19

**Warning: this chapter contains explicit sexual content**

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday 01 March 2003: PM

"Ready or not… here I come…"

Hermione traces the outline of Draco's warm, full mouth with the cranberry-coloured tip of her tongue; she keeps her eyes linked with his, licking delicately and oh, so unhurriedly… revelling in the microscopic change of texture as she moves along the very edge of his pouted lower lip.

Vermilion border – that's its anatomical name, Hermione suddenly recalls. Her childhood obsession with reading every line of printed text in the house is paying small dividends at last; the dry terms she'd assimilated from her parents' dentistry textbooks are flooding back to her. She whispers them to Draco – mostly to prolong her torturously languid exploration of his passive, panting mouth as she intersperses spoken facts with skimming gossamer kisses.

"This is your mentolabial sulcus, Malfoy," she kisses the bump and valley betwixt his sharp chin and lower lip.

"Oral commissures – " darting her tongue at each corner extremity as Draco opens his mouth wider, breathing stuttered.

"Upper vermilion border…" Draco's almost-invisible 'five o'clock shadow' stubble prickles against her adventuring tongue tip; the contrast in sensation makes them both gasp a little.

"Philtrum… or Cupid's bow – " Hermione somehow downshifts another gear; it's no hardship, as the accentuated grooves beneath Draco's nose and the shapely central dip have frequently captured her attention. Slow as pouring treacle, she moves further south.

"Procheilon – " She tickles the slight nodular projection at the bottom centre of his open upper lip, before abandoning her spontaneous anatomy lesson altogether as she uninhibitedly sucks and nips at Malfoy's beautiful lips, her hands cradling his head in place for her marauding mouth.

Draco's initial lack of returning pressure causes Hermione's doubts to storm back in threefold; until she notices his short nails are gouging harsh indents into the sofa and he is whining with frustration and need.

Of course! She hasn't yet granted Draco permission to do anything. Hardly out of the gates before her seductress persona falls down. Hermione hurries to correct her rookie error.

"Kiss me back, Malfoy," she breathily commands.

It's dumbfounding how skilled the man's mouth is, Hermione wonders dazedly. Draco is swiftly clawing back all her hard-fought ground, solely armed with his expert kissing abilities; his hands remain hard knots against his thighs as he alternates between grazing pecks and blazing suckles of her already-swollen lips.

Hermione allows the exquisite ravishment to continue for a few more moments before breaking contact; she steadies her shaky arms on his heaving shoulders as she struggles to regain the upper hand.

Right. Time for Phase Two. Hermione slides off Malfoy's lap, ignoring his growl of dissent. She locks her wobbly knees before taking another backward step.

Draco looks like a caged jaguar; his eyes are flinty with arousal and furious disgruntlement. He snaps shut his rubescent mouth with a low snarl.

"Stand up," Hermione almost adds, 'please' – but stops herself just in time. Femme fatales don't ask nicely, you ninny.

He bolts to his feet so fast he almost stumbles on the bulky forgotten spell manual by his feet. Hermione helpfully nudges it beneath the coffee table with her bare foot.

She risks stepping forward into him, bumping her lower body against Malfoy's sinewy thighs. He pushes against her minutely, stilling as she tsks disapprovingly.

"Don't move. I'm going to undress you now." Hermione's quavery fingers fumble at his collar; she takes a moment to regroup as Draco's throat bobs in a hard swallow. She avoids looking at his face, for fear she'll succumb to his passionate regard; she mustn't jettison all her carefully-laid plans simply because Malfoy is nigh-irresistible.

The room shrinks down to their arrhythmic breathing and each painstakingly-exposed half-inch of Draco's cream skin; Hermione's digits gain confidence with each freed button. She checks her yen to run her palms across the tempting valley of silken flesh until his lapis lazuli shirt is fully undone and tugged loose of his jeans and belt.

Acorns – they're acorns. Hermione's wide eyes now recognize the miniscule pattern stippling Draco's shirt. She sets aside her random cognition to hesitantly lay her small palms on Malfoy's unveiled body; he shudders under her feathered touch, wanton heat arcing between them as Hermione canvasses the strong tendons of Draco's neck and shoulders.

Hermione stretches to roll the sleeves of his shirt down his sculpted biceps inch by deliberate inch, heedless of Draco's twitching and soft growling; she leaves the cuffs snagged around his wrists. A detached part of her analytical mind is relieved to see that the now-unbandaged scratches on his left forearm have already healed to dark pink welts.

He can easily yank his arms free, if he so desires; but the effect is just the same.

Bound. Hermione finally capitulates to her screaming desire to rub up against Draco's bared skin, dragging her nose along his collarbones as she abruptly switches up her pace to feverish. He is an unpainted canvas beneath her brushing hands, his head tipped back in tensed surrender as she lips at the underside of his clenched jaw.

"Am I hurting you?" Hermione husks, worried that she has taken this too far. Draco straightens his head, making no reply beyond an exaggerated twist of his lips. She catches on faster this time.

"Tell me."

"You're killing me, Granger – but you're not hurting me," Draco rasps. "For the love of Merlin… don't stop."

The fine tremors shivering Malfoy's pinned-back shoulders attest to the truth of his statement. Gratified, Hermione reapplies herself to the enviable task of plotting the curves of his hard pectorals and the studded muscles of Draco's abdomen, swirling frenetic whorls as she delightedly explores the indent of his hips above his dark denims.

Fire is licking along her skin and kindling her flesh as Hermione deftly unbuckles Draco's tan leather belt, ripping it from its loops with one swift motion. She smiles in satisfaction as she makes short work of unzipping his fly, looking up at Malfoy with a crafty smirk as she curls her hands around the waistband of his jeans and fitted cotton boxers.

Draco makes a strangled wheezy sound as Hermione yanks both items of apparel down to his ankles, kneeling at his feet to loosen the laces of his buff Derby shoes.

She doesn't look up as she orders, "Sit down, Malfoy." He thumps onto the Chesterfield before she's completed pronouncing his name, his surging breaths music to her ears. Hermione tugs off his shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers, pitching them higgledy-piggledy behind her. Her own breaths are quickening and shallow; part of her cannot believe she is capable of – nay, thriving on – this bold sexual dominance. She licks her lips before she finally rocks back on her heels, bookended between Draco's widespread legs as she absorbs the spectacle before her.

By rights, Malfoy should look ridiculous – nude, excepting the shirt still tangled around wrists propped awkwardly against the back of the lounge. Legs sprawled akimbo, shiny champagne locks mussed by Hermione's avid fingers. Alabaster skin dappled from blood rush and her greedy little love bites. Impassive mask torn aside, replaced with raw carnality and a dangerous glimmer in his iron grey orbs.

But no. Draco is magnificent: utterly unselfconscious in his nudity despite the awkward, vulnerable pose. He stares at Hermione with shameless hunger as she reaches back to unclasp her bra, before sliding it delicately down the slopes of her shoulders. The ivory balconette cups hang unsupported for a handful of seconds before the entire frothy contraption drifts to the floor.

Hermione copies Draco's unflappable sangfroid as she makes a production of flipping back her thick chestnut ponytail; her lower abdomen throbs as Draco's pupils expand at the sight of her unfettered breasts. Going a step further, she cups them in her hands, softly pinching the nipples as a whimper escapes Draco's clamped mouth.

"Do you want to touch me?" she teases, squeezing her sensitive buds a little firmer.

Draco nods emphatically and attempts to hook his heels behind Hermione's buttocks to draw her closer.

She laughs at the ploy. "Too bad. You've not earned it. Sit still," she admonishes, keeping her bright cinnamon eyes trained on his face as she lightly scratches her unpainted nails against the tops of his feet, moving up and around Draco's calves. Down and back up, each pass rising higher than the last until she finds a particularly sweet spot in the rear crease of his knees; Draco groans harshly, slumping in a mini-surrender.

Spreading Malfoy's legs a tad wider, Hermione trails her fingertips around to his defined quadriceps, marvelling at the tensile strength contained under the sleek, taut skin. She splays her hands ever upward, being careful to avoid his engorged organ for the time being; the way Draco's cock is jerkily bobbing and straining – and its prodigious length and girth – convey how close the man is to losing his vaunted self-control.

Pressing harder, Hermione massages her way upward until her hands triangulate around his groin. In a raspy whisper, she muses aloud, "Kiss? Or touch? Which would you prefer, hmm?"

Before Draco can do more than gulp helplessly, Hermione presents another solution.

"How about both?" and bends her head to delicately lick away the salty drop of pre-ejaculate beading on the tip, while her left hand slides beneath his heavy ballocks, her right wrapping surely around the base of his shaft, torturing him a little more with an excruciatingly sluggish upward drag.

"Fuck!"

Hermione ignores Draco's rule-breaking bellow, intent on punishing him with her hot tongue and nimble fingers instead; she sinks lower, taking him into her willing mouth as best she can. She's only tried this once or twice before, with uninspiring results; hopefully, Malfoy is already het up enough that he won't notice or be disappointed with her callow technique.

Judging by the way he is keening and flexing with each swipe of her tongue and firm tugging compression of her hands, Draco is not about to start deducting points for inexperience. She experiments with softly scraping her teeth along his length; Draco's resultant tortured groan and involuntary jerk encourage her to repeat the motion.

Her senses are overwhelmed, jangling harmoniously as she squeezes her upper thighs together in riotous arousal. He smells amazing – the usual scent of his preferred lemony-slash-woodsy toiletries, overlaid with musk and something intangibly unique. The groans and whimpers leaking from Draco's closed mouth are music to Hermione's ears, making each subsequent touch more tailored and assured. The sight of him writhing helplessly at her salacious treatment makes her heartbeat fluctuate and her breathing jag. The variated superficial textures of his legs and groin are endlessly fascinating: crisp hairs on the top of his thighs compared with the lightly fuzzed smoothness of his scrotum, shifting again to the fine, caramel-blond waviness circumscribing his tumid phallus.

As for his taste… salty, spicy, a little peppery, yet sweeter than she'd anticipated; Hermione zealously swirls at Draco's glans to better ascertain the particular flavour. He soughs deeply, desperately, the knees planted on either side of her vibrating with the force of his rigid control.

"Granger - please…" Draco petitions through his gritted teeth. He tests the fabric bonds at his wrists as she quickly looks up.

Phase Three can undergo an improvised adaptation, Hermione recklessly decides. She releases Draco from her mouth and fingers with one last purl, unable to resist endowing open-mouthed kisses on his inner thighs as she rises to her feet.

Deliberately chafing her naked breasts against his arms, Hermione unfastens the double buttons on each of Draco's snarled cuffs, freeing his arms with a rough wrench. The maltreated shirt flies to join its fellow apparel. Hermione's scanty knickers soon follow.

Draco hasn't moved since his liberation; his iron-clad control is dented but still holding, Hermione is pleased to note. His eyes are now glowing with barbaric lust as they devour her denuded form.

Masking her own violent impatience, Hermione indolently lowers herself into Draco's lap, knees braced to the sides. She slides forward until his bulging erection is just shy of her hot core, clinging to his shoulders for balance.

"Touch me…" Hermione softly instructs, tipping back her head and pulling her right hand from Draco's shoulder to guide him inside, sinking down as he grips her hips and feverishly mouths her elongated neck.

The slow burn build-up has succeeded in boosting their arousal to stratospheric levels; Hermione's tawny eyes slam shut as her sensitive tissues catch fire, the slight initial sting at Draco's size and breadth soon easing. Returning her hand to his shoulder, she sets a turbulent, boisterous pace, moaning lustily at how freaking awesome he feels. Draco compulsively palpates every part of her body that he was recently forbidden to touch, alternating butterfly passes with rougher caresses.

Hermione abandons any lingering resolve to take things slowly, bouncing up and down on Draco with little finesse but an abundance of gusto. The panting man beneath her doesn't seem to object, based on his dynamic thrusts and incoherent grunts of encouragement. Malfoy continues to suckle hot kisses against her skin, occasionally nipping to bruise as Hermione gasps her endorsement. Their damp flesh noisily smacks together, adding to the concupiscent experience.

They reach their apexes synchronously: Hermione screams unrestrainedly as she spasms in concentric waves of blinding, blazing rapture; Draco pulsing and releasing deep inside her shaking, pleasure-obliterated body as he buries his head in the hollow of her throat, muffling his guttural, ecstatic howl.

Unaccounted minutes pass as they shudder and twitch through their slowly-fading orgasms, slumped in fatigue and tightly twined. Draco's big hands tremor on Hermione's dewy back, even as her fingers twitch, running through his dishevelled flaxen mane.

"What the fuck just happened?" Draco croaks dazedly, speaking into the crook of Hermione's sticky neck. His breathing is yet to slow or regulate.

She lifts her tired head, laughing throatily as she replies, "You just got schooled, Sunshine."

Kissing the side of Malfoy's flushed ear, Hermione huskily adds, "Did you not enjoy the lesson?". A vulnerable side of her personality is asking in earnest; her anxiety about her sexual prowess hasn't been totally quashed by the evening's frolic.

"You truly have to ask, Granger? I'm a blissful wreck, witch!" Draco's incredulous response goes a long way to reassuring Hermione that he relished the role switch as much as she did.

"I still can't feel my legs… I might have to sleep on this couch tonight," Malfoy confesses.

"Oh, sorry – that's probably because I'm too heavy for your lap," Hermione flurries to remove her weight from Draco's thighs; he halts her struggle immediately, hugging her close again with

"No! Don't be ridiculous," he softly chides. "Please… don't move. Not just yet," he drowsily mumbles the last words; Hermione returns her fingers to ruffle through his damp hair as she complies.

Draco stays pressed against her, his only movement the gradual drooping of his arm against her back. Hermione thinks he may have fallen asleep; she gingerly eases away, eyes irrepressibly drawn to his relaxed, vulnerable face as he reclines laxly against the Chesterfield.

The serenity doesn't last. Draco cracks open one grumpy eye as Hermione stands on her own tottery feet.

"Told you not to move, woman."

Well. Submissive Draco has left the building. Hermione shakes her head in mock exasperation.

"C'mon, big boy. Let's get you to bed before you do fall asleep here," she tries to haul him uptight, with minimal success.

He resists her urging, gripping her hands as he peers up at her searchingly.

"Do you want me to stay the night? I didn't know – I wasn't sure – that is, I can leave - if you'd prefer," Draco bumbles the words in an astonishingly uncharacteristic fashion.

"What? Of course you're staying. Get up, and stop spouting rubbish."

OK, so Dominant Hermione is sticking around for the second encore. She manages to lug Draco to vertical this time; she keeps his hand tightly in hers as she spins on her heel and tows him out of the lounge room, pausing only to turn off the lights.

Draco follows unresistingly until they enter her bedroom; he digs in his heels at the sight of her cherrywood sleigh bed. Hermione misinterprets his mulish stare.

"It's only a queen-size, but you'll fit, never fear." She begins to flip down the jewel-coloured heavy quilt and sheets. Draco remains silently in place.

Hermione turns to him in puzzlement. "Malfoy? What's wrong?".

"Did Weasley live here?" he intones in a low rumble. His grim mouth twitches as though he wants to say more, but thinks better of it.

Oh. Ohhh. Comprehension dawns in a flash. Draco said he was jealous – he really meant it.

Mixed emotions roil in her mind; Hermione sets them aside for the time being as she seeks to allay Draco's fears.

"Ron stayed over occasionally, but we didn't live together as a couple," Hermione evenly replies, maintaining steady and sincere eye contact with the (nude) green-eyed monster glowering at the foot of her bed.

"He never slept in this bed though… I bought it after we broke up, last year. Figured it was time I had a grown-up bed – I'd brought over the old one from my bedroom at home," she explains.

"Are you coming to bed, or not?" she prompts, sliding into the bed herself. Draco stalks forward.

"Budge over – that's my side," he haughtily directs. Hermione smothers her smile.

He wastes no time dragging her onto his chest, stroking her hair and forehead with his agile fingers before snapping off the bedside lamp.

"I intend to rally for Round Two, Granger," Draco announces into the darkened bedroom. "Consider this a short recess."

"OK, Malfoy," Hermione snuggles contentedly into his warm, hard body. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Granger… sweet dreams."

Sunday 02 March 2003: AM

Yawning languidly, Draco rolls over onto his back, tensing his well-used muscles in a full-body stretch. He allows his eyelids to open slowly, as he becomes gradually aware that his left arm isn't responding to neural signals.

Ah. That's why. His left limb is trapped beneath Hermione's slumbering head and is as dead as a doornail from the compressive position. Draco cautiously inches it free; her glorious thatch of glossy hazelnut hair nearly catches on the webbing of his thumb. He holds his breath, using his other hand to gently unwind her curls.

Pins and needles are beginning to bite now; he forcefully rubs the compromised appendage, wincing as sensation returns. Draco presses a single kiss to Hermione's bared shoulder before he adjusts the bed linens to cover her sleeping form once again. His lean fingers pause as he notes a newly formed hickey at the lateral base of her neck. He smiles in pure masculine satisfaction, absorbed by the delightful recollection of how the little bruise came into existence.

He had indeed 'rallied'; he'd been pleasurably awoken after midnight by Hermione unconsciously grinding her voluptuous derriere against his increasingly interested cock as they spooned together. She'd been issuing irresistible, desirous little whimpers in her sleep, her hands holding his in place to cup her luscious breasts.

Draco had whispered in Hermione's shell-like ear, refusing to proceed until she'd been conscious and fully consenting.

"Say what you want, ma petite," he'd breathed, making a Herculean effort to not push forward into her eager little body.

She'd finally risen from the last layers of sleep to clearly enunciate, "You – I want you, Malfoy. Please," she'd added with a quietly inflamed sigh.

Draco had gladly complied with her entreaty, folding her lithe right leg onto his upper thigh, gliding his hands over her skin with firming strokes. Hermione had mewed greedily, upping her backward drives as his rigid staff had dragged through her damp folds. Her breath had hitched when his agile fingers had masterfully explored her clitoris, tweaking and tapping her sensitive pink bud as she'd gasped.

When he'd been absolutely convinced of her readiness, Draco had plunged inside Hermione's hot core; she'd clamped around him instantaneously, sorely testing his intention to torment the gorgeous witch with an unhurried, controlled rhythm.

His teeth had strenuously clamped together as he'd managed to stave off the impulse to wildly rut together; at least, until Hermione had borne down, moaning deliriously as her tight channel convulsed in powerful paroxysms. Draco had relinquished all pretence of restraint, sinking deep and nipping her neck as he'd joined her in a torrid climax.

He'd fallen asleep in record time after that; hence, his numbed arm.

Not that I'm complaining in the slightest. Draco turns away after he tucks the quilt to cover Hermione's nibbled neck.

He casts his squinting gaze about the small room, endeavouring to find a robe or similar garb to protect against the end-of-winter morning chill.

The only garment that is capable of fitting his tall body is hanging off a peg behind the bedroom door. Draco resigns himself to wearing Hermione's shabby pink flannel dressing gown, for want of better options. His (well, Hermione's, now) ebon peacoat must be safely stowed in a different wardrobe. This… thing is dreadfully threadbare, with visible signs of repeatedly darned seams and hems. His mother wouldn't deign it worthy of a polishing rag, for Slytherin's sake. Draco resolves to source Hermione a proper robe as a top priority.

Tightening the lurid sash, Draco pads quietly out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He walks back to the lounge room, gathering their haphazardly discarded clothing and folding it into a neat pile on the coffee table.

Catching sight of the old-fashioned fireplace, Draco ignores his initial intent to swap the pink monstrosity for his own overcoat; he is struck by the burning need to check Hermione's wards and potentially strengthen them with his own spellwork. He snatches his wand from the small knapsack he'd stored beside the hearth last night and begins the process.

The security operation is almost complete when Hermione wanders into the room, wearing a simple scarlet sleep set of an oversized t-shirt and loose drawstring pants. Draco holds up one imperious finger for silence as he finishes the warding spell. The final incantation dies away as he turns to face the sleepy-eyed witch.

He forgets he's still wearing the woefully tatty pink robe until mirth creases Hermione's face, her breath shuddering as she points at him.

"Heavens to Betsy, Malfoy – have you seen yourself? How did you even get into my dressing gown?" Hermione is clutching the arm of the couch for support as she succumbs to a severe case of the giggles; a wrapped rectangular package falls from under her armpit into the seat of the Chesterfield.

Draco crosses his arms, looking down his straight nose in waspish disapproval.

"Needs must, Granger. Why hasn't this moth-eaten rag been burnt and its ashes scattered to the four winds years ago?". He flaps an irritable hand at her continuing chuckles.

"Now that you've arisen, Granger – may I ask your permission to introduce you to Macdolas? He was champing at the bit to meet you when I mentioned the possibility of a security detail to him yesterday… and we may as well put his hyperactivity to use and ask him to cook us a hearty breakfast," Draco admits with a grin.

Hermione sobers, her expression hesitant.

She answers slowly, "Well… yes, I suppose that's OK…"

"Excellent," Draco interrupts.

"Macdolas!" He flicks his wand as he speaks.

A loud crack momentarily rends the Sunday morning serenity of the flat as the named house elf Apparates beside the coffee table.

"Yes, Master Malfoy! Macdolas is ready, sir!". His flittermouse ears quiver with excitation.

Draco's eyes bug involuntarily at today's fantastical 'uniform': a neon blue and canary yellow vertically-striped satin bolero jacket, midnight blue suede trousers, a black bowler hat, a fob watch on a long gold chain… and… decorative black leather goggles around his neck?

His staggered brain settles on the correct descriptor. Psychedelic Steampunk.

Dragon's balls, what's next? Draco wonders.

Macdolas taps one gothic platform-heeled jet black boot, his disproportionately large celadon green eyes never leaving Draco's dumbstruck face.

"Master Malfoy summoned Macdolas?" he urges.

"Yes – right. Good." Draco shakes his head in an effort to refocus. "Macdolas, I'd like you to meet your new employer for the next few weeks. This is Ms. Hermione Granger."

He turns to Hermione to complete the introduction; her pretty candy-pink mouth is agape as she digests Macdolas's outlandish outfit. Draco jolts as his house elf skids across the wooden floor toward her.

"Your Grace, The Most Honourable and Esteemed Lady Protector and Patroness of Humble House Elves Mistress Hermione Granger!" Macdolas's high voice reaches a pitch that Draco suspects only the canine inhabitants of the suburb of Bexley can truly appreciate. The elf bows deeply until his pointy proboscis nearly touches Hermione's bunny-slippered feet.

"Macdolas offers his eternal fealty to Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger, now and forevermore! He is not worthy of the honour, oh no! But Macdolas will serve and protect her Eminent Grace with joy and devotion!" he squeaks, trembling with acute emotion and the strain of holding the near-prostrate pose.

Hermione mouths 'Help me' at Draco, her sienna eyes wide in consternation. Draco manfully swallows his burbling amusement, moving to gently assist Macdolas to his feet.

"That's quite enough, Macdolas – I think you've comprehensively covered all the etiquette and allegiance requirements," he remarks, tongue firmly in cheek. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind preparing a tasty cooked breakfast for us now, please? We can discuss and negotiate the terms of your employment while we eat, hmm?".

Macdolas nods in emphatic agreement. "With pleasure, Master Malfoy! Macdolas did not realize that Master Malfoy is blessed with Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger's extraordinary favours! Master Malfoy brings great glory to the House of Malfoy and Macdolas on this fortunate day!". The overjoyed manikin capers gleefully toward the kitchen in his chunky boots.

Draco looks to the ceiling to buy a little time; Macdolas's last enthusiastic exclamation has him blushing. From the periphery of his vision, he sees Hermione reddening as she stares equally fixedly at the floorboards, rubbing a bunny slipper along her calf.

He seizes upon a distraction.

"Granger – you dropped something. On the sofa," Draco steps over, picking it up and handing it to her.

"Oh, yes. Um… this is for you, actually," Hermione mumbles, shoving the soft parcel back into his hands. She shrugs, avoiding his curious regard.

"Just something I picked up when I was out shopping yesterday. Give it back if you don't want it," she makes a sudden jerky grab at the gift, which Draco easily blocks.

"Hold your Horned Serpents, witch! I haven't even opened it yet!" Draco retreats a few feet away, hastily ripping apart the decorative wrapping paper before Hermione can again attempt to confiscate his present.

Two matched Slytherin-green padded oven mitts; Draco turns them over, revealing the meticulously embroidered silver initials on each. D.L.M. Hermione has given him monogrammed oven mitts. His fingers dig into the cotton fabric as he stares mutely at the unexpected gift.

"This is why you were perusing that book, yesterday," Draco coughs out the observation around the lump in his throat.

"Yeah… I had some time on my hands, it was fun… I used to do craft work with my mum. Anyway," Hermione trails off, clasping her hands in front of her and shifting uncomfortably. "Maybe Macdolas can still use them, if you don't like –"

Draco cuts off her demurring words with a fierce, passionate kiss; he lets his hot mouth express the words he daren't speak, as he cups Hermione's sweet, beautiful face in both hands. The mitts fall at their feet as he presses every drop of his tumultuous emotions into the embrace.

He only disengages from her willing lips at the sound of a tiny clap; Macdolas is standing in the doorway, watching their impulsive smooch with delighted, limpid eyes.

"Macdolas begs his apologies but he must be asking how Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger wishes her eggs cooked?" the house elf chirps.

Hermione answers shakily, "However you like, Macdolas. And please, just call me 'Hermione'."

"Good luck with that," Draco mutters, resting his forehead against hers as Macdolas predictably squawks in spirited protest.

Draco weaves this fingers through Hermione's, leading her out of the room as Macdolas scampers ahead of them.

"Let's sit down to breakfast before he spontaneously combusts in outrage," Draco comments. "I need to tell you what my father – what Lucius revealed on Friday evening, by the way."

Hermione nods silently, squeezing his hand a bit tighter.

"Hey, Granger?" Draco brings her capable, delicate hand to his mouth, staring intently into her iridescent eyes.

"Thank you," he unfurls her little palm to press a tender kiss to the centre.

You're the true gift… he thinks, but cannot say.