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One minute, Hermione was racing down a corridor as if Fiendfyre was chasing her, determined to get as far away from the ballroom where the Ministry’s annual Christmas Gala was taking place. Her heels click-clacked against the tile as she went, almost on autopilot.
And the next…
A wash of magic hit her and she stopped in her tracks, no matter how much she willed her feet to fucking move. She hadn’t been followed – the extra strong Notice-Me-Not had seen to that – so what…?
And then Hermione saw it. There, just a few inches above her head, was a cute little sprig of mistletoe.
She tried everything.
Well…almost everything. Somehow, Hermione didn’t think the Ministry would take too kindly to having a Bombarda cast in the hallway. Even now, years after Harry’d managed to vanquish Voldemort, people were still cautious, perhaps overly so. So no, a Bombarda would simply not do. Damn mistletoe!
A Patronus? Too bloody embarrassing. “Damn it!” Hermione said, so angry she could nearly cry. “Come to the party, she said. You’ll have fun, she said.”
Daphne’s words had been true, for a while. When she’d first arrived, there had been the expected pitying looks, but she hadn’t even had time to focus on them.
“You came!” Harry’d said when he found her, wrapping her in a tight hug.
“Kind of hard not when your girlfriend pops into my Floo and forces me into dress robes,” Hermione said with a rueful chuckle.
“I didn’t force you, Hermione,” Daphne said from beside Harry. “Just…persuaded, that’s all.”
“Oh, of course,” Hermione said with a playful eye-roll. “How could a pointed wand be anything but persuasion?”
Harry chuckled at their banter. “Well, the important thing is, you’re here! And though I may not approve of the tactics,” he said, giving Daphne a look that she pointedly ignored. “I’m glad you made it.”
Hermione tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace as she cast a worried glance around the ballroom.
“No Weasleys or poncey ex-fiancés around yet,” Daphne said, immediately figuring out what her friend was looking for. “And even if they were…so what?”
“Daph –”
“No, you listen to me!” Daphne said, in a rare show of temper. “So what? It’s not your fault that Ron and Ginny couldn’t handle who you fell in love with. It’s not your fault that they hold on to grudges like Devil’s Snare. And it’s certainly not your fault that Draco’s an idiot. So don’t you dare let them chase you off, or dictate if you have a good time. They don’t like it? Tough!”
She tried to hold onto Daphne’s words. She managed to ignore the poisonous look that Ginny tossed her later in the evening when she was dancing with a surprisingly graceful Neville. And when Lavender Brown had greeted her with a surly Ron in tow, she’d managed to ignore his pointed remarks (though it helped that Lavender made it very clear that she wasn’t impressed with his antics).
I can do this, she’d thought.
Until she spotted him.
As always, Draco had shown up late – “The later you get there, the less time you have until it’s over,” he’d said once, before giving her a very good reason for nearly missing the Ministry’s Memorial Gala a few years back.
And he wasn’t alone; there, latched onto his arm like a barnacle, was Marietta Edgecombe.
The rush of memories – the rage when she saw the pictures that had been caught by none other than Dennis Creevey – was too much. So she did the only thing she could think of.
She ran.
Merlin’s beard, I hate these bloody things.
Lucius had always loved Christmas. Though it wasn’t something that he advertised, he’d always loved the atmosphere that the holiday evoked. The only one who enjoyed the holiday more than he did was Narcissa.
She was also the one who’d made these damn Ministry ‘windbag gatherings’ more bearable. Mostly by pointing out the wonderful décor, or whispering innuendo in his ear. Somehow, now that she was gone, they were even more irritating than they had been.
Or maybe they were more irritating because of the looks he garnered – even more vitriolic now that his son had tossed aside his fiancée for that bint, Edgecombe. Looks that seemed to multiply when the aforementioned couple finally managed to grace them all with their presence.
It was that irritation that led him away from the ballroom, desperate to regain control over his temper.
Is he out of his mind? Bloody perfect…as if the Malfoy name didn’t have eno –
“Oof!” He hadn’t seen anyone ahead of him, but sure enough, he’d knocked into someone...right before feeling a wash of magic flow over him.
Hermione had only been dozing for a moment when she felt herself getting knocked back a bit by a warm, solid mass. “Oof!” she said, arms flailing to grab onto the mass in front of her to prevent falling.
“Miss Granger?”
No. No, no, no, no.
She lifted her head, her amber brown eyes meeting Lucius’ own ice blue. “You have got to be kidding me!”
Lucius’s eyebrows narrowed. “Should I have let you fall then?” he said, his ire peaked at her rudeness.
“No…not that, Mr. Malfoy! Look!” she said, nearly hysterical as she pointed above him, where a small sprig of mistletoe hung, almost tauntingly so.
“Damn,” he muttered. For Merlin’s sake! Who puts Mistletoe in the middle of a bloody corridor?
He hadn’t been involved with anyone since his wife’s death at the hand of a relative of one of the many victims of the Death Eaters in Diagon Alley shortly after her pardon. He’d become an utter recluse, and no one had caught his attention.
Until Draco had insisted on bringing his then-girlfriend to dinner once at the newly renovated Manor, which had been thoroughly gutted and remodeled.
When he’d seen her standing in the foyer, his breath had caught as he took her in. Her once wild hair that reminded him far too much of Bellatrix had settled into loose, manageable curls and she’d gone from the drastically underweight waif he’d seen in his drawing room to a woman with curves in all the right places. And her eyes…instead of fear, they held lightening in their depths.
He’d hated himself then. Get ahold of yourself, man! She could be your daughter…
“Bloody fantastic…caught under the bloody mistletoe at this bloody party with the one person who hates me more than Ron and Ginny combined. Merlin’s beard! I never should have –”
“What on Earth are you on about?” Lucius said. The irritation was back full force as he realized exactly what she’d said. “For Merlin’s sake! You were going to marry my son, Miss Granger.”
“And I’m sure you were thrilled when he replaced me with that…sneak,” she said hotly, crossing her arms.
Lucius quirked an eyebrow in surprise. He’d once caught Miss Edgecombe in one of the powder rooms in the manor, trying desperately to cover some old scars that spelled out the word that Miss Granger had just hissed out like his former master’s favorite pet. But all too quickly, his attention was diverted as her arms crossed, hoisting her bust just a little higher.
The navy dress she’d worn that evening hugged every curve, the sweetheart neckline showing just enough to remain modest but more than enough to tease. Her lips, now turned in a frown, were painted a burgundy red, reminding him all too much of his favorite Merlot.
And her eyes…
He didn’t know if it was fury or embarrassment, but her whiskey-colored eyes danced with fire and heat that seared into him, making his blood boil.
“Hardly. Miss Edgecombe doesn’t compete with you in any way, Mis…Hermione.”
Years of fighting for her life had taught her one thing: Expect the unexpected.
But nothing could have ever prepared her for that.
The words came out in a molten purr, and she squirmed under his appraising gaze, which got hotter the longer he looked at her. “Why?” she murmured.
“Do you really need me to enumerate every reason?” The mistletoe and her almost fall had them close enough, but he seemed to get impossibly closer. “We’d be here all night…mistletoe be damned.”
Heat pooled in her belly. Good God, woman, get ahold of yourself! He was going to be your father-in-law.
But that’s not the case now, is it?
Even before she and Draco had even thought of getting together, she’d always been very aware of how incredibly handsome Lucius Malfoy was. As her relationship with Draco continued and Lucius became a more frequent presence, she often caught herself comparing the two.
“If you don’t hate me…why did you oppose our engagement?”
In a flash, Lucius’ face shifted to something that could only describe as “careful discomfort.” For a moment, he was quiet. “Draco may be my son…but son or not…he was not the one for you.”
Her breath caught. “Oh? And who is then?”
Lucius studied her for a moment. “Someone who can match you. Someone who can push you further and not be afraid of being outshined. Who recognizes your brilliance and refuses to accept anything less. Someone who would worship your beauty.”
His hand gently brushed a stray curl from her face, and before she could respond, he pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss.
On instinct, her arms wrapped around his neck as she deepened the kiss which shook her to her very core.
The two barely noticed as the magic welding them to the floor dissipated, focused instead on each other.
His tongue danced against hers, insistent but not demanding. And for the first time in days, her heart jolted to life, nearly pounding out of her chest.
When they finally broke apart for much needed air, she released a breathy sigh.
And in that moment, all they could think was:
God Bless Mistletoe.