Author's note: I hope you enjoy this chapter!

disclaimer: i own nada; props go to the immensely talented J.K. Rowling

An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

Part II

-The inconvenient truth plus two months

The supposition I made the day Hermione fled my apothecary shoppe has proven correct; I haven't had a chance to apologize to her. It's been two months, and she has not come back—that I know, at least. I do know that I've not made her any Praegnatio Potion in the last two months.

What about The Weasel, you inquire? Everything I surmised would happen has indeed come to fruition for that tosser. I'm rarely wrong, after all.

Roughly a week after Hermione and I spoke in my office (the day of the 'inconvenient truth,' as I've dubbed it), Ronald Weasley stormed into my apothecary shoppe, demanding to see me. I hadn't been surprised (in fact, I wondered what had taken him so long). Weasley Confringo'd his way into my office and stood in the doorway, all red-faced and panting and dressed in his Auror robes (all an attempt to intimidate me, I supposed) before he began casting hexes.

He's a skilled Auror, I'll admit, but I doubted then (as I do now) that he has a dueling room in his own home and practices daily for entertainment—as does yours truly. I blocked every hex and jinx he nonverbally sent my way—and I did it nonverbally, to boot! I actually enjoyed sparring with the foul, lying git.

Eventually, he did what any competitor (a desperate competitor, that is) resorts to doing when losing; he played dirty. He sent Unforgiveables my way, uttering Merlin-knows-what between curses. I blocked every one, all the while grinning at his manically contorted face. My face may have looked maniacal, too, for all I know, because sorcerer's stones, I was relishing every bloody second of it! It was the most exhilarating and rewarding duel I've had since Second Year when I dueled Potter!

One of my employees—the witch manning the customer service desk adjacent to my office—alerted the Aurors, who arrived swiftly (to my displeasure). Luckily for me, Potter and I had, years ago, buried the hatchet, so to speak, because he was one of the two responding Aurors. Confused (I presumed) to find that the perpetrator dueling the owner of the establishment reporting the crime was their fellow Auror, the two dolts just stood there. In between silently blocking Weasley's offensive spells, I asked the "professionals" if they'd care to intervene. If they were insulted by my tone (which was overtly sarcastic), they didn't show it; if Weasley was aware of the presence of his colleagues, he did not show it. His eyes, feral to a degree of which I haven't seen since the war, were focused solely on me.

Finally, Auror Robards subdued him, even going so far as to use Expelliarmus to obtain Weasley's wand, and bound him with magical ropes. While Potter was demanding answers from The Weasel (and keeping a close eye on me, as only a cautious wanna-be Head Auror would do), Auror Robards used Priori Incantatem on Weasley's wand.

Ah, the thing dreams are made of, I thought to myself. I really was giddy as a kid in a candy store, though outwardly, I maintained my usual stoicism—my 'Mask of Apathy,' you might call it (I do).

Potter looked stunned at what Weasley was confessing, Robards looked stunned at Weasley's wand's casted spell record….and I just tried to keep the smirk off of my devilishly handsome face. I even held out my wand before Robards or Potter could request it to perform Priori Incantatem on it as well; at that Weasley looked like he was about to explode.

It was bloody brilliant.

In the end, Robards hauled Weasley away, and I initiated the process to press charges against Weasley—the icing on the cake, so to speak. Surprisingly, Potter seemed too stunned to argue with me about that. Before he left, he asked, "It's true? Ron's been lying to Hermione? Preventing her from getting pregnant?"

I nodded, and he stared blankly at me long enough for it to get awkward. After he bid me goodbye and was just about to disapparate, he looked over his shoulder at me and said, "Thanks for looking out for her, Malfoy."

Right, I'd thought, 'looking out for her'—as if what I had done were merely pointing out a simple, inconvenient truth and not ruining her life.

So, here it is, two months later. Weasley's been to jail, been bailed out by some family member, been stripped of his position as an Auror, and is set for sentencing soon. The Daily Prophet, the pinnacle of journalistic excellence that it is, has also reported—repeatedly—on the marital discord and impending divorce of "The Wizarding World's Royal Couple." Two months later, and I've not seen Hermione (except in pictures in that rag of a newspaper) nor heard from her.

-The inconvenient truth plus three months

After another month to passes, I'm following the advice of my wise wife and apologizing to Hermione via letter. I also comply with my wife's directive to invite Hermione over for dinner sometime soon. (That shouldn't be awkward at all.)

-The inconvenient truth plus three-and-a-half months

Astoria and I are sitting on our large Chesterfield sofa, cuddled up together by the fire and enjoying a quiet Saturday morning. I'm absently winding a strand of her espresso-brown hair (beautiful, although not as lustrous as it once was) around my finger as I read Modern Potioneering. It's the latest edition of the quarterly publication and there's a riveting article on—Oh, I digress. (My apologies.) Anyway, Astoria is reading through her correspondence when she squeals in delight suddenly.

"Draco?"

"Hmm?" I respond absently as I keep reading the journal. She places her tiny, pale, bony hand to my cheek to turn my gaze to her. I do have a tendency to get absorbed in my journals and miss things she says, but I know it's something important when she employs her 'look me in my eyes' gesture.

"Yes, love?" I say, gazing into her strikingly beautiful honey-brown eyes and smiling.

I'm rewarded with the acclaimed smile of Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy. Some say that her smile would be the smile to launch a thousand ships. While I agree that her smile is beautiful, I simply see it as the smile of the woman I love, adore, and cherish. Call me sappy, but she's made me become a better man—and I'm man enough to admit it.

Astoria waves the letter she's holding in her hand. "Hermione wrote back! She says, 'Dear Astoria, I hope this letter finds you well. Blah, blah, blah….Ah, here it is! I'd love to catch up with you, and I'm amenable to dinner at your home. No, Draco being there, too, will in no way cause me distress, but I thank you for your consideration just the same. Please owl me the particulars and I shall be there. Your friend, Hermione.' Isn't this smashing? I'm going to owl her now and set up a dinner date!"

Off glides my elfin-like wife to her secretary. As I watch her, I see her select her lavender-scented parchment—the one she reserves for 'those whom I truly love.' I just grin and shake my head at her exuberance before returning my attention to my journal; it's good to see her so vibrant.

-Later that same day

Astoria has been talking incessantly since receiving Hermione's letter. We are getting ready for bed now, and she is still talking. There's only one way I can convince her to drop the subject of dinner with Hermione. Although I am not being subtle in the least, I still have to employ all of the tools in my arsenal; my Astoria is a stubborn witch, and she isn't easily distracted when her mind is engaged in her own pursuits.

We make love, and it's exquisite, as always. My Astoria puts her all into all of our unions (even though she knows she'll be exhausted the next day), and tonight is no exception. In fact, I think she may be more expressive tonight than she usually is—not that I'm complaining.

We have come down now from our euphoria, still entwined in one another, and we are both quite knackered. Astoria sweetly compliments me, and I return the sentiments whole-heartedly. I'm expecting her to drift off to slumber momentarily, as per her usual routine, but she surprises me; she repeats her 'look me in my eyes' gesture for the second time today.

Not more dinner party planning talk, my mind begs as I groan internally. I love my wife more than my own life, but there's a limit to the amount of party planning that I can endure in one day.

Astoria flashes her brilliant smile at me, and I immediately smirk, thinking that she wants to praise my efforts in the bedroom again.

I will never deny her that.

"Draco?" she breathes.

"Yes, Angel?" I respond as I brush hair from my eyes and await her words of adoration like an eager puppy.

"I want a child, Draco," she says in all seriousness, her sweet smile having vanished and been replaced with a look of fierce determination.

My mouth opens and closes like a fish before I finally find my words. "You know that's not possible, Angel," I say, trying to hide the aggravation in my tone. We've been over this….and over this….and over this—you get the point, yeah? I thought that she'd finally given up; apparently not.

"It IS possible, my Dragon," she coos. She's running a tiny fingernail over my chest deliciously, which, along with her saucy look, is designed to melt my resolve; it usually works, too—just not where this topic is concerned.

I sigh, knowing that she'll not let this up and that the sooner I ask her to explain the sooner I can begin getting in my forty winks. (My handsome looks don't remain such without proper care, after all.)

"Dr. Grey told us that it's not going to be possible, love, but, please: enlighten me as to how you believe it is," I say gently as my eyes fall shut.

"It's quite simple," Astoria says factually, as though she and I and the fertility specialist have overlooked the most simple of solutions.
I yawn. "And?"

"You make a baby with another witch," she says airily. I cough-slash-choke, opening my eyes at the speed of the latest Nimbus model.

"What? No," I declare, setting may jaw. We've been over this! Surrogacy was only on the table for about two seconds four years ago—which I promptly remind her.

"Yes, however," she says, practically singing with excitement. "We never had a perfect candidate available to us before, and now we do!"

"We do?" I inquire unenthusiastically.

"Yes, you dolt!" Astoria says and laughs (her laugh is like tiny, tinkling bells, by the way). "Hermione, of course."

-The inconvenient truth plus three-and-a-half months and one day

I didn't get much sleep last night. Astoria and I fought into the early morning over her suggestion (which she, when I labeled it so, vehemently declared that it was a demand, not a suggestion). I declared that I would not sleep with Hermione—or any other witch—to produce an heir. I don't care about an heir, I reminded her. I knew she was cursed and that Healers had already declared that pregnancy would most likely result in her death before I married her. I married her for her and not for what she could provide me, I reminded her. Sorcerer's stones—I defied my parents for her! (I did not remind her of that, however; cunning and determined I may be, but barmy I am not.)

Some women throw tantrums to get what they want; I've seen that more than you'd imagine coming from the society into which I was born and raised and have continued to circulate (albeit unenthusiastically). My Astoria, though, doesn't play that game—she never has, nor will she ever, I'd wager. Astoria was genuinely distraught, sobbing and becoming hysterical. I felt despicable for denying her. It was beyond dreadful.

This morning, as I lay next to her slight, beautiful sleeping form—and maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking, here—I'm actually considering her demand. Astoria wants to be a mother more than she wants anything, and she would make an excellent mother. The best. If I love her (which I do—more than anything), then who am I to deny her what her heart desires most?

-The inconvenient truth plus four months

Hermione is at my home, sitting in Astoria's and my intimate dining room. Astoria is practically vibrating with excitement—she has been all night—and nervousness; she fears Hermione will not agree to be our surrogate. I can't help but notice how beautiful my Astoria looks tonight; I haven't seen the light in her eyes or the blush of her skin in too long.

Hermione looks lovely, too. I expected her to look like a hollow version of the woman she was before learning the inconvenient truth about her husband, but she's proved me wrong. (Truth be told, it does happen once in a blue moon.) She even seems happy.

I apologized in person to her when she arrived tonight, and after a few awkward minutes, it was as if the whole incident hadn't even occurred.

Now, as we finish our desserts (Astoria instructed the cook to make Hermione's favorite, English Trifle), my part in this dinner party is about to conclude. Astoria and I agreed that only she should propose our request to Hermione; otherwise, it seems to us, our request could come across as….lewd. Well, perhaps more lewd is better phraseology.

I retire to my office as Astoria and Hermione retire to the lounge, arm in arm as they go and laughing at some inside joke. I've planned to await Astoria's return while reading, but I find that I'm reading every sentence twice and not absorbing a word. Instead, I start pacing, which is doing zip for my nervous tension.

I'm nervous for Astoria. I want her to have a child. Don't get me wrong—I want a child, too—but….it's just that I know that as long as I have Astoria, I have everything I'll ever need. That was my sentiment the day I proposed marriage to her, and that will be my sentiment until I breathe my last breath.

When I hear the clicking sound of my door opening, I spin around toward it, raising my eyebrows in query. Astoria's expression is less exuberant than it was before, and I feel my stomach clench in disappointment.

"She's going to think about it," she says softly with a watery smile.

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