39

Chapter 39

Friday 14 March 2003: AM

Hermione waves a perfectly prepared square of French toast (topped with crisp bacon and honey) beneath her frowning blond boyfriend's aristocratic nose. "Malfoy – it's unlike you to not try to filch my breakfast… what's up? What are you reading?" she points the loaded fork at the letter in his hand, before popping the tasty morsel into her own mouth and chewing it with undisguised relish.

"Too late – and that was the last bite," she smirks. Draco's countenance clears, leaning across to breach the short distance between their chairs, to better enable him to lick a droplet of honey from the corner of her mouth. His tongue darts out again to trace her full bottom lip, before he straightens in his chair and hands over the parchment he's been brooding over for the last few minutes.

"Mother sent us an invitation to dinner at the Manor tonight… but she begs your permission to include Lucius in the party." Draco's mouth curls sardonically as he adds, "I was contemplating the most polite manner in which to reply, 'No fucking way'. Any ideas?". He drums the fingers of his left hand against the tabletop as he awaits her response.

"Yes – I propose we agree. Let Lucius attend; I'd like to judge for myself as to whether he's ever going to accept you and I as a couple." Hermione almost laughs at the gobsmacked expression on Draco's face as he processes her suggestion. That stumped you, big boy.

Before he can rally his wits to roundly protest, she elucidates, "Remember when you told me yesterday that you were going to dial down your overprotectiveness? Well, you can start by not challenging me on this issue, please. I know that your current relationship with Lucius is tenuous and uneasy, but this is important to Narcissa."

Hermione aligns her cutlery flat in the middle of her empty plate before she strokes a soft finger down his right cheek. "Besides, if it all goes pear-shaped, we'll simply leave. OK?".

Draco grumbles, "I said I recognized my overprotectiveness, not that I would necessarily agree to reduce it… Granger, are you absolutely sure you're up for this? There is no pressure coming from Mother – please don't accede to this for her sake." He curls his left hand around the nape of her neck as his troubled anthracite eyes search her own.

"I'm positive. And I promise, if I feel uncomfortable or triggered in the slightest degree, I'll make my excuses and we shall leave," Hermione nods reassuringly.

"I don't like it – Lucius is an unknown quantity much of the time – "

"He deserves one chance. If he botches this dinner, I'm done." Hermione unequivocally states. "Now, weren't you going to run me through some defensive spellwork, and close-combat physical techniques?" she prompts, rising from the table to carry her and Draco's plates to the sink. "Thank you for breakfast, Mac – that was utterly delicious," she pops the dirty dishes into the frothy hot water. The sponge and scourer that the industrious little house elf has already enspelled begin their efficient scrubbing at once.

"Her Grace Lady Granger is too kind; Macdolas cooks Her Grace any meal of her choosing, she needs only speak her preference!" the miniature major-domo gladly announces, from his perch on the stool nearest the humming little Muggle radio. "Macdolas respectfully petitions Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger that he may be allowed to also attend the Malfoy family Friday dinner and assist his beloved girlfriend Ruibby in its preparation and presentation, if it so pleases?". The proud grin that wreathes his face as he mentions his elven sweetheart is impossibly broad.

"'Grandmother, what big teeth you have got!'" Draco facetiously quotes beneath his breath; Hermione casts a reproachful look in his direction. Fortunately, Mac hasn't heard Malfoy's impertinent quip.

"Of course you're coming with us, Mac – and Ruibby's officially your girlfriend now, hmmm?" Hermione gently teases. Macdolas nods slightly before he bashfully drops his head onto his chest… or tries to, as the ridiculously high shirt points of his insanely over-starched white Regency collar impede the movement.

"You'll slice your own throat, or choke yourself if you're not careful, Macdolas – assuming your elaborate silk cravat doesn't finish you off first. What the deuce possessed you to order your shirt points to extend up to your ears like the dandiest of dandies?" Draco reproves, though his indulgent smile softens the scolding.

"Macdolas models his style on Master Charles Bingley and defends the veracity of such attire! Look, Master Malfoy – Macdolas sports the gold tasselled Hessians, the beribboned quizzing glass, and the fob watch at his waist– "

"What, no Sèvres snuffbox? Tsk, tsk," Malfoy shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"Macdolas has the box of snuff, he fills it with Jelly Slugs, they be Ruibby's favourite," the excitable elf produces a small ornate porcelain antique receptacle from the pocket of his dark gold brocade waistcoat and rattles the gummy lollies inside it as proof, while Draco chuckles.

"Oh, how thoughtful – Ruibby is a very lucky little lady, Mac," Hermione steps in before Malfoy's shameless raillery worsens. "And you look terribly smart and authentic. Don't listen to Draco, he wishes he could dress as sharply as you."

"Indeed. Before you flounce off in a huff, Macdolas, a word – you'd best keep the fall front of your buff breeches buttoned with regards to little Ruibby, comprenez-vous? Mother will have my hide if her housekeeper's virtue were to be jeopardized by my butler." Draco ignores Hermione's groan and Macdolas's outraged squeaky yowl as he carries on, "All handsies stay above waisties, please. Now, do I need to have 'The Talk' with you, as well?".

"I think I need to have 'The Talk' with you, Malfoy! 'Jeopardize her virtue' – truly? Drag yourself out of the chauvinistic nineteenth century, you presumptuous hypocrite." Hermione focuses on the irate steward currently glaring daggers at her wizard beau. "Calm down, Mac – as long as you and Ruibby treat each other respectfully, and always ensure enthusiastic consent, you'll be right as rain."

"Macdolas never dreams of – of – of jeopardizing his darlingest Ruibby! Master Malfoy oversteps his authority… Macdolas keeps a tight rein on his – his libido," he whispers the last word on a scandalized note.

"I beg to differ – I saw you two in the hallway, remember? Going at it hammer and tongs, out in the open for anyone to witness," Draco rebuts, crossing his arms sternly.

"Ruibby encourages Macdolas! He temporarily loses his head as the sweet vixen Ruibby bids Macdolas to– "

"OK, OK, let's leave it at that," Hermione hastily interrupts as the dialogue rapidly devolves into something she'd much rather not consider (not now, not ever). "Malfoy, quit passing judgement on Mac's love life; and Mac, please be sure you're both ready for – whatever," she lamely concludes.

Laying a final consoling pat on Macdolas's skinny shoulder, Hermione crosses over to Draco to grab his hand and lead him from the room. "We're going to practise our defensive skills in the lounge room now. Mac, would you please inform Lady Malfoy of our R.S.V.P for tonight's dinner? Thank you."

Glower easing a few shades, Macdolas nods before he Disapparates.

Hermione rounds on Draco before the minor reverberations of the elf's teleportation have wittered away. "Harry told me of your effusive thanks to Macdolas for saving me from Marcus Flint – is this how you repay him, by needling him about his sweetheart? Have you forgotten your gratitude towards him already, Malfoy?" she chastises.

"Hey, that little rascal has played the 'protective papa' role with you long enough – and Ruibby is under my aegis, too," Draco argues, sliding his hawthorn wand from his trouser pocket and employing it to wordlessly shift the sofa, armchairs and coffee table to the far corner of the spacious living room. "And you didn't have to experience the elvish 'libido' up close and personal, Granger. They were really getting down and dirty, Macdolas had his– "

"Stop! I overheard enough of your conversation with Harry – I beg you to desist, or I'll never be able to look Mac in the eye again," Hermione winces as Draco laughs. "Just cut him some slack – please?".

Having rearranged the furniture to his liking, Draco stows his wand back in his pocket, turning to wrap his strong arms around her and hug her tightly. Hermione pretends to resist his advances for form's sake, giggling as he growls and rubs his nose along the side of her neck.

"You've a hopelessly huge heart, Granger… has there ever been a waif and stray, or a beleaguered creature you haven't rushed to shelter beneath your wide wings?" Draco asks rhetorically, pulling away slightly to look down at her. The slow, open smile that always makes her heart pang is stretched across his handsome face, chasing away his habitual aspect of aloof gravity. "Rest easy, ma petite. I'll apologize to Macdolas for my saltiness when he returns from the Manor." His mouth alights on hers in a butterfly-light brief kiss.

"Now – let us begin…"

"Show me again. Talk through each action, Granger," Draco instructs for the hundredth or so time.

Cripes – talk about a harsh taskmaster. Draco had shifted from tender boyfriend to merciless DADA professor before Hermione had had the chance to draw breath; he'd thrown jinxes and hexes at her relentlessly, until she'd literally scrambled behind the couch for some breathing space.

She'd been ashamed of her rustiness, and equal parts awed and perturbed by Draco's thorough knowledge of the wide array of wicked offensive spells favoured by Dark Wizards. Most troubling, though, had been the blank, lost look on his face whilst he'd been slinging spells left, right, and centre. Her disgruntled muttered complaint about the fierce onslaught of his casting had evoked a grim reply.

"Granger, this isn't some civilized Duelling Club at Hogwarts – the filth that have been hunting you like a tasty rabbit won't gift you a two minute recess at the end of the round! Nor will they hesitate in fighting dirty. There's only one rule when you're fighting for your life: win the bloody fight. Raise your wand."

And off they went again. Gritting her teeth, she'd drawn on long unused skill sets and shadowy magical knowledge that she'd hoped never to have to use again. I've been naïve to think that nothing could endanger me again, once we won the War. Evil will never be wholly vanquished, and I was a chump to believe otherwise, Hermione had dolefully admitted to herself during a brief break when Draco fetched some cool water for her parched throat.

If anyone comes for me or mine again – I'll be ready. And so she'd stiffened her spine and shored up her flagging spirits as she'd hurled and deflected another vicious round of hexes.

After a full hour of duelling, Draco had called a halt; but the lesson had not ended there.

"Put down your wand and have a drink of water while I Transfigure the couch cushions into some gymnastic mats to break our falls," Draco had decreed, as a sweaty and drained Hermione had trudged out of the way. Her loose navy cotton drawstring pants and azure cotton tee had been splotched with sweaty patches and soot from the residual sparks of their aggressive magic.

"Are you ready? Lesson one: RUN. You did that at The Wonky Donkey, and it's always the best response. Lesson two: if you can't run, don't let them take you anywhere. Which leads into lesson three: fight. Scream. Growl, bite, scratch, punch, gouge. Use your elbows, feet, knees, teeth and claws. Headbutt them into next week if they get close enough. Go for their eyes, groin, temples, nose, fingers, toes, kneecaps. Rip out their hair. Stick your fingers up their nostrils and shove them up as hard as you can, yank their ears."

Draco had paused his descriptive training as he'd noted her shocked expression. "What? You don't think that's 'fighting fair'? Is it fair that girls are socialized from the cradle to be submissive and 'weak', to submerge their anger and physical strength? To ignore their gut instincts and tolerate the unacceptable behaviour of predatory males?" he'd snapped.

He'd softened as she'd bitten her lip and shaken her head. "I apologize – I came on too strong. I understand it's not easy to change the learned behaviours of a lifetime… I'm sorry. We can address this tomorrow, if you'd prefer."

Pfft. As if a Griff is going to walk away now.

"No – we're doing this today. Show me exactly what you're talking about, please. And don't hold back, Malfoy. I need to know this." What did Pansy say, yesterday? 'I won't be anyone's victim… not again'? Setting aside the disturbing implications of Pansy's appended phrase (for now), Hermione had stepped confidently onto the mat. "Don't pull any punches – I'm ready."

The next sixty minutes had been eye-opening. Draco had come at her from behind, front, sideways, and shown her a variety of ways to escape the holds, from the oddly simple dropping-down, to more aggressive methods ("if he puts a hand over your mouth, bite it,"). Perhaps the most disturbing technique was what Draco referred to as 'going for the throat'.

"If you're flat on your back and he's pinned down your legs and arms with sheer superior strength, and he's too close for you to effectively deliver the Liverpool kiss, what do you do?" Draco had quizzed, not awaiting her response as he'd explained, "As soon as he gets close enough, you clamp down your teeth on the carotid artery in his neck and you tear out his throat. It's gruesome and it's bloody, but it's effective."

"I doubtless don't have to tell you this, but the strongest muscle in the human body is the masseter in the jaw. Combined with our thick enamel and large tooth roots, our bite force is efficient and powerful." Draco had traced the outline of Hermione's jawline with a gentle finger as he'd sombrely observed, "Obviously, neither of us want you to have to test that method – but if it comes down to it, do not hesitate. Promise me, Granger… please."

His eyes had been wracked with disquiet; probably from the memory of her recent assault, she had inferred.

"Yes – I promise." Hermione had cautiously ventured, "Malfoy… how is it that you are so well-versed in these matters? Was it part of your private education? Are all boys taught these things? Or was it – was it something you learned, from… "

"From being a Death Eater?" Draco had correctly guessed the words she'd been hesitant to speak. "None of the above: it was actually Theo who taught me how to fight."

"Theo Nott? But – but he seems so gentle… and he never involved himself in the bitter House rivalries…" Hermione had mused.

Smoothing a wayward flaxen strand back into place, Draco had divulged, "We used to 'fight' each other when we were kids – Theo was forever hunting out new books on brawling techniques and battle strategies. I went along with it as a lark… in hindsight, I realize it was a far more serious occupation on his part. He was trying to find ways to defend himself against his father's abuse– ".

Clearing his throat, Draco reluctantly continues. "When Theo was three years old, Nott Senior murdered his mother, right in front of him. And he systematically abused Theo… physically and emotionally, up until the wretched fiend's death."

Oh! Oh, no. Poor, tormented Theo. Hermione had knuckled at her eyes as they'd welled with sympathetic tears. Draco had gathered her close and whispered the rest after kissing the top of her damp head.

"I didn't know of Theo's suffering until recently, ma petite. He told us the night that we three were grilling my father about the Death Eater's wicked proclivities; Theo related the whole sorry tale as though he were reading out Quidditch scores. It was… harrowing."

Hermione had gulped back her sobs and stepped back, determined to finish the session. "Thank you for trusting me with Theo's history – I shan't mention it, unless he does." Rolling out the soreness in her shoulders, she'd loftily waved her hand in the classic bent-palm 'bring it on' beckoning gesture. "Come at me, big boy," she'd taunted.

Draco had exhaled a rusty laugh at her antics as he'd circled her weaving form on the mat. "What's that little affectation mean, Granger? Inviting me round for high tea? You're too kind."

"It's from a cyberpunk science fiction action movie called 'The Matrix' that borrows heavily from cult martial arts films – and it's awesome. Harry made me watch it with him, he loves it," Hermione reveals with a pert grin. "What are you waiting for?".

And so they'd grappled and scrapped again, up until Hermione had managed to accidentally bloody Draco's nose with the heel of her palm; instead of being cross, he'd robustly applauded before he'd wiped away most of the scarlet drops. After chanting a quick "Episkey", she'd apologized repeatedly.

"Enough – I am delighted with your progress, and my nose is just as perfectly shaped as it ever was. I'll keep an extra apology for the last time you whacked me in the schnoz, though," Draco now teases with a quirked eyebrow.

"But I'm not sorry about that slap," Hermione states. "Ha! What's next?". She jiggles on the spot, flushed with satisfaction at the productivity of their tutorial.

"A shower, then lunch," Draco cricks his neck from side-to-side as he replies. "I'll even carry you upstairs, as a reward for being my star pupil… and because we both enjoy it so much," Draco grins, pocketing his wand and nodding at Hermione to do the same.

"Fine, although I know you get more out of it than I– hey! Cut it out, Malfoy!" Hermione finds herself flipped over Draco's shoulder and staring at his tight buns before she has a chance to realize his naughty intent.

He smacks her lightly on her bum as she squeals.

"Settle, petal… and enjoy the ride."

The deliciously warm water streaming down her head and back would be quite enough to send Hermione into her current hazy state of sensual euphoria… but the addition of a certain blond mage busily applying his skilful tongue and agile fingers to her 'honeypot' (as her jelly-like legs struggle to keep her upright in the shower) tips her into utter bliss.

She'd had little indication of Draco's prurient intentions until she'd felt his warm body abutting her own as he'd pressed his chest to her back and purred in her startled ear, "Feel like sharing? Do you enjoy frolicking in water, Granger?". His already erect rod had notched against the top curve of her rump as Draco had reached around to transfer the fancy, sweet-smelling soap bar from her hand to his.

"I – I don't know," Hermione had shyly admitted. "You mean sex in the shower, right?" she'd felt compelled to confirm.

"And thence died Innuendo, killed instantly by Bald Candour," Draco had chuckled. "Yes, ma tourterelle émoussée. Watching you wield that wand and connect with the more physical aspect of your being was an incredible turn-on; but of course, the choice is yours."

Hermione had nearly brained herself on the gleaming tapware in her eagerness to nod and proclaim her accord. Smiling, Draco had carefully pressed her back to the cool indigo tiles and re-angled the showerheads to avoid her eyes yet keep her body warm during his erotic ministrations.

After kissing her breathless, Draco had explored every dip and convexity of her wet skin with the ardent attention of a professional cartographer, the fragrant soap quickly lathering to a thick foam as he'd paid especial regard to her out-thrust breasts.

"Malfoy, I think they're clean," Hermione had gasped, as he'd rubbed winding concentric circles around each protuberant pink nipple in turn, juggling the soap from one hand to the other with the expertise of a man born to the circus.

"Mmmm – best to be sure," and Draco had given each nub a last tweak before sliding down and kneeling before her, nudging open her quavering thighs before ruffling his lean digits through her drenched rosewood-brown curls, the soap tossed recklessly to the far corner of the large shower cubicle. "I'll address the maintenance of your glorious mop-top after I've seen to your other needs, Granger."

"Lean back, and don't think of England," Draco had quipped; Hermione's snicker had shifted to a gasped moan as he'd parted her nether lips and gazed hungrily at the rosy flesh he'd exposed. His touch to her aching clitoris had not been as gentle as she'd been expecting; the slightly rough stroke of Draco's thumbs had made her arch her back and push closer toward his soaked blond head.

"Don't – don't drown down there," Hermione had warned, only half-jokingly. The luxurious showerheads' powerful sprays were thrumming just as strongly as they had when she'd first stepped in. Draco hadn't deigned to reply, preferring to place his hot mouth on her sex and suckle hard.

Now Hermione is mewling, alternately gripping his silken straight locks and bracing herself on the tempered glass and tiles as Draco pumps three fingers inside her molten core while ravaging her pink pearl. His right hand is gripping her thigh, holding her steady as he licks and bites and sucks. She is aware she is raving somewhat incoherently, telling Draco how wonderful he feels in a variety of sobbed, broken phrases.

Disentangling a hand from his abused hair, Hermione squeezes her right nipple as she feels her orgasm screaming toward her, a mighty, turbulent wave of sensation that aptly floods her system as Draco reacts to her convulsions and thrusts his fingers deep inside, curling against her inner clitoral wall and pushing her peak higher and longer. He only gentles his movements when her head lolls onto her chest, and her hands fall limply by her sides.

"Ma petite? Do you wish for me to be inside you?" Draco whispers his query into the shell of her ear after he stands up, finally sliding his fingers from her damp crease and moving them to slowly pump his thick hard cock with brutal, choking strokes. "Or may I come on your belly… I'm so close…"

The thought of having Draco's swollen girth inside her spasming crevice is irresistible. Hermione manages to rasp, "Inside me… please, Malfoy – " as her hands wrap around his neck.

"Yes – hold on, ma magnifique sorcière sexy – that's it, I have you," Draco settles his hands around her hips, hoisting her securely against the tiled wall and pushing betwixt her thighs as her languid legs dangle. "Can you hook your ankles to the small of my back, and lock them? That's it… give me your beautiful eyes, Hermione. Please," Draco entreats, shuffling closer as his distended staff presses inside her in one vigorous push. Hermione groans at the rapturous feeling of fullness.

'Am I too rough? Tell me, coeur chéri," he stills, his dark granite eyes lasering into her blinking mocha orbs.

"Never too rough – more, Draco… please," Hermione urges huskily.

Cupping her bottom, Draco growls with each dynamic thrust, expressing his pleasure hoarsely as he enunciates, "Hermione – Je te veux tellement, je ne cesserai jamais de te vouloir - d'avoir besoin de toi! Look at what you do to me – look at me, Hermione." He crashes down his lips upon hers as she feels him coming hard, his cock spurting hotly into her womb, triggering a small aftershock climax of her own. He ruts against her as she ruffles her hands through his water-slick coiffure, swapping tender kisses as the carnal forcefulness of their joining eases.

Draco closes his eyes and rests his forehead on hers for a few affectionate moments, before he finally slips from her thoroughly satiated body and guides her feet back to the floor. His warm smile matches her own as the twin showerheads continue to rain refreshing water onto their skin.

Hermione blurts the first random thought that pops into her head.

"You must have a really good hot water system, Malfoy."

Friday 14 March 2003: PM

"Look at this crazy little Casanova – he's practically skipping," Draco mutters into Hermione's ear as they negotiate the gravelled driveway of Malfoy Manor. "Are we certain he hasn't slipped Ruibby a love potion of some description?".

"Shush – Mac's only just forgiven you your earlier mockery. Don't go baiting him anew, please. Look at how cute he is!" Hermione chastens, as Macdolas gambols ahead of them like a spring lamb.

Draco wrinkles his nose in disagreement. "There's a fine line between 'cute' and 'twee' – and that goose jumped over it ages ago." He splices his fingers between hers as he abruptly changes the subject. "Granger – are you positive you're ready for this dinner? We can turn around at any time."

"Yes, I know; and I am prepared. You needn't worry about me, Malfoy. I'm curious to gauge for myself whether Lucius has managed to effect a true personality shift," Hermione assures her uneasy swain.

Shrugging, Draco sardonically returns, "It will come as no great shock to you to discern that my father is still an arsehole; though mayhap a more repentant one, these days." He sighs as Macdolas impatiently gestures for them to proceed through the heavy wooden door that the sassy seneschal is holding open for them. "Do you share my sense that the servant has become the master? Cheeky monkey."

"I have little sympathy – it serves you right for being a big old softie. That's OK, I happen to greatly enjoy your squishy marshmallow centre," Hermione lightly pinches Draco's indignant cheek.

His grumblings are curtailed as Narcissa glides toward them as they cross the foyer. Her long, pomegranate red gown is styled to perfectly showcase her trim figure, her billowing sleeves showing glimpses of her ivory arms and dainty wrists. Hermione feels a tad scruffy by comparison, dressed as she is in her basic black cocktail dress. I suspect any woman would though, standing beside Narcissa's expensive elegance.

"Hello, Hermione," the high-born witch's hug is firm but brief. "I'm relieved to note you are hale and hearty once again, dear." Lady Malfoy turns to her son, holding her hands to her hips as she absorbs his apprehensive expression. "Draco, your father has vowed to be on his best behaviour. I shall Stupefy him myself, should he even think of stepping out of line."

"Thank you, Mother." Draco drops a kiss to her proffered cheek before he twines his hand with Hermione's once again. "Shall we go in? Our incurably enamoured butler is near climbing the walls to see Ruibby again," he nods at the fidgeting house elf.

"Ruibby's been heard singing whilst going about her duties, so the feeling must be mutual," Narcissa imparts in a stage whisper as she leads the way to the dining room. "Thank you, Macdolas," she says in a louder voice, as he opens the door.

Hermione follows her first, almost bumping into Narcissa's slender back as the other woman suddenly halts. "That's odd; Lucius isn't here yet… well, he should be along directly. I've put you on either side of me, and Lucius at the head of the table. Does that suit you, Draco?" she checks, a little anxiously.

"Of course." Draco holds out Hermione's chair while Macdolas does the same for Narcissa.

Once seated, Hermione enquires, "How are you, Narcissa? Draco has mentioned that you are quietly involved in a number of charities: may I ask what that entails?".

"Oh, of course! Miss Parkinson helped to steer me in the correct direction, actually. She's a fierce supporter of our feminist rights, and– "

Whatever Narcissa meant to say next is lost as the dining room door bangs open, admitting a wild-eyed Lucius. He is holding onto a folded newspaper for dear life, and hastens to tuck it inside the open jacket of his black silk suit.

These Malfoys and their Goth propensities, Hermione muses. Perhaps it's hardwired into their DNA…

Narcissa's stifled shriek of dismay directs her attention back to the little drama being played out.

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, what has happened? Did you forget that our guests were due for dinner?" she sharply challenges.

The rail-thin wizard in question seems to be having trouble looking at anyone directly. The grey eyes so similar to Draco's slide over Hermione as Lucius stiffly answers, "I'm afraid I was unavoidably delayed, Narcissa dearest. Ms Granger, thank you for your attendance. I am very sorry for all the wrongs I have done you in the past, and I appreciate your willingness to… to move forward. Here. Tonight, I mean. Dinner – and forgiving Draco; it was my fault he was cruel to you, I apologize…" he falters.

Something is terribly wrong. Hermione is surprised to find her silly heart has the capacity to feel the tiniest blip of concern for the man. His fluster is verging on panic – is he usually this jumpy and disconcerted?

Draco must share her opinion; he rises to his feet as Lucius attempts to walk past him to gain his seat. "Father – what is it? What's going on?" he urgently demands, his left hand reaching to hold Lucius's scrawny shoulder.

The newspaper falls to the floor with an over-loud rustle. Lucius swiftly stoops to pick it up, nearly losing his balance in the process. "No, Draco – leave it!" he cries, as his son gathers the Evening Prophet beneath his own arm before steadying his father.

"Sit down, Lucius." Draco steers him into the high-backed baroque chair before he steps back and flips open the newspaper. He goes completely rigid within a second of glimpsing the headline, only his leaden eyes moving as he rapidly scans the news item.

"I told you to leave it, son," Lucius whispers dully, cradling his head in his bony hands.

"Malfoy? Tell me what's happening – please?". Sick dread coils in Hermione's belly as Draco's hands begin to shake. He folds and refolds the thick broadsheets, trying to reduce it to an impossibly small size. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused, and his alabaster skin has bleached to an alarmingly sallow hue. Hermione stands at the same time that Narcissa shoots to her feet.

"Draco! Snap out of this, mon fils!" Lady Malfoy exclaims, her high voice displaying her incipient alarm. "We will deal with whatever is happening, darling."

Both women flinch as Draco tosses down the newsprint onto the table. It lands face-up with a soft thud.

"See for yourselves." His voice is as numb as his expression as he turns his haunted eyes to Hermione. "I'm sorry, Granger. I never meant for you to find out this way… I was going to tell you all, tonight…" he gulps. "This is punishment for my hubris."

Before she glances at the paper, Hermione implores, "Draco – whatever this is, I'm here for you. Just let me process this, OK?". She may as well be speaking to a stone; Draco has reverted to his impersonation of a marble statue.

She reefs the paper closer with a shaking forefinger.

'DARK DEATH EATER DRACO IS A DIABOLICAL DRUNK!

SEE BELOW FOR PICTURES OF HIS DEGENERATE DEBAUCHERY!'

"The Evening Prophet has uncovered the truth behind disgraced Death Eater Draco Malfoy's mysterious disappearance from the Wizardly World over three years ago – his attempts to drink himself to death ended with his forced treatment in a Muggle rehabilitation unit for alcoholics and drug addicts! The Prophet has the exclusive details of how the so-called 'Slytherin Prince' fell from grace and landed at the bottom of a Firewhiskey bottle. Read our two-page special edition inside for the full scoop.'

The worst thing about the 'moving' magical photograph of Draco that fills the entirety of the rest of the front page is that it isn't moving; Hermione's heart aches at the terrible, confronting sight of an unconscious, semi-nude Draco, curled in a foetal ball on the filthy carpet of a squalid little room. A stream of mud-coloured vomit trails from his parted lips to the rug beneath his head; his distinctive blond hair is lying in the regurgitated puddle. The snapshot shows the end of a rumpled, sagging bed behind him, and two empty bottles of alcohol are toppled onto their sides beside his inert form. He appears lifeless, and frighteningly gaunt.

Oh, Draco… my poor, sad, tormented sweetheart. Hermione staves off her tears as she angrily demands, "Who took this fucking travesty of a photograph?"

"The witch I was with, that night. I couldn't tell you her name – I don't believe I bothered to learn it at the time," Draco informs her in a dreary monotone.

"Her name is Actrise Jessup – and she is a foul, evil, conniving little bitch," Narcissa venomously avers. "She was a plant, a – what do you call it? A honeytrap! Working for the Daily Prophet in a sting to expose Draco at his most vulnerable. And he almost died that night – he would have, if not for Rita Skeeter getting word to me about where he was and what was happening."

Hermione's incredulous look spurs Narcissa to explicate, "Rita didn't act out of the goodness of her scheming heart – I paid her a small fortune in Galleons to make this photograph and the exposé disappear. Forever – or so I was assured, at the time."

Draco cuts in. "It doesn't matter. They're not saying anything that isn't true." He looks directly at Hermione for the first time since the loathsome paper's introduction. She is terrified by the resigned hopelessness trapped in his dry, anguished eyes.

"My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am an alcoholic."

French translations:

ma tourterelle émoussée – my blunt turtledove.

ma magnifique sorcière sexy – my gorgeous sexy witch.

coeur chéri – darling heart.

Je te veux tellement, je ne cesserai jamais de te vouloir - d'avoir besoin de toi! – I want you so badly, I'll never stop wanting you - needing you!