46

Chapter 46

Sunday 16 March 2003: PM

"Draco – I can explain…"

Stay calm. The Weasel is her ex-boyfriend for a reason... i.e., he's a blithering moron who didn't appreciate the best thing that ever happened to him. Do not lose your temper.

He nods. "I'm listening, ma petite." Draco swivels, placing Macdolas's exquisitely prepared platter of tempting vittles atop the tallboy behind him. He forgets his nudity until he leans back against it; the white wood is cool against his uncovered buttocks and back.

Well, Hermione is as naked as a jaybird, too. Shrugging mentally, Draco folds his arms and waits.

His gorgeous, sex-rumpled girlfriend has apparently also forgotten her current state of undress; she shimmies down to perch on the end of the bed and adopts the studious posture of deep cogitation and focused attention that Draco has long found overpoweringly charming... though it now inflames his hot blood to witness her crossing her legs and thrusting forward her pert breasts. The innocent mannerisms pose a much more salacious picture sans attire.

Look in her beautiful topaz eyes. Draco wills his very interested cock to stay quiescent for the time being. No, darling – don't bite your lip in thought – damn it. That's not helping.

"Draco, I completely forgot about this note – Ron surprised me with it just as we were leaving The Three Broomsticks; I shoved it in my pocket with the intention of perusing it when we got home." Hermione's agitation is clear, as her trembling hand flutters the scrappy-looking missive.

"I haven't even read it yet – Ron said he wrote it a while ago – I mean, it looks like it's been travelling with him for a while – Draco, you're welcome to read it with me, I've nothing to hide from you, I'd hate for you to think that I am being dishonest in any way– " her sweet voice fractures and she drops the letter beside her as her right hand moves to fumble at her left forearm scar instead.

Oh, fuck – I'm such an arse. "Hermione stop– please," Draco swiftly steps forward to pull away her jittering fingers, holding both of her hands gently in his own. He kneels on the rug to level their eye contact.

"I know you're not deceitful – woman, you're as candid and honourable as the day is long," he begins, reverently stroking her gifted little hands. "My– temper is riled because thinking of you with the Weas– Weasley," he hastily amends, as Hermione's lips purse disapprovingly. Making a hash of it already, dummy.

Draco tries again. "My jealousy is triggered because I am not-so-quietly terrified you'll wake one day and realize that– that Weasley is the better match for you," he confesses. He holds up an imperious finger to forestall the demurral her lips are already shaping.

"Let me finish, lionne. I know that the roaring green-eyed monster is my problem, and I am endeavouring to vanquish it; it is wholly my issue, not yours. We both have pasts – Merlin knows, I am forever humbled that you are willing to overlook my historic follies and poor decisions. But never doubt that I trust you, Hermione Jean Granger. I am sorry my pettishness has caused you upset."

Brushing a gossamer kiss to her forehead, Draco concludes, "I forgot to bring up liquid refreshments; I'll remedy my oversight while you read your letter."

He winks provocatively as he rises to his feet. "You'll need all the sustenance you can get, Granger – I brought back my old Quidditch uniform, as requested. Perhaps after we've supped and you've caught me up on what you've been up to in my absence, we could explore some debauched roleplay, hmmm?".

"How debauched are we talking here, Malfoy?". He is delighted and relieved to note Hermione's equilibrium seems to have recovered as she pretends to study her short fingernails in a parody of unenthusiastic resignation. "I'm afraid I have to insist on a rather high minimum standard of sexual dissoluteness, these days; my sexy wizard boyfriend has really raised the bar since we started hooking up," she purrs.

Draco laughs unreservedly as Hermione's little stab at play-acting dissolves into silly giggles. "Points for trying, my naughty little minx," he acknowledges.

"Je suis ton petite minette… Draco." The brunette temptress ensures his rapt attention as she shifts to lie back onto the bed, deliberately raising her arms and sighing lustily. The cherry on the Hermione sundae is affirmed when she uncrosses her legs to slide her bare toes along his well-defined calves, bequeathing a bawdy wink of her own. "Isn't that what you told me, earlier?".

Fuck. Me. Draco sucks in some much needed oxygen as all his circulating blood rushes eagerly to his dick. "I didn't– I didn't translate it at the time– you're a damned quick study, my sexy little witch," he croaks. His hands grab at thin air as his good intentions war bitterly with his overweening impulse to finish what the fantastically foxy woman has started.

"I'll be back with our drinks – I saw Macdolas left freshly squeezed orange juice in the fridge – or there's appl – Salazar's sake, Granger, don't cup your glorious breasts like that!". Draco takes one last longing glance and flees for the stairwell. Hermione's mirthful chuckles resound in his wake.

I hope I (eventually) die buried between her supple thighs… in some form or another. He shakes his head and sets to preparing their chilled beverages.

"Here – I'd like you to read it, please." Hermione impatiently flaps the wrinkled correspondence as she stands to accept a glass of apple juice.

"It's fine – I told you I trust you, Granger. There's no need." Draco dodges her prodding hand as he sips sweet orange juice from his own bevelled tumbler.

"Malfoy, I insist. Please," Hermione stresses with a growl. "Just take it."

He accedes with a brusque nod. There is little point in resisting the Granger juggernaut. Truth be told – I do want to know what that ginger wanker has to say. If he thinks he can waltz back in and try to romance my darling witch again…

Draco unfolds the bedraggled single piece of parchment that the Weasel has the gall to consider appropriate stationery; he manages to rein in his disparaging sniff.

'Dear Hermione,

Yesterday was my birthday. I think it was the first time in over a decade that you haven't sent me a card or gift. I'm not having a dig at you about it, I'm telling you because I didn't realize how much that meant to me until I no longer had it.

That's what I'm trying to say, about you I mean. You were always just there for me, and I selfishly thought you always would be. I thought I didn't have to work for it. I took you for granted, Hermione. I was selfish and bloody daft and I regret my stupidity more than you'll ever know.

Last night I had a epeefp epiff epeap something happened and I got a taste of my own medicine and I didn't much like it. Funny that, right?

Anyway I've been a proper git and I'm sorry. I won't be hassling you about getting back together, don't worry. I was a crap boyfriend and a crummy friend before that. You were right when you said I needed to grow up. I hope that after I've dealt with my shit issues, we can maybe try to be friendly again. No pressure.

Take care of yourself, Hermione.

Love, Ron.

PS I did the books for the shop last week. George said it was a shockingly poor attempt and caused more hassles than it solved but I'll keep trying.'

Folding the letter back into its grubby creases, Draco silently returns it to Hermione.

"Well? What did you think?" his bossy sweetheart demands peremptorily. "Has that eased your rampant fit of misplaced machismo somewhat?". She doesn't mince her words.

Feeling abashed, Draco shuffles his feet and scratches at his reddening ear. "Yes – I mean, I'm sorry I was a total prat. I'd like to promise I won't get snarky about – him – again, but it's a process, ma petite. Can you forgive me? Please?" he looks up from under his fringe of straight flaxen locks and smiles tentatively.

"Oh, no no no – don't turn the full force of your princely charms on me, Malfoy. I'm not a simpering, silly schoolgirl. I shan't be so easily swayed by your polished charisma," Hermione tut-tuts, pinching in her answering grin.

"Wait – would that have worked? Back in the day? All I had to do was smile at you?" Draco is only half-joking. Seems as though the Weasel wasn't the only fool boy to entirely misjudge his approach. At least I can spell 'epiphany', though. Dickhead.

Hermione turns up her nose in a haughty display of censure. "Hardly. You'd have had to work a lot harder than that, mon cœur."

Hearing the French endearment affectionately falling from Hermione's pretty Cupid's bow lips has his heart squeezing strongly enough that Draco feels the need to rub at it with his fist. "Say that again?" he huskily requests as he slams down his empty glass beside the unsampled platter and prowls meaningfully toward her.

She ducks around the bottom corner of their bed, snickering as he backs her into a corner. "Like that, do you? How's my accent coming along?" Hermione teases, putting down her own drink on the dresser to clutch a pillow to her naked chest. Draco immediately plucks it aside, tossing it onto the floor.

"Superbly: though I will enjoy judging your inflection when you pant it during your next orgasm," he crushes her laughing lithe body to his own, lipping voraciously at the smooth line of her naked neck and shoulder as she squeals breathlessly.

"What about the snacks? Ooh, yes – right there, you know I love it when you nibble on my ears… eeep!" Hermione shivers as Draco zealously applies his warm mouth to her erogenous hotspots. He halts his seduction as a most unwelcome sound rumbles from downstairs.

"Is that – is that the Floo?" Hermione cocks her head as her suspicions are confirmed.

Oh, for the love of legless lizards! Why the hell didn't I seal the bloody fireplace to prevent unwanted guests? Or instruct Macdolas to do so?

You were too busy spiriting your wondrously wanton witch upstairs to have your wicked way with her, answers his ever-helpful memory.

"It's me – Harry. I'm keeping my eyes closed until I have verbal confirmation that I won't need to rinse them in vinegar later to remove unwanted glimpses of your confronting sexual appetites," Potter hollers from the lounge room. "I know you're home, I can see your satchel… and Hermione's Extendable bag is down here, she never goes anywhere without it," he adds.

There goes my plan to play Grandmother's Footsteps until he leaves. Merlin's mumping mandibles! Potter's timing is abysmal, as usual.

"We'd better get down there before he blinds himself with Floo powder or something," Hermione sighs.

Before he reluctantly releases her, Draco deliberately suckles a love bite into the indent just above her left clavicle. He smirks as she half-heartedly protests, "Malfoy! I thought we talked about you minimizing your caveman tendencies?".

"If Lightning Bolt is going to continue to barge in on us, he deserves some added squeamishness," Draco avers. "Let me help you put that delectable set of lingerie back on your stunning body, Granger." Spying her decidedly damp knickers on the rug, he mutters a quick Hot Air Charm before handing them over. "I'll help you don your bra – here it is. Turn around, ma chérie."

"Don't worry about it, I'll just pop on my otter robe," Hermione dismisses his offer with an airy wave.

Gritting his teeth, Draco edits his response to that idea. "I must insist. Your splendid breasts are for my eyes only now… regardless of how poor Potter's vision is." He whips the lacy black garment over her arms before swiftly notching the two hooks through the eyes.

"Oi! Are you two deaf? I have news!" Harry's yell is now raucous.

Hermione calls out, "We'll be right there, Harry! There's juice in the fridge if you want a drink?".

"Fuck's sake, are you going to tender him our nibbles, too?... You are," Draco grumbles. "He'll never ruddy leave." He puffs a disordered blond strand out of his eyes as he moves to collect the platter. "After you, Hermione."

Hermione stands in the doorway, barring his progress. "Draco? Aren't you forgetting something?" she chides; her amusement is rife. "Unless you're much more comfortable sharing your nudity with Harry than you are mine?".

Ah. Yes. Draco slides the tray onto the bed and quickly slips on his boxers and grey wool trousers before picking it back up.

"What about your shirt?"

"Let him look – it'll give the bastard something to attain to," Draco snips. "And possibly get rid of him that much sooner."

Hermione's wry chortle is music to his ears.

Harry sips his juice and eyes Hermione with a pained expression. "You've got sex hair, love. As does your moon-tanning boyfriend," he jerks his head at Draco, who responds with a smug tip of his angular chin.

"Jealousy's a curse, Potter," Draco drawls, tugging Hermione a little closer as they sit in the corner of the chromatic modern couch.

"Wouldn't have hurt either of you to run a comb through it, is all I'm saying," Harry grouses. "I suppose I should be happy your frowzled bedheads are all I have to witness tonight."

"Indeed. Get over your prudery and get to the point, Potter. I have much better things to do," Draco waggles his eyebrows suggestively over the top of Hermione's chestnut curls.

Hermione clucks disapprovingly at his bluntness. "Ignore him, Harry – Draco's missed me like crazy for the past forty-eight hours, and he's as tetchy as a truculent teenage troll. Have some more fruit–" she nudges the elaborate platter on the coffee table closer "–and tell us why you're here, please."

Harry chooses a couple of glossy strawberries, holding them up to inspect Macdolas's skilled edible sculptures. "Merlin, Mac puts Kreacher to shame in the culinary department – though don't tell him I said that." Harry chews diligently before he leans forward, holding their gaze. His bright green eyes display grim determination… and trepidation.

"There's been another development in Operation Acromantula. I came straight from your flat, Hermione. Your neighbours reported a hooded figure lurking around your front door this afternoon and called the police. Eventually the Muggle authorities got in touch with our department; they handed over a copy of this nasty bit of business. It had been partially slipped under your entry door." Potter pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket; he seems hesitant to give it over.

"That's not parchment, that's a sheet of A4," Hermione shrewdly observes. "Well, don't keep us in suspense – what does it say?" she presses.

"It doesn't say anything, Hermione: it's basically a printout of some particularly disgusting and disturbing snuff pornography… with both your heads glued onto the victims. Crude, but the message is effective… the figures sporting your likenesses have clearly been fatally tortured. I'm sorry, love – I'm not going to show you – either of you," Harry states implacably, folding his hand over the horrid pastiche as Hermione snatches for it.

"Harry, I'm not a child – and this concerns ME – I have a right to see it!" Hermione's outrage is predictably quick to manifest.

"Hermione – Harry's right," Draco keeps his bare arms wrapped securely around his infuriated sweetheart, ignoring her maddened thrashing. "It serves no purpose for you to look at it; what has been seen cannot be unseen, ma petite. Trust in your friend – I'd wager he would rather not have that image in his head: right, Potter?" he urges.

"Yeah… I won't sleep well tonight. Please, Hermione. You're upset enough as it is. I knew you'd want to be across this, which is why I came over… but I'm asking you to not push it, because I won't budge." Harry shoves the disputed hate mail back into his robes and roughly rubs his palms over his face.

Potter looks exhausted. Hopefully seeing how drained he is will calm her down. Draco quells his rising sympathy for the tired Auror. He voluntarily signed up for this shite… can't be easy, though. The bloke has already seen and endured enough Dark magic to last a dozen lifetimes.

The frenetic motions of the woman in his arms have eased; Hermione must have come to a similar conclusion.

"OK… but will you answer some questions, please?" she quietly petitions.

At Harry's almost imperceptible nod, Hermione asks, "Was it the Saunders who rang the police? Why didn't they call me, too?",

"They did – your mobile rang out. The police tried and got the same result," Harry divulges.

"Oh – I switched it to silent when Dad called yesterday! Macdolas was threatening to blast it, he really doesn't care for the sound and vibrations… I forgot to change it back, though. Stupid, stupid…" Hermione's stiff spine crumples as she huddles her arms around her torso.

Draco ignores Harry's presence as he tows his distressed girlfriend fully into his lap and hums, "You're safe, sweetheart. I have you."

"The Saunders didn't get much of a look at this scumbag – their eyesight isn't the best – but they described him as tall and broad, and wearing dark clothing, including a Muggle hoodie. So he's clearly comfortable employing non-magical methods: but we knew that already."

Harry jumps up from the retro armchair, pacing agitatedly across from one side of the lounge room to the other. "I just want to catch a bloody break! Flint's still out cold in St Mungo's, the other predator – or predators – haven't moved on any other women… we're reduced to twiddling our thumbs and waiting for their next move! We've been back-tracing Flint's movements as best we can, but the bastard took great pains to keep his degenerate activities clandestine."

He crimps his hands into frustrated fists. "The trail's going cold… I'm sorry, guys. I've let you down."

"No. That's untrue. Shut down your self-pity party, Potter. And you have learned something important: this arsehole's egotism is escalating. Turning up at Hermione's flat, risking leaving mocking literature there and at Flint's place… he's cocky, and not half as smart as he thinks he is. And that will be his downfall." Draco's reassuring speech to Harry astonishes them all; the room falls silent.

"Erm… thanks, Malfoy. I–I appreciate it," Harry stammers, as Hermione tilts up her head to endow Draco a tender, grateful smile.

"I am capable of giving credit where it's due, you know," Draco teases, hoping to lighten the dreary emotional atmosphere. "Anyone can see how hard Lightning Bolt is working to nab these foul pricks."

"Godric's gumboots – not you, too," Harry groans. "Pansy's ribbing was near relentless on Friday night." He chuckles as he rebuts, "Thanks for the kudos… Jake Malloy."

"Harry! I told you about that in confidence!" Hermione hisses, between her sniggers; Draco is delighted to hear her jocularity is returning.

"Blaise jumped straight in with the 'Jake Malloy' baiting as soon as we arrived at the Manor, Hermione," Harry defends. "As if we weren't going to razz this blond lummox mercilessly, love." Potter snaffles a handful of cheese and crackers and chews them with relish before he stands once more.

"I'd best be off – I want to Floo back to your flat and double-check it's still secure, Hermione. Come see me at work tomorrow, please. I'll bring you up to speed on the investigation. You're welcome to accompany her, of course," Harry turns to Draco, who nods his accord.

"Thanks, Harry. Mac is coming with me to the Ministry every day, too." Hermione pauses, a troubled expression crossing her bonny features. "Please be careful, too… we don't know what these grubs are capable of… or how many of us they are targeting."

"I will. Don't worry, Hermione. We're close to snagging a break in the case: but being patient has never been my strong point," Harry admits. He leans down to give her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. "Talk to you both soon. I'd wish you joy for the rest of the night – but I really don't care to think about that," he deadpans, stepping back into the Floo.

"See you tomorrow – and my advice is to start dating again," Draco retorts. "You'll cope better with witnessing our passion if you experienced some of your own, Potter."

"Bye, Harry," Hermione's farewell is muted by Potter's loud blowing of a rude raspberry before the Floo activates and spirits him away.

Draco leans back into the sofa, encouraging Hermione to relax against him. "How are you feeling, Granger? I'm here to listen… if you wish to talk about it," he gently prompts.

She doesn't respond for a few moments as she shifts in his arms, snuggling closer and laying her riotously curly head against his right pectorals. Draco lightly palms her soft hair from crown to ends as he comforts, "I swear I will help to protect you, Hermione; though I know you are eminently adept at defending yourself. We're a team now, remember?" he quotes back her recent declaration.

"We are," Hermione's shaky but resolute response is muffled but intelligible against his skin. "It's just… difficult sometimes, realizing that someone out there wants to hurt us… it makes me heartsick, Draco."

"I hear you, ma petite. I feel the same way." He strokes his left forefinger beneath her chin until she looks up into his solemn face.

"I will die to keep you safe; do you understand? It won't come to that – but never doubt how much you mean to me, Hermione Jean Granger. You mean everything," he stresses, as the words he is yearning to finally speak quiver on the tip of his tongue.

Go on, you big wimp. She already knows, in her heart of hearts – she must. But you have to say them, Chicken Little.

Hermione's beautiful whiskey eyes widen as though she senses his intent; Draco can see her holding her breath.

Crack! The dissonant sound of Macdolas Apparating into the room stymies his Big Announcement. Draco cannot decide whether he is disappointed or thankful for the house elf's interruption. His picnic date seems to have wound up early, surely?

Hermione sits upright, alarmed at the little sprite's woebegone demeanour. "Mac? Whatever's the matter, dear?".

Draco winces as his melancholy major-domo wipes his dripping long nose on the sleeves of his 'Harry Potter' robes. Another fine reason to throw that odious attire straight into the garbage.

"Ruibby and Macdolas argue; Ruibby wants Macdolas to – to go further," the elf howls. "Macdolas fears his inexperience disappoints his darling, he baulks at revealing his jejuneness but his precious Ruibby believes Macdolas loses his lustful interest!".

Hermione rises to console the weeping seneschal. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mac… there, there. Draco is going to sit down with you now and have a nice long talk, OK?"

"I am?!" Draco squawks, aghast at having his Hermione-based plans for the evening hijacked. "Must it be now?".

"Yes, now," Hermione confirms, magicking a handful of clean tissues into Macdolas's tensed, knobby hands. She pats his back a last time before returning to Draco's flabbergasted form, bending to buss a lingering dulcet kiss to his parted lips.

"I'm going to curl up with a Regency romance and wait for you in our bedroom, Malfoy. No need to rush through The Talk, hmmm? Thank you for helping Macdolas, I know he appreciates it greatly."

Checkmate. Draco succumbs to her overt manipulation with bad grace. "Fine," he scowls. "But don't get changed, Ms Bossy Boots. I'll deal with you later."

"Oooh… I'll be ready," Hermione leers, before blowing another cheeky kiss and disappearing around the corner.

Macdolas stares miserably at him from beside the coffee table. If Draco were to paint his portrait now, he'd title it 'Elf in Despair'.

"Alright, little mate – can you bring over my satchel, please? I've brought over something to speed along this… tutorial." I might need to ask Hermione to Obliviate the coming hour from my memory banks, though. Being the Head of the Household is indubitably a double-edged sword.

"Blow your nose, wipe your eyes, and have a seat, Macdolas…."

"But how does Master Malfoy know what the darling Ruibby's… nethers look like?" Macdolas aggressively demands. He has been poring over the illustrated "Your Guide to Elven Sexuality" manual (that Draco spent most of his free weekend time writing and illustrating) with the dogged purposefulness of a seventh year Hogwarts student preparing to sit his final N.E.W.T. examinations.

Salazar – lend me strength, Draco silently appeals to the long-dead warlock.

"I have no idea what Ruibby's nethers look like, Macdolas; this is a generic image of female elven genitalia, based on my academic research," he stresses. "It's essentially like human reproductive anatomy, though obviously… smaller. Proportionately," he falters as Macdolas's narrowed gaze remains as suspicious as before.

Hermione – you owe me big time for this. As if trawling through dry-as-dust ancient treatises on the sex lives of house elves wasn't traumatizing enough… now my Scottish seneschal thinks I'm a pervert.

"You have my word I have not seen your elvish girlfriend's genitals, alright? Speaking of which – you'll note I've used correct anatomical terms throughout this text. It's best to save any slang terms for the bedroom."

"Macdolas asks the Master to specify?"

"Look – I've listed them in one of the appendices – flip to the end and work backward," Draco's ears begin to burn as he hustles to find the appropriate page. "There – that's it. Bear in mind, I wasn't certain of the extent of linguistic crossover between human and elven 'dirty talk', so you might have to muddle your way through some of that yourselves."

To his horror, Macdolas begins reading aloud from the ribald list: "Pussy, core, Bookbinder's wife, flower, cunny, futz, mons, honeypot, tinder box, phoenix nest, quim, Breakfast of Champions, paradise, Altar of Venus, Venerable monosyllable, yoni… these are all terms for vagina, Master Malfoy? A yoni is not a type of fruit?".

Ah, kill me now. "'Yoni' is a Hindu word for the vulva… it's employed as a symbol of divine procreative energy usually represented by a circular stone," Draco faintly explains.

Macdolas earnestly starts in on the 'penis' list. "Cock, member, Evesdropper, manhood, sceptre, maypole, staff, rod, silent flute, dick, Gentleman usher, wand, shaft, matrimonial peacemaker, stalk, credentials… Mr Peaslin? Did Master Peaslin have a special phallus?".

"Best to ask his wife," Draco mumbles. "Moving on! Don't ever use any words that upset or denigrate Ruibby in any way; she might prefer her dirty talk on the filthier side, or she might not like it at all. Make sure you both communicate your likes and dislikes, no matter how uncomfortable you may feel about that initially. Same goes with you – if you don't care to be touched in a certain area, or something hurts, be sure to tell her that immediately. You should always – ALWAYS – obtain her full, willing, and vocalized consent for everything you do together.'

"This is imperative, Macdolas: If ever Ruibby says no, or asks you to stop – you stop. Instantly, and without question." Draco is pleased when the miniature mannikin vigorously nods his understanding.

"Macdolas always will stop! He never wishes to hurt his beloved Ruibby!".

"Good. Any questions about what we've covered so far?"

Fidgeting, Macdolas shyly replies, "Does Master include an appendix for French slang? Ruibby– Ruibby likes the French Macdolas whispers in her ear."

"I'll add it through the week," Draco gulps. "Anything else?"

Sucking in a deep breath, the imp queries, "How does Macdolas apply… the fingers and the mouth… and the sceptre… to Ruibby's pleasure points? How does Macdolas know of the situations of the erogenous zones? Does Master draw a map?".

"Not a map, exactly – refer to Diagram Seven, it shows the common flashpoints that many females find sensually arousing. But again: it is a matter of individual preference, and the best way to ascertain what Ruibby likes is by asking her; or asking her permission to touch her in different places, and judging her responses accordingly," Draco responds.

Keep it clinical and do not dwell on the mental imagery. Block it out.

"For example, some people are sensitive to caresses on the back crease of their knees… or their toes. Others like their ears nibbled on, or their nipples tweaked or suckled, while that might feel horrid to somebody else. My advice is to continually check in with your partner and remember that everybody is unique in their preferences and spectrum of sexuality," Draco coaches.

"Regarding your first question: gain Ruibby's consent, then experiment. Find out what you both enjoy, and progress slowly until you feel comfortable switching it up a gear or two. Whatever you do, though – you see to your lady's pleasure first. Or if you can't hold off, under no circumstances do you roll over and fall asleep or leave her in the wet spot. Make sure her needs are attended to, and do whatever it takes to make that happen," Draco sternly wags his finger for emphasis.

"Macdolas frets that he will… spontaneously combust ahead of his Ruibby when the sexing becomes penetrative. What does Master Malfoy recommend to delay reaching his zenith ahead of his mountaineering partner?". The fey butler's cabbage-green peepers enlarge with anxiety.

Yep – I'm absolutely going to need Obliviation tonight.

"Stay focused on your pelvic rhythm, and employ your higher consciousness with a mundane task," Draco tutors. "Something like counting numbers or remembering a shopping list. Don't think of anything unpleasant, though – you might lose traction entirely. Don't be disheartened if it isn't 'perfect' the first time, Macdolas. If you're both virgins, it will likely be messy and awkward and disjointed. But it will get better the more you practise – and the more intimately your lives are entwined."

Tapping his long fingers against his chin, Macdolas thoughtfully articulates, "Like you and Her Grace Lady Granger, Master Malfoy? Macdolas aspires to share a similar joy with his treasured Ruibby, one day."

He's a lippy wee ratbag; but he's awfully bloody cute, sometimes. Don't acknowledge that to Hermione, of course.

"Right. Given the way Ruibby gazes adoringly at you, Macdolas – you've nowt to fret over in that respect," Draco assures. "I think we've covered the basics. Study that guidebook and come back to me with any further questions." Draco starts edging away from the lounge.

"Macdolas thanks Master Malfoy most appreciatively for his wisdom and troubles taken to expertly craft and illustrate the special elvish sex education manual! Macdolas asks permission to share his newfound knowledge with the curious Ruibby?". His ears jig zestfully as he holds his fingertip to mark his place on Anatomy Diagram Two.

"Of course. I may have to add in a few more female-specific chapters, though," Draco agrees. "Do you feel more confident now, to… move forward with your courtship? At your own pace, naturally," he hastens to qualify.

"Oh yes, Master Malfoy – Macdolas is sanguine in the knowledge he will soon attain sexual stud status with his sweetest Ruibby," he confidently proclaims. "Now that he understands how to usher his Gentleman into Ruibby's Altar of Venus, Macdolas has the uttermost confidence in his future sexings."

Aaaaand I'm out. Gone. Destroyed. Gobsmacked. Deceased.

Bolting for the open doorway, Draco chokes out, "Keep learning – and stay downstairs!".

I am going to need so much more therapy, he thinks as he ascends the steps two at a time.

So. Much. More.

Thank the heavens above I have my gorgeous, sexy, brilliant, soul-bonded witch waiting for me upstairs.

How bloody lucky am I?!

French translation:

Je suis ton petite minette – I'm your little sex kitten.