25

Chapter 25

Friday 07 March 2003: AM

"Nice kitty… soft kitty… off you go… " Draco gingerly tries to shift the giant apricot beast off his lap, but reconsiders the move as Crookshanks opens his wasp-yellow eyes to slits and peers balefully at him. The Kneazlecat leisurely extends his claws, settling them dangerously close to Draco's vulnerable stomach. Crookshanks proceeds to knead at him with his massive tufted front paws, emitting a rumbling purr that can probably be detected from the next street over. His eerie eyes stay fixed on the unnerved blond's face.

Thank Clotho for thick woollen sweaters. Even with the protective rolls of knitted fabric, Draco admits that he might be outmatched – for the moment. I didn't invite this orange brute to use me as a pincushion, he ponders peevishly. And he's shedding coarse carroty hairs all over my clothing!

Without breaking eye contact with the fiendish feline, Draco turns his head infinitesimally to the right; his peripheral vision detects minute flutterings from the picayune elf beside him. Macdolas snuffles, lazily rubbing his cheek against the cushion Hermione had thoughtfully propped beneath his sleeping head.

"Listen, Macdolas… don't make any sudden moves, mate. You're alright, but the big cat that jumped on your back is sitting on my legs," Draco warns his steward in a low murmur.

Macdolas's lime green orbs crack open in alarm. Remaining motionless, he incredulously asks, "Master Malfoy has willingly placed the tiger cat on his person?".

Draco daren't laugh, lest the 'tiger cat' sinks his talons deeper. "He's just a half-Kneazle, Macdolas. And no – Crookshanks jumped on me when I sat down to check on you."

Macdolas cranes his neck. He lets out a terrified whimper as Crooky swivels his head to stare at the little elf.

"Hey, don't fret – he won't hurt you." Probably. Maybe. How the blazes did Granger come to choose such a monster for a pet? Both males flinch as Crookshanks opens his fanged mouth in a grotesquely wide yawn.

"No sudden movements, alright? Might be best if we wait for him to… get down of his own accord," Draco decides aloud. Best for my vulnerable belly and genitals, also. Surely the marmalade wildcat needs to move, in order to regularly terrorize a mouse? Or a small child?

Slowly, Draco reaches out with his right hand to assist Macdolas in sitting upright and wedging his scrawny frame into the corner of the sofa. The elf is quivering with trepidation as Crookshanks increases the pace of his pummelling and the volume of his purrs.

"Don't let him smell your fear, Macdolas. He's really a tame grimalkin," Draco states firmly.

Macdolas looks unconvinced. "Macdolas asks Master Malfoy how the beastie enters Grace Lady Granger's abode?". He hasn't taken his eyes off Crookshanks since he awoke. The abject dread on his pointy face sparks pity.

He's been a pugnacious twerp recently – but Draco does have a soft spot for the tiny termagant. "Would you believe that Crookshanks is Hermione's beloved pet, Macdolas?"

"Pet?" the manservant incredulously peeps.

Draco grins. "I know, right? But it's true. And you must trust that Hermione and I would never let any harm befall you."

"But Master Malfoy is cross with Macdolas… Master tells Macdolas his attire is ridiculous," Macdolas uncertainly points out.

It is Draco's turn to look uncomfortable. "I apologize for that. I was out of line. Perhaps we could call a truce? We both want to ensure Hermione's safety, hmm?" Draco presses.

Nodding vigorously, Macdolas adds, "Grace Lady Granger is an angel, Master Malfoy! Macdolas would gladly lay down his life to protect her!". His bulging green eyes attest to the sincerity of his claim. His unquestionable devotion strikes a poignant chord.

"It won't come to that, Macdolas. But I do appreciate your commitment. Thank you," Draco acknowledges solemnly.

"Master Malfoy confers great honour to Macdolas by entrusting him with Grace Lady Granger's protection," Macdolas humbly proclaims. "Macdolas is willing to tolerate the cacodemon… but is Master certain that it won't steal Macdolas's breath?".

"Absolutely, Macdolas. That's just an old wizard's tale. Crookshanks won't harm you, I promise." I hope. Both males hold their breath as Crookshanks stretches out and up in the classic 'hunchback' feline pose; he uses Draco's legs to springboard off his lap before prowling toward Macdolas.

Macdolas emits a soft, "Eep!" as the mega cat places his furry head underneath Macdolas's bony, quivery hand… and proceeds to self-scratch his noggin on the house elf's tension-splayed fingers. Draco exhales a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"See? He likes you! Go on – rub between his ears, he'll enjoy that," Draco encourages. He stifles a smile as Macdolas barely touches the short fur on Crookshanks's head; the clementine-coloured feline blissfully closes his eyes and nudges closer. The nervy sprite visibly relaxes and dares to increase the pressure, his little mouth tipping upwards. He darts a glance at Draco.

"Macdolas wonders at how soft is the Crookshanks's fur…"

"Uh-huh… And look at him, he's just a big ole house puss." The moggie slightly curls back his lips over his sharp fangs. Draco retracts the hand that had been tentatively stretching to test the texture of the Kneazlecat's crested ears. He suspects Hermione's warning about the animal's intelligence is bang on the money.

Draco gets up, swiping his hands in a futile attempt to rid his dark jeans and cream cable-knit of orange fuzz. "Let's hunt out the kitty litter and some tuna for your new friend, Macdolas. Once we've gotten Crookshanks settled, how about you accompany me to the Manor for a brief visit? I need to ask a favour of my mother before dinner tonight."

Macdolas nods eagerly. "Very good, Master Malfoy! Macdolas yearns for a glimpse of his beloved Ruibby!". He scrambles off the couch. Crookshanks slinks at his heels as the odd triumvirate walk toward the laundry.

"Remember my advice, mate – play it cool. Be friendly and polite, but not effusive," Draco cautions.

"Like Master Malfoy with Grace Lady Granger?" Macdolas retorts. "Macdolas shouldn't gift Ruibby special truffles and expensive robes?".

Cheeky little bounder! Draco stiffens. "Watch it, pipsqueak – that's a whole different kettle of fish."

The twinkle in Macdolas's googly kiwi eyes betrays his sauciness as he obsequiously replies, "As you say, Master Malfoy."

Sighing vexedly, Draco is suddenly reminded of his primary concern once he'd realized the identity of Hermione's Floo visitor this morning…

What the devil is Luna going to tell Hermione about me today?

He swears in French, cursing his indiscreet teenage self to the Louvre and back.

Je suis tellement baisé.

"… their wool is called 'the fibre of God', and they can only be shorn once every three years," Luna imparts her knowledge about the vicuña sheep breed with calm authority. She and Hermione have ditched the Ministry cafeteria in favour of a less crowded Muggle café down the end of the street.

"Wow – is that why their wool is so costly?" Hermione queries. She is having trouble rationalizing the extreme expense of the gorgeous robes Draco gifted her this morning. Especially considering all the clothing the rich wizard has already insisted she wear and keep… his beautiful ebony peacoat, the brown merino sweater, the navy scarf… He'd bluntly refused her attempts to return the items. Is the problem that Draco is ashamed of her fashion sense (or lack thereof)?

Hermione broods as she fiddles with the glass mug of her cooling latté. The idea that Draco is embarrassed to be seen with her – even for the trivial reason of her plebeian dress standards – is not a happy one.

Luna's bright voice returns Hermione's attention to the conversation at hand. "The other reason their fleece is so prized is because the hand-looming process is time-consuming and highly specialized. Are you considering investing in a vicuña flock, Hermione?". The petite blonde witch asks the question with apparent sincerity, before taking a delicate bite out of her 'veggie delight' sandwich.

Smiling, Hermione shakes her head. "No – but thank you very much for the information, Luna. I asked because… " she hesitates. I really need to get some perspective on my… situation with Draco. And I know I can trust Luna implicitly… Stuff it, I'll tell her.

"… because Draco gave me an astonishingly splendid vicuña wool dressing gown this morning, to replace my old pink robe. And he also presented me with a custom-made mulberry silk kimono, 'for the warmer months'," Hermione confesses to her chum.

"That's quite 'friendly' of Draco, isn't it?" Luna observes. "Almost like something a boyfriend might do…" she swings her candid ice-blue eyes to Hermione's swiftly reddening face.

"Well, he's not – we're not – that's not… that's not what he meant by it. I don't think. No, I'm sure. Draco was insistent that our arrangement be restricted to… um… a sexual liaison only," Hermione finishes in a twaddling rush, pretending an intense interest in her ham and salad roll.

Luna isn't fazed in the slightest by Hermione's awkward confession. "Hmm. Is that how it's been, Hermione? Solely sexual?". The little Ravenclaw takes a sip of her apple juice.

"No." The word trips from Hermione's tongue before she can censor herself. "Draco… he's taken care of me, ever since I collapsed at his front door that night…" the shocked expression on Luna's artless face opens the floodgates; Hermione sketches her bizarre tale as succinctly as she can. Luna occasionally asks for clarification, but mostly simply sits and listens intently.

Although Hermione does not go into detail about the particulars of their private sexual escapades (admitting that she was the party who initiated their first joining was uncomfortable enough, thankyouverymuch!), her neck and face are inflamed with waves of blood rush as she concludes, "Draco has been amazingly good to me, Luna. He brought me a menstrual relief potion… and Belgian truffles. He's watching Pride and Prejudice with me… and quoting the lines!".

There is a tiny smirk grooving Luna's closed mouth; it vanishes as Luna pronounces, "My mother always said it is better to trust in what someone does than what someone says, Hermione. Words are cheap but deeds will keep."

Hermione rips tiny pieces off the remains of her abandoned luncheon roll. She must have been chewing off Luna's ear for longer than she realized, as the lunch rush has dwindled to a trickle. The lunch hour she usually considers too long now seems aggravatingly short. And she still hasn't learned a single thing about Luna and Draco's unlikely friendship.

"Luna – when does your seminar finish? It starts at one o'clock, correct?" Hermione nudges her plate aside and leans her elbows on the table, her cocoa eyes aglow as she thinks through her impulse.

Tilting her head like a flaxen sparrow, Luna hums assent. "Mmmm. It should be finished by half past three, unless someone is bitten by a loose Mackled Malaclaw. What are you thinking, Hermione?"

Hermione grins audaciously. "I'm thinking that once your seminar is done… Girls' night at my place? Macdolas will jump at the chance to whip us up some hors d'oeuvres and we could crack open that dubious bottle of wine I got a few Christmases ago. You, me, an excitable house elf and a cranky cat equals a fun Friday evening!".

"Oh, do you have an early mark today?" Luna asks as she nods her acceptance of the spontaneous invitation.

"I do now," Hermione clarifies. "Marilda will probably be delighted – she's forever urging me to 'kick up my heels' and 'trip the light fantastic', whatever that means."

"But you're not wearing heels," Luna points at Hermione's 'sensible' flat-soled brown pumps. "So you needn't worry about tripping," she sagely decrees.

Oh, Luna. I have missed you. Hermione bites her lip and stands to hug her wonderfully unique chum.

"Mother – I need your help. Please," Draco appends as Narcissa's left eyebrow quirks. She rises from her parlour armchair to enfold her son in an affectionate embrace and lightly kisses each ivory cheek in turn.

"Darling, what has you in such a pother? Are Macdolas and Ruibby feuding again?" Narcissa looks apprehensive at the prospect of a continuation of elven warfare.

"I bloody well hope not," Draco answers with feeling. "He's given me enough trouble this week, what with his fawning adoration of – of his current employer." What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I trying to win "Windbag of the Week'?

Draco rushes to cut off his snoopy mother at the pass. "I need your ballet tickets for tomorrow night, please." At her non-plussed look, he elucidates, "For that modern ballet you mentioned – Synergy? What's the name of the place?"

"The Place," Narcissa responds.

Draco resists the temptation to roll his cinder-grey eyes at his mother's obtuseness. "Yes, Mother – the modern ballet place – what's it called, please?" he urges.

"The. Place." Narcissa snaps. Mother and son glare at each other in mounting frustration.

"If you don't wish for me to pilfer your tickets, Mother – do just say so, please. I haven't time for word games," Draco huffs.

Narcissa clips out her next words as though she's dead-heading the Manor's rose garden. "Draco Lucius Malfoy: the name of the venue hosting Synergy is called 'The Place'. It is located in King's Cross. I will hand over the ballet tickets on one condition." She crosses her silk-sheathed arms and drums her plum-painted fingernails along her upper arms. "Well?".

"What is the condition?" Draco sighs. This won't be pleasant.

"I want you to agree to escort the daughter of one of my old friends to the theatre next week," Narcissa haughtily communicates.

"Let me think about it – NO." For the love of snakes… not this matchmaking crap again. I thought I put this to bed two years ago.

"Why ever not, Draco? It's a small favour – I'm not asking you to wed the girl, for goodness sake. You know her, she's stunning –"

"Mother, she could be the modern day reincarnation of Helen of Troy – I still would not be interested."

Resigned to sourcing the tickets another way, Draco turns to leave.

"Wait." Narcissa lays a smooth hand on his shoulder. "The ballet tickets… do you wish to escort your mystery woman?". Her quasar-blue eyes glimmer with shrewd excitement.

"What if I do?" Draco counters. His Occlumency shields slam down like a medieval portcullis. Narcissa smiles vivaciously.

"My darling son, if that were the case – I'd be delighted to offer you my seats." At Draco's subdued nod, Narcissa claps decisively.

"Excellent! Here – I'll call in Ruibby to fetch them, they're sitting on my dresser." She clicks her graceful ivory fingers and calls the elvish housekeeper's name.

The fey moppet materializes an instant later. "Lady Malfoy has called Ruibby?". Her osseous little hands are clasped demurely in her lap, but her amethyst eyes briefly flicker in Draco's direction; he is startled by their visible gall.

Narcissa either doesn't notice Ruibby's banked ire, or chooses to ignore it. "Yes, Ruibby dear – would you be so kind as to collect the two ballet tickets from the top of my bedroom dresser, please? Draco will be attending the performance with his new lady friend tomorrow." She smirks at the over-share; it was clearly included to discomfit her son.

Ruibby dips a small curtsy, laterally stretching the severe black skirt of her traditional housekeeper's uniform. "Ruibby gladly complies, Lady Malfoy." Just before she Disapparates, Ruibby fires another peppery glower in Draco's direction.

Which crime have I committed to earn the wrath of the munchkin version of Mrs Danvers? Draco is at a loss for an answer. He waits silently for Ruibby's return, avoiding his mother's avid scrutiny. She opens her pristinely-painted mouth just as the crack of Apparation echoes in the restfully-decorated salon.

Narcissa graciously inclines her head as Ruibby proffers the rectangular slips. "Thank you, dear. Draco shall take them." He reaches for them but Ruibby fails to relinquish them straightaway, despite his gentle tug.

"If Ruibby may, she desires to speak with Master Malfoy," the teeny seneschal declares. Sensing drama, Narcissa settles into her Bergère chair and pours herself another cup of fragrant tea.

"Of course, Ruibby. Master Malfoy is always available to hear your grievances," she archly consents.

Ruibby launches into her diatribe before Draco has a chance to object.

"Ruibby demands to learn the identity of Macdolas's new Liege Lady, Master Malfoy! Macdolas comes into the Manor kitchen to wax poetic of her 'glorious graciousness' and 'magnificent magnanimity'… with a smug smile that Ruibby itches to slap from Macdolas's vapid visage, yes she does!". She bristles with injured indignation… and more than a hint of jealous spite?

How is it the ruddy elves are more articulate than most of my schoolmates? Trust Macdolas to ignore my repeated cautions and run his mouth worse than a jabbering Jarvey. His tensed hands grip air as he imagines shaking some sense into the pint-sized pissant. His irritation swells with the sound of Narcissa's tinkling laughter.

"You're not in a position to demand that information, Ruibby – but rest assured I shall be having a disciplinary discussion with your fool inamorato in the near future," Draco sternly assures. He almost rips the perforation lines as he wrests the ballet tickets free from Ruibby's clutches. "Where is the mouthy scamp, anyway?".

"Macdolas yet regales the scullery staff with his balderdash," Ruibby disparages. "Master Malfoy would do well to remind Macdolas that a closed mouth gathers no feet."

Narcissa interjects before Draco's dander climbs any higher at the unsolicited advice. "Thank you for that enlightening information, Ruibby. You may be excused."

With a tight smile for Narcissa (and a final scowl for Draco), Ruibby Disapparates.

Draco bolts for the parlour door before Narcissa can start on him. "I'll see later you at dinner, Mother." He doesn't acknowledge her warning sally but hears it clearly.

"You shan't keep your secret from me much longer, son of mine!".

Friday 07 March 2003: PM

"Hello? Macdolas? It's just me and Luna," Hermione calls out in warning as they exit her Floo fireplace. Her quick scan of the lounge room shows the only occupant is a prodigiously fluffy half-Kneazle diligently grooming himself smack-bang in the middle of the red Chesterfield. Crookshanks spares them an indifferent gander before he acrobatically sticks up one hind leg and commences licking his inner thigh with an off-putting moist squelch. Eww.

"Get down please, Crooky," Hermione scolds him automatically. He pays her no heed, his licks increasing to chews as he works industriously at a tangled clump of thick marigold fur.

She is relieved when Macdolas breathlessly barrels into the room. "Grace Lady Granger and her cherubic comrade have returned! Macdolas is happy to report that he and the Crookshanks are now bosom buddies!".

The huge mango-hued tom makes a noise as though he's preparing to disgorge a hairball. Lovely.

"Um, that's wonderful news, Mac." Hermione realizes she is yet to formally introduce Luna to Macdolas.

"Luna, may I present my loyal protector, Macdolas? Mac, this is my dear friend, Luna Lovegood. We've returned early for a little 'girls' night in'," Hermione explains. She bypasses the exaggerated bow that Mac has already begun performing by stroking her index finger along the expertly-repaired small punctures her pet left in the back of his blue-and-gold astrological smoking jacket that morning.

"You've done wonders fixing the tears, Mac – I was going to offer to stitch up the rips for you, but you've beaten me to it," Hermione smiles.

"Master Malfoy shows me a book from your library, Grace Lady Granger," the major-domo nods.

Undaunted by the interruption, Macdolas slants his frank little face towards Luna again. "Macdolas is honoured to meet The Luminescent Lady Luna Lovegood," he ceremoniously avers.

Luna bestows her amiable, mystic smile upon the house elf. Her light bluebell eyes hold a touch of melancholy; Hermione suspects that they are both mourning darling Dobby, and his devoted sacrifice.

"Macdolas begs leave to prepare tempting vittles for the Night of the Girls?". His prominent ears palpitate with enthusiasm.

"Perfect! And would you please bring us two wineglasses and the bottle of red wine up the back of the pantry, Mac?".

A minor pause. "Macdolas admits to finding the inferior vintage and donating it to the Malfoy Manor's kitchen for cooking wine," he ruefully confesses. "But Macdolas replaces it in a jiffy with the best of the Manor's locked cellar!".

And… he's gone. Hermione blinks as Mac vanishes with a familiar crack.

"I like him," Luna quietly states. "Do you think he'll live with you and Draco, once you're married?".

"Luna! Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione decides this must be another of Luna's cryptic jests. She forces a laugh. "Draco Malfoy would never marry me."

Luna shrugs. "Did you ever think Draco Malfoy would be showering you in luxury gifts and loaning you his house elf to ensure your safety and comfort, Hermione? Or that you'd be counting the minutes until you were able to touch him again?". She chuckles at Hermione's hot face and gaping mouth. "Mmmm. I thought not."

Shaking her head vigorously, Hermione finds her voice again. "Nuh-uh – I mean, no… I've told you, Draco was the one who said he didn't 'want or need' a girlfriend, remember? Much less a wife," she mutters crossly.

"Yes – because he doesn't believe he deserves to be happy… or to have the woman he's always yearned for," Luna coolly drops her bombshell.

Hermione actually feels her legs giving out at the revelation; she slumps onto the couch as Crookshanks begrudgingly shifts a few inches to avoid being squashed.

"What the fuck, Luna?!" she whispers hoarsely. Hope flairs and fights with her Bitch Inner Realist.

No. No. No. It's simply not possible. She sinks her trembling fingers in Crooky's dense orange coat, desperate to ground her tumbling emotions. Luna squeezes in on the other side of the Kneazlecat, blithely ignoring his protesting growl.

Her butternut-blonde pal's composure is barely rattled, Hermione is disgruntled to note. Luna is watching her as though Hermione is a newly-discovered magical species. 'The Dumbfounded Dunderhead', perhaps.

The faint sound of Macdolas returning to the kitchen anchors her to the shocking conversation at hand.

"Luna – are you seriously claiming that Draco Malfoy told you he is – or was – in love with me?". Despite her attempt to keep her voice even, Hermione winces as she hears herself squawk on the last phrase.

"He never explicitly said those words… but I see more than some people give me credit for," Luna's confidence in her outrageous claim is unflappable.

Hermione relaxes immediately. "I understand. You are a romantic at heart, Luna – and I love you for it – but I'm afraid you've got the wrong end of the wand on this point." She sucks in a deep inhale as her tension begins to ease. Hah. Panic attack, stand down. No point prodding at why this silly idea nearly gave me heartburn, either.

The blonde Ravenclaw's eyes darken to sapphires in a rare display of temper. "Hermione, I was held prisoner in Malfoy Manor's dungeons for months. Draco came down to see us every day – unless he was too injured from being Crucio'ed and having his mind violated with Legilimency by Bellatrix and Voldemort – and he talked to me, sometimes for hours. Once or twice, he stayed with us the whole night through because he was worried that the worst of the Death Eaters intended to 'play' with us." She ignores Hermione's horrified expression.

"He was supposed to torture us on occasion – we practised screaming at the top of our lungs, and worked out plausible answers together whenever Draco was tasked with learning something specific.'

"When I was first captured, Mr Ollivander told me that Draco and Narcissa had secretly kept him alive for over a year – and not to interrogate him, or make wands for Voldemort's followers. They'd snuck him as much extra rations and blankets as they could without attracting suspicion, and Draco continued that when I arrived.'

"Draco rarely asked me directly, but nearly every conversation meandered back to you. At first I didn't answer when he enquired about my faith in the Golden Trio's ability to survive on the run, or whether you had a solid plan in place to defeat the Dark Lord. I thought he was buttering me up to give Voldemort more information as to your whereabouts. But then… then I noticed how his eyes softened when I spoke of you, even in the vaguest of references… his mouth relaxed and he lost his constant aura of torment, for a little while.'

"At first, Draco would casually say things like, 'Tell me about your friends, Luna – what are their families like? What interests do you share? Do you spend much time with them, outside of Hogwarts?'. Of course, I didn't have any friends except you and Ginny. Draco looked bored when I told him about Ginny, but he noticeably perked up whenever I mentioned your name.'

"He wanted to know every detail of your life, Hermione. Your favourite colour? Coffee or tea? White or black, and how many sugars? Your favourite school subject? Hobbies? Which form did your corporeal Patronus take? Why didn't you like to fly on broomsticks? Did you like apples? Did Viktor Krum disrespect you, or take advantage of you in any way? Did Harry and Ron treat you well? What ambitions did you have, post-Hogwarts?'.

Luna's spurt of anger has dulled; she looks troubled. "I don't like to betray Draco's confidences, Hermione. He refused to go into detail about what was happening upstairs, unless he felt we needed to know of a specific danger. But there was one night, towards the end…" she trails off, eyes clouded with dark memories.

Brandy-brown eyes silently weeping, Hermione urges Luna to continue. "Please, Luna. I have to know."

Pale cotton-candy head down bent, Luna nods minutely and picks up her narrative again.

"Draco had obviously been tortured for hours, Hermione; he was sheet-white, shivering, barely able to negotiate the stone steps. We heard him fall twice. He finally dragged himself to the bars and pulled a few bread rolls from his pockets. 'It's all I could grab – I'm sorry,' he said. I held his hand – it was ice cold, clammy. He lacked the strength to return the gentlest squeeze.'

"Then he said under his breath, 'I wish they'd just kill me and be done with it… if I could only ensure her safety, I'd do it myself…'."

Luna raises her head and stares fiercely at the sobbing brunette witch beside her.

"Hermione – he wasn't referring to his mother. Draco despised his father by that stage (he called him the 'Coward of the County'), but he was confident that Lucius would die before he'd see Narcissa harmed.'

"Draco was talking about you."

French translation:

Je suis tellement baisé – I am so fucked.