A/N: You asked for lemon, and I lemoned my butt off! My keyboard's still sizzling from the previous chapter. Oh, the things those keys have seen...

Although I probably shouldn't have used 'daisies' as Hermione's safe word, considering I have a character called Daisy. Who reappears in this chapter. Oh, well. Live and learn.

Thanks for your feedback, it's encouraging to know that I haven't dropped my lemon game.

But now, we must return to the plot. Was anyone missing Crooks? I'm such a bad pseudo cat-kneazle mummy.

Also, a BILLION apologies for the delay in getting this chapter done. Why, oh why, must I have to work for a living? *sob*

This chapter is going to be stupidly short, but I'd rather give you something little than a big nothing at all.

October 25th

The day, or rather, evening, of the BAFTAs arrived, and with it, the culmination of weeks of desperate planning on Will's behalf, cramming on Draco's behalf, coaching on Hermione's behalf and being way too excited to sleep on Daisy's behalf.

Everything was proceeding according to plan. In between his Potions classes and exams, Draco studied everything Will threw at him about Troy's public and private lives. Hermione tested him, incentivising him with the removal of an article of her clothing for every correct answer, and the woeful returning of said clothing to her body if he got an answer wrong.

But as we all know, Draco is a very apt pupil...

Troy phoned Daisy from his mystery quarantine and formally asked her if she would do him the honour of accompanying him (actually it's Draco, but it's a BIG secret, love) to the BAFTAs as his plus one, if her parents said it was okay.

Her resulting shriek of omigod-laced affirmation nearly punctured poor Troy's eardrum.

He struck a slight snag when he entered into negotiations with the Dorchester matriarch. 'Are you sure you don't want a woman with more experience to accompany you, Troy?' Samantha purred down the phone while Daisy made vomiting noises in the background. 'I've seen all your movies, you know.'

Troy gulped uneasily. Did she mean she's somehow gotten hold of the 'home movies' he made with Sage? The same movies Sage swore she'd deleted off her phone but for all he knew were headlining every porn channel the internet had to offer? He'd looked - very diligently - for them, dedicating hours to the search, but so far, had come up empty-handed. Rather messily so.

Troy bit his fingernails. Will will kill him if any of those videos became public.

'Mrs Dorchester,' he schmoozed, 'my manager is most firm on this point. I need to cement my fandom, among the thirteen-to-sixteen age bracket.' He prayed Daisy was aged between thirteen to sixteen.

Samantha puffed out a disappointed sigh before rallying. 'Well,' she sighed throatily, 'when you need to cement your 'fandom' with women between twenty-five and thirty-five, I do so hope you'll remember me.'

Daisy rolled her eyes so hard she gave herself a headache. Her tramp of a mother was fifty years old! She'd seen her driver's licence and all.

Anyway, the great day finally arrived!

Daisy was whisked out of school (no hardship, that) and was despatched to a beauty salon where she was washed, conditioned, toned, dried, buffed, clipped, shined and painted until she looked 'lovely,' according to Samantha, but in reality like a twenty-five-year-old high-class hooker.

Back home, Daisy slammed and locked her bedroom door on her protesting mother, adjusted her hair and make-up until she could pass for a sassy sixteen-year-old, and carefully climbed into the dress she bought under Hermione's wise advisement (and over her mother's sulks, because she refused to try on a slinky black snakeskin halter-neck dress with a neckline that plunged to the navel and floor-length skirt with a side-split that went up to her hip bone).

Samantha cheered herself up by buying it for herself, instead.

In Draco and Hermione's flat, one member of the household didn't want Draco to go out tonight. So while he was in the bathroom, making sure his hair was identical in every way to Troy's signature style, that member of the household jumped on the bed and lounged comfortably on top of Draco's tuxedo, waiting to be formed over his tall and sexy frame.

Draco's roar of rage bought Hermione sprinting from the study table with her Healer's kit, presuming Draco had accidentally chopped off a finger or some other equally-needed body part. Flying into the bedroom, she pulled up short at the sight of a gloriously naked and angry Adonis, shouting and jabbing his finger at an unconcerned kneazle-cat, who was industriously occupied in rolling every inch of his fluffy body over the tuxedo, generously layering it with strands, and – dare I even say – clumps, of orange fur.

Hermione tried not to laugh. 'Why did you leave the tux on the bed?' she managed.

Draco turned his icy glare on her. 'Because I've lived the past eighteen years of my life in a house and a school dorm that isn't occupied by the devil incarnate, currently walking this earth disguised as a fat, orange shedding mechanism!'

Hermione bristled. 'Crooks is not fat.'

Crooks, who'd rolled onto his back and couldn't see over his enormous tum for love nor money, chirped in agreement.

Draco wanted to grip his hair with frustration, but he'd undo all his hard work turning into Troy. (He would have asked Troy to send a few strands of hair over for a Polyjuice potion, if he could only have come up with a reasonable answer to Troy's inevitable 'What the hell do you want that for?')

'Whatever, love. Can you at least get him off my tux so I can get dressed?'

Hermione collected up the (not that she'd admit it to Draco) heavy orange puffball and settled him in her arms, while looking hungrily at the toned and lightly golden arse that was on display as its owner scourgified his tuxedo. She still got shivers down her spine when she thought back to that evening in the bath…

Draco felt his skin prickle. He was being watched. He turned around and confirmed that there were indeed two pairs sweeping over his naked body – one lovingly (cat); and one hungrily (girlfriend).

He quelled both with a much watered-down Malfoy Look as he pulled on his underwear. 'I don't have time for chin scratches or sex.'

Crooks jumped to the floor and slunk out in disappointment mode. Hermione's shoulders slumped. Her lower lip jutted out.

'Oh, no, not the lip,' Draco muttered, and hopped over to her while still pulling on his trousers. 'Darling,' – he kissed her pouty lip – 'you know I can't be late. Will's got everything scheduled down to the millisecond.'

'I know,' she sighed, brushing her hands over his taut torso. 'But I'm just so horny...'

Inwardly, Draco sobbed in despair. A horny Hermione is a glorious gift, to be refused only by the unutterably stupid. For a moment, his resolve softened, and a part of his anatomy hardened.

But then he thought of Daisy - young, lonely Daisy with the abominable family and snotty school acquaintances, who'd been burning up the minutes on both his and Hermione's phones with questions, comments, observations, memes and GIFs galore on Troy, the BAFTAs and how she was so excited she could barely eat, sleep or study.

With super-wizard strength and regret, he pulled away. 'Will you still be horny when I get back?' he asked hopefully.

She stared at him, then shrugged.

Draco trudged back to the bed and got dressed. Maybe he could convince Daisy to call it an early night?

A/N: I'm still working on the story, promise! Please hang around xx