18

Chapter Eighteen

Saturday 01 March 2003: PM

Pop music blasts from the little radio as Hermione indulges in a carefree jig around her tiny kitchen. She'd woken at first light this morning, uncustomarily choosing to snuggle back under the warm covers, and had spent a good half hour meditating on the wacky state of her life at present.

Sex, drugs… all that's missing is the rock 'n' roll. A mental image of Draco as the snake-hipped lead singer of an angst-rich alternative rock band had popped into Hermione's head and made her giggle. In-built scowl and swagger. Leather wristbands to complement his platinum and silver jewellery. Tight black jeans and t-shirts showcasing his sculpted muscles and classic male mesomorph physique…

Damn - that glorious, tall, muscled body… and his archangelic face, electric blond hair, intense pewter eyes… Hermione had lost uncounted moments fondly reviewing the heady attributes of a naked Draco. Admittedly, she's not had any leisurely opportunities to study Malfoy sans apparel; she's been too occupied being expertly guided into one stupendous orgasm after another by the sexy blond.

She'd propped herself upright at that point in her musings, brows knitting at that unalienable fact. Apart from Hermione's decision to turn up uninvited at Draco's door after dinner at Harry's – Draco has called all the shots.

And even though Draco was spot-on when he'd mentioned her unexpressed desire to be physically submissive, Hermione had decided that it was past time she took back some sexual power in their 'not-relationship'. So she'd jumped out of bed and hurried to owl Draco, asking him to Floo to her flat for dinner at seven o'clock.

I need a home-ground advantage… and a Slytherin-worthy cunning plan.

Which is why Hermione is currently dancing happily around her kitchen as she puts the finishing touches on her homemade lasagne, garlic bread baguette and garden salad. The little wall clock shows 6.15PM: perfect. She has enough time to have a shower and change into something a little more stylish than her holey tracksuit bottoms and a passata-speckled old Beauty and the Beast long-sleeved tee.

The radio starts playing a new song; Hermione bobs her head to the familiar intro beat as she sprinkles a combination of parmesan and mozzarella cheese atop the lasagne. Sliding the finished dish into the oven, she lustily belts out the second half of the famous Spice Girls' chorus, spinning around the table with more enthusiasm than dancing prowess. Hermione uses the sauce-stained wooden spoon as a makeshift microphone as she warbles along:

'So tell me what you want, what you really, really want

I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha)

I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah…'

The extended 'ah' has just left Hermione's lips when her peripheral vision registers she is no longer alone; squawking in fright, she hurls the spoon-microphone in the general direction of the intruder leaning lazily against the kitchen doorway.

It misses Draco by a country mile, bouncing off the pantry cupboard before landing to spin at his feet. And the rotter is laughing uproariously - bent forward, and hugging his sides as if to hold in the hilarity.

"You sneaky creeper, Malfoy!" Hermione's heart is galloping from the adrenaline rush and relief at the identity of her 'intruder'. "What if I'd been holding a knife instead of a spoon?"

"Unless you've secretly taken a knife-throwing course, I'd still be in no danger," Draco assures (once he's finished chuckling). He crouches to retrieve the wooden implement, strolling over to hand it to Hermione before sliding his hands onto her hips.

She stands stiffly in his arms, face flaming at being caught unawares as she'd pranced and trilled like a silly adolescent in front of Top of the Pops. Malfoy continues with his teasing.

"Dinner and a show – I'm a lucky man," Draco jests, smiling down into her aggrieved face. "A shame that Hogwarts never held a talent show, Granger – you've been hiding your theatrical light under a bushel, hmm?".

"Up yours, Malfoy," Hermione retorts without much spice. Draco's hands are stroking the sides of her neck and the sweet spot behind her ears, which is working wonders to mitigate her antagonism at his ribbing.

"I was performing a modern classic, I'll have you know. Flawlessly," she adds, folding in her lips as she tries not to smile.

"I will admit that your cute little bum wiggle finale was a highlight of the production," Draco trails his left hand down to her pert rump, squeezing gently for emphasis before his attention returns to Hermione's ears and throat.

Hermione pulls away from the hypnotic glide of Draco's fingertips on her shivery lobes as a thought strikes.

"Why are you here early, Malfoy? Did the ink in my letter smudge… I thought I specified 7.00PM?"

Draco looks sheepish. "I was desperate to escape the townhouse – I've been invaded by a well-meaning little domestic dictator… and it's entirely my own idiotic doing."

He shrugs wearily at Hermione's quizzical expression. "I'll explain all over dinner, if you don't mind. Speaking of which – it smells scrumptious in here. What are we having?" Draco tries to peer around Hermione at the semi-transparent oven door, but she hip-checks him with a grin.

"Uh-uh. Shifty intruders will get what they're given, and be thankful for it," Hermione primly replies.

His mien sobers. "I didn't mean to startle or scare you, Granger - I called out when I arrived, but you mustn't have heard me over the blaring music. It was thoughtless of me, especially considering the worrisome situation you're experiencing. I apologize."

"Don't worry, Malfoy – I know you weren't actively trying to frighten me. I pulled the trajectory of the spoon-spear at the last moment, by the way," Hermione jokes as she attempts to lighten the mood. "Never underestimate an angry woman armed with a kitchen utensil."

His frown doesn't budge. "That's another topic I wish to examine – your defensive abilities. Both magical and Muggle. But that, too, can wait until dinner."

Draco flattens his thumbs against Hermione's parted peony-pink lips to discourage her ineluctable argument. He softly traces the borders of her mouth as Hermione involuntarily closes her eyes, her contentious impulse lost as her breathing quickens and her blood sings.

Before she completely forgets herself to Draco's virtuoso touch, Hermione's disparaging inner voice chips in, reminding her that she had (only this morning) vowed to withstand Malfoy's seductive powers and regain control… and this easy capitulation is a poor exhibition of that pledge.

Hermione captures Draco's deft fingers with her right hand, dropping them back to his side before she flounces back to the oven. She catches sight of her reflection in the glass door and suppresses a wheeze of horror at the sight; she'd forgotten she is still wearing her soiled and bedraggled comfortable 'house' clothes or that her hair is roughly bundled into a rickety, lopsided topknot.

I look like something the cat dragged in, chewed on, and yakked back up!

She rushes to sidle past Draco, but his superior reflexes halt her momentum; she stumbles against his hard chest as his arms quickly steady her.

"Where are you hurtling off to now, Granger?"

"You're too early – I had intended to shower and dress in something other than rags before you got here!" Hermione crossly replies.

"No need to stress, Granger - you'd look stunning in a flour sack," Draco casually remarks, pecking a kiss on her crinkled nose.

"Shall I prepare the salad while you're bathing?" he nods to the vegetables already arranged on the heavy wooden chopping board. He releases her and saunters to the cramped bench without waiting for a reply.

"Um – OK – thanks," Hermione muddles out the words, knocked off balance as usual by Draco's unwonted compliments. "I'll be back in time to put the garlic bread in the oven," and she bolts for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione is shower-fresh after zipping through her usual bathing routine; she remains a tad ruffled after Draco caught her unawares - skipping about her kitchen like a scatterbrained teenager. Which explains why she is still wrapped in a towel, rummaging through the entire contents of her modest wardrobe as if the perfect outfit is somehow contained within.

She curbs her jittery shuffling of garments as she realizes the depths of her stupidity. This is not a date. Draco Malfoy is not my boyfriend. He would probably be most impressed if I walked out wearing nothing but a tiny apron. Or the flour sack he'd mentioned.

The self-remonstration gives her a nasty pang; Hermione chalks it up to disgust at her own foolish crossing of the clear boundaries of their sexual liaison. After selecting and donning a matched set of lacy white underwear (demure at first glance, until one notices the balconette bra and the skimpy rear cut of the knickers), she grabs the first pair of jeans she spies on her clothing-strewn bed, teaming them with a soft vee-necked baby aqua fuzzy jumper over a plain white t-shirt. She jams a pair of trusty ballet flats on her feet, wincing a little as she ruthlessly brushes her hair into a loose, smooth(ish) side ponytail. Final touches are a scoop of facial moisturiser and a quick pass of cherry-flavoured lip balm.

There. Sorted. It's not like I can ever compete with Malfoy in the fashion stakes, even if I wanted to, Hermione sighs. He looks as effortlessly stylish as ever tonight in his indigo jeans and buttoned-down dark lapis lazuli shirt flecked with a tiny white pattern she couldn't quite make out in the kitchen.

As slick as if the cat had licked him. She smirks, spirits renewed as she mulls over her plan to turn the tables on Draco later tonight.

Sashaying back into the kitchen, Hermione blinks as she takes in how Draco has occupied his time since she left to bathe. Not only has he prepared and dressed the garden salad (more expertly than she could have, not that she will tell him so); he has lain the plain white tablecloth she left folded on the bench, set the cutlery, plates and glassware and is picking up the buttery baguette as she enters.

Hermione bumps Draco gently with her hip as she snatches the foil-covered bread from his long fingers. "I've got this, Malfoy – you haven't left me much else to do," she chides.

She gestures to the far seat of her little square table. "Have a seat – it will be ready in about fifteen minutes."

Draco waits for Hermione to push the garlic bread into the oven and seat herself before he obliges; he pours her water from the jug before helping himself. A weird moment elapses as they stare silently at one another. The intensity in Draco's steel-grey eyes is unnerving, coupled with the impassivity of his features.

"You mentioned having a problematic house guest?" Hermione prompts, shifting a little in her chair; she is anxious to dissolve this loaded tension.

Draco shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "I suppose I shouldn't have described him thus; he is just awfully eager to please and almost impossible to dissuade from his earnest endeavours. A pint-sized powerhouse."

"You're making a hash of enlightening me here, Malfoy," Hermione dryly remarks.

"Patience, Granger – I'm deciding the best way to couch my proposition."

Malfoy and his 'propositions'. She could write a three-foot essay on the subject. Hermione resists rolling her eyes and stays mum.

"I'll give you the back story first – so you can best understand how you'd be doing me the favour." Draco is unusually diffident, which immediately raises Hermione's suspicions.

"Go on." She eases back on her impatient tone. We'll be here until Christmas at this rate.

"For the past four - nearly five - years, Macdolas and Ruibby have been the head house elves at Malfoy Manor; steward and housekeeper, respectively. I hired them around the same time and Macdolas lost his heart to Ruibby the very moment he spotted her walking into the atrium…"

Draco concisely sketches a brief but thorough history of the little elves' topsy-turvy 'romance' since their hires, interrupted only by the peremptory ding of the oven timer.

They work together to bring the hot food to the table; Hermione makes an exaggerated show of putting on a pair of well-padded maroon oven mitts before she pulls out the heavy dish of piping hot lasagne. Malfoy laughs good-naturedly but chooses not to comment on her cheekiness. After she transfers the pasta to the table, Hermione keeps the oven open to slide in the dessert dish.

"Thank you, Granger. This looks and smells marvellous," Draco comments approvingly as he accepts a thick wedge of saucy, meaty noodles. "I appreciate you taking the trouble."

Hermione's fine-boned hands pause as she wields the salad serving set; she replies offhandedly, "Isn't it about time I returned your hospitality and generosity, Malfoy? And didn't you recently inform me that meals are provided to ensure 'sufficient energy for our libidinous activities'?" she winks as she paraphrases his own explanation.

"Have you ever forgotten anything?" Draco mock-grumbles.

"Yes – the passing of time when I'm reading," Hermione admits, softly chuckling. "Madam Pince was forever hounding me out of her precious library, especially in Sixth –"

She chokes back the final word of the sentence; Draco quietly finishes it for her.

" – Year. You don't have to censor your conversation to spare my 'tender sensibilities', Granger." His voice is supremely emotionless. "Best not to bury the past – it only comes back to bite you on the bum."

Draco's "Believe me, I know" is barely a whisper as he concentrates on refilling their tumblers and not making eye contact.

Hermione hurriedly changes the subject. "I've been rabbiting on a bit, sorry; you were going to tell me more about Macdolas and Ruibby, please?"

He huffs cheerlessly before accepting her olive branch.

"Right. Well, I arrived early for dinner at the Manor last night and was reluctantly embroiled in the latest histrionics… " Draco continues the tale of his grudging, improvised role as an elf relationship counsellor and the 'Ring in the Raspberry Pudding Debacle'.

Hermione is laughing helplessly, gasping out the question, "But did anyone extract the ring from the pudding before it was served? Or did somebody actually swallow it?!"

"That was my first thought!" Draco joins her in merriment. "I couldn't do more than poke at my portion for worrying I'd accidentally ingest the ill-fated thing!" His even white teeth flash, head tipped back as he laughs at the memory.

Mum and Dad would rhapsodize over Draco's perfect dentition. The thought jumps into Hermione's consciousness without warning. She bats it aside as random nonsense.

"No one choked at dinner – I was hoping Blaise might need to be heartily thumped on the back, so that was disappointing – and before we retired to the study, I took Macdolas aside. He indignantly confirmed he'd retrieved the jewellery and meticulously washed it before returning it to its box."

Smiling easily now, Draco looks keenly across the small table. "Which brings me back to my proposition, Granger." He precisely lays down his flatware onto his mostly-empty plate and leans closer; his denim-shod knee brushes against her own. He lets it rest, the warm tingle spreading to Hermione's limb despite the layers of clothing between them.

"I've painted myself into a corner with Macdolas – he returned with me to the townhouse last night and he's already cleaned everything… twice. The silverware… thrice. He was starching my underpants when I fled, for the love of snakes. You have to help me, Granger."

Hermione eyes the man; Draco does look somewhat desperate as he rubs lightly at his temples.

"What is it you would have me do, Malfoy?" she warily asks. "My flat could fit into your townhouse six or seven times over; Macdolas will make short work of any chores."

Draco straightens, bridging the negligible distance betwixt them to curl his hand around hers. "I want you to accept Macdolas as your personal… security specialist," he firmly declares, thumbing the delicate skin of her inner wrist in a sensual pattern.

"As my… as my what?" Hermione jerks free her hand – he must be doing this on purpose, knowing his touch makes her a bit stupid and therefore susceptible to his crafty plots.

"I want Macdolas to stay here, with you. Whenever you're not at work, or with me or Potter," Draco authoritatively clarifies.

Her ire sparks immediately as Hermione catches on. "Oh, really?" she queries, tone deceptively silky. "You've decided on this course, have you? You and your new bestie… Harry Potter?"

Hermione lets the sarcasm seep in as Draco fails to keep the horrified scorn off his face.

"Don't be ridiculous, Granger," he brusquely clips out the words. "Although I guarantee Potter will agree that this is an elegant solution to secure your continued safety."

Hermione could scream with frustration. Men trying to run my life… No. Sodding. Way.

She opens her mouth to vociferously protest - but Draco presses on, ignoring her simmering resentment.

"As to the other topic to be addressed: we need to start revisiting some DADA training together. Potter can assist you there too, I suppose." Draco concedes the last with a sour pucker to his sensuous mouth.

"Plus, we'll cover basic physical self-defence techniques; they will be essential if your magic is nullified again. If any of these bastards come after you, I want you to be willing and able to gouge out their filthy eyes and rip off their cursed testicles!" Draco growls, throttling the wooden salt and pepper shakers in both hands.

Heavens. Hermione's temper is momentarily damped by Malfoy's patent savagery. She cautiously tugs the hapless shakers from his bruising grip.

She chooses her next words with care.

"Malfoy, I do appreciate your assistance, and your concerns for my safety… but you cannot just charge about making these choices for me. I'm not a scared little girl. You can't tell me I'm capable of ruling the world, only to sweep in and announce that you've decided I must accept an elfish bodyguard and self-defence lessons without prior consultation."

Draco's pale face blanks as her determined response hits home. "I apologize – it was not my intention to railroad you," he stiffly enunciates.

"I know. Have you considered simply asking me if I'm willing to try your suggestions?" Hermione bites the inside of her cheeks with her molars at Draco's bemused, astonished expression.

"You're saying… you're not opposed to the ideas?"

His flabbergasted look almost unleashes Hermione's laughter. She thanks the stars she wasn't born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Automatic entitlement must be a difficult mindset to shake.

She nods. "I'm willing to discuss the possibilities, yes. But don't order me about, Malfoy. It doesn't end well."

"Yes, I can imagine," Draco muses. He tilts his argent head slightly. His next utterance catches Hermione by surprise.

"Is that what happened with the Weasel on Friday morning, Granger?" Malfoy's fisted hands belie his nonchalant question. Something… uncivilized lurks in the depths of his smoky eyes as they fix upon Hermione's face.

"What – what do you mean?" Hermione stalls. She really doesn't wish to revisit the humiliation of publicly rowing with Ron in the middle of her office… and inadvertently, in front of her current lover.

PING! The oven timer sounds once more – the dessert is ready.

Thank Merlin. She hastens to turn her back on Draco's penetrating gaze, slipping on the oven mitts to transfer the final course to the table. Draco collects the used crockery and silverware to place into the single sink on his own initiative; Hermione keeps her face averted as she gathers bowls, spoons, and presses 'Heat' on the jug of custard waiting in the microwave.

"I hope you don't mind the custard not being heated on the stovetop – I've found it's easier this way, and it doesn't seem to affect the taste…" she blathers.

"I couldn't give a toss for your custard heating methods. What's the problem, Granger? Too chicken to tell me you've decided to patch up your tattered relationship with Weasley, after all?" Draco's voice is pure ice behind her.

"What? No! How could you think that, Malfoy – I thought you overheard our argument? I told Ron we're over. Done. Finito. Kaput. If you must know," Hermione scathingly reveals. Her hands tremble as she ladles generous scoops of pudding into their bowls, working on auto pilot. She slams the jug of warm custard onto the table with more force than necessary, feeling her cheeks burn.

Hermione has a final stab at defending her integrity. "I told you that I am not a cheat… it hurts me that you're quick to jump to the wrong conclusions about my morals and intentions, Malfoy. Calling me a coward… that's low."

She reaches blindly for the custard, before she can grasp its handle, Draco is kneeling at her side. He gathers her hands gently, folding them beneath his.

Contrition husks his voice. "I'm sorry, Granger – I overreacted. You didn't answer straightaway and I thought the worst. I'm an arse." He drags in a rough breath, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles before softly kissing each little joint.

"And I'm jealous." Draco's confession is a subdued whisper that Hermione scarcely registers at first. But he rocks back on his heels, slanting back his silvery head to stare straight into her shocked dark cocoa eyes.

"I'm jealous," he repeats in a firmer tone. "The thought of Weasley touching you… it makes me savage. Feral. I'm not proud of it – and I'm sorry that you bore the brunt of my misplaced negative emotion. Again," he grimaces. "I'm sorry."

Speechless, Hermione doesn't resist as Draco drops a final kiss on each of her wrists, before returning her hands to the table as he rises and sits back in his chair. He silently picks up his spoon, watching her and waiting until she has dumbly copied his move; Hermione mechanically begins consuming the sweet.

The clink of cutlery against china is the only sound in the room. Hermione peeps at Draco from beneath her eyelashes; she is dumbfounded by his admission.

Jealous… he's jealous… jealous… the words swim in her brain like a school of goldfish.

"Granger – what are we eating?"

Hermione clears her throat. "It's called Eve's Pudding… is it not to your liking? Don't feel that you have to eat it –" she reaches to drag away Malfoy's bowl, but he stops her slim hand with a gentle squeeze.

"It's absolutely delectable," Malfoy smiles in warm appreciation.

"Oh. Well, it's basically just – "

" – stewed Granny Smith apples and sponge," Draco finishes. "You made me a green apple dessert. Because you know they're my favourite," he confidently adds.

Hermione can't resist blowing a raspberry at the smug bugger.

"Get over yourself, fancy pants. Almost everyone loves apple desserts," she dismisses his knowing smirk.

Silence enfolds them again, but the stress of their bickering has eased. Hermione hopes that her next question won't upset the apple cart again (Hah).

She asks it anyway.

"Malfoy, what happened after I left on Friday morning? With Ron?" she trains a steady gaze on her dining companion as she awaits his reply.

The corners of Draco's lips twitch; upward in humour, Hermione is relieved to see.

"Your supervisor whisked out of her office and ordered the Weasel to leave. She practically took him by the ear to march him out, actually." Draco allows his grin to properly bloom. "Ron made some rather unflattering – and unimaginative – aspersions on my parentage and ability to self-pleasure that your manager overheard, apparently.'

"I didn't have to lift a finger to discipline the mouthy git, if that's been worrying you, Granger." Draco applies himself to finishing his apple pudding and custard.

As an afterthought, he queries: "Didn't your fellow workers tell you what happened?"

"Well… we're not close. The atmosphere is more professional than collegial," Hermione hedges. She isn't about to admit to Draco that her work days are mostly friendless (excepting Harry). Being a sad sack in the office is not something she wants to bandy about.

Draco doesn't say anything, but Hermione loathes the hint of pity in his expression. She rises briskly to set about clearing the table.

"Would you like to have a seat in the lounge room while I deal with this?" Hermione composedly enquires. She pre-empts Draco's attempt to assist by nabbing his empty bowl and spoon and shooing him away; she resists the temptation to let her hand linger on his warm, broad back as she pushes him gently in the direction of the living room.

"No, I insist – you never allow me to help clean up."

"Mmm… but you did disobey me by washing up Wednesday night's dirty dishes on Thursday morning, didn't you? Naughty of you, Granger," Draco's eyes take on a familiar predatory gleam.

Nope. Not going to be swayed from my 'take control' plan by this sexy serpent, Hermione chants to herself. She twists the nearest tea towel and flicks it at Malfoy as he slinks back toward her.

"Stop – my tea towel prowess is vastly superior to my spoon-throwing skills," Hermione warns, trying not to giggle. "Wait for me out there – I have a surprise for you."

Draco slides his hands into his jeans pockets, running his tongue over his teeth as he contemplates his next move. Hermione is relieved when he shrugs and turns for the doorway.

It doesn't take her long to clear and pack away the leftovers; she leaves the dishes rinsed and piled in the sink for tomorrow.

Gulping down half a glass of water, Hermione wills herself not to lose her nerve. She quickly strips down to her swan-white lacy lingerie, stalling for her nerves' sake as she neatly folds her discarded clothing atop the nearest chair.

You can do this. You want to do this. You will do this. Hermione hoists back her shoulders and struts out of the little kitchen and into the lounge with borrowed aplomb.

Draco is seated on the Chesterfield, idly thumbing through a book she'd consulted earlier today: The Big Book of Spells & Charms for the Textile Arts. He hears her enter but doesn't immediately look up.

"Have you taken up embroidery, Granger? Makes sense – you're adept at needling me," he jokes; his chuckle dies mid-gurgle as Draco looks up from beneath his powder-white flopped fringe. Hermione's jitters ease remarkably as the thick tome drops unheeded from Draco's now-slack grasp and tumbles gently to the floor.

His greedy eyes traverse her scantily-clad figure, absorbing every last inch of her fine-grained, golden skin; mapping every freckle and curve as Hermione sways closer, until she is just out of reach of Draco's seeking hands.

"Like what you see, Malfoy?" Hermione purrs, mimicking as best she can Draco's own past words and sultry pitch. She mentally stomps down on the inner voice of doubt currently whining that she looks woefully pretentious while playing at being a vamp.

Draco's expression certainly helps; he appears equal parts dumbstruck and feverishly aroused. His slightly parted lips exhale ragged breaths as his glistening graphite eyes fixate on the extra expanse of creamy, aureate breasts displayed by the upthrust of the balconette brassiere. He makes an unintelligible noise somewhere between a groan and a grunt when Hermione firmly knocks away his questing hand.

"Here's the deal, Malfoy… tonight, we play by my rules. That means no touching, no kissing, no speaking – unless I tell you to." Hermione is delighting in this role play, now that her shyness and apprehension have evaporated.

"Are you willing to comply? Or should I go back to the kitchen and get dressed?" she taunts, fluttering her mahogany eyelashes in faux innocence.

"Unghh…" Draco croaks, before remembering the last rule; he nods vigorously and crimps his powerful hands against his restlessly shifting thighs. His chest is compressing and expanding like a bellowing piano accordion.

Hermione prolongs her provocative descent into Draco's spread lap for as long as possible; she unnecessarily nudges against his impressive hardness as she makes a production of settling comfortably, sliding her bare arms to his chest and neck. Her left hand cards through the shorter hair at the base of Malfoy's skull as she brings her blossom-pink lips to hover beside his mouth.

"Ready or not… here I come…"