35

Chapter 35

Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM

Hermione wakes sluggishly, instinctually snuggling against the warm, muscular male body she is draped over. Draco. My Draco. She knows his identity without needing to open her eyes to confirm it; his smell, his touch, even his rhythmic breathing are instantly familiar to her as she experimentally flexes the fingers of her right hand against his upper chest. I wish I could always wake up like this, she imagines wistfully.

"Granger? How are you feeling, ma petite?" Draco immediately whispers; his left hand ceases gently stroking her right arm and shoulder. The full, horrid memory of where she is – and why she is currently hospitalized – washes over Hermione as she involuntarily stiffens in Draco's arms.

"Hey, you're OK – you're safe, Granger. You're safe, ma petite. I'm sorry, I did not mean to wake you." Draco tenderly brushes a few tawny curls off the side of her face.

Craning her neck upward, Hermione slowly opens her heavy eyes. "You didn't – my bladder did, actually," she admits with a wry chuckle. "Can you please help me to the toilet? My ankle feels normal again… but just in case…" she trails off as Draco hastens to comply. He carefully disengages from their embrace, picking up and setting Hermione's hand onto her thigh as he slides off the hospital bed. Holding out his hands, he helps her to sit upright and swings her legs off the side as she gingerly tests the stability of her healing right ankle.

"Go easy, please… I will carry you if you are having any trouble or feeling a twinge of pain," Draco instructs, hovering anxiously as Hermione steps cautiously forward.

"I'm alright – see? But I wouldn't argue if you wanted to wrap your arm around my waist," Hermione suggests with a shy smile. Draco wastes no time in slipping his arm around her midriff as they slowly progress toward the small adjacent bathroom facility in the corner of the private room.

Wait… how on earth did we both fit on the high narrow cot? Hermione shakes her head in an effort to clear its residual fuzziness. Draco answers her query before she can vocalize it.

"Healer Carpathia Engorgio'ed your bed a little so I could lie down with you and not risk squashing you… I hope you don't mind. He reckoned I looked almost as exhausted as you and then threatened to Stun me if I refused," Draco admits with a rueful chuckle. "It's not as though I needed my arm twisted… holding you is always a privilege, Hermione."

His gaze shifts to the floor as Draco quietly adds, "I don't want to leave you tonight, Granger; would you mind if I stayed? I promise not to bother you – I'll sit in the chair. I can't – I can't bear the thought of not being with you." His voice is raw with sadness and longing as he opens the bathroom door wide for Hermione to precede him inside.

"I'd be devastated if you didn't stick around – and sod the bloody chair, you're going to cuddle me in that enlarged bed all night, Malfoy!" Hermione adopts her bossiest tone in a feeble attempt to conceal how badly she needs her gorgeous, troubled boyfriend by her side, as she pauses just inside the portal.

Enthusiasm and desperate need (and some partial imbalance) propel her into Draco's arms for a tight hug. He returns the embrace with interest and drops fierce little kisses over the top of her head as Hermione snuffles back her sobs and rejoices in her narrow escape.

What if I hadn't been able to summon Mac? What if he hadn't heard me in time? What if... I'd never seen Draco again? The last thought has her howling as her (apparently bottomless) well of tears overflows.

"I was so scared... I was stupid, Draco, I should have listened to you this morning, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry–" Hermione cries into his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate against her right ear.

"No, no, I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you, Hermione – I was terrified, I heard you call my name, but I didn't know where you were or what had happened–" Draco chokes and stutters to a halt, rubbing his big hands up and down her back.

Moments pass as they cling and cry; Hermione eventually manages to stem the flow of tears and gratefully accepts Draco's silently proffered handkerchief to wipe her cheeks and blow her nose.

"I keep stealing your hankies, don't I?" she tries a weak smile as he tenderly strokes his left thumb below her lower lashes, capturing a missed tear. "I'd better use the loo before I have a proper breakdown... thank you, Draco."

His sad smile makes her want to start bawling again as he responds, "Hermione, you don't have to thank me. Not ever. I'll be right outside – you call me if you need any help, OK?".

She nods and closes the door.

"Are you comfortable? Are you certain you have enough room? Are you warm enough? These blankets are dreadfully flimsy," Draco fusses as Hermione stifles an exasperated sigh at his nit-picking. "Honestly, do they reuse the bed linens until they literally fall apart?" he carps.

Lightly pinching Draco's arm through his shirt sleeve, Hermione ignores his aggrieved yelp. "I am comfortable, I have plenty of room, I am warm and cosy, and the bedding is standard for any hospital, Malfoy. What do you expect, cashmere blankets and silk pillowcases?" she razzes, as he tickles behind her ear in mild retaliation.

"You should always have the best, Granger; if you were staying longer than one night, I would ensure that these dull rags were exchanged for quality sheets and duvets," he sniffs. His little smirk betrays his pompous statement, though. His tickle shifts to his fingertips caressing her cheek; Hermione turns her head to kiss his palm. She wriggles backward a little on the bed, the better to see Draco's face as she begins speaking.

"Malfoy, you said earlier that you 'heard' me call your name… are we… are we mind-linked somehow, now? After… after we made love, the night of the ballet? I had to concentrate hard to wordlessly and wandlessly call Mac, when I was on the verge of passing out, but I just thought your name, I wasn't striving to make you hear me…" Hermione frowns as she tries to make sense of the phenomenon. It doesn't help that her concussion and medication are still muddying her usually sharp cognition. "I did some research in the Manor's library the other day, but the mating or merging of magical cores seems to be a rare occurrence, and I couldn't find much factual information as to its known qualities and abilities," she sighs frustratedly.

Draco slowly replies, "I'd have to do some checking of my own… my mother and I can communicate telepathically, but usually only if we're within physical sight of one another, and probably because she's the one who originally taught me Legilimency/Occlumency – and we're genetically linked, of course. Narcissa is a partial Seer; I'm not sure if you knew that?". They are back in the magically enlarged bed, though sitting upright this time, Hermione tucked into Draco's side as his hands continuously bestow butterfly-light caresses.

"I'd heard a few rumours about it," Hermione admits. "Your mother seems rather adept at staying under the radar, though."

"Mmm. She hasn't had much going on since the War and Lucius's house arrest, anyway. I'm certainly not bemoaning the disintegration of Pureblood cliques… but Mother's ostracism from most of her old social set hit her hard," Draco's mouth sets in a hard line, before he makes a visible effort to relax his expression.

"But we're talking about our unexpected telepathy – yes, I 'heard' you, in my mind – just my name, in your voice. As clearly as if you were standing beside me. And then I ran about the house like a mad thing, before I tried and failed to call Macdolas, and ended up running about the Ministry like a mad thing… your supervisor told me they'd brought you here."

"If I'd known that we were connected, I would have called you first – but I could feel myself going under from the head knock, and I thought that Macdolas might be able to help me…" Hermione explains, cinnamon eyes worried.

"Granger, you did exactly the right thing; Macdolas possesses special magic, he was able to Apparate straight to your location, and Potter said that he Stunned that sick bastard Flint into a coma; I might have actually Avada'ed the arsehole, had you called for me instead," Draco growls.

Eyes wide, Hermione breathes, "Mac put Flint in a coma? And it was Flint? Just Flint?". She raises her hand to scratch at her covered scar, before Draco firmly clasps her hand in his.

"That's what Potter told me – I haven't had a chance to learn more. You are my number one priority, Granger. Listen, we can leave the rest of the explanations until tomorrow. I don't wish to upset you… I can't imagine how traumatizing all this must be for you."

Draco collects her other had and squeezes both as he sombrely asks, "Would you consider seeing a therapist? Magical or Muggle, whichever you prefer. I don't wish to push the issue – I have learned my lesson about bossing you about… well, I'm trying not to domineer you, anyway – and I do think that some expert therapy might help you to better deal with everything that's happened." He looks nervous as Hermione cocks her head to the side to mull over his suggestion.

"I think… that is a good idea." Hermione softly laughs at Draco's patent astonishment about her ready concession. "See? I can be flexible… sometimes," she modifies. "I don't like feeling this way; I'm all over the place, emotionally. It reminds me too much of my experience of PTSD, after the War. Sorry, that's Post Traumatic– "

"–Stress Disorder. Yes, I'm familiar with the term," Draco quietly interrupts. "I hate – no, I absolutely detest that you have been hurt again, Granger. Physically, emotionally… attacked in your own workplace, for Salazar's sake! I would do anything to take away your pain, ma petite," he hoarsely professes. "When I think of what could have happened– " he gulps, casting down his eyes to their joined hands as his breathing becomes rapid and ragged.

"But it didn't happen – I'm OK... I'm going to be OK, I promise," Hermione amends. Her guilt is exacerbating as she witnesses Draco's torment. If only I had accepted Mac's company this morning... if only I'd not foolishly darted back to the courtroom on my own...

"This isn't about me – I apologize. We need to focus on your safety and well-being." Draco's ability to compartmentalize his emotions is impressive, as his fine tremors ease and his face loses much of its anguished aspect.

He slowly articulates, "Granger, I don't wish to harangue you about taking your personal safety more seriously, or make you feel in any way that I am judging you, or blaming you for what happened – please, don't misunderstand my intent. But I must ask you: please, never again endanger yourself for the sake of an easily-replaceable material item." Draco pulls out the creased florist's card from his pocket. "Something like this silly card, for example." He shakes his head as she hunches slightly and bites her lip.

"Cards are easily rewritten – but you… Hermione, you are priceless, and I will not let you out of this hospital room until you swear to me you will never ignore your own security for the sake of something so trivial. Ma cœur chéri ... Je ne peux pas supporter l'idée que tu sois blessé à nouveau. Promise me, please," Draco beseeches, gazing deeply into her disquieted, guilty eyes.

"I promise," Hermione whispers. "I'm sorry – I was so enamoured with your glorious roses, and your beautiful message – but I won't be reckless like that again. I swear it."

Exhaling a huge relieved sigh, her boyfriend tucks the beleaguered card back into his trouser pocket. "I'll keep this safe for you, until we go home."

"Draco... would you kiss me, please?" Hermione tremulously petitions. She is overwhelmed by the need to be as close to him as possible.

"Of course… I have been aching to do so since you awoke, but I didn't want to pester you or inflame your injuries. Just one careful little smooch, alright?". He smiles freely as she happily nods and nestles closer.

The length of time it takes for Draco to slant his lips over her own seems endless; Hermione watches impatiently as his platinum head slowly lowers, while his hands softly hold her face in place. She closes her eyes at the first brush of his mouth. Despite his admonition to maintain caution, the familiar euphoric zing of electric connection zaps between them, gaining momentum as Hermione slides her own hands to cup Draco's strong jaw.

Trading pecks and tiny nibbles, they smile quietly into each other's mouths as their passion conflagrates. Hermione wilfully ignores Draco's (admittedly half-hearted) attempts to keep their embrace light as she squirms onto his lap and kisses him intensely. He is leaning back as far as he is able against the heaped pillows and the wall behind the hospital bed, ruefully protesting her disobedience even as he meets her smooch for smooch.

"You love being insubordinate, don't you? Naughty little lioness, stop this– " another smacking kiss silences his token objection.

Draco tries again. "Granger – you still have a concussion, you need to rest – Mmmphff–"

He feels so good… so right… Draco is the only medicine I need right now, Hermione happily decides as her lips cling to his full mouth. I don't know what I'd do if I lost this… if I lost Draco… her kisses grow a little desperate and wild as her wounded psyche rejects the horrendous concept.

Sensing her emotional equilibrium toppling, Draco disengages in earnest, holding her slightly apart from him as she immediately grumbles. "Hey, hey, I'm not going anywhere, do you hear me? Let me just hold you for a little while, Granger. Please," he cradles her head to his chest and relaxes against the pillow stack, gently combing his long fingers through her messy hair. "Besides – your parents will be back soon, and your father already hates me enough for two lifetimes… catching us kissing will not help soften his attitude," he warns.

"Why – what did Dad say to you? Did he threaten you? I specifically warned him to leave you be; where did Hubert put my wand?" Hermione demands, sulking as Draco firmly restrains her flailing arms.

"Hush, ma petite – your father's dislike is understandable; he didn't say anything I wasn't expecting to hear. Well, apart from– that is, he has solidified my resolve to avoid Muggle dentists like the plague," Draco rejoins, his ears reddening a little. "The whole process is barbarous, if you ask me." He frowns as he adds, "'Hubert', is it?".

Hermione disregards the jealous note in Malfoy's tone, still puzzling over the tiny hitch in the middle of his speech. That's odd… his ears only usually blush like that when he's embarrassed… Hermione is preparing to quiz Draco further on his conversation with her dad when a steady knocking on the door interrupts her train of thought.

"Come in," Draco responds, after Hermione nods her assent.

A smiling Harry opens the door, followed by her parents. "Hey – you already look much better!" Harry exclaims. He manages to work around Draco's continuing firm hold on Hermione to buss a quick kiss onto her cheek. Hermione flicks her eyes to see her father glaring at Malfoy as though the blond wizard had recently stolen the family sedan for a joyride and returned it with an empty petrol tank.

"Hi, Harry – thank you. Mum, Dad… did Harry explain what's been going on?" Hermione almost giggles wickedly at the way her father's eyes bug out as she deliberately lays her right hand on Malfoy's flat stomach. They engage in an unspoken battle of wills as Hermione employs her sharp eyes to silently dare her father to say one word (just one word!) about her cuddling into Draco. She is quietly jubilant when Bernard is the first to break their intense eye contact.

Her mother rolls her eyes, having witnessed the whole power play from the sidelines. Jane Granger moves forward to cup her daughter's cheek. "I agree with Harry, sweetie: your colour is much improved. Your nice Healer obviously knows what he's doing," she smiles. "And Draco is taking good care of you, I see."

"Draco always takes good care of me, Mum," Hermione tips up her head to meet Draco's abashed heather eyes. "I'm the luckiest witch in the world… What's that, Dad?" she calls out Bernard Granger as he mutters beneath his breath.

"I said… I'm glad to hear that, Little Wendy," he grits out the words around his forced smile. "And to answer your earlier question – Harry has told us more about what's been going on. It's just as well he's already put some Aurors in place to guard that Flint character's room… He'll rue the day he decided to come after my daughter, the sick piece of shit – sorry, honey – the sick scumbag!" Bernard's amiable face is hard with fury.

"You'll need to get in line behind me, sir," Draco quietly contributes. The two men share a look of gruff masculine solidarity.

"You can both queue up behind me," Hermione crossly corrects. Bloody macho malarkey! "I'm not some helpless princess in a tower, waiting to be rescued," she scolds.

"More like the fire-breathing dragon," Harry jests, which makes Draco and Bernard chuckle.

Harry hurries to change the subject as Hermione glowers at him. "There's been a complication with Flint, actually… the Healers have run all their diagnostics, and they are reluctant to medically intervene to bring him out of his coma. Apparently, they run the risk of permanent memory loss and brain damage if they do any more than reduce the swelling on the cerebral cortex." All their faces fall at the new information.

"What about using Veritaserum? Wouldn't you still be able to access his memories that way?" Hermione queries, her anxiety rising despite Draco soothingly petting her arm.

Shaking his head, Harry glumly admits, "No – if the memories are already damaged, no amount of Veritaserum will force Flint to reveal the truth. I'm sorry, Hermione. We're going to have to wait until Flint wakes up naturally. Don't worry – we're already in the process of turning his home upside down for evidence. I promise you, we will arrest and prosecute everyone involved in this revolting conspiracy," he pledges, dark emerald eyes glinting purposefully behind his round spectacles.

"But you're certain – it was Flint who pushed me?" Hermione attempts to quell her disappointment at Harry's unwelcome news by refocusing on the identity of her Ministry attacker.

"Yes. Macdolas has confirmed that when he Apparated onto the scene, Flint was crouched over your unconscious body – Hermione, he had his hand in your hair, and was yanking up your head at a cruel angle. Your ferocious little bodyguard took one look at Flint and immediately Stunned him smack-bang into the stone wall." Harry shakes his head admiringly. "I'm wondering whether we can make him an honorary Auror, or something along those lines…?".

Draco interjects, "Keep your greedy mitts off Macdolas, Potter: he's a Malfoy house elf, through-and-through… well, a Granger house elf, now," he grins at Hermione.

A bemused Bernard asks, "But I thought you were gung-ho about freeing the house elves, Hermione? Wasn't that what the 'S.P.I.T.' badges were all about, back in the day?". Hermione scowls at the twin chortles of Draco and Harry at her dad's malapropism.

"Mr Granger, it was actually 'S.P.E.W.': Society for the Prevention of Elvish Warfare," Draco intones with a perfectly straight face, as Harry's chuckles swell into full-blown guffaws. Bernard joins in, regardless of not entirely understanding the joke. He rubs at his short gingery beard as Hermione visibly disapproves of their communal idiocy.

Jane rebukes, "Don't listen to them, Barney – it was the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, and Hermione put in a lot of effort to publicize the appalling conditions some of the little elves were living under," she pats her daughter's shoulder reassuringly. "Ignore them, sweetie."

Well, at least Dad isn't still balefully eyeing up Draco as though he's mentally measuring him for a coffin. Hermione waits until their mirth has eased before she enquires, "Where is Mac? I'd like to give him a proper thank-you for saving my life. And Dad, Macdolas is a free elf, as are all the current Malfoy house elves. They receive a proper wage for their hard work, which is exactly as it should be," she declares.

"Mac stayed behind with Nott, in the tearoom; we thought it best not to inundate you with too many visitors," Harry says. "Theo would like to see you himself, when you're ready; that is, provided this hothead –" he points at Draco "– doesn't try to strangle him again."

"Draco, what on earth?" Hermione cries. "Theo and Blaise were extremely protective of me – none of what happened is their fault! And Theo is your best friend…" she twists her mouth disapprovingly.

Malfoy shrugs sheepishly. "It was a misunderstanding, ma petite. I was overwrought, and lashed out. Please don't fret – I shall apologize to Theo as soon as I see him next. It was only a light choking, anyway," he mumbles as Hermione quirks a stern eyebrow.

"Violent tendencies," Bernard can't resist noting, as Jane joins Hermione in a miffed sigh. "Well, we'd best be off, Little Wendy – Harry assures us you're receiving the best of care and protection, but we'll be back first thing in the morning. And one of you will contact us, if anything happens?" he petitions gravely.

Mr Granger's keen brown eyes rove over Hermione's drawn, pale face as Draco staunchly utters, "I certainly will, sir."

"Thank you, Draco; Harry has our phone number, although perhaps you don't know how to use a telephone… of course, we're used to the owls now," Jane hesitates.

"The telephone is fine, Jane – I'll be sure to call you before Hermione is discharged, too," Draco affirms.

Healer Carpathia enters, his lime green robes rustling as he pushes a small steel cart bearing a metal cloche. "Here's that soup I promised you, Hermione; I'm afraid visiting time's over for the night, folks."

They begin taking their leave, kissing or hugging Hermione as Draco gently slides off the bed to reaffix the metal rail into position, and adjust the stacked pillows behind her back. He hovers beside the bed as Hubert moves the tray onto Hermione's lap. She smiles tiredly and returns her family's farewells. The door shuts gently behind them as she turns to Draco.

"You'll stay? Is that alright, Hubert? I'm asking for form's sake, you understand… if you say no, I'll march myself out of here right now," she pronounces, only half-jokingly.

The Healer rolls his eyes. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love," he ripostes, deftly checking Hermione's healing ankle and the swiftly-disappearing bruises and scrapes. "But don't make me regret expanding the bed: do I make myself clear, Mr Malfoy?" he stares meaningfully at the tall tow-headed wizard.

"Perfectly," Draco coolly clips out, despite the scarlet tide crawling up his alabaster neck. "Thank you, Healer Carpathia."

"Excellent. I'll be back for the cart in half an hour, and to run some more diagnostic spells. You're on the mend, Hermione – if you continue to follow instructions and get plenty of rest, I see no reason why you won't be going home tomorrow."

"Thank you very much, Hubert," Hermione lets her happiness at the prospect show on her features.

As the mediwizard leaves the room, Draco steps forward to pick up the spoon Hermione is reaching for. "Let me help you, Granger. Indulge me… please?". She accedes, obediently parting her lips to swallow the carefully ladled chicken and vegetable soup. Her walnut-brown eyes remain trained on his face as he patiently scoops up each delicious, warming mouthful.

He's being so fabulous… so caring… how did I get so lucky? Hermione reflects, as Draco concentrates on measuring exactly the right ratio of chicken-to-vegetables-to-broth in the next spoonful. Even his little perfectionisms and obsessive coping mechanisms are endearing, and as familiar to her as her own. She doesn't know exactly how or when it happened; but Hermione can't imagine her life without Draco firmly planted at the centre of it.

And rather than scaring her silly… it swamps her with exuberant, giddy, utter joy.

Wednesday 12 March 2003: AM

"Easy, be careful – this would go much more smoothly if you'd just let me carry you upstairs," Draco gripes, as Hermione carefully ascends the townhouse's first floor steps. Her fretting boyfriend is shadowing her every tread – breathing down my neck, actually – as she tests the strength of her newly-healed ankle.

"Malfoy, you heard Hubert: he told us in no uncertain terms that I was to walk around as much as possible, and merely to be cautious not to overdo it," Hermione chips back. "Trust in the Skele-Gro, and the medical professionals, OK? It was bad enough he wouldn't let me leave unless I was in a wheelchair, anyway."

At least Healer Carpathia had directed them to an empty departure lounge, when she was finally discharged. Hermione had been dreading having to face the scrutiny of the over-invested public (although Draco had flatly refused to allow her access to any of the newspaper reports).

She halts at the landing, being sure to maintain her firm grip on the banister as she cheekily lifts her right foot and waggles it ostentatiously. "Look – good as new! I'll go for a jog tomorrow," and Hermione grins as she waits for the fuss-bomb to go off.

"Oh ho ho, no you won't! Not unless you want a thorough spanking, my pert little coquette," Draco warns, wrapping his arms around her from behind. His gentle kiss to her left ear belies his austere tone. "Come on – let's get you set up in the bedroom, Granger. Macdolas has been busy all morning, bringing over a selection of your clothes and books; half the wardrobe is yours."

"Malfoy, you didn't have to do that – it seems like a lot of bother, for a few days' convalescence," Hermione protests.

"Consider this your home… I mean, for as long as you wish it," Draco quickly qualifies, as she baulks at his surprising statement. He effectively masks his expression as he hustles her forward again, crossing through the doorway of the master bedroom and ignoring her squeaking token objection as he picks her up and sets her down on her side of the big bed.

"Macdolas collected all the books in your bedroom, and your toiletries are already in the bathroom; you have only to ask him for anything else you require. The industrious munchkin is itching to be of service," Draco minutely prods one of the book's spines back into alignment with its fellows. He still hasn't looked at her directly since he announced that this is apparently her domicile now.

Hermione lets the silence settle down her antsy lover, until he finally meets her steady gaze. "You're not speaking – what's wrong?" Draco frowns.

"Are you implying that I normally talk the hind leg off a donkey, Malfoy? Charming," Hermione banters. She takes pity on him as Draco stares at her apprehensively.

Reaching out to grab his elegant hands, she says softly, "Thank you, Draco… I hope you know that my home is your home, too… for as long as you wish it," she echoes his assertion, tilting up her head so her sincerity and gratitude is more readily apparent. "Although I doubt you have a sudden burning desire to relocate to Bexley," Hermione grins as she mentally compares her humble flat with Draco's luxury abode. "But anyway, 'mi casa es tu casa'."

Kissing his knuckles, she rubs her cheek against his hands before she commands, "There is something that you can do for me – I want you to finally reveal your mysterious vocation, please. And before you demur: I am one hundred percent capable of walking up another staircase. Let's go," she keeps hold of his hands as she hoists herself upright and begins to tow the mulish-looking blond back out of the bedroom.

"But you are supposed to be resting– " Draco stumbles a little as Hermione yanks harder. "Very well – it's not as if I have a choice in the matter, is it? You know I find it near impossible to deny you your every whim," he presses his free hand to the small of her back as they trudge up to the third floor. The light pressure makes Hermione shiver.

Her lips curl up at the corners as she contemplates seducing him, later. Being spooned in his arms in the basic hospital cot last night had been wondrously comforting, and tranquil; but her need to connect with him physically… sexually, is staggeringly desperate. And it will probably have to be a rampant seduction, she decides. He is already treating me like spun glass. And I am definitely not too fragile to handle.

Her musings are interrupted as they reach the entry to the third floor. There are only two doors. Draco stops in front of the first one and nods to the second. "That's the bathroom – it contains a lavatory and small shower. Makes it easier sometimes, when things get messy."

He nervously fiddles with the shiny bronze doorknob as he tentatively remarks, "You don't have to pretend an interest, you know… I don't expect you to gush over anything I do, Granger."

"Gush? When have you ever known me to gush, Malfoy? Next, you'll be calling me 'bubbly'," she hisses at the unwelcome thought. "Stop stalling, and let me see these dead wives of yours, please."

Nudging open the door, Draco flicks on the light switch and gestures for Hermione to step inside. She stops dead a few steps in, gasping at the sight before her amazed eyes.

The room is massive; Draco must have knocked down all the non-load-bearing walls to fashion the studio. The ceilings are high and peaked, with six large skylights letting in as much of the pale spring sunlight as possible. The space is full of materials, shelving and tools, but doesn't feel cluttered – Draco's need for compulsive organization is evident, even in this creative hotspot.

Canvases dominate the room: they range in size from small posters to huge frames that are bigger than the artist himself. Most are covered and stacked neatly in special racks, but the ones Draco is currently working on are propped on wooden easels in the middle of the workspace.

Hands plunged into the pockets of his black jeans, Draco nods shyly as Hermione quietly asks, "May I take a closer look?. He hangs back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as she gazes at his handiwork in reverent awe.

The first painting appears complete, apart from a few small patches here and there. She recognizes the scene immediately: it is the Hogwarts library, depicting the study tables in front of the caged shelves of the restricted section. As with Draco's pencil drawings, the painting is breathtakingly photo-realistic, down to the script on the spines of the hundreds of books, and the open pages of the tomes on table in the foreground.

But what truly captures Hermione's regard is the brunette figure seated at the rear table; the schoolgirl is surrounded (and nearly obscured) by heavy volumes, busily scribbling down notes with a plumy quill and sporting an intense mien of pure scholastic concentration. Her distinctive red and yellow tie is slightly uneven, but the real giveaway to her identity is the rambunctious mop of tawny ringlets flowing down her back.

"This is… this is me," Hermione croaks. "You painted… me?". The question is rhetorical; there is little doubt in her boggled mind.

"Yes, I– I used to sketch you. While you were studying," Draco's emotion-sensitive ears are flaming as he toes at a tiny mark on the wooden flooring. "Most of the drawings were destroyed, but I remembered enough to paint it.'

"I hope you don't mind – I was not intending to show it, but if you object, I can easily paint over it – " he moves as if to start the process that instant.

Hermione shrieks at the abhorrent idea. "No! I forbid it!". She relaxes as Draco smirks at her indignant edict.

"So you do exhibit your work? How long have you been painting? Is it your preferred medium? Do you prefer landscapes, or portraits? Or both? Do you also use oils? Do you take commissions?" Hermione eagerly peppers him with her burning need to know everything.

"Wait –" she peers at the bottom right quadrant of the picture "– you're 'Vouivre'?! Oh my goodness – you are!" She claps together her hands in excited glee.

"You've seen my work before?" Draco's surprise is writ large across his refined features. "Really?".

"Yes, yes – we went to your show last year, at Halcyon Gallery in Mayfair. I knew I recognized one of those snow scenes; I pointed it out to Harry – I told him, 'that reminds me so much of Hogsmeade, on a fine winter's day'…" Hermione bounces over to Draco and starts swinging his hands up and down as he laughs at her childish enthusiasm.

"Potter's seen my work? That is so bizarre," Draco muses.

"Oh, Harry isn't into art like I am, but as my best friend, he knows he has to make the effort sometimes," Hermione smiles. "And even he agreed that your paintings 'weren't half bad'."

"Wow – I'll have to ask him to write my next review," Draco wisecracks. His face sobers as he uncertainly enquires, "Do you… do you like them? The paintings?".

"Like them? LIKE them?!". Hermione huffs incredulously, choosing her next words with great care. "Malfoy… I love them. I could look at your work for the rest of my life, and never tire of it. I am… I'm astounded by your talent. Just… blown away," she breathes, annoyed that the doubtful look on Draco's face hasn't cleared.

"What – you don't believe me? Ask Harry – I was seriously considering dipping into my savings last year, to buy that Hogsmeade landscape… but the price was out of my range. Go on – ask him," she drills her index finger into his hard chest for emphasis. Draco grabs it and kisses the tip; his pebble-grey eyes are relieved and delighted.

"You know… I'm certain I could put in a good word for you, with the artist," he teases. "Perhaps even work out a deal where he is paid – with your kisses? How does that sound, do you think?". Draco plants a smacker on her giggling mouth as he slides his agile hands to her hips and draws her into the heat of his body.

"Huh, I'm not sure… I thought he'd worked out a previous deal whereby he was paid in kisses for answers?" Hermione arches her back as she pretends to resist his ardent attentions; Draco retaliates by nipping and licking along her neck and ear.

"That's a separate agreement," Malfoy counters, groaning into her mouth as she runs her hands over his taut buttocks. "Struggling artists will take whatever they can get, you know."

"'Struggling', my arse– " Hermione foregoes any further shammed reluctance as Draco's mouth firms and seals on her own, closing her eyes as heady sensation saturates her consciousness. Unfortunately, they have barely begun to kiss in earnest when a persistent banging floats up from the townhouse's front door.

"Ignore it – they'll go away eventually," Hermione orders, between frantic lip-locks.

"We can't – it's likely your parents, they said they'd be arriving about now." Draco glumly sets her away from him. "It's probably for the best… we still need to be careful of your ankle, and your concussion."

Nope. I'm not having it – we'll see how long you can hold out later, you talented, sexy snake. Hermione suppresses her lascivious grin as Draco laces his fingers through hers and walks them out the studio's door.

"Don't take any crap from my dad – he's a guest in your home, remember," Hermione pouts, crossing the fingers of her other hand that Bernard Granger will pull in his head and behave civilly during the visit.

"Our home," Draco corrects. He smiles down guilelessly at her as they descend the stairs.

Hermione is too overcome with euphoria to do anything but blink away her joyful tears.

French translation:

Ma cœur chéri... Je ne peux pas supporter l'idée que tu sois blessé à nouveau. – My darling heart... I can't stand the thought of you being hurt again.