42

Chapter 42

Saturday 15 March 2003: AM

"Good morning, Mother." Draco dutifully kisses Narcissa's proffered cheek before seating himself in the chair to her right. "Where's Lucius?".

Narcissa shrugs her elegant shoulders. "Your father skipped breakfast in favour of uselessly threatening that large peacock that continues to defy him by roosting on the roof of the conservatory; apparently it is 'taunting him from the window of his study with deliberate malice'. I assume he is still outside, waving his cane and yelling dire insults at the creature." She folds in her lips to hide her tolerant smile.

"At King Blizzard? He's wasting his breath; that arrogant bird has had Lucius's measure for years," Draco chuckles, filling his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, herbed mushrooms and hot buttered toast. Ruibby nods approvingly from her position beside the dining table.

"Well, every man needs a hobby, doesn't he?" Narcissa counters. "I've suggested he take up philately, but he claimed he'd rather shout at poultry."

The image of Lord Lucius Malfoy bent diligently over a stamp album makes Draco laugh unreservedly, which in turn brings an indulgent smile to Narcissa's lips. She ceases nibbling at her marmalade-spread piece of toast to enquire, "How are you feeling, mon fils? Were you able to attain some rest? It must be strange for you… sleeping back in your old room." Without Hermione.

"You know I heard your last thought, Mother – you may as well just speak it, next time." Draco resigns himself to a maternal sermon. He applies himself to his breakfast, surprised that his appetite has returned with vigour.

"You have not answered my questions, Draco," Narcissa prods. "Well?"

"I feel… I feel like a weight has been lifted," Draco slowly admits. "I've been dreading the world knowing of my struggles with addiction for so long… I built it up overmuch in my head, I suppose. It's a relief to let go of that fear."

"Mmm. I think that finally telling Hermione the truth has also freed you of a heavy burden, yes? You were petrified she would leave you… instead, she claimed you for her own and has vowed to cut a swathe through your enemies."

"Hermione is intensely loyal," Draco agrees.

Narcissa fixes him with a shrewd gaze. "Loyal, yes; but you do not credit how deeply she cares for you, my son. No, don't demur: Hermione Granger is passionately, fiercely in love with you, Draco. You would have to be blind to miss the devotion writ across her face whenever she so much as looks in your direction."

Hunching his shoulders in an ineffectual attempt to hide his crimsoned face, Draco pretends a great interest in his last rasher of bacon.

"Do not slouch, Draco. Ah, but you are blushing like a tiny schoolboy… has she not told you this herself? Surely, when you declared your own undying love and commitment, Hermione returned your sentiments with equal vehemence?" Narcissa is relentless.

"I–I– I haven't – y–yark…" Draco mumbles unintelligibly. He is surprised he does not receive a smart rap across the knuckles for his incoherence. Narcissa appears flabbergasted as she relaxes against the highbacked chair, the wind clearly taken from her sails.

Draco cogitates and rejects half a dozen explanations before he blurts, "I never thought it would last – I believed Hermione would come to her senses and reject me long before now… I could not – I could not endure that final level of vulnerability, Mother.'

"I understand, Draco," Narcissa sighs, gently tweaking at his ear lobe. "Love makes fools of us all."

Here is an opportunity for candid disclosure that Draco cannot resist. "Mother – why did you not leave Lucius? I know you did not agree with his inexorable pursuit of power and Pureblood supremacy. Was there never a moment when you considered simply… running away?". He holds his breath as Narcissa's sapphire eyes becloud.

"I wonder, Draco… do you think less of me for not taking flight? Or would your censure be greater for considering fleeing, yet failing to do so?". Her voice is tremulous and sorrowful. She waves away his attempt to apologize.

"No – I owe you the truth. You have borne the brunt of our terrible decisions, after all." Narcissa pushes her half-eaten plate of food to the side, steepling her long manicured fingernails in front of her pale face as she gathers her thoughts.

"By the time I realized that your father's enthusiasm for the Dark Arts had developed into a full-blown obsession, he was already deep in Voldemort's clutches. The Dark Lord was dangerously charismatic, Draco; you know him primarily as the grotesque incarnation he assumed in his second life, but when he more closely resembled a man… Voldemort possessed an irresistible magnetism. He had an uncanny knack of perceiving a wizard's deepest, darkest wish, and how best to exploit that yearning… to twist and corrupt it to suit his own agenda." Narcissa sips at her cooled tea, her hand trembling.

"Mother – this is upsetting you, we can leave it– "

"No, Draco. Listen, please. You need to understand. Your father was weak, he hungered for power… and he was bored, as mundane as that sounds. When Voldemort promised him infinite influence and security, Lucius acted rashly. Your grandfather Abraxas had raised Lucius to believe that he was born to rule the Wizarding world, and fostered his unwholesome interest in collecting Dark artefacts; Voldemort unrelentingly capitalized on this inherited vein of lordly entitlement.'

"The day you were born was the first time I considered running, Draco. I had deliberately insulated myself from the shocking reality of Voldemort's rise to power – I chose to ignore the signs that Lucius had aligned our family with an evil, genocidal devil. But then I held you in my arms, and I wept. I had birthed you into a world on fire… and many of the matches were lit by my own husband." Her bone china cup rattles discordantly on its saucer; Narcissa barely seems to notice when Ruibby steps forward to gently take it from her hands.

"Oh, yes – I wanted to run. I wanted to take my baby and bolt to the ends of the earth; but Voldemort had made it clear that insurgency was punishable by the cruellest of torturous deaths, of the entire extended family of the rebel. And where would we hide? Voldemort's reach was insidious, ubiquitous. All I could do was practise my Occlumency and pray that one day, we would be free of his hideous reign."

Taking a gulping breath, Narcissa concludes, "I never stopped loving Lucius – I couldn't. Even at his worst, I saw the potential for redemption. I never believed him to be a bad man, Draco… but a proud, foolish wizard who made bad choices and did not – could not! – recover from them. I'm sorry, son."

Lady Malfoy bows her head into her hands, her muffled sobs making Draco fervidly wish he'd kept his mouth shut. Throat tight, he silently places his spotless white handkerchief in Narcissa's hands.

"Here, please take it... I've started carrying a spare; Hermione's forever bursting into tears," he states. "Mother, I'm sorry for making you relive all that– that horror. But thank you, for sharing it with me."

"It's alright, Draco. It's cathartic, to be able to speak to you freely. Secrets fester." Narcissa regains her perfect posture and dabs genteelly at her moist eyes. "One last thing: strength isn't always a show of force… sometimes it's all you can do to survive, and hope for the chance to fight another day. I think you understand that, better than most."

Gently squeezing his mother's upper arm, Draco nods his accord.

"Well, I think that is more than enough angst for the morning, don't you?" Narcissa asks rhetorically. "What plans have you for the day, darling?".

"I've arranged to meet with my sponsor in a few hours," Draco informs his mother hesitantly. "I haven't spoken with Ewan for a while… well, since Hermione came into my life, I suppose. I have been lax."

"Good. And don't castigate yourself for the oversight, Draco; I well remember the headiness of fresh young love," Narcissa smiles. "Oh, I know you don't wish to hear it – but your father and I rivalled you and your bright brunette witch for passion, back in the day– "

"No need to elaborate, Mother!" Draco winces at the unwelcome images flitting through his mind. "I'll be in the library until I need to leave to see Ewan; I need to do some research into – into a side project." My and Hermione's magical bond, to be exact: but telling Mother about it would simply accelerate her not-so-light push to have us engaged, married, and pregnant before Christmas. Draco rises, kissing Narcissa's cheek once more before turning to the violet-eyed little housekeeper.

"Thank you for breakfast, Ruibby. It was delectable, as ever."

The petite house elf dips a quick curtsy. "Master Malfoy, Ruibby asks when Her Grace Lady Granger and the Mighty Macdolas return to the Manor? Ruibby wishes to plan a picnic for her… boyfriend." She bashfully lowers her eyes and modulates her high voice to a whisper on the last phrase.

Draco bites back his grin at her uncharacteristic nervousness. "I'm not entirely certain of their next visit here, Ruibby; but it is unlikely to be before Monday." The little sprite's crestfallen expression has him impulsively offering, "But when I do return to the townhouse, I shall advise Macdolas to take that entire evening off, Ruibby – is that an acceptable compromise?".

"Master Malfoy is too kind," Ruibby demurely replies, though Draco is a tad alarmed by the quick glimmer of… prurience? darting through her lilac eyes before she lowers them again. Let that be Mother's problem, he decides with no small relief.

An uncomfortable idea slithers through his brain as he departs the room.

Do I actually need to sit down with Macdolas and suffer through 'The Talk', before I abandon him to Ruibby's eager clutches?

Dragon's balls.

Immersed in a slim volume on soul-merged magic published in the early eighteenth century, Draco narrowly avoids screaming like an immature Mandrake as the library door bangs open without any warning.

His unease switches to irritation when he glimpses the cause of the surprise interruption.

Blaise Zabini strolls through the still-swinging door with a huge smile stretched across his handsome face. "Hallo, buddy!" he drawls, plopping into the brown armchair opposite Draco without so much as a by-your-leave. Theo Nott shrugs resignedly as he follows his partner in crime into the bi-level bibliotheca. The real surprise is Harry Potter bringing up the rear; he nods cautiously at Draco before stopping next to Nott.

"Sorry, Draco – you know what he's like. Blaise dared himself to open the door wandlessly, and he has less fine spell control than the shakiest of First Years," Theo explains.

"To what do I owe this dubious pleasure, gentlemen?" Draco closes his book with a sigh, cricking his neck in a side-to-side stretch before waving for Theo and Harry to be seated in the other two matching easy chairs.

"Malfoy, I have some news– " Potter's opening statement is interrupted as Zabini bellows,

"Thought we should introduce ourselves to 'Mr Jake Malloy', the Celebrated Muggle Wizard of St John's Wood!" Blaise can barely finish the sentence, as his rollicking laughter reverberates around the (previously) tranquil chamber.

Oh, marvellous. Trust Zabini to milk this 'grand joke' like a Jersey cow. Draco seriously contemplates Transfiguring his ex-classmate into a baboon. His wand hand twitches as he runs over the spell in his mind, eyes narrowed in displeasure as the tips of his ears pinken.

"He's not worth it, Malfoy," Potter quietly warns. "Besides, he'd probably just get some sick thrill out of experiencing life as whichever creature you're planning on changing him into for a few hours."

Theo clips Blaise across the back of his head, causing the tall Slytherin to slide forward in his seat.

"Shut up, dickhead." Nott is unusually stern with his old friend. "You've had your fun – now stow it. We've more important things to do here than listen to you braying like a demented donkey."

"Has something happened to Hermione?" Draco barks, rising to his feet in an alarmed flash. Harry shakes his head in negation immediately.

"She and Macdolas are fine; I've come to tell you about the connection between the Evening Prophet's smear campaign and Marcus Flint." Draco's eyes darken to the hue of thunderstorm clouds as Harry swiftly summarizes the corrupt link.

At the conclusion of Potter's spiel, Draco growls, "Do you have this slimy prick in custody yet?".

"He's rabbited – left the country using an illegal Portkey a few hours before the story broke," Harry reluctantly imparts. "But we're confident we'll pick him up by the end of the weekend; he bragged to the barflies at his local pub about his 'huge windfall' and where he was planning to hole up to spend it. We'll get him, Malfoy – and then we'll be one step closer to finding Flint's cohort."

"You know I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt Hermione again, don't you?" Draco's low, clipped tones are imbued with mercilessly savage promise. "She's lived with this insidious evil hanging over her head for far too long. When I think on what could have happened to her at the Ministry– "

"I know how you feel, Malfoy – no, listen to me! Hermione has been my best friend for over a decade – these bastards will have to get through both of us, OK?" Harry looks as viciously protective as Draco feels.

"And me," Theo vows.

"And me – three!" Blaise sticks up his big paw without a moment's vacillation.

Draco is mollified by their solidarity, though his rage and anxiety continue to flame at a high simmer. He rubs the angry fist of his right hand along his inner left forearm, unaware of the compulsive action until Theo lightly tugs at the sleeve of his off-white lawn cotton button-down shirt.

"It will be alright, Draco. We'll keep her safe. She's our friend, too." Theo's moss-green eyes are grave as he quietly conveys, "We're here for you, mate… I'm proud of you, Draco. Seeing that atrocious photograph in the paper… I wish I'd known how hard things were for you. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you then – but I'm here for you now. Whatever you need."

Standing stock-still, Draco blinks rapidly as Blaise unfolds his length from the leather armchair to stand beside Theo. "I feel the same way, amico. And we want you to understand that none of this discreditable bullshit holds any sway with us."

Zabini gingerly pats Draco's rigid back, like an ostler gentling a skittish horse. "You're like – my hero. I'm not joking. Well, not much," he amends with an irrepressible laugh. "No, truly – I'm humbled by your courage and fortitude. Ignore anyone who thinks any differently. We all dropped into the townhouse last night to tell you that – plus Pansy and Luna. And Luna asked us to tell you that Hagrid reckons 'yer heart's stronger than a Ukrainian Ironbelly's, an' he's righ' proud o' yeh fer bein' man enough ter get the help yeh needed'." Hagrid's distinctive accent rolling off Blaise's tongue is both impressive and disconcerting.

Bloody hell – I might need that second handkerchief back from Mother, after all. Draco tries to discreetly sniff back his inchoate tears of gratefulness and humility.

He is floored when Potter stands and shuffles nearer. "Malfoy – to be honest, I was initially shocked, and apprehensive about your involvement with Hermione. But within ten minutes of seeing you with her – seeing you being so caring and thoughtful, and how attentive you were to her every need – I realized I had nothing to worry about." Harry pauses, scoring his dextrous fingers through his rumpled black mane.

"Ron's my best mate, but he… he didn't really get Hermione. He didn't put her first, in anything. But you do. I believe you always will. I'm sorry you suffered, and that you had to cope with the consequences of addiction while you were just a teenager – but your struggles eventually resulted in you becoming a better human being, and a man deserving of Hermione Granger."

Harry awkwardly thrusts out his hand; Draco stares down at it as though he's being offered a still-beating human heart in an Aztec sacrifice. Blaise grins approvingly as Theo tilts his chin in minute encouragement.

Silently, Draco exchanges a short, gruff handshake with Harry. He cannot help but think back to the first day they met, when Potter essentially gave him 'the cut direct' when he very publicly refused to shake Draco's hand. Will wonders never cease…

"You're alright, Malfoy."

"As are you, Potter."

Hermione is rambling about upstairs (rather aimlessly, unless one considers protractedly sniffing Draco's pillow and spritzing a tiny puff of his expensive spicy cologne on her wrist to be important activities) when she hears Macdolas's animated high-pitched voice squeaking her name.

Buttoning up Draco's shawl-collared sapphire blue cardigan over her lighter blue sleeved maxi-dress, Hermione hastens to the landing, finding Macdolas standing at the foot of the stairs. He is clutching a sealed letter in one hand, and a single flower in the other.

"Her Grace Lady Granger has a delivery from Master Malfoy – may Macdolas please be bringing it upstairs?" he trills happily.

"Of course, Mac." Lips already curving, Hermione doesn't have long to wait: Macdolas flies up the stairs as though he's trying to set a new world record for staircase ascents. He presents her gifts with a sweeping bow and plenty of pomp.

The blossom is a delicate cream 'sweetheart' rose; its long stem has been carefully stripped of all thorny projections, and its exquisite dense petals are perfectly unblemished. Hermione touches the opened bud with her fingertip, marvelling at its smooth, silky texture. Mac slips the envelope into her other hand with a gentle nudge.

"Macdolas feeds Manu an owl treat and bids him please stay; Macdolas takes the liberty of assuming Her Grace Lady Granger has a response to Master Malfoy's billet doux?" Macdolas prompts, as Hermione remains engrossed in sniffing the gorgeous bloom now held in her hand.

"Oh, yes – I'll just read this, and reply… but I'm unsure how long that will take, Mac," Hermione frowns.

Shrugging, he advises, "Manu rests in the kitchen – he is a seasoned delivery owl of the Manor, Your Grace. Please call Macdolas whenever you are ready to send your epistle," Macdolas bows, before turning to descend the staircase with the same helter-skelter speed with which he climbed it.

Walking back to their bedroom, Hermione clambers onto the bed and settles against the padded fabric headboard, carefully setting her pretty rose on her pillow before slipping her finger beneath the heavy vellum and breaking the instantly recognizable red wax seal imprinted with the Malfoy insignia.

You know you've got it bad when your heart leaps at seeing a stylized 'M' on a small scarlet disk, she mocks her giddy self.

Unfolding the parchment, she greedily runs her eyes over the elegant script.

'Ma petite Hermione,

How are you, my brave, beautiful lioness? Is Macdolas behaving himself? Ruibby has already begun pestering me as to the timing of his next visit. I sincerely hope the little ruffian has the elfish version of a male chastity belt tucked away in his costume wardrobe, for I did not care for the downright salacious look in Ruibby's eye when I informed her Macdolas would be gifted an evening's furlough upon my return to our home. This is not 'cute', Granger. It is unequivocally terrifying.

Enough of that. I shall leave it to you to explain the 'Hoo-hoos and the Hippogriffs' to our wee scallywag. You've always been the far superior student, and teacher. (Yes, I am hoping that flattery gets me everywhere and you will take pity on a poor, beleaguered wizard).

Last night I dreamed a recurring vision I've had for years… sitting with you between my legs, beneath a shady tree in a secluded spot on the Hogwarts grounds. The sunlight is dappling your beautiful face, your glorious eyes are relaxed and shuttered as you enthusiastically tell me all about whichever books you're currently devouring. I'm propped against the trunk of the tree, alternating between kissing the crown of your head and running my fingers through your splendid hair. It may be considered merely a little moment, but it is one that I have long yearned for, and never thought I could experience.

Thank you for accepting me, Granger; warts and all. I have made a right hash of things – desperately pretending our liaison was merely sexual, not divulging the truth of my past, trying to push you away when the wolves began baying at our door – but I am committed to believing I am worthy of you. Worthy of our future.

Zabini, Nott, and Potter turned up at the Manor earlier. Their steady, non-judgemental support was freely offered, and for that, I forgive you for wasting no time in disclosing my 'Muggle' moniker to the group. Potter even voluntarily shook my hand, if you can believe it. He's not the smug git I thought him to be – though I'd rather you didn't tell him that. I must remember to thank Pansy for putting 'Lightning Bolt' in his place last night. Potter was a chump to mix it up with her – we all know better.

Please keep up your defensive training, Granger. Macdolas is a keen duellist; beneath all his fripperies and foppery, he has the heart of a Highland warrior and revels in a bout of good-natured, bloodless warfare. He's likely to try to take it easy on you, though. Perhaps tease him a little about his outlandish apparel, that never fails to get his dander up. Be safe, and vigilant.

Today I am visiting my AA sponsor, Ewan Humphries. He reminds me a little of your father, though he is not as prone to telling highly embarrassing personal anecdotes. Ewan has been my lifeline during my recovery. I'd like you to meet him one day, if you're amenable. He knows just about everything there is to know about you already (please don't ask me to explain that, just yet. I've no doubt you can figure out why, ma petite).

I miss you, Hermione.

I ache for you.

I am, and always shall be,

Your Draco.

PS It may amuse you to learn that Lucius spent the better part of the morning hollering vitriolic abuse at the alpha white peacock who enjoys perching on the conservatory roof, with predictably fruitless results. I hope you are here to witness the next instalment of Lord Lucius Malfoy VS King Blizzard. It never fails to entertain.

D.L.M.'

Sponging a few joyful tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her borrowed cardigan, Hermione smiles at the image of Lucius Malfoy raging impotently at one of the indifferent famous white peacocks she is yet to catch a glimpse of on the Malfoy estate. It is almost a relief to know that 'Lucy' has not undergone a totally implausible character evolution; he remains a natural-born arsehole at heart, albeit a less treacherous one. One hopes.

Rummaging through her bedside drawer, Hermione finds blank parchment, ink, and a sharpened quill. She taps the plume against her pursed lips a few times in reflective rumination before setting the nib to the paper and letting her heartfelt thoughts flow…

Saturday 15 March 2003: PM

"Demonic buzzing beastie! Macdolas will not suffer its presence in the Townhouse of Malfoy another second!". Hermione quickens her steps from the lounge room to the kitchen to investigate Mac's maddened outburst.

The large-eared manikin's right hand is rattling the third drawer down with enough vigour to rip the polished handle off its frontispiece. "Devil begone!" he screeches.

"Mac – what's going on? Is there a big spider in there?" Hermione has trouble peering inside the half-opened drawer, given Macdolas's jigging footwork obstructing her view.

"Her Grace Lady Granger must stand back! We know not the evil powers of the fiendish entity!". Macdolas's telekinesis comes into play as he lets go of the drawer while it jerkily shuttles forth on its runners. "It screams again – Macdolas kills it stone dead!" he agitatedly testifies.

The classic ringtone of 'Grande Valse' burbles, as Hermione finally makes sense of the source of the commotion. She presses a hand to her stomach in an attempt to stave off her relieved laughter. "Mac – please, stop! I promise, it won't hurt you. Look, I'm going to pull it out – slowly – and turn off the ringer, OK?".

Appearing unconvinced, a scowling Macdolas bobs a wary nod, his unblinking buggy eyes watching intently as Hermione reaches in and extracts her silver Nokia 3310. It stops trilling its merry tone before she can fumble at the reject key. A quick look at the small display screen shows six missed calls.

Oops. No wonder Macdolas was annoyed by the incessant electronic susurrations. Hermione sighs as she recognizes the number that has repeatedly tried and failed to contact her: 'Dad & Mum'. Before she checks her voicemail, she holds up the cellular device for her steward's inspection.

"It's called a mobile phone, Mac. Have you ever seen a regular telephone? No? Well, this is a way for Muggles to communicate across long distances – like a Floo call, but instead of being able to see the other person's head in the green flames, we can hear each other's voices. And this type of phone is portable, so it's handy to take with you when you're travelling from place to place. It's harmless – see?" Hermione placates.

Deigning to experimentally poke a long gnarly finger at the metallic face, Mac asks in puzzlement, "It is a 'telly-foam'? But it is hard to the touch?".

"A 'telephone'," Hermione corrects. She has a burst of inspiration at how best to explain the device. "It is made of metal, and works using radio waves to transmit sound back and forth between cell towers… you trust my little radio in the flat, don't you? This is a version of that technology, see? No need to be afraid, Mac." Hermione is pleased when Mac's expression clears of trepidation and suspicion.

"But why does it squeal at Macdolas so insistently?" he enquires.

"Oh, that's the alert that tells you when someone wishes to speak with you, Mac. All those calls – that was probably my Dad trying to reach me. He's not the most patient of men… and he reads the Daily Prophet; he's likely seen the follow-up article about Draco, and wants to ensure we're alright," she replies.

Mac nods sagely. "Her Grace Lady Granger should contact the Father Dentist Granger as soon as possible – he does not like the Floo."

"I'm on it, Mac." Hermione slides onto one of the tall kitchen stools before she fiddles with the Nokia and punches the 'call' button. It is answered within two rings; her father must have been practically sitting on it.

"At last! Where have you been, Little Wendy? Do you enjoy making your poor old dad fret over whether he should file a missing person's report?" Bernard Granger wastes no time in selling the drama, his indignant deep voice thrumming through the earpiece.

"Has your community theatre group shut down early this year, Dad? Because if you're trying out for the role of 'Stereotypical Stern Father' – your acting skills need a few more workshops," Hermione ripostes. "I'm fine, thanks for asking," she sarcastically adds.

There is a moment's pause. "Is Draco alright?" Her father's query startles Hermione into silence. "Little Wendy? You still there?".

"Um – Draco was shocked and upset last night, but he's dealing with it, Dad. I'm… I'm surprised you're not being more critical about his problem, actually," Hermione slowly responds.

"Makes sense now, the way the boy turned his life around. Can't have been easy for him. He's got grit – I admire that. Keep that to yourself though, Little Wendy. Don't want Draco thinking I'm going to go easy on him, not this early in the piece, anyway," Bernard counsels. "Besides, I wasn't born yesterday – I know a media beat-up when I read it. Thought you'd curtailed that Skeeter bitch years ago, eh?".

Hermione is surprised she hasn't slid off her stool, so amazed is she by her father's unexpected pragmatic, sympathetic reaction to the news article. "It wasn't really Rita Skeeter who wrote that piece, Dad – but Narcissa and I are handling it, never fear."

"That's my clever, ruthless daughter," Bernard hums approvingly. "Give no quarter – I've taught you well."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione simply says, "Thanks, Dad. I'd better go – we've got a busy afternoon planned. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner, I didn't have my phone nearby."

"Well, what's the point of having one of those dratted mobiles if you don't carry it with you? You know how I feel about them – bloody nuisances, always shrieking out in public and wrecking the peace – oh hang on, your mother's asking me to invite you and Draco for dinner this week, I'll cook my famous Portuguese peri-peri butterflied chicken on the barbecue, some fresh corn on the cob – Jane, Draco's bound to like a bit of spice – he's dating our girl, isn't he? No, she reckons she's got to go, don't worry, I promise not to poison the boy with chilli– "

"Hello, sweetie – are you alright? I'm sorry for Draco, it must have been a dreadful shock for you both," Hermione puts back the mobile flush to her ear as he mother's soothing voice comes from the secondary extension in her parent's home.

"Hi, Mum. We're OK. Draco's spending a few days at the Manor, but he'll be back soon. And Macdolas isn't leaving my side."

"You can always stay here with us, Little Wendy – and Macdolas is welcome too, of course. Do you reckon he'd let me have a look at his teeth?" Bernard booms down the line.

"No, Dad! Leave Mac's teeth alone – and Draco's, for that matter. I'll get back to you about a weeknight dinner once I've spoken with Draco. I'll talk to you soon," Hermione rubs at her forehead as she ponders her overly-curious, lacking-in-boundaries father prising open poor Macdolas's wide mouth to have a gander at his choppers.

"That's fine. Please be careful, Hermione. Love you, sweetie," her Mum farewells.

"Ask Draco if he draws caricatures, Little Wendy – my mate Richard had one done at a street fair the other week – drew him in his waders with a ridiculously large fish hanging off the line, talk about wishful thinking – and I reckon mine would come out much better, you know, a 'Little Shop of Horrors' type of scene– "

"Bye, Dad! Love you," Hermione cuts off Bernard before he can follow that tangent down another convoluted rabbit hole.

"Love you, Little Wendy; tell the boy to bring his own pen and ink, I've got a sketchbook already– "

Pressing 'end', Hermione sets the phone on the countertop and briefly contemplates letting Mac blast the innocuous-looking silver handset into smithereens. Pfft – as if that would shut down Dad's quirky gregariousness. He's a nut… but a lovable nut. And his unsolicited support of Draco is top-notch.

Turning her head, she notes Macdolas covering his mouth with one hand, muffling his words as he worriedly asks, "The Father Dentist wants Macdolas's teeth?".

Hermione shakes her head firmly. "Absolutely not happening, Mac. Ignore Dad, he's a bit of a goose most of the time. Come on – you and I have many errands to run, my friend." She holds out her hand; they walk out of the kitchen and toward the Floo fireplace at a brisk pace.

"We'll start with The Daily Prophet offices; I reckon your British Bobby outfit is going to come in very handy today, Mac."

Tugging fastidiously at the black belt nipping in the waist of his replica traditional dark blue policeman's tunic, Macdolas levitates the black custodian helmet from atop the hallway rack and adjusts the strap beneath his chin with pride.

"Best to leave the truncheon at home, though – remember what Draco said, about weaponry?" Hermione gently reminds him.

Huffing once, Mac dutifully lays the rubber baton on the coffee table.

"Let's go, Killer."