22

Chapter 22

Wednesday 05 March 2003: PM

Hurrying out of her Floo fireplace, Hermione blenches involuntarily at the familiar deep pangs in her lower abdomen.

Oh, no… not tonight! But she knows her body well enough to recognize that the inevitable biological process is well underway. Biting her lip, she stifles a small squeal of surprise as Macdolas pops up beside the red Chesterfield, a huge grin of delight stretching his mouth nearly from one outsized ear to the other.

"Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger is home! Macdolas greets Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger with much joy and takes her bag –" the well-loved black leather work bag is deftly plucked from Hermione's left hand – "and asks Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger if Macdolas may have the honour of preparing her a refreshing beverage?". Macdolas vibrates with anxious eagerness as he awaits her response.

Had Hermione not been suffering sudden, painful cramps, she would have found Macdolas's outfit du jour much more outrageously amusing; the little steward is wearing a late medieval costume that is strongly reminiscent of… The Black Adder! She smothers a hearty chuckle with some difficulty. The form-fitting doublet with massively belled, strategically slashed sleeves.. the knee-shortened trousers with attached hose and exaggeratedly long, pointy leather shoes… the tall 'inverted flower pot' sugar loaf conical hat – they could have stepped straight from an episode of the cult British comedy's first series.

What really sets the apparel apart is (of course) Macdolas's unique colour stamp. His love of bright, clashing colours is today reflected in the combination of lurid satsuma orange for the tunic and trousers and royal purple for the sleeves' pulled-through under-tunic, opaque hose, and hat. Merlin's tender mercies… the overall visual effect is glaring enough to blind the unwary.

Well, at least Macdolas went with Edmund's wardrobe and not Baldrick's, Hermione consoles herself. Seeing a copy of Blackadder's guileful manservant's sock-like felted hat stretched over Macdolas's large ears would've have had her collapsing in a guffawing heap, regardless of her desire to spare his sweet feelings.

"You look quite… dazzling tonight, Mac," Hermione settles on an appropriate adjective as she allows Macdolas to lead her into the kitchen. "Um, no drink for me just at the moment, thank you. I'm just going to duck to the loo; excuse me."

It doesn't take long before Hermione has confirmation of the cause of her currently enfeebling physical condition. She hobbles back to the kitchen to ask a favour of Macdolas.

The cheery sprite is humming tunelessly along with the low volume of the little kitchen radio; Hermione has apparently created a pop music monster since she'd first explained the workings and dials of the transistor to Mac. He turns from the small sink, blotting his hands fastidiously on his wildly ruffled beige cotton apron.

"Macdolas, may I ask you to do something for me, please?" Hermione hesitantly asks, mulling over the best way to couch her request.

Before her sentence is complete, Macdolas is strenuously bobbing his head up and down. "Macdolas leaps at the great distinction of completing a boon for Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger!".

Hermione gently grasps his lowering shoulders before Macdolas can complete his courtly bow.

"Macdolas – I really must insist that you cease bowing, and stop addressing me by that complicated, drawn-out title," she firmly instructs. At his crestfallen expression, she compromises a little. "What if you just call me Mistress Hermione?".

His pale jade eyes instantly round in horror. Hermione hastens to jazz up the nomenclature.

"Well – how about 'Grace Lady Granger?" she smiles encouragingly. "'Grace' was my beloved grandmother's name… and having you address me thusly would bring respect and glory to the House of Granger." She maintains a perfectly straight face – somehow – despite the hilarious silliness of pretending to be anything other than a run-of-the-mill, plebeian Englishwoman.

To her immense relief, she has struck exactly the right note. Macdolas nods fervently in agreement with the suggestion he can honour her family lineage with the adapted title.

"Macdolas is profoundly grateful for the honour to pay homage to the venerated ancestry of Grace Lady Granger," he solemnly declares.

Well. It's a start. Hermione glances at the readout on the oven clock – 6PM. Draco isn't due to arrive for dinner until seven, so the late notice shouldn't be an issue.

"Macdolas, would you please find Draco and tell him I need to cancel our arrangement – that is, our dinner plans this evening? I'm not feeling well, and it's best if we don't see one another tonight," Hermione tries not to blush at the 'arrangement' slip-up.

Her small but fierce elvish bodyguard segues straight into protective knight mode. "Grace Lady Granger is ill? Macdolas fetches a Healer, or Side-Apparates Grace Lady Granger to St Mungo's this very minute!" he reaches agitatedly for her hand.

"No, please don't fret, Mac – I'm not sick… merely indisposed," Hermione hedges. Dagnabbit – I'm going to have to tell him plainly what's wrong.

Macdolas is still thrumming with custodial apprehension. Hermione lays a hand reassuringly on his giant puffy orange and regalia purple sleeve but the sheer volume of fabric resists her attempt to contact his scrawny arm.

"I've recently begun my period, Mac. Do you know what that means? Menstruation?". The upside-down flower pot hat wobbles dangerously as he dips his head in mute acknowledgment.

Relieved she needn't run her borrowed house elf through a makeshift lesson in female biology, Hermione briefly explains, "I have painful cramps at present, Mac; but they will pass with time and some Muggle medicine. Maybe a hot water bottle. And perhaps Part One of my Pride and Prejudice mini-series video," she adds as an afterthought. Macdolas blinks, clearly baffled by the last.

She impulsively kneels to enfold him in a light, careful hug.

"But thank you for being such a dear, caring friend, Macdolas. I appreciate your help greatly, you know," Hermione flinches as she rises to her feet; the heavy, painful knots in her lower belly have ramped up another level.

"Grace Lady Granger has hugged Macdolas… and called him her friend," Mac whispers reverently, his exophthalmic celery-green eyes swimming with emotion. "Macdolas never forgets the immense glory of this night."

Oh, crap. Before Hermione can reply, Macdolas nods determinedly and Apparates from the kitchen with an abrupt crack.

Glad no one can see her weary eye roll, Hermione digs around in the pantry until she locates the paracetamol and ibuprofen packets. She pops two of each and gulps them down with half a glass of water.

Something smells utterly fantastic in here. Hermione sniffs appreciatively; her inkling of the cause is happily confirmed as she lifts the lid off the big pot simmering on the stove top. Pea and ham soup! And Macdolas has a loaf of crusty home-made bread warming in the oven, if she's not mistaken.

I'm beginning to appreciate the benefits of domestic staff, Hermione meditates with a semi-shamed little grin. She is tempted to ladle a bowlful of the fragrant soup right now, but she already knows Mac would be grievously wounded by the lost opportunity to be of service in that department.

Wandering slowly to her bedroom to change into her comfortable crimson sleepwear set, Hermione broods over the astonishing reality that she is currently being cared for – and guarded – by the Malfoys' fiercely loyal house elf. And by extension, Draco Malfoy himself. Un-freaking-believable.

It feels weirdly natural, though… just like Sunday's breakfast in her tiny kitchen. Macdolas had happily buzzed about, anticipating their every culinary need with avid attention and efficiency. Admittedly, he'd turned his huge green eyes in Hermione's direction at every spare opportunity, but with reverent admiration and joy.

And Draco… sitting opposite, unabashedly wearing her ratty pink dressing gown as though he'd been garbed in princely silken robes. His silvered eyes frequently catching with her own. Exchanging small, secret smiles at Macdolas's adoration-infused regard. His strong white teeth crunching into her crispy bacon as he'd filched one morsel after another. Smirking as she'd pretended great offense and drilled her forefinger into his reaching arm.

Afterwards (once he'd dressed in his own clothing, thankfully), Draco had briefly left with Macdolas. They'd Apparated back into her lounge room, levitating a small, garnet-red, beautifully crafted antique chaise longue between them, proceeding to settle it into the poky far back corner of her living space, ignoring her clamouring protests.

Draco had left Mac to fuss over the ideal placement of the borrowed sofa as he'd facetiously enquired, "Would you mind if we set up a little snug for Macdolas to sleep, Granger? With your permission, of course." The smug prat had known Hermione didn't want to risk hurting Mac's feelings by arguing over it – thus presenting her with a fait accompli.

Hermione had let it slide and instead had narrowed her eyes to query suspiciously, "Where did that chaise come from, Malfoy? It looks terribly expensive." In fact, it had appeared as though King Louis XIV himself had only recently surrendered its possession.

"Oh, it's been languishing in a back parlour of the Manor for years," Draco had airily dismissed her concerns. "No one will miss it." He'd slapped his hands together to remove (non-existent) dust, before he'd steered an appalled Hermione around the corner and into the narrow hallway - just out of sight of his industrious manservant. The sly blond devil had caged her against the smooth cream wall and effectively disarmed her heated objections by kissing her senseless.

They'd broken apart – flushed, rumpled and decidedly dazed – at Macdolas's discreet cough. Draco had smoothed a thick, lustrous curl behind Hermione's right ear as he'd bid her goodbye and used the Floo fireplace to return to his townhouse.

Leaving her with a beaming house elf and a rapid heart rate.

Hermione breaks off from her heated recollections as she flops gingerly onto the velvet-upholstered Chesterfield. Hopefully Macdolas will shortly return from his messenger errand and she can ask him to please dish her up some of his toothsome soup and warm, buttered bread. The hot comfort food will ease the effect of the painkilling medications into her system.

She's already popped the Pride and Prejudice video into the VCR and paused it at the opening credits; there's no harm eating in front of the television tonight. It's not as though Macdolas will take offence. Hermione closes her strained eyes as she huddles deeper into the couch, clutching a plush cushion to her sore tummy.

I'll just 'check out the inside of my eyelids' until Mac comes back. Hermione turns her head and instantly dozes off.

"Granger – what's wrong?" The low, worry-laced words slowly penetrate her muzzy mind. Gentle, strong hands cup her cheek and shoulder as she turns toward the speaker.

Draco is crouched beside the lounge; Macdolas is hovering by Hermione's woolly-socked feet, quivering as he scowls at his long-time employer. Hermione confusedly notices that the faddish sugar loaf hat is askew atop Mac's head.

"Master Malfoy insists on accompanying Macdolas to the abode of Lady Grace Granger – Master Malfoy asks Macdolas many questions about the nature of Lady Grace Granger's indisposition, but Macdolas cannot and will not betray the sacred confidence of his most Esteemed Lady!". The fretful mite slaps at his head, dislodging the comical hat sideways.

Draco intervenes as Hermione gasps. "Settle down, Macdolas – and for the love of snakes, stop walloping yourself! You've not betrayed anything or anyone; hence why I came back here with you. Be still while I speak with Hermione, please."

Hearing her Christian name on Draco's lips – even though he's not directly addressing her – makes Hermione's stomach twist in an entirely different way to the menstrual spasms she's experiencing. She pushes herself to a sitting position, Draco helping to guide her upright and propping the downy cushion behind her head.

"Now, please tell me what's going on," Draco looks searchingly into her tired mocha eyes, petting her right hand soothingly with his left. Hermione's breath hitches; she is growing increasingly receptive to the simplest of his touches.

But damn – must I tell every Y chromosome-coded creature in Greater London about this? She girds her loins (ooh, terrible pun, woman!) to answer Malfoy clearly and candidly.

"I started my period this evening, and I usually experience painful cramps, fatigue, and hormone-driven melancholy and/or mood swings for the first twenty-four hour period of my menstrual cycle," Hermione explains.

As she's speaking, Hermione tries to guess at Draco's likely reaction: shock? Horror? Frozen in fright? Or perhaps Ron's habitual modus operandi – becoming an amateur magician and perfecting vanishing for the next four to five days?

This should be interesting.

But Macdolas sniffs haughtily before Draco can respond. "Master Malfoy has meddled – Macdolas told the Master that Grace Lady Granger needed none other than her friend Macdolas!".

Draco shifts, incredulous. "You jealous little – " he breaks off as his cool control kicks in. "Macdolas, it would behove you greatly at this moment to make yourself useful by fetching Hermione and myself some dinner."

"And get out of my sight," he grates, but not quite loudly enough for Macdolas to register.

"Please," Hermione tacks on as Macdolas nods curtly at Draco before smiling widely at her. She chokes back a chuckle at Draco's patent annoyance.

Muscular arms crossed, Draco rolls his eyes as he dryly observes, "Congratulations, Granger – it's not even taken you a week to turn my own house elf against me and completely bewitch him. I'd best inform Ruibby that her devoted would-be swain has decamped."

Hermione's spontaneous laugh at Malfoy's drollness fades to a small groan as her tight abdominal muscles protest the movement. Draco drops back to her side immediately and takes hold of her hand once more.

"Granger – what can I do? Just tell me, please," Draco is making uncertain, jerky gestures over her semi-prone body with his free hand. He even slips his wand from his navy trouser pocket to twitch it near her slightly distended tummy.

"You can't magick away period pain, Malfoy!" Hermione isn't sure whether to laugh or cry; his jumpy concern is both comical and touching. Don't forget your hormones are bonkers right now, she cautions her silly heart.

"Of course I know that!" Draco indignantly retorts. "I know all about female biology and menstruation!".

"You do?" Hermione echoes sceptically.

Malfoy sticks his wand back into his pocket before arrogantly proclaiming, "Of course. I did read that alarming green book you threw at me in the library back in Fifth Year." He snidely recites, 'Managing your Menstruation: A Witch's Guide to Womanhood'? Yeah. Fascinating text."

Draco cackles at Hermione's floored expression. "Hah! Cat got your tongue, Golden Girl?". The soft squeeze of his hand around hers belies his taunt as Draco's eyes crinkle charmingly with his easy smile.

"Speaking of which – excuse me a moment, please," Malfoy carefully places her hand on the sofa, pivoting and striding to the kitchen. Curious, Hermione strains her hearing to its full capabilities but cannot make out more than the occasional word as Draco converses briefly with Macdolas.

Both males return to the lounge room a minute later. Macdolas proudly bustles to the coffee table to solicitously place a laden tray in front of Hermione. Draco follows with his own plate, bowl, and cutlery. Hermione swings her pyjamaed legs to the floor and smiles appreciatively at her little helper.

"Thank you, Mac – this looks and smells wonderful," she lauds Macdolas's efforts. Indeed it does: the green pea puree and smoky, salty ham flavours are making her mouth water. "And you made the bread yourself – how clever!".

Macdolas preens like one of the Malfoy's legendary white peacocks at her acclamation. "Grace Lady Granger is too kind," he bows as he helps to settle the tray upon her lap. He cuts a side-eyed glare at Draco, who is now seated in a similar position beside Hermione.

"Macdolas is sent on a highly important mission by Master Malfoy now. He returns post-haste!". Another small bang of Apparation and he is gone.

Hermione and Draco begin eating without further ado; Hermione hums appreciatively at the satisfyingly rich sustenance.

"Macdolas is turning into a right little shite – but the cheeky rascal can cook," Draco dourly admits.

"He's just taking his temporary role of protector seriously," Hermione protests, mumbling around a mouthful of hearty soup.

"Bollocks! He'll be measuring you for a life-sized golden statue before you can say 'Grace Lady Granger'," Draco jests. "Which reminds me – how did you manage to pare down Macdolas's absurd string of honorary titles?".

"I sacrificed my egalitarian soul on the altar of archaic class distinctions," Hermione groans. "Please leave it at that, Malfoy."

Draco chuckles boyishly at her answer. Hermione pauses her spoon halfway to her mouth, arrested by the sheer beauty of the man beside her. And he's not even trying, her brain grumbles. A still-smiling Malfoy catches her oblique glance before she can cut her eyes back to her food.

"Have I spilled soup on my face?" Draco frowns as he dabs blindly at his immaculate countenance.

"No – I was just thinking how handsome you are," Hermione burbles the truth before she can think better of it.

"Oh." Swallowing unnecessarily, Draco stares silently down at his half-emptied soup bowl. Despite her own embarrassment, Hermione is perplexed by Malfoy's marked abashment at her frank compliment.

"Why does that bother you so?" she asks quietly, keeping her eyes on her meal as Draco takes a choppy breath.

There is a long gap before he replies. "It doesn't speak to character, does it? It means nothing, not really. Just an accident of genes. It reminds me… it reminds me that I'm just a shell. Even the glossiest apple may be rotten at the core."

Dinner forgotten, Hermione rushes hotly to rebut Draco's harrowing belief.

"Malfoy – how can you think so little of yourself? You truly think you're just a pretty face? You're – you're one of the best men I know. And I'm best friends with Harry-bloody-Potter! You're intelligent, witty, thoughtful, loyal… generous, and kind – though you will try to hide the best of yourself behind that arrogant, highborn façade."

Hermione angrily shoves her tray onto the coffee table, swivelling to not-so-gently grasp and turn Draco's averted face.

"Ever since I washed up on your stoop like human jetsam – you've been simply marvellous. You took me into your home, cared for me – you washed me clean of vomit! Clothed and fed me, guided me through Legilimency… and supported me with the Ministry investigation. Your family's house elf is now my personal, live-in bodyguard – and you honestly think that you bring nothing to the world but good looks?".

Hermione's voice booms around the cosy lounge room as she lets loose her indignant outrage.

"And you tell ME I have self-esteem issues?! AARGH! For such a brilliant man – you're a proper blockhead sometimes!".

Releasing Malfoy's thunderstruck face, Hermione moves to scoop up her jangled tray, preparing to return it to the kitchen. A gentle masculine hand on her arm halts her movements.

Draco sidles over until their bodies are joined from hip to shoulder; he cautiously draws her cranky head against his shoulder in an awkward, grateful hug. Hermione's arms slowly return the embrace. His heart is pattering crazily against her left ear.

"Thank you," he mumbles into her buoyant mahogany curls. She squeezes him tighter, her own heart stuttering erratically. She closes her misty eyes to nestle a little closer.

The sharp sound of Macdolas's Apparation interrupts their poignant moment.

"Macdolas has returned!" he triumphantly announces. The manikin is holding a small vial in one twiggy hand, and a fancily wrapped square box in the other.

Hermione pushes off Draco's chest to sit upright, still tucked into his side. He keeps his right arm curved around her waist, lean fingers tracing tiny circles onto her sleep shirt.

"Thank you, Macdolas. Would you place them on the table, please? I'll help you clean up." Draco gives Hermione's hip a final light pat as he rises.

"No – you stay put, Granger," he commands, as Hermione tries to get to her feet. Macdolas looks scandalized.

"Grace Lady Granger mustn't bestir her blessed self – and Master Malfoy needn't think Macdolas shirks his professional duties!" he squeaks, floating their used dinnerware into the air and toward the kitchen with a swift flick of his skinny wrists. The items he brought back with him fly into Draco's hands rather forcefully.

"Dinner was lovely – thank you, Mac!" Hermione calls out after the busy little elf. Her words cover Draco's miffed grunt.

"He did that on purpose – you saw that, didn't you?".

She ignores his irked petition. "What did Mac bring back for you, Malfoy?".

He hesitates. "This –" he holds out the stoppered tube – "is a potion I developed for my mother years ago. To help ease her menstrual cramps… I sort of got the idea after I read that book you tossed at me."

Misinterpreting Hermione's incredulous expression, Draco assures her, "It's quite safe – I tested it thoroughly, and Mother's been using it for years without ill-effects. Up to you, of course."

He doesn't wait for a response as he pushes the beribboned box into her hands.

"I thought this might help, too."

Hermione childishly rattles the mystery parcel; it is light, but small objects faintly chatter together inside. Curiosity piqued, she quickly undoes the wrappings, revealing a familiar brown and gold box.

"You… you bought me Godiva truffles?" Hermione whispers. Her tremulous fingers worshipfully stroke the glossy box of chocolates. The twenty-four piece Classic Selection, no less.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Hermione snatches the unexpected, glorious gift to her chest and bursts into excitable tears.

Draco frantically rubs her heaving back. "Hey, hey, hey – it's OK – they're just chocolates! I can ask Macdolas to bring you something else if they're the wrong ones. Wait – I have Kit Kats at the townhouse –"

"These are my absolute favourite!" Hermione howls. Malfoy is a vague, concerned blur through her watering eyes. "I warned you I was hormonal!".

"Oh, Granger – please calm down, else Macdolas runs back in and curses me for upsetting you," Draco begs in alarm.

"S'alright… just give me a minute," Hermione makes a concerted effort to quieten her sobs; they decrease to hiccoughs as Draco carefully sponges her wet face with his snowy handkerchief.

Still clutching the truffle box, Hermione reaches for the video remote. "Would you like to watch Pride and Prejudice with me? It always makes me feel better."

"By all means," Draco fervently agrees.

Grabbing the furry ruby throw rug, Draco arranges it to cover them both from the waist down. He guides an unresisting Hermione to lean against him as the mini-series begins to play.

She attempts to concentrate on the skilled portrayal of Jane Austen's masterpiece, but the solid comfort of Draco's embrace soon lulls her into closing her eyes and listening to his reactions to the drama instead. At some point, Macdolas brings in a flannel-covered hot water bottle, which Hermione gratefully wedges against her bloated tummy.

Malfoy's chuckles at Mrs Bennett's machinations make her smile in fellow feeling. His right hand is now idly combing through her hair, beginning at her scalp and trailing down to the nape of her neck, before repeating the action. No one has performed this small tenderness for her since she was an upset or sick child, nestling against her soothing mother. The thought makes her want to cry again, but Hermione quashes any more waterworks. She snuggles a little closer.

Dimly, Hermione becomes aware that her comfy, warm mattress is shifting. Draco loops her arms around his neck as he adjusts her exhausted body in his arms.

"Let's get you safely tucked into bed, Granger. Hold onto me, please." He effortlessly hoists her off the couch as she docilely obeys his instruction. A sudden thought pops into her fuzzy head.

"Wait – I didn't try your potion yet."

"It's in my pocket – I'll leave it by the bed, you can take it if the cramping wakes you in the night," Draco continues walking them to her room. Soon he is manoeuvring her beneath the covers, fussing at them until Hermione is uniformly covered from neck to toe. He leans to switch off her lamp.

"Goodnight, Granger. I hope you feel better on the morrow," he eases away a stray strand from her forehead.

"You're not coming to bed?" Hermione fails to keep the plaintive disappointment from her query.

A long pause elapses. "I didn't think you'd want me here," Draco slowly replies.

"I'd… like it if you stayed," Hermione shyly confesses. "You make me feel better. But you don't have to… if it's too much of an imposition…"

Draco's answer is the sound of him hurriedly shucking his clothes in the darkened bedroom. He clambers beneath the bedlinens and mindfully gathers Hermione to drape across his muscular form.

She manages one more sentence before slumber beckons to her again.

"I didn't throw that green library book at you, by the way – I merely pushed it into your chest. Served you right for crowding me like that," Hermione corrects his earlier remark.

"You threw it – but now's not the time to quibble. Va dormir maintenant, ma petite."

I'll just pretend that means Draco knows I'm right but won't admit it, Hermione decides as she drifts off.

French translation:

"Va dormir maintenant, ma petite." - Go to sleep now, little one.