Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I'm actually fairly certain JKR would not approve of my treatment of them in this story. I apologize. Miss Rowling, you are a goddess—please don't hurt me.
A/N: Okay, so you know how people say they are plagued by plot bunnies? Well, for me, this was slightly similar to that, only my bunnies are dark and disturbed and generally more than a little bit depraved. I do not normally indulge such wicked little bunnies, but this one was just calling out to me. I'm actually somewhat pleased with it, though I don't doubt many of you will hate it. Heed the warnings, and read on only if you're not immediately turned off.
Warnings: Slightly dark (or maybe very dark, depending on your perspective), nonviolent, nongraphic non-con (lots of nons there), implied mental instability, etc, etc.
Lucius Malfoy was a patient man.
He had learned long ago that committing to do something meant taking the time to do it properly. He had also learned that, despite his considerable wealth and influence, taking ownership of a thing—real, complete ownership, was often much more complex than a simple exchange of galleons. People, for example, were much more complicated to own than one might think. One could buy a slave, but that wasn't the same as truly owning that person, body and soul. And to Lucius, willingly taking ownership of another human being was the absolute height of compliments. It was not done frequently, and never taken lightly.
So when he finally decided to make her his, he gathered his substantial patience, his cunning, his restraint, and he waited. Owning her physically would be the first, necessary step, and by far the simplest. The rest would come in time.
The first week, she fought.
When she awoke that first morning, groggy and disoriented and dressed in a simple white satin nightgown, she was understandably distraught to find him waiting patiently at the foot of the bed, watching the awareness dawn in her wide, hazel eyes with a small, controlled smile.
When he first touched her, a soft, careful caress of her bare arm, she flinched and shrieked before lashing out at him, her small fists flying with surprising strength. He would not strike her, could not curse her, having left his wand outside the heavily warded room, nor would he if he could. He bore the brunt of her attack calmly, using his superior strength and weight to restrain her, holding her down until she was exhausted from her efforts, sweating and shaking beneath him. When her movements became slurred and weak, he took his time, slowly exploring and worshipping her trembling body, paying little heed to her feeble protests.
Hours later, when he finally claimed her, she fought back with a resurgence of strength, but he held her to him tightly, holding himself inside of her until she exhausted herself once more. He took his time with her, careful not to bruise her fragile body, while she shook with anger against him.
The second week, she begged.
Her physical attempts at stopping his advances were weak, tinted with the solid awareness that she could not fight him off physically. So she begged. She pleaded and bargained and questioned while he continued his on-going exploration and adulation of her soft skin. She wanted to know why, what he wanted, when he would stop, what would happen to her when he did. He answered each question with a silent stroke of his fingers through her hair, a hot, open mouthed kiss on her breast. When he claimed her again, despite her attempts at dissuasion, she cried and cried; great heaving sobs that shook her small frame. The tears unending rolled down her flushed cheeks, and he tasted them all.
The second month, she complied.
She was no longer shocked or afraid when he came to her at night. Her lovely face no longer registered any emotion whatsoever at his appearance. She lay silent and quite still, her body warm and pliant beneath his as he continued his ongoing ministrations. Pleased with the way she had yielded to him at last, at least physically, he rewarded her. Her emotional block allowed the pleasure of his actions to really register, for once, and he eventually broke through her silence, smiling triumphantly against her as she sobbed out her orgasm, her smooth thighs clamped tight around his flaxen head.
The sixth month, she responded.
It's amazing what isolation can do to a person. How living for extended periods of time in contact with only one human being can anchor you to that one person in strange and unreasonable ways. He would watch her closely as he entered her room, her wide eyes lost and frightened until focusing on him, then lighting up with recognition and a flicker of relief. She did not come to him, but when he came to her, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him close and purring softly at his touch. She was slowly losing herself to him, disconnecting from the part of her mind that would always hate and fear him. He was all she had, and she was slowly, but surely giving herself over to him.
The eleventh month, she let go.
He came back to her after a three day absence; the longest they'd been apart since he'd brought her home. He entered her room to find her rocking steadily in a tense ball on the floor, one of his shirts clutched tightly in her pale hands, eyes clinched shut as slow, silent tears streaked down her cheeks. As the door clicked closed, her hazel eyes flew open and she stilled her rocking, staring up at him with frantic appreciation in her eyes for the reprieve from his absence. In half a second she had crossed the room, throwing herself into his arms, where he held her tightly, stroking her soft curls and shushing her quietly as she sobbed against him.
"D-don't ever leave me!"
Smiling against her hair, he tilted her head back for a gentle kiss then led her, for the first time, from her room for a tour of the manor. She followed closely, small hand encased in his, as he showed her the finer points of her new home.
The fourteenth month, they came for her.
He was sitting in the large armchair in the library with her curled up in his lap as they quietly read from the same book, when the large doors were nearly blasted off their hinges by a group of aurors, headed by the Chosen One himself, his green eyes flashing with fury, the air crackling around him with raw magic as he spotted her sitting in his lap.
Lucius watched awareness and recognition dawn in her eyes as she smiled faintly at the furious boy, but still, she made no move to leave her perch. There was much shouting as the team of aurors surrounded them, ripping her away though she clung desperately to Lucius' strong arms. He, however, did not fight. He waited, patiently and calmly as he was placed under arrest and she was dragged from the room, sobbing and struggling and reaching for him even as the doors banged shut behind her.
Two days later, he was released. The aurors grudgingly returned him to his home, angrily admitting that no charges would be pressed, no trial would be necessary. Lucius smiled coldly from his foyer as they left. Levitating the large chair from the library, their chair, and placing it just before the front doors, he sat. And he waited.
She arrived on his doorstep, her St. Mungo's patient's gown sodden from the night's rain and clinging to her soft curves, clutching a stolen wand, pale, shaken, and out of breath. Her wide, hazel eyes locked onto his when the door opened, her lower lip trembling as he stepped forward to cup her frozen cheek. The terror slowly faded from her gaze as he rubbed smoothing circles over her skin with his warm thumb, fading to be replaced with relief and absolute adoration.
Her voice was hoarse from crying when she whispered up at him, "I missed you."
He took her in his arms, laying slow kisses across her forehead and into her hair, sighing with contentment and satisfaction. "Mine. My Hermione."
Yes, true ownership is a complicated thing, but Lucius Malfoy has always been a patient man.