28

Chapter 28

Sunday 09 March 2003: AM

"Hermione?" Draco rubs his nose against the darling curve of her bare neck, speaking into her satiny skin as she sleepily purrs and presses a soft kiss to his upper left arm; the limb is tucked underneath her coppery head as they spoon beneath the snow white duvet. He is bound to have 'dead-arm' again on the morrow, but it's a price he's more than willing to pay.

My girlfriend, Hermione Jean Granger … in my arms… in my bed… I'd sacrifice a thousand nights to have this one, Draco ruminates. Even just having the freedom to speak her Christian name aloud feels like an extraordinary blessing. Her-My-O-Nee. 'Hɜːˈmaɪəni'.

He smiles ruefully in the lightless bedroom, remembering his juvenile obsession with repetitively scripting the phonetic spelling of her name in painstakingly crafted calligraphy. Complete with elaborate illustrations, drawn from the memory of sly sideways glances and his pretence of narrowed, contemptuous regard of the brunette spitfire. His idiotic reasoning had been that the exotic phonetic letters would be unrecognizable to anyone but himself, especially in the ornate lettering.

Draco's smile fades as he remembers burning his precious pekoe-brown leather journal when he'd realized that its discovery would immediately endanger Hermione; he'd consigned it to the flames the moment he'd known that Voldemort's return was a certainty. And obliterated his desire for the witch from his psyche, working harder than he'd ever done to minimize the risk of The Dark Lord or that bitch Bellatrix from knowing what the little Gryffindor meant to him.

The Brightest Witch of Her Age now mumbles, "Draco? You were going to ask me something?". Hermione lazily pulls him closer, relaxing the unconsciousness tension in his muscles caused by the harsh recollection of his teenage follies. Her little hand massages his sculpted lateral thigh, curving around his kneecap before repeating the motion. The affectionate touch feels heavenly; Draco has trouble remembering his original question.

Oh. Right.

"Mmmm… ma petite, what is 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'? And why would we attend a midnight screening?" he repeats Hermione's words from last night's lounge room confessional.

She chuckles serenely. "Oh, it's a cult movie from the 70s: it's about this wholesome young couple who are forced to take shelter in the Gothic castle of a transvestite scientist – that's Frank-N-Furter – and all his strange companions… It's a musical, and has all these weird characters, like Riff Raff and Magenta, and it's funny and weird and progressive, with all these layered themes about the fluidity of gender and sexuality, and love. Anyway, it's a thing for fans to go to midnight screenings and dress up like the characters and sing along."

"Sounds like something Zabini would enjoy," Draco observes. "Speaking of which, I have to tell that pompous pecker-head he'd best give up trying to force me to be Astoria Greengrass's date for the Spring Equinox Ball. I refuse to attend with anyone other than my beautiful girlfriend." He bites gently on her ear lobe as Hermione squirms and sighs.

"'Aye, an' ye've kissed the Blarney Stone', Mr Malfoy… not that I'm objecting to your shameless flattery," she teases. "But what will you tell Blaise? You said you'd given him your word?"

"Hell, I'll pay some poor fool to withstand an evening with the acidic Astoria if need be," Draco decrees. "That is… if you still wish to allow me the pleasure of escorting you there?" he trails his right hand down her naked hip and places his fingertips tantalisingly close to the underside of her unfettered breasts. Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, subtly wiggling her derrière closer to the warm man behind her.

"Well… you didn't technically answer me… maybe I should consider inviting a different wizard, then? Perhaps another Slytherin gentleman?". She squeals as he tightens his hold and growls viciously into her ear.

"Don't you bloody dare, you saucy little minx! I'd hex off his bollocks, in any case. I mean it, Granger. Besides, you haven't technically asked me," Draco highlights the loophole, nuzzling into her neck whilst keeping her a willing captive in his bracketed hold.

"Hmmm – good point. So that gives me some time to look elsewhere…" Hermione shrieks with laughter and pretend panic as Draco snarls menacingly and bites down on her neck, champing little nips up and down it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Have mercy! Malfoy, would you be my date for the Ball, please?"

She shakes with laughter, snickers subsiding as Draco ceases his nibbling to reply, "I would be honoured, Granger. I'm sorry – I never dreamed you'd be prepared to acknowledge me – to acknowledge us – in public. I still can't believe it… are you sure this is what you want? I shan't be offended if it's too soon, for you."

Hermione vigorously negates the suggestion with a toss of her freed curls. "I wouldn't have asked you if I had the slightest qualm about claiming you as mine… Draco."

It is her turn to beam into the darkness as Draco roughly whispers, "I don't deserve you… but you're mine too… Hermione." She turns her head slightly to allow their lips to sweetly meet. Their smooch is short-lived as a thought zings into her head.

"Do you think that Blaise pushed you into accepting his proposition to force you to acknowledge your feelings for me? It seems odd that he didn't first ask Theo to supply the favour, doesn't it? They seem close," Hermione speculates.

"I wouldn't put it past Zabini – he's a cunning snake," Draco concurs. "But it didn't work out quite like that, did it? I blundered about hopelessly – you were the one to take the bull by the horns. My smart, brave, amazing little Gryffindor," he breathes admiringly.

"One of us had to move forward – and as usual, I beat you for the top spot," Hermione smugly reminds him, her words a little slurred as she smiles in quiet triumph. Draco briefly tickles her soft belly in retaliation for the cheeky comment, his fingers preferring to stroke carefully along her curvy hips and tummy.

Touching Hermione never fails to excite him; he feels like a randy, scheming teenager all the bloody time – simply desperate for her. They've already made love thrice tonight: the taxicab, the bathtub, and the wondrous, slow joining Draco had initiated after lifting his woman out of the bath, drying her gently before unpicking her complicated braid and combing out her curls with a soft hairbrush. He'd spoken just once, to ask Hermione if she wanted him to continue his ministrations.

To his joy, she'd nodded swiftly, her prismatic brown eyes sparkling as she'd looked at him with undisguised desire, trust, and tenderness. Draco had wasted little time in worshipping her with his mouth and hands, carrying Hermione the short distance into the bedroom and laying her down on a dry towel, atop the bed. He'd kissed and caressed every scintilla of her lissome body, starting with her cute little toes and finishing with her smooth brow.

Learning her like this – without the fear that she would see his adoration and run screaming – had loosed a restraint he'd not realized was constricting him.

Hiding my innermost self from the world has become second-nature, Draco had reflected as he'd gazed hungrily at Hermione's beautiful, guileless face. Always shielding, hiding, denying… yearning and lonely.

Enough with the sad thoughts. Tonight is a celebration. He'd decisively pushed aside his melancholy and applied himself to showing his enchanting witch the fathomless depths of his feelings for her… even if he can't quite articulate them yet.

Hermione had silently urged Draco to lie down beside her, no longer content to be a passive recipient of his nuzzling coddles and reverent strokes. Braced above her, Draco had rejoiced in her long, sure passes along his shoulders, spine, and buttocks as she'd pushed him into closer contact with her warm flesh. He'd shaken uncontrollably: not from the strain of propped elbows to keep his weight from crushing her slim form, but due to his continuing disbelief that she accepted him, wanted him, needed him.

Impatient, Hermione had spread wide her hips and nudged her damp mons against him, whimpering in encouragement and raw need, always gazing up into his wide pewter eyes. Draco had slid inside her tight heat agonizingly slowly, tormenting them both with his deliberately incremental advance.

With each small push, he'd bent to kiss her plump, panting mouth, darting his tongue to mimic the motion of his rock-solid shaft. He'd ignored the electrifying impetus for release, concentrating on making this extraordinary moment last.

The very air around them had appeared charged with strange, glimmering particles; Draco had paused his unhurried thrusts as the epiphany crashed into him. This phenomenal shower of light was their magical cores, twining and pulsing, emanating tiny pinpricks of sparked energy. Hermione's honey-brown eyes had reflected his awe as the minute molecules merged and divided and re-formed in a fantastical, joyous dance.

Her little touch at his face had prompted Draco to move again, every slow thrust infusing his mind and body with the magical power that surrounded them. Images crashed and flowed throughout his consciousness, the present and the past shifting into the potentialities of a future together. He didn't feel the salty droplets run down his cheek, but he saw Hermione's mirroring tears roll gently into her hairline as she'd joyfully smiled.

They had crested their peaks simultaneously, the added element of their mated magical essences turning 'le petit mort' into a white-hot, exhilarating rebirth. Draco had felt the surge of transcendental energy in every cell of his being as he'd clung desperately to Hermione's similarly-transubstantiating body.

Time had passed, unmeasured; somehow, Draco had dredged up enough nous to shift them onto their sides and beneath the flipped bedding. He'd kissed closed Hermione's wet eyes, arranging her as the little spoon before he'd fumbled to turn off the lamp. Their mystical centres had softly uncoupled, fading back into their individual forms until only faint flecks lingered in the darkened bedroom.

Hermione had fallen asleep immediately; Draco had smiled into her fluffy hair as she'd emitted a few snuffly snores before tumbling deeper into slumber. He'd stubbornly stayed awake for as long as he could, wanting to immovably affix every detail of the experience into his memory.

Now, he shifts his hands to hug her tightly; as much as he longs to make love to her again, she has barely caught a few hours of rest. Draco is used to insomnia, but he refuses to deplete Hermione's well-being with incessant ravishment.

"Go back to sleep, ma petite. We will talk more in the morning. No, don't jiggle against me like that – I won't be swayed. You're still exhausted. Sois une bonne petite lionne, mon cœur." He grins at her sleepy grumbles. She murmurs a final question before her eyes close again.

"Draco… have you ever felt that before? That… magical synthesis? I haven't… I thought it was a myth."

"Never, Hermione. Only with you." He rests his chin into the crook of her bowed neck and shuts his own eyes.

It will always be… only you.

Tearing herself away from creeper-staring at the gorgeous sleeping blond wizard in the big white bed (my boyfriend!) Hermione snaffles his discarded expensive black shirt from last night and pushes her arms through the sleeves. She flips up the cuffs a few times; of course Mr Fancy Pants Malfoy uses cufflinks instead of buttons for his finery. Buttoning it up, she spares a quick look in the mirror. Perhaps black isn't her colour, but she loves wearing his clothes, especially when they still smell like him.

I'm just a domestic tabby rolling in Draco's catnip, Hermione decides. And I couldn't be happier.

Quietly closing the bedroom door behind her, she patters downstairs, keen to start some coffee to hopefully blow away the cobwebs. Halfway through the action of shovelling fresh grounds into the French press, Hermione pauses as the enormity of last night's confessions, revelations and decisions swamp her cognizance. And of course – the miracle of their magical conjugation…

She is lost to the wonder of the recollection until the kettle adamantly shrills behind her.

Yes. Coffee first, navel-gazing later. Pouring herself a mug of redolent caffeine, she doctors it with sugar and milk before carrying it into the living room. The polished wooden floorboards are cold against her bare feet, making her wish she'd hunted out a pair of Draco's socks. Rubbing her chilled tootsies against the woven rug, her attention is drawn to a small moving photograph half-obscured behind some untidily stacked books on a lower shelf of the big 'library wall'.

Curious, Hermione squats to retrieve it, bringing it back to the three-seater lounge and placing her coffee mug atop the table. She sits with her knees beneath her and arranges a (doubtlessly hideously costly) saxe blue cashmere throw across her lap, before picking up the framed picture again.

It shows a pre-pubescent Draco on the left, resplendent in his green and black Slytherin Quidditch uniform as he smiles unreservedly at the camera. Beside him stands Narcissa Malfoy, as tall and slim and fastidiously upright as a silver birch. Her smile is less effusive, but unmistakably proud and bright as she looks down at her blond son. Something about the way the snapshot is framed puzzles Hermione; she eventually realizes that it is off-centre because another person has been chopped out of the frame post-production. The only hint of that is a sliver of differently textured black material on Draco's left.

This must have been taken during Second Year, when Lucius Malfoy had purchased new Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin side. Hermione cringes as she recollects hotly accusing Draco of buying his way onto the team. Her nasty snipe had been provoked by Draco's snobbish sledging, but her insult had still been unjust and inaccurate. Possibly her unwillingly attracted reaction to seeing him looking unfairly handsome (even with that Lucius-esque slicked-back coiffure) in the athletic uniform had spurred her into shrewishness.

Her musings are interrupted by Draco's urbane tones as he pads into the room, splendidly bare-chested, his flaxen locks adorably sleep-rumpled. "What do you have there, Granger? More weighty tomes?". He falls silent as he stops at her knee and sees the photograph in her hands.

"I must have forgotten to move that back when I was hunting for a book the other day," he frowns. "Here – I'll return it now." He holds out a pale hand for the frame.

"I haven't finished looking at it," Hermione counters. "You were almost adorable – for an arrogant little so-and-so," she baits him with a smirk.

"Bah! I was a twerp. Come, hand it over." She clutches it to her breast as Draco tries to gently prise it loose.

"Why did you cut out your father from the picture?" Hermione guesses, as Draco stills.

He shrugs carelessly. "Because he's an arsehole? Shortly after that photograph was taken, he warned me that I'd best catch the Golden Snitch in my first match, or risk his wrath and the likely cessation of my quarterly allowance." Draco laughs cheerlessly at Hermione's stricken reaction.

"Don't worry, I'm well over that little jab now," he assures her. This time when he stretches for the snapshot, Hermione cedes the object. Draco shoves it back behind the stack and rearranges the books to cover it. He strolls back to the couch, snugging in beside her and wrapping his right arm around her shoulder as his left grabs her mug of java and raises it to take a cheeky gulp.

"I left you plenty in the plunger!" Hermione complains, as he places it back on the coffee table. Draco ignores her protest, his eyes compulsively roving over her.

"That shirt looks better on you than it ever did me… but you've done up too many buttons –" and he slips free the top two before she can stop his nimble fingers.

"Much better." Hermione huffs as Draco tries to peer down her shadowed cleavage, now partially exposed by the gaping neckline.

"Cut it out, you pervert," she is stymied in her attempts to re-button the shirt as Draco easily drags her to sit atop him.

"That's not what you said last night," he remarks, rubbing his big hands onto the small of her back beneath the loose shirt and running his thumbs beneath the waistband of the amaranth panties. "I'm happy to refresh your memory, though…?".

Draco presses his back to the arm of the sofa, nestling Hermione more securely into his embrace as he kisses her hungrily. He tastes like rich coffee and his own unique, earthy flavour; she wedges her knees into the padded sofa cushions as she eagerly responds, nipping aggressively at his pliant mouth. Her arms are braced on his pectorals as she bumps suggestively into his boxer-short clad groin. He is already rock-hard and thrusts up slightly as she shifts down. The forgotten cashmere throw bunches around her hips and his legs as he digs in his heels for better purchase.

Their combined moans and coos are rudely interrupted by the sound of the Floo actuating.

Hermione doesn't notice it (lost as she is to blossoming passion), until a cool feminine voice announces, "Good morning, Draco. And Miss Granger."

Looking up at her in horror, Draco pushes aside the curtain of her sienna curls, face frozen as he turns his head to confirm the identity of his unexpected visitor.

"Hello, Mother," he sputters faintly.

Mother! NONONONONO! Without conscious thought, Hermione hurls herself to the left and springs over the side of the low-backed lounge, tumbling face-first to the floor with a muted "oof". Had the circumstances not been mortifyingly humiliating (dry-humping her newly-acknowledged boyfriend as his patrician mother watches is not her idea of an appropriate introduction), Hermione might have been impressed by her panicked athleticism. She briefly contemplates trying to wedge herself beneath the couch, but Draco is already running his concerned hands along her jumbled limbs.

"Granger – what were you thinking? Are you alright?" He gathers her into a quick, crouched hug before helping her rise to her feet. "She doesn't bite, you know," he whispers into her tingling ear. "Just be your lovely self – it will be fine."

Fine. Ha. Unlikely. Hermione hopes her face and neck are not quite as flame-red as they feel as Draco hooks her arm through his and turns them to face Narcissa. His mother is regarding them with a look as coolly imperturbable as Draco's fall-back expression; but Hermione takes some heart from the twinkle in Narcissa's azure eyes. She doesn't appear shocked or surprised, which is… peculiar?

"Mother, may I introduce my girlfriend, Ms Hermione Granger," Draco enunciates, his aloof features at odds with the jubilant pride in his voice. He releases her arm to place a comforting hand at the small of her back.

Hermione smiles weakly, bolstered by Draco's support (both physical and emotional).

"Good morning, Lady Malfoy." Should I bow? I'm not wearing a skirt. Or pants. Maybe not. Why would I bow, anyway? Don't be a chump. She settles for a jerky nod.

Narcissa extends her flawlessly-manicured right hand. "Please, call me Narcissa. It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Ms Granger." She casts a disapproving look at a gawking Draco as she emphasizes the qualifying words.

Stunned, Hermione shakes the proffered hand and mumbles something incoherently agreeable.

What the actual fudge? Stifling a gasp, she remembers that her shirt is still precariously buttoned, thanks to Draco's sly fingers. Stealthily, she glides her hands to the topmost fastenings and clumsily shoves the small discs through the eyelets.

"Mother – what are you doing here? Has Macdolas been shooting off his big mouth again?" Draco asks crossly, folding his arms rigidly as he glares at his parent.

"Lovely to see you too, son," Narcissa dryly retorts. "Do cease accusing our beleaguered elf of various misdemeanours – I've dropped in to invite you both to brunch, at the Manor." She turns to Hermione as Draco gawks.

"We'll eat in the conservatory, Miss Granger; it's quite lovely, despite the chill of early spring. And it's situated in the gardens, with a delightful view of the countryside."

"Hermione – it's Hermione," the baffled young witch blurts. She isn't too bewildered not to understand the subtle message Narcissa is sending, i.e.: the conservatory isn't attached to the mansion, and therefore is less likely to trigger Hermione's painful memories of the trauma she suffered within the Gothic abode.

"Hermione – such an unusual, strong name. Thank you." Narcissa offers a proper smile instead of her previous tight-lipped one.

"How did you know that we would both be here? For that matter, how did you know I am seeing Hermione?" Draco recovers to bark the queries at his mother.

"Draco, do apportion me some credit. I knew that you were hiding something – or rather, someone – important from me. After you cancelled your attendance at our Friday night dinner, I sent Ruibby out to the ballet last night, to confirm my suspicions. You're not the only one capable of subterfuge, my dear." Narcissa looks terribly pleased with her cunning.

"My own mother… spying on me… " Draco mutters bitterly. Narcissa ignores his sulking comment.

"Shall we say, an hour?" Not waiting for an actual response, Narcissa firmly claps her hands together. "Excellent. And there's no need to dress up – just wear something that you feel comfortable in, Hermione." She pauses. "Although perhaps something other than Draco's dress shirt might be better suited to the climate."

The blue-blooded matriarch steps back into the Floo, flicking her wrist at Draco in an imperious wave. "Close your mouth, Draco – and don't be late. Oh, bring Macdolas, please – Ruibby has been rather snaky during his absence. We'll see the pair of them matched yet." Smiling, she exits as swiftly and gracefully as she'd entered.

Hermione backs up on shaky legs to plunk down onto the couch, covering her fiery face with her hands. "Please tell me that didn't happen," she breathes quietly.

Draco flops down beside her, combing her tousled ringlets from her face. "Which part? The part where my mother caught us heavily petting, or the bit where she commanded us to visit for brunch?".

"All of it," Hermione moans. Is it possible to die of embarrassment? Let it at least be swift.

"Don't fash yourself, Granger – Mother means well. I hope," Draco says the last phrase under his breath as he rubs her back. "Look at it this way – it's a free meal? Guaranteed to be delicious, I might add," he smiles at her with such pure tenderness that Hermione actually feels her erratic heart jump a beat.

"I'll protect you – not that you'll need it – and if you feel uncomfortable in the slightest degree, we will leave immediately. Deal?" Draco encourages. Hermione removes her hands from her blush-pink visage and slowly nods.

"Great – let me just summon our midget major-domo to bring you some fresh clothes, then we'll duck upstairs for a quick shower and get ready. Of course, there's a water shortage, so you'd best bathe with me," he advises soberly.

"Nice try – as if I want to risk being late to meet your mother after our recent amorous debacle," Hermione scoffs. "And she's correct – you are quick to pick on Mac. He's a sweetheart, you know."

"Pfft. More like an impertinent, lippy little scallywag," Draco rebuts. "And we've buried the hatchet already, so don't fret. I protected him from the 'tiger cat' yesterday, and Macdolas has finally agreed to desist competing with me for your attentions."

Hermione shoots to her feet. "That reminds me! Luna invited me to have supper with her and Hagrid at his hut this evening… she asked me to invite you too, actually," she nervously adds. "I asked for her help with my outfit yesterday; and for advice regarding my plan of attack in solidifying my position as your girlfriend."

Draco grins, standing to weave his fingers through hers. "So I have Luna to thank for your sensational dress… and the provocative lingerie? She should shop with you more often, ma petite." He drops a kiss to the tip of her nose.

"I didn't think you'd even noticed, given the speed with which you stripped them off," Hermione grouches. She worries her top teeth at her bottom lip. "But what about tonight?"

"Oh, I noticed them alright," Draco replies with a wink. "Tonight's supper sounds good – but are you certain that Hagrid is OK with me being there? I doubt he'll take the news well." Now it is Draco's turn to look troubled.

"Trust me, Malfoy: Luna knows exactly what she is doing. Look at how cleverly she pushed us into declaring our honest feelings to one other. She wouldn't have asked us if she hadn't been assured of Hagrid's acceptance."

"Yes – I owe Luna my eternal gratitude for metaphorically banging our heads together," Draco avows. "I think she operates on a higher, vastly more evolved plane of existence than the rest of us mere mortals."

"I agree. It infuriates me, thinking of how poorly she was treated – bullied – at Hogwarts. She's been such a marvellous friend to me… especially after Ginny… wasn't." Hermione discloses regretfully.

Draco opens his mouth to ask her to elaborate, but a loud tapping on the window startles them into silence. Hermione scampers to the aperture as Draco recoils in alarm.

"Salazar's schnozz! Is that an owl or a harpy?" he hurries after her as she wiggles the sash.

"She's Thalassa – Harry's Eurasian eagle-owl," Hermione explains, puffing in frustration as the heavy window doesn't budge.

"Mind your fingers – I've got it," Draco easily lifts the window, prudently stepping to the side as the huge mottled bird barely fits through the opening. Her flexible neck swivels as she alights on Hermione's outstretched arm and regally extends the letter clamped in her beak in Draco's direction. He gingerly accepts it, wincing as Thalassa's sharp talons carefully encircle Hermione's limb.

"Careful of my lady's arm… and my good shirt, please..." He trails off as Thalassa's intelligent fire-orange eyes stare straight at him. Her distinctive ear tufts swivel at his words.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Hermione exclaims. "Look at the variation of colour along her barred wings and tail!". Thalassa cocks her head to accept Hermione's affectionate scratch. "Now, why is Harry owling you, I wonder?".

Draco slices open the red wax seal with his index finger, reading the message aloud:

'Malfoy – I need you and Hermione to meet me at the Ministry at eight o'clock sharp Monday morning.

I have information and questions pertaining to Operation Acromantula – don't be late.

Tell Hermione not to get snitty about not being sent her own letter; I knew exactly where to find her.

Give her a (platonic) kiss for me. Potter.'

"Smart arse. And his handwriting is utterly atrocious," the blond wizard grouches as he refolds the parchment. "Will this be the last of the infernal interruptions?".

"You're a grumpy cuss sometimes, Malfoy – but you're still rather foxy," Hermione razzes smilingly. The giant owl perched on her arm barks a deep "oohu-oohu-oohu" as Draco moves closer.

"I'd kiss you for that, Granger – but your avian friend might not approve," he sighs. "Let me get an owl treat – or perhaps half a dozen – for her, then we'll get moving, hmm?". He gives the stern owl a wide berth but manages to affectionately pat Hermione's bum as he moves toward the kitchen.

She watches him go, flooded anew with amazement that she is standing in Draco Malfoy's home; wearing his shirt; preparing to have brunch with his notoriously highborn mother… after he'd proudly acknowledged her as his girlfriend.

Thalassa vocalizes a single hoot, ruffles her feathers, and shakes her tawny head.

Yeah. What she said.

French translation:

Sois une bonne petite lionne, mon cœur - Be a good little lioness, sweetheart.