Author's Note: this is my first venture into Harry Potter fiction. Recently, I've been indulging in a rather odd conceit: when I read another's story that has some element that captures my imagination, I take that idea and run with it myself – while giving the original author full credit for inspiring me. This little fit of madness was taken from Chapter 79 of Colubrina's Dramione Drabbles & Ficlets. If you haven't read her stuff (and you really should), please don't read that before you read mine – it would spoil the twist ending.

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Draco sighed as he left the underground. That it had been a bad day at the Ministry was, sadly, typical. The only excitement was in what sorts of bad things would happen.

Today was hardly the first time he'd encountered a would-be blackmailer. Once every few months someone would seek him out and hint that they'd uncovered some even more unseemly secrets about the Malfoy family (as if enough hadn't already been revealed), offering to "sell" him the results of their unfortunate discovery. Most of the time, he could either scare them off or pull the classic "publish and be damned" maneuver, ruining their bluff. He thought there was a good chance he'd handled this one, but had a lingering fear he'd be back.

One would think that he'd be at least slightly rehabilitated through his marriage to one of the Golden Trio. No one could fool "the smartest witch of her age," especially after four years and even moving into a Muggle home in a Muggle neighborhood. But there were still enough would-be grifters who thought he'd be an easy mark.

Finally he reached their home. As much as it pained hm to admit it, he was quite fond of the little Muggle house. It was cozy, bright, not that far off Diagon Alley, and – he hated to admit it – comforting. And it was just far enough out of the magical world that it kept their privacy.

Draco still brought up getting their home connected to the Floo network, but Hermione always shot it down. And truth be told, he preferred the inconvenience to any who might want to intrude on his home, but he felt he had an obligation to at least occasionally speak of the superiority of the wizarding way. (He suspected she knew it was all feigned, and was grateful she didn't call him out over it.)

He unlocked the door and entered his home, issuing a perfunctory greeting call as he made a beeline for the den. Traditionally the retreat of the male, Hermione had lined nearly every wall with books and proclaimed that it would be both of theirs.

Which is why he was dismayed, but not surprised, to find a recliner in the middle of that den. A worn, ratty, bent, and undeniably Muggle recliner in the middle of the den. The kind he'd pass at least once a month, left on the curb, as he walked to and from the underground.

He fought down his temper, and instead called out as sweetly as he could. "Love, could you come into the den for a moment?"

After a moment, Hermione strolled into the den. "Yes, dear?"

"I was just noticing our latest addition here. Could you be so kind as to explain it?"

Hermione was determined that she could out-polite her husband. "It's just a little something I found left on the curb, and it's just perfect for a notion I had."

"And that notion would be..."

"A surprise I'm working on."

At some point in her life, Hermione had discovered a delight in surprising Draco with things. While a couple had been rather uncomfortable, most had been delightful and no less than three of them had resulted in the neighbors having to call the police. (Draco had had to be educated that Muggle police were more persuaded to leave by blushes and disheveled clothing than bribes.)

He glanced at the wreck of a recliner desecrating his sacred den and sighed. This new surprise had better be good. If it doesn't break at least five morals laws and two Commandments (his dive into Muggle culture had included the major religions), he was going to be livid.

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Draco trudged up the stairs from the underground. That latest would-be extortionist had caught him at lunch again, with more and more veiled implications of what he'd "accidentally uncovered" yet again. He'd ignored the standard and the esclated threats, and shrugged off the "publish and be damned" rebuttal. Much more, and Draco would have to take the matter to the Aurors – and he really, really, really didn't want to have to deal with The Sainted Potter for that. Bad enough Hermione insisted on occasionally socializing with Potty and the Weaselette, but to deal with him in his official role? Perish the thought.

Draco unlocked the door and gave out his perfunctory greeting. This time, Hermione answered from his – er, their – den.

Finally, he'd catch her in the den, curled up in that hideous wreck of a chair with a book. Once, when she'd been out, he'd carefully sat in it, assuming that for its horrid appearance, it had to be unspeakably comfortable for Hermione to bring it into their home. He'd been proven wrong, and still had the occasional twinges in his back to prove it.

He strode into the den and stopped cold. Hermione wasn't in the chair. Instead, she was beside it, studying it carefully. She slowly worked the action, watching carefully as the footrest slowly swung up, the back slid back, and the seat raised. Draco watched as she worked it back and forth.

"Any great insights, dear?"

She closed it one last time and looked up at him. "Hello, dear. How was work?"

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Draco dragged himself up the steps from the underground. The would-be blackmailer (Higgins, he called himself, but he was sure that was a fake name) was giving him "one last chance" before he went to the Prophet with his discoveries. And when Draco had offered him a card with the Prophet's Floo address, he stormed off muttering about how "maybe someone else would like to protect their good name." He'd let himself brew over that for half the day before he decided to face the music and tell Hermione about the man.

She was no stranger to these events, but it still bothered her – enough that he hated burdening her with them. But this time he had a suspicion she really ought to know.

Up ahead, however, he saw a sight that drove the blackmailer from his thoughts. On the curb, in front of his lovely little home, was that horrid recliner, sitting, just waiting for the trash men (or another curb-shopper even dafter than his own lovely wife) to haul it away.

He threw open the door and called out to his beloved (and once again sane) wife. "Dear, where are you?"

"In the den."

This must be his surprise. Why else would she have tossed out the foul monstrosity? He strode eagerly into the den.

There, sitting in that foul monstrosity of a recliner, reading a book, was his apparently still daft wife. She was browsing through one of her old textbooks – Advanced Transfiguration, it looked like.

Draco stared at her, then turned to the window. Yes, there it was, still out on the curb.

He looked back at Hermione. She was sitting in the chair.

She looked up from her book. "A friend of yours from work came by today – a fellow named Higgins. He said he had a business proposition for us."

Draco was thoroughly disconcerted. "Higgins? What did you tell him?"

'I told him that we weren't interested, and that we'd prefer if we didn't see him any more. And I'm quite certain he got the message." She returned to her book.

Draco looked out the window at the battered, ratty recliner on his curb, then turned to his wife again. She leaned forward in the battered, ratty recliner and thoughtfully turned the page. Draco drew a deep breath and, once again, wondered how – after all the rotten things he'd done in his life – he deserved this amazing woman. "Well, it sounds like you dealt with Mr. Higgins in extremely proper fashion. Might I suggest we celebrate with dinner out? Anywhere you like?"