23

Chapter 23

Thursday 06 March 2003: PM

Draco alternates between pacing before his hearth and perching restlessly on the powder-blue couch, intermittently checking his heavy silver wristwatch. Two soft bundles wrapped in burgundy paper are stacked on the far end of the lowline sofa.

You don't need to go over there tonight – just leave the packages until Saturday evening. She's probably had a big day at work… the last thing she needs is you turning up like a bad penny. Draco sits back down again.

But you do need to make sure she doesn't need any more of the menstrual potion; and it wouldn't hurt to check that impudent little monkey Macdolas isn't making a nuisance of himself. Resolved, he stands up and gathers the parcels beneath one strong arm.

And steps into the Floo fireplace before he can talk himself out of the decision for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Opening his eyes a few moments later, Draco waits for the familiar gyrating sensation to subside before he steps out of Hermione's ingle. A three-foot high whirlwind hurtles from the direction of the kitchen as he moves toward the lounge room's archway.

Macdolas is the very picture of protective savagery as he materializes in front of Draco. His disproportionately large grape-green eyes blaze menace, and his raw-boned arms are thrust upward in a preliminary warding-off movement.

Upon recognizing his primary employer, Macdolas's fierce stance eases; not completely though, Draco dryly notes.

"Oh. Master Malfoy graces us with his illustrious presence," Macdolas flatly declares, crossing his arms like a disapproving daddy as he plants himself stolidly in Draco's path. "Master Malfoy does not inform Macdolas nor Grace Lady Granger of his impending visit," he chides.

Wonderful – I'm being chipped by my own snippety shrimp of a house elf. Draco shakes his head at the absurdity of it all.

"Step aside, Macdolas – you forget who pays your salary. And by the looks of that suit, I fear I'm over-generous with your remuneration," he warns.

Today's ensemble is relatively tame (at least by Macdolas's usual criteria): a circus ringmaster's stylized tuxedo. Single-buttoned, triangular lapels on a long-tailed buttercup yellow jacket over a mustard silk waistcoat, white shirt, and black trousers and boots. Jet top hat with a mustard trim band; the Dijon accent is repeated on the wide jacket cuffs and bow tie. Pristine white gloves. The jacket button is a polished gold circle as big as a Galleon… because it is a Galleon, Draco realizes. Chuffing hell.

"Where's your whip?" he facetiously enquires. "I've come to see the little lioness, in any case."

On cue, Hermione pokes her startled head around the corner of the doorway. Her face relaxes, breaking into a wide, unselfconscious smile as she sees Draco baled up beside the lounge.

"Malfoy! Mac didn't tell me you were coming over tonight!"

"Master Malfoy fails to advise Macdolas of his intended visitation! Macdolas fears intruders when he hears the Floo, Grace Lady Granger!". The aggrieved steward bristles with umbrage.

"Yes, yes – we've covered this already," Draco pushes past the miniature steward, his own lips curving as he swiftly assesses Hermione's physical appearance. He is relieved to see that her eyes are much brighter and her posture less constrained.

"How are you feeling, Granger? I don't suppose you took my sage advice and skipped work today?". He references their little early morning spat after he'd lightly kissed her sleepy forehead before returning to the townhouse.

Hermione shakes her head rebelliously. "I told you – I felt well enough to go in, Malfoy. I took some of your potion when I got up for the loo last night, and it worked wonders," she smiles gratefully. They stare at each other for a few mute moments.

Draco pulls the back-up vial from his front jeans pocket. "I brought over some more – I thought perhaps you might need it," he diffidently states.

"Oh, thank you. But won't your mother miss it?" Hermione hesitates to accept the proffered ampoule.

"No – she's perimenopausal now, so I've adapted the potion for her," Draco reveals. Shit! I didn't intend to broadcast my mother's fertility status in front of my… lover, and house elf. He castigates his blabbermouth.

Hermione processes the information equitably, merely folding her lips together and widening her eyes. Macdolas pips censoriously, "Macdolas believes Lady Malfoy would not care for her beloved son to discuss such matters, Master Malfoy."

"Why are you still here? Shouldn't you be hollering hyperbole in a Big Top circus tent somewhere?" Draco irefully suggests, nettled by the reprimand.

Wrapping her graceful hand around Draco's tensed forearm, Hermione tugs him away from the frowning little manservant. "Malfoy, would you mind helping me with something, please? I rashly decided to reorganize my wardrobe, and I could use an independent opinion on what stays and what goes," she urges. "I think it's a delayed 'nesting' impulse – and it's really gotten out of hand."

He allows himself to be led from the living room and into Hermione's bedroom; she pushes him to sit on the scant square of bed not currently heaped with female attire. He deposits his two packages next to his right hip.

Draco's irritation dissipates as he smirks, "Love what you've done with the place… did you drop a Bombastic Bomb in your closet, Granger?".

Her response is to throw a hairy dark rouge Gryffindor jumper at his head; Draco's reflexes bat it to the floor before it makes contact.

"Ugh – it burns!" he hams it up, cradling his 'singed' left hand to his chest. Hermione bursts into a giggle, despite her primly reproachful expression. Draco collapses back onto the pillows and laughs along with her.

Hermione's chuckles trickle off. Her sweet face is pensive as she picks up the discarded Hogwarts sweater and folds it atop a precarious stack. She pauses her rummaging to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco against the curved cherrywood headboard.

"Do you ever think that things might've have been quite different if we weren't ritually sorted into the Hogwarts Houses, Malfoy?" Hermione chews at her full bottom lip, her whiskey eyes troubled.

Draco stretches out his 'injured' hand to gently tweak a burnished ringlet. "How do you mean, Granger?". He winds the curl around his index finger, admiring its pliable softness and sheen.

Hermione sighs sadly.

"Is anyone's character truly formed when they're eleven years old? I know mine wasn't. And yet… we all merrily sat on a stool to allow a motley, semi-sentient hat to dictate our futures with a single word… Ravenclaw! Intelligent, witty, wise. Hufflepuff! Patient, just, loyal. Gryffindor! Brave, chivalrous, courageous. Slytherin! Ambitious, resourceful, cunning."

Hermione's right hand rises to absently chafe at the left sleeve of her dusky pink cable-knit pullover. Draco quickly covers her restless appendage with his own hand, folding down their fingers together onto her thigh. Her subconscious tic of scratching at her forearm scar never fails to leave an acidic taste in his mouth.

Thick eyelashes shield Hermione's eyes as she continues. "What if the Sorting Hat both defined and limited us, Malfoy? What if it served to further underline the old prejudices? Pureblood versus Muggleborn is an easier path to travel when you are reluctant to even sit at the same table with a quarter of your classmates." She falls silent as Draco firms his grip on her hand.

"I agree." Draco's sober tone matches Hermione's. "It fostered hatred as well as solidarity."

"Exactly!" Hermione thumps their joined hands up and down in her vehement accord. "And besides – it wasn't infallible. Take me, for example."

Draco scrunches his nose in mystification. "How on earth can you argue you aren't the ultimate embodiment of 'Gryffindor-ific', Granger?".

Hermione swings to face him. "Malfoy - I'm cunning and sly, too. Manipulative… reckless… consumed by righteousness. I've hurt people I love because I determined that I alone knew what was best for them, and acted accordingly." She disengages their handhold to defensively huddle her arms around her torso.

"Bullshit!" Draco hotly defends against the ludicrous declaration. He sits up higher, annoyed by her self-vituperation. 'You can't possibly expect me to give that hogwash any traction whatsoever."

"I trapped Rita Skeeter in her Animagus beetle-form in a jar for a week, during the Triwizard Tournament," Hermione confesses in a gibbering rush.

She holds up her hand to stay the questions bubbling behind his graphite eyes. "I discovered she was an unregistered Animagus, and was using her skill to eavesdrop on private conversations and get all the 'scoops' for The Daily Prophet. And of course, Skeeter was deliberately writing out-and-out gossipy lies to discredit Harry and slur us both."

Ah. The Potter/Granger/Krum fictitious love triangle that had gleefully embroiled the Golden Trio in vicious scandal. Draco nods.

"I cast an Unbreakable Charm on a glass jar and stuffed Beetle Rita in it; I didn't set her free until she agreed to that unbiased, factually accurate interview with Harry for The Quibbler. I blackmailed her, Malfoy… I told her I would expose her unregistered Animagus status and thoroughly discredit her professionally if she broke the terms of our agreement."

In a quiet afterthought, Hermione adds, "I meant it, too."

"Is it wrong that I'm extraordinarily turned-on by your ingenious deviousness?" Draco breathes. He backtracks as Hermione shoots him an exasperated glare.

"Sorry – I was jesting." A little. He attempts to placate her obvious perturbation. "Granger, in the grand scheme of things – that's pretty small fry. And eminently understandable, under the circumstances."

"I haven't finished." Hermione ducks her head, swallowing nervously. She gulps a deep inhale before she makes eye contact once more.

"Before we went on the run hunting Horcruxes in Seventh Year… I performed a Memory Modification Charm on my parents before we left. Without their prior knowledge or consent. Because I'd decided there was no other way to keep them safe from Voldemort."

Draco tries to clasp her hand again, but Hermione is wringing both in her lap.

She whispers, "I changed their names – their identities – and incepted the compulsion for them to immediately relocate to Australia. They'd always talked about the possibility. I thought that Australia was the farthest, safest place for them. All it took to orphan myself was two simple words – 'Memoria Immutatio' – and some nifty wandwork." A tear rolls quietly down each velvet cheek. Her limpid chocolate eyes are brimming ponds reflecting guilt and grief.

Oh, ma précieuse fille… Draco ignores her initial stiff resistance as he enfolds her against his chest and gently rubs her shaking back. Hermione's sad voice is muffled but still intelligible as she continues her tale.

"Wendell and Monica Wilkins settled in Sydney and had no idea they'd ever had a daughter until I finally stopped my cowardly dithering and procrastinating and came looking for them. Took me over a year, mind you. I wasn't sure if I should even try… I thought they might be better off never knowing the truth."

Her tears are rolling unchecked, dampening Draco's cream Aran sweater. He rocks her closer, heart burning. Much as he yearns to stop Hermione reliving the trauma - he recognizes that she needs to unburden herself.

"But I walked into their surgery – they're dentists, you probably don't know –"

"I know," Draco confirms. "Keep going, please."

Hermione shudders and hitches a few times before she can comply. "I walked in… and they were both standing at reception. I was the last appointment of the day, and Dad looked up first. And in that first moment, he saw me. He recognized me, and I swear, his lips started to form my name… But then, his face cleared, and he simply introduced himself as Wendell Wilkins. Dad said I reminded him of someone, but he couldn't think who," Hermione says wryly. "I told them I was Jean, and Mum… Mum commented that they'd always liked the name." She sobs a strangled breath.

"I spent a fortnight out there, that first visit. At first our contact was through more appointments – I claimed I was finicky about dental health, then we developed a friendship… and I kept seeing little signs that maybe they did still know me, somewhere buried deep. I wrestled with it, for another couple of weeks; but I finally decided that I had to at least try to get them back. So I found an experienced Healer and went back to Sydney with her, and we spent a month taking one step forward and five steps back. Every day, dealing with their confusion and distress and anger… only to repeat it in the next session."

A lone sympathetic tear plops off Draco's angular chin to join the wetness soaking into his fisherman's knitted sweater. He hugs her tighter but daren't interrupt.

The distraught witch in his arms cries soundlessly, shoulders shaking as she strives to regain enough composure to finish her sorrowful recollection.

"Dad – he remembered – well, he continued to remember – first. It took Mum another couple of days. But Dad… he was so angry, and disappointed. He accused me of taking away their choices, of essentially stealing their right to their memories and not trusting them to be my parents. He was right, Malfoy."

Hermione casts about for something with which to wipe her streaming eyes and nose; she locates a moth-eaten Gryffindor scarf and blots her face before Draco can offer his trusty handkerchief. He daubs his own face with it instead.

"I was a coward – I memory-wiped them from behind while they were watching the telly – I didn't tell you that, did I? Dad said I should have just asked them to emigrate… he told me they would have gone, once they understood the full gravity of the danger we were in."

Draco has had more than enough of Hermione's tormented self-flagellation.

"No. Your father was wrong, Granger. It's easy to declare that they would have voluntarily fled to the other side of the world for their own safety, but even if that were true – they would have had no protection against Voldemort and his minions breaching their memories, had they been tracked down. And they would have been, sooner or later."

Nausea roils in his stomach as Draco tips up Hermione's chin to stare into her lachrymose cocoa orbs.

"Granger… even you don't realize the grave extent of the danger you and your parents faced. Voldemort – " his voice cracks. Draco tries again.

"At the Manor – usually after a daily session torturing and murdering hapless Muggles or 'blood traitors' – Voldemort and his disgusting cronies liked to riff about and feed their sick fantasies of punishing The Golden Trio and their families. I won't ever tell you what I overheard – don't ask me, OK? – but trust me, your parents were high up on the Most Wanted List. Your father has no right to castigate your choices. You did what you did to keep them safe… I understand impossible choices. Because the alternative is unthinkable."

He has to close his mouth, lest the bile rising in his throat takes proper hold and he retches all over the clothing chaos on Hermione's bed. The memory of those awful days and nights as he sat silently at the long dining room table of Voldemort's war council flashes through his mind.

Keeping his fair head bowed, torn between blocking the depraved conversations and his fear that he will miss something vitally important if he does wall himself off. Watching and feeling his parents' carefully disguised anxiety and fear. Occasionally forcing himself to eat a few mouthfuls of terror-tainted victuals and walking a mental razor's edge with his Occlumency abilities as Voldemort and Bellatrix took turns violating his psyche. The indescribable relief of finally being excused, only to spend countless minutes hunched over the lavatory, regurgitating the few morsels he'd managed to choke down, along with copious quantities of burning stomach acid. Catching scraps of nightmare-infused sleep once he'd emptied his guts to a hollow husk; waking curled around the toilet bowl, ashen face pressed against the cold tile. Crawling to his feet to begin the process all over again.

Hermione must see some of Draco's traumatic trip down memory lane on his face; her weeping eases as she squeezes her arms around his back, almost hard enough to hurt.

Draco has one more thing he must say to her.

"Potter and the We- Weasley, they don't fully understand why this haunts you, do they?" he rhetorically asks, not waiting for her tiny nod to continue.

"Potter has no memory of what it's like, having parents who love you and whom you love in return, right? And Weasley's been spoiled by the sheer quantity of his familial connections – what with his parents and dozen siblings.'

He anticipates Granger's automatic correction before she can voice it. "Yeah, I know it's actually six… five, sorry." Draco's tone is laced with sombre regret.

"The thing is, Granger – Potter had the two people in the world he loved the most with him, through that whole terrible time. And Weasley knew his family were all supporting and protecting one another. You didn't have that tenuous security. It's a whole different Quidditch match, if you think about it."

Hermione replies in a small voice, "You didn't have that either, Malfoy. You were the only one keeping the big bad wolf from your parents' door."

"Hardly. The wolf was sitting at the head of the table by that stage… I was useless," Draco states colourlessly.

Predictably, Hermione opens her mouth to argue the point. Draco stymies the rebuttal by pulling her onto his lap and pressing his lips to hers in a close-mouthed, soft-as-silk kiss. The sensation of her plump little mouth against his instantly calms his overstrung emotions. He slides his big hand from her hip to the base of her neck, minute callouses on his palm catching on the whorled pattern of her oversized pink jumper.

While this kiss is as inescapably arousing as every other smooch they've shared, Draco recognizes that their embrace is directed and perfused by their mutual need to comfort each other… to mark their acknowledgment of the suffering of the other. He keeps his lips sealed as they lightly slant across Hermione's; little brushes that overlap as he moves from the central curve to the outer corners (what was that term she'd used on her couch? Oral commissures?). Her pleasurable sighs as she mimics his motions make Draco's heart miss a beat here and there. Hermione grooms the argent hair at the back of his head as he cups her nape, fingertips barely rubbing her sensitive skin above the pullover's thick cockled collar.

An aggressive bang on the ajar bedroom door startles them both. Reluctantly, Draco disengages his mouth from Hermione's; she moves as if to squirm off his lap, but he is having none of it.

Clasping her shapely hip again, Draco glares at the cause of the ill-timed interruption.

"What are you about now, P.T. Barnum?" he jeers at his interfering house elf.

Macdolas ignores him altogether as he simpers, "Does Grace Lady Granger wish Macdolas to include Master Malfoy in the preparations for dinner?". His pointy nose elevates a degree or three as Draco huffs.

Stifling a giggle, Hermione puts a finger to Draco's thinned lips.

"Yes please, Mac. What are we having?" Hermione warmly asks.

The mini major-domo practically prances at her convivial enquiry. His Lilliputian chest swells as he informs them, "Filet mignon with mushroom sauce, jacket potatoes, and grilled asparagus, Grace Lady Granger. Macdolas asks if Your Eminence desires her steak to be prepared medium-rare?"

Macdolas anxiously awaits confirmation, knotting his hands together as he beams adoringly at Hermione.

"Lovely – and how long do we have until it's ready, do you think?" Hermione ignores Draco's grunt of disapproval as she wriggles off his lap to stand by the bed.

"Macdolas estimates no more than half an hour, Grace Lady Granger." Macdolas bows and darts out the door.

"Notice he didn't bother to ask me how I like my steak?" Draco grumbles. "Bumptious little cock-blocker."

"Malfoy!" Hermione folds in her lips, trying and failing to suppress her chuckles at his grouchy insult.

"What? You heard him – he's gone from 'ooh Master brings great glory to the House of Malfoy' to 'keep the door open while you're visiting with my daughter' damned quickly!". Draco's arms snake around Hermione's midriff as he moves to stand behind her lithe, giggling form. He rests his chin on her right shoulder, dropping a light kiss on her exposed lateral throat.

"How Macdolas manages to appear forbidding whilst wearing those outré vestments is beyond me," he remarks. "He looks like a giant daffodil vomited on him tonight, for Salazar's sake."

"Stop it! Mac is a darling, and he means well," Hermione unsurprisingly defends her diminutive fae champion. Her hands shyly cover Draco's as they lightly rest on the mid-point of her tummy.

She surveys the wreckage of her wardrobe with a rueful sigh. "What am I to do with this jumbled mess?".

"Burn it and start over?" Draco laughs at Hermione's indignant gasp. "Here, I'll help. I'll move to the other side and hold up each item for your inspection – you can then advise whether it goes in the 'keep', 'donate' or 'incinerate' piles."

"Thanks," Hermione's mouth sarcastically twists a little as she sweeps and pushes the wild heap until she's cleared space for three piles in the middle.

"Excellent. We'll have this sorted by dinner, Granger." Draco absentmindedly kisses her little ear before he walks around the sleigh bed.

Their cooperative progression through the sorting process runs smoothly and swiftly, until Draco notices Hermione inspecting an old Hogwarts school uniform set. She folds and places it in the 'donate' section.

"Wait – what's that?" His shark-grey eyes gleam as they home in on the matching outfit.

Hermione shrugs. "Just an old Gryffindor school uniform – I'll give it to Hagrid next time I visit. He might know of a financially-disadvantaged student who needs another set."

"Which year did you wear it?" Draco presses, eyeing the nickel-coloured knife-pleated skirt, woollen pullover and plain white shirt with poorly-disguised acquisitiveness. He unconsciously licks his lips.

"Oh, I don't know – Fifth, Sixth Years, maybe? Why the sudden fascination, Malfoy? A short while ago you claimed 'Lion' clothing burned your tender skin…" Hermione's brow furrows as she cocks her head to the side.

"Does it include the red and yellow tie? And the long socks?" Draco is already grabbing for the items.

"Yes – what, do you want the Mary Janes, too?" Hermione mocks. "They won't fit, I can tell you that for free."

Securing his purloined bounty atop the nearest pillow, Draco smiles at her: slowly, broadly, and rapaciously.

"They won't fit me, Granger," he expounds. "Rest assured I have other plans for them… in which you play a starring role, ma petite."

He delights in the heated wave of sudden comprehension that floods Hermione's beautiful face. Her mouth opens and closes multiple times before emitting a squeaky, "Oh." She concentrates on precisely folding a summer-weight dress as the blush flows to her hairline.

Draco takes pity on her and changes the subject. "Would you mind if I stuck around for a while after dinner, Granger?".

It is his turn to pinken as he tentatively mentions, "Perhaps we could watch some more of that Pride and Prejudice thing from last night? It's rather diverting."

Hermione's eyes brighten as she eagerly nods her assent. "Of course! Where did we get to – I'm afraid I fell asleep quite early in the piece."

"Darcy caught his first glimpse of Elizabeth at the Assembly Rooms Ball," Draco replies. He holds up another work blouse as he quotes, "'She's tolerable I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.'"

"You've – you've read Pride and Prejudice? And you remember the iconic lines?" Hermione stares at Draco as though he's just Transfigured into a silver unicorn.

"Why does my erudition never fail to surprise you, Granger? I was your closest academic rival at Hogwarts, remember." Draco shakes his head in mock self-pity. "It's my dazzling good looks, isn't it? You simply cannot credit that I represent the pinnacle of masculine perfection.'

"Well. Being this accomplished… it's a burden, I tell you true – but I valiantly soldier on." He winks mischievously as Hermione throws yet another garment at him.

She rejoins with another line from Austen's classic: '"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."'

Draco finishes the interaction. '"I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any."'

Their hands still at their busywork as they gaze delightedly at one another across the expanse of bed separating them.

Merlin – she's so beautiful. Draco is in awe of the pure, incandescent wonder of Hermione Granger's smiling face.

Remember that this is all temporary, boy – she's not meant for the likes of you. His inner realist helpfully reminds him of that unpalatable, inexorable truth.

Draco returns his attention to folding Hermione's skirts, willing his hands to stop shaking.

This time, he's thankful when Macdolas bustles into the room.

"Dinner is served, Grace Lady Granger!" he proudly announces. "And for Master Malfoy," Macdolas adds as a snubbing afterthought.

Recklessly tossing the last small pile of Hermione's un-sorted apparel into the 'keep' heap, Draco moves to escort Hermione to her little kitchen.

And if Draco casually bumps Macdolas out of his way as they enter the hallway…

Well, accidents do happen, don't they?