Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).


Second disclaimer: Not only is this fic not the work of J. K. Rowling, it is not the work of Vera Rozalsky, who writes serious, socially conscious fan-fic epics and not silly, silly sex farces with broad hints about kinky stuff and borderline out-of-character travesties of beloved (or in the case of Lucius Malfoy, despised) characters from the Harry Potter universe.

Dedication: This parody Lucius/Hermione fic is dedicated to (or blamed on) tenoh27, a lively reviewer and correspondent, whose messages are infused with an electronic Potion to spontaneously generate plot bunnies (sort of a fic-writer's Amortentia).

Rating and content warnings: Just to be safe, we'll call it M for Many References to Kinky Things, as well as Miscellaneous Family Dysfunction. ("Mature" has nothing to do with it.) As well, we assign a P for Pure Crack.

Genre warning: As for the question of whether this is a cracked-out Lucius/Hermione or an only somewhat less cracked-out Draco/Hermione, we will leave that to the sages who attend to such questions.


Draco broke it off with Hermione because he was getting sick from all of the Polyjuice.

He regretted that, for it had been the affair of a lifetime. He'd always had a thing for Granger, ever since she slapped him in third year and his fantasy sex life really took off, with visions of what else she might do to him if appropriately provoked. His personal favorite involved her giving him a good spanking… in the Great Hall, in front of everybody, including her side-kicks Potter and Weasley. He sighed, thinking about how that one had always worked without fail, no matter how tired or distracted he was ...

It wasn't until a year after the end of the war, that they bumped into each other in the distinctly dodgy Shrieking Skull, in Knockturn Alley, while engaged in the attempt to drown their respective sorrows in Old Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey.

He'd been drowning his sorrows because his mother had just left his father, for a Weasley no less. Percy Weasley. It was about sex, of course, and her secret kinks, and Skeeter had been threatening to splash it across the front pages of the Prophet. That had upset his father, who'd been out Galleons he couldn't afford for the cost of the cover-up. Money troubles always always put Lucius in a foul mood, and Lucius in a foul mood was nothing Draco wanted to spend time in the house with, so instead he went out.

Granger had been drowning her sorrows because she had finally broken it off with the Weasel. She had four shots of firewhisky lined up on the bar in front of her, and she was knocking them back with scientific precision while consulting uptake timelines for the alcohol and component Potions, magically calibrated to her body weight.

He thought that was a niggling swotty approach to the problem of getting drunk, and said so.

Oh, yes, and (remembering that she was Muggle-born) it was distinctly Mugglish into the bargain. Muggles were always consulting timetables of one sort or another, which struck him as a low practice.

She said that he was welcome to his anti-Muggle prejudices, but she meant to get stinking drunk and wished to do it without vomiting or toxic blackout. Properly looked at, getting stinking drunk was an optimization problem in applied toxicology, but in reverse.

If he knew what she meant.

And if he didn't, he should stop sneering and have a go at rectifying his ignorance.

He was already drunk enough to be fascinated, and decided, strictly in the name of inter-House unity, deference to a post-war Power, and reckless curiosity, to have a go.

The result was the most optimized, glorious drunkenness he had ever attained, in the course of which he lost his inhibitions far enough to tell her all about his adolescent fantasies about her teaching him a lesson, while a tiny voice transmitting from near-earth orbit asked him if maybe he might regret that in the morning. He ignored it, because it was so plainly wrong, and proceeded to give Granger the unexpurgated list of everything he'd ever imagined provoking her to do to him.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You're telling me that you were an insufferable racist prat just to get my attention?"

"Not entirely, Granger. There was the Pureblood way of life and all that." This with a sweeping gesture that somehow took in the Dark Mark on his left forearm, the dodgy pub (a known haunt for those reckoned too murky for the Hog's Head), and his own impeccable robes, that still managed a bit of Death Eater Chic. He was fitted out in black and silver with touches of green, like a proper Slytherin Old Boy, a look that in his opinion never went out of style.

"And what about assassinating Dumbledore?"

"Extracurricular activity. Call it an internship. Really, Granger, it's not all about you."

She frowned, and if he'd been sober, he would have cleared out. It was a good thing that he was drunk, because next, to his immense astonishment, she proceeded to tell him what she'd imagined doing to him, in a languorous, dangerous voice and copious technical detail.

He and she were remarkably compatible, for all their differences in social background, upbringing, and political convictions.

He liked to be spanked and tied up; she fancied the notion of spanking him and tying him up—him in particular—which was rather arousing and also sort of romantic, that he'd entered her personal sexual pantheon as the original Bad Boy Who Needed to Be Taught a Lesson.

And she was saying things that made him pay attention.

Back at her flat, she had a nice collection of restraints in luxurious fabrics, including a selection of Hogwarts school ties. Except for Slytherin, of course. Would he be interested in making a donation—or better yet, a temporary loan? And if he were interested, he might additionally volunteer as the model in a practical demonstration of that addition to the collection...

Oh yes, he was interested. Never mind he could have Splinched himself Apparating, drunk, back home to the Manor to rummage through his school trunk for those ties; it was more than worth it for the gleam in her eyes when she saw the green and silver fabric in his hands.

And it was definitely worth it, for the way she grabbed his wrist and hustled them out of the Shrieking Skull into the alley designated for Apparation, not to mention other activities (for those who were feeling a bit more urgent about their assignations).

Not to mention the vigorous slap on the bum she gave him by way of pledge, just before she pulled him close and Side-along Apparated them to her flat.

They didn't get out of bed for days, and he didn't sit comfortably for days after that. It was the beginning of a wonderful relationship.


The germ of the trouble was Granger's damned obsession with Pureblood culture, and her low taste for gossip. She called it espionage or opposition research, but it was gossip. Working at the Ministry, you couldn't but hear rumors about the predilections of certain individuals, and his father ranked high on that list. How else to say it but that Lucius Malfoy had a certain reputation? Draco was perfectly well aware of the rumors, but no one had ever proven anything, and he wasn't going to dignify that sort of scurrilous nonsense with a denial.

Which as it turns out was a major tactical error in dealing with Hermione.

(Yes, he thought of her as Hermione now, although she insisted he call her Granger in bed.)

Of course, Purebloods being Purebloods, they weren't going to specify the kinks in question to an outsider, a Mudblood. (Yes, he did use that word, but only in bed, because it featured prominently in their games of "punish the naughty Slytherin.") That left rather a lot to Hermione's imagination, and leaving things to Hermione's imagination was not a good idea, because she had a very creative and inventive imagination, not to mention access to excellent research libraries on both sides of the Leaky Cauldron.

Which is how Draco came to be taking Polyjuice every Friday night so as to impersonate his father for weekend-long marathons of debauchery, involving ever more elaborate scenarios and esoteric equipment. It didn't help in the least to protest that his father wasn't like that, that he was dull and rather a wet blanket, a bit of a nag about Draco keeping to his studies and finishing first in all his classes. If Lucius was going to go to the trouble to grovel to the Dark Lord and commit genocide on the Mudbloods, then his son was bloody well going to take advantage of his father's hard work, and was that understood?

No, his father had not beaten him.

No, his father had not struck him with the famous snake cane.

Yes, his father was something of a domestic tyrant, but the bullying was all shame and guilt based, with the occasional hint about disinheritance: the usual Roman Governor treatment meted out to disappointing sons of noble houses. To judge from what she said, the Muggle aristocracy was no different.

The problem was that the Malfoys as a family did have that unfortunate reputation as liars. Some regrettable ancestor, in a fit of defiance, had encoded it in the family name, long before Draco's forebears had crossed the Channel as consulting necromancers to the expeditionary forces of William the Conqueror. As a result of this oppressive weight of family tradition, Hermione did not believe him.

And she didn't seem to care that he was getting sick from knocking back Polyjuice all weekend every weekend, which was just insensitive and selfish on her part. And there was the difficulty of having to harvest hairs from his father's vanity table every week; at some point he was going to be caught at it …

It wasn't that the sex wasn't fantastic, but it bothered him that she was developing this sick obsession with his father. It was almost as if she didn't see him any more.

And that hurt his feelings, as did the implication that his crashingly dull father was kinkier than he was. One fatal Thursday night they had a spat and he said, "Well, Hermione, why don't you go sample the original? Because it isn't me you want."

To his dismay, she took him up on the offer.


Acknowledgment of debts: The Shrieking Skull is nicked from a wonderful, noir-ish fic called "Yes, Draco, There is a Santa Claus" by Silver Sailor Ganymede, which except for opening in the same dodgy pub, has nothing to do with mine (for one thing, it's serious). Lucius Malfoy's reputation for kink is canon… I mean fanon. Everybody knows he's like that.