Title: Sleeps With Butterfly Ghosts
Author: ajuxliapose
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: 20. Lucius dies in Azkaban prison and haunts Hermione as a ghost.
Summary:  It is part of your Healer training to treat inmates of Azkaban. Hermione meets the man she helped to imprison ten years ago and learns even in death, pride is still everything.
Warnings (if any): Rated for sex.
Notes: Thank you to L. Emini, Neeta and Sarah for the great beta job.

They sailed to the island; floating over murky, grey water that barely rippled as the boat made its steady way. Hermione Granger, the youngest passenger, wrung her hands in fearful anticipation at the thought of arriving at Azkaban so soon. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong, she was only a visitor, a Healer. Sharing the vessel was her supervisor and an old wizard under a hooded cloak, rubbing his hands to fight the cold as he steered them to this living hell.

The boat moved agonisingly slowly while the cold January mist imposed itself upon their skin. The supervisor wiggled her toes and tried to shake her body into warmth while making small talk, an effort to which only the old man responded. Hermione stayed quiet. She felt her stomach twisting, knowing she would face old enemies, though most of these dead. No one lived past ninety in Azkaban. She didn’t know if her heart could bear to see the emaciated, half-dead men and women, even though they were there of their own doing, lolling into corners of the room, blankly staring as they were dragged into worlds and memories they had tried so hard to forget.

It was part of being a Healer – you had to treat everybody, despite their allegiances, their beliefs, and (more often than not) their poor manners. Maybe it was some sort of initiation – every young Healer had to go to Azkaban – it was an insult to the profession to call yourself a Healer if you didn’t go, Hermione thought. She straightened, aware of being assessed. Her eyes brightened and she tried to talk herself into relishing the challenge.

The cold was nearly unbearable. Hermione tried to stop the shivering and the chattering of her teeth, pulling her thick cloak further in and grateful she could wear trousers and thermal underwear underneath the wizarding clothes. It would be so much worse without it. She looked to the old man sailing the boat; the cold didn’t seem to bother him apart from the hand rubbing. Maybe he had used a warming charm, or as her father would joke, had extra insulation from his hairy body. Suppressing a giggle at one of her childhood memories of poking her father’s hairy tummy, she turned her thoughts onto the sort of illnesses she might be treating and hoped she had the right potions with her. There was no point thinking happy thoughts to fight dementors and the general atmosphere of the place. It would overpower her anyway. She had to keep it professional.

Azkaban had not been visible in the fog. The most they had been able to see was the shadow of a huge, monstrous presence. Even walking to the gates, where two dementors stood, only the outline of the wrecked building was clear. The dementors turned to each visitor, and advanced; Hermione’s supervisor shuddered and closed her eyes. When it was her turn, Hermione felt chilled to the very bone, feeling empty inside apart from the sorrow and anger that consumed her while she remembered the fights and the deaths during the war, only for her to be slapped and shaken by her elder.

“You have to stop that! What are you going to be like when you’re inside? Keep thinking of good things – like when you’re out of here,” she hissed, grabbing Hermione’s jaw.

All Hermione could do was whimper and try to nod, before the woman released her, pushing in front, following the dementor, further into the greyness.

The cold only stopped a little once they were inside because the walls blocked the wind – the chill of the dementors was ever present. The two women and the dementor moved through corridors and corridors of stone, bars and half-dead people. Some stood at the bars to see what was happening, others not caring at all, not even looking at them. Their hope that the ministry was going to enter and tell them they were innocent was long gone.

“The first patient is just along here,” the supervisor said to Hermione, looking through a scroll she had pulled from her cloak. They stopped as the dementor caressed the locks of the man’s cell; she wished it would all be over.

But it got worse.

“Is that a Mudblood I smell?” slurred a familiar voice. Hermione looked up to see a grey haired man sitting in the middle of his cell. “It looks like Miss Granger from this distance. Can never escape the hair, can we young lady?”

“It’s none of your business,” Hermione retorted before she finally managed to enter the cell next door.

She tended to the patient, who seemed to be in the most virulent stage of cancer – all she could do was to give him a calming and painkilling draught. Hermione didn’t recognise him from the war, and so opened her heart to allow him pity, he had surely been in a lot of pain, though mute. Throughout the whole examination however, all she could hear was coughing. It got more strained and haggard as the minutes drew on, until Hermione thought enough was enough. She didn’t care who it was, she was going to treat them.

She turned to her supervisor, “Who is that coughing?”

“I think it’s the man in the next cell, I will go and investigate.”

It was not usual policy to leave a Healer alone with a prisoner, but the man was too sick to move.  Hermione bent down to him and gave him an extra dose of draught and slipped some in pill form.

“It’s Lucius Malfoy,” the woman said as she re-entered. Hermione felt her heart sink; she had now agreed to treat him when she asked about it. After squeezing her patient’s hand in goodbye and wishing him well for his next life, she picked up her bag and moved to the next cell, bracing herself against the rising anger and memories of this man. He leered at her as she entered the cell. She stopped to face him, hands on hips, glaring.

“What’s the matter with you?” she snapped.

“Cough… Miss,” he said deliberately.

“I heard. Sounds nasty. Is there any blood when you cough?” Her tone was crisp and business like. She wanted him to think that he couldn’t frustrate or anger or rattle her. She was a woman now with self control. Hermione hoped he could see that.

He looked at her with contempt and opened his hands which were covered in splatters of fresh and dry blood. She asked him to turn around and strip to the waist. It was by the look he gave her that she knew how deep his feelings of hatred ran.

His tattered robes slipped from his shoulders from where he had lost so much weight easily. Hermione could see the flabby skin from where he had been much broader and a line of knobbles where his spine was. She wasn’t much for degenerating bodies, but she watched Malfoy, transfixed. How strong he had looked when he was fighting in the Department of Mysteries could not leave her. Against her better nature, she felt overwhelming sadness, especially when he looked up at her with his same, superior grey eyes. How could he look like this and be in such a place and still think he was above her?

Her hands were now flat on his back, stethoscope at the ready.

“Breathe in, please.”

He did, and tried to stifle a little cough. Hermione frowned. She packed the instrument away and turned to take some bottles from her bag. One of them was a bottle of cream that allowed vision to the inside of the wearer’s chest. She didn’t want to rub the cream into him, but he didn’t look strong enough to do it himself. It seemed just a little too intimate to touch him like that. They hated each other, but he needed her now. Even if he wasn’t going to survive, he needed her to make him as comfortable as possible.

Gingerly, she dropped the cream on, rubbing tentatively with just her fingertips. He coughed a little more. She could feel his lungs heaving. This wasn’t good. She suspected a chest infection, but in conditions like Azkaban, it could easily progress to things like pneumonia or worse. It was taken as a given, that inmates at the prison were not allowed to be admitted into St. Mungo’s. It was too dangerous and nobody wanted dementors around to guard them. Becoming more relaxed, she placed both hands on his chest and rubbed deeper. It wasn’t until she realised it was rubbing dry, that she realised she was lingering. Embarrassed, she took her wand and waved it over his chest.

It was worse than she had expected.

“I’m afraid you have pleurisy, and it’s bad.” Hermione said gently, though no sweet speaking could lessen the blow.

He didn’t respond. Maybe he knew already, she thought.

“I don’t think there’s anything much we can do for you,” she said sadly. “It’s in a very advanced stage, but I can make you comfortable and give you something to recover your lungs as best as they can. Living in these conditions isn’t good for you and you won’t get better. Any questions you want to ask?”

Lucius just stared at her. “I’m going to die.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “We’re all going to die one day.”

“Yes. You’re right about that...” Lucius said slowly, looking almost apathetic to his situation.

She didn’t know what else to say, so she started to write instructions for the pills and potions he would have to take. Turning to her supervisor, she asked if Malfoy was in a fit state to be responsible for his own medication. Lucius interrupted that he wasn’t that incapacitated yet, so Hermione handed him the instructions before finishing arranging her bag and walking out with only a nod to him.

As soon as the cell door was banged shut, Hermione collapsed against the nearest wall, shaking. She couldn’t believe she had done that so coolly. That man had contributed to the loss of her last years of adolescence; he had killed and controlled people who she knew. So many times in her dreams, even now, she would dream of destroying him, and now he was dying, it didn’t feel as good as she thought.

There had been so many daydreams and fantasies of her catching him after the downfall of Voldemort, his most faithful followers trying to carry on their master’s wishes. It had taken months to catch him.

But now – she was feeling pity. She wanted to help him and couldn’t understand why – she hated him, his arrogant beliefs that marginalised her, made her feel small and stupid at times when she was in school and then later in Healer training. All the hate from him and his son was directed onto her just because she wasn’t born to a rich wizarding family, which wasn’t her fault. There could be no forgiveness; she had hardened her heart to Death Eaters long ago.

After making sure that she was all right, her supervisor led her out of Azkaban by the hand, scolding the shivering young woman for letting the dementors take her over. Not considering Hermione’s past, a sidekick to Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived. She just thought that Hermione was letting too many bad memories get to her and if the girl was going to be a Healer, she was going to have to deal with that, or it would be obvious that she didn’t have what it took.

What had shaken Hermione so much was her compassion for the dying men and women of Azkaban, some of whom she had hated with her whole being. How could she change her mind? How could she start to see the shades of grey after so long? It hurt her to think she was turning soft – what next? Would she support their cause? It was treacherous to feel the way she did.

She remained silent on the boat back to land, and didn’t talk for the rest of the day – she couldn’t express the new feelings and thoughts that she had, not just for Malfoy, but the disgust with herself. Hermione put herself to bed after a lot of vodka and Chaka Kahn when her shift was over.

After that drunken episode - which included a lot of crying, expressing years of repressed anger and grief for the whole situation, Voldemort, destruction of lives before and after the war she had fought in - Hermione knew she had to pull herself together. Stop thinking about Malfoy, about what Azkaban was really like inside, the effects the dementors had on her and the gratuitous pity she thought she was feeling. So she went to work as normal, though with a hangover and apologised to her supervisor for the previous day’s behaviour. She was quickly forgiven and the day carried on as normal after that, seeing hypochondriac patients and treating trivial complaints. Despite that, Hermione really enjoyed her job. It was quiet and she got to use her mind in the logical way she liked – searching for different remedies and cures for the more sensitive patients. It wasn’t just veelas who were sensitive to penicillin – but werewolves and goblins too.

                                                            ***

Days passed and Hermione managed to put the incident in Azkaban out of her mind. It was just a nasty encounter; she was sure every Healer had to treat an enemy. She carried on seeing patients and keeping on top of her paper work, giving the notes to her supervisor before Friday afternoon, the deadline for processing. She liked to keep on top of things so that her weekend was as stress free as possible. Tonight, she would meet Harry and Ron for dinner in a trendy Muggle restaurant, she had insisted – their gnocchi was deemed legendary.

It was a fun night. She hadn’t seen her boys for a few weeks because of their work, and it was nice to see them again. The three of them laughing together, excitedly gabbling about their lives and plans for the future. Ron had suggested that the three of them go away in the summer, maybe camping. Harry was talking about a pet dog he had saved from an attack on a house. The owners of the house had been killed in the incident, the animal found in the back garden. Hermione and Ron were shocked by this, not that Harry had a pet, but he had taken a dead person’s animal. Harry then divulged that it was not him stealing, but the dog either stayed with him or went to the Abandoned Animal’s Home for Wizards. Being an Auror in peace time meant a lot of duties like this, sometimes becoming involved animal rescue.

The night ended all too quickly for all three of them. Hermione staggered out of the restaurant partly due to her high heels and partly through drunkenness. Ron held her up and the three of them made their way to an alleyway where they all Apparated to their separate houses, vowing to see each other as soon as possible.

Hermione came home to her empty flat, the lights off, a now ancient Crookshanks slowly ambling over to welcome her home. She picked up the cat and turned on her radio to the Wizarding Wireless Network. McBroom, the latest wizarding boy-band was finishing off their debut song. It was a catchy tune, and Hermione began to twirl Crookshanks around the living room in a waltz. The cat yowled, so she stopped to stroke the animal instead.

The song stopped and the next item was the news. It was a mundane run down of the day’s events in the wizarding world.  It was strangely comforting knowing in a time of peace there was only silly news. It might annoy her at times, but she checked herself – no news was good news.

The last item on the bulletin made Hermione stand still. Her blood ran cold.

‘One of the last known aides of He Who Must Not Be Named, Lucius Malfoy, has died of pleurisy in Azkaban. He was 52. There are very few surviving Death Eaters….’

Hermione felt relief washing over her. The few remaining followers were dying out, the evil of Voldemort slowly dispersing.

Yet she still felt sad. What a waste of a life. Without being a Death Eater, he had so much going for him – he was rich for starters – why didn’t he use that rumoured library for good - learning? He was good looking and Hermione supposed he must have been charming. Why use it to rid their world of people like her? She would never understand it.

She decided to forget the whole thing and go to bed. She was getting soft, feeling sorry for a dead Death Eater. Peace was making her silly and vulnerable.

There was a fireplace in her room. She flicked her wand to start a fire, not wanting to change in the cold. The room warmed, and Hermione felt confident to undress. She was still a little drunk from the meal. She didn’t drink often: she didn’t like the taste and red wine stained her teeth and from the previous day’s incident, she still felt a little tender.

She let the dress slip from her body, listening to the ruffle, the fabric skimming her figure. Leaving her silky slip as a nightdress, she got into bed, enjoying the sensations of cotton and satin on her legs. It was now she could turn into the woman that had desires, bedtime. Hermione could stop thinking about work, and stop worrying about her friends and money and where she would find her next boyfriend. Still being on the right side of twenty and a Muggle, it was ingrained into her that she should at least be in a serious relationship. In the wizarding world, there was nothing wrong with her, but she still felt like a failure.

She tossed and turned, trying to sleep. It felt like hours, but she fell into a groggy stupor. It was cold as well. Hermione started to shiver even though her sheets covered her and they were especially warm for the winter. After years of living with ghosts at Hogwarts, she knew it was exactly that in her room. Hermione screwed her eyes shut. The presence felt malevolent - she wasn’t used to being in the company of ghosts anymore. What if it was a Muggle ghost?

The cold got more intense, pressure on her body. She could swear someone was sitting on her. Something that felt like fingers running through her hair, the gentle rush of a voice hushing her, trying to calm her, encourage her to open her eyes and look at whatever it was.

The face that had haunted her for the past few days was staring at her. He was looking into her eyes almost tenderly. Hermione felt herself freeze. He hated her, he was going to hurt her, but how could he? He was a ghost.  Lucius moved towards her, his lips touching hers.

Then all of a sudden, it was like he had become a real man again, pulling her body towards him, sensing his hot skin underneath the soft robes. The ghost was gone and Hermione didn’t know if he was real or if she was imagining he was. All the rage and the sorrow and pain of the years bubbled up into one insatiable feeling of desire; she knew she had to have him. He wanted her – she could hardly keep him waiting, he had come from the dead just for her. She was special.

She wanted to stop thinking. How had it happened? She attempted to remember passages of books, but it was no use. Caught up in the moment, she kissed him back with more vigour than she had ever kissed anyone before, pushing him back, crunching the pair into the foot of the bed.

He started to touch her, his fingers traced the lines in her jaw and smoothed down her neck, making her throw back her head and moan slightly. He took in the curves of her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, growling as he started to grab at her more greedily. He wasn’t an aristocrat anymore, death had taken away the inhibitions, it was just him now and all he was now was a feeling given a body, able now to express himself in the way he had always wanted to. He could roar and scream and take her and bruise her and mark her as his own. Express hatred with inflicting pain and the confusion of him wanting her with kisses and touching.

Maybe it had never occurred to him that she might not have wanted to have been his. But he never stopped for reassurance because she kissed back; she ran her hands over his body, felt muscle, teased around his crotch area and looked at him in a way that couldn’t have said it clearer what she wanted. There were no words. There didn’t need to be. He was obviously in a body at the time of his physical peak. She wanted him to hold her and treat her harder, rougher. Just before he died, he wouldn’t have had the strength to touch her face, and now he was tearing into her clothes, unable to wait any longer.

She helped him remove her slip; she hadn’t wanted him to tear it off, but she didn’t care. She was ready for him, but wanted more before he committed his body to hers. She wanted to touch it more, lick the skin, see how much harder she could get him, push him to the limit to when he could no longer take it and had to thrust into her.

He nearly screamed outright when her figure was completely revealed to him. She didn’t seem shy about being naked, didn’t look like she wanted to hide from his hungry stare. He was enjoying just looking at her like this. Her skin was unmarked and perfectly pearly smooth, just like Narcissa before she gave birth to Draco. Her breasts were round and full, just the way he liked them. What about in between her legs? Would he dare touch her there yet? Did he want to make her wait? Prolong the feelings, attempt to frustrate her until she took over completely? He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to dominate. He wanted it to be his moment. She was one of the last people to see him looking so sick and helpless. He had to prove himself, and it would be him who would take that lead.

She thought that something bad might happen soon if he didn’t touch her. Hermione felt her clitoris throb, so she reached down, hoping Malfoy might notice that she needed him. He did see, and he cruelly slapped her hand away, and deftly pinned her wrists together above her head. Lucius’s eyes met with hers, they bored into her, telling her he already had something planned. All she could do was to bite her lip and nod as if she understood.

He kissed her again, more gently than before, dragging his lips to her neck and slowly down her body, paying particular attention to her chest, letting his warm tongue tease her, then lightly nipping and sucking just to make her gasp. He carried on until he felt her hips buck with impatience. There was a difference between teasing to frustration and teasing to anger. Further making his way down, he planted wet kisses along her stomach, then biting into the young skin, leaving bright red bites, Hermione screamed at the first bite, and then whimpered at the rest. She wanted it more though. She wanted to be told with bites and rough gestures how much he wanted her.  He stopped as he reached her legs, looked up at her and grinned. She knew now what he was going to do and hoped that she wouldn’t come too soon. She loved the sensation of tongue upon her most sensitive part.

Lucius teased her more, kissing around her, touching anywhere apart from her vagina. Hermione moaned softly, quietly pleading for more. She thought the suspense might kill her if he didn’t. Then he plunged his tongue into her and began to circle around her nub, at certain places, she groaned more, and with a flick, he started to concentrate on that one area, and looked up to see her face. Hermione’s face was screwed up and she was shaking, her voice trembling as she tried to stop herself screaming. The touch of his mouth was electric, snapping explosions to her back, and then sending waves to the rest of her body. She never wanted him to stop. If he carried on just a bit longer, she might just….

He pulled away; he watched her face turn from ecstasy to pure fury. She hadn’t left the stage from where she felt she had been reduced to an animal, departed from all body and mind and left only with sensation. He kissed her roughly, making her taste her own fluid, only pulling away as she realised she was. Hermione pulled at his hair and beat on his chest. She wanted more. How dare he leave her like that? He was going to get his sick kicks by leaving her in this state? He couldn’t. She would make him stay.

Determined now to give what she had got, hoping that if she touched him and made him weak through lust, he would fuck her. He had to. He couldn’t leave her now. Surely whatever made him come back to his body would give him more time with this. If only she could do something that would make his dick stand up bigger and harder than ever before.

Lucius was still staring at her, now expectantly. Hermione’s eyes lidded to cat-like slits and she crawled over to the other end of the bed where he was sitting, playing with himself through his robes. She advanced towards him, crying out as she tore his fine robes, finding the strength to tear such thick fabric. His belt stuck, she knew it was worthless trying to fumble with that. She started to work on his under trousers, pulling at the waist, the silk caressing over his legs. He loved the feeling of that. He never wore underwear; the silk stroked his cock too. It was already up, and Hermione was pleased she had something to work with. She started slowly, proving that she could tease too. He loved it, and begged for more, for her to speed up, her hand furiously moving up and down his shaft while he lay back and relaxed, gripping at her shoulders and free hand whenever she moved her hands in a way he liked.

He didn’t make a sound, just gripped when pleasure overtook him and shut his eyes, closing a sense off to him intensifying the whole experience. It wasn’t very good. He was enjoying it but she didn’t know how he liked it done and he wasn’t going to be staying long enough to show her. Narcissa could always do it right. He was dead; he couldn’t feel guilty thinking of her, though he wondered what a threesome with her and the girl would be like. The girl was pleasing him, but he had to take her soon, he had to show her how much of a man he still was, bringing the two of them to orgasm. He had to claim her with the very thing that made him a man – what he ejaculated.

Lucius growled and pushed her away from him. There was no time for her to look hurt while he opened her legs and pushed his dick into her. She only managed to roll her eyes and open her mouth to an O before she got lost in the feeling of the weight of a man on top of her, the filling that she had so missed over the months of being alone. The pressure into the spots that made her call out to him that her fingers alone could not reach. She had to be sated now she was having him. She whimpered for him to thrust harder and deeper into her, she cried out in satisfaction that she was being listened to, that her needs were important and she was having the best shag in a long time. There had to be more, she had to take him over too, but he was too heavy and strong and unwilling for her to push into another position. He wasn’t going to let her move. Hermione nearly sighed with relief that this man was not a push over. So many men she had been with had let her change positions whenever she wanted, but sometimes she wanted them to be firm and say no and totally dominate over her and her body for that moment, absolve her of any worry of what to do next and just focus on the thrill of letting the moment, the intimacy and gratification of concentrating on that alone while the feeling of his dick pounding inside her could bring her to the edge, to her knees if he just carried on for a little longer and touching that spot he was.

She felt her body start to tingle and her breath became short, she clung onto her man, panting and breathless. She was going to come. He mustn’t stop. He didn’t even look into her face as he carried on and brought her to a whimpering, shivering mass. He felt inside of her, the walls shudder as she gripped on and bit into his shoulder. It was all he needed himself to carry on, to finish himself. The act alone of her orgasm brought him closer and she was willing to stay under him while he came.

He was silent as he climaxed, only the wrinkles in his face indicating so. She felt his body change, tense and relax, and then he collapsed onto her, unable to move or think. She let him lie there, separate and together; contemplating what they had just done. Hermione had just slept with a ghost and Lucius had fucked a Mudblood. As if that thought had just entered his mind, Lucius drew out of her, moved away from her and started to dress into his tattered robes. As the dead, given his body for a moment, he had no wand. He would have to leave in the state he was. Not even a chance for a cleansing spell unless he asked her, and now he wouldn’t even look at her, let alone wash under her water.

Hermione pulled the bed covers to her chin. “Why did you do that?”

He looked at her, his old demeanour back. He hated her again. “Why do you think?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s all to do with pride, little girl,” he said before striding out of the door, each moment, his body changing into the wizened old man he was as he died and then slowly transfiguring into mist as he went to meet his maker for the first and last time.