32

Chapter 32

Tuesday 11 March 2003: AM

"Malfoy, I am perfectly able to feed myself breakfast," Hermione mock-grumbles as she nevertheless obediently opens her mouth to accept another proffered bite of jammy English muffin from Draco's hand. She diligently chews and swallows before she adds, "And there is no real need for me to sit in your lap instead of a chair, by the way."

Draco jostles his knees beneath her as she squeals and clings to his strong neck for support. "I disagree – see what just happened here? Bexley is notorious for its small, unpredictable earthquakes. Safety first and foremost, Granger." He places a nibbling kiss against her smiling lips, licking delicately at the smear of sweet compote at one corner.

"Mmm – blackberry? Nice." Winking, Draco picks up her favourite red mug and imbibes a hearty sip of her steaming coffee. "This blend does a wonderful job of washing away the bitter flavour of that horrid Gryffindor emblem on the side of the cup," he jests.

"Hey – you have your own coffee, buster! It's right there–" Hermione grabs for it and swigs a hearty mouthful in retaliation.

Just as well we both take it white with one sugar. Hermione's fingers automatically ruffle through the short flaxen hairs at Draco's nape as she shares a smile with her cheeky boyfriend. He looks boyishly happy and untroubled as he sits contentedly in her tiny kitchen. Steady rain patters against the window panes as Macdolas hums along with the little radio's 80s hits. The singular little elf has a particular fondness for Madonna's catchy pop songs; hearing him trilling along to 'Like a Virgin' after dinner last night had been equal parts side-splitting and alarming. Draco must have agreed, given that he'd pointed his wand and shot off a quick 'Muffliato' before they'd fled to the lounge room and settled in to enjoy another episode of 'Pride and Prejudice'.

I really don't feel like going into work today. Hermione wistfully toys with the idea of playing hooky this morning; the lure of spending the whole rainy weekday cuddled up with Draco, doing… well, doing whatever they please… is highly tempting. But poor Bertie Baytun is still off sick with a bad case of adult mumblemumps… and I did agree to fill in for him in the 'Bavarian Buoyant Broomsticks' patent lawsuit proceedings in Court Five this afternoon.

Sighing, Hermione promises herself that she will definitely skive off work in the near future – responsibilities be damned. Besides, Draco has his own obligations and employment schedule, though he hardly mentions either. She decides there is no time like the present to quiz him on the oversight.

"Malfoy, how do you occupy your days? With work, I mean. You haven't gone into the specifics," Hermione prompts, wondering at his sudden stillness.

A long pause before Draco answers diffidently, "It might be easier to show you, rather than tell you, Granger. I doubt you'd believe me unless you had the physical proof right in front of you." He searches her frank penny-brown eyes to assess the sincerity of her interest, before he adds, "Perhaps you could check out my third-floor workspace after dinner at the townhouse tonight?".

"I'd love to," Hermione nods vigorously. She widens her gaze in mock-astonishment. "Wait – you don't have any dead wives hanging up in there, do you? Is that why you've been so secretive?". She tickles his ribs lightly through his talc-white long-sleeved Henley cotton t-shirt.

"There goes my surprise," Draco states solemnly as his eyes sparkle with mirth. He easily catches her poking fingers with his hand and kisses her wrist. "Bluebeard had nothing on me," he winks.

"I assure you that my income streams are one hundred percent legal, ma petite. And there are no wives whatsoever, be they buried or breathing."

The idle talk of fictional wives makes Hermione's heart beat faster. I wonder if that will ever change. The thought skitters into her head before she can stop it forming, making her blush. She grabs for his mug of java again to conceal her idiotic flush.

Far too soon for that kind of overreaching silliness, she chides her overactive imagination. Who's to say Draco even wants to be married someday? He's never mentioned wanting a wife… or children. Although, I suppose he was being cautious about raising the topic of families, given his belief that our relationship would only ever be a temporary carnal tryst.

Macdolas's high piping tones interrupt her daydreaming. "Macdolas has taken the liberty of packing Her Grace Lady Granger a nutritious and tempting luncheon box and freshly-squeezed orange juice," he beams as he places a pristine metal lunch pail and matching thermos atop the cluttered square table. "Tuna fish, spinach and mayonnaise on wholemeal bread, just as Her Grace likes it!". His ears quiver as he awaits her response.

Reluctantly, Hermione slides off Draco's lap and crouches to hug the thoughtful sprite. "Thank you Macdolas; rest assured I will enjoy every bite and sip." She flips open the gleaming lid. "Oh, and you've included a yummy chocolate brownie – how lovely! I can't wait to try it," she smiles warmly as Macdolas's flappy ears quiver in pride and satisfaction.

Draco rises and snaps shut the lunch box with a smirk. "Chocolate is ever your Achilles heel, Granger," he teases as he affectionately slides his hand around her waist and squeezes her hip. She doesn't bother to deny the charge as the familiar wave of… of… perfect felicity swamps her being.

Nope – my true Achilles heel is a beautiful, brawny blond wizard with a brain as sharp as his aristocratic cheekbones. Hermione decides to keep that correction unspoken. She succumbs to the urge to hug him tightly once more before she must depart for the Ministry.

"Hey, is something amiss?" Draco runs his carbon eyes across her face and body as he pulls away slightly to hold her at arms' length. "You look sad… have I said something wrong? I was only teasing about the chocolate crack," he unnecessarily explains.

Hermione shakes her head as she shakes off her brief bout of melancholy. "No, I know. I'm just going to miss you, that's all." She blinks away any tell-tale dampness. "Tonight can't arrive soon enough," she confesses.

Draco's blush at hearing her honest explanation zings from his neck to his ears in a matter of milliseconds, making Hermione heartily thankful her darker complexion isn't as instantly indicative of discomfiture.

"I feel exactly the same way," he recovers his composure to fervently assure her, running his left thumb across her plump lower lip; the wee touch makes her tremor.

"Granger... promise me you'll be vigilant with your personal safety today? Please?" Draco frowns as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. "I wish you'd reconsider taking Macdolas with you."

"Malfoy, I promise I'll be extra careful – and poor Mac would be fed up with the bureaucratic tedium within ten minutes. I'm keeping my wand on my person at all times, see?" She taps at the almost indiscernible extra thickness hiding in the cuffed left sleeve of her biscuit-coloured blouse.

"We should have already been working on refreshing your duelling abilities – I've been selfish and distracted. Tonight, we'll spend at least an hour practising," Draco announces dictatorially. He crosses his arms and nods like a genie. Hermione smothers her smile and decides to let him have this round.

"Fine. But then we spend an hour doing what I desire," she is delighted when his eyebrows rise and his ears pinken again at her suggestive leer.

"I'd better get moving," Hermione reluctantly admits. But her feet make no move toward the Floo until Draco reaches for her hand.

"I'll walk you out." He picks up her lunch with his free hand and gifts her with one of his rare, slow-spreading, unguarded smiles.

He really should come with a warning label, Hermione decides as she joyfully swings their clasped hands and smiles her goodbye to Macdolas.

'Highly likely to generate heart palpitations at any time.'

Draco's cautionary tag should have a sub-clause about 'kissing at your own risk', Hermione meditates as she quickens her already swift steps; she'd meant to exchange a light peck with him before she'd stepped into her fireplace to depart for work, but it had morphed into a full-on French kiss within a heartbeat... a deeply passionate smooch that she'd had terrible trouble extricating herself from. Her lips are still tingling, and her pulse is zipping about like a mosquito zapper (how romantic you are, Hermione!).

She rounds the last corner before her cubicle and skids to a halt. Why is there a small crowd already gathered at my desk?

Three heads turn and two make themselves scarce as Marilda declares, "Oh, to be young again! Ms Granger, I do declare you are one lucky witch... Look!" and her supervisor steps aside to reveal the source of her good-natured envy.

Oh, my girlish gigglemugs... Hermione's unburdened hand flips to the centre of her chest involuntarily at the sight of the magnificent bouquet of pale pink roses dominating her dull desk. Approaching slowly, she cannot tear her gaze away from the unusual blossoms.

Unasked, Mrs Sandore happily supplies background information about the splendid blooms.

"These are Pierre de Ronsard roses, named for the sixteenth century French naturalist and poet. It's not often you see these superb specimens – and in such numbers! Two dozen exactly, I believe." Her supervisor shakes her head in wonderment.

"Mrs Sandore, can you please tell me their floriographic meaning?" Hermione faintly petitions, gently touching one of the densely layered petals. It is as silky as her otter kimono, with a subtle, sweet perfume. The colour of the roses graduates from an off-white outer lamina to a creamy taffy pink at their centres. Their ethereal beauty makes the bland workspace feel radiant, despite the constant downpour pummelling the street outside.

"Of course, dear. Pink roses in general can mean refinement, sweetness, elegance and femininity, while light pink blooms (such as these) convey gentleness, grace, joy and happiness. Quite perspicacious of your young Mr Malfoy, wouldn't you say?" Marilda's kind eyes twinkle. "And they came with the vase this time; it's vintage Baccarat crystal, if my old eyes don't deceive me."

Hermione's throat closes as blithesome tears threaten to make an appearance. She silently accepts the small envelope Marilda passes her.

Noting her heightened emotional state, Hermione's supervisor pats her gently on the upper arm. "Perhaps you should have a seat before you read that card, dear. Enjoy your lovely posy," Marilda walks back to her office, sighing wistfully.

Sinking into her crappy old chair, Hermione fumbles to open the thick quality vellum with her letter opener. Eventually she manages to manoeuvre the small dagger-like tool beneath the upper flap and carefully slits it open.

The exquisite calligraphic script is unmistakeably Draco's.

'Ma glorieuse Hermione,

There are twenty-four roses in this bunch: one blossom for each day since you re-entered my life and made me the happiest man in the world.

These flowers remind me of you: multi-layered, complex, graceful, joyous, and exquisitely beautiful. I would not change a single thing about you; for you are perfect, just as you are.

Pierre de Ronsard once wrote, "And since what comes tomorrow who can say? Live, pluck the roses of the world today".

You are my rose, and my heart.

I am, and always shall be,

Your Draco.'

The tears fall unchecked as Hermione tucks the card back into its envelope and reverently slips it into the pocket of her maroon slacks.

How on earth am I supposed to concentrate on my work now?

Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM

The day is dragging by; Hermione must have looked at the dinky little clock on her desk at least thirty times since she dried her elated tears this morning and managed to set aside thoughts of Draco long enough to turn in a reasonably attentive performance at the job she is being paid to carry out.

Well, I have given the appearance of competence at least, she guiltily modifies. I should have obeyed my impulse this morning and called in 'sick' – but then I would not have received my stunning flowers… oh, well.

She peruses the clock face again. 2.50PM: time to wend her way to Level Five and the second wine importation/exportation meeting she has been coaxed into attending. Slotting her file portfolio beneath her arm, Hermione idly considers in which direction Zabini and Nott have decided to move, given Marcus Flint's initial resistance to agreeing to more regulatory testing of his 'wonder wine'. And on a more personal level: do Blaise and Theo now know that she and Draco are a bona fide couple?

I do hope Blaise doesn't tease me; surely his professionalism will override his jokester persona? I suppose I still have my wand at the ready. It isn't as though I haven't already been dubiously inappropriate in the office this week… what with my bold personal announcement and mild threats to co-workers on Monday…

The thought cheers her enough to pin a small smile on her face as she enters the conference room. Nott and Zabini immediately stand at her entrance; Flint is a little slower to his feet. Hermione breezes to her usual chair as she utters a polite, "Good afternoon."

"Thank you for joining us once again, Ms Granger," Blaise begins. He gives her a slow, charming grin that Hermione doesn't entirely trust. She leaps in before he can say anything sly or provocative about her personal life.

"I trust this meeting won't take long; I'm due at a Council of Magical Law court trial at four o'clock and I will have to make my way there a good fifteen minutes prior," Hermione informs the room at large. She busies herself with arranging her files and setting out her note-taking materials.

"I'm sure we'll reach a consensus well before then. Shall we begin?" Zabini remains standing as he looks across the long table at Marcus. "Are you moving forward with the extra testing with a reputable French oenologist, Flint?".

Marcus curtly shakes his head. "There's no need. The wine has already been rigorously tested, and my partner and I are not prepared to waste any more Galleons sending it for further unnecessary examination. We'll take our chances with the MUKVA board."

Theo arches a dark brow. "Is that your final decision? If so, I have no choice but to decline investing in the project. I have to say, Flint – it seems reckless and short-sighted of you to continue pushing for the exportation rights, if we are to believe the claims of your success and expertise in the wine industry." Nott shrugs. "It's your decision, of course; but you will indeed be wasting more Galleons if you continue along this path."

The tension in the room is rising rapidly; Hermione slides the fingers of her right hand to the wand tucked into her left sleeve and seriously considers drawing it. Marcus Flint's previously regular features are now twisted into a saturnine mask of bitterness, arrogance, and aggravation.

He shrugs and bares his teeth with a nasty laugh. "If anyone in this room is short-sighted, Nott, it's you – but you will regret your decision. And what of you, Zabini? Are you putting in a good word for me with the Ministry, or are you choosing to err on the side of cowardice like your friend here?" Marcus spits out the words with another sneer.

The top of her vine wood wand is now resting in Hermione's left palm, her fingers curled tightly around it as she holds her breath. Instinct is screaming at her that Flint presents a real and present danger; even Zabini's usual happy-go-lucky demeanour has been replaced with an impassive visage and tightly-coiled muscles as he moves to stand closer to her, hands fisted at his sides.

"I agree with Theo – your business proposition is worthless if you don't agree to the final stage of testing." Blaise tilts his head as he coolly appraises his angry ex-classmate's belligerent mien. "And I have to say, Flint – if this is the kind of unprofessional attitude you employ when you receive disappointing news… I am surprised that you are still in business."

Hermione holds her breath as Marcus opens his mouth in a snarl; but the big Slytherin bites back whatever sharp reply he'd planned, his jaw clicking with the effort of his restraint. He grabs for his documents and stands up, his chair scraping rudely against the hard flooring. Blaise is now situated so near to Hermione that she can feel the heat emanating from his strong body, though he isn't touching her directly. Theo stood when Marcus rose; the three men form a scalene triangle across the table.

"So be it." Marcus's expression has settled back into a bland mask. "I'd say thanks for your time, but it was a waste of mine."

His eyes settle on Hermione. "No need to level that wand at me, Ms Granger – I'll see myself out. I apologize if my behaviour made you feel uncomfortable; but I'd advise you to find better company to keep than this elitist pair of lickspittles. Good day," he turns on his heel and exits the room with a few quick strides. The latch clicks softly into place as he closes the door behind him.

The three remaining Hogwarts alumni exchange relieved, non-plussed looks. Blaise is the first to break the silence.

"Well, that was… interesting? Disturbing? Enlightening? All of the above?" He rests a light hand on Hermione's trembling shoulder. "You OK, Granger? I'm sorry I asked you to sit in; I didn't realize Marcus still has a hair-trigger temper." Zabini's contrition seems sincere.

Theo is running his hand through his hair compulsively. "Blaise – that was ugly. Really ugly. I think we need to tell Potter about this. Right now," and he cuts his eyes meaningfully to Hermione as Blaise draws a sharp breath.

"Wait – Theo, are you saying that you think Marcus Flint is one of the roofie perpetrators? Truly?" Hermione gasps. The shoulders that had begun to relax with Flint's departure hunch over once more as she swiftly recalls her recent interactions with the man and compares them to that dreadful night at the Wonky Donkey.

"No… Flint's voice isn't the same as – as the man I met in that pub… "

"Voices can be glamoured too, Hermione," Theo gently reminds her. "And who's to say that Marcus wasn't downplaying his knowledge of wine-making and magical additives, in our earlier meeting?". Nott turns his attention to Zabini.

"Blaise – was it your idea, or Flint's, to ask Hermione to consult with us on the exportation meetings? Maybe he got off on being close to her again, without any of us realizing his true identity or the threat he posed."

Zabini shuts his eyes and tilts back his head as he tries to remember the circumstances. "When Marcus first approached me to ask about the possibility of getting a boost from the Ministry to break into the wine market, I think I mentioned the need to run through the legalities… and he said that he'd heard that our old school mate Granger was a great one for thoroughly knowing the ins and outs of the law," Blaise slowly replies, opening his eyes to gaze down at Hermione with intense disquiet and guilt.

"It suited my other purpose of getting to know you as Draco's 'significant other'… so I jumped at the suggestion. Shit! Theo – if you're right about this – I'm responsible for putting Hermione in the same room as her attacker not once, but twice! Fucking hell," Blaise agitatedly rubs his big hand over his face as Hermione freezes in place.

"I'm going to find Potter and tell him about this immediately," Theo is already moving for the door. "And I'll ensure that Flint has left the building. Blaise – stay with Hermione. Do not leave her side, understand?" Theo's clover-green eyes are hard and fierce.

"Of course – go, go," Blaise gestures impatiently. "I'll look after her." Theo doesn't wait any longer, shooting out the door with impressive speed.

"Hey – I can look after myself," Hermione indignantly corrects, scrambling to her feet and planting her hands on her hips, desperate to throw off her weakness in freezing up at the idea that Marcus Flint is one of her would-be rapists. "I don't appreciate you talking about me as though I'm a pathetic helpless doll or a child, Zabini."

"Of course you can look after yourself, Granger – you're the 'Brightest Witch of Your Age', and a total bad-arse to boot," Blaise murmurs conciliatorily. "But my will to live is strong, and Draco would tear me in quarters with his pale bare hands if I didn't stick to you like glue right now. Have pity on me? Please? I'm already top of his Shit List for the stunt I pulled with the Spring Equinox Ball."

Good. I hope Draco tore you a new one. Hermione narrows her eyes as she considers adding insult to injury. Blaise senses her condemnation; he holds out his hands in a placatory gesture.

"I'm sorry, Granger – I had the best of intentions about the Ball thing… I just didn't consider that Draco wouldn't tell me to blow it out my bum straightway," he reasons. "I thought it would spur him into asking you himself."

"Draco doesn't believe he deserves to be with me." Hermione feels suddenly drained: whether it's due to the inevitable crash after her recent adrenaline rush, or because Draco's lack of self-worth is potentially a big problem for their nascent relationship, she cannot determine. Probably both. She plonks down into her seat again and rests her head on her hands. Blaise seats himself beside her and copies her pose. His large dark eyes are friendly and sympathetic.

"Want to talk about it? I'm a good listener," he prompts, blinking his long lashes guilelessly.

"No – really, I am!" Blaise asserts as Hermione involuntarily lets loose a rusty laugh at his claim. "And before you say it… yes, I do talk a lot (only because my word is gospel and solid gold, you understand), but I am perfectly capable of meaningful, comprehensive listening, too. Give me a try – you won't be sorry," he lazily leers.

"You can't help yourself, can you?" Hermione sighs.

"No, I really can't. I'm one sick puppy," Blaise confesses without a hint of shame. "Go on – I promise not to judge you for any kinks that you're comfortable divulging. Can't say the same for Malfoy – he's one dirty little dog– "

"He is not!" Hermione hotly denies, before she realizes Zabini is baiting her. "You arse." But she is feeling better… much less shocky. Blaise's gentle teasing has worked wonders.

"Has Draco… has he mentioned why he feels so unworthy? I mean, apart from the Malfoy name being blackened from supporting Voldemort. But that wasn't his fault – he was just a boy," Hermione quickly defends.

Blaise shrugs. "Hermione, Draco cut off all contact with me and Theo, after his trial and sentence was complete. Like, one night he was out partying with us until dawn – and the next, he'd vanished. We turned up unannounced at the Manor a few times; Narcissa insisted that Draco was fine, he was just off having an extended holiday, at an undisclosed location on the Continent. That's how she put it – 'the Continent'. The Malfoys embody 'posh' on a whole other scale, huh?" he grins.

At Hermione's restless look, Zabini continues, "Anyway, we left messages, sent owls… didn't hear hide nor hair of the platinum prick until he summoned us to the White Wyvern a few weeks back. Draco apologized for his lengthy silence, but refused to tell us the whys and wherefores. He's always been a deeply secretive bastard, though.'

"As to your question: Draco hates himself for what he did – even if it was done to protect his parents. He rarely talked about it, except to say that he'd accepted that his lineage deserved to die out, with him. We were all a bit fu– messed up in those days, after the War. I didn't put much stock in it, at the time." Blaise drums his long fingers on the table. "I hope he doesn't let his gnawing doubts foul up the good thing you two have going."

Hermione can't help her blush, before her lurking fear forces her to query, "What has Draco told you about us, Blaise? Has he indicated that he… doesn't think we'll last?". She dreads the response; but she has to know.

"Are you kidding? When Draco told me yesterday he was partnering you to the Ball and that you are now 'officially his girlfriend' – nice work on that, by the way, you're a gutsy little Gryffy! – he couldn't wipe the smile off his homely mug," Blaise laughs.

He sobers as he leans in to ask, "I do have one nagging question, though…"

"Yes?" Hermione braces herself; goodness knows what Zabini is likely to come up with next.

"Did you really eject your stomach contents all over Malfoy? Was it on purpose? Because, Granger – talk about the ultimate revenge on your childhood bully! High-five!" Blaise picks up, positions, and firmly slaps her flinching palm before Hermione understands his intent.

She snatches it back with a sputter. "No! Of course not! Well, I mean, yes – I did vomit on him, but not intentionally…" Hermione scowls as Blaise's cackles intensify.

Theo's re-entry into the conference room cuts him off mid-chortle. "I can't locate Harry – and that tight-lipped pack of Aurors are hell-bent on keeping his current whereabouts a mystery to anyone outside their inner sanctum," he announces without preamble. "I've left messages and sent Potter an owl. The good news is that Flint has definitely left the Ministry; one of the Aurors witnessed him getting into some kind of minor fracas with another punter as to who got to use a Floo alcove first. Both men were escorted outside."

"You've done us proud, my good buddy," Blaise gets up from the table to pull his retreating friend into a squashing hug; he dances them around the head of the table as the smaller man squiggles in protest.

"Get off me, you gregarious git," Theo extricates himself from Zabini's sturdy arms and hurries to Hermione's side.

"Hermione? May we escort you home? You must have had a bad fright from all of this," Theo's expression is troubled as he holds out his hand in invitation.

"I have, rather," Hermione hesitatingly admits, as she accepts Theo's assistance and rises from her chair. "But I still have that patent lawsuit trial to attend – and it's too late notice to cancel, or ask another to step in. Besides, you just confirmed that Flint has left, and we don't definitively know that he is involved.'

"Would you mind walking me to the Council of Magical Law Courtroom instead, please? I'll be surrounded by people in there, and I promise to head straight home after the session is over," Hermione offers a compromise.

Blaise and Theo share some sort of strange, wordless male communication at her suggestion, eyebrows rising and falling and mouths pursing and flattening.

"Guys! I'm standing right here…" she says in exasperation.

"Draco won't be happy when he hears about this…" Blaise slowly comments, as Theo huffs out a resigned suspiration.

"Draco's not the boss of me," Hermione snaps, regretting her childish retort as soon as it leaves her mouth.

"Ah, Granger – you keep telling yourself that," Blaise snickers.

"How long will the court proceedings take? We'll return for you then; there's no way you're wandering about the Ministry on your own, not today," Theo promulgates, with unexpected steeliness.

"Fine. Today's session is scheduled to last exactly one hour; would you return at five PM, please?" Hermione softens her glower. It's nice to have people looking out for me, she contemplates wistfully. Even if they are bossing me needlessly at present.

"Shall we?" Zabini crooks his elbow and bequeaths his most captivating smile. Hermione can't help but crack a smile at his exaggerated lady-killer posturing, as she picks up her work portfolio and curls her hand onto his arm; Theo falls into step on her other side as they depart the room and make their way to Courtrooms on Level Ten.

The bang of the gavel jolts Hermione out of her glazed-eyed boredom.

"We unanimously find in favour of the plaintiff, Ms Elsabeth Ziegler, C.E.O. of Bavarian Buoyant Broomsticks, and order the defendant, Mr Wilfred Barker-Webb, Director of Excelsior Sporting Equipment, to pay all court costs and damages to the sum of six thousand, seven hundred and nineteen Galleons, fourteen Sickles, and twenty-seven Knuts. Mr Barker-Webb's infringement of British Magical Patent Law will be permanently recorded and all design blueprints and existing models of the 'Excelsior Eighteen' are to be immediately collected and destroyed."

Thwack! The gavel smacks again and Ms Ziegler pumps her fist in triumph, sparing a lone venomous glare for her defeated opponent. Hermione cannot summon any pity for the weedy, unassuming man in the blue bow tie and dull brown robes, though he does look as if tears are imminent.

Checking the large clock on the wall, Hermione is startled to see the Council has wrapped up the entire staid affair in under forty-five minutes; they hadn't even needed to call upon her, as the case had been cut-and-dried from the start. Barker-Webb's goose had been well and truly cooked when Ms Ziegler's lawyer had produced incontrovertible evidence of the theft of their company's unique broomstick design.

The daft wizard 'hid' the stolen blueprints in his unlocked office desk drawer – what did he expect? Hermione shakes her head in disbelief as she begins gathering her goods and chattels. The sedated hubbub continues as Hermione decides that she needn't wait for Blaise and Theo to return at five o'clock; staying in a deserted courtroom seems counter-productive to ensuring her safety, in any case.

Following the small crowd out of Courtroom Number Six, Hermione is conscious of a persistent sense of having forgotten something… she checks her portfolio, but is satisfied it contains everything she'd brought with her.

Her steps falter as she pats at her maroon trouser pockets – the comforting small bulge of Draco's beautiful card is missing. It must have worked its way out unnoticed while I was fidgeting in an effort to stay awake back there! I can't leave it there for the cleaners to find! Without thinking through her actions, Hermione turns tail and races back to the shadowed courtroom.

The main lights have been extinguished, but half a dozen lamps are still lit. Making her way to where she'd been sitting, Hermione crouches to snatch up the familiar cream envelope with a cry of relief. Quickly checking that the card is inside, she sticks it into the inner pocket of her buttermilk-coloured jacket and hustles back out the door.

The corridor is deserted; she must have tarried in the courtroom longer than she'd realized. Deciding that it never hurts to be prepared, Hermione slides her wand out of her sleeve and transfers it to her right hand as she marches toward the stone steps leading down to Level Nine.

The staircase is dim, illuminated by irregularly-spaced, old-fashioned sconces that flicker erratically and cast peculiar shadows along the stone walls. The effect usually strikes her as romantic; today, it appears ominous and not a little creepy. Gripping her trusty wand tighter, Hermione resolves to mention the need for better lighting at the next Workplace Health and Safety meeting. She descends the steps as quickly as she dares, her sturdy shoes clattering on the uneven rocky surfaces.

She has almost made it to the halfway point (the sharpest, blindest curve in the set of thirty-odd stairs) when the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning. Hermione whips around her head, catching the merest glimpse of dark hair, cruel lips and hateful eyes, before she is simultaneously hit with an "Expelliarmus!" and a strong push in the middle of her back. Her wand flies to parts unknown as she plunges down the hard stone steps.

Instinct has Hermione tucking herself into a ball to protect her head; her joints bear the brunt of her uncontrolled, terrified descent. Hideous pain crashes into her: knees, hips, elbows, and a horrible crack to one of her ankles that has her vocalizing a high-pitched scream that echoes mockingly up and down the granitic curving corridor.

Tumbling to the bottom, Hermione's shriek dies away, replaced by deliberate, heavy steps that thud closer to her position. She lifts her head long enough to see she has washed up at the entrance of the small vestibule separating the access stairwell from Level Nine proper; it is dark and unoccupied.

Terror grips her as a harsh masculine voice taunts, "Where's that legendary fire gone, Golden Girl? No one's going to save you here, Hermione – you're ours now, baby girl." The footsteps halt.

Pain recedes to the background as her survival reflex kicks in. Hermione lifts her aching head to squint into the gloom, desperately hoping for any advantage to improve her plight. Her vision is blurred and patchy; she suspects that the darkness that surrounds her is being partially supplied by an encroaching head injury.

I won't let him touch me – I won't let him take me – think, woman, think! She grinds her teeth, finding her fury and her mettle as her famous brain shuffles and discards idea after idea. Yes! I have to try.

Blocking out the continuing gleeful gibes of her attacker, Hermione taps into her deepest, strongest magical core. She concentrates on fixing and projecting her current position and dire situation in a wordless, powerful summons. The horror-stricken young witch senses that this is her only chance, before the darkness descends and claims her for its own.

MACDOLAS! MACDOLAS! Help me, please, help me – MACDOLAS…

Hermione's last mental image as she succumbs to the blackness of oblivion is the memory of Draco, standing beside her Floo fireplace that morning and smiling at her as though she'd hung the moon and set the stars.

Draco…