34

Chapter 34

Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Draco… it's still quite new. And… well, I was worried that you wouldn't understand," Hermione forces herself to look each of her parents squarely in the eye as she confesses her fears. She restlessly pleats at the plain azure cotton hospital blanket beneath her.

Jane Granger sighs. "Hermione, we're your parents; of course we were going to express some reservations about this young man. Up until today, all we knew of him was that he habitually tormented you at Hogwarts –"

"And that he followed in his craven father's footsteps to become a Death Eater," Bernard Granger interrupts, brow beetling as he paces agitatedly around the room. "Honestly, Little Wendy – surely there are some decent wizards out there for you to choose from? For that matter, couldn't you try dating a nice Muggle fellow? My friend Richard's son is just a few years older than you, and he's a lovely bloke –"

"Daaaaaad!" Hermione feels as though she's regressed to her ten year old self as she whines at her father in frustration. "Number one, please don't call me 'Wendy the Good Little Witch' anymore; it's highly embarrassing, and childish –"

"I don't see how, I mean, Wendy was a 'good little witch'," Bernard grumbles.

"–number two: I refuse to date anyone who willingly answers to 'Dick Junior'," Hermione pronounces. "And number three – I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!" she grouses, head throbbing with the effort of keeping her list straight… and maybe because I'm getting a little shouty. Geez, Dad!

"I have to agree with Hermione, Barney – that name is dreadfully inauspicious," Jane concurs, smiling at her husband's aggravation. "Do come and sit down, honey – you're on my last nerve, striding about like that." She points at the chair that Macdolas recently vacated.

"Also," Hermione doggedly continues, "Draco has been wonderful to me, since we reconnected – simply tremendous, in fact. He's been responsible for saving my life twice, now."

Both her parents are momentarily silenced by her revelation. Bernard's mouth works furiously before he forms proper words.

"Saving your life? Hermione – what kind of trouble are you in? And why haven't you told us of all this before now?". Her father's expression has shifted from cross to concerned… and sad. He chews at his wide bottom lip in a gesture that Hermione recognizes as part of her own repertoire of self-soothing tics.

The tears that have been hovering near the surface ever since she woke in the unfamiliar hospital surrounds are about to spill out her sore eyes once more.

"I wasn't… I didn't know if you'd want to be bothered about it. We've not been on the best of terms, Dad; I know you haven't forgiven me for the Memory Modification and forced emigration," Hermione baldly states. She is too tired and drained to choose her words as carefully as she usually would.

Bernard sinks into the spare chair, slumping as he looks unhappily at his adult daughter. "Hermione… I have forgiven you. A long time ago. But it's been difficult, sometimes… to accept it. Knowing that this distance between us has prevented you from coming to us – to me, for help… well, I've been a stupid, stubborn fool. I'm sorry." He covers his head with his big hands as his elbows rest on his splayed knees.

"Dad – no – I'm the one who's sorry. I should have approached you, explained– "

Jane wraps her graceful hand about Hermione's chilled one. "Sweetie, we forgave you a long time ago. I'm sorry, too… we should have made more of an effort to bridge the distance. You're a young woman now, and we all need to reconfigure our relationship, as adults. We should have talked about this sooner. We love you so much, Hermione… to see you lying here, hurt and scared– " her mother sobs brokenly.

"Mum… please don't cry," Hermione snuffles as her own tears flow freely down her abraded cheeks. "I love you too – I wish I could go back, and undo the poor choices I made– "

"No, Hermione. You were right to do what you did in sending us away. I wouldn't have listened to you at the time," Bernard Granger stands again, laying his warm palm against her hot cheek as he sombrely regards his only child.

"I let my pride stick in my craw because it should be the parents caring for the child, not the other way around. I love you, Little Wendy… please, forgive me." Two perfectly matched tears roll from the inner corners of his chocolate eyes, dripping off the end of his large nose and onto the blue blanket. Hermione half-laughs, half-sobs as she tries to pull both parents into an unwieldy hug.

"Come, now – I'm all for a cathartic cry, but any more of this and you'll have me weeping into my own hankie," Healer Carpathia gently admonishes.

He peers down at Hermione from the foot of the bed, keenly assessing her low level of enervation. "I think you've had your fill of visitors for the time being, Ms Granger. We need to begin the Skele-Gro treatment, and start healing those cuts and bruises."

Jane Granger rises, giving Hermione a tender kiss on her forehead as she motions for her husband to join her in departure. "We'll be back a little later on, Hermione. You look just about done-in; I am extremely worried about you, sweetie… But I know that you need to concentrate on healing and resting right now. Perhaps we could find Harry and ask him to fill in the gaps."

"He's probably taken the boys up to the tearooms; they're on – "

"Level Five. Your old man still knows how to read a map legend. Get some rest and don't worry, Little Wendy – I promise not to punch your beau in the mouth… not today, anyway," Bernard mutters the last. "He is just your boyfriend, right? He seemed pretty bloody smitten, from where I was standing. Slick ferret."

"Dad! Don't you ever call Draco a ferret again! You know what Barty Crouch Jnr did to him was utterly wrong!" Hermione sputters, settling down when she notices her father's cheeky grin. Jane slaps Bernard's forearm, but she is stifling her own smile at his gentle baiting.

"I know, I know… let me have a bit of fun with him, Hermione. He needs to realize I won't countenance him treating you badly ever again," Bernard declares with a stern nod.

"Alright, Dad. But my earlier threat still stands – I'll hex you if you hurt him. Draco is… he's very special to me. Very special," she stresses, unable to stop her puffy eyes from closing as her dad kisses her forehead in the exact spot as her mother's recent caress. "I'll see you both later?".

"You will," her mother confirms. With a final squeeze of her hand, Hermione's parents exit the humble room.

All the aches and pains crash down upon Hermione as soon as her sires leave; she closes her eyes and lets the tears leak noiselessly down her cheeks. She focuses on the calming voice of her medico, as Healer Carpathia gently manoeuvres her limbs and props her upright to imbibe the foul-tasting Skele-Gro dosage. He gives her a water chaser as she strives to keep down the repellent liquid.

It is amazing how immediately the revolting medicine works its way through her system; the persistently hard throb of her broken ankle softens to a low ache within minutes. "Thank you, Healer Carpathia," Hermione opens her eyes as the tall medic helps her to move beneath the covers, once her ankle splint has been removed.

"You're very welcome, Ms Granger – and you can call me Hubert, if you like," he smiles. "Just not 'Bertie', please – I had enough of being compared to Botts's Every Flavour Beans throughout my childhood."

"I understand completely," Hermione mumbles. "I refuse to answer to 'Mione' ever again… Hermione is fine, though. Thank you, Hubert."

"I added a little pain-killing potion to the Skele-Gro, so you should be able to rest whilst I perform the healing spells. Let me know if you feel anything stronger than a gentle pressure, Hermione. Ready?".

The exhausted young witch nods. Unready to process the horror of her recent trauma, her dizzied mind instead latches onto the image of Draco, as he'd reluctantly backed out the door a short while ago… she's never seen him so dishevelled and distraught before, not even in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts.

I wish Draco were still here, holding my hand; I want to tell him not to worry, that I'm going to be OK. I want to tell him… she drifts into a medicated slumber before the last thought is fully formed.

"Here – there's an empty table in the corner, that's far enough away from prying eyes and flapping ears," Harry decrees, gesturing to the small square table and four utilitarian chairs in a shadowed nook at the back of the main tearoom.

"I'll grab us some hot drinks and a bite to eat. Any preference for coffee or tea, or shall I just surprise you?" Harry's mouth twists at Draco's apathetic shrug and Theo's apprehensive face. Macdolas shyly raises his bony hand.

"Macdolas thanks The Most Revered Master Harry James Potter, Auror Extraordinaire and The-Boy-Who-Lived-and-Died-and-Lived-Again, Venerable Liberator and Saviour of House Elves and Triumphant Victor over He Who Shall Not Be Named! Macdolas humbly begs the honour of assisting in the appropriation of hot liquids and vittles… and respectfully and most meekly asks for a chocolate cupcake, if it pleases Your Excellency?" Macdolas begins one of his infamous low bows at the end of his high-pitched jabbering speech, until Harry stops him with a friendly smile and light arm squeeze.

"You can choose whatever you like, Macdolas – is that the right pronunciation? I am forever in your debt. You saved my best friend's life today. I can never thank you enough. And just call me Harry, mate." The house elf's eyes enlarge until Draco thinks they may actually spontaneously pop from their sockets, as Macdolas whispers in disbelief, "…'call me Harry… mate'…"

"Don't bother – you'll be lucky if he shortens all that to 'Your Excellency Most Revered Harry Potter'," Draco mutters. "It will be quicker if you just accept it now, and let him give you a hand." Eyes downcast again, Draco trudges off to fling himself into the farthest chair and begins to meticulously rearrange the salt and pepper shakers and sugar dispenser. The mundanity of the quintessential British response to drama and upset makes him want to scream. Like a cup of weak caff tea and a stale sweet is going to cure all ills. Hermione is lying in a hospital bed right now… because I didn't protect her. Draco knocks over the pepper shaker as his hands tremble.

"I'm fine with whatever's going, Harry. Thanks," Theo nods, as he slowly walks off to join his old friend.

Sighing, Harry turns to the Scottish sprite. "C'mon, Mac – may I call you Mac? Let's get this show on the road." An overcome Macdolas nearly trips over his buckled flat black leather boots as he readily accedes.

Still fidgeting at the table, Draco refuses to look up, though he can sense Theo's abstruse jasper green eyes upon him. The lump in his throat is growing in direct proportion to his worry for his paramour. Nott breaks the taut silence.

"Draco… I'm so sorry… We were on our way back, to pick her up – and we thought that Flint had already left– " Theo chokes as Draco's hand reaches out of its own volition to grab him by his precisely knotted navy silk tie.

"What the fuck do you mean, you were 'on your way back'? You already suspected Flint? And you left Hermione to fend for herself in one of the most dangerous passageways in the entire bloody Ministry?! And where the hell is Blaise, anyway?" he growls, watching in grim satisfaction as Theo's translucent complexion suffers for lack of oxygen.

Nott doesn't raise a hand to fight back as he answers in a strangled stutter, "M-Malfoy – l-let me explain– I c-can't tell you if I can't t-talk– "

Draco loosens his grip and wraps his angry hands around the glass sugar receptacle instead. "Speak."

Coughing, Theo tugs at the too-tight Windsor knot and manages to slacken the tie enough to enable unconstricted breathing again. Potter and Macdolas hurry over with trays of mugs and a selection of sandwiches and cakes.

"Malfoy – can you hold off throttling Nott until after I've had a chance to question him, please?" Harry groans, as Macdolas's expressive eyes flick back and forth worriedly. "Have a drink and let the man tell his tale. And add plenty of sugar to your coffee – you look awfully shocky."

Biting back a sharp retort, Draco sullenly complies. His keeps his carbonite glare on Theo as he angrily stirs in an extra spoonful of sucrose.

Theo quietly thanks Harry for the mug of tea and sandwich the Auror pushes in front of him; he leaves both untouched as he begins a rasping explanation.

"Blaise stayed behind at the scene, to deal with the authorities and to ensure Flint was controlled until the other Aurors arrived – obviously, getting Hermione to St Mungo's was our first priority. He's best at dealing with people, and he's tough as nails under pressure, regardless of his zany personality.'

"Hermione sat in on our second wine importation/exportation with Marcus Flint this afternoon; we'd previously advised Flint to send his Portuguese wine to France for final testing… Long story short, Flint flatly refused to stump up for the extra testing costs and turned nasty when we withdrew our support. Called us short-sighted cowards and 'lickspittles' before he stormed out."

He gulps a few swigs of his tea before he resumes the narrative. "We were all on the point of drawing our wands on him – his vicious mood swing was bloody alarming. It dawned on me then that Flint has unlimited access to a potions/wine lab, and the money to invest in this sick roofie scheme… and Blaise admitted that Flint had been the one to casually suggest that Hermione join our meetings. I ran off to tell Harry about our suspicions, but he wasn't anywhere to be found, and the Auror Division closed up tighter than a fish's arsehole as to his whereabouts– "

Harry interrupts, "Sorry, Theo – it's just force of habit. I was at Scotland Yard – they made a breakthrough with the IP address. Traced it to an internet café not a mile from Flint's home, as it turns out," he grimly divulges. "Your owl didn't reach me until after I returned to the Ministry, and by then all hell had broken loose."

"Get back to the part where you left my witch wandering the halls on her own, Nott," Draco snarls.

"Draco, Hermione insisted on sticking around for that stupid patent law trial, and it was a closed courtroom session! We'd agreed to pick her up on the dot of five o'clock; and I'd heard from one of the Aurors that Flint had definitely left the Ministry after our aborted meeting… I'm sorry, we should have been there." Theo's thin shoulders hunch miserably as he apologizes.

"Will… will Hermione be alright? Is there anything I can do?" he petitions hesitantly, shredding a Cheddar cheese sandwich into tiny white and yellow lumps.

Harry answers, "Her Healer has assured us Hermione will make a full recovery, Theo. I appreciate that you were there to help – and believe me, I know how obstinate she can be; plus, she's fiercely independent."

Draco is only partially mollified by Theo's elucidation. "Why didn't anyone apprise me of the danger? Hermione's mulishness be damned – I would have moved heaven and earth to be there, to protect her! Don't you know– " he breaks off, throat swelling and closing off his speech as the potential horror of the evening's events slams into him like a juggernaut.

"Hermione made us promise not to contact you – she swore that she would tell you everything, when she got home," Theo reluctantly confesses. "She said that the danger was minimal, and that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself; she didn't want anyone thinking of her as the helpless damsel in distress. Reckoned she'd had enough of that when she was drugged. Sorry, Draco." Theo looks as though he wishes a hole would open up and swallow him whole.

His words pierce Draco like barbed arrows. Hermione didn't trust me to take care of her? She risked her own safety – for what purpose? Was she worried I would create a scandal, and embarrass her at her place of employment? Does she believe me incapable of considered restraint? The undermining thoughts slash at his wounded psyche. His fury at Theo diminishes as his regard turns inward.

"I can't– I have to– I need a moment– " Draco's hip collects the edge of the square table as he rushes from his seat and runs out of the room, uncaring of the curious looks other diners are directing at him.

I just need to hole up somewhere to ride out the panic attack. There – he fumbles open the door of the men's lavatory. Blessedly empty. Draco crumples to his knees in the end cubicle, uncaring for once about the dubious cleanliness of the tiled floor as he gasps for breath. He closes his eyes as the dull green walls shrink and expand, only to open them again as his mind floods with imagined pictures of Hermione in a battered heap at the bottom of a stone stairwell, Marcus Flint crouched over her…

Tears and sweat mingle as he wheezes and pants; his vision is spotty and dimming. Nausea decides to join the panic party, causing Draco to vomit into the conveniently placed ceramic toilet bowl in front of him. It's mostly acidic bile and saliva, but he doesn't stop until his stomach is hollow and cramping. The experience is an unpleasant reminder of Sixth Year – best not to remember that, not now.

I cannot let Hermione be harmed. Not ever again. Never again. Her safety – her happiness – is everything. The ramifications of his epiphany dig cruel tendrils into his mind, as he follows his avowal to its inescapable conclusion. If our relationship is endangering her, or curtailing Hermione's right to live her best life…

Draco stumbles upright and lurches for the sinks, unwillingly glimpsing his reflection in the backsplash mirror. His gaunt, sickly visage makes him recoil; he looks like utter shite. Eyes like two dead coals, smudges of Merlin-knows-what on his jaw and cheek, bedraggled hair and clothes disgustingly decorated with splotchy patches of damp and more grime. Running the cold tap, Draco mechanically lathers the scrap of old dried soap beside the faucets and makes what amends he can to his appalling appearance.

The bathroom door slowly pushes open; the mirror affords him a view of Potter entering, palms raised up and out as he gingerly pokes his nose around the portal.

"Permission to enter, Malfoy? I come in peace," Harry tentatively takes a few steps inside the door; it snicks closed behind him. Draco says nothing as he continues to swipe roughly at his head, face and neck with some dampened paper towels.

"What do you want, Potter?" he asks tonelessly. He's barely able to dredge up the strength to voice the words. Apathetic detachment has settled on him like a heavy cape.

"We've got to stop meeting in scruffy bathrooms – people will start to talk." Potter's substandard joke does nothing to improve Draco's numb aspect. He drops his eyes back down to the chilly running water, hating the trace of pity in Potter's jade green eyes.

"Malfoy – you look terrible. Look, I know we aren't friends– "

"Perceptive as ever," Draco mutters, fashioning the shadow of a sneer onto his face with an effort.

" –but I think we can agree to tolerate each other, for Hermione's sake. You care for her deeply, don't you?" Potter persists, ignoring Draco's faint flare of snark. "Malfoy?"

"What do you want me to say, Potter? You want me to cry on your shoulder and confess my innermost feelings and deep dark secrets while we braid each other's hair and swap Chocolate Frogs?" Draco means to shout, but it emerges as a whisper. He risks another glance at Harry: the trace of pity has blown out to a fully sympathetic posture as the shorter man twiddles his thumbs into the pockets of his scarlet robes.

Stuff it. Draco decides that the sooner Potter hears what he wants to hear, the sooner he'll leave him alone.

"Yes, fine – I do care for Hermione. More than you'll ever know. Seeing her injured, scared, traumatized – knowing that I failed to protect her, despite all my grand assurances and precautions… realizing that I've let her down, yet again – how am I supposed to feel? Tell me that, Oh Wise One," Draco bites his inner cheeks until he tastes blood.

"I hate to say it, given our history – but you're being too hard on yourself. You're not omnipotent – and Macdolas told me that you tried to convince Hermione to bring him to work with her just this morning, but she flatly refused."

Potter regards him shrewdly. "Hermione's not perfect, Malfoy – she is downright pigheaded at times. You did everything you could to safeguard her. Do you think I don't understand how you're feeling? The entire time we were on the run together, hunting Horcruxes… I bloody agonized over the danger I was exposing her to, every day. But she'd made her choice, and you know – you must know – how fiercely loyal she is."

Harry pauses to grin ruefully. "Like I said, pigheaded. Brilliant, but stubborn to a fault." Draco's lips curve up the tiniest bit at Potter's accurate description of his beloved.

"Speaking of which – I think I've figured out why Hermione was alone, when Flint attacked her." Potter rummages in his Auror's robes until he pulls out a battered cream envelope. A sick dread washes over Draco as he recognizes the stationery.

"I found this in her jacket pocket, after the Healers changed her into the hospital gown," Harry uneasily reveals. "One of the other Council of Magical Law members who was walking back from the courtroom told Auror Moonfall that he heard Hermione gasp, and saw her suddenly dart back down the corridor… I think Hermione must have accidentally dropped it in the courtroom, and rushed back to recover it before she could think better of it. I've read it, and I know that Hermione would consider your card precious enough to temporarily forget her personal safety in order to retrieve it.'

"I apologize for inadvertently invading your privacy, Malfoy… and try not to blame yourself for this, too. I thought I'd best tell you now, so you can get your head around it before you go back in to see her."

He hands the florist's card to Draco, keen eyes looking worried once more. "You really don't look well, Malfoy. Do you – do you want me to get in touch with your mother, ask her to meet you here? Or take you back to the Manor with her? Frankly, you look like you might collapse at any moment," Potter offers quietly.

Draco chuffs a joyless laugh. "I know you think me a total mummy's boy, but I'll be alright. And I am not leaving Hermione, not for a second longer than I have to. Is it not already a circus in here, anyway?"

Potter's mien shifts from concerned to peeved. "Yeah, that's another thing: you need to be alert for reporters trying to sneak in. The wretched press has already gotten wind of the situation, unfortunately. The Auror Division won't be making any comment until we've completed our enquiries; but you should brace yourself for a half-arsed exposé on Hermione's attack at the Ministry… and your romance. Sorry, Malfoy."

Shrugging, Draco takes this last blow with surprising equanimity. Feeling largely numb does have some benefits.

"They'll be selling plenty of papers with all this scandal and intrigue, won't they? You'll keep your best Aurors guarding her, Potter?" Draco presses urgently.

Harry's prompt response both cheers and dismays him. "Of course. And I'll be sticking around, too. Listen – Hermione's parents are in the tearoom. I've given them a brief rundown about what happened, but they're not going anywhere, either… and they're insistent that they need to speak with you. As soon as possible."

Oh, fucking fantastic. Draco's stomach plummets again as he contemplates the high probability of Mr Granger throwing more than a few well-deserved punches in his direction (both verbal and physical).

"I've told Bernard and Jane that I support your relationship; and Bernard has conceded to hearing you out. And to not resorting to fisticuffs on the hospital grounds, if that's any consolation," Harry grins. "Good luck."

Though the words stick in his craw a little, Draco is able to answer sincerely (albeit stiltedly), "Thanks, Potter. I appreciate that."

Harry risks a congenial slap to Draco's shoulder; they both flinch slightly at the unusual contact. "Alright. Finish trying to look vaguely human again and come back in soon, Malfoy. By the way – your little Macdolas is a bloody treasure. Next time you start beating up on yourself for 'not protecting Hermione' – try to remember it was your idea to employ Mac as her bodyguard."

Potter lets himself out of the dingy bathroom without another word.

Draco stares at the softly swinging door, and sighs.

Time to face the music.

Should I try to shake hands? Would that be considered an affront? Unused to being on the back foot in social situations is a novel experience for Draco – and one that he finds he does not relish.

He settles for a close-mouthed smile as he stands rigidly beside the quartet of low armchairs grouped around a small round table on the opposite side of the tearoom to their original seating. A discreet Theo and an agog Macdolas watch on as Bernard and Jane Granger rise while Harry completes the awkward introductions. To Draco's surprise, an unsmiling Jane does raise her capable hand to shake; Bernard follows suit, after a small pause.

Expecting to have his hand bones at least lightly pulverised, Draco is relieved when Hermione's father settles for a brief, firm grip and quick release. Harry gestures for them to be seated.

Another first: I'm bloody glad Potter is here, steering this uncomfortable meeting. Some of Draco's numbness is being replaced with crawling apprehension at what the next few minutes will bring.

Deciding to dive right in, Draco blurts, "Mr and Mrs Granger – I apologize unreservedly for the hurt and trauma I inflicted upon your daughter. I don't have any excuse; I was an arrogant, foolish, horrid little brat. I'm not that insufferable boy anymore, though I know you find it difficult to believe. I accept that you have reservations about our relationship… I'd just like to say, that I keep Hermione's well-being in the forefront of our interactions. Always."

He swallows as Bernard's hard glare remains fixed upon his clammy face. The older man looms forward as Jane speaks.

"Harry tells us that you found Hermione unconscious on your doorstep in the middle of the night; that you took her inside, and cared for her. Is that true, Mr Malfoy?" Her melodic voice is alike to Hermione's clear, intelligent tones as she scrutinizes his weary, anthracite eyes.

"Yes." No point elaborating; he'd only sound like a self-aggrandizing tosser.

"Why didn't you take her to a hospital? Or summon Harry, or another Ministry official?" Bernard gruffly demands. "Seems strange that you bundled her off into your house, if you ask me."

"Hermione regained consciousness long enough to flatly refuse my suggestions of both those alternatives, Mr Granger. And by that stage… she'd– regurgitated most of the spiked drink onto me," Draco admits. "I kept a close eye on her that night, to ensure her condition didn't deteriorate."

The Muggle dentist barks a sharp laugh. "Little Wendy spewed on you? That's my girl!" He continues to chuckle maliciously as his wife lays a hand on his knee and shakes her head reprovingly.

'Little Wendy'? Draco files away the curious nickname to ask Hermione about later. It's nice how everyone is over the moon at being told Granger vomited all over me, he thinks pettishly.

"What about your family – what do they think about this odd romance?" Bernard abruptly demands. "Is your father still banging on about that 'blood purity' racist bullshit?"

"Barney, do ease off a little, please – you read all the trial reports, you know full well the details of Lucius Malfoy's sentencing. I doubt very much that Lord Malfoy's bitter prejudice has prevailed intact throughout his exile and legal punishments," Jane Granger reasons.

Both Grangers are eyeing Draco intently. He speaks slowly, striving to express himself honestly and succinctly.

"Until recently, I've been estranged from my father. Having reinstated regular contact with him over the past month, I can tell you that he does seem altered – mellowed is far too strong a descriptor, perhaps 'diminished' is more accurate – in terms of his former racist outlook and ingrained snobbery. However, I don't trust him as far as I could throw him; and I have no intention of introducing Lucius into Hermione's life, unless she wishes it." Draco's lips thin at the thought of his crafty father and his traditional propensity for conniving schemes and plots.

He continues, "My mother has met with Hermione, and apologized for her part in the pain that the Malfoys have inflicted upon her. Narcissa formally welcomed Hermione to our home and family, and I believe in the sincerity of her motives."

Jane Granger nods. "Your mother's keen to see you settle down, I take it? Perhaps pushing for grand-babies?". Draco flushes as Jane smiles and Bernard glowers. "Don't worry, Mr Malfoy – I know it's far too soon for that."

"It bloody better be – if I hear about my girl being up the duff to this silver-tongued devil– " Hermione's father snarls.

"Let's all take a step back from this particular topic," Harry hastily intervenes, as Draco and Bernard turn similar shades of crimson; Jane hides a smile behind her hand at the men's consternation.

"Perhaps we can come to a consensus as to the safest place for Hermione to convalesce, once Healer Carpathia deems her ready to be discharged?" 'Peacemaker' Potter suggests.

Jane huffs resignedly. "Hermione's already told us she intends to stay with Mr Malfoy, Harry. I won't waste my time trying to change her mind, provided her doctor – sorry, Healer – agrees."

"Please call me Draco, Mrs Granger. And rest assured, you are both always welcome at my townhouse," Draco soberly invites.

"Thank you, Draco. Do call me Jane. And we'd love to visit; isn't that right, honey?" Hermione's mother returns the granted intimacy and unsubtly digs her husband in the ribs.

"You can call me Mr Granger – and you'd better believe I'll be turning up to check on my daughter's welfare." Bernard's glare softens infinitesimally as he pronounces, "I'll accept this… relationship between the two of you at face value… for now. But I'll be watching you, Draco. And I might not be a wizard, but I am a dentist – I know a thing or two about inflicting pain. Keep that in mind, boy."

His menacing statement is incongruous with his bourgeois attire and appearance, but Draco doesn't doubt that Bernard Granger means every word. He stiffly nods as Bernard makes a weird forked gesture with his index and middle fingers, pointing them first at his own eyes, then at Draco's startled heather orbs.

"I'm watching you," Bernard whispers again. Potter smirks.

Must be a Muggle thing. Draco checks his silver wristwatch; he is aching to return to Hermione's bedside, but he doesn't wish to incur her father's further wrath. Jane notices his agitated movement and takes pity on him.

"Why don't you go back down and check on Hermione first, Draco? We've some more questions for Harry, and we'd love to properly meet your brave little Macdolas and personally thank him," Mrs Granger proposes. She ignores her husband's cross grumble. "Go on – if she's still awake, please tell her we'll be back soon."

"Thank you… Jane," Draco breathes. "Mr Granger – sir – I appreciate you hearing me out. Potter," he nods as he leaps from the chair, the dulling numbness dispelled by their fraught conversation and the knowledge that he is returning to Hermione's side. Draco hurries from the tearoom, unaware that he is smiling broadly in anticipation. Hermione… J'ai hâte de te tenir à nouveau, ma chérie.