26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Saturday 08 March 2003: PM

Does this look stupid? I wish Luna hadn't already gone home. I wish I knew what I were doing… and not just with the dress.

Hermione mashes her bottom lip with her left incisor as she stares doubtfully at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. The tea-length chiffon cocktail dress that she'd instantly fallen for in the little boutique Luna had guided her to earlier today now seems ill-suited and… pretentious? Hermione shakes her freshly-washed head of dark bronze curls and sinks onto the end of the bed, shaky hands pressed to her faintly-aching forehead.

Last night's shock, nerves and the wild hope that she'd distracted with sororal company and deadened with top-shelf alcohol (why so much wine? Why? I blame you, Macdolas) have returned ten-fold. No, thousand-fold. Hermione's stomach churns unpleasantly as she remembers Luna's breath-taking disclosures.

She said that Draco loves me. The astonished wonder and thrill of that concept rocket through her mind and body yet again.

No. Correction. Luna said that Draco loved me, Hermione soberly rectifies her earlier thought. As in, past tense. As in, maybe he'd experienced an intense teenage crush that had flared brighter due to the circumstantial stressors of peril, torment, and loneliness. As in, maybe he'd really meant what he said in the café, about not wanting a committed romantic relationship.

As in… maybe I'm wishing on a dim star that's merely a soulless lump of space rock.

Hermione can't stop twin tears leaking out of the far corners of her closed eyes. She has been weeping on and off since Luna had told her the harrowing tale of her imprisonment in the Malfoy dungeons and Draco's desperation to maintain the captives' safety and survival. Hearing about Draco's systematic torture and hopeless wish for death… for suicide… Hermione is incapable of stopping an anguished, sympathetic sob from escaping her slim throat.

Sheer strength of will has her cutting off the sound mid-bawl; Macdolas is buzzing around somewhere behind her closed bedroom door. Well, not so much buzzing as dragging. The reedy manservant's insistence on testing last night's 'borrowed' wine for poisons, and his easy capitulation in joining the two witches in their reckless consumption of the expensive bottles of cabernet had swiftly resulted in the sozzled little steward belting out one Scottish ballad after another. His repertoire of Muggle and wizard songs alike had been impressively extensive and uniformly awful. Crooky had pinned back his tufted ears and fled into the sanctuary of Hermione's bedroom after Mac had thoroughly butchered the first verse of 'Ally Bally Bee'.

As to his bastardized performances of 'Dumbledore Where's Your Troosers?' and the unforgettably wailed 'Scotland the Brave'… the less said of that, the better. Mac had been so squiffy, he'd not objected to Luna and Hermione's raucous mirth at his impromptu concert.

The remembrance of their antics and the joy of convivial friendship helps shore up Hermione's dwindling spirits. There is no fuzziness attached to her memory of Luna sternly insisting that Draco Malfoy was and IS head-over-heels in love with one Hermione Granger.

"That boy – that MAN – would do anything to keep you safe, Hermione. He was prepared to die for you, and you're sitting here doubting that Draco is your boyfriend in everything but name? I should smack some sense into you with a Sugar Shrub stick. Macdolas – please bring me a Sugar Shrub stick!".

Luna's vehemence had unfortunately been tempered by a bout of the hiccoughs and a slow slide off the Chesterfield onto the floor. Mac hadn't paused in his mushy interpretation of 'Auld Lang Syne'.

Being semi-sprawled on the floor hadn't finished Luna's soft rant.

"And another thing: Draco can't yet tell you how he feels, so he shows you he cares, you silly Gryffy! He gives you clothes and chocolates and period potions and his sweet little elf as your bodyguard… and he makes you meals and takes you to cafés and restaurants… and he's escorting you to the ballet… and all because he loves you desperately and he can't stop loving you… and ohhhh he's going to be cranky as a Chinese Fireball when he finds out what I've told you… but you needed to be told… and I am smart enough to see that, even if you two aren't…"

Luna had paused to sip at the wineglass that had somehow withstood her dainty slither onto the lounge room rug. "This is very fine wine… I'll have to get a bottle for Father's birthday."

Hermione wipes at her damp cheeks and resolves to trust what Luna has told her… No, to trust in what Draco has shown her.

And what of my own stupid, wilfully blind heart? Am I ready to admit that I've fallen for Draco Lucius Malfoy like a ton of bricks? She glares at her tear-blurred mirror image. Some Gryffindor you are, you cowardly little lion.

Sighing, Hermione touches her fingertips to the glossy cardboard slips that protrude from the top of her Extendable beaded bag. She'd shambled out of bed this morning, determined to down as much Pepper-up Potion and paracetamol as required to feel human enough to make a quick trip into the office and purchase the two tickets for the Ministry's Spring Equinox Ball later in the month.

Luna had been an unmoving lump beneath the blankets of her makeshift bed on the couch before Hermione had waved a steaming cup of herbal tea over her petite curled-up form. The fragrant brew had worked its olfactory magic as Luna had popped up, looking remarkably refreshed.

Poor Macdolas hadn't fared as well; he'd only regained limited consciousness on his chaise longue as the two friends had quietly conversed about Hermione's idea to invite Draco to accompany her to the Ministry gala event. His cheeping groans had provided an interesting background to their discussion.

"Luna, I want to show Draco that I'm proud to walk beside him… I want to show the world that he is the man I choose to be with," she'd hesitantly (but unconditionally) stated. "I realize that he doesn't think himself worthy of me – and that his complicated past haunts him – but it's past time that I showed him he's my equal… in every way." Hermione had sucked in a juddering breath before she'd been able to continue.

"I've never – I've never felt like this before, Luna. I'm petrified, OK? I've been living a half-life. Deluding myself into believing my own rhetoric about being fulfilled – personally and professionally. And that's on me… I don't need a partner to be 'whole', that's not what I'm saying," she'd fumbled for the right words to express her complicated emotional state.

"I want Draco as much as I need him, Luna. I know this sounds silly… and fluffy, and hopelessly romantic… but it feels like Draco was made for me. An answer to a question I never spoke aloud. The lid to my pot. The butter to my bread. The mustard pickles on my corned beef sandwich. The – "

"I get it, Hermione," Luna had smiled gently. "He's the grey wolf to your striped hyena, isn't he?"

"He's the what now?" Hermione had asked bemusedly.

Nodding sagely, Luna had explained, "They hunt together. The wolves are swift and powerful hunters, while the hyenas have a superb sense of smell and can snap large bones, open tin cans and tear through rubbish. The perfect symbiotic relationship: the best of both worlds."

Great. I'm a trash-destroying, bone-crushing, in-built can-opening wild dog. Luna had beamed as though she'd paid Hermione the highest compliment.

Mayhap she has… but I'd rather be the grey wolf, Hermione had smiled to herself.

"Yes, you're absolutely correct, Luna. Would you please help me with looking my best for the ballet tonight?".

And so they'd trawled the High street in search of an appropriate outfit for Hermione to wear to tonight's modern ballet. Initially Hermione had been apprehensive about Luna's potential fashion choices, but her friend had unerringly steered her toward classic styles and flattering, muted hues.

"Don't worry, Hermione. I know you don't like being the centre of attention, unless it's in class." Luna's perceptive comment had been accompanied by her usual small, enigmatic smile.

Still perched on the edge of her sleigh bed, Hermione looks critically at the dress they'd chosen. It is a dusky mauve, 'princess' style with a sweetheart neckline and banded straps that wrap around her upper arms, leaving her clavicles and throat exposed. The diaphanous length hits at mid-calf and perfectly showcases her delicate new kitten-heeled silver shoes. The bodice is embroidered with an identically-coloured thread in a subtle floral pattern, and tiny silver sequins. Besides the blue gown Hermione wore to the Yule Ball years ago, it is the loveliest frock she's ever owned.

Rising determinedly off the bed, Hermione straightens her spine and bares her teeth at the witch in the looking glass.

I am a beautiful, sexy woman wearing a gorgeous dress, readying myself for a wonderful date with my boyfriend… and tonight I'm going to show the stubborn git exactly how much he means to me.

Better get a wriggle on.

Draco slams shut the front door; he's annoyed by his weakness in letting Blaise Zabini get under his skin yet again. The shameless son of a Bludger had turned up uninvited half an hour ago and badgered Draco mercilessly until the blond wizard had caved in to his 'request'. He had acceded, but mostly to be rid of the smarmy jerk before Hermione was due to arrive. Draco scowls fearsomely.

He marches to the hallway mirror and fiddles needlessly with his half-Windsor tie knot. Hermione should arrive any moment: she is as scrupulously punctual as he. He critically appraises his appearance. Dark charcoal fitted-suit, black dress shirt, narrow argentine tie. His accompanying jet scarf and marled sleet-grey topcoat are folded atop the living room couch.

Vertically smoothing his left hand down the dark silver tie, Draco briefly lets his exhilaration find expression on his alabaster face. He cannot wait to see Hermione again – spending the night alone in his too-big bed upstairs last night just felt wrong. And had given him far too much time to brood over the high probability that Hermione would not have missed the opportunity to thoroughly pump Luna for every single detail about their odd friendship… and him. Fuck. He quells the incipient panic at the likelihood of having his vulnerable, wizened heart feebly pulsing at her feet.

Not that he believes Hermione would deliberately stomp on it… but being pitied and humoured by the kind-hearted little lioness would crush him just as badly as intentional rejection. His elation now tastes like ashes.

"It's fine," Draco mutters, tightening the knot around his neck. "It will be fine. If she mentions your unhealthy teenage interest, you attribute it to raging hormones and the allure of the forbidden. Yeah. It's fine. It will be fine."

Light steps exiting his Floo fireplace interrupt his desperate pep talk.

"Malfoy? Hello? I'm a little early, I hope you don't mind…" Hermione's mellifluous voice floats from the lounge room.

Forcing himself not to actually run, Draco strides as quickly as he is able into the room.

And stops dead at the utterly resplendent vision before him, his cool greeting frozen in his rapidly-bobbing throat.

Hermione is standing beside the hearth, a study in poised perfection… except for her graceful hands rhythmically tensing and relaxing on the familiar little beaded bag that she holds out in front. The black peacoat is draped around her shoulders like a loose cape. Her shy, closed-mouth smile falters at Draco's continued silence as his carbonite grey eyes roam compulsively over her face and figure.

The lavender gown she wears fits her like a glove; the A-line skirt flares gently as Hermione uneasily shifts her weight from one shapely leg to the other. Her breasts swell enticingly as her breathing stutters beneath his ardent attention. Draco tracks his gaze up to the sweet curves of her exposed shoulders and throat.

She deserves a set of silver and purple jewels – perhaps diamonds and violet sapphires? Necklace or earrings? Perhaps both? He makes a mental note to address the issue later. Her hair is skilfully wound in a braided coronet, with little mahogany ringlets kissing her neck and forehead.

"Hi… you look very handsome," Hermione quietly offers. Her dark brows scrunch as Draco remains silent.

"Is there a problem… am I dressed inappropriately? Is the dress not formal enough? Is it too stuffy? I haven't been to the ballet in an age – I thought that the audience probably still dresses up, even though it's modern dance and not classical ballet – look, I'll just pop back and change – "

"Don't you bloody dare, Granger," Draco finally croaks, appalled by the suggestion. Her nervous vacillation over her appearance breaks the spell he was under. He decreases the distance between them in a rush, unable to keep from sliding his trembling hands around her waist.

He locks eyes with the self-conscious witch, seeking to find the exact words to express his sentiments.

"Hermione Jean Granger, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen… or known. I cannot decide whether you are an angel or a goddess in that dress, ma petite. Never doubt your loveliness… inside and out." Draco closes his eyes to brush a reverential kiss across her rosy pink mouth, careful not to disturb her sophisticated make-up.

His caution is for naught; Hermione deepens the kiss instantly. She drops her little bag and latches her hands behind his head as she steps into his body. The raven greatcoat slips from her shoulders to whump onto the floor. It could spontaneously burst into flames for all Draco cares. He is drowning in rapture, overloaded by the sensory phenomenon of Hermione's passionate embrace. Her lips cling to his with an exceptional (but greatly appreciated) intensity.

Draco is giving serious thought to cancelling their plans in favour of carrying Hermione upstairs when she shifts her arms to wrap them around his torso in a tight hug and rests her cheek against his thumping heart. Her next sentence nearly arrests the beleaguered organ.

"I missed you, Malfoy," Hermione whispers, her breath hitching before she coughs. Worry joins Draco's disbelief and flooding euphoria.

"Hey, what's wrong?". He takes a step back to quickly scan her face.

Hermione shakes her head and pins on a smile. "I'm fine – I just want you to know that I – I'm happy to be here. With you."

"Granger – I missed you too. Plus que tu ne le sauras jamais. I wish – " Draco inhales sharply, internally reproving his impulse to throw his haggard heart out for a trampling. Enough.

He frantically kisses the hovering questions off her sweet lips, easing only when they are both panting for air. "Let's… let's go to dinner, Granger. I think you'll like this restaurant."

Not waiting for a reply, Draco bends to nimbly scoop up her odd little bag and discarded overcoat. He adds his own topcoat and scarf to the draped pile on his left arm. "Where's your scarf?" he frowns.

"It's in my bag – never mind, I'm quite warm now." Hermione flicks him a shy upward glance as her cheeks kindle pink. She laces her fingers with his. "I'm ready."

Before he focuses on their joint Apparation, Draco takes a moment to soak in Hermione's beauteousness; he fixes her image in his memory. A line of poetry pops into his mind: 'You are the beautiful half / Of a golden hurt'.

I'll always have this… come what may, he thinks fiercely.

"You got Macdolas drunk?" Draco looks as incredulous as he sounds as Hermione attempts to defend herself between giggles. "Merlin, Granger! I thought you wanted to emancipate house elves – not dissipate them! Poor little bugger," he teases, leaning back against the sumptuous cushions in their intimate dining booth.

"It truly wasn't our fault! Mac was determined to ensure the wine he took – I mean, the wine we drank – was not tampered with, or poisonous… And then we offered him the dregs of the first bottle, and he kept sipping…" Hermione laughs anew at the remembrance of her borrowed manservant stoutly warbling as he'd swayed atop the coffee table.

Of course, her slip of the tongue does not elude her companion's notice. "'The wine he took?'" Draco parrots shrewdly. "Took from where?".

"Um… as you said, Mac is very resourceful." Hermione hastily reaches for her water glass, but Draco clasps her hand to stymie the evasion. He slides closer; they are seated side-by-side, the better to facilitate Draco hand-feeding her titbits from the appetizer sharing platter.

She tries again. "I've never enjoyed such tasty Persian food before – how did you come to know of this place?".

Draco ignores her ploy. "The little rapscallion pinched the booze from the Manor's cellars, didn't he? Granger?". His smoke-grey eyes dance with amusement, belying his stern tone as he traces her palm's fate line with his thumb.

"Well, technically Mac exchanged it," Hermione temporizes. "Here – you haven't eaten your fair share of the kuku sibzamini yet." She clumsily tears one of the saffron and potato fritters in two before pushing it between his lips, grinning as Draco sputters. Her smirk is short-lived as Draco holds her fingers at his mouth; he swallows the last bite of fritter before slowly sucking clean her digits.

Holy Horned Serpents! Hermione feels that erotic suckle bulleting to each and every nerve ending. Her brain short-circuits as Draco gently returns her hand to the table.

"Delicious." His hot gaze leaves no doubt that he was referring to her fingers, rather than the food.

She hides her involuntary amorous writhe by reaching for her napkin, and bumbles about for a different topic. "How was your day, Malfoy?".

Offering her a morsel of sesame-seeded flatbread coated in minted cucumber yoghurt dip, Draco absently replies, "My day went well, until that tiresome doofus Zabini banged on my front door. Try the mast-o-khiar."

Hermione tries to lick at his fingertips to repay his earlier sensual tease, but Draco is too quick. She diligently chews, enjoying the salty, herbed flavours.

"What did Blaise want? I didn't realize you two were such close friends," she dabs her mouth with the napkin before sipping some water.

"We're not! He's like herpes simplex – you can't get rid of him once he's entered your system," Draco grumbles. "An aggravating flare-up that can be treated but never cured."

She feels compelled to make a token objection, despite chuckling at Draco's cutting quip and his aggrieved expression. "But Blaise is quite decent underneath all that bravado and swagger, isn't he?" she prompts, keen to know more about Draco's interpersonal relationships.

There's so much I want to learn… so many things I wish he'd share with me, Hermione wistfully ponders. Her nerves flare as she pulls her Extendable bag into her lap; the table hides her compulsive reassuring touch at the tickets lodged just inside the opening.

You've stalled long enough, woman – just get it over with and ask Draco to be your plus-one at the Ball! Tell him what he really means to you… and don't chicken out like you did in his lounge room. Hermione resolves to lay her cards on the table, once Draco has finished answering her query about Blaise.

He shrugs dismissively. "I suppose Zabini's not all bad – that is, when he isn't plaguing me into honouring a favour I rashly promised when I recently asked for his help. The dastard wouldn't leave until I'd agreed. I did give my word for the marker to be called in at any time, as he repeatedly reminded me." Draco twitches his fork and spoon into perfect alignment beside his small share plate.

A peculiar, nasty prescience settles low in Hermione's stomach. Her pride strives to keep her anxiety from transmuting her voice.

She knots her hands together and quietly asks, "What was the favour?".

"It boils down to Blaise trying to get into Daphne Greengrass's knickers," Draco caustically informs her. "He's asked Daphne to the Ministry's Spring Equinox Ball, but she's refusing to accompany him unless he finds an acceptable date for her younger sister. Which is where I reluctantly enter the picture, apparently." Blond head bent down, he grimaces as he rearranges the flatware.

Relieved that Malfoy hasn't witnessed her dismayed reaction, Hermione schools her face into something resembling nonchalance. She shoves the two tickets into the unfathomed depths of the deceptively wee bespangled bag in one violent move.

"You're taking Astoria Greengrass to the Ministry Gala?" Her acting talents need work; something raw in her tone alerts Draco to her distress. Hermione blindly loads her side plate with a selection of spiced meats and flavoursome condiments, glad for the excuse to avert her gaze. Her appetite has gone the way of the dodo, however.

"Does that bother you? It means nothing, Granger… Astoria means nothing to me. It's you I want – in my bed. If I hadn't given Blaise my word, I'd tell him to fuck right off."

Ah. That knife slices deep. 'In my bed'. Three qualifying words that scatter Hermione's optimistic resoluteness like dandelion whiskers. Her insecurity sings a horrid little ditty to the tune of 'I told you so'. She forces herself to consume a few bites of the Persian specialties as she strains for a bare modicum of self-possession.

I need some time to process it – I can't handle this. And I refuse to start crying – I bloody well won't! Hermione pushes up off the bench, grateful she is on the aisle end. "Excuse me – I need to pee," she baldly states, dashing for the restaurant's toilets without waiting for Draco's response.

Once inside the cramped but clean lavatory cubicle, Hermione gathers her flagging Gryffindor pride and steadfastly refuses to release the veritable army of injured, angry tears massing behind her carob orbs. You know Draco meant what he said… He doesn't give a fig for Astoria Greengrass. Just because she's perfectly pretty, and petite, and Pureblood… and blonde… it doesn't mean Draco intends to dump you for her. He hasn't the slightest idea that you want to be his date for the ball – because you haven't asked him.

She steps to the vanity and critically scrutinizes her make-up, rummaging in her bag to re-apply the matte rose-pink lipstick. Capping the tube, Hermione glares at her reflection.

Quit skulking in the loo, get back out there and figure out a way to make Draco admit what you both know but have been avoiding like skittish dormice – he's your boyfriend, for the love of lions! Blaise bullying Draco into honouring his promise is irrelevant… you weren't intending to go to the stupid Ministry function until you decided it would be a grand romantic gesture. Use your alleged smarts and figure out another way to show the silly man how much you care.

'Prudens qui patiens', right?

Freshly empowered, Hermione returns to the booth. Draco rises, concern wreathed across his well-formed features.

"Granger, are you well? Was the food incompatible with your constitution? Has your hangover returned?". He hovers as she manoeuvres back beside him.

"Such a diplomatic way of checking whether I have a gut-ache and a Katzenjammer," Hermione teases, smiling freely into Draco's troubled countenance. "I'm perfectly well, thank you."

"Ooh – the mains have arrived! Excellent." Appetite restored, Hermione begins ladling spoonfuls of fragrant zereshk polo, ghormeh sabzi and tahdig onto her plate. Draco follows suit; they consume the luscious chicken with barberries, saffron rice, lamb stew with sautéed herbs and kidney beans, and accompanying crispy rice crust with gusto.

Between bites, their conversation remains neutral. Draco appears subdued as he tells her about Ruibby's infuriated jealousy and Macdolas's unwise boasts. "He's almost as stubborn as you, Granger," he muses, smiling as Hermione predictably bristles. "That's a compliment, Golden Girl. Your tenacity is a serious turn-on… except for your constant academic drubbing of this struggling Slytherin at Hogwarts."

"Struggling? Pfft – like I didn't see you lurking in the library almost every time I holed up in there!" Hermione scoffs. "The only times you went missing were during Quidditch practices," she adds.

"You noticed my absences in school?" Draco echoes. He abandons his food, leaning in animatedly as his eyes bore into hers.

Ignoring her initial evasive reaction, Hermione nods firmly. "I did. I noticed everything about you, Malfoy. You were a riddle I simply could not solve. You became a metaphorical Chinese finger puzzle… the harder I poked, the tighter your hold over me."

She sighs. "I'm surprised you didn't taunt me about my obsessive regard, actually. I was a sitting duck, but you didn't raise the shotgun."

Draco relaxes. "I assumed – obviously – that your hot stares indicated your hatred and disgust, and furthered your determination to out-do me at every turn. Correct?". He grins lazily, sure of her agreement.

"Not entirely. Yes, I rationalized it as needing to keep a close eye on your shenanigans.. but mostly, I watched you because I couldn't help myself."

Despite her rising embarrassment, Hermione is pleased at the way Draco's pupils dilate at her confession. He makes a funny, throttled noise in his elegant throat.

"Didn't expect that, did you?". She decides to give the obtuse blond a little time to digest her revelation. "Malfoy, shouldn't we be departing for the ballet soon? It starts in twenty minutes," Hermione points at his posh silver wristwatch.

"Right. Yes. Indeed." Draco is blushing as he waves for her to precede him from the booth. "It won't take us long to arrive; it's but a short walk from Tavistock Square Gardens." He helps her with her onyx peacoat and navy scarf before he settles their bill.

Slipping on his own outer garments, Draco crooks his arm to escort her outside.

"Looking forward to the ballet, Granger?" he asks softly, once they have reached the street and she is protectively tucked into his side.

Hermione nods happily as they make their way to a darkened nook and prepare to Side-Apparate.

"Did you enjoy that?" Draco whispers throatily as he nibbles at Hermione's silky neck in the darkened black taxicab. His hands have already slipped her coat half-off her upper body, unveiling the glorious expanse of smooth olive skin above the heart-shaped neckline of her mauve dress. Hermione whimpers as he wedges his forefinger beneath the scalloped edge of her lacy band-sleeve, following the material from the side of her upper arm to her breast.

"Wha- what?". She keens again as he tracks his finger north and east, over her fabric-covered nipple, flicking back and forth in a maddeningly slow rhythm.

"The ballet," Draco prompts, bending to lick along her collarbone. Hermione smells like vanilla and citrus bergamia, with roses as the keynote perfume: sweet and tangy. And she tastes like ambrosia… 'sugar and spice and all things nice', Draco grins into her neck. My fairy tale princess, who slays her own dragons and is far, far sexier for it.

"You were crying during the Second Act; I was worried," he rasps, breaking from the embrace to seek her expressive honey brown eyes in the dim light of the back seat of the vehicle.

"I cried because it was too, too beautiful," Hermione quietly admits. "The way the ballerina was confined to the spotlight; her melancholy as she tested the walls of her circular prison, never able to break free, until her partner helped to lift her up, and out; their perfect harmony, each gesture expressing their love and support for each other…'

She glides her hand to the strumming pulse jumping in his neck. "Did you not feel it, Malfoy? The oneness… the rightness? The sadness… and the joy?". Her thumb presses lightly.

Draco nods jerkily. Yes, he'd felt it, marvelled at it… yearned for it, deep in his compartmentalized heart. No point hoping on it… but 'a cat may look at a queen', to paraphrase the old proverb.

Shaking his head, Draco reapplies himself to properly worshipping his monarch. He unbuckles her seat belt to draw the willowy witch onto his lap.

"Malfoy – what if we crash? And why did you insist on catching a cab from the theatre, when we could have easily Disapparated home?" Hermione pants, steadying herself by placing her hands on his broad shoulders as he licks along her trapezius muscle.

"I will never allow any harm befall you – and I once saw a Muggle movie with a scene like this," Draco divulges. "We have approximately ten minutes before this automobile deposits us back at the townhouse… just enough time to slake my animal lusts upon your helpless person," he leers wickedly, exulting in her excited gasp.

He smothers her token protest with the hot press of his open mouth, darting his tongue to twine with hers as his fingers busily encroach beneath her gauzy skirt, rubbing gently on the sleek skin of her knee. Hermione's thighs part even as she softly moans, "Malfoy – you wouldn't… you wouldn't have me in the back of a taxi!".

The darling little lioness isn't aware that she sounds more stimulated than scandalized.

"Is that a challenge, Granger?" Draco whispers into the pink shell of her ear, biting her lobe before laving the side of her neck.

"You are fully aware I cannot resist a challenge, hmmm?". He settles her directly above his bulging erection; his long fingers continue their slow crawl up the inside seam of her toned legs.

"But – but the driver – what if he watches?" Hermione murmurs. She rests her floppy coroneted head against his shoulder as she succumbs to his touch, her hands clutching at his sides.

"He can't see much through the Perspex barrier at night… and you'd best be quiet," Draco assures the wiggly witch.

She tries again. "Malfoy – I haven't quite finished my period – I can't – "

"Shhhh… this is about you, Granger. Relax, ma petite… let me make you feel good…" he salts hungry kisses up and down her neck, unable to resist sucking a few love bites along the way. Hermione keens a tiny cry as his left hand finally breaches the thin barrier of her satiny knickers; Draco teases her by letting the elastic seam bounce lightly against her tender skin a few times.

She takes her revenge immediately, sliding her curvaceous rump along his rigid cockhead. Draco hisses, gripping her right hip to hold her still. He wastes no time parting her labia majora, fingertips slowly grazing along her minor folds, up and down, occasionally dipping to her clitoral pea. He carefully spreads her natural lubrication to ease his strokes. Hermione is practically boneless in his steady embrace.

"You like this, don't you? Naughty little witch… tell me. Tell me the risk is turning you on… or I'll stop," Draco threatens.

"I like it! I like it! Don't stop now, Malfoy," Hermione whines. Her head tilts sideways and up as her lips seek his. "Please make me come."

"Your wish is my command, ma petite," Draco matches the increasing pace of his hard, sloping kisses to the pattern and path of his fingers. Hermione is shaking as he muffles her eager cries with his mouth; he allows himself only the minutest of rocking motions beneath her warm bottom.

"We're almost home, Granger." He focuses on the clockwise cadence and medium speed that she likes best, upping the pressure of his big fingers. The verbal warning and the change-up effect the desired result: Hermione shudders, her thighs clamping his left hand into place as she rides out her orgasm, convulsing helplessly as he mutes her sob of rapturous release against his lips.

The cab turns the final corner as Hermione sags and curls her body sideways. Draco cradles her in his arms, fumbling a fifty pound note out of his trouser pocket and shoving it into the payment slot at the base of the Perspex barrier.

"Keep the change," he nods at the impassive silhouette of the driver as he somehow manages to juggle his satiated woman and wrangle the backward-opening cab door. Hermione's funny little bag is still looped around her wrist. Good.

Draco carefully extricates them from the vehicle, nudging the door closed with the flat of his shoe. As he negotiates the front gate and walks up the steps of his abode, he is unable to stop himself from dropping little kisses into Hermione's hair.

Her eyes blink open; she raises her slim hand to trace it down his slightly-stubbled cheek. The gesture is identical to her touch on the first night he held her in his arms. Draco gulps back the lump in his throat at how close he came to losing her… before he ever had the privilege of truly knowing her.

"Malfoy? Are we home? You can let me go now," Hermione's joyful smile is candid and bright; he can see his conflicted face reflected in her dilated dark pupils.

Draco simply shakes his head and opens the townhouse door.

I never want to let you go… though I know I must.

But – not tonight.

The quoted excerpt is taken from the poem 'To Be In Love' by Gwendolyn Brooks, pub 1963.

French translation:

Plus que tu ne le sauras jamais – More than you'll ever know.

Latin translation:

Prudens qui patiens - He is prudent who is patient.