36

Chapter 36

Wednesday 12 March 2003: PM

"Her Grace Lady Granger is home! Macdolas is beside himself with joy, but Master Malfoy asks Macdolas to be staying quiet and busy in kitchen, preparing the friands! Master says Grace Lady Granger must be having rest and tranquillity!".

Draco winces as his manservant's squeaking voice climbs higher than an alpine mountain goat at the sight of Hermione slowly descending the first floor stairs. So tranquil. He bites back his rebuke as he remembers his huge debt of gratitude to the plucky little house elf. Hermione charges toward her miniature saviour as he jiggles excitedly by the closed front door.

She kneels and sweeps Macdolas into a tight hug. "Oh, Mac! It's so good to see you – Draco was being a tad overprotective, I would have loved to have had you meet me when I first arrived… Never mind." Pulling back a little, she tugs Macdolas's deerstalker hat back into place and tells him, "Mac, I can never thank you properly for coming to my rescue… for saving my life… you have my eternal gratitude. And love. Thank you – thank you from the bottom of my heart, you darling little treasure." Hermione squashes him into another constrictive embrace as she blubs over the last words.

Oh, hell's bells. Judging by Macdolas's high wheezing breaths, he is either trying not to cry or genuinely having trouble accessing oxygen. Draco hastens to intervene before his emotional girlfriend commits unintentional… elficide?

"Granger – I think he gets the message – let go, ma petite, the poor little bugger is struggling to breathe– " he manages to prise loose her hands as Macdolas sucks down some much-needed air. The background soundtrack of steady knocks on the front door increases in pace and volume as Hermione profusely apologizes to the midget major-domo.

"Alright, he'll survive. I'm going to answer the door before your father has an apoplectic attack." Draco fashions a welcoming smile onto his dial and swings open the heavy wooden door.

He doesn't have a chance to speak the polite words he has ready on his lips before Bernard Granger snaps, "About bloody time, boy! What was going on in there? Scattering rose petals on the floor, or something?"

"Barney – if you are going to be a nasty cuss, you can turn around right now and leave me to Floo home," his wife sounds scarily like Hermione as she dresses down her cantankerous spouse. "Either apologize to Draco, or get lost." Jane Granger's displeased demeanour segues into a sunny smile as she accepts Draco's hand to lead her into the townhouse.

"Thank you, Draco. You have a lovely home, and in such a pleasant part of town. Hello, Hermione sweetie. And Macdolas! Good morning," Jane gently pats the big-eyed elf's shoulder as she kisses her daughter on the cheek and begins removing her heavy coat. Draco murmurs his greetings as he assists her by hanging the dark grey coat and jet scarf on the hallway rack. He is peripherally aware of a sullen Bernard stomping through the door and dispensing with his own outerwear, muttering an insincere "Sorry" in Draco's general direction.

Schooling his features to hide his schadenfreude at Mr Granger's castigation, Draco is amused to witness Bernard's brown eyes round as he gets his first good look at Macdolas's apparel. "Zounds – is that… is that a Sherlock Holmes costume you're wearing, Macdolas?" Hermione's father breathes astonishedly.

Macdolas superciliously corrects, "Macdolas advises it is a homage to the Great Literary Detective Sherlock Holmes, Father Dentist of Her Grace Lady Granger… sir," he tacks on, strutting as he shakes out a few wrinkles from the long camel-coloured tweed caped overcoat that matches his double-brimmed hat. Macdolas appears to have customized the look by including an outer breast pocket to showcase a miniature pipe and magnifying glass, and a monocle is pinned beside it. Draco wonders if the monocle was specifically oversized, to accommodate the Scottish steward's disproportionally large watermelon-green eyes.

"Indeed. Well, it's… something, alright. Really… something," Bernard fumbles.

Anyone would think he's never seen a fashionista house elf wearing a fictional Victorian sleuth's 'homage', Draco internally chuckles. He adopts his gracious host's mantle as he remarks, "I hope you had a pleasant trip into St John's Wood, Mr Granger?". He indicates for Bernard to precede him into the lounge room; Hermione and her mother have already made their way there and are seated on the lowline powder blue sofa, chatting quietly. Macdolas trots behind them and fusses at the linen tablecloth and morning tea setting he has already arranged on the central coffee table.

Bernard flumps into the nearby armchair. "Well, we'd have been here a damned sight sooner if we hadn't had to circle the block twice in search of a car park – and then walk half a mile after we finally found one," he discloses disgruntledly.

"Did I not mention this morning that I'd made the Floo network available to you and Jane, sir?" Draco is puzzled; he could have sworn he'd made a point of same before he and Hermione had Disapparated from St Mungo's. He perches on the edge of the opposing armchair, while Macdolas finds fault with one of the cake forks and begins furiously polishing it with a pristine white tea towel he magicks into existence.

"Dad distrusts using the Floo, Malfoy – he has an irrational fear of being 'sucked into the void' like Mike Teavee," Hermione dryly supplies. "From 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory'?".

Draco nods; it takes all of his self-control to not smirk at Mr Granger's eccentricity. Muggles... and they think wizards are fantastical.

"I suspect he just uses that as an excuse to take his beloved Jag on a run," Jane quirks an eyebrow as she shares a knowing smile with Hermione. "I swear, sometimes I think you love that car more than you do me, Barney."

"What tosh, Jane – you know that I worship at your dainty feet, honey. If anything, I restored the Jag so we could spend more time together… relive our salad days… do you remember that road trip we took to Edinburgh, our second year of uni? In my little old red '72 Ford Cortina?" Bernard reminisces with a fond smile.

"I'm hardly likely to forget it, Barney," Jane casts a significant side glance at Hermione, which her husband apparently doesn't catch as he continues,

"I can't even recall why we were so hell-bent on going, that weekend… was there some sort of early Christmas market happening? We were still ten miles from the B&B when the front tyre blew; and I'd forgotten to check the spare was inflated… oh, weren't you fit to kill when I said we'd have to walk, or spend the night in the car?" he chuckles, a gleam in his espresso eyes.

Jane warns, "Bernard – I'm sure Draco isn't interested in this story – "

"No, no, it's fascinating," Draco plays devil's advocate. "Do continue, Mr Granger."

Bernard's deep baritone drowns out both women as an alarmed Hermione pipes up, "Dad – please don't– "

"It was a good thing I always carried plenty of blankets in the boot… and an emergency bag of supplies. We feasted on chocolate bars and drank cheap red wine, warmed up nicely in the back bench seat; for a small car, it was surprisingly roomy… we had everything we needed – "

"Except one very important item, Bernard," Jane sighs. "Something you assured me you had packed but which was… missing… at a rather critical moment…"

Judging by the mortified look on Hermione's face, Draco has little doubt as to the identity of the 'missing item'. He chokes back a laugh as his brunette girlfriend glares at him and makes a classic cut-off gesture with her hand at her throat.

Bernard scrabbles at the collar of his brown plaid heavy cotton shirt as he aggrievedly defends, "Jane, I did pack them! They must have fallen out when I moved the spare tyre."

"Macdolas respectfully asks Father Dentist Granger what falls out when the tyre moves?" Macdolas chirps, as Jane and Hermione glare at a fidgeting Bernard. The sprite's head is cocked like a sparrow's as he swings his goggled eyes back and forth between the Granger family members.

"Go on, Dad – you may as well tell Mac… you just had to keep this dubious little anecdote rolling," Hermione testily remarks.

"Oh… er… um…" Mr Granger's voice diminishes to a whisper as he stutters, "Con… con… doms, Macdolas."

"Con… Doms?" the befuddled seneschal repeats. "Con Doms is a person?"

"More like the lack of 'Con Doms' became a person," Jane mutters crossly. Bernard turns the colour of an overripe tomato as he hunches his lanky frame deeper into the armchair.

Oh, this is pure gold, Draco gleefully reflects. Talk about digging one's own grave! As if she can hear his uncharitable thoughts, Hermione directs her scowl in his direction and narrows her expressive chocolate eyes.

"I'll explain it to you later, Macdolas; may we have morning tea now, please?" Draco deflects the attention away from the controversial topic with some regret. Watching Bernard coming under heavy fire from his wife and daughter is a diverting change of pace, but he fears Hermione's wrath more than he wants to see her father sweat and squirm.

"Macdolas brings the morning tea forthwith, Master Malfoy!" he charges back to the kitchen with surprising grace, considering his knobby little knees.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the four humans. Draco clears his throat in preparation of making some desultory small talk when the Floo fireplace flares green.

Lady Narcissa Malfoy steps out, accompanied by Ruibby. The former flaps a crisply folded newspaper as she makes a beeline for her startled son, who scrambles to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he sees Bernard Granger also rising.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy: since when do you leave it to The Daily Prophet to inform your long-suffering mother that your newly-minted girlfriend was attacked and hospitalized? 'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!'" Lady Malfoy's voice is pure ice as she upbraids her son. A wide-eyed Ruibby lightly tugs the sleeve of Narcissa's silver-blue robes in warning as she notices their audience.

"Oh! My apologies; I did not realize Draco had company," Narcissa transforms from infuriated matriarch to blue-blooded social butterfly in the blink of an eye. "I'm Narcissa Malfoy, and this is our housekeeper, Ruibby. Hermione, dear – it is such a relief to see you looking well, and unharmed," she smiles.

"Mother, Ruibby: please allow me to introduce Mr and Mrs Granger," Draco tries to salvage the situation, as his Adam's apple bobs up and down like a seesaw. Narcissa swishes closer and offers both parents her pale hand to shake, before leaning in to kiss Hermione's cheek. Ruibby bobs a few curtseys, her big eyes impatiently flicking about the room.

"It's nice to meet you, Lady Malfoy," Jane Granger appears friendly, but cautious. Bernard looks somewhat starstruck as he repeats his wife's salutation.

"Do call me Narcissa, please; no need to stand on formalities, seeing as how our children are dating," Narcissa decrees.

"Do you find their romantic situation as odd as I do, Narcissa? Young Draco claims you've welcomed Hermione with open arms," Bernard sounds as dubious as he looks. "Perhaps I sound rather blunt; but it's difficult for me to reconcile your current liberal attitude with some of your family's past behaviours, considering the harm you inflicted upon my daughter," he steamrolls, doggedly ignoring Jane's clucking disapproval and Hermione's groan.

Before Draco can jump to his mother's defence, Narcissa calmly and firmly puts Bernard in his place.

"Let me assure you, Mr Granger: if I harboured the slightest reservations about Draco and Hermione's relationship, I would not be standing here today. While I do understand your ambivalence over their strong connection, it seems to me that you are the one unwilling to let go of past prejudices and trauma. If the Malfoys can admit their wrongs and engender sincere and effective growth and maturity… could you not attempt the same?".

She doesn't wait for an answer as she seats herself beside a grinning Hermione and a composed Jane on the three-seater modern couch, beckoning Ruibby to sit in the small corner spot.

Bernard opens and closes his mouth stupidly as Narcissa fires a final salvo straight into his deflating sails: "And after all, the only opinions that matter on this issue are Draco and Hermione's; and from what I have witnessed of their mutual bond, they have well and truly moved on from the past. We would do well to follow their example, Mr Granger."

Ah, Mother… if only you'd gone into politics… you terrify me almost as much as you impress me.

Draco openly smirks, as Mr Granger quietly announces, "Bernard."

"I beg your pardon?" Narcissa sniffs delicately.

"You may as well call me Bernard, seeing as how you've emulated my wife and daughter in once again proving women are the far smarter (and more ferocious) sex," Bernard declares. His perfectly-aligned white teeth slowly form a sheepish grin he ruffles at his dark auburn hair. "I believe I'll quit while I'm behind, so to speak."

"Good idea, Dad," Hermione has a dig at her father as Narcissa's tinkling laugh joins Jane's slow clap. Even Ruibby covers her wide mouth with her hand, though her wheat brown eyes are dancing with shared merriment.

Macdolas re-enters the room, expertly balancing a laden tray on each hand; he bobbles them at the unanticipated sight of two more guests, but his skilled telekinesis corrects the slide just in time and places both securely in the middle of the coffee table as he gawks fixedly at Ruibby.

"Lady Malfoy and the beautiful Ruibby grace the Townhouse of Malfoy with their illustrious presence… Macdolas knows he bakes extra friands for good reason – though he does not know the reason until now!" he joyously exclaims.

The elven object of his affections shyly replies, "Ruibby asks to accompany Lady Malfoy… Ruibby reads of Macdolas's heroic rescue of Her Grace Lady Granger, she wishes to commend Macdolas and offers him a small token of her esteem…" the little maidservant digs in the front pocket of her frilled white apron to produce an roundish item made of leather and tartan, with three small tassels at the front.

"Tis the traditional sporran of the Clan Fhionnlaigh!" Macdolas solves the mystery in a jiffy, as Ruibby gives a pleased nod.

"Ruibby works yet on sewing the matching kilt, that Macdolas wears at future ceremonies of acknowledgment and honour for his bravery and courage," she imparts with a proud tilt to her pointy nose. "Ruibby tells Macdolas of her pride in his good deeds; Macdolas brings grand glory to his people."

Merlin's beard – Macdolas might just faint from rapture, judging by his giddy expression and erratic balance. Draco leaps from his chair to clamp a steadying hand on the overcome munchkin's angular shoulder, whispering, "Buck up, champ: remember, be cool and build on this. Say 'thank you' and move on, hmmm?".

Nodding feverishly, Macdolas croaks, "The Beautiful and Capable Ruibby is most kind, to bequeath such bounty upon her devoted humble servant Macdolas… he is most unworthy yet accepts with overflowing gratitude."

Draco overhears Bernard asking Hermione in a hushed aside, "Is this performance art?" as Macdolas's inner vaudevillian surfaces, with another impossibly deep bow and a dramatic flourish of the ridiculous deerstalker hat. The tiny corncob pipe clatters to the wooden floor as Bernard applauds.

"Bravo!". Ruibby blushes as Macdolas snaps back to attention and levitates the dropped smoking paraphernalia back into his coat pocket. He also produces two more cake plates, forks, tea cups, and saucers from thin air, and rearranges the coffee table setting to reflect the added visitors.

"Ruibby helps to pour the tea?" she petitions, not waiting for assent as she busies herself with carefully doling out the steaming Earl Grey, milk, and sugar.

"Lemon drizzle friands – splendid," Bernard rubs together his hands in keen anticipation as Macdolas offers him a plate and the platter of warm, fragrant little oval cakes. "I tend to stick to my tried and true recipe of blueberry ones, but this smells and looks wonderful. Thank you, Mac."

"Oh, do you enjoy baking, Bernard?" Narcissa enquires, before sipping slowly at her tea.

Waiting until he's swallowed his first bite of French almond cake, Bernard answers, "Yes – I developed into a fairly capable cook, when I was Hermione's primary caregiver. Jane and I are both dentists, but I deferred my studies to raise our girl while Jane continued her degree and started our practice. I finished my education once Hermione started school."

Curiosity engaged, Narcissa diplomatically presses, "Isn't that a rather unusual demarcation of parental responsibility?… given the era, I mean. Not so much nowadays, thank goodness." She almost snorts as she divulges, "I believe the closest my husband ever came to changing one of Draco's nappies was sticking his nose in the air and summoning the nearest house elf to deal with his smelly son."

Jane Granger responds, "Well, Bernard felt largely responsible for the… surprising predicament we found ourselves in, regarding Hermione's conception; we agreed it made sense for him to stay home with the baby," she smiles.

"I reckon I did everything I could, bar breastfeeding Little Wendy," Bernard states proudly. "But I've read some fascinating studies that speculate such a thing may be possible for men, should evolution one day require it– "

"Dad, please! We're trying to eat here," a scandalized Hermione shares a look of horror with Draco at the thought of being breastfed by her father.

Eww. Draco sets aside his own friand for the moment, marvelling at the utter weirdness of this entire grouping. Ruibby is sitting back beside his mother, with Macdolas locating himself on the arm of the sofa (almost but not quite brushing the female elf's arm). They are taking turns at pretending not to stare at one another, only to lock intense gazes before hurriedly looking away; no wonder Bernard thought the pair were conducting performance art.

I'm actually rather enjoying myself… and Mother seems to have already won over Hermione's parents. Amazing.

"Just making conversation, Hermione," Bernard grumbles. "What would you have me talk about, then?"

Hermione hesitates, before she looks to Draco. "Malfoy… may I please tell Mum and Dad what you showed me, this morning? Upstairs?" she waggles her eyebrows for emphasis. Mr Granger nearly swallows his next friand whole as his daughter chides, "Relax, Dad – it's nothing inappropriate, which is more than I can say for your chosen subjects of discourse this morning."

Draco wills his ears not to pinken. "Go ahead, Granger. It's not a big deal."

"Oh, but it is!" Hermione contradicts. She speaks the next sentences as though she's cracked the equation for successful alchemy.

"Draco is an incredibly gifted painter… he's Vouivre," she imparts breathlessly.

Jane's hazel eyes light up as she sets her tea cup down upon the tabletop. "That beautiful exhibit you encouraged us to attend last year, in Mayfair? With the snowscapes and moors? Oh, Draco!" she exclaims in wonderment, as Hermione nods excitedly.

"Rather Bohemian of you, boy– Draco," Bernard reacts instantly to Narcissa's disparaging raised eyebrows at his belittling address to her son. "I mean, your paintings showed some real talent, certainly. I've long been a keen supporter of the fine arts… we always brought Hermione along with us to visit museums, and the like. Since she was just a wee bairn – popped her in the Baby Björn and away we'd go.'

"Although, I hadn't realized that Hogwarts offered much in the way of art classes," Bernard ponders. "Was that an extra elective? Hermione's a genius, but she brought home so many strangely bleeding rainbows from nursery school that we had the devil of a time praising them based on artistic merit. Sorry, sweetheart," he mumbles as his daughter's lips twist in a peeved pout.

Draco quickly rejoins, "No, Mr Granger; I had private tutors when I was younger… and studied abroad, a few years ago."

"Right, right – one of the perks of being filthy rich – I mean, loaded – erm, independently wealthy," Bernard finally settles on an adjective.

"Barney, honestly – can you have a care with your runaway mouth, please?" rebukes his exasperated spouse.

Hermione comes to the conversational rescue this time. "Excuse me, Narcissa: may I please look at the newspaper you brought with you? It's this morning's Daily Prophet, is that correct?".

Oh, no. Draco makes an abortive jerky movement to stop his mother handing over the wretched rag, but he is too late.

Narcissa lightly slaps his grabbing hand. "Draco, darling – Hermione will find out, sooner rather than later. It's far better to be prepared for the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune'… as you well know," she communicates meaningfully.

"I'll read it aloud, shall I?" Hermione launches straight into the front page headline.

"'DISGRACED DEATH EATER DATES DUMBLEDORE'S DARLING' – well, points for alliteration, I suppose – How dare they! Draco was not a true Death Eater, nor was he 'disgraced', and I was never 'Dumbledore's Darling', what rot–" she growls, before continuing,

"'High drama at the Ministry of Magic yesterday evening, as Miss Hermione Granger (famously known as the female member of The Golden Trio, who were integral in the defeat of Lord Voldemort and in winning the Second Wizarding War) was allegedly pushed down a flight of stairs when returning from a closed trial session in Courtroom Six. Mystery surrounds the event, but close sources report that a house elf named MacDonald – "

"Macdolas is not a MacDonald!" the elf in question indignantly squawks.

"Yes, I know, sorry, Mac – where was I… right. 'A house elf named MacDonald came to the aid of the fallen heroine, and with the assistance of Ministry employee Mr Blaise Zabini and entrepreneur Mr Theo Nott, transported the unconscious witch to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, for emergency treatment. The Ministry's Auror Division remains tight-lipped as to what actually transpired in the isolated passageway, but rumour has it that they apprehended a suspect, who remains under guard at the same hospital. The house elf MacDonald is believed to be an employee at Malfoy Manor.

'Ministry employees have confirmed that Miss Granger herself recently announced she is involved in a romantic relationship with Mr Draco Malfoy. His family aligned themselves with the Dark Lord long before his return to corporeal form, and were eventually tried and sentenced for crimes committed during the terrible period of Voldemort's Second Reign of Terror.

'Mr Malfoy has not been seen in the public eye for some years, but created a spectacular scene yesterday when numerous witches and wizards witnessed him running at high speed through the Ministry not long after Miss Granger's incident, knocking people out of his way as he tore back and forth. He departed as quickly as he'd arrived, only to immediately infiltrate the Reception Room of St Mungo's and force his way to the head of the queue, roughly demanding to be informed of the whereabouts of The Brightest Witch of Her Age.'

'Outrage turned to astonishment when none other that Auror Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived – vouched for Mr Malfoy and proceeded to accompany him into the hospital proper, presumably to escort him to Miss Granger's room. See below for a photograph of Mr Malfoy snarling as he brandished his wand when hospital security were initially called to eject him from the establishment.'"

Flipping to the bottom half of the page, the Grangers crane their necks at the moving photograph depicting the moment Draco wielded his hawthorn wand at the two 'trolls' who'd responded to the Welcome Witch's orders to oust him.

Ah, superb. I look as mad as the proverbial hatter. Crazy-eyed, sweaty, dirty, feral… waving around a drawn wand with my teeth bared. It's a miracle they didn't force me straight upstairs to the Janus Thickey Ward, Draco glumly concedes.

"Is there any more to the story, Hermione?" Jane Granger pats her daughter's arm as Hermione seethes.

"'Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter were unavailable for comment'… blah blah blah… 'Concerns have been raised as to the possibility that Miss Granger is acting under the compulsion of an illegal love potion' – oh, that's lovely, they're insinuating that Draco is bloody drugging me, when he has been protecting me from drug-pushers and rapists all along! Where do they dream up this garbage?!" Hermione's hands crumple the newspaper as she shakes with temper and anguish.

"Hush, sweetie, I know… they'll print whatever they think sells the most copies," her mother soothes.

Her placatory words don't stem the tide of Hermione's rage. "It's not fair – they've sprinkled just enough truth, and inserted an 'allegedly' here and a 'possibly' there, to avoid a retraction or a lawsuit… I feel like paying that rumour-mongering pretence of journalism a visit tomorrow, and blasting some integrity and responsibility into their stupid hides!".

Draco rushes over to crouch in front of the agitated witch; sparks are flying from her fingertips as she aggressively clenches her fists open and shut.

He covers her little hands with his own as he entreats, "Hermione… ma petite, please do not worry over this. It's nothing – what is that saying? 'Today's news is tomorrow's fish and chips papers'? Or perhaps, the lining for Crookshanks's litter tray?" he smiles gently as his girlfriend wipes at her angry wet eyes and hiccoughs a half-cough, half-snort at his metaphors.

"Draco's right, Little Wendy. You can't pay any attention to these journo fools, they'll simply feed on any retaliatory measures, anyway." Back-up comes from an unexpected source as Bernard Granger leans across to pat his daughter on the back. "Although I wouldn't mind clipping out that wild photo of your boyfriend to stick on the fridge," he winks at a taken-aback Draco.

Heaving a few shuddering breaths, Hermione miserably agrees, "I know – but it's so frustrating, Dad, how quickly they rush to savage Draco – and they're wrong."

My poor little lioness… always fighting the good fight, always outraged and bewildered by the willingness of other humans to choose to be petty, cruel and self-serving. Draco gives his mother a significant look as he telepathically projects his request.

Narcissa rises gracefully to her feet as she softly decrees, "You've had an exhausting time of it, Hermione; I shall bid you adieu for now. Please, come visit the Manor whenever you like… perhaps to choose some more books from the library? Or send Macdolas to fetch them, of course. You are always welcome, dear. Rest up, and I look forward to seeing you soon."

She turns to her maidservant. "Ruibby, please stay here and keep Macdolas company for the rest of the day – that's an order. You deserve some more leisure time, and I know you'd like to take some proper measurements for his kilt."

"Lady Malfoy is most kind. Ruibby returns to Malfoy Manor for the dinner service," and she coyly bats her eyes at a thrilled Macdolas. The elvish pair begin gathering the morning tea accoutrements,

"We'd best be off, too," Hermione's parents kiss and lightly hug their daughter goodbye. "Lovely to meet you, Narcissa," the Grangers say in unrehearsed unison.

"The pleasure was all mine, Jane and Bernard. We'll have to make this a regular event, yes? Until next time. I'll be in touch, Draco darling. Au revoir, mon fils," and Narcissa steps into the fireplace, vanishing with a murmured destination and a puff of emerald smoke.

Draco snugs his arm around Hermione's waist as they follow her parents to the hallway coat rack. After helping Jane with her coat and scarf and donning his own, Bernard sticks out his hand for Draco to shake.

"Thanks for having us, Draco. I'm satisfied that Hermione will be safe and well-cared for; but mind you don't start taking her for granted – she's a special woman, and the best daughter I could ever wish for," Bernard gruffly pronounces.

"I won't ever do that, sir," Draco promises, soberly and sincerely. "Feel free to visit whenever you like."

"We will. Thank you for having us here, Draco. We'll see you both soon." Jane accepts his cheek kiss and hugs her daughter in a final tight embrace.

"Bye Mum, Dad. I've got my mobile around here somewhere, if you want to text me. Or you can Floo-call?".

Bernard blanches. "And run the risk of my disembodied head being stuck in a fireplace forever? No thanks! Bye, sweetie."

Hermione stands at the open door with Draco as they wave goodbye.

As soon as the Grangers have walked out of sight, Draco shuts and locks the door. He turns, scooping a squeaking Hermione off her feet, and carries her up the staircase. "You're in desperate need of a nap – no, don't bother to deny it, Granger. Resistance is futile," he deliberately jiggles her a little as he jogs faster up the last three steps and onto the landing, forcing her to link her hands behind his neck.

"Will you lie down with me?" Hermione supplicates, giving Ruibby a run for her money in the wide-eyed ingenue stakes as she flutters her long dark lashes and puckers her mouth invitingly. "Please? I always sleep better when you're beside me."

"Temptress… very well. But you need to rest, so rest we shall." Draco aims for stern but his husky tone lands somewhere near 'hopelessly accommodating'.

Hermione nods, lowering her lashes and nestling against his heart as he carries her into their bedroom.

"Of course… whatever you say, Malfoy."

Wednesday 12 March 2003: PM

Draco is dreaming, and it is glorious. Hermione is languorously rubbing her soft, naked body against his, licking little kisses along his sensitive sharp jawline and throat. Her luxuriant chestnut curls tumble sensuously against his skin as she gently pushes him onto his back and lies fully atop his long body. Their height difference means her little toes rest on the top of his shins as she mashes her bare breasts to his pale chest. His groin is extremely interested in the way she is teasing him with brushes of her sex up and down his pelvis; he groans as she lines up her outer lips with his bellend and wriggles to increase the friction.

His eyes snap open: this is no dream. Their bedroom is half-bathed in early afternoon spring sunshine, the ambient light glowing around the semi-drawn curtains and dappling the snow white duvet upon which they lie. And he's not fully naked, but Hermione has done an impressive job of unbuttoning every fastening on his plain cream spread-collared casual shirt, and has managed to push it free to expose the length and breadth of his torso. His dark brown twill chinos have been skilfully unzipped, the fly opened and his black boxer briefs slipped down far enough to free his cock and scrotum.

Why, the brazen, sneaky little witch! Draco snakes out his hands to cup her bottom, which is definitely nude.

"Oh! You're awake!" Hermione yelps, as he clamps down on her shapely rump to check her rhythmic wiggles.

"Yes – and isn't it interesting, how our 'restorative nap' has morphed into your sly seduction, Granger? Would you call this consensual? I can't help but feel you're using me for my exceptional cock," he teases.

"I am not!" she hotly denies. "And I was just about to fully awaken you – besides, you started it, you were feeling me up in my sleep!" Hermione claims.

"Feeling you up in your sleep – a likely story," Draco scoffs, just to revel in her predictable ire. "And you do admit my cock is exceptional? Don't be shy, ma petite… it is would be wildly out of character for you, at this point."

"I'll stop, if you're going to be a dick about it," Hermione puns, snuffling out an irrepressible chuckle. She lowers her head to stare worriedly into his smiling grey eyes. "Are you truly upset? I would never take advantage of you, Malfoy."

"I know, I know – I was jesting. You make it too easy sometimes, Granger," he tenderly chides, running his left hand along the length of her spine before cupping her nape and kissing her softly. "But I must take you to task on one point: you've robbed me of the joy of slowly undressing you," he rumbles.

"I can put my shirt and pants back on, if you like?" Hermione deadpans.

Shaking his head to negate the silly idea, Draco carefully flips her onto her back, reversing their positions with a chuckle. "No way – I happen to think this is your best look… stark naked on our bed, with a lovely lazy afternoon for me to show you the pleasures of the flesh," he leers.

"Have at it," Hermione stretches her hands above her head and fakes a huge yawn. "You should always finish what you started; it's good business practice." She closes her eyes on a sigh, only to crack open one eyelid with an impatient, "Well?".

"Hold your Horned Serpents – your groping didn't extend to completely divesting me of my clothing, you know… and I'd best cast a contraceptive charm, after hearing your father's cautionary tale earlier– "

"I've already done it – and I beg you, desist from mentioning the ignominious circumstances surrounding my conception EVER again," Hermione groans, flinging an arm across her face as Draco laughs unreservedly.

She glares crabbily at him as he continues chortling whilst rapidly divesting his shirt, socks, jocks, and trousers. "How would you like it if your father repeatedly told everyone – from the supermarket cashier to most of his patients, for goodness sake! – that you were spawned in the back seat of a Ford Cortina, Malfoy? Huh?".

The thought of Lucius and Narcissa being somehow jammed into the back of a small Muggle car whilst embarking on enthusiastic coitus makes Draco's laughter die mid-snigger. "Nooooo…."

"Yeah – you're feeling me now, aren't you?" Hermione comments in grim amusement. "Now get in this bed and make good on your lofty assertions, please; and for the love of lions, don't mention any of our parents while we're about to 'fadoodle'," she winks.

"Say that again, you sexy little bookworm – don't stop there, whisper 'ye olde English' sexual euphemisms into my delicate ear until I'm overcome with repressed lust," Draco challenges, as he pounces onto the bed and stalks to hover over his giggling girlfriend, caging her beneath him.

"Play nug-a-nug? Grind the corn? Houghmagandy? Pogue the hone? Dance the kipples? Princum-prantum? My favourite – join giblets?" Hermione gasps as her mirth escalates.

"You had me at 'poguing the hone', you brilliant witch," Draco laughs along with her, captivated by how much fun she is. "I do hope you saved some archaic terms for future princum-prantums, though."

He doesn't give Hermione a chance to answer, swooping down to claim her mouth with an elated possessiveness that she hungrily reciprocates. Draco lowers his body until they are skin-to-skin once more; her rosy nipples are beaded and feel sublime as they drag across his heated alabaster flesh.

He reluctantly tears away his lips to verify, "Granger – are you positive you're well enough for this? You were in hospital just this morning, and your ankle – "

"Grrr! Malfoy, I am fine. Better than fine – I'm splendiferous. Or I would be, if you'd stop fretting and finally 'play at rumpscuttle and clapperdepouch'!" Hermione whines.

"I love it when you talk obscurely dirty to me… very well, prepare to have your rump scuttled and your pouch de-clappered – or should that be clappered?" Draco echoes her earlier motion and grinds his stiff glans against her mons.

"Clapper me, Malfoy," Hermione groans, firmly tugging his head down to capture his bottom lip between her own, tilting up her hips to match him stroke for stroke. She spreads her thighs a little wider to better facilitate their frottage.

What have I done to deserve such blessings? Draco dazedly wonders, as he surrenders to his deep desire to worship his gorgeous witch with his hands, mouth, and body. It takes a huge effort of will not to increase the tempo of his slow thrusts, but he wants to wring every last drop of pleasure from their coupling. I almost lost her… he forces his panic to stay in abeyance at the heinous thought.

You are mine… he nips a line of rapacious kisses up and down her slim neck, before he imbues the unspoken declaration into his next passionate kiss.

I am yours… he nods, as she slides her thumbs between their bodies to flicker over his pebbled nipples, her uniquely striated brown eyes reflecting his thrill at the delicate caress.

Laisse moi t'aimer pour toujours… he sucks in a ragged breath as her little fingers guide his hard length inside her hot, tight sheath; she smiles up at him with pure joy and awe. Draco is torn between keeping their mouths fused in passionate osculation, or leaning away just enough to drown in her intelligent, stunning whiskey eyes.

He splits the difference and times his kisses with every other slow thrust, as their magic faintly sparkles around them, making the tiny dust motes dance in the mottled sunbeams strafing the bed. Hermione hands cup his hips, pulling him deeper inside her warm, wet channel, as her feet rub against the back of his calves.

Draco… do you feel it, too? Hermione's psychic voice asks. Our magic? Our cores?

I do, ma petite. Draco smiles as he sees her 'hearing' his telepathic response, pupils blown and shining. You are so special… feel what you do to me, Hermione.

Concentrating hard, Draco opens his consciousness, transmitting his invitation for Hermione to share in his metaphysical euphoria. He startles involuntarily when he senses her reciprocation; fleeting images and emotions tumble and whirl around their minds. Their first kiss, outside her flat; his unexpressed longing as he'd watched over her sleeping form, the night he found her on his doorstep; the excitement and enchantment of her first brave acceptance of his erotic 'gauntlet'; the repeated, quiet contentment of waking up spooned together…

The reflective connection is too intense to maintain for long. He restricts it to a brief burst of transcendental mutuality before gently withdrawing, spinning back into his own psyche and body with regret. Their bodies are still moving together in timeless harmony, their breaths syncing as they climb steadily to peak.

Draco focuses on keeping his own climax at bay. He wants… he needs to experience Hermione falling apart around him. He slowly switches up the cadence of their lovemaking, adjusting his position so his knees and one elbow take his weight, allowing him to nudge his left hand down to her clitoris. He thumbs her swollen pink nub, pressing harder as Hermione's back arches and her keens grow louder.

"Oui... c'est ça, ma chérie. Laisse-toi aller, je t'ai... je t'ai... come, Hermione." She obliges, gripping his hips to hold him fast as she whispers his name like a prayer, her sex clamping on his cock in throbbing waves. Blessing his iron control, Draco somehow manages to keep pumping his hips, until her strong squeezes have eased to flutters. Emulating his lover, he brokenly murmurs her name as he stares reverentially into her flushed, happy face, his body tensing and relaxing as his orgasm sends electric tingles zooming throughout his quivering frame.

Hermione deliberately flexes beneath him, setting off a series of little aftershocks that have Draco purring like a sleepy cat. He stays buried within her delectable body as she grins, "It isn't 'olde English' – but that's what Muggles like to call 'afternoon delight'."

"'Skyrockets in flight'? Nailed it," Draco hoarsely avers, as Hermione chortles.

"Godric's gizzards, Malfoy – is there anything you don't know?" she pokes him in the ribs in mock-vexation.

I don't know what the hell you're doing with me. Draco lets the uneasy notion remain unexpressed – no need to be a killjoy.

"I know you're the sexiest, smartest, sassiest woman in the world, Hermione Jean Granger. And I know how bloody lucky I am to be your boyfriend," he settles for, instead.

Hermione beams as she wraps her arms around his chest and encourages his weight to briefly crush her into the bed.

"Have I told you lately what a treasure you are, Draco Lucius Malfoy? No? Well, I'll give you a short refractory period, before I commence a verbal and practical demonstration, if you like…"

Draco nods emphatically as his bossy witch yanks down his head for a searing kiss. Oh yes, I like. You have no idea how much I like everything about you, Hermione… I will tell you, though.

Soon.

French translation:

Au revoir, mon fils – Goodbye, my son.

Laisse moi t'aimer pour toujours – Let me love you forever.

Oui... c'est ça, ma chérie. Laisse-toi aller, je t'ai... je t'ai... – Yes... that's it, my darling. Let yourself go, I have you... I have you...