn’t even asked if she was still in contact with the team. Not that she was. Not that anyone knew, or was interested, what happened really and why she left. They were just disappointed and refused to speak about it since.

She scraped her toast too hard, buttering the edges, pretending not to hear the lull in conversation when Molly asked, brightly, “So… how’s Harry?”

Ginny didn’t look up.

“Fine,” she said flatly.

“That’s all?” Bill chuckled from the far end.

“Come on, Gin. You’re not usually so tight-lipped.”

She just shrugged, mock of a nonchalance, to brush him off. “Not much to say.”

“Still working long hours?” Molly asked.

 “Suppose so.”

“He’s really doing his part,” Arthur added. “Takes it seriously, that one.”

“Mm,” Ginny murmured, stabbing at the eggs.

Across the table, Ron’s fork paused mid-air. “Is he at home at all?”

 She didn’t answer.

Ron narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been in a mood since you got here. Are you two fighting or something?”

“I’m not in a mood,” she snapped.

“Right,” Ron muttered. “That tone says otherwise.”

“Oh, so now I can’t speak with a tone?” Ginny’s voice rose. “I forget, am I here as your sister or Harry’s girlfriend?”

 “Don’t twist it, Gin,” Ron said, voice flat. “You’ve been ice cold to him lately. Even at the Gala—”

 “Don’t you dare bring that up.” She dropped her knife. It clattered, loud. “And don’t you dare start acting like Harry’s bloody keeper when you’ve never once asked how he treats me.”

The table fell into that strained kind of silence that always came before Molly spoke.

“Enough,” Molly said. Not loud. Just… clipped. “You’ll mind your voice in this house.”

At that, Ginny froze by such harsh reprimand, hurt in her eyes. “Mum—”

“No. No, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. That temper of yours, Ginevra, it’s going to be the end of every decent thing you’ve got. No one will want to put up with it. You’re lucky Harry does.”

There it was. The statement that always simmered under everything. Lucky. Like she ought to be grateful for him. Like he’d done her a favour by staying.

 Ginny pushed back her chair. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Oh, come on, Gin—” Ron started.

She was already halfway to the door. Grabbing her coat. Not bothering with the zip.

“Where are you going?” Molly called.

“Home,” Ginny bit out. “Where no one compares me to their golden boy.”

And then she Disapparated from the porch with a crack that shook the chimes.

The sun hit the tree line, when Lucius finally decided to return. Now, in its descent, casting long, amber streaks across the manicured lawn, he found a shard of solace. It felt peaceful somehow. Narcissa sat beneath the pergola like some self-declared queen. She was a beauty, he admitted to himself. Ice queen. Cradling her teacup in manicured, steady hands, legs crossed at the ankle, perfectly still. Freezing the heat by her mere presence. The sight of her destroyed his improving mood in mere seconds. The silver tray beside her steamed faintly.

She, and  her trice-damned tea.

How he hated it, her ignorance. The pretence.

The sound, maybe the crunch of his boots on gravel, startled her from her reverie too soon.

Her eyes, slightly narrowed against the vanishing sun, judged Lucius mercilessly. He knew he didn´t look presentable, emerging from the woods behind the east hedge like some sort of wild animal. Half-naked, shirt in his hand soiled and torn, smelly. Dry sweat clinging to his back. His hair didn’t help, either. Damp and stuck to his forehead, looked several shades darker in the fading light. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her at first. Hoped for a peaceful ignorance. And he barely managed.

But no.

She wouldn’t had him have even that. Because, as he reached the steps, her voice stopped him in his track.

“You’ll ruin your boots like that,” Narcissa said, without looking up.

He stopped mid-step, chest heaving slightly. “They're old.”

She raised a brow. “So is your pride. You’ve yet to wear that out.”

Lucius reached up and wiped his forearm across his brow, leaving a smear of dirt behind. “Charming as ever.”

“Mm. And you,” she glanced at him now, her eyes travelling up and down with clinical detachment, “look like something the groundskeeper would chase off with a rake.”

He gave her a long, flat look. “What do you want, Narcissa?”

“To remind you that the house has showers. And dignity.” She sipped, then added without a flicker, “I’m going to Paris in the morning. To see Draco.”

Lucius blinked, once. “Again?”

“Astoria’s unwell,” she replied, setting her teacup down with the softest click. “Apparently it’s her nerves this time. I’ll stay the week.”

He let an irritated exhale through his nose. “Right.”

Narcissa, unbothered, just reached for the sugar bowl. “And I would advise, in your infinite wisdom, that you keep a better eye on your appetites while I’m gone. There are still eyes on this family.”

He didn’t bother coming with some sort of retort. Because what could he even add to such drivel?

Narcissa, slef-satisfied by the lack of his reaction, stirred her tea with deliberate precision, knowing too well how it grated on his fragile nerves. And, to accent her point even more, let the spoon tapping once against the side of the porcelain.

“And, Lucius, do not insult me by pretending you don’t know what I mean.”

Lucius remained still for a beat. His voice, when it came, was low. “If you’re done.”

“For now.” She lifted the cup, like it was some bloody tragicomedy, and paused for the better effect. Then, just dropped her venom coolly. “And, if you may, be dear and try not to embarrass yourself. That’s all I am asking of you. It would mean a great deal, if you can show some restraint.”

He had enough. So, without another word, he turned his back to her. Let his boots squelching too dramatically as he crossed the damp grass. Leaving mud and dirt on the luxurious marble entrance flooring. His shoulders were still tense, feeling all too sharp the hole her hateful eyes drove there. He let a him escape a short exhale of relief when he disappeared inside finally.

That evening, Lucius was at his desk, sleeves rolled, tie discarded somewhere near the lamp. The fire had gone low, casting uneven light across the room, and  both of his  dogs hovered just near the doorway. One whined softly. The other took a step forward.

“Out,” he muttered.

They were not accustomed to get such treatment. After a bit of hesitation, surprised, ears twitching, backed away. Lucius waited until their claws stopped scratching against the floor before he exhaled and looked back down at the parchment.

The proposal stared up at him, neat and structured, too careful. The ink on the final page hadn’t even dried evenly. Someone had handled it too fast. He flipped through it once more, scanning for what he already knew was there.

The flaws weren’t glaring, not to most. But he saw them. Of course he did. That’s why they’d given him the role in the first place. Not for his charm, and certainly not for his reliability. For his precision. For his ruthlessness when it came to design, loopholes, budgeting.

He could already see where this would unravel, given enough time. And he could fix it. Of course he could.

The thing was, he didn’t want to.

Bored already, he tossed the whole thing back onto the desk. The parchment slid somewhere sideways with just a faint click. Tt landed half-off the edge, already forgotten.

He didn’t bother calling the dogs back in.

He went upstairs alone, unbuttoning his cuffs on the way, and didn’t glance back.

Ginny didn’t light the sitting room. She’d left the curtains open, she always liked it that way. It was peaceful, somehow, letting the city bleed into the stillness. The greenish streetlamps. The glint of traffic. Occasional blurred movement behind glass from the flat across the way. She let herself go. Finally, she could relax after that horrendous afternoon. And just sit in peace. Tired. She kicked away a dry, half-eaten piece of toast, lazy to get up from the sofa. Rested one foot on the edge of the side table.

Her family had barely spoken to her at the Burrow.

No , not quite true. They had spoken. They’d just asked about Harry.

Harry’s work. Harry’s sacrifice. Wasn’t it hard, being with someone so important?

And not a word about her own job. Not one question about the proposal she’d been buried in for the past months. Not even a blink when she’d mentioned the upcoming league integration draft, something no one else in the department had managed to move forward. She might as well have said she’d gone back to work at the Snape’s Apothecary.

Not that any of them had come to see her play when she left England. Not one match in six years. Not when she broke records in the Alpine league. Not when she fractured her arm and played through it, bleeding through her gloves.

And Harry? He hadn’t once flown out. Not even on break. Always an excuse. Always something. And when she came home permanently, they’d praised him for letting her chase her little dream.

She blinked down at the parchment beside her. The project proposal was folded twice, her notes scrawled in margins from the week before. She tossed it into her bag without bothering to recheck anything. She didn’t need to. She knew every word. It was the same framework she’d used for the cross-league policy overhaul in Geneva, just translated for the UK system. It was good. Probably too good for what they were paying her.

They’d scoffed when she’d told them she wanted to study more. That she’d enrolled abroad. Said it was a waste of money. That she ought to be saving for a house. Preparing to start a family. That’s what girls like her did.

And when she pointed out — just once — that Harry hadn’t even proposed, hadn’t even asked her to move in properly, it had gone quiet. Then Molly, cool and clipped, had said, "Well, dear, it’s not always the man’s job to chase after everything."

That was it, wasn’t it? Let them believe they were settled. That this shoebox of a rented flat was theirs. It wasn’t. It was hers. Harry had never put his name on it, never brought anything permanent in, never made space for her in his. He just moved through it. Slept in her bed, used her bath, left his socks on her floor  and walked out whenever he wanted, without so much as a note.

She hadn’t seen him since the Gala.

Hadn’t even heard from that bastard, either.

Fine.

She stood, stretched her back until it popped, and passed through the hall. To her bedroom, still cool, untouched. Tossed her blouse onto the chair by the door, and crawled under the covers without washing up. There was no point. He wouldn’t be back tonight. Wouldn’t bother saying where he was.

Probably punishing her again. Silent treatment. The usual.

She curled tighter under the blanket, staring at the ceiling. The faint sound of wind outside. Pipes knocking through the walls. No footsteps in the hall. No door. Just the quiet.

She went to bed alone.

Again.

Chapter Text

Monday came. A week.

Exactly a week of nothing.

No note. No internal memo. No unmarked envelope sent through his secretary. No trace of his marks on the draft proposals. Even her work was ignored.

And being ignored by another man? She had enough of that already.

It had been a week since the Gala, with nothing in return. So today, she hadn’t so much as looked at him.

Ginny had a rule. A steady one, which she followed by exact precision. She gave everything a week. A week to settle. A week to breathe. A week of leeway before she made up her mind.

And she had.

That morning, she no longer lingered by the lifts, pretending to read the Ministry notices while she waited for the footsteps she could never quite admit to hoping for. She didn’t pause by the post box to check whether anything with his crest had arrived. She didn’t even glance toward the end of the corridor where the marble floors changed grain and the gold-plated department signs began to glint more smugly.

She didn’t do any of it.

Lucius noticed.

He was walking toward the main lift when she passed him. Brisk, upright. Her expression unreadable. Not giving him a shit. He observed her, even her hair, tucked into a twisted knot in that lazy way of hers. A feather quill in one hand, too steady, some rolled parchment under her arm. She didn’t react, didn’t slow.

Didn’t look at him.

He stopped.

Just stopped in place like someone had stunned him mid-step. Turned slightly. Tracked her with a narrow look, the air sharp in his lungs.

Nothing. Not that she gave him much before.

But this time, that nothing was different.

This wasn’t the breathless pause, the hidden ache she tried to cover with hauteur. It wasn’t the petty silence she wrapped herself in when she wanted to be chased. It wasn’t even indifference.

It was absence.

Total and final. As if she’d cut him out, thread by thread, with no care. Without leaving even the dignity of a scar, for fucks sake.

He clenched his jaw, pissed to high heaven, and strode after her.

The lift arrived. She stepped in. And he, he followed. Couldn’t help himself.

Too close.

He took position just behind her, tall enough to look straight over her head, his breath slower than it felt. She didn’t move. Not an inch. Not until someone else,  unfamiliar to Ginny, stepped in behind them and greeted him with obsequious cheer.

“Ah, Lord Malfoy. Did you have a chance to look over that bid for the Wizengamot seating contract?”

Lucius gave the man a tight-lipped nod and said something about timing and negotiations, but all the while, his body was pressed too close to hers. The faint scent of whatever she’d washed her hair with — not floral, not sweet, just clean — hit him like a knife to the gut.

And then she moved.

Not fully. Just a slight adjustment of her hips. A minute tilt. A shift of weight. Enough that her arse  brushed his groin. Subtle. Barely there. But deliberate. Maddeningly firm and too damn unfairly well-placed.

He stiffened.

And then she stepped out.

No glance back. No smirk. No comment. Just that subtle provocation, and gone.

The doors closed behind her and the lift jolted. Lucius exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, to calm himself.

But from what? Does she really affect him so much? Impossible, simply impossible… what she is doing to him, how can she provoke him this much

The back of his neck prickled.

Hard.

He was hard.

And he’d be hard for the rest of the bloody day.

He adjusted the fall of his robes and cleared his throat, pretending to be focused on the contract the little fool beside him was still blathering about. He wasn’t listening.

All he could think was—

She meant it. She meant to brush him. She meant to walk away.

She’s punishing me.

And worst of all, she wasn’t wrong.

Back in his office, Lucius let himself go. He tossed the contract on his desk without reading it, seething.

He couldn’t use Narcissa, not for this. She was still in Paris with Draco and Astoria, nursing the girl’s chronic condition and playing the dutiful grandmother. And besides, fucking Narcissa was like brushing one’s teeth with a spoon. Predictable, clinical. And ultimately unsatisfying.

No, he needed to do something else.

Something that would shift the ground beneath Ginevra’s feet.

He just didn’t yet know what.

He hadn’t meant to keep them, the scrap of torn lace. At first. They’d just ended up in his coat pocket, somehow. Crumpled and damp, tucked in with a glove he hadn’t worn since. A souvenir. A trophy. A reminder, perhaps, of just how far she’d let herself fall. How far he’d dragged her. He should have thrown them away. But he didn’t. They sat, forgotten, in the same pocket for two days. By the time he remembered and pulled them out again, they were a true mess. Stiffened at the seam. Smelled funny. Faintly of sweat, sex and stale perfume. He turned them over in his hands. Black lace, cheap. Worn thin. Torn at the waistband. There was blood on them. Just a trace. Dried now. That surprised him more than on could expect. He held them a little too long, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, as if expecting them to speak. They didn’t. They only lay limp, heavy with memory. His gaze drifted sideways, eyeing to the handkerchief. It sat exactly where he’d left  it the day after. Stained, crusted, half-folded beside the whisky decanter. White linen, monogrammed. His. The only thing he’d used after, that night, to clean himself.

He finished quickly. Without finesse, without real interest, and wiped himself with the same handkerchief he’d used that night. The lace was damp beneath his palm. He didn’t look at it. He folded both together. Sealed the envelope. Not a gift. Not a plea. A message. You let me do this. You didn’t stop me. And now you’ll carry it, just like I carry you.

 He didn’t feel triumphant. He didn’t feel ashamed. He felt—

No. That wasn’t a line of thought worth chasing. The packaging was Ministry-issue. Standard correspondence envelope. No note. No mark. Just the objects. He wrapped the knickers in the handkerchief. Folded it tightly. Slipped the bundle into the envelope and sealed it with his wand. The wax sizzled at the edges.

When Miriam knocked twenty minutes later to announce it was time for the meeting, , he slid it into his pocket without meeting her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, flatly.

 She said nothing.

 But when the door closed behind her, Lucius stood very still in the silence. Fingers flexing once. Then again. As if they’d touched something diseased and couldn’t quite forget the texture.

Then, just headed toward the Meeting room at Level Six.

The conference chamber on Level Six was already too warm. Too full of eyes.

 Ginny arrived early. Crisp blouse, her notes in order, a touch of gloss to hide the sleepless night. She took her seat with quiet confidence, back straight, chin up. Her portfolio clutched in her hands like a shield. She hadn’t taken off her cloak.

Lucius entered last. Calm. Brushed. Unhurried. He nodded to the Undersecretary, ignored everyone else, and took his seat. She didn’t look at him. But she felt it. That low, smug heat. That waiting.

“Let’s begin,” someone said. Ginny tried to focus. She’d practised this. She knew the proposal — adjustments to interleague scheduling, safer pitch levelling charms, a new regulation for imported brooms from Eastern Europe. She started presenting. Her voice was crisp. Her notes were clean. But her hands were sweating. Her vision flickered. She was aware of him. Not interrupting. Not reacting. Just watching.

She’d worked  months on this proposal. Streamlined mid-season scheduling for regional Quidditch tournaments. Revised safety protocols, reduced magical interference, projected budget cuts.

 It was solid. It was hers.

And the room was listening.

Even Lucius Malfoy.

 He sat at the far end, elegant as ever, indifferent as ever. Reviewing a file while she spoke, fingers curled around a Fwooper quill like it was a wand. She ignored him. Everyone did.

Her slides projected clean. She knew how to use office spells too well. Her voice held. She took questions. Handled objections. Clarified impact. There was even a moment — just a flicker — where she caught Percy’s approving nod from the second row. Small, but it mattered.

She reached the part about equity in sponsorship funding. A minor footnote. Not something anyone ever contested.

Everything went as planned. Until Lucius cleared his throat.  

The sound was quiet, barely audible. But the room tilted. He didn’t rise. He didn’t raise his voice. He just turned a single page in his file, then looked up  and in that moment, the meeting stopped belonging to her.

 “Miss Weasley,” he said smoothly, “thank you for your presentation. I have only a few concerns.” Silence.

He tapped the parchment.

“Your proposed regional pool system for junior leagues. You’ve projected a fifteen percent reduction in travel costs?”

 “Yes,” she said, steady. “With new floo hubs across Cornwall and two hundred thousand galleons for domestic youth outreach —”

“I’m sorry,” came Lucius’s voice, cool and perfectly modulated. “Would you repeat that figure?”

She froze. He leaned forward, fingertips pressed together. “Two hundred thousand galleons for domestic youth outreach? That’s… ambitious.”

“It’s needed,” she said.

“I’m sure. But perhaps next time we’ll review the actual financial records before conjuring numbers from sentiment.”

A few heads turned and a cough behind her was suddenly too loud. Someone adjusted their robes.

Ginny just stared at his face, void of emotions, not even one blink. “Would you prefer the sponsorship go to Quidditch mascots?” she said tightly.

  He smiled and she was suddenly too aware of what he was doing and that the whole project was going to hell.

“I would prefer the Ministry not treat a social initiative like a vanity project.”

Silence.

 “The entire proposal,” he went on, “reads like a self-authored PR leaflet. There’s little cost projection, no risk mitigation, and the logic of your outreach zones is charmingly incoherent. I trust your department has a map?”

The laugh around the table was brief and brittle. Ginny flushed red.

“Then, you mentioned floo hubs.  Do these hubs exist?”

 She blinked. “Not yet. But construction—”

“Construction is not funded,” he said. “Your entire framework relies on theoretical infrastructure. Your timeline suggests implementation by spring, but the Floo Commission hasn’t even approved the requisitions.”

A low murmur rippled. She opened her mouth. Closed it.

 Lucius continued.

“You’ve also shifted referees to single-region assignments to cut personnel costs. Interesting. But your data ignores the shortage of licensed Level B officials in the West Country. By your own figures, three of your key matches would run without qualified oversight.”

 “That’s temporary,” she said. “Certifications are—”

 “Behind schedule. Again.” He turned another page. “And your claim that interference rates have dropped? You cited a ten-year average, but failed to account for the spike after the last World Cup. Tampering incidents have increased since 2007. I’d be happy to show you the internal audit.” He smiled.

 And that smile. so calm, so indulgent, gutted her more than shouting ever could.

When he finally leaned back, the room had gone stiff. No one looked at her. Not directly. Not even Percy. The chair beside her slid an inch away.

She swallowed.

Hard.

 “Thank you for the clarification,” Lucius said. “Motion rejected, pending complete revision.”

“Meeting adjourned,” came someone’s voice.

Chairs scraped.

Cloaks swished.

 And just like that, the room emptied.

She didn’t move. Not for a minute, maybe longer. Just sat, still, eyes fixed on the now-blank wall. Hands tight in her lap, her knuckles white. Then, footsteps. Measured and low. She looked up, startled. Just in time to see him approach.

Lucius paused beside her chair and produced an envelope, from his robes. Not sealed, she noticed, the flap was open just enough. And there, peeking out, delicate and unmistakable. Black lace.

He didn’t speak. Just let it drop onto the table and walked out.

Her throat burned, vision blurred.

She reached to shove it aside. To sweep it into her bag or to destroy the fucking thing. But something stopped her. A smell. Faint and musky. She went still, then lifted the corner and her stomach turned with an ugly feeling. Because it wasn’t just lace anymore.

It was soiled.

Faintly, but deliberately. Half-dried spot.

The breath left her in one violent exhale and the rage hit a second later. Fast, hot, nauseating. She nearly hurled the envelope across the room. But she didn’t. She folded it, carefully and left the chamber with fire in her jaw.

He almost let her have it. For the first five minutes, he watched in stillness. Legs crossed, manicured fingers tapping once every few seconds against the folder in his lap. She looked so pleased with herself. All tight lines and breathless drive. Polished, precise, desperate to be taken seriously.

 A good performance. He let her enjoy it. Watched the colour rise in her cheeks as she gestured toward her little projections. Watched the corner of her mouth twitch upward when someone nodded along. Like a dog who thinks she’s tamed the leash. She didn’t notice his silence. Not at first. Most never did. Until it was far, far too late.

The file in his lap contained her entire proposal. He’d reviewed it the night before. Twice. Not because it mattered, but because she did. This wasn’t about Quidditch regulations. It was about discipline. A girl like that, with fire in her hips and vinegar in her mouth, had to be taught carefully. Quietly. No public tantrums. No crude slurs. Just facts. Facts she forgot to double-check. Facts he made sure were waiting.

He let her finish. Let the applause swell faintly. Let her taste the illusion of approval. And then, he spoke.

“Miss Weasley.” Not Ginny. Not Ms. Ginevra. Just that sharp, clinical ‘Miss,’ like the beginning of a medical correction. She turned, lips parting, a trace of hope still tucked into her expression. He gutted it cleanly. Each objection was a blade. Every word, slower than the last. Every question, sharpened with civility and the promise of knowing better.

Infrastructure: nonexistent.

Timelines: fantasy.

Referee rotation: impossible.

Statistics: cherry-picked.

She tried to answer. Fumbled once. Twice. Her voice cracked on the third. And he gave her no mercy. Because mercy was not for people who sent used knickers in Ministry envelopes.

By the time he folded his file shut, the room was dead quiet. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t smile. He just leaned back in his chair and gave her a long, unreadable look. The kind that said: “You opened a game. I ended it.”

 After the dismissal, he waited. Said nothing as the room emptied, slow and careful. Like people excusing themselves from a funeral. She didn’t move. He liked that. Let her sit there. Let her ache. Let her feel the burn of silence where praise should have been. He approached as the last pair of footsteps faded. She looked up. Hate blooming bright behind her pupils. He met it. Calmly. Pulled the envelope from his inner coat. Let the black lace show. Just a corner. Just enough. Dropped it onto the table beside her. No words. Just a nod, like he was handing back a forgotten pen. Then turned and left.

He didn’t look back. But later, in his office, it was a different story. When the firelight flickered and the scotch was open, he thought about the way her mouth had gone tight. The way her breath hitched when she caught the scent. And the way she hadn’t torn it up. She folded it. And that, more than anything, was what pleased him.

She didn’t cry.

Not in the lift. Not in the corridor.

Not when her heel caught the doormat and she nearly cracked her knee against the threshold. Not even when she saw the envelope still in her bag.

Still there, still reeking of him.

She didn’t cry. She undressed, peeled off the Ministry jacket like it had betrayed her. Kicked off her heels so hard one bounced off the wall. The envelope landed on the table. She didn’t look at it, not really. But she didn’t throw it out, either.

 Harry was already home.

She heard him. Or rather, the wireless on, him humming off-note to some shitty Celestina remix. He called from the kitchen: “You all right?”

She didn’t answer, just marched to the bedroom.

Poured a drink. Downed it and lit a cigarette. The secret pack, for occasions like this was and just smoked it right to the filter.

 She didn’t think.

That was the point.

She let the fury move her.

Stripped down to her knickers. Not those ones, hell, no…. and opened the door wide.

“Harry.”

 He turned, eyes already hopeful. She let the robe fall from her shoulders.

“You want to?”

He blinked.

“Are you—?”

“Yes,” she said. “Come here.”

And so, he did. What kind of man would refuse such offer? And, more importantly, he was in mood.

It started rough. That was her idea. Hands dragging, teeth scraping. No talking. She kissed him like she was punishing someone. But, it wasn’t him this time.

He tried to touch her face.

She shoved it away.

He tried to slow down.

She sped up.

“Gin,” he murmured, breathless. “This isn’t—”

“Shut up.”

She turned around. Bent over, gave him her back. It didn’t last.

 He lost it midway. Pulled out and stumbled away like he was ashamed.

 “I can’t,” he said. “You’re not—his isn’t—”

 She laughed. Short. Bitter. Ugly.

“Not your fantasy, is it?”

He looked like she’d slapped him.

“I didn’t say—”

“No,” she spat. “You never say. That’s the whole bloody thing with you.”

She wrapped the robe back around her and stormed out.

The envelope was still on the table. She picked it up this time. Held it in her hands. Her fingers shook. It was warm, somehow. Still warm. And it smelled like brandy and spice and something fouler beneath. She sat down. Pulled the lace out, slow. The stain was there. Obvious, vulgar. Her whole face burned. She should’ve thrown it in the fire. Should’ve sent it back in a Howler. Should’ve done anything except what she did: Hold it. Press it to her lips. Close her eyes. And whisper. No, not his name, but fuck.

Just that.

 Once.

The door slammed behind Harry.

He was gone.

 She heard the echo of it rattle the frame.

 And then nothing. Just the tick of the clock. The low hum of the wireless still playing in the other room. She didn’t follow him. Didn’t even move for a while. Just sat there. Legs crossed. Robe open. Drink untouched.

The envelope was on the floor where she’d thrown it earlier. Still there. Still radiating something vile and magnetic. Like it had gravity of its own. She stared at it a long time. Then picked it up.

It didn’t feel real. Not at first. The lace was lighter than she remembered. Softer. Folded in that same clean shape, the one she’d sent it in. But now… She held it up. And froze. Her stomach twisted. There was a stain — obvious, deliberate, unmistakable. Her ears burned. She should have screamed. Should have flung it into the fire, or scourgified the whole flat. Should have run. But she didn’t. She sat back down, knickers in hand, and breathed. Slow. Shallow. Her thighs pressed together. Her lips parted. Her heart kicked like a trapped animal.

It was arousal, yes. But it wasn’t hers. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her anymore. Like it had been written into her body by someone else’s script. Someone with no questions. Who didn’t ask. She squeezed her legs shut. And tighter. The smell was there, and it was him. It made her furious. And wetter. She closed her eyes. Not to imagine. To escape. But she couldn’t. Every flick of her wrist, every twist of her breath, every desperate slide of skin against skin was tainted. It wasn’t fantasy anymore. It was memory. And worse. Evidence. She came hard. Too fast, too wrong. She sat there afterward, robe open, hair in her face, breath rattling. Disgusted, shaking. Still wanting.

She balled the lace in her fist. No, she was not going to be ashamed, not for the night with Lucius. And not for her trying with Harry, now. Ginny shoved that torn piece under the cushion. Out of sight.

But not gone. Never gone.

Chapter Text

By Thursday morning, she’d almost convinced herself it would all pass, somehow. That no one was going to bring it up again. The humiliation. Of her, of her work. She willed herself not to dwell on it. Let it fade into a dull, background throb. People still glanced over the top of memos when she passed, but no one said anything. She could live with that.

Until Derrick’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Weasley. My office.”

He didn’t have her a courtesy of waiting for an answer.  The door clicked shut behind her with the weight of a summons.

He was already seated, spine loose against the leather backrest, a copy of her proposal spread open in front of him like a crime scene. He didn’t offer her a chair.

“Well,” he said, flipping a page with exaggerated care, “I suppose you know why you’re here.”

Ginny kept her arms folded. “I can guess.”

“Look, I’m going to be frank,” Derrick said, his voice syrupy in a way that always meant trouble. “That meeting was a disaster. Malfoy gutted your work in front of half the Department.”

“My work?” she shot back. “That was ‘our’ work when you thought it would pass. You went through every page. Twice.”

His smile was thin. “And yet you didn’t take into account every detail. That’s on you.”

Her nails bit into her palms. “No. What’s on me is the research, the writing, the revisions, the parts you were happy to sign your name to when you thought you’d get the credit. Now you want it entirely off your hands? Fine. Keep it that way.”

Derrick tapped the parchment with one finger. “Good. Because the authors are expected in Malfoy’s office this afternoon for a ‘follow-up’ meeting. Except—” He leaned back, looking almost pleased. “Now the sole author will be you.”

For a second, she just stared at him.

“Good,” she said at last, voice low. “I’d rather face him without you hanging on my sleeve.” He didn’t reply. Just watched her leave, the faint curl of a smirk tugging at his mouth. She forced herself to walk, composed. She had enough practise over the years. Just walk. Walk. Never run. Moving too fast was a weakness. They would see it as such. And what’s more, they’d see it—the heat rising in her cheeks, the pulse at her throat. She told herself to keep her face straight. It was only anger. Nothing else. And her boss, he was a jerk. Nothing new there.

The office door shut behind her.  With that soft, deliberate click she knew well. Too well. Her boss’s thin smile lingered in her mind like the aftertaste of something quite rotten. Of bad coffee Harry used to drink. She only sat down, sorted her files, and carried on.

“You’re unflappable,” one of the clerks said later, catching her in the break room. “If he spoke to me like that, I’d snap. How do you just… stay calm?”

Ginny stirred her tea, supressing the growing irritation. As if watching the milk fold into the dark could help, somehow. “Since I left England, I’ve found most tempers don’t touch me the same way,” she said. “After a few years with Severus Snape, you stop flinching at sharp edges.”

The clerk’s eyebrows climbed. “You worked with Snape?”

Her answer trailed into memory. She could still see that day — an advert in the Prophet, just ‘help wanted in an apothecary.’ She’d expected a nameless old potioneer and shelves of harmless tinctures. Instead, she’d pushed open the door and found Snape behind the counter, all black robes and narrowed eyes, regarding her like she’d tracked mud across his floor.

He hadn’t cared about her name, her family, or the war. She knew how to run a shop — George had made sure of that — and that was enough. Every weekend she’d worked there, quietly, until she’d got the permit in her own right. She hadn’t told anyone. Not at first. And why should she? She was grown by then, and no one needed to know. They, her family, wanted her unproblematic. And she did her best to stay off their radar. Overlooked. It suited her the best.

She came back to herself in the silence of the break room, suddenly too sharp. Tea cooling in her hand. “After him,” she finished, almost to herself, “anyone else’s bite feels like an echo.”

The clerk blinked. “Still. Snape?”

Ginny faked a smile. This time,it lacked much effort. “Exactly.”

She was not bothered, anymore.

To hell with  the boss.

“Mm.” She took a sip of her tea. “He was excellent practice for days like these.”

Yes. He was. And he was an excellent practise for much more, back then.

When the Quidditch contract in Switzerland  came  two years later, she’d left England telling herself she wouldn’t think about him again. It never lasted. Some days, the memories came in small, harmless shapes. The smell of dried asphodel root, the sharp tang of brewing nettle tea. And some days they came in ways that sat heavier.

Like the night in the back room of the apothecary. When they lost their virginities to each other.

They’d been drinking. Firewhisky he’d kept under the counter, something he only poured when the shutters were down and the books were balanced. Cigarette smoke hung low over the bench where they sat. The war was still fresh on them both, leaving them gaunt and older than they were.

It had started with talk, then the kind of silence that hummed. She’d been twenty then, working weekends for cash and the quiet. He was older, sharper, but not untouched; she’d known for months he’d never been with anyone.

“Ever wondered what it’s like?” she’d asked, more out of boredom than seduction.

He’d looked at her a long time, weighing the question. “Yes,” he said, simply. And then, “You?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a kiss that started it. Something else. It was the deliberate way he took her hand, so unsure, but resolved. Severus led her into the little storeroom. Back there. It was all so strange. The light was dim, every vial casting strange shadows. And the smell. Of something familiar, like him. A cardamom. Sudden, unexpected.

They were clumsy at first, as only virgins could be. Too much cloth, fingers fumbling with buttons, his breath catching when her hand brushed bare skin. She’d never seen him like that, at a loss, before. It made her bolder. She stripped off her blouse, stood in her bra until he found the nerve to touch her. His hands were warm, almost shaking.

When they got the rest off, it was stranger still: two pale, unpractised bodies, both curious, both pretending not to notice the tremor in the other. Learning each other without romance.  He’d cast the anticonception spell carefully, unpractised, and when he finally pushed into her, they both gasped at how sharp and how right it felt.

It wasn’t graceful. He moved too fast, slowed when she told him to. She dug her nails into his back for anchor. There was no plan beyond moving together until it broke over them both. Severus first, shuddering into her shoulder, letting the tension finally out. Ginny came too. Just a moment later, shaking. Warmth, the mix of his release and her own arousal, all of that so new. Passing through her, them, in a rush.

Afterwards, they sat on the cool floor. Spent. The cigarette was passed back and forth, in silence. No declarations, no promises. Just two people who’d wanted to know. And now, they did.

They never mentioned it again. Still, sometimes in the quiet of the shop, a look would pass between them, and she’d know he remembered.

Even later, when she was seeing Harry and everyone thought she should have severed ties, she’d still drop by the apothecary when she got back to England for short breaks. It had earned her more than one sharp telling-off — from Harry, from her brothers, from anyone who thought they knew what was good for her.

Snape was no warmer for it. If anything, he was more acerbic, as if her insistence on turning up was a personal insult. But he never barred the door. And that, in his way, was permission enough.

And it had not stopped. Even now, she’d wander back from time to time, and they’d drink until the bottles were empty, cigarettes burning down between them. A few half-hearted kisses over the years, a quick fuck sometimes, in secret. Both of them curious enough to try, both smart enough to agree it was better as friendship.

Still, she could still smell the cardamom if she let herself.

It had been weeks. Or more like months, now, since her last visit. She told herself she’d been busy, that work and Harry and whatever else had swallowed the days whole. But the truth was simpler. She’d let it slip. And what sort of friend did that make her, really? He’d have rolled his eyes at the question, but she still felt it.

Maybe she’d go this weekend. Turn up with a bottle and a pack, like nothing had changed.

She turned back to her desk. The afternoon meeting loomed, whether she was ready or not.

By midday, the air in the Department of Magical Games and Sports had thickened to the usual midday lull . Half the staff already gone to lunch, the rest bickering about rotas or half-heartedly annotating reports. Ginny had been at it since early. She’d reviewed the structural diagrams for the new stadium, sent an owl to the liaison in Falmouth, and rewritten the same paragraph of her pitch three times.

She didn’t look up when she heard footsteps.

Didn’t flinch when they paused by her desk.

Only when the faintest scent of something too familiar, half-worn and recognisable only by proximity, reached her did she lift her eyes.

Harry stood there.

No warning. No owl. No firecall.

Just him, suddenly, in the middle of the department corridor like he’d simply decided to exist there again.

“Lunch?” he asked, as if he hadn’t disappeared for a full week without explanation. As if his absence had been nothing more than a scheduling quirk.

Ginny blinked once, shut her ink bottle with slow precision, and stood. “Fine.”

He led the way, but not with the easy confidence he once had. He seemed uncertain. That careful, deferential pace he used with her sometimes. Lately more than before. The one he used when he wasn’t sure. Of her. If he was even welcome.

The cafeteria was mostly empty by then, thanks God for small mercies. Only a handful of mid-level officials and a few interns hovered near the enchanted salad bar.

They didn’t speak while queueing. Ginny grabbed tea and a lentil pasty. Harry took something that looked like curry, then promptly forgot about it once they sat.

He kept looking at her.

She didn’t offer him much to see. Her eyes fixed on her plate, posture sharp, even her hair pulled back too tightly.

“I’m coming home tomorrow,” he said eventually, like he thought that would smooth things over.

“Right.”

“I just needed some space. After that.”

She sipped her tea. “Must’ve been crowded. Wherever you went.”

He bristled. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes. And I didn’t say you did. Now what.”

Harry threw his fork against the plate, then sighed. “You always do this.”

“What?”

“This. You act like I’ve betrayed you by not being where you expected me to be.”

Ginny met his eyes. “You vanished. Again.”

“I needed space.”

She nodded. “I needed help. That never seems to change anything.”

A pause.

He looked down. “I didn’t realise I needed permission to—”

“That´s because you don’t,” she said flatly. “Just, just stop pretending like it is nothing, like it doesn’t matter.”

They ate in silence after that. Or rather, she did. Harry lost his apetite, it seemed. Pushed his curry around like it had personally offended him. It grated on her nerves. Him, that soft, almost rehearsed voice when he finally spoke again.

“You’ve been working hard on the project. I heard Derrick mention it.”

Ginny was not amused. Now, even she lost her appetite. “I do what I’m paid for.”

“You always do more than that.”

There was something like an apology in his voice, but she was too tired by now. Too past caring to chase it. She finished her tea and stood, tray in hand.

“I’ve got a meeting.”

Harry looked up, uncertain. “Want me to walk you back?”

“No need.”

She faked a smile that felt all wrong.

“I know the way.”

And she left him sitting there, alone with his uneaten curry and all the words that hadn’t been enough.

After the lunch, she didn´t turn into her office. All of her materials with her. She was a bit early. But didn´t care. She wandered a bit, trying to find composure. Failed. So, she just made the walk to Level One with her folder under her arm, the sound of her own steps sharper than she liked.

Miriam was at her desk outside his office, neat as always, quill balanced just so in her fingers. She looked up, smiled faintly — the kind of smile that wasn’t meant to reassure — and said, “He’ll see you in a moment.”

Ginny knew a stall when she saw one. How predictable. That bastard. She set her folder down with a low sigh, let it on the low table by the chairs and stood, arms folded lightly, waiting. Miriam pretended to read.

When the door finally opened, Lucius’s voice came from within. “Miss Weasley.” No warmth, no lingering trace of anything but business.

She stepped inside. He was back already. Sitting nonchalantly behind the desk like some king granting audiences, chair turned just enough to angle his profile toward her. Posture flawless. Hands resting lightly on a stack of parchment.

“Where,” he asked without preamble, “is the rest of your department?”

She blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“There is no possibility,” he said smoothly, “that this was the work of a single junior officer. Not unless the Ministry has begun recruiting for miracles.”

She let out a short, humourless laugh. “There’s no possibility? That’s rich.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“I was the only one actually working on it,” she said. “The rest only pretended, so they could claim the credit. It was meant to be a collective project, with my name buried. Then my department head decided the fiasco was too risky to touch. Suddenly it was all mine.”

The pause stretched between them, the air colder than when she’d walked in.

“And yet,” he said at last, “you’re still here.”

“I’m not in the habit of running because someone disapproves of my work.”

“Disapproval?” He gave a faint, amused exhale. “Miss Weasley, what I offered you in that meeting was not disapproval. It was survival. I made it clear you were not ready to be taken seriously at that level. Consider the alternative — if I hadn’t spoken, your little… performance would have been left to die of its own incompetence.”

Her jaw tightened. “That ‘performance’ was the only reason half of them bothered to read the notes in the first place.”

“That performance,” he corrected, “was an expensive indulgence in wishful thinking, and you know it.” He leaned back, watching her over steepled fingers. “But perhaps you like the drama. Everyone looking at you. Waiting for the moment you falter.”

“I didn’t falter.”

“No?” He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Then why are you here alone, without your department, defending something your own superior refused to stand beside?”

She didn’t answer right away. That was his victory, and they both knew it. But when she did, her voice was low and steady.

“Because he’s a coward. And you,” she stepped closer, laying her folder on his desk with a thud “are a snake who knows a good target when he sees one.”

His gaze didn’t move from hers. “Careful, Miss Weasley. You’re starting to sound as if you think I care enough to make you a target.”

She gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You don’t think you make me a target? You humiliate me in front of half the department and then call me in here like—”

“Like what?” His tone was still smooth, but the edges had begun to show.

“Like I owe you an explanation for doing my job.”

“You owe me accuracy,” he said, leaning forward again. “And competence. Let’s start with the travel cost projections. Now, if you will, explain to me how you intend to fund those hubs without Floo Commission approval.”

Her mouth opened, then shut. “The projections were made on the assumption—”

“Assumptions,” he cut in, voice dipping lower. “The language of amateurs. Numbers, Miss Weasley. Show me you understand them.”

She flipped the folder open, slapping the page down so hard the ink trembled. “If you’d bothered to let me finish in the meeting, you’d have heard the phased funding structure. Initial cost covered by existing Ministry youth grants, then supplemented by—”

“By funds that don’t exist,” he said, cutting her off again. “Tell me about the West Country referees.”

“They’re in certification—”

“Behind schedule,” he finished for her, his gaze sharpening. “You know how many games you’ve left without oversight? Three. You’d be crucified for less if you were anyone else.”

She pressed her hands to the desk and leaned in. “And yet, here I am. Not crucified. Still working. Still capable of making this proposal stand if someone would stop—”

“Stop what?” His voice dropped. Had dropped enough that she felt it as much as heard it.

“Trying to twist it. As always. Into something it’s not.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Heavier than the words had been. His eyes stayed on her, unblinking, assessing, and something in his posture shifted — less boardroom, more hunt.

“You’re very sure of yourself when you’re cornered,” he said finally.

“I’m not cornered.”

“Yes, you are.” He stood, slowly. Like a dangerous animal. Like a true snake he was. Advancing. Slithering around the desk until he was close enough that she could smell the faint bite of his cologne under the paper-and-ink air. “And you. You, my dear,  don’t hate it as much as you’d like me to believe.”

Her pulse betrayed her before her words did. “You think very highly of yourself.”

“No,” he said, studying her mouth before his eyes came back to hers. “I think very highly of accuracy. And I’ve noticed you only lose your temper when you care.”

She stared at him for a beat too long, breathing sharper now, the distance between them nothing at all.

“Then maybe,” she said, voice low, “you should be more careful about what you make me care about.”

Something flickered in his expression — not a smile, but something darker, edged with frustration. And, unmistakably, arousal.

“I care about my work,” she added tightly. “Not about stroking your ego in a meeting.”

His brow lifted. “You think that’s what this is? You embarrass yourself with half-baked figures and now—”

“They weren’t half-baked. And you know it damn well.” She stepped closer to the desk all of sudden. Lucius could sense heat rising in her cheeks. “You came into that room looking for blood, and you got it. Don’t pretend it was about accuracy.”

“It was about standards,” he said, voice taut. “Ones you clearly don’t hold yourself to.”

Her laugh was short and sharp. “This coming from the man who approved the Panhandle sponsorships without vetting the broom contracts? I still have the draft from your office. No oversight, no cost-benefit analysis. Just your signature and a dinner with their representative.”

The muscle in his jaw tightened. “Careful, Miss Weasley.”

"Careful? Really?" She leaned over the desk now, serious. Her hands braced on the polished wood, eyes locked on his. “Why? Worried someone might remember you make mistakes too? That you play favourites when it suits you?”

Something in him snapped at that — the small, dangerous sound of patience fracturing.

“It was a warning. Because clearly, you know nothing. You have no idea what you’re pratling about.”

“I think I do,” she said, almost smiling now, knowing exactly where she’d hit. “And maybe that’s it. What really bothers you. Am I right?”

That was it. Neither of them moved. For a short moment, all was still. Too still. His gaze held hers, fixing her unblinking, like a true serpent fixing its prey before striking. And she felt it. She felt the air between them shift. Now denser, charged, as though they’d stepped across some invisible line.

She didn’t even realise she’d stepped toward him until her hip hit the corner of his desk.

Then he was on his feet again, unhinged, the chair shoved back with too much force and too low scrape, his height eclipsing her as he came around the desk. She straightened but didn’t move away, chin tilted up, lips just slightly parted. Lucius was already too close. Too much. Crowding her in, one hand braced on the wood beside her, the other closing over her wrist. His eyes burning underneath with something dangerous. It held her in place more effectively than the grip.

“You enjoy this,” he said, the words low and cutting. “Poking until something gives.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes dropping to his mouth for a heartbeat before meeting his again. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you lose control.”

The corner of his mouth twitched — not a smile, not really — and then his hand was on the edge of the desk beside hers, close enough that the backs of his fingers brushed her wrist.

“Is this what you do?” he said lowly, breath brushing her cheek. “Throw half-formed ideas in front of me and expect me to fix them? Expect me to—”

“Expect you to what?” she bit back, chin lifting. “Do your job?”

Something dangerous flickered in his gaze. “You’ve no idea what my job is.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Her pulse was too loud. Merciless as it thudded in her ears, not stopping.

That was all it took. He didn’t give her another warning. One step and he closed the gap. His mouth was on hers before the last word was out, the kiss too rough to be mistaken for anything else. His hand snapping to the back of her neck, pulling her forward. Into a passion. Savage, all heat and teeth. The sudden scrape of yesterday stubble. Ginny shoved him back with much more force she intended. It aroused him even more. He grabbed her like she was nothing. Dragged her. And she laughed. And cursed. Her palms flattening on the cool surface as his mouth trailed down the line of her jaw and his hands, his hand was already at the back of her neck. Dragging her closer, swallowing the sound she made.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered against her skin, hands already at her blouse. Buttons went flying. She laughed breathlessly, half from shock, half from the heady rush of it.

“You’re worse,” she shot back, and then there was no talking.

The desk rattled under them. It creaked dangerously as he lifted her onto it. All of the papers, the expensive feathers, now flying. Falling to the floor in a white cascade of passion. She twisted against him, half to get away, half to get closer, and he caught her thigh, dragging it up over his hip.

“You’re infuriating,” he ground out against her mouth.

“You started it.”

His laugh was sharp, short. “You walked in here asking for this.”

She didn’t dignify it with an answer. Her nails scraped down his back through his shirt, and that was it. Control gone. Her heels locked him, tightly. Dug into the backs of his legs, drawing him in, closer. Closer. He tore at the fastenings of her blouse, pushed up her skirt, and drove into her with a force that rattled the desk against the wall.

It felt so liberating as he entered her. As they moved against each other with something almost vicious in its urgency. Ink-stained parchment of failed proposal crumpled under her hands; a Fwooper quill, that damn thing,  snapped and rolled away.

Every sound. Every sharp exhale when she bit at his shoulder, the low growl when she tugged his hair. It all was a flame. Made the air too much. Unbreathable, thicker. His hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, pulling her forward with each thrust, scattering another sheaf of documents.

It was fast, messy, nothing like control. Just the slap of skin against skin, too urgent. Too much want. The desk creaking, too loudly. It was possession. The kind that left no room for anything else. His hand pinned hers tight. Too tight, above her head, enough to leave marks.

“You are asking for this,” he murmured against her jaw, almost too low to catch. “If you insist on coming into my way, Ginevra, then you’ll stay in it. Until I’m finished with you.”

She arched against him in answer, breathless, eyes locked on his.

And he kept going, papers crumpling under her back, until neither of them could pretend this was anything but exactly what they’d both wanted.

He didn’t care if Miriam heard. All of his interest was now there. On the smell of parchment and sweat and them. She caught the flash of his eyes once. His pupils enlarged, the silver turned dark and almost feral as he drove into her with abandon. It held hers, and he wondered for a second too long what sort of beast he had under himself. Before her head tipped back and she let herself go, nails scraping down his spine. Now he was sure. She was a cat. The feral one.

Then, like that, it was over. Too fast maybe. Leaving them tangled for a few seconds, breathing hard, the desk a ruin beneath them. Proposals, charts, memos everywhere. All of them strewn wild. There, across the floor like wreckage. He straightened first, adjusting his shirt, watching her. Like the predator he was, with that same unreadable look. And it was all back again to normal. Now, they should pretend. Or start pretending. But bot aware all the same. Because the last ten minutes, it had been nothing. Nothing and everything.

She slid off the desk, suddenly too aware of what happened. Tried to make herself somehow presentable. Smoothing her skirt with quick, distracted motions. Hand trembling, avoiding his eyes. Her blouse was hopeless. It just hung half-open, one sleeve twisted and torn. She didn’t care enough to fix it properly before grabbing her bag.

“Oh, all right. I should go,” she said, voice rough, not looking at him.

“No,” he said immediately. Not loud, but with that tone that closed a door without touching it.

Ginny froze, hand already halfway to catch the doorknob. “What?”

“You’re not walking out of here, now. Not like that.” His gaze flicked over her — the flushed skin at her throat, the faint marks he’d left, the way she was holding herself. “Not for someone else to see.”

She gave a short, incredulous laugh. “What, so you can keep me in your office like some—”

“Like mine,” he cut in.

She stared at him, heat rising in her face again, but this time it was a different kind of heat — sharp, confusing. “You’re out of your mind,” she said.

“Am I?” He took a step toward her. Dangerous. Slow. And too much deliberate. “Because if I am, it’s your fault. You walked in here with that defiance, all sharp edges and fire, daring me to break it. And now you think you get to walk away?”

She swallowed, shifting her weight back. “It was just—”

“It wasn’t ‘just’ anything.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You don’t get to reduce it for the sake of your pride. Not after the way you looked at me.”

Her pulse spiked again. She hated that he was right. Oh, how she hated it. Or at least, and maybe that was all she really hated, was that a part of her — a bigger one, one that mattered too much — wanted him to be right.

“You will not say things like that. You don’t own me,” she said, though her voice wavered. His mouth curved, but his eyes, it was a different thing. He could fake a smile. But she understood in that moment, that he was dead serious. “No. But I could.”

That hit her harder than she wanted to admit. And she hated herself for not walking out right then.

She reached for the door again, more forcefully this time, resolved. Ready to finish it then and there. But before her fingers brushed the handle, he moved. One step, then another, and suddenly his palm was flat against the door above her head, blocking her in. The other hand settled, almost lazily, on her hip.

“You keep putting yourself in my way,” he murmured, close enough that she felt his breath against her cheek. “You keep letting me fuck you. That isn’t an accident, Ginevra. It’s intent.”

She turned her head just so slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes, her own narrowed. “Or maybe it’s just a mistake.”

“Then stop making it,” he said simply. “But you won’t. You know why?”

She didn’t answer, and his mouth curled in a slow, dangerous amusement.

“Because now you’ve made yourself my target. And I’ve decided to be… entertained.” His thumb traced along the waistband of her skirt. A warning. A subtle reminder of how easily he could undo it again. “Now you have my full attention, and you’ll deal with it.”

She felt her pulse in her throat. “And if I don’t?”

His gaze shifted. Hardened. “If I see you... and now, pay a close attention... if I see you with someone else, I’ll tear him apart. Do you understand me?”

“That’s not your choice to make,” she said, but her voice was thinner now.

“It is,” he countered smoothly, “until it no longer suits either of us. That’s the arrangement I’m offering. We both know you’ll agree.”

She stared at him. Just stared, unmoving for a long moment. Half- shocked. Caught between defiance and something far more dangerous. “And if I say no?”

“Then, Ginevra, then you’ll spend every meeting wondering when I’ll stop asking,” he said softly, leaning in just enough for her to feel the weight of it. “And you won’t like the answer.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that blackmail?”

Something in his expression shifted — not guilt, never that — but an almost boyish flash of amusement. “Call it what you wish, mutually beneficial leverage perhaps.”

She should have shoved him back. Or better, walked out. But when his hand slid along her hip and into the small of her back, drawing her against him, she knew he knew. That her breath gave her away. Hitched. Betrayed her.

“You can pretend you’re deciding,” he murmured, brushing a thumb just inside the line of her blouse. “But we both know you’re already thinking about it.”

Her pulse betrayed her. Her fingers curled against the desk behind her, knuckles white, but she didn’t move away.

“Say yes, Ginevra,” he said softly, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear now. “And we’ll see who comes out ahead.”

She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze — and knew the exact moment her silence became agreement. His mouth curved, slow and satisfied.

When he finally stepped back, it wasn’t concession. It was possession.

She smoothed her skirt, aware of everything. Of every place his hands had been, and told herself she’d just claimed a small victory too. Neither of them noticed something important.

They were thinking the same exact thing.

He watched her pull her blouse straight with quick, defensive movements. Then he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the heat of him cutting through the cooled air in the office. Stopped her with the simplest thing. She looked up, surprised, searching for answers.

Why? Why was his hand closing around her wrist again, gentler this time? Why was he playing with her like that, tracing it slowly as though cataloguing the heat of her skin?

He was manipulating her somehow. She knew he did. Yet, it felt like heaven.

When he finally stepped back with a measured slowness, as though drawing out the moment was part of the control he refused to surrender, it felt like loss. Of what, she was not certain.

“Stand still,” he said quietly.

She hesitated, then stilled.

He reached for her discarded blouse, His hands were precise, tugging her blouse smooth at the shoulders, refastening the buttons one by one.  Righting the skewed line of her skirt. His knuckles brushed against her skin, deliberate, slow. He smoothed her hair where it had fallen forward. He nearly got her on that act, on his movements almost tender. Tucking a strand behind her ear with an almost intimate precision.

Or was it sincere? She could not tell. Not with him.

Every touch felt measured, precise. Not rushed, never fumbling. As if he were repairing something valuable.

“You care about something, at least. The appearances must be maintained,” she said, trying for dryness, but her voice was too thin.

Her pulse kicked hard against her throat.

 He noticed. And his mouth curved faintly.

“I care,” he murmured, fingers lingering a second too long at her waist, “about what I want to care about. ” He adjusted the line of her sleeve. “And right now, that happens to be you. You should let me show you what that means.”

She scoffed. “Until you get bored.”

He didn’t flinch. “Until it no longer suits either of us. But while it does, Ginevra,” his fingers tipped her chin up, holding her gaze, “I expect exclusivity.”

He said it just like that. Like it was a normal, ordinary thing.  Like they were discussing a contract over tea.

She blinked. Her head snapped up. “Exclusivity? What about your wife? Or the others?”

“No others,” he said, calm as a confession. “Not while this lasts. Narcissa is… not part of this conversation. But you—” His grip on her chin tightened just a fraction. “—you’ll leave Potter. Quietly. I have no interest in distraction.”

Her mouth curled into something halfway to a smirk. “Discreet. Secret.”

“Of course.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “But as I said, you will leave Potter.”

Her breath caught, but not from shock — more from the calm certainty in his tone, like he was telling her what day it was. “You can’t leave your wife,” she said flatly.

He smiled faintly. “No. But I can be exclusive. And so can you. If you intend to keep my attention.”

The last words did it. She stared at him, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with the desk beneath her. And hated it.  Hated that they made her pulse jump.

 “That’s not an arrangement. That’s a blackmail, as I said before.”

His amusement deepened. “Call it what you like.” He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “You’ll agree. Because you want this. Because you’ve just made yourself my target. And I always finish what I start.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, searching for the bluff. There wasn’t one.

“You have a week,” he said, smoothing her skirt one last time, almost as if sealing the bargain. “Consider it carefully.”

She laughed at him, suddenly. “You give me — You give me what?”

He straightened his cuffs, as if they hadn’t just scattered half the Ministry budget across his desk. Ignored her forced amusement. “You heard me all too well. I am  giving you a week to consider,” he said. “Seven days, Ginevra,” he went on. “Then I expect your answer. In person.”

She folded her arms. “And if I say no?”

Lucius regarded her for a long moment, head tilted. “You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice was infuriating. And worse — it wasn’t arrogance alone. He believed it.

Her chin lifted. “And if I don’t come?”

“I’ll know,” he said simply, eyes narrowing with the faintest trace of amusement. “And I’ll come to you.”

That should have felt like a threat. It didn’t. Not entirely. He took her hand briefly, not to hold but to adjust the cuff, smoothing it into place before stepping back. “Seven days,” he said, low. “That’s all. And I do not offer twice.”

She just stared. Didn’t trust her voice enough to answer.

And then, as though the conversation was over, he stepped around his desk, leaving her rot on the spot, in the wreckage of their argument. Her pulse still too fast, and thoughts too loud for her liking.

She slipped past him, as if anything he said, they said, haven’t affected her much. The scent of his cologne clinging in her hair, following her to the door. Not leaving her all the way back to her office.

Chapter Text

She was tired when stepped into the lift late in the afternoon, intent on avoiding eye contact with anyone who might slow her escape from the building. The doors slid almost shut. Until a pale hand caught them. Lucius stepped inside, all polish and faint summer cologne. He didn’t press a floor number. Instead, his wand moved in a lazy flick behind his back. The lift jolted, then hummed into stillness between levels.

“Remember. Last two days,” he murmured, turning toward her. Ginny’s stomach tightened unexpectedly. “You’re counting?”

“I always count.” His gaze was focused. The way it roamed her face, her throat, even the line of her blouse made her unsettled. “And I don’t see any headlines about Potter’s heartache. Should I assume you’re wasting my time perhaps?”

She opened her mouth, about to retort, to say something ironic. Witty. But he moved too fast. One swift move and he closed the space between them before she could form the words. The wall pressed against her back. His hands were on her hips, pushing her skirt higher without ceremony.

“This isn’t—”

“This is exactly what it is,” he interrupted, his voice low and tight. “And I don’t like waiting.”

It was fast. And much, much more rougher than the last time. Just heat. And two moving bodies. She wondered briefly how come they ended there in the span of mere seconds. Panting, sweeting, braced against the panelled wall. Fast breath catching every time the lift creaked under them. He kissed her like he was claiming territory. And maybe he was. Because it felt exactly like that. One strong hand at her jaw, squeezing, probing. The other keeping her pinned like a prey beneath a hawk’s talons. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was a terrible idea. That this should end with being discovered. But she could not care less. His urgency was sharp enough to cut through sense, and she let it.

When it ended, he straightened her skirt with deliberate precision, that maddening composure sliding back into place. He’d just pocketed his wand to release the charm when the lift lurched into motion.

The doors opened on Level Four.

Neville Longbottom stepped in.

“Ginny—” His face lit with the kind of warmth that made her stomach sink. “How do you do? Haven’t seen you in ages. And Mister Malfoy. Good day to you, too.”

 She forced a smile, greeting Neville. Lucius just inclined his head and said nothing.

Why, in Hades, must she suffer that, now?

She conversed with Neville, all the while acutely aware of Lucius standing just behind her, one hand still resting too casually at the small of her back. Neville chatted on, unaware, asking after her work, her weekend, dropping hints about meeting for coffee. Lucius’s silence was suddenly knife-sharp.

By the time the lift reached her floor, she knew one thing now, for certain. She was caught. And whatever decision she made in the next two days, she’d already lost control of how this was going to go.

The Ministry atrium was at its busiest. People everywhere. Midday light pouring through the enchanted ceiling, gilding the constant shuffle of cloaks and footsteps. Ginny had stepped out of the Floo, Neville in her tracks.

“Ginny. I must ask you something.”

She turned. Neville was now looking solemn. She fixed him with her eyes. Ogling the way he was leaning casually against one of the pillars near the main fountain. He looked good. Taller, stronger. Healthier than she remembered, surer of himself.

“Are you… still with Harry?”

She shifted her weight. “We never married.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her mouth twitched. “No proposal. No plans.”

He nodded slowly, as if filing the fact away. “I see.” His eyes met hers. “If you’d be inclined… I’d like to start seeing you. I ended things with Hannah months ago.”

For a beat, the hum of the atrium seemed to fade. Ginny wasn’t sure how she wanted to respond to such advance. What was one to say, in cases like this one? So she said nothing. It was better that way. She was just studying him, the sincerity, the steadiness.

And she liked what she saw.

That attention. And resolve. True, sincere resolve behind his eyes.

A movement at the edge of the crowd of Wizengamot members caught her attention.

Lucius Malfoy, passing through with an Undersecretary, posh and cold. His damn cane clicking softly against the polished marble. His gaze slid toward them mid-conversation; slow, assessing. He caught enough, clearly. The tightening of his jaw gave him away.

Neville kept talking, oblivious. “We could meet for dinner sometime next week. Catch up properly.”

She gave a small nod, more out of politeness than agreement, but it was a mistake she would regret later. She could tell, by the weight of Lucius’s eyes even after he disappeared into the lift queue.

 And she knew, without question, that she’d pay for that overheard conversation.

She’d barely sat down in her corner nook, coat still over the back of her chair, when the low murmur of Lucius Malfoy’s voice reached her from the front of the office. No doors here, nothing to knock. Just the open stretch of desks and the glass partition between her and her department head.

He was speaking to her boss. Civil. Measured. The kind of tone meant to sound official but pitched just enough for her to catch. A question about scheduling, something about interdepartmental approvals. She knew exactly what it was — a pretext. And the way her boss glanced past him towards her desk made it obvious she wasn’t imagining it.

When her boss gave the smallest nod, Lucius stepped past the partition as though it were his own threshold. He didn’t bother lowering his voice.

“Miss Weasley,” he said smoothly, “about your… ambitious scheduling proposal. I thought it wise to revisit certain points.”

He stopped beside her desk. No, not too close. Subtly. Still, just enough for her to see what he wanted her to. The faint shine of the silver snake head of his cane unmistakable. His gaze took in the stack of papers she’d been pretending to sort, searching, assessing. Lingering just long enough to make it clear he was more interested in her reaction than the documents.

From the corner of her eye, she caught her boss leaning back in his chair across the room, with that ugly half-smile of his already forming. Enjoying the show.

Ginny kept her head down. Feigning disinterest, flicking a page just to have something in her hands. “I thought we’d settled that,” she said, voice light, almost bored.

Lucius’s tone was all polished civility for anyone listening. “Settled, perhaps, but not corrected. Your travel cost projections—”

“—were approved by my department head before the meeting,” she cut in, still not looking up.

He let a fractional pause sit between them, the kind that made her skin prickle. “And yet, they collapsed under scrutiny.”

“Because someone decided to dismantle them for sport,” she said, finally glancing at him.

A murmur of satisfaction drifted from her boss’s direction; the spectacle was better than coffee.

Lucius’s eyes narrowed just enough for her to see it. “If your work cannot withstand a few questions, Miss Weasley, it isn’t work worth defending.”

“Oh, it can withstand plenty,” she shot back, her voice dropping low enough that only he would hear. “Just not when the questions are designed to gut it before it draws breath.”

For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Not much. No. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But still enough for her, for her only to see and what she refused to name yet. The spark of something volatile. But somehow darker. Sharper. He shifted his weight, just so. Minutely, slightly, leaning just a little closer. Just a bit. Just so his next words brushed the air between them.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough that it wouldn’t carry, his breath skimming her ear, “or I’ll think you enjoy the attention.” His lips curved. But it wasn’t a smile. “Careful, or I’ll start giving it back.”

“Then why, tell me, why you keep circling back?” she said, leaning back in her chair like she wasn’t holding on to the edge of her control. “So you can watch it burn?”

He took a step forward. The air seemed to thin between them. “You mistake professional interest for anything else.”

 “Do I?” she murmured. “Because the way you look at me doesn’t feel like ‘professional interest’.”

 His jaw tightened — and that was the first tell. He was aware now that more eyes were on them than before. Her boss was nearly smirking. A clerk passing in the corridor slowed her step. The shift in her stride almost imperceptible, eyes flicking toward them. Before ... Before she remembered herself and moved on.

Ginny did not care. Not anymore. Her chin tipped up, in defiance. Slightly, but still enough to make it a challenge.   Lucius was close enough now that she could see it. The simmering rage. The pulse in his throat. “So,” she said, “what’s this really about? My work? Or the fact that you overheard something you didn’t like?”

The vein in his temple ticked. “Longbottom.” She gave a small, deliberate smile. “Potter,” he went on, darker now. “The fact you still haven’t sent him packing.”

“That’s my choice—”

“No. It’s your mistake.” His voice sharpened, his breath warm against her ear. “I don’t share. I don’t compete. And I won’t have you dangling in front of them like some—”

She took a step back, just enough to make space for her retort, but his hand came down on the desk beside her, trapping her between wood and the sharp line of his shoulder. “And what?” she said softly.

His eyes swept her face, her mouth, back to her eyes. And the last thread of composure snapped. “I want to fuck you, Ginevra,” he said, each word measured and obscene in the muffled tones. “Here. Now. Would you like that? For all of them to see?”

Her breath caught, not because she couldn’t answer. There were many thing she would like to throw at him. Just, part of her knew he meant it. There was no polite bluff in him now. His gaze had that particular kind of hunger that didn’t care about dignity or audience.

Lucius was not one into patience when it didn’t suited him. And that, that was right now. He didn’t wait for her to stand. Stepped in close, the polished tip of his cane brushing the side of her chair, forcing her knees to angle toward him. One hand braced on the edge of her desk — just beside her thigh — the other sliding to the back of her chair, trapping her in the narrow space.

“You think I don’t see it?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Neville Longbottom sniffing around like a dog that’s found an open gate. And Potter still dangling in the doorway because you can’t bring yourself to shut it.”

She stiffened. “Lower your voice.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I want to.”

She just glared. The back of her chair creaked in protest as he leaned in, cornering her. Nearer. Closer. For her still enough that the faint sniff of cologne and warmth off his skin cut through the smell of office. “Would you like me to make it clearer what I want, Ginevra?”

Her heart thudded. “Not here—”

“Why not here?” he said softly, almost amused. “Your department’s already watching. Half of them think they know what I’m saying. Let’s give them something to gossip about.”

He shifted closer still, the front of his coat brushing her sleeve, exactly where he suspected her skin was too sensitive. His thigh ghosting against her knee. Casually. Anyone glancing from the wrong angle would see his body blocking hers completely. “

You’d like it, wouldn’t you?” he murmured, lips at her ear now, a rasp of breath on her skin. “If I took what I wanted. Right here. For all to see.”

Her mouth went dry.

Was he out of his mind completely? That infuriating…

He smiled faintly, smug bastard, catching the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “Careful, Miss Weasley."

Her eyes darted toward the open floor — clerks pausing over files, a junior researcher blatantly staring — and Lucius followed her glance with the barest curl of his mouth.

“Enjoying the audience?” he said under his breath. “I could make them hear every word.”

“You’re out of your mind,” she hissed, trying to shift her chair back. He didn’t move.

“No,” he said, tone silk over steel. “I’m simply tired of pretending you don’t want me.”

That earned them another curious look from across the room. Ginny caught it and felt the flush crawl up her neck. “Stop—”

Lucius drew his wand as if it were nothing more than an idle stretch, gave it a casual flick toward the ceiling, and the hum of the office cut out mid-quill-scratch.

Silence.

True, heavy Silencio.

The background hum of parchment, quills, and murmurs died instantly in her little corner of the office.

Ginny felt it. That unnatural quiet pressing against her ears. Her fingers tightened around her quill. “That’s hardly subtle,” she said.

“I’m not in the mood for subtle. Thanks to you.” He leaned in, his voice low and edged. “You think you can provoke me in public, Miss Weasley? You think I won’t answer?”

She rose from her chair. It was a sudden move he did not expected, the quill forgotten on the desk.

“Maybe I’m counting on you to answer.”

The shift seemed to press the air closer around them. Something sharp went through her chest, quickening her pulse. Even her breathing felt too much now. Too quick. Too loud.

She held his gaze, questioning, probing. Unsure whether to shove him back or pull him closer. “That’s better,” Lucius murmured, his voice now only for her. “No witnesses to hear me tell you exactly what I’m going to do if you keep playing games. About Longbottom. About Potter. About me.”

Ginny just stared.

“So,” he said, voice quiet enough that she had to concentrate to catch it, “while I’ve been generous enough to allow you a week’s consideration, you’ve been entertaining offers elsewhere?”

Ginny sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “If you mean Neville—”

“I mean exactly what I heard,” he cut in, stepping forward. The click of his cane stopped directly in front of her desk. “Dinner. Catching up. Intentions.” His mouth curled faintly. “Pathetic ones, but intentions all the same.”

She gave a small shrug, trying to sound offhand. “Why should it matter to you? I haven’t agreed to anything. With him, or you.”

“Oh, it matters. And do you know why?” he leaned closer, palms braced on her desk so she could feel his presence like a pressure against her ribs. “I don’t share what I intend to keep.”

Her laugh was short, sharp. “Keep? You talk about me like a purchase.”

“Not at all. Purchases are transferable.” His eyes glittered. “You are not.”

Ginny swallowed, not liking what she felt. That twist in her stomach. “You’re married.”

“Yes,” he said evenly. “And I told you my terms. Exclusivity. Discretion. And Potter gone.”

“Sounds more like dictatorship than terms.”

“If it were dictatorship,” he murmured, “you wouldn’t be able to walk away. You can. You won’t.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “And you’ve already made yourself my target, Miss Weasley. That doesn’t end because some war hero with dirt under his nails asked you to dinner.”

She tried to smirk, tried to look unaffected. “So, what? You’ll hound me until I give in?”

He straightened slowly, his smile not quite kind. “No. I’ll make sure you understand the difference between attention and possession. Then I’ll let you decide which you prefer.”

“Would you like it?” he asked again, quieter this time, but the question had teeth. “If I made you mine before either of them could take a step toward you?”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. No word. She simply had no words. And Lucius, he seemed too pleased by that. Staring, too close now, the line between intimidation and something darker already blurring.

“I asked you a question,” Lucius said, his voice dropping lower. “Would you like it?”

She hated how her pulse betrayed her. Quick, hard, unsteady. “You’re insane.”

He smiled faintly, that calculated sort of smile that gave nothing away but the fact that he’d heard the hesitation. “Am I? Maybe. But you’re not denying it.”

He leaned in. Closer, close enough that his breath just skimmed her skin. Right there, at her ear. “We could. Right here. On this desk. Let the entire floor see what happens when you bait me.”

Her chair scraped against the wall behind her as he braced one hand beside her head, the other curling around the armrest so she couldn’t simply stand.

“Lucius—”

“You have two days left to decide,” he said, and the bite in his tone was enough to make her breath catch. “After that, I stop asking.”

He didn’t kiss her. Of course he didn’t. But, Circe, she wanted him to. Too much. To shut that smug mouth of his. He did that on purpose, hovering close enough that she could smell the faint trace of coffee and smoke. The tension was a live wire between them now. One movement, one word, and it would snap. And then—

“Sir?”

The sound broke the Silencio. Miriam from reception stood halfway across the floor, looking politely puzzled. Someone else had come in behind her.

Lucius was pissed off. Nice, now, they had gained quite the sort of audience he did not wish for.

He straightened as though nothing had happened, adjusting a cuff. Face blank. “We’re finished here,” he said smoothly, and walked away, leaving her with her heart hammering and every eye in the office suddenly very interested in their own work. Pretending not to have seen a thing.

Ginny sat there for a few seconds after he left. Unmoving. What did just happen? Fingers still locked around the chair’s edge as though the grain beneath her palms might save her somehow. The air seemed thicker now, warmer, pressing in close. And her pulse was an ugly drum in her ears.

She was aware of every movement in the room now. Of the way two clerks across the aisle dropped their eyes to their parchments too quickly, the faint murmur that died the second she looked up. Someone in records was shuffling papers with unnecessary force.

Her boss was leaning in the doorway of his office, arms folded, a smug twist to his mouth. “Well,” he said, loud enough for half the floor to hear, “I suppose that’s one way to network.”

Her jaw tightened. “Go to hell.”

That got a few heads ducked even lower. The quills scratched faster. No one was going to risk stepping into this.

Derrick only smirked and disappeared back into his office, that bastard. Clearly too pleased with whatever narrative he’d already spun in his mind.

Ginny forced herself to turn back to her desk. Her notes were a mess. Her handwriting turning into a tired slant, the ink catching and smearing under her sleeve. And then,  she realised she couldn’t even remember picking up the quill.

Her cheeks still held their heat. Her breath not yet steady, but she kept her head bent to the page. Let them think whatever they liked. It was safer than giving them a story they could confirm.

They crossed the corridor in step, as they usually did. Nothing strange here. Her short heels clicking against the polished stone, his stride measured as always. She had two folders clutched to her chest and the wariness of someone who knew better than to ask questions. She didn’t. She was too wise for that.  But was tempted all the same.

Still, Miriam kept glancing at him. Giving him that look from the corner of her eye. Something was different. Not in his appearance. It was the same, as always. The robes flawless, the cane carried at the exact angle, the hair immaculate. It was his attention. The way his attention seemed… elsewhere.

Usually, he would be reviewing the day’s agenda with her in low, clipped tones as they walked, rattling off who was to be humoured and who was to be shut down. Today, nothing. Just silence. And the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth when someone greeted him in the hall.

He could almost see the wheels working in her head. He could. And feel her glancing up at him every few steps in quiet confusion. She was not that subtle as she fancied herself to be.

No doubt she’d already clocked the taut set of his jaw. All of his little flaws. The way his hands kept flexing at his sides as if the air itself were abrasive. The walk from Level Six to the committee room was brief, yet each polished tile underfoot seemed to stretch the distance.

She tried, cautiously, “Shall I update you on the revised figures from—”

“No.” The single word was quiet but flat, cutting the air between them.

“Everything prepared for the Appropriations review, sir?” she asked lightly. Testing him.

“Yes.” One clipped syllable. He didn’t slow, didn’t look at her.

She adjusted her grip on the folders. “You seem—”

“I seem,” he said, voice even, “exactly as I intend to seem.”

That shut her up, but he could almost hear her puzzling over it. She was too competent not to have noticed he’d been… off since returning from the administrative wing. That his attention was fractured, his temper a little nearer the surface than usual. That his cufflinks were mismatched. It was strange. Because that, that simply never happened.

He forced himself to modulate his breathing, to gain his composure,  as they approached the tall brass doors. The meeting would require sharp attention, detail, and the performance of indifference. But under that, his mind was still caught in the corner of her office, on the colour in her face, the way her voice had faltered after his offer.

By the time they reached the double doors of the committee chamber, he had smoothed it over. The expression was there again — the unshakable, cool detachment — but Miriam, the perceptive as she was,  had already seen the lapse.

And whatever it was, it wasn’t about the budget.

Miriam opened the door for him. He stepped inside without breaking stride, already schooling his expression into something they would take for patience.

By the seventh day, Lucius was frayed in a way he didn’t let anyone see. She hadn’t left Potter. Hadn’t even given him a sign that she meant to. Every time he passed her in the corridors she was civil. And he, he did not like that. Not at all. Hated her expression, too. Contained and maddeningly unreadable.

That evening, he returned to the Manor, stripped off his jacket and tie in the hall, and poured himself a drink that barely took the edge off. If she meant to waste his time, he would not waste his appetites. Narcissa was home. Convenient. And if she was still capable of keeping him occupied, she might at least blunt the frustration.

He found her in the west drawing room, leafing through correspondence. A measured look passed between them before she set the parchment aside. “Really? You’re in a mood,” she observed.

He didn’t grace her with an answer. What should he say, anyway? That he just wanted to see if he still was a man? That he could perform? He stepped closer. Slowly, on purpose. Resolved. To make it work, somehow. He took her hand and drew her to her feet. Too fast, maybe. She arched an eyebrow at it, genuinely surprised, but still decided to go with it. Didn’t resist. It had been far too long since he’d bothered to seek her out like this, openly. And habit carried her into the bedroom with him.

And so, Lucius found himself by the edge of the bed, puzzled by her easiness. Just stood there, in utter silence. Hesitating. Half-unbuttoned shirt hanging loose, his belt undone but still threaded through the loops. Unsure. Like he wasn’t certain if he meant to continue. There she was. Ready. Lying on the bed, her gown already pushed up around her hips. To get it over. The soon, the better. One arm folded under her head, the other just resting limply on her stomach. She looked bored.

“I’m here, Lucius,” she said flatly, eyes on the ceiling. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, the room thick with the scent of her perfumes and old velvet. He bent down slowly, pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t part her legs. He pushed forward anyway. Touched her with his fingers like he was checking for something. Warmth, maybe. Response. Nothing came. It wasn’t her fault. He knew that. He tried. The way he moved over her was mechanical, almost angry. Not at her, but at himself. At the shrivelled knot in his chest that used to feel like certainty.

 Narcissa exhaled sharply as he entered her. Not a gasp. Not pain. Just air. A sign of life. He thrust once. Twice. Slower the third time. Then stopped. His body betrayed him. Again.

“Go on, then,” she murmured without turning her head. “You always used to manage before.”

He said nothing. Just stared down. At her long neck. At the hair splayed perfectly across the pillow. The dry, detached expression that had once made her untouchable and regal. But now,  it only made her look like marble. His hands gave the smallest tremor. “I can’t,” each word clipped, his jaw set hard. It should have worked. Merlin, it should have.  She was beautiful, poised, knew how to match his rhythm without asking for more than he could give. But as the minutes stretched, nothing came together. Her body under his hands, her perfume. Nothing. Nothing sparked. His mind kept dragging elsewhere. To the lift. To the curve of a smirk that wasn’t hers.

Narcissa’s patience thinned. “Merlin’s sake, Lucius,” she said at last, cool and precise. “If you can’t manage, at least don’t make me lie here waiting for you to remember what you’re doing.”

He stilled. “Careful.”

But she wasn’t in the mood to be careful. “What’s her name? The one you’ve been brooding over all week?”

That hit the right spot. Lucius pulled back, moved off her, eyes narrowing. “You imagine far too much.”

“And you achieve far too little,” she said, rising and pulling her robe back on with infuriating calm. “Do us both a favour and sort out whatever has your pride in knots. You’re useless like this. You reek of desperation. It’s pathetic. And if you’re going to rut after some filth, have the spine to own it.”

He  sat at the edge of the bed. Hands pressed into his knees. Her voice came again, colder this time. He stared at the wall.

“I want separate quarters,” she said. He nodded, once. That was all.

The door shut behind her before he could summon an answer. He didn’t move for a long time. And when he finally did, it was only to pour himself another drink — and stare at the hearth until the fire died.

He had to admit it. To himself, if no one else. She was right. Pathetic. But if he was going to be pathetic, he’d damn well make it worth the cost to his pride.

Chapter Text

The lift doors slid open to the blinding light of the Atrium’s high, charmed ceiling. Ginny stepped out, already wishing she’d stayed in bed. It had been a week since that stilted lunch with Harry. The one where he’d promised to come home the next day. The thing was, he didn’t. She hadn’t heard from him since.

She noticed Neville. Not subtle, as he was waiting near the fountain, hands in his pockets, posture straight.

“Morning,” he said with that careful warmth of his. “Do you have a moment?”

She slowed. “For you, sure.”

“I thought about what you said last week,” he began. “About Harry never proposing. About… how things have been for you.” He took a breath. “I’d like to court you. Properly. No running off for months, no keeping you in the dark. If you’d have me.”

It should have been a private moment.

But Harry’s voice cut through the Atrium, too sharp. Disbelieving. Angry. The sort she knew all too well.

 “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

Heads turned. Harry was striding toward them, hair wild from travel, eyes bright with fury. “You—” He jabbed a finger at Neville. “You think you can just swoop in while I’m away? That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? Waiting for me to turn my back?”

“Harry—”

“And you.” He turned on Ginny, voice rising. “You’re standing here smiling like you’re not two seconds from climbing into his bed. How long has this been going on? Go on, tell me.”

Her face burned. “Nothing’s been going on—”

“Bollocks. You’re a bloody gold-digger, Gin. Always have been.” His voice carried across the hall, drawing whispers, curious stares. “Thought you’d done well for yourself, did you? Bagged the Chosen One, lived off my name—”

She didn’t even think before yanking the earrings from her ears and throwing them at his chest. “Those? The only thing I ever took from you. You went to my flat, ate my food, let me pay the rent, never so much as bought me dinner, you—”

“Oh, here we go,” Harry snapped. “The poor neglected girlfriend act. Meanwhile you’re out here entertaining offers in the bloody Atrium.”

Neville stepped between them. “Enough.”

“Stay out of it, Neville,” Harry snarled. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I know enough,” Neville said evenly. “And you’re making a fool of yourself.”

The crowd thickened. Someone had stopped walking entirely, to gawk. A few wizards in the far corner had that slack-jawed look of men watching a fight they wouldn’t dare interrupt.

Ginny’s voice shook, not from tears but from sheer rage. “We’re done, Harry. Whatever this was. Done.”

“You’re not walking away from me—”

“Yes, I am.”

That shut him. For good. Yet the silence that followed was somehow worse. Heavier than any of the words they’d thrown. Louder than the shouting.

Harry stood there, face flushed, chest rising and falling. As if each breath cost him an effort. Trying not to shake. Not to break something. Then, he just shoved past them both, disappearing into the crowd.

Neville exhaled, turning to her. “You all right?”

“No,” she said flatly. “But thank you.”

Across the Atrium, Lucius Malfoy had been leaning against one of the gilded archways, idly flipping a folder closed. His gaze didn’t waver once during the scene, cool and assessing. And Ginny could feel — without looking directly — that he’d noticed the way half a dozen men in the crowd had been ogling her.

Before she could move, her department head appeared at her elbow. “My office. Now.”

She followed him upstairs, jaw tight.

He shut the door, paced once, then pointed at her. “Take the day off, Weasley. And I don’t want this sort of spectacle repeated. I don’t care who started it. You work here, you keep your private mess out of the bloody Atrium.”

She left without answering, aware of Lucius still in the corner of her vision as she crossed the floor.

She barely made it to the lifts before his voice came from behind. “Miss Weasley.”

It wasn’t loud, but it carried. She stopped. Slowly turned.

Lucius Malfoy was crossing the Atrium at a measured pace, silver-topped cane clicking against the marble. His gaze was fixed on her like he’d been following her the entire time . And maybe he had.

When he reached her, he didn’t speak at once. He simply looked at her, eyes travelling from the earrings she no longer wore to the faint flush still on her cheeks.

“Quite a display,” he said at last. “You’ve certainly made yourself memorable.”

She stiffened. “Enjoy the show?”

He ignored the jab. “I imagine your inbox will be… lively this afternoon. Half the Ministry saw you end your relationship. The other half saw you accept Longbottom’s proposal in spirit, if not in words.”

“I didn’t—”

He tilted his head, cutting her off. “Perception, Miss Weasley. It matters more than truth. And right now, every man in this building is picturing what you’d look like on his arm. Or in his bed.”

Her stomach tightened. “If you’re here to gloat—”

“I’m here to make a proposition. To offer you some control over what happens next.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Last week, I gave you seven days to consider my proposal. We are at the final day. After what I witnessed just now… I believe my offer is more attractive than ever.”

“You think I’m going to let you take advantage of this?”

“I think,” he said, eyes locking on hers, “that you don’t want to spend the next month fending off gossip, invitations, and men with less to offer than I do. I think you’d rather direct the narrative. And I’m very good at directing narratives.”

He didn’t touch her yet, but the space between them seemed to shrink.

“I told you before, if you insist on crossing my path, letting me take you, then you will be mine. Exclusively. You will not be seen with another man. Not Longbottom. Not Potter. No one. In exchange, I will be exclusive with you. Discreet. Protective. Focused.”

“And your wife?” she asked, voice tight.

“My marriage is a political arrangement,” he said smoothly. “Narcissa has no interest in my… diversions. And I have no interest in squandering my attention. I do not share. Ever.”

“So I’m supposed to agree to this until it suits you?”

“Until it suits us both.”

He took another step. This time his fingers brushed her sleeve, tracing slowly down to her wrist. “You can say no. Walk away. And I’ll simply, as we say, redirect my energy. Perhaps even to my wife.”

Her breath caught.

“But if you say yes, right now, I will see to it that no one in this building dares to speak your name with disrespect again. You’ll have my protection. My focus. My full attention.” His thumb pressed lightly into the pulse at her wrist. “Do we understand each other?”

She hesitated — just long enough for him to feel it.

“Is that a threat?” she asked quietly.

His mouth curved, slow and amused. “Not at all. This is… persuasion.”

And before she could gather a reply, he leaned in, just so his breath warmed her ear . “You have until the end of the day.”

He stepped back, smoothing his cuff as if the moment had meant nothing. As if that was some fucking ordinary office exchange, and not the latest move in whatever game the two of them were playing. And he was already turning to leave. But her voice caught him mid-stride, sharp enough to still him. He hadn’t expected it.

"Mr Malfoy." He turned, fully this time, to see what she meant to say. He had planned to let her stew in it a while longer, to keep the upper hand, but she surprised him again. Or perhaps she didn’t. And perhaps he wanted exactly this. And considering how smug he looked all of a sudden, this was the defiance he’d been baiting her for from the start. And he’d got it. He’d won again, somehow.

Ginny kept her voice even, though her chest still ached. From the shame. The humiliation. From the horrid spectacle in the Atrium. “I’ll consider my options,” she said, meeting Lucius’s gaze. “But you’ll have to let me make a sound decision. I am in no state to do it right now. Or today. Please, let me decide when I’ve, you know, when I’ve calmed down.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if unused to being told to wait. Still, he inclined his head, ready to humour her. “Very well. Don’t take too long, Miss Weasley. Time has a way of making its own decisions.”

She stepped past him before he could say more, keeping her pace measured. Kept walking, turned the corner. Only then did she truly let out the breath she’d been holding.

A week ago, she might have gone straight home. Now, the thought of her flat felt claustrophobic. The silence too thick, the walls too close. She had no friends here. Not really. Not the sort who would sit with her and not ask for a full accounting.

Except, maybe…

She told Lucius she’d consider her options and left it at that. Let him think she was weighing them like some delicate diplomatic matter. The truth was, she wanted space. Silence. Somewhere that didn’t reek of Ministry corridors or family kitchens.

Somewhere she could breathe.

She thought of Severus.

It had been really too long since she last saw him . Even longer since they’d shared anything untoward beyond the occasional shared drink. Or bottle. Still, she could picture Severus in his usual chair, the air faint with smoke and the sharp warmth of cardamom from whatever blend he was hoarding that month. He wouldn’t offer comfort in the way most people imagined it. He’d sneer at the Atrium mess, probably tell her she’d been a fool to let it happen. But he’d listen. In his own way. And he was one of the very few who wouldn’t feed this to the gossip circuit.

Besides, she owed him the news. They’d never said it outright, but there’d always been an agreement of sorts between them: she didn’t drag Harry into his orbit, and he didn’t prod her about Harry unless she chose to talk. Theirs was a friendship — with occasional sidetracks — that worked because they kept their other lives out of it.

Now that Harry was out of the picture, the old boundary no longer existed.

Maybe that was dangerous. Maybe it was the only reason she wanted to go.

She had no real friends in the city. No one who’d sit across from her without an agenda or a lecture. Severus, for all his faults, could still do that. And he might  in his own begrudging, sidelong way help her calm down. He always could do that before.

And she needed… something. A place to sit until her hands stopped shaking. Or at the very least, he’d pour the drinks strong enough to make her forget how loud the Atrium had been.

She was already deciding which Floo to use by the time she reached her department office.

Harry was pacing in Kingsley’s office. Summoned by the urgent memo. He could imagine what was this about. He tried to calm down, still shaken by the scene in the Atrium. Oh, how he hated it. Hated his temper, flaring too often too much. It cost him dearly. And it would cost him something this time, too. He looked around, at the blinds drawn, the light low. When the door shut with a soft click, he turned. It was Kingsley. Looking serious. Too serious.

Kingsley didn’t bother to sit. “You’re suspended, effective immediately.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s already in motion.” Kingsley’s tone was calm in the way that always made Harry feel fifteen again — like being told to sit down and shut up by someone who’d seen far worse than him. “Go home. Let it cool.”

“I defended myself,” Harry said sharply. “And her. Everyone saw—”

“Everyone saw,” Kingsley cut in, “the Head Auror shouting in the Ministry Atrium, airing personal grievances in front of two dozen witnesses, and shoving another department head. And that,” his voice dropped, “gives them exactly what they’ve been waiting for.”

Harry’s fists curled. “Them?”

Kingsley didn’t elaborate. “You’ve got enemies, Potter. Some more powerful than you realise. I can’t protect you if you hand them ammunition.”

The heat in Harry’s chest flared into anger. “Then name them.”

“No,” Kingsley said simply.

Harry’s voice rose. “So you expect me to just take the fall without knowing who’s behind it?”

“I expect you,” Kingsley replied, slow and measured, “to keep your head down, let this pass, and not make it worse. Your badge, the regular one, will be here when you’ve cooled off. A months, perhaps. Unless you force my hand.”

Harry stared at him, disbelieving. This was it? Full suspension? His breath came unevenly. It couldn’t be. “Is that permanent?”

“For now.”

Harry stared at him stunned. Struggling to believe what he just heard. “What?”

Kingsley didn’t flinch. “You should be grateful, Harry.”

“Grateful?”

“Yes. They wanted your full removal from the Auror Office.”

Finally, Harry spat, “Fine,” and turned on his heel.

The door closed behind him with a muted thud, leaving Kingsley alone in the low light, his jaw set tight.

Lucius read the memo twice, purely for the pleasure of it. Suspension. Immediate. Effective until further notice.

He allowed himself the smallest smile. The kind that wouldn’t make it past polite society but would be instantly recognisable to anyone who knew him well enough to fear him.

The wheels had turned quickly, exactly as he intended. A word in the right ear here, a reminder of certain indiscretions there, and the rest had played out like clockwork. All it had needed was the right spark. And Potter, ever obliging, had set himself alight in front of half the Ministry.

Now the Head Auror’s badge sat in a drawer in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office, and Potter was drinking himself into oblivion. Exactly where Lucius wanted him.

The firelight caught on the heavy rings at his fingers as he flicked the parchment closed and leaned back in his chair. Smug. Satisfied. The secretary outside was busy enough not to hear him exhale in victory. Potter’s absence would create a vacuum. Vacuums were useful. And if certain individuals — one Ginevra Weasley, for instance — found themselves adrift without the anchor they’d been pretending to cling to… well. The tide could be directed.

He rose, smoothing his cuffs, and gestured for his secretary to follow. “We’ll be late for the budget meeting, sir,” she said, glancing at the clock.

“Then they’ll wait,” Lucius replied, his voice smooth as silk. “They always do.”

As they walked toward the lifts, he thought of the scene in the Atrium, the flush in Ginevra’s face as she’d faced down her golden boy in public. He thought of the men in the crowd. Eager faces, looking at her as if she were already available. And he thought of the promise he’d made her, quietly and clearly. That if she gave him her attention, he’d give her the kind of focus no one else dared.

Potter was out of the way now. The rest would follow.

The Wizengamot budget meeting was already running long. A tangle of overinflated numbers and dreary speeches. Lucius sat at his bench, back straight, robes immaculate, and barely listened.

He was in too fine a mood for petty wrangling over cauldron repair grants.

Potter and his Weasley had gone up in public flames. Openly. Not the discreet kind. Word of their spectacular split had travelled through the Ministry faster than a Howler. Ginny had left the Atrium with her head high, but everyone saw how she’d been rattled. And Lucius had seen something else: the sudden vacancy at her side.

He caught himself almost smiling. It made a clerk across the aisle falter mid-sentence.

“Lord Malfoy, your opinion?” someone prompted.

He leaned forward with the elegance of a man who hadn’t heard a word. “Approve the expenditure. And for Merlin’s sake, keep it under the decimal.”

A murmur of assent, quills scratching.

The meeting was dragging on.

Lucius tried to pay attention. Really tried, this time.

The meeting was breaking for luncheon when Lucius caught the tail end of it. Low voices just beyond the carved oak doors, the kind of half-whispered exchange that always sharpened his attention.

“…a disgrace, the way Potter carried on,” one of the elder members was saying. “Shouting in the Atrium like a fishmonger—”

“—always was hot-tempered,” another chimed in.

Then Augusta Longbottom’s unmistakable voice cut through, brisk and unbothered. “Potter’s temper is his problem. My concern is Neville. He’s free now, and I’ll not have him mooning about like some underfed poet. If he wants that Weasley girl, I say let him court her. He needs a strong hand, and from what I’ve seen, Ginevra can provide it. The rest of you can shut up.”

There was a murmur of startled laughter, then the scrape of chairs as they dispersed toward the dining hall.

Lucius stayed. Thinking hard, one hand resting on his cane.

So. Augusta Longbottom was not going to be the obstacle for her stupid grandson he’d counted on. Quite the opposite. She was ready to throw her formidable weight behind the match.

It was… inconvenient.

He had been considering using Augusta herself to sour Neville’s interest. A few pointed reminders of propriety, perhaps even a quiet warning about Ginny’s supposed entanglements. The woman’s disapproval could flatten most men. But if Augusta was inclined to encourage it, that avenue was closed.

He caught Miriam staring again from the corner of his eye. Was he really this easy to read?

Lucius straightened minutely, adjusted his cuffs, outwardly composed, inwardly calculating.

This, this would require a different approach.

The rustle of robes signalled the end of the break, and the Wizengamot filed back in. Lucius took his seat. Miriam slid into the place behind his right shoulder. The murmured conversations around him dipped as people registered his arrival. He waited, long fingers steepled, eyes fixed somewhere on the far wall as the next budget item was read out. Something about broomstick import tariffs.

He offered the faintest of nods, the kind that passed for courtesy here, and unfolded the first packet of documents. Numbers, schedules, allocation tables. He scanned them without absorbing a word.

His mind wasn’t on it. Augusta Longbottom’s words kept circling back, as unwelcome as they were clear. She wanted Ginny in Neville’s orbit. Approved of it. The old woman had influence, she had. Enough that half the chamber would think twice before crossing her.

A junior member to his left was droning on about reserve funding for the Department of Magical Transportation. Lucius kept his eyes on the parchment, but his thoughts slid back, unbidden, to the faint curve of her mouth when she’d realised he was goading her. The heat under her defiance. The way she hadn’t moved away.

A voice addressed him from across the room. “…and in light of the projected savings, would you be in favour, Lord Malfoy?”

Lucius looked up, quite startled. What was this about? The voice belonged to Dawlish, halfway down the table, waiting with the self-importance of a man certain his question mattered. He considered for a second to look at Miriam, for some hints, but it would be too obvious.

He managed to bit out: “Approved.”

There was a pause. A collective flicker of surprise.

The Chairman looked down at his parchment, frowned faintly. “Er… my lord, that was the preliminary reading of the quarterly minutes. There was nothing to approve.”

A few muffled coughs, the scrape of a chair.

His eyes flicked to him. Cool, unreadable.

Lucius glanced up at last, his expression unreadable. “Then I suggest you put something forward worth approving. You’ve wasted our time twice over.” He turned a page, signalling the matter was beneath him.

The chamber went still for a moment before the next agenda item stumbled on.

He let them think he was distracted by some grander calculation. And in a way, he was. Only the calculation in question had auburn hair, a quick tongue, and, apparently, Augusta Longbottom’s blessing.

Longbottom. The fool had been hovering near her now. Lucius had made a few quiet inquiries that morning, and the threads led to an unexpected name: Severus Snape.

Apparently, Longbottom had some arrangement with him.

He didn’t give it much thoughts previously, but now, he could see where it should lead.

Interesting.

Lucius hadn’t spoken to Severus in months. Not since the last awkward drink after a Ministry reception. But if Longbottom was leaning on him, Severus might be persuaded to… clarify matters.

Besides, it would be useful to catch up. Old friends, old debts.

And Lucius rather liked the idea of ensuring Ginny Weasley’s options remained exactly as narrow as he wished.

He forced himself through the rest of the agenda, his signature precise, his tone impassive. But every so often, his gaze blurred, the shape of a certain red-haired witch flickering behind the words.

He rose as the meeting adjourned, already planning a visit.

Chapter Text

It had ended with Harry in the ugliest way imaginable. Ginny had not planned something like this. The shouting, the accusations flung like dirty laundry. It was eye-opening. The way the anger flared until there was nothing left to do but walk out. She’d imagined it would be quieter, something that could be done without the circus of raised voices. Instead, Harry had turned it into a public spectacle. Scandal. And the echo of it still sat raw in her chest.

So she just walked home. To hide from all of it. But when she reached the street outside her flat, she just couldn’t get inside. She would go mad, sitting there alone, in the silence. There was only one place, or rather one person, she could think of who might meet her without judgement. Just be. And simply let her be angry without trying to mend it.

 Severus.

 Her feet were moving before she’d fully decided.

The bell over the apothecary door had long since been silenced for the night, but she knocked anyway. She hoped, really hoped he was home. Hard to tell, because the shutters were already down. She waited.

It took a moment before the bolts slid back and the door opened a fraction. Severus looked tired. And surprised. He hadn’t expected such a visit, for sure. His hair was loose and a bit mussed. He always took care before. He looked, well… as for the rest, he looked just the same as always did. His shirt open at the throat, dark grey and worn. A faint trace of something yellowish and vile-looking on one hand. He looked her up. But when his eyes flicked over her face, whatever sharp remark that had been forming died before it reached his mouth.

“Ginevra,” he said, stepping back to let her in. “I’d begun to think you’d forgotten where this was.”

“I could say the same about you.”

His brow arched at that, but he closed the door behind her. “Touché. Though I suspect you didn’t come here to exchange barbs.”

She shook her head, wet hair falling forward. “No.”

His gaze lingered a moment, taking in the set of her shoulders, the too-bright look in her eyes. “Tea, then. Or something stronger?”

The shop smelled of sage and something bitter on the boil. The ledger open on the counter, quill still fresh with the ink near a column of numbers. He picked it up and busied himself with something. Pretending, probably. Again.

“Don’t bother,” he said without looking up. “I heard.”

She closed the door behind her. It was all so familiar. Severus, this shop. Their friendship. She leaned on the counter, to get closer to him.

“About today’s little… spectacle at the Ministry.” The quill moved to the next figure with surgical neatness. “Another blazing row with the Potter brat, was it? And now you’ve come to cry on my shoulder?” He glanced up briefly, one brow arching. “Surely by now you know I’m the last person to offer sympathy over that particular habit of yours.”

“Severus,” Ginny sighed, very much exasperated. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” He didn’t look at her at first, just closed the ledger with deliberate precision. Too definitive precision. As though this conversation was a transaction he’d long expected to settle. He set the quill down, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone about to dissect a very old, very obvious problem. “I told you years ago what he was. You thought I was merely being unpleasant. You thought I enjoyed baiting him. You were wrong, though,” his gaze lifted, sharp, piercing. “I was warning you.”

She opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“The temper that flares when he’s contradicted. The self-righteousness that excuses every slight. The way he collects people like trophies, parades them about when it flatters him and shelves them when it doesn’t. He undermines you in public and then expects your loyalty without question. Oh, don’t bother denying it; you’ve flushed enough times in my presence for me to notice. The sulking, the little jealousies, the inability to see you as anything but an adjunct to his cause. And you—” he let the word hang, low and cutting, “—you took it. Again and again. Because you mistook stubbornness for principle, and loyalty for love. Shall I go on?”

“Severus—”

“No, let’s catalogue it properly,” he continued, voice smooth but laced with acid. “The pettiness. The way he paraded you about when it suited him and ignored you when it didn’t. How many times did you bite your tongue while he insulted your intelligence in public? How many times did he put his precious causes ahead of you? But of course you always went back, because Gryffindor loyalty is nothing if not masochistic.”

She stared at him. Just stared. Silenced by something between shock and offence rising in her chest. She had known he didn’t think highly of Harry, but never—not in all the years she had known Severus—had she heard this level of precise, scathing condemnation. It was as if he’d been keeping the ledger of her relationship in his head all along, tallying each wrong until the sum became undeniable.

Never had she thought Severus’s disapproval of Harry ran quite that deep. Or that personal.

She wasn’t shocked by the words per se. She’d heard worse from him in passing, thrown like darts across the years. No. What caught her, held her, was the heat in them. The depth.

He’d meant every word, and not just because of what Harry had done to her.

She leaned against the counter, arms folding. “You’ve hated him from the start. Not just for what he is. For who he is. Why?”

His eyes narrowed, wary. “I would have thought even you’d put that together.”

“I know some of it. Harry’s version. Which is… predictable.” She let the word sink. “But I want yours. What it meant for you. Back then.”

The silence between them deepened, heavy with old air. For a moment, she thought he’d refuse outright. That he would throw at her something cutting. One of those dismissals he was famous for. But he surprised her when he finally spoke. It was slower, more deliberate, as if each word had to be prised loose.

“It meant,” he said, voice low, “that the son of the one man who made my life hell from the moment I set foot in this world, the boy who carried his arrogance like a birthright, was handed everything I’d ever wanted… without even knowing the worth of it.”

“And his mother?” she asked quietly.

A muscle in his jaw shifted. “His mother,” he said, after a pause long enough to hurt, “was the one good thing in that cesspit. And she chose him. And in choosing him, she gave me my first lesson in just how little the truth mattered when someone had already decided you were the villain.”

Ginny was silent. The only sound between them was the rain beginning to fall on the street. When she finally did, it wasn’t to comfort him.

“So when you warned me… it wasn’t just about me.”

“No,” Severus said, meeting her eyes. “It was about not watching the same pattern play out twice.”

She didn’t look away. “You think I’m going to repeat it? Her mistakes?”

“I think, and I believe what I say, that you are not. Not anymore, anyway. You’re quite capable of knowing better,” he replied, but there was a slight caution in his tone. A hesitation. Unsure whether she would.

Ginny pushed away from the counter. Eyes too knowing, moving a little closer. And more. Enough that he had to tilt his head to keep her in his line of sight. “I see. This is not about her. Not really. You talk about me. You give me advice. Even when it’s laced with venom. Why?”

His brow furrowed. “You’re assuming there’s sentiment in it.”

“There is,” she said, certain now. “And I think you’re afraid I might see it.”

He gave a short, quiet laugh, one without amusement. “You’ve a Gryffindor’s gift for overestimating your importance.”

“Then prove me wrong,” she challenged. “Tell me you wouldn’t care. That you give a fig if I went right back to Harry tomorrow.”

The hesitation was slight, almost nothing, yet she caught it.

“You see?” she pressed. “That’s why I’m asking you this. You hate him because of what his father did to you. But he is not him. And I am not Harry’s mom. But because you think I’m in danger of letting him do it to me— whatever that it might be— then tell me what you actually mean by it. What you really want to say. Be a man. Don’t just sit behind your counter and sneer about it.”

He looked at her for a long time, black eyes unreadable. “What I want, Ginevra,” he said finally, “is for you to stop expecting the people you give your loyalty to, to deserve it. They rarely do.”

Something in his voice settled between them. Something bitter. Worn. But still not entirely hopeless. She stepped even closer. She could almost taste it, the faint traces of smoke on his coat.

“Then maybe,” she said softly, “you should tell me who has deserved yours.”

His gaze flicked over her face, searching for the trap. “One day,” he murmured, “you might find yourself on that very short list. And if you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

She didn’t step back. If anything, she leaned in a fraction, the space between them tight with the unsaid.

“The thing is, I’m not afraid of ending up on it,” she said.

“You should be,” he replied, but his voice had lost its earlier bite.

She gave a smile. Small, humourless. “Then, Severus, you’ll just have to live with the fact.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Only studied her, weighing the cost of leaving her there, metaphorically speaking, with that open door between them. His jaw tightened a bit. Not much, just enough for her to see he’d decided something.

“Ginevra,” he said at last, and the use of her name carried none of his usual mockery. “I do not offer trust lightly. I do not keep it lightly either. Do not make me regret this.”

She nodded once. “Then don’t give me reason to.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps, or the faintest curl of respect. But he broke the moment, turning back toward the ledger on the counter.

She watched him, the way he closed it, fingers lingering on the spine a too bit longer than necessary.

Without looking up, he said, “It’s late. And I’ve had enough of numbers for one night.”

She arched a brow. “Is that your way of saying you’re throwing me out?”

“It’s my way of saying there’s a bottle in the back room that won’t drink itself,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “Unless you’d prefer to spend the rest of the evening proving just how exactly fearless you are.”

Her lips curved, but not in amusement. “That depends. Is it the good bottle?”

“It’s the only bottle,” he replied dryly, moving already toward the narrow door behind the counter. He didn’t bother to wait for her to say something. He was too sure now that she would follow. Just unlocked it, the faint scent of smoke and something warmer spilling out.

The back room was dim. It always was. Even before, then. Lit only by the low lamp sitting on the sideboard. Shelves lined with jars and stoppered bottles cast long, deep shadows. That place lacked a woman’s hand far too long. There were even cobwebs in the corners. Ginny shudered. She hated spiders. Maybe more than Ron ever did.

Severus ignored her distress. He’d seen her unravel over a fucking arachnea more times than he cared to count. He set two glasses on the scarred table, worked the cork free with a slow twist, and poured. The liquor’s scent was rich and sharp. Pyreholt ’47. A vintage year whispered about among collectors, said to “warm the blood for hours”. Carrying the kind of promise that would burn everything, wholly.

He lit a cigarette before taking his seat on the old, battered couch. That ugly thing he valued for some unknow reason. The one from Spinner's End she helped him to retrieve back then, when he decided to sell the damn thing. Bad memories. That was what he said. She took another cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. They sat there for some time. Together, but their thoughts miles away. And just watched the smoke curling lazily toward the low ceiling.

“Here,” he said, sliding one of the glasses across to her.

She took it, swallowed once without sipping. “Harry and I are over,” she said, just like that, without preface.

His only response was another drag. The exhale was slow, deliberate. “I assumed as much. The only surprise is that it took you this long.”

“This isn’t like before,” she said, eyes on the glass. “It’s not a fight, not something that gets mended in a week. This is—” She broke off, then shook her head. “It’s finished. Completely. I mean it.”

“Then my condolences,” he said dryly, though his gaze never left her.

She looked up at him, half-smiling in a way that wasn’t entirely sincere. Or maybe not sincere at all.

"I see. This is not end of the story. Is it?"

“No. You are right. It isn’t. I’ve been thinking of someone.”

That had him leaning back. "Someone," he said, his eyes fixed on her now, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other.

“Hm. I see. Someone,” he said again, as if trying the word out.

 She gave a small nod.

 “And you’ve decided to tell me this because…?”

“Because you’re my friend,” she said.

“Friends,” he murmured, tapping ash into the tray, “do not leave things unsaid when they have the potential to alter the arrangement.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Arrangement?”

“The understanding between us,” he clarified, voice cool but edged with something weightier. “So. Who is it?”

She took a sip, stalling. “Does it matter?”

He smiled without warmth. “You’ve already answered your own question by avoiding mine.”

“Severus, I—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I don’t want to say.”

“Then you’ll only confirm my suspicion that it’s someone you know I’ll have an opinion about.”

“And if it is?”

“Then, as you already guessed correctly, I’ll give that opinion,” he said, leaning forward now, smoke drifting between them, “and you can decide whether it’s worth the trouble you’re about to walk into.”

She studied him, playing idly with the glass in her hands. “And now, you’re not going to let this go. Are you?”

His eyes were steady, unblinking. “No.”

She only traced the rim of her glass with one finger. That irked Severus a bit. Now, he really got curious.

“It’s not Longbottom. I know that. Even if the fight was over him, if I heard correctly,” he said after a moment, tone dry. “Even you wouldn’t mistake dutiful loyalty for whatever’s in your eyes right now.”

Her mouth twitched. “No. Not Neville.”

She leaned back, feigning ease. But at easy she was not, that much he could tell by the tightness in her shoulders. Very well.

“It’s not one of your old friends,” he said, the faintest curl of disdain in his voice. “You’ve outgrown that particular pool.”

“Obviously.”

“And it’s not a Ministry hanger-on you pass in a corridor. You’d be bored within the week. No…”

Her lips pressed together, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He studied her, her posture, movements, weighing what he saw. Not embarrassment. Not quite defiance, either. Something guarded. Something that made him think there was a story behind this she had no intention of telling unless dragged out.

“ Which means…”  he went on slowly, watching her over the smoke curling between them. “It’s someone who wouldn’t normally be within your reach. Not without, say,  complications.”

“Interesting theory,” she said, but the little pulse at her throat told it all. Interesting theory, my ass.

He let it hang, if only for the satisfaction of letting her think she had bested him. She really could not be that naive. Could she, now? It amused him, and it intrigued him somehow all the same. He took his time, basking in the feeling inwardly. Pretending to study her. And that he tried really hard to guess. As if she were some unsolved high-arithmancy equation.  “It’s someone whose name I would know. Someone important.”

At that, Ginny shifted a bit in her spot, sipping her drink a bit too eagerly. He sensed discomfort. That was it, then. “If I told you, Severus, you’d only make it sound worse than it is.”

“That depends on how bad it actually is,” he said, leaning back. “Your expression tells me worse. Much worse.”

“You read too much into things.”

“I read exactly enough,” he countered, the faintest curve of his mouth suggesting he was enjoying the chase more than the answer.

“Maybe it’s not exactly about the name,” she said after a pause, “but what he’s… capable of.”

His eyes narrowed. “Capable of… what?”

She swirled what was left in her glass. “I don’t know… getting into places no one else could. Making people shut up the second he walks in. Getting things done without… you know, waving a wand about.” She gave a small huff of breath. “And somehow still making you feel like you might be out of your depth. Even when he’s… being nice.”

Severus’s brow lifted, just slightly. This was getting more and more interesting, by every second.

“Someone older, probably,” Severus continued, as though she’d just handed him enough material to drone on about for the rest of the night. “Someone with enough influence to make you weigh every move twice.” He flicked ash neatly into the tray. “And enough reputation that half the wizarding world would take an interest in your… arrangement.”

She gave a small, dry laugh. “You’re making it sound almost glamorous.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you think it is. But there’s only a handful of men in that particular echelon. And I’d wager only few of them would intrigue you enough to make you dodge my questions this long.”

Ginny just stared, a little taken aback by the intensity in Severus’s voice. When the topic of conversations caught his interest, he had a damned big mouth and an unrelenting eye for every little detail. Breaking it down, turning it over, and pressing until he’d mapped every angle.

“It isn’t glamorous,” finally, he added flatly, back to his composed self. “It’s dangerous. And you know it.”

“Now, you are just being dramatic. I know damn well what I’m doing.”

He studied her for a long moment. I hope so, Ginevra. For your own sake. The faint crease between his brows betraying that he didn’t quite believe her. “Do you? Because I can name three men in that sphere, and two of them would ruin you simply because they could. The third—” He stopped himself, lips thinning. “Well. That one’s worse in his own way.”

“You’re guessing,” she said.

“I’m narrowing the field.”

Her eyes dropped to her glass. “Maybe I just don’t feel like having this conversation.”

“And maybe,” he said, leaning back with a knowing look, “you’re avoiding it because you already know I’d guess correctly.”

Her head came up at that, gaze steady. “If you’re implying I left Harry for someone else, you’re wrong. I would have left him regardless.”

One brow lifted. “Yet this… someone… is important enough to be part of the timing.”

She shook her head. “No. Important, yes. But not the reason.”

„Yet you won’t tell me the name.“

Her gaze flicked to his, wary. “And what would you do with that name?”

“What would I do, that,” he said, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate plume, “depends entirely on the name.”

She almost smiled, but it faltered before it formed. “I doubt I’d enjoy your reaction once you have it.”

“You’re assuming I’d be surprised,” he said, tilting his head. “You might find I’m already halfway there.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Halfway where?”

“To knowing,” he murmured, taking another drink, “exactly who it is you’ve been thinking of. You know I would guess correctly myself after some time.”

He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table, cigarette balanced between two fingers. “You could just say it, you know. That’s what friends do. Friends who trust each other.”

 “All right, then.” She took a drink, felt it burn all the way down. “Lucius Malfoy.”

The pause was barely there. Small, minute. But she knew him well enough to catch it. “Are you.”

“I am.”

He leaned back in his chair, the glass cradled in his hand. “An inspired choice. You’ve always aimed for the difficult.”

“You’re hardly easy yourself,” she said, managing the smallest smile.

“Congratulations. I’m sure the arrangement is mutually rewarding.”

She studied his face — the deliberate disinterest, the slightly tighter set to his mouth. “You disapprove?”

“I question your judgement,” he said, finally looking at her. “But that’s nothing new.”

He did question her judgement. He always had.

Why she’d chosen to throw herself into George’s joke shop, dragging him through his grief when she was drowning in her own. Why she hadn’t bolted the moment she walked into his apothecary and realised who had placed that miserable little advertisement in the Prophet. Why she’d stayed, when no one else would, through the short tempers, the cold silences, the hours when his voice could cut glass.

He’d questioned why she’d ended up in his bed, that first night — and why it hadn’t stopped there. Why she’d kept coming back, again and again, knowing exactly what she was in for, enduring every sharp edge he had to offer. Why she’d still been willing to sit across from him as a friend, even after all of that.

And why she’d kept showing up, somehow finding time between finishing her studies and playing Quidditch, as though all the reasons to keep her distance simply didn’t apply to him.

Even now, with everything between them unsettled, here she was. With him.

He let the quiet enfold them out for a moment, watching the way the light caught in her hair, the lazy rotation of her glass.

“Tell me something, Ginevra,” he said at last, voice low, almost conversational. “For all this trouble, all this weighing of your precious moves… what exactly does he want from you?”

The tension left her somehow and she just sat back in the armchair, legs tucked beneath her, making herself more comfortable again. “He asked for exclusivity.”

Severus looked up, one brow arching. “Did he? And did you agree?”

“Not yet.” She shook her head, turning her glass in slow circles and staring into the firewhisky like it was some fucking Trelawney’s crystal orb . As if it might offer something. The truth. Meaning. Clarity. Her voice was quiet, distracted. “But it’s a big deal to him, obviously.”

Ginny eyed him over the rim of her drink, a spark of challenge breaking through the quiet.

“And what about you?” she asked. “Ever been exclusive?”

Severus’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Once.”

She tilted her head. “And?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “ It ended as most ill-advised arrangements do, with one party realising too late what they’d had... and the other unwilling to replace it.”

She studied him for a beat, as if weighing whether to push or drop it.  She’d never asked, never wanted the sort of answer that might come back. She’d assumed there had been others. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

“So you think that’s where I’m headed?”

“I think,” he said, sitting back and exhaling a slow stream of smoke, “you’re intelligent enough to know when you’re being manoeuvred into a corner. Which is why it surprises me you haven’t already decided whether you want to stay there.”

Ginny shifted in her chair, legs curling closer beneath her. “Maybe I don’t see it as a corner.”

His brow rose a fraction. “Then perhaps you’ve mistaken the bars for decoration.”

She gave a faint, humourless laugh. “You make it sound like a prison.”

“Prisons,” Severus said evenly, “rarely announce themselves at the start.”

He let his eyes rest on her a moment longer. “Does he intend to leave his wife?”

“I don’t think so. But I’m… supposed to not engage with others.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“That’s hardly exclusive.” Severus said, his voice flat but with the faintest curl of something behind it.

She gave a faint shrug. “He told me she was irrelevant.”

“Did he now?” Severus and let out a short, derisive sound. His mouth twisted, sceptical. “That’s quite strange.”

He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees “Irrelevant,” he repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it stale. “A convenient label for a woman he still shares a roof with. It spares him the trouble of reconciling his appetites with his conscience.”

Ginny’s mouth tightened. “You make it sound so cheap.”

“Because i tis. Exactly that. Cheap,” he said, leaning forward, the glass balanced in long fingers. “Dressing it up in exclusivity doesn’t change the fact that he’s asking you to operate under rules that benefit him alone.”

She bristled, more from the tone than the content. “You’ve never had a problem breaking rules that benefitted you.”

“That,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into something colder than a smile, “is because I make certain the terms suit me from the start. You, however, appear ready to play by his, without ensuring they suit you in the least.”

She looked down at her drink, rolling the amber liquid once more. “Maybe I don’t mind the terms.”

His gaze held hers, unblinking. “Then you’re in far deeper than you’re admitting. To either of us.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you know if Lucius ever took other lovers? And how it ended?”

“No,” he said, after a pause. “We’ve been friends long enough for me to know that. And I’m Draco’s godfather. What did he promise in return?”

“Exclusivity. Discreetness. His time… and commitment. Focus.”

Severus’s mouth twitched as though he might burst laughing. Trust Lucius to turn seduction into a Ministry-standard negotiation.  The thought lingered in the edge of his amusement, colouring his reply. “Now, that is…. not something I’ve ever seen him do before.”

She hesitated. “If I agree, Severus, it means our… benefits should stop. For now.”

“Should they?” His voice was mild, probing, but there was a hook in it. “Then you’re more resolved than you care to admit.”

Besides, it wasn’t as though there had been many benefits of late.

He leaned back, folding his arms.

There’d been none for the last year. Not once. He wasn’t about to put himself where Potter used to go.

A slow breath left him, more like a sigh he didn’t mean to give. His eyes stayed on her, flat, giving nothing away. “If you agree,” he said at last, “I’ll probably have to look elsewhere for comfort.”

Her breath caught at the phrasing. “Is that it? You want to stop being my friend?”

“No.” His tone lost a shade of its edge, barely enough to notice, though he kept his posture tight and closed. “But as you obviously said, the benefits would have to end. Lucius is a friend. As are you.” He reached for his glass, then set it down. Determined to tell her what exactly this meant to him. “I waited for you long enough, gave you time to sort things with Potter. I should have been more straightforward before.” His eyes found hers again, steady, intent. “I missed my time.”

Ginny shifted in her seat. What she felt after his declaration was something she never felt before. A strange, dull ache somewhere in her chest.  She was not sure how she would look him in the eyes after this. Or if she ever would be able to. What he’d said seemed to sit there between them. Oppressive. Heavy. And very much like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Something in the way he’d said it made her chest pull tight. He didn’t move. Not much, anyway. Just sat there, still in a way that felt… deliberate. Like if he moved too soon, it might give something away. His fingers twitched once on the armrest, then went still again.

For a while they just sat. The quiet in the room felt warm, close. Eventually he put his glass down and got up. She figured that was it. Evening over, door in her face. But no. He came over, slid the glass out of her hand, and pulled her up with him.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. His hand stayed at the back of her neck. She caught hold of his shirt like she wasn’t sure she wanted to let go. He tasted of whisky and the faint bitterness of smoke, whatever he’d been working on earlier. When he pulled back, he didn’t step away. Just kept his arms around her, solid and steady. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in for a moment of comfort.

No more than that. No attempt to go further. Just the solid warmth of him. The quiet. The shared knowledge of what they’d been once. That something changed so much they could not take the same route again.

When he finally stepped back, there was no change in his expression, but she felt the shift between them. Something final, though neither named it.

“Severus,” she said, keeping her tone even. “You and I are still friends. That hasn’t changed.”

 His eyes lingered on her for a long time. Much longer than they should have. She braced herself, expecting something sharp enough to draw blood. Instead, he leaned back. “Friends,” he repeated, as if testing the word. “Very well.”

She knew him well enough to recognise the small shift in his posture. Small. Yet the one that meant he wasn’t finished having thoughts about it. But he wouldn’t voice them, not yet.