43

Chapter 43

Saturday 15 March 2003: PM

"Hermione, darling – over here," Narcissa Malfoy waves imperiously from the least busiest corner of the Daily Prophet's foyer. Ruibby is positioned beside her, dressed for once in something other than her very proper and traditional 'Mrs Danvers' black housekeeper's uniform; she is instead clothed in a pretty red and white boho 'milkmaid' style dress, although the puffed sleeves look ridiculously large on Ruibby's spindly little arms.

I feel like Marilla Cuthbert acerbically judging Anne Shirley's long-desired new brown snuff dress, Hermione smiles to herself. Macdolas has spotted his blonde paramour and is towing Hermione across the parquet floor like a leashed, overeager puppy at a dog park.

"Slow down, Mac – Ruibby isn't going anywhere," her admonition falls on deaf flittermouse ears as Macdolas skids to a stop directly in front of his lady love.

"Macdolas bids the Utterly Prepossessing and Polished Ruibby bonne après-midi; Ruibby est une vision de la beauté et du glamour." Hermione silently applauds Mac's slick transfer of Ruibby's small hand to his lips, bestowing a lingering kiss as the head maid giggles kittenishly.

"I wasn't aware Macdolas was fluent in French," Narcissa drolly observes. "How are you, dear?" She lightly squeezes Hermione's arm and smiles.

"Oh, I'm well, thank you. We're learning French together; Draco likes to speak– he likes to speak French sometimes," Hermione lamely finishes, hoping the older witch doesn't question her too closely. I really need to work on curtailing my fixation to immediately answer every question asked of me… no one's keeping a points tally anymore, you idiot.

"Ah." But the twinkle in Lady Malfoy's eye speaks volumes; Hermione tries not to cringe beneath her amused gaze.

"Did Draco tell you that Rita was hacked? Harry is still hunting the actual scandalmonger, but he's confident they'll soon have the fool in custody," Hermione quickly switches the subject. "I don't think it will affect our original plan overmuch, but it's rather disappointing that Rita's not the true culprit – I was looking forward to scaring her silly," she sighs.

Shrugging, Narcissa steps forward to weave her arm through Hermione's and leads her in the direction of the elevator. "Oh, never fear, Hermione, we'll still have plenty of punitive fun with the deplorable Miss Skeeter today. Ruibby, Macdolas – do save your amorous shenanigans for your downtime; there will be plenty of future opportunities for you to dote on one another. Exercise a modicum of decorum in public, please."

The elfish lovers dutifully increase the distance between their little bodies a few more inches, though their handhold stays firm as they trot behind the two witches.

"Narcissa – how's Draco?" Hermione lowers her voice as they near the half-full elevator. "Is he coping, do you think? Has he been eating properly? Is he getting enough sleep? What about– "

"Don't fret, dear; my son is hale, and mostly hearty. The shadows that have dwelt in the back of his eyes for too long are finally brightening." Narcissa pats Hermione's hand affectionately. "Thank you for your generous heart, Hermione; your love has given Draco the strength to believe in himself once more.'

"Ah – your blush mirrors Draco's this morning, when he confessed you have not yet exchanged those three special words," she smiles, clucking her tongue with indulgent exasperation. "Never mind, my dear. You'll get there, when you're ready – mind you don't take too long about it, though. I'd hate to have to literally knock your stubborn heads together."

"It's only – it's only been a month," Hermione feels compelled to defend. She stops her nails seeking out her scar as she quietly shares, "I know I come across as quite… confident – well, some might say overbearingly so – anyway, I'm not as self-assured in every aspect of my life, or my personality. I don't – that is, I feel– " she flails, miserably wondering where her articulateness has fled.

"Hermione. Look at me, please." Ignoring the curious gazes of the elevator's three other occupants, Narcissa waits to speak again until Hermione lifts her head to meet the matriarch's clear cerulean regard.

"You don't need to say it, to feel it; and it's perfectly understandable to shy from that final, vulnerable declaration. And when you consider how long my son has pined for you from afar… it's only fair that he should profess his feelings first. Perhaps it's just as well you're learning French, hmmm?"

Her throat too tight to reply, Hermione nods bashfully. Narcissa's mien morphs from benevolent to businesslike as the elevator doors open. "This is our floor: time to put a wicked witch back in her box. After you."

Back in her jar. Hermione stifles her chuckle as the words pop unbidden into her head. She follows Narcissa as the aristocratic sorceress thrusts open the door emblazoned 'Skeeter' without bothering to knock. A shrill scream emanates from the room's occupant.

"Narcissa! What are you– what an unexpected surprise!" Rita obsequiously declares, a pained rictus of a smile stretched across her heavily glamoured face as she scrambles around the heavy maple wood desk currently covered in parchment and files.

"That's 'Lady Malfoy' to you, Rita," Narcissa glacially informs, flicking her wrist to wandlessly clear the two visitors' chairs of similar stacks of accrued documents. They fall to the floor with a heavy flump as Narcissa beckons Hermione to sit beside her. "I take you have met Ms Granger before?".

"Yes, yes – Hermione and I are old friends, Lady Malfoy," Rita cringes as Hermione glares at her with one eyebrow raised. "I mean… Ms Granger has… erm… helped to guide my work, in the past." The mid-green eyes behind Rita's bejewelled spectacles appear frankly panicked as she skitters back behind her desk.

"May I offer you some refreshments? Tea, coffee, perhaps something a little stronger? Oh – well, perhaps not – I momentarily forgot your familial… ahem, troubles in that area," Rita digs her grave a little deeper with every flustered word.

"With the exception of the non-negotiable instructions you are about to receive from us: you will not discuss my son's brave struggle with addiction EVER again, Rita. Or you will suffer the full force of my wrath. Do I make myself clear?" Narcissa's chilled tones send a shiver up Hermione's spine, such is the unmistakable scorn and unwavering determination imbued in the directive.

Had Narcissa ever truly committed to Voldemort's cause… we may well have been annihilated, Hermione decides, watching in awe as Rita cowers under Narcissa's laser-like regard.

"Crystal clear!" Rita squeaks. "May I take this opportunity to apologize for this dreadful turn of events – I had no idea my files were hacked, no idea at all, I assure you! Imagine my shock and horror when I learned of the foul treachery, and from a man I trusted implicitly! That bloody no-good double-dealing lying cheating sticky-fingered filthy charlatan of a wizard! Wait until I get my hands on him– " she growls, in a hoarse tone markedly different to her usual pretentiously artificial speaking voice.

Blinking, Rita smooths down her garish green robes with trembling, burgundy-tipped talons. "I was deceived," she mumbles quietly, head down cast. Her elaborately-styled ringlets shiver as she clenches her jaw.

"You were sleeping with him." Narcissa tut-tuts as Rita's eyes fly up in unpractised shock. "Dear me, Rita: I would have thought that by now you were well versed in the old adage, 'Never dip your pen in the company's ink'? I'd almost feel sympathetic to your naïve idiocy, were I not disgusted in your laxity – and the breaking of our contract."

Narcissa pays no heed to the unscrupulous journalist's moist eyes and blenching countenance. "Enough of your mewling excuses – close your deceitful mouth and listen intently to what we are about to tell you. Hermione?" she prompts, settling back slightly into her chair as she indicates for the brunette witch to continue.

Damn – I want to be just like you when I grow up, Hermione admiringly decides. Talk about a bad-arsed boss.

She gives herself a little shake and opens the enchanted beaded bag resting on her lap, before she begins.

"We're not interested in your prevarications, Rita. You had a deal with Lady Malfoy, and you broke the terms of that arrangement when you failed to destroy the last photographic negative and the file notes in your possession. Here's what you're going to do about it.'

"Step One: you will immediately print this retraction," she hands Skeeter a single sheet of parchment. "It states that the Daily Prophet apologizes unreservedly for its slanderous account of Draco Malfoy's battles with addiction, and that the employee responsible for writing the insidious article is now wanted on charges of accepting bribes and colluding with a criminal organization. I have generously included the simple statement that you were not personally involved in this ignominy, Rita. Don't make me regret my charity.'

Rita appears as though she's about to launch into another babbling, self-pitying rant; Hermione forestalls this with a raised hand.

"Step Two: you will write a series of meticulously researched articles exploring the sensitive topics of post-War psychological disorders, including but not limited to: PTSD; addiction (in all its forms); eating disorders; obsessions and compulsions; self-harming behaviours; depression; anxiety; suicidal ideation, communication, behaviours, and intent; and rehabilitation and recovery, to name but a few. The Wizarding world needs to understand and accept that mental health is just as important as physical wellness, and seeking help to address your psychological issues is encouraged and supported.'

"And when I say 'you' will write it, I mean you will build on my notes and rough draft and submit your articles for my final approval before you print a single word.'

"Step Three: you will vigorously and widely promote the newly-formed not-for-profit counselling foundation 'Help Will Always Be Given', both in your series of articles, and in your generous donation (of seventy percent of your payment for said series) to the foundation – but of course, you will keep your donations strictly anonymous. No basking in your non-existent altruism, Rita," Hermione grins as the scheming witch's face droops like a dying flower.

"Now – before you mope and moan and claim it's all terribly unfair, I will remind you that failure to conform with any of our demands will result in some very unpleasant consequences, and your career will take a fatal swan dive into first the murky depths of infamy, then unloved obscurity. You're a malignant egotist, Rita: sure, the money is a plus, but you're really in the business of media because it perfectly serves your insatiable hunger for fame, power, and constant attention. Do you really wish to risk that? Again? And then, of course… there's this."

Reaching into the enspelled little bag that has served her well over the years, Hermione pulls out a single object, watching gleefully as Rita's eyes swell from 'alarmed' to 'terrified'. The small rocks, moss, and twigs she'd earlier asked Mac to source from Draco's back garden rattle faintly as Hermione places the aerated jam jar atop Skeeter's cluttered desk.

"It's quite a pretty terrarium, wouldn't you say?" Hermione muses, turning the jar in a complete circle as Rita's hairline dampens with flop sweat. "Just the right size for a… beetle?"

"I'll do it!" Rita shrieks. "All of it – I swear!". Her sausage curls are unravelling as quickly as her composure. "Just put – put that wretched jar back in your purse!" she begs.

I suppose I should feel some remorse for tormenting Rita in this fashion – but I don't. Her poisoned pen has harmed far too many good witches and wizards over the years… and her greediness and stupidity hurt my darling Draco. Bitch had better believe I'll trap her beneath glass if she doesn't comply. Hermione stows the jam jar back into her bag, not bothering to mask her triumphant grin. She retrieves her notes and research, which Rita snatches without a word, her hands still quavering.

"Rita – against my better judgment, I'm going to gift you a boon," Hermione sighs as her silly conscience does kick in a little. "Get out your quill and parchment – and definitely NOT the Quick-Quotes Quill, or I'll set your office afire – because once we're done ensuring your complete compliance and capitulation, I'm going to let you interview me about my personal experience of PTSD, obsessive compulsive behaviours, and effective therapy methods that helped me to cope with my issues. I'll stick around until I'm satisfied with the final draft. And no questions about my relationship with Draco, beyond what I explicitly give you permission to print, do you understand?".

Licking her fuchsia-coated lips in an unconscious show of avarice, Rita fervently nods. "Of course, Ms Granger. I wouldn't dream of crossing you." Her beady eyes alight on Macdolas and Ruibby as they stand silently beside Hermione and Narcissa. "Ooh – how remiss of me, not to greet you two little lovelies before. Tell me, are you MacDonald? The famous hero house elf who saved poor Hermione from fates unknown? How do you feel about telling the Prophet your side of the story, you dear little puck?" she coos in a sickeningly coy tone; clearly her rampant egoism and greed for the next big chronicle has won out over her craven fear and frayed nerves.

Before Hermione or Narcissa can rush to Mac's defence, he puts Skeeter solidly in her place.

"Macdolas is not a MacDonald; Macdolas reads the Prophet for himself – he knows that Rita the Sly Skeeter prints lies and is no friend of Her Grace Lady Granger, Lady Malfoy, Master Malfoy, nor the House Elves of Granger-Malfoy. Macdolas's mother tells him true that not all snakes have scales," he sneers. Ruibby audibly hisses at the shady reporter.

Rita sputters in outrage at the stony-faced sprite's emphatic dressing-down. "Why, you shrimpy little bast– "

"Do not speak another word, Rita," Narcissa's voice is soft and deadly. "If Hermione's regulations still leave you with a sense of wounded rebellion, consider this: I have all the negatives of your own 'special' snapshots, an impregnable security system, and no compunction whatsoever to spare you the karmic justice you so richly deserve. You are merely a tool to me; and what use is a dull knife? Do as you are bid, close your Venus flytrap mouth, and consider yourself extremely lucky to have escaped with your job and your sorry hide intact."

Hermione cannot stop her mirth escaping as Rita's last vestiges of resentful rancour are destroyed when Narcissa's razor-sharp words have the desired effect.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy. Permission to take this retraction to my editor, please? It won't make the Evening Prophet in time, otherwise," Skeeter mumbles, as she sidles toward the door.

"Go." Narcissa flicks an impatient finger in the way of someone snapping an insect off a plate and Rita flees immediately.

Hermione's curiosity must be sated. "Excuse me, Narcissa? What are these 'special snapshots' that Rita is petrified you'll leak?".

Narcissa laughs blithely as she replies, "I'm not one to kink-shame, Hermione – 'to each her own', after all – but Rita's youthful personal sexual proclivities were… quite particular, shall we say? I have no intention of ever releasing those salacious photographs, but Rita doesn't know that. Best she believe me capable of cruel exposure, though I would not lower myself against the sisterhood in such a demeaning fashion… for all Rita's duplicitousness and sharp practice, she is a fellow witch."

Wow. Just… wow. "I think you're my Yoda," Hermione gushes before she can censor herself.

"What's that, dear? A branch of Eastern Muggle philosophy?" Narcissa asks curiously.

"Something like that," Hermione smiles in reply.

Wait until I tell Draco about all of this – he is going to love it.

Manu pecks Draco's head none-too-gently as the young wizard begins to slip his forefinger beneath the sealed flap of Hermione's letter.

"Ouch! Alright, alright, I'll get you a treat before I open this," Draco concedes. Another peck. "Fine – two, no, three treats… Greedy bird," he darts out of pecking range and hurries to the urn beside the open window in Lucius's study. He tosses the mice-shaped treats into the air one-by-one; Manu catches them effortlessly, gulping them down with relish.

"It's a singular feeling, being bullied by avian terrorists," Lucius Malfoy dryly observes, from his blood-red Westbury leather armchair. "I've half a mind to procure a Muggle shotgun and blast that fiendish peacock off the conservatory roof for once and for all."

"Lucius – you wouldn't!" Draco is aghast at the idea of his father harbouring a yen for heavy artillery.

"I was joking, Draco," his sire pouts, as Manu eerily rotates his feathered head almost one hundred and eighty degrees to disdainfully stare at both men. "I'd likely shoot off my own foot, in any case… weak as a fucking kitten, these days," he mutters in a bitter undertone.

"Lucius– Father, are you ill? You don't look… like yourself." Draco is hesitant to elaborate on his comment: the current truce with his parent is uneasy, at best. He carefully stows Hermione's precious letter in his trouser pocket before he turns to give Lucius his full attention.

There is a fraught pause as Lucius slowly strokes the head of his snake cane. "Your mother believes I'm 'clinically depressed'," he finally speaks. "Wants to bring in a ruddy Healer, to poke and prod and push dubious potions upon me until I turn purple. Much good it would do."

"What do you want to do, Father? You're clearly unhappy. If you wish to talk about it – I won't judge you." Draco makes the quiet offer before involuntarily holding his breath. Lucius is notoriously difficult to read when he's as rigidly shuttered as he is at present.

"I don't know, Draco. I am not deliberately starving myself – I have little appetite. Life in general doesn't seem to hold much flavour… I feel as though I have been living the same perpetually tedious day over and over, ever since my sentence was decreed." Lucius fixes his gaze upon the speckled owl, who supersedes him for haughtiness.

"Every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded of my failures. My limitations. My sins," he whispers. "Being stripped of my wand – living in comparative exile – some days I think I would rather have received the Kiss and been done with it all." He ignores Draco's dismayed gasp. "Oh, none would mourn me, save Narcissa. I'm sure you've wished me dead on numerous occasions," Lucius emits a brittle replica of a laugh.

"That is untrue, Lucius; I have never wanted you to die," Draco replies, striving to keep his voice steady, despite his shock. "You are my father, and… and I am beginning to understand why you choose to do some of the terrible things you did. Mother talked to me about it this morning, actually."

"Did she, indeed? Perhaps she believes you finally ready to handle the dispiriting truth, that your father was a pompous fool who needlessly endangered his family and was unmasked as a weak, pathetic milquetoast. Narcissa should have left me decades ago," Lucius maunders.

"She didn't – because she loves you, and she believes in you. Even seeing you at your worst, she had hope that you would redeem yourself. Surely her fierce love and commitment is something worth living for?" Draco quietly petitions. He inhales and exhales a couple of deep breaths before he resumes.

"Father – your house arrest is nearly over. In a few more months, you'll be able to leave the Manor… try to gain some perspective on the world, and your place in it. It's easy to forget how joyous the universe can be, when you're confined to a tiny part of it. Give yourself some time to readjust… and don't keep beating yourself up. You have to learn to live with your mistakes if you are ever to stop repeating them."

The elder wizard opens and closes his mouth a few times, before he manages to enunciate, "I'm afraid, Draco. Afraid of the world beyond those gates… ever the coward, you see." He shrivels back into his chair, dry eyes burning.

Maybe I need to get Blaise over to instigate another male-bonding 'group hug'. Draco shakes off the humorous image of his father squashed into the middle of a Great Zabini multi-cuddle.

"I'm scared every day, Father. Frightened I'll lose my inspiration to paint, terrified I'll start drinking again and not be able to stop… petrified I'll do or say something moronic and– and Hermione will leave me." Draco swallows hard, willing his nerve to hold. "I try to focus on one day at a time – as trite as that sounds – and one choice at a time. I'm not suggesting you partake in anything you're deeply uncomfortable with, but if you love Mother so much, could you not at least consider her ideas? She's far smarter and wiser than you and I combined, as I'm certain you're aware."

Shrugging melancholically, Lucius loosens his grip on the black-lacquered staff. "Of course I know how intelligent and shrewd Narcissa is; fortunately for me, I seem to be her one blind spot. I'll… I'll consider it, Draco." His pallid brows knit as he queries, "Ms Granger – she means that much to you? I confess I thought she may be a passing fad that you needed to… work out of your system, as it were."

Count to ten. Backwards. In French. Remember he is… still an arsehole, at times. "Hermione is my world. I'll thank you to speak of her with the utmost deference and consideration, or our nascent reconnection ends here." Draco's nostrils flare as he bites out the warning as calmly as he is able.

"My apologies," Lucius stiffly appeases. "I will be respectful to– Hermione. Though I am displeased with that terrible appellation she has dreamed up."

"What – 'Lucy'?" Draco smirks as Lucius winces. "Apparently it's a Muggle thing. She likes to shorten names as a sign of affection: Macdolas is now Mac, for example. You should be glad Hermione didn't choose to call you 'Luzza' or 'Lucky'."

The taunt brings Lucius to his feet. "Draco! I must insist– "

"Chill out, Lucy – I was teasing. Save your peeved sputterings for King Blizzard," Draco snickers. "You'd best let Hermione call you whatever she wishes; it's the least penance you can pay, considering what a shit you've been to her in the past."

Grousing beneath his breath, Lucius resettles in his chair, making a production of fussing at the drape of his long black jacket. "I'll hold my tongue. Well, off you go, son – there's a valentine burning a hole in your pocket, if I'm not mistaken. Go read it in private, and leave me to my brooding." The slight smile around the corners of Lucius's proud mouth give Draco hope that his father may yet find a way past his despair.

Nodding, Draco makes a spontaneous suggestion before he departs the study for the sanctuary of his childhood bedroom.

"Father – perhaps you'd like to join me for a late afternoon tea in the library, in an hour? Ruibby baked a fresh batch of raspberry and white chocolate scones before she left to accompany Mother on their mysterious errand, and they smelled divine. Also, I'd like to ask you a few questions, about magical bonds." He doesn't realize he is holding his breath until Lucius waves a lackadaisical hand in acceptance of the offer.

"Delightful. I'll be there. Enjoy your letter, son."

'Mon chéri Draco,

Thank you for your sublime letter, and my stunning cream rose. You spoil me rotten, and I never wish you to stop! I found a text on floriography in your bookshelves (sly fox) and you should know that I am 'thinking of you', too. Always.

How are you? Are you getting enough sleep? Are you eating nutritious meals? Is Lucy still subdued?

I am well: but your absence has me moping about the townhouse like a stereotypical Gothic heroine, (impatiently) waiting for her rescuer to appear (pfft, what bollocks – though I am eager to engage him in another swordfight, if you catch my drift…).

But I digress. All sexual innuendo aside, I miss you. I did not believe I could feel this deeply (do you realize it's not even been a month, since I crawled onto your front stoop?!), but the truth is – I am counting the minutes until you come back home. You are my home, and I hope you are beginning to understand that immutable verity.

Mac is a doll, and his antics never fail to delight and amuse me. His outfit today is that of a British Bobby; I overheard him admiring his reflection in the hallway mirror as he told himself, "Ruibby does like an elf in uniform!". With regard to your optimistic (read foolish) attempts to pass the burden of elven sex education to me – not a chance, buster. The explanation of the Hoo-hoos and the Hippogriffs is all yours, and you'd best move on it, Master Malfoy. You are the head of the Manor and I know you shall shoulder this responsibility with aplomb.

Your dream of us snuggling beneath a Hogwarts tree made me cry and smile simultaneously – you impossibly, gloriously romantic darling! I cannot wait until we can make your vision a reality. I never really allowed myself the luxury of imagining us together (all those years ago), but I will confess to enjoying some very… interesting, very explicit dreams about you once puberty struck. That is all I will say on the topic, though I might be persuaded to illuminate on those dreams once I finally don my old Gryffindor uniform? My cooperation in this matter is dependent on a certain sexy blond wizard digging out his old Slytherin Seeker's kit, though. I have faith in your understanding and compliance, Malfoy.

You thanked me for accepting you – Draco, I thank you for taking me just as I am. And what's more astonishing, and humbling, and simply wondrous is that you seem to like the qualities in me that others regularly find fault with. You support my bookishness, my obsessive curiosity, and my defiant obstinacy (yes, the last has caused us to disagree – but I know you are coming from a place of needing me to be safe. And you were right about that, but let's not dwell overmuch on it). Not only are you worthy of me… you make me feel worthy of YOU. And yes, worthy of our future.

At the risk of sounding smug – ha, you know I am as smug as a bug in a rug right now! – I am thrilled that you and Harry have matured enough to put aside your old enmity and be civil and (dare I say it) supportive. Harry gently called me out when we were still pretending that we weren't dating, and gave us his blessing. He's a truly good person, and I think he might empathize more about living with others' expectations and societal pressure than you realize. He never wanted to be 'The Boy Who Lived', you know. Thank you for giving him a chance.

Pansy didn't just knock down Harry a peg or two, she snapped his mast and blew holes in his ship's hull with her verbal cannons. It's a shame I didn't take a picture of Harry's dumbstruck face, I know you would have enjoyed it.

Speaking of which, I must buy a camera (Wizardly or Muggle) and take as many snapshots of us as possible. I don't even have a picture of you to moon over, do you know that? I have been reduced to smuggling the framed photograph of little Draco up to our bedroom, but I'd love a proper photo of you for my own.

Did the boys tell you how kind everyone was, vis-à-vis their impromptu support party last night? I had been dreading returning to an empty house without you; finding them all making themselves perfectly at home in your lounge room (Blaise having already raided the pantry and fridge) was a welcome surprise. Mac scolded him for his rank impertinence, and for using improper bowls and serving utensils – I think the latter may have been the greater infraction, in Mac's view. We have fantastic friends, Draco. They love you very much – because you are lovable. Let their strength bolster your own, mon coeur.

I am still practising my defensive training, don't worry. I won't be caught off-guard again. And do ease off on the gibes about Macdolas's costumes, please… although I suspect he is upping the ante every time you snipe about it.

Draco, I would be honoured to meet Ewan, whenever you're ready. I wouldn't mind in the least about hearing of any highly embarrassing personal anecdotes about you – I feel that I am owed some reciprocity here, as Dad constantly waxes lyrical about my conception in the back seat of a Ford Cortina, for Godric's sake. And you may dissent all you like, but I will be asking Ewan all about your 'Hermione-based' confessions. I look forward to it.

I'd best curtail my ramblings, as I am soon due to meet your mother on a certain important mission. I am hopeful you will appreciate the results of our mutual plotting. Mac and I will be busy with a few tasks this afternoon, and I am excited to tell you about our plans for tomorrow (but I will wait to explain until I see you again). Rest assured, I'm not going anywhere without my elfish bodyguard – not until my gorgeous boyfriend comes home to me.

This time apart leaves me aching for you, too; but I believe we will both be better for enduring it.

Please be safe, my darling, and remember that I am, and always will be,

Your Hermione.

PS if you did already have a camera, you could have immortalized Lucy's virulent rant at King Blizzard for me! Do please invite me to the Manor for the next farcical episode. My money's on the peacock.

H.J.G.'

Flopping back onto his ornate four-poster bed, Draco rests Hermione's epistle against his hammering heart. The silly, joyous grin stretched across his face is in danger of making his jaw ache, but he has no desire to dial it down.

She misses me… she believes in me… she wants me. Hermione said I am lovable… LOVABLE. Euphoria flows through his psyche like a burbling brook, washing away his long-embedded pains like tumbling pebbles. The impulse to Apparate back home immediately is nearly overpowering; Draco forces himself to settle.

I've promised to take afternoon tea with Lucius, if only so I can quietly urge him to eat and drink something more substantial than half an orange and black coffee. And I do need to process the turmoil of the past few days on my own; much as I am willing to accept the assistance of my friends and family, I must approach my recovery as an individual, first and foremost. Or I'll keep dragging my insecurities behind me like a broken carriage.

Gazing absentmindedly about his luxuriously-appointed old bedroom, Draco muses at how little the material trappings of wealth and prestige mean to him now. He grimaces as he recalls the many occasions when his insufferable child self demanded (and was usually given) the newest, brightest, and the best books, toys, clothing, sporting equipment, and whatever else his whims dictated.

Now, he would not exchange all the Galleons in the world for Hermione's letter… for her tender, extraordinary heart.

Glancing at his silver wristwatch, he realizes with a start that he has spent most of the hour before afternoon tea reading and re-reading his first love letter from Hermione. "You sappy prat," he says aloud, the rictus smile of pure felicity firmly back in position.

Crossing to the dark oak armoire at the foot of the bed, Draco crouches and rummages beneath old sports uniforms (I must remember to grab that Seeker's gear before I go home) until he uncovers a wooden cigar box. He flips it open and reverently places Hermione's letter atop the other items already occupying the plain receptacle. A 'S.P.E.W' badge with its metal prong snapped off, a faded red velvet scrunchie, a first draft of a History of Magic essay written in Hermione's energetic handwriting (he'd not been able to resist filching it when he'd stumbled upon it in the Hogwarts library one night), and a small stack of meticulously clipped newspaper articles.

Shutting the Spanish cedar lid, Draco pushes the box back beneath the folded clothing and closes the wardrobe.

Though the letter is now safely stowed in his old treasure box, the words Hermione has gifted him are etched upon his brain.

One phrase in particular continues to flutter around him like a Muggle aeroplane banner he'd once glimpsed above a country carnival.

'You are my home'.

He skips down the stairs knowing that he is the luckiest wizard – nay, the most fortunate man – in the cosmos.

French translations:

bonne après-midi – good afternoon.

Ruibby est une vision de la beauté et du glamour - Ruibby is a vision of beauty and glamor.