37

Chapter 37

Thursday 13 March 2003: AM

Hermione yawns, keeping her eyes closed as she languidly scissors her legs back and forth on the expensive linens on Draco's (no, our) big bed. She takes a moment to let that sink in… Draco told me I can stay as long as I wish… have we officially moved in together, and I missed the memo?

Don't get ahead of yourself, woman. Enjoy what you have for once, and quit over-analyzing every offhand remark or tender gesture. Right. Easier said than done, of course. And then – the way our magical cores united again –

No. Just stop. Get up and greet the day, and save your theories for proper research. She opens her eyes and flips back the bedding, her blinking brown eyes confirming that she is alone in their bedroom. Draco had nagged her relentlessly last night about taking a Dreamless Sleep potion; she'd downed the purple medicine at last mostly to stop his endless arguments and rationalizations of why she had to ingest it for a decent night's sleep.

She does feel marvellously refreshed this morning, but telling Draco that feels like admitting that he was right to harangue her… pfft. Her lips curve as she remembers their silly banter yesterday, after he awoke from their nap and discovered her energetically seducing him. It's so refreshing to riff against his keen mind… if anyone had told her a few months ago she'd be quoting historic terms for sexual congress while thoroughly enjoying sexual congress with Draco Malfoy, she would have thought them completely barmy.

"There's nowt so queer as folk," Hermione declares aloud, as she quickly makes the bed. No doubt Mac will come upstairs at some point to either redress the bed with fresh linens, or remake it to his lofty standards, but the minor effort of resetting it now makes her feel like she might just belong here. Maybe.

Opening the wardrobe, she takes a moment to appreciate how swiftly and generously Draco has assimilated her presence into his home. Malfoy's meticulously ordered clothing has been completely rearranged to make way for her (decidedly less fine) apparel, including her allotment of the top half of the tallboy's drawers for her underwear, socks, and accessories. Hermione's meagre collection of jewellery has been carefully positioned atop the large chest of drawers, in the battered but well-loved 'ballerina' music box her parents gave her for her seventh birthday. The juxtaposition of her suburban shabbiness mingling with Draco's sophisticated opulence makes her smile.

Hermione dresses quickly in comfortable old blue jeans, a plain white long-sleeved cotton t-shirt, and a peacock-green woollen sweater that covers her from neck to hips. She darts into the bathroom to run a brush through her hair and twist a soft elastic tie around her low ponytail, before stuffing her socked feet into her trusty flats and making her way downstairs. Her wand is safely tucked into the right pocket of her jeans; she isn't going anywhere without it for the foreseeable future.

Pausing at the open kitchen door, Hermione recognizes Harry's voice inside the room. She halts, shamelessly eavesdropping just out of sight of the room's occupants.

"Malfoy, why is Mac having trouble looking you in the eye? He's been acting funny since I arrived."

Draco groans. "Probably because I busted him and Ruibby madly snogging in the hallway when I wandered downstairs to make a snack for us, yesterday evening – Potter, I would willingly undergo a full eyeball and memory scouring to make that image disappear forever, let me tell you… He had her up against the wall, and you don't want to know where his gnarly little hands were headed – "

"No, stop! You're right, I really don't want to know! Bloody hell, why'd you have to share that disturbing scenario?" Harry gripes.

"It gets worse – thanks to Hermione's big-mouthed father, I also have to explain to Macdolas what condoms are, if you can believe it… Have you heard Bernard Granger's 'conception story' yet, Potter?" Draco remarks gloomily.

"What, the infamous Granger nativity anecdote? "'Twas a cold Edinburgh winter night, in the back of a '72 Ford Cortina…" Harry laughs. "He's still banging on about that, then?"

"Did you have to use that particular verb? And yes, he regaled us with the legend yesterday at morning tea, much to Hermione and her mother's embarrassment. Proud as punch that he 'accidentally' impregnated his wife, and determined to announce it to the world." Draco chuckles. "You should have seen Hermione's face, though… ".

"I can imagine," Harry joins in the mirth. Hermione decides the time is right to break up their little amusement party.

"Talking smack about me behind my back, huh?" She grins as both men startle and begin to rise from their seats at the kitchen table as she sashays into the room. "No, don't get up, please. Hi, Harry," she bends to give her best friend a quick kiss on the cheek, before she happily plonks down onto Draco's lap.

"Hello, boyfriend," she plants a sultry smooch on his surprised mouth, ignoring Harry's grumble.

Draco wraps his strong arms around her, but breaks their kiss far too early to reply, "Hello, girlfriend. Are you hungry? May I pour you a coffee, and get you some breakfast?".

"Thank you, but I'm perfectly capable of sourcing both myself, in a moment. Let me just soak up the simple joy of disconcerting Harry with our domestic felicity," Hermione smirks.

"At least it's not house elf PDAs, I suppose, " Harry laughs anew as Draco closes his eyes, a pained expression on his fair face.

"Leave Mac and Ruibby alone, the pair of you; I think they're just adorable," Hermione remonstrates.

"Ah, but you didn't see them going at it like a couple of horny teenagers… in our hallway, no less!" Draco complains. "Although – I should be grateful Mac showed enough restraint not to lead her into his room."

"C'mon, Malfoy – that's uncalled for," Harry dramatically covers his ears with his hands as Hermione giggles. She slides off Draco's lap to make good on her breakfast plans.

"Would anyone like another coffee? I'll make a fresh pot," Hermione offers. Draco jumps up, standing behind her at the bench, nuzzling kisses into her slender neck as he lightly grips her hips.

"No – go sit back down, ma petite. I'll make the coffee, and cook you an omelette: how about ham and cheese? Maybe some sliced mushrooms? Potter, would you like some?"

Harry flicks his glance back to them, appearing only mildly astonished at the invitation; he pushes his round spectacles back into position as he replies, "Thanks, but I've already eaten."

"Malfoy, you don't need to cook anything for me – I'm happy to make myself some toast," Hermione is unable to resist leaning back into Draco's embrace, basking in the warmth of his light touches and the wonderful allure of his unique scent.

To her disappointment, he shifts away, patting her rump gently before pushing her back toward the table. "I want to prepare you a decent breakfast; and Harry needs to speak with you. And Mac," Draco divulges.

Hermione occupies Draco's recently vacated chair, made apprehensive by Draco's sober tone. "Harry? Is there something wrong? Has Flint awoken? Did you find something in his house?" she fires the questions at the Auror as her anxiety mounts. She is peripherally aware of Draco calling quietly for Macdolas, who speedily marches into the kitchen and perches on the opposite seat, leaving Harry between and facing them. Mac is wearing… a Canadian Mountie uniform? The gold buttons on the red tailored jacket twinkle beneath the warm lights of the dining area.

"Macdolas bids good morning to Her Grace Lady Granger, and hello again to The Most Mighty and Accomplished Ministry of Magic Auror Master Harry James Potter," his ears waggle happily as she reaches across the wooden table to affectionately squeeze his hand and return his greeting. Draco makes a scoffing noise (presumably at Harry's beefed-up title) as he sets about the business of whipping up Hermione's omelette.

"Guys – I'm afraid I have some unwelcome news. Marcus Flint remains unconscious; we didn't find a shred of evidence in his home to link him to the roofie conspiracy; and his family are kicking up a stink about his arrest. They're claiming it's a case of mistaken identity, and there's talk of their intention to try to have Macdolas charged with assault." Harry prudently captures Hermione's angry hands within his before he finishes speaking, clearly concerned she is about to start performing some kind of remote curse on the Flint lineage.

"Macdolas doesn't mean to hurt the Flint – Macdolas acts to stop him harming Her Grace Lady Granger! He has Her Grace by her lovely hair and pulls it!" the elf turns a rare shade of purple as his disgruntlement intensifies.

Draco joins the fray, his large knife clattering as he flings it down onto the chopping board in disgust. "Potter, I will defend Macdolas's actions until the day I die, and spend my last Galleon keeping him from any kind of punishment for his entirely defensible, unquestionably heroic actions – how fucking dare they?!" he clips out the words with glacial fury.

"And I will legally pursue every last one of the fools until they haven't a pot in which to piss!" Hermione snarls. "And then I'll Transfigure them all into guinea pigs and sell them to a children's petting zoo!" she wildly vows; it is the first thing that pops into her head. Perhaps isn't as dire a fate as I'd imagined, given the males' non-plussed reactions to my plans for vengeance.

"Calm down, everyone: I give you my word – my official word – that Macdolas will not face any disciplinary action or investigation with regard to his stellar defence of Hermione, OK? I just wanted to make you aware of the current climate; I'm in no way presenting it as the Ministry's opinion or intent." Harry's clarification lessens their collective tension somewhat.

"I do have to go over your statements again, Macdolas and Hermione. I want there to be no cause to doubt that we have the correct perpetrator in custody. Please, don't be alarmed or anxious," Harry soothes.

"Alright, Harry," Hermione reins in her aggravation. "What do you need to know?".

Releasing Hermione's hands, Harry pulls out a miniature recording device, about half the size of a television remote. Macdolas leans forward curiously as Hermione silently cocks a querying eyebrow.

"It's a Muggle digital voice recorder that I've adapted a little," Harry waves his hand dismissively. "Just enough to enable it withstand the electro-magnetic effects of magic. I vowed never to resort to using anything similar to Rita Skeeter's rotten Quick-Quotes Quill, so this seemed an acceptable compromise."

"Please don't show it to Arthur – you'd never see it again," Hermione tries to lighten the charged atmosphere. "I think he's still trying to get my busted Discman to work, much to Molly's chagrin."

Harry laughs, "Yeah – I gave him an old Motorola flip phone and he flipped it until the hinges broke!". The pair chuckle fondly at the thought of Arthur Weasley's mild-to-middling obsession with Muggle technology, and his renowned inability to understand or apply it properly.

Harry flicks the power button and the small screen of the voice recorder lights up. "This is Auror Harry Potter, badge number 1527, recording a formal interview with Ms Hermione Granger and Elf Macdolas. The date is Thursday 13 March 2003, and the time is 9.17am. Can you both please state your names, for the record?" he nods to Hermione and Macdolas.

They comply; Macdolas comically flattens his head onto the table to speak directly into the recorder, until Harry assures him it can pick up his voice from a normal seating position.

"Hermione, can you please relate your recollection of the events that led to your hospitalization at St Mungo's on the evening of 11 March 2003, commencing with your departure from Courtroom Number Six at the Ministry of Magic?".

She launches into a detailed retelling of her assault, striving to keep her account as factual and emotionless as possible. From the corner of her eye, she sees Draco's hands tensing into fists as she speaks of tumbling down the stairwell after the push from behind.

Harry interjects, "Did you see or recognize your attacker at any point?"

"I didn't see him, but I heard him – I heard Marcus Flint say to me: 'Where's that legendary fire gone, Golden Girl? No one's going to save you here, Hermione – you're ours now, baby girl.'"

"You're positive it was Marcus Flint's voice that you heard?" Harry presses.

"Yes. I'd just been in a meeting with him; I have no doubt that Marcus Flint spoke those words."

Harry pats her hand. "Thank you, Hermione. Now, Mr Macdolas– "

"Macdolas is not a mister, Revered Master Harry James Potter," the steward corrects. "Macdolas is a free elf without title."

Draco's voice booms from across the kitchen. "You're a Malfoy, Macdolas – you're family."

"And a Granger," Hermione appends, as her eyes match the little mannikin's for moistness.

Macdolas produces a giant white handkerchief from the brown felt pouch slung crosswise across his torso and blots his overflowing green eyes as he chokes, "Master and Her Grace Lady confer much honour upon their humble servant Macdolas, though he cannot choose between the noble Houses of Granger and Malfoy… " His tears dry up as he slyly continues, "He wonders when a hyphen comes between them?".

Harry rolls his eyes as Hermione and Draco synchronously redden and stare intently at anything but each other upon hearing Macdolas's crafty suggestion.

"Back to the matter at hand, please. Macdolas, please describe your actions on the evening in question, beginning with your arrival at the stairwell."

Macdolas worries at his hankie. "Her Grace Lady Granger summons Macdolas from townhouse kitchen, he almost begins the preparation of the evening meal, he plans pan-fried spring salmon with minty greens and new potatoes – "

"Very good, Macdolas: but for the sake of expediency, it would be best to stick to the facts relating to Hermione's ordeal," Harry gently redirects the narrative.

"Macdolas Apparates to Her Grace Lady Granger's location and sees Marcus Flint bending over Her Grace Lady Granger; unconscious she is – Marcus Flint pulls her lovely hair, he says bad words before Macdolas Stuns him into the wall and he flops onto the floor– "

"What did Flint say, Macdolas? It's fine to repeat it verbatim; we need to know, please," Harry urges.

His light green eyes narrow as Macdolas growls, "The Flint is saying, 'Gotcha now, bitch.' He sees Macdolas, he yells, 'What the fuck!'... then Macdolas Stuns him, he hits the wall and says nothing."

Harry quashes a smile. "Right. And what happened next?"

"Master Nott and Master Zabini run around the corner; they help Macdolas but cannot rouse Her Grace Lady Granger. Master Zabini stays behind to guard the Flint and tell the Ministry of Magic people; Master Nott accompanies us to St Mungo's Hospital. Macdolas hears Master Malfoy calling for him but will not leave Her Grace's side, he stays by bedside and waits for Her Grace Lady Granger to wake..." The handkerchief is being tied in knots as Macdolas relives his anxiety.

"Thank you, Macdolas. I have one last question: how did you identify Marcus Flint?" Harry queries.

Macdolas fidgets as he slowly explains, "Macdolas likes to read through Master Malfoy's Hogwarts year books, and he sees Marcus Flint is captain of Master Malfoy's Quidditch team... Lady Malfoy tells Macdolas he may, he does not take them from library! He looks at them on his breaks, he wishes to visit Hogwarts Castle one day."

Draco cuts in. "Consider it done, Macdolas. We will take you there whenever you like, depending on Headmistress McGonagall granting her permission."

The major-domo's nubby ears twitch in pure delight. "Macdolas thanks Master Malfoy and must decide which outfit he chooses for the glorious occasion!"

Turning off the voice recorder, Harry briefly pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his spectacles. "Thank you – I'm sorry to have to make you repeat yourselves, but your recounts will go far in suppressing Flint's family's outcry. I'd best get back to the office to file my reports."

"Potter – do you have any clue as to who Flint was working with?" Draco petitions, as the enticing smell of cheesy eggs wafts from the cooktop.

"Not yet," Harry hedges. "Try not to stress about it – we're cross-referencing and doubling-back and doing everything possible to ensure we get these grubs… all of them. Hermione, love – will you promise me that you won't go anywhere alone? And that you'll contact me immediately, if anything happens, or if something comes back to you? Please?" He looks tired, tense, and troubled.

"Of course. I'm sorry. I must apologize to all of you, for not being more careful, at work. I honestly didn't think – well, I didn't think. I never wanted to worry you – " Hermione chokes, unable to finish her sentence due to the wave of regret and pain that washes over her as she remembers the terrifying feelings of helplessness and dread as she lay on the cold stone floor of the stairwell, losing consciousness. She closes her eyes as hot tears drip down her cheeks.

Only a few seconds elapse before Hermione feels Draco's gentle arms wrapping around her from beside her chair, pressing her head to his chest as he croons, "It's OK, Granger… no one blames you, ma pauvre petite lionne blessée. You do not need to apologize to anyone." He rubs her back in slow circles as she opens her blurry mocha eyes and lifts her head to smile tremulously at him.

"That's better – there's my plucky witch," Draco tenderly kisses away her tears. "Now – how about some of my world-famous omelette? You're not yourself when you're hungry." He doesn't wait for her nod to stride back to the stovetop and plate up her breakfast.

"Wish I'd brought a camera: I need to immortalize the incredible sight of Lord Draco Malfoy cooking the Muggle way," Harry razzes, as Draco brings over Hermione's meal, cutlery, and a steaming mug of fresh coffee. He kisses the crown of her chestnut head as she gratefully smiles her thanks.

"Piss off, Potter," Draco retorts, without any true resentment. "Do you want a coffee?"

"No, thanks – I'll get going, before you pair start canoodling again and put me off ever embarking upon another romantic relationship." Harry rises and tucks in his chair, before patting Macdolas's thin shoulder and lightly squeezing Hermione's upper arm. "Don't get up, Malfoy can see me out. Take care, love."

"Bye, Harry. Don't work too hard – you look like you're not getting enough sleep." And that's probably all my fault, Hermione frets.

"I'll survive," Harry grins. "See you soon." He and Draco walk from the room; Hermione hears a low hum of male conversation before the Floo swooshes and her tall beau returns to gracefully slide into the seat beside her.

"What did you and Harry discuss?" she probes, not liking the small frown lines etched into Draco's brow.

"Nothing of import… How's your meal?" Draco pinches a mushroom slice and pops it into his mouth with a wink.

"Delicious. Thank you. But I know you're stealing food in a blatant attempt to distract me, Mr Sneak Thief." Hermione points her knife in an accusatory gesture, as Draco shrugs.

"I do have something I need to tell you, Granger. I've made an appointment for you to see a Muggle therapist this afternoon. It's entirely your decision as to whether you wish to attend, of course; I thought perhaps a Muggle counsellor might be more knowledgeable about the particulars of the attempted roofie element," Draco elucidates. He appears nervous as to her reaction as he adds, "Macdolas and I shall accompany you, of course – well, not to the session proper– "

"OK, Malfoy. That's a good idea." Hermione can't decide whether she should be diverted or insulted by the relieved surprise on Draco's comely visage as she readily assents to his suggestion.

"Good. Excellent. Oh, and Luna will be here by ten o'clock; I sent her and Hagrid a quick owl yesterday, to let them know you were on the mend, and recuperating at home with us. I'm sorry – I meant to mention it yesterday afternoon, but we were… otherwise occupied," Draco smirks as his slate grey eyes hold hers meaningfully.

Hermione pins her lips together as she fights off the red stain from deepening her olive skin. Not in front of Macdolas!

"He deserves payback, after what I stumbled upon in the hallway yesterday," Draco seems to read her mind as the sheepish house elf hangs his pink-flushed head and hurries to scuttle from the table. "Do stick around, Macdolas – didn't you want to know about condoms? Now would be the perfect time for that little chat… No?" he laughs unreservedly as Macdolas vaguely chitters something about 'polishing' and 'laundry' before fleeing from the room.

"You shouldn't tease Mac so – he was as red as his Mountie jacket!" Hermione scolds, unable to stop her own giggles escaping. She lays down her cutlery to grip his ivory hand. "I really appreciate you contacting Luna and Hagrid – I wish I'd thought of it myself… they must have been concerned, if they'd read that lousy Daily Prophet article, or heard the inevitable gossip. You're thoughtful and kind, and I – I thank you for it."

Draco's shoulders hunch a little at her praise. "It was nothing. And Macdolas deserves some moderate ribbing, considering his previous attempts to cock-block us, ma petite." He straightens as he bosses, "Now, finish your breakfast, or I shan't be well pleased."

"Yes, Lord Malfoy," Hermione deliberately looks up from beneath her eyelashes, gratified to note his pupils dilating at her pretend-meek tone. "Ohhh… you liked that, didn't you? Want to play "Lord of the Manor Ravishes Bookish Governess', tonight?" she takes it a little further.

"Is that a novel? Will you read it to me, whilst my hands slide up your silk stockings and I thoroughly compromise you on the fainting couch?" Draco rasps. "Salazar's spirit, woman – you're too sexy to be real, do you realize that?".

"That's rich, coming from you, Malfoy," Hermione derides the notion. "I'm sure you're well aware of how many of our female peers at Hogwarts wanted to find out for themselves whether your legendary sexual reputation was accurate."

She regrets her impulsive comment as Draco looks away. "I'm not proud of how I behaved, but I wasn't… I wasn't as promiscuous, nor as disrespectful to women, as the rumours made out," he hesitantly explicates, leaning away from her as his brow creases.

"I'm sorry – I wasn't judging you," Hermione hastens to rectify her blundering mouth. "Please don't think that, Draco. If anything… I was envious," she ruefully admits. "Both of the girls who were your conquests, and of the chance to explore one's teenage sexuality. No one ever looked at me twice, until Viktor asked me to the Yule Ball. And then, it was simply to jeer at me for 'glamouring' myself and thinking I could be pretty."

Her old insecurities flare up as she remembers the derogatory comments that some of her classmates had made sure she'd overheard. "I was 'putting on airs and graces'; and some of the Slytherins were loudly convinced I'd slipped Viktor a love potion."

"They regretted it as soon as they returned to the Snakes' dorms, trust me," Draco snarls. "And as for the other arseholes who dared to disparage you – they were mean, petty, jealous little turds. You have always been beautiful, Hermione. I'm sorry you have ever doubted it for a second."

Oh, goddess – Draco's going to make me cry. Again. Hermione throws herself into his arms and kisses him as though there's no tomorrow, tears leaking from her closed eyes as she plies him with her gladdened gratitude and raw affection. His easy strength and agile reflexes are brought into play as he shifts to hold her securely on his lap.

"Please don't cry, my sweet witch – I abhor that my past actions have made you have shed far too many tears already," Draco begs. "I am forever thankful that your precious, strong heart was able to forgive my cruelties and give me another (undeserved) chance."

Heart flopping in her throat, Hermione opens her mouth to inform Draco precisely how she feels about him – but the Floo fireplace sounds again and her tentative words subside.

"That will be Luna," Draco observes. "She's a tad early; she probably wants to reassure herself that you're truly unharmed, and well."

Nodding, Hermione wiggles off his legs and stands up, keeping their hands entwined.

Maybe it's for the best… I'm yet afraid of rushing things, reckless Gryffindor that I am, she meditates.

Just a little more time… and a little more courage.

Right.

"She's expecting us, Hermione – and Draco has given his full blessing," Luna calmly eases Hermione's dragging misgivings about their shopping jaunt. "It's only one stop, and we're using the private Floo in her office. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh, well, as long as Draco has decreed it acceptable – let us sally forth with righteousness," Hermione sarcastically replies. "I'd hate to defy my lord and master, after all."

She should have known better than to employ sarcasm with Luna, who merely nods approvingly.

"I think it's lovely how quickly you've negotiated and settled into your dominant/submissive relationship roles, Hermione, especially considering how you both like to retain control. Good for you," Luna bestows her ethereal smile upon her flummoxed friend.

"No, that's not what I meant, Luna… never mind," Hermione sighs. For all of Luna's dreaminess, arguing with her is usually pointless; her Ravenclaw friend is almost impossible to disconcert, or to best in a laterally logical argument. She grabs a pinch of green powder. "I'm ready."

Luna travels first, pronouncing their destination in her clear, high voice before vanishing into the Floo flames. Hermione closes her eyes, tucks in her elbows and duplicates the words for the swift yet disorienting journey via magical chimney. When she opens them again, Luna is leading her into a sleekly elegant London office. Two racks of stunningly sophisticated ballgowns are neatly arranged in the middle of the room.

The owner of the office steps out briskly from behind the exquisite dresses. "Good morning, Luna. Hello, Hermione. Bet you never thought you'd be darkening the doors of a high-end boutique owned by yours truly, did you?" A small smile plays around the impeccably put-together woman's mouth as she holds out her slim hand to shake.

"Hi, Pansy." Hermione duly shakes, at a loss as how best to respond to the other witch's matter-of-fact, slyly humorous attitude. I must have been barking mad to let Luna talk me into this… Pansy Parkinson is Draco's ex-girlfriend! It's not too late to jump back into the Floo. She rapidly calculates whether her Lion pride could withstand the craven act.

Pansy's laugh is surprisingly cheerful and good-natured as she calls out Hermione's dalliance with cowardice. "Relax, Hermione – I'm still a bitch, but Luna can vouch for my bitchery now being channelled into more productive and appropriate endeavours, such as this salon. I'll only say this once, but I say it sincerely: I apologize for being a spiteful cow to you at school. I'm happy to move past it and help you pick out a gorgeous frock for the Gala. Are you in?".

Screw it. I trust that Luna wouldn't have brought me here unless she was wholly confident Pansy means me no ill. And I'm running out of time before the Spring Equinox ball… and those gowns do look absolutely fantastic.

"I accept your apology; I'm sorry I was prejudiced toward you, Pansy." Hermione holds out her hand again. "Shall we aim for proprietor/client interactions with a view to becoming civil acquaintances?" she proposes.

"Done." Pansy's grip is firm and her smile toothy as she accepts the olive branch. "By the way, I was grieved to hear you were attacked; I trust you're doing OK?"

"I am, thank you." Hermione wonders uneasily whether she should mention Draco… Ugh, maybe not. But surely Pansy is across that hot gossip item already?

Her musings are quelled as Pansy bluntly proclaims, "You really need to learn to mask your emotions better, Hermione – I can practically see your concerns flashing in your eyes. I finally moved on from my infatuation with Draco the exact moment he blurted your name instead of mine during a heated interlude… ah, he didn't tell you that yet, huh?" she reacts to Hermione's shocked blink.

"He's all yours, darling." Pansy's perfectly painted pink lips part as though she is about to say something else, before she purses them shut again and busies herself rifling through the first rack. Luna sits down on the plush two-seater dark grey divan beside them, waving at Hermione to do the same.

Pansy turns to critically assess Hermione's figure. "What do you consider your best asset?" she demands.

"Oh… um… my intelligence?" Hermione frowns as the other two witches chuckle at her bemused response.

"Don't get riled – I mean, what do you like most about your body? Breasts, arse, legs? Shoulders? Waist? Feet? Come on, you must have some preference," Pansy taps her stilettoed foot impatiently.

"I don't know – my eyes?". Hermione glares resentfully as Pansy dramatically rolls her eyes. "Look, you're the fashion expert, aren't you? Pick out something and I'll tell you if I like it or not."

"Fine – but I want you to promise you'll wear it with confidence. Put your self-esteem issues firmly to one side and think about knocking off Draco's silk socks, OK? Imagine his jaw dropping when he sees you in the perfect dress," Pansy commands.

As Hermione continues to project dubiousness, the sable-haired ex-Slytherin adds, "You love those new robes Draco gifted you, don't you? Who do you think ordered them in, and made sure they met his every persnickety specification?". Pansy nods in satisfaction at Hermione's dawning realization.

"I knew the blond fool was a smitten kitten long before you did – so put some faith in my expertise and enjoy the ride."

"Now, how comfortable are you with showing just a hint of areolae? Or the top of your bum?"

Oh, hell no…

How is it possible to feel this fatigued by a sixty minute shopping excursion? Particularly considering I spent most of it simply stating a firm 'no' to a series of increasingly risqué outfits? Hermione ponders, yawning hugely as she follows Luna in stepping back into the townhouse's lounge room. Draco rushes in before she has taken more than two paces, hugging her as though she's been overseas for six months.

"How did it go? Was Pansy nice to you? Did you find a gown you liked? I can easily ask Mother to help, she loves haute couture and knows plenty of Parisian designers," Draco babbles, as Hermione revels in the joy of being enfolded in his tight embrace.

"Settle down, Malfoy – you're starting to emulate me: all questions and no pauses," Hermione teases. "Pansy was fine, we found the perfect dress, and she is going to send it to me once the final alterations are complete." She lightly tweaks his right ear lobe as she chastens, "You could have warned me that you are friends, you know – Pansy let slip that she helped you with my sublime new robes."

Draco ducks his head, adopting a discomfited mien. "I thought it might be rather awkward to reveal we have remained on good terms; she's not the wicked harridan many believed her to be, Granger. Pansy's had her own trauma to surmount – but it's not my tale to tell."

Luna chips in, "Pansy fought a bitter legal battle to access her inheritance, after her Pureblood parents disowned her, Hermione. She used those monies to start her first boutique, and she's since diversified into financially backing and guiding other witches' small businesses. We met again when she came to Father to buy advertising space in The Quibbler, you know."

"No, I didn't know." Hermione feels disappointed in herself. I've been guilty of clinging onto the same historic bias and ill-feeling that I so despised in many of my old peers, she reflects dejectedly.

Her sorrowful rumination is interrupted by the odd sound of… muted explosions? She tilts her head as the arrhythmic thuds escalate.

"Draco, are you hosting an Exploding Snap Card Tournament?" Luna serenely enquires at the same time that Hermione demands, "What's going on back there, Malfoy? And why do you look guilty, all of a sudden?"

"It's nothing, ladies – Macdolas is practising his defensive abilities," Draco temporizes. "Would you care for a refreshing drink before lunch?". He winces involuntarily as the loudest whump thus far thuds from somewhere in the vicinity of the ground floor laundry.

Hermione makes to rush in that direction; Draco stymies her intent as he coils his arms around her hips again.

"Let me go – I can tell you're hiding something, and I don't care for it." Hermione's hackles are up and itching.

"We're handling it, Granger – please, I don't want to upset you," Draco's effort to appease her ire fails woefully short.

"Too late – I'm upset that you believe I need to be sheltered like some frangible, mollycoddled infant," she seethes. "Now, please – will you tell me the truth?".

"I'm sorry," Draco loosens his hold, sadness colouring his tone. "Macdolas is indeed practising his defensive skills – on the Howlers we've both received, since yesterday's Daily Prophet article," he sighs. "Fortunately, our little manservant is marvellously adept at blasting them to smithereens before they can scream their vile sentiments about our 'despicable and depraved' relationship."

"I apologize for my misguided attempts to shield you from this added unpleasantness… I wished to spare you some of the fallout that my infamy and past crimes have already wreaked upon your sterling reputation." Draco's face is a cool mask as he breaks all physical contact with Hermione, retreating to grip the back of the nearest retro Danish armchair.

Hermione's heart stutters at the distressing information, and Draco's aloof disposition. I hadn't even considered the likelihood of hate mail… and poor Draco, condemning himself for the petty-minded viciousness of a few witless bigots.

"Don't you dare blame yourself for this, Malfoy – this is not your fault. And while I appreciate you were trying to protect me, please believe me when I say that we're a team now… and that means sharing our troubles, as well as our triumphs. And I meant it when I said that I don't give a rat's arse what anyone else thinks of us – and that's much more powerful than 'not giving a fig'," Hermione alludes to her impassioned speech beside her desk at the Ministry on Monday morning.

Her feeble joke doesn't raise even the ghost of a smile on Draco's drawn features. "I'd best see if Macdolas needs some assistance; I'll send him in to start our luncheon. Excuse me," he utters in a bland monotone as he strides swiftly from the living room, spine stiff and movements jerky.

Luna lays a soft hand on her Hermione's arm as she begins to dash after her unhappy lover. "Let him be for a little while – he might need some space," she calmly advises, pity enlarging her baby blue eyes. "Has Draco shared everything with you yet, Hermione?".

"Everything?" Hermione repeats dumbly, apprehension thrumming through her veins. "What do you mean by that, Luna?"

"Draco needs to tell you that himself, when he's ready," Luna stipulates. "I'm sorry – I'm afraid I've already overstepped."

The petite Magizoologist links her slender arm with Hermione's as she urges, "Come along, Hermione. You can catch me up on what's really been happening, as opposed to the rank untruths The Daily Prophet is spreading. And try not to worry; Draco adores you. He'll speak his secrets when the time is right."

"I hope so, Luna... but what if the right time never comes?"

The dismal thought burrows deep, despite Luna's assertions to the contrary. Hermione smiles wanly as she trudges into the kitchen, her psyche occupied by a looping, silent plea.

Please, Draco… I'm here for you. Come hell, or high water. Please… let me in.

French translation:

ma pauvre petite lionne blessée – my poor little wounded lioness