Chapter 47
Sunday 16 March 2003: PM
Draco's lips curve as he takes in the utterly charming sight of Hermione Jean Granger sleeping soundly on their big white bed; she is emitting soft, snuffling snores every few moments from her sprawled pose of face-down (with a book still loosely clasped in her small hand). The warm mellow light spilling from the bedside lamp illumines her beautiful face and the sweet line of her exposed neck, back, and shoulders.
Disobedient little witch took off her bra before collapsing on the bed... despite my admonition to not get changed. Difficult to truly berate her defiance, though... not when she looks simultaneously sexy and adorable.
Moving carefully, Draco slips the paperback from her grasp, sparing a quick glance for the title and author: 'Rules of Surrender' by Christina Dodd. The cover shows a brooding young rake with his white shirt and blue jacket unbuttoned to his waist, revealing an impressive expanse of lightly tanned musculature. Blond like me… though I'm better looking, Draco decides. Intrigued, he turns it over to check the blurb.
'The Rules of Employment for The Distinguished Academy of Governesses: Always remember your station. Be sure to maintain a disciplined schoolroom. And never become too familiar with the master of the house…' Interesting. And includes some steamy ripping of the heroine's chemise by the fair hero, judging by the page that currently lies open.
We never did get to act out 'Lord of the Manor Ravishes Bookish Governess', did we? Draco muses, as he relocates the downy owl feather Hermione is using as a bookmark and sets the book upon the dresser. He laughs quietly to himself at the multiplying sexual fantasies they are rapidly accumulating. Perhaps I could encourage my saucy scholar to read aloud from this titillating tome tomorrow evening...
"D-Draco? Have I been asleep long?" Hermione's groggy voice interrupts his reverie. She yawns hugely, cocoa eyes blinking as she wiggles her face against the pillow. She smiles slowly at him and he forgets to breathe.
This. This very moment is what I have been wishing for… dreaming of… aching to experience… for an eon. Scratch that – my whole life, it feels like. Say something.
"Ma petite – you are spectacular, do you know that? Has anyone told you that today?" Draco husks the impulsive compliment, sitting down beside her and carefully sweeping his quivering hand from her opulent russet hair to the base of her naked back.
Hermione shrugs. "Just you… and the Head Boy at Hogwarts this morning: Minerva asked him to escort me around the renovated grounds… he seemed a tad smitten," she teases, lowering her dark eyelashes and biting back her impudent grin.
Draco chuckles, prowling over her supine form to cage her beneath him; he trails languid kisses up her spine, ensuring that he doesn't miss a single vertebra. "Indeed? He must be a bold blighter: didn't he fear the vengeful wrath of your proprietorial boyfriend?".
"Oh – he was simply starstruck," Hermione snickers. "Are you going to get all riled up over the mild adoration of a pimply seventeen year old youth? I think not, mon coeur."
"What's his name?" Draco sternly demands; he is unable to maintain his dour veneer as Hermione turns wide eyes upon him. The look on her face!
"Malfoy! You are a wretch!" Hermione gurgles as he continues to press warm smooches along her backbone. "Leave Joseph alone, he's a lovely lad. And he's a Ravenclaw: it's pleasing to see other Houses being recognized and encouraged."
"'Joseph', eh? I'll thank him to keep his callow flattery to himself," he nibbles at her neck as she twitches happily beneath him. "Why were you being shown around Hogwarts today, Granger? Is it something to do with the Ministry?". Draco's curiosity is piqued.
Flipping onto her back, Hermione stares up at him with hesitancy and hope warring in her expression. She places her right palm on his left cheek; Draco kisses it tenderly as he awaits her explanation.
"No… I went to meet Minerva for a job interview – for the Professor of Arithmancy role."
"You want to teach at Hogwarts? As in… permanently?" Draco swiftly taps into his Occlumency to keep surprise and trepidation off his features. Hermione needs to know she has my full support in everything she chooses to undertake… though I cannot help but selfishly worry that she may be trying to slow down how quickly our relationship is progressing. No. Don't panic. Listen to your sagacious sorceress: she always has A Plan.
"Yes. I have been thinking a lot lately, about my career, and ambitions. You were right when you advised me not to continue stagnating in a dead-end job, Draco. I have been trying to meet other people's expectations of me, and succeeded in becoming miserable and unfulfilled. Thank you for helping me to see that," Hermione strokes his cheek and gazes deeply into his cool mercury eyes.
"And before you freak out – yes, I see you trying desperately to appear unruffled – I have no intention of living apart from you, Malfoy. I've discussed our situation with Minerva, and we've settled upon a few workable options… depending on whether you're amenable to any of them, of course. I don't – I don't presume to order about your life, I mean I am going to take your opinion into account, always–"
Hermione's nervous gabble is stilled when Draco dips his head to graze his mouth across her sensual lips. "Breathe, Granger. I trust you. And whatever you want… we will work together to make it happen," he promises. "Keep telling me about your interview, please."
Her voice hitches as she replies, "Sometimes I think I've dreamed you into existence, Draco… you're so supportive, and hearing you say that – I just–" she breaks into hiccoughing little sobs.
"Hey, hey, hey – please don't cry, sweetheart… save your tears for the rapturous aftermath of our next otherworldly sexual encounter," Draco hopes his teasing will ease her weeping.
"You were crying tonight, too," Hermione reminds him, smiling wanly through her sniffles. "After I rocked your world," she adds with a pert wink.
Oh, darling – you rocked my world many moons ago. Spun it off its wobbling axis and shot me clean into another galaxy. He shifts to lie on his side next to her, propping his sharp chin on his hand.
"Ecstatic sex tears are the best tears," Draco agrees unabashedly. "Now – how are we going to make this work, hmmm?" he prompts.
"Right. Well, Minerva said she can grant me special dispensation to return to the townhouse every weeknight via the Floo – so I'd be working a standard eight hour day at Hogwarts. I would have to make myself available to work certain weekends and vacations, depending on special events and the like, so as not to disadvantage the other teachers who live on-site. But she is working on updating the employment conditions anyway, to standardize the leave entitlements and equitable rostering and so forth," Hermione elucidates.
"Headmistress McGonagall is comfortable with me… being your boyfriend? Even though…" Draco trails off, swallowing the rest of his sentence.
Boring her index finger into his hard pectorals, Hermione scolds, "Don't go calling yourself an 'ex-Death Eater' or an 'addict' – or I shall bite you. Hard. Minerva told me herself that she admires your 'good heart', and to please pass on her 'encouragement and approbation'. Which reminds me to chivvy you about another rather important fact she mentioned – but I'll put a pin in that for later.'
"Minerva made another suggestion, Malfoy. She said that if you're interested, she wants to discuss the possibility of you teaching art – and art therapy – at Hogwarts. And training to be a back-up Potions Master." Hermione chews at her bottom lip. "You look somewhat stunned, handsome; I'll give you a moment to process it, OK?".
Me? A Hogwarts… professor? Me? Draco dimly wonders whether the whites of his eyes are displaying. He tries to articulate his thoughts.
"You're certain she meant… me? OK, OK – don't bite me, please!" Draco adroitly avoids Hermione's snapping teeth. "I never thought – I never expected that I'd be welcomed to work at Hogwarts… not after what I did," he guiltily refers to his terrible deeds of Sixth Year – and beyond. He shakes his head regretfully. "No – I can't imagine the students' parents would approve. Much less the Board of Governors. I appreciate the offer, though."
"You capitulate far too easily – except when you're being possessive and authoritarian with me," Hermione argues. "Have some faith in Minerva's clout and determination; and my stubborn ability to get what I want," she laughs. "Rest assured that any rumblings from that stuffy old Board will soon quell when they learn of your bountiful generosity, Malfoy. Plus – Skeeter's upcoming series of articles are guaranteed to set the record straight about what truly happened, and the myriad ways in which you've sought meaningful redemption and effected positive healing for those affected by the War."
Turning on her side to clearly face him, Hermione stretches her arms around Draco's neck and back. "I think I have a right to feel smug at settling your dithering concerns in a couple of sentences… but the real question is: Do you want to teach at Hogwarts? Please don't decide based on my desires, either; this has to be something you wish to do for yourself," she clarifies. "Minerva said if all else fails, she can set you up on an obscure Ministry Humanities Grant as an Artist in Residence."
The idea of being holed up in a remote tower of the sprawling castle painting like a fiend while being under the benevolent patronage of Headmistress McGonagall causes Draco to laugh heartily. "Oh, Granger – how did you get so smart, huh? And cunning… ma petite, your wiliness arouses me no end. I'd call you a 'Slytherdor' if it wouldn't upset you."
He bops the tip of her cute nose with his fingertip. "Since when were the fine arts considered part of the Hogwarts curriculum? I never wanted my donations to become public knowledge – and what's this about Skeeter? You and Mother strong-armed her into something not quite ethical, didn't you?" Draco tsks.
"Ethical, schmethical," Hermione deflects. "We went easy on Rita, anyway." She pauses. "Malfoy… if you aren't interested in working at Hogwarts, I'll reconsider taking the professorship – I mean, it hasn't formally been offered to me yet, but Minerva told me that she wants to groom me to one day be her replacement…!" her excitement at the opportunity is evident in her high, breathless tone.
Draco smothers her happy face in quick delighted kisses, as she tries to peck him back amidst her giggles. "Granger, that's wonderful news – congratulations! I'm so proud of you – and of course you will take the job. Never hold back on your dreams because of me, ma petite. That's not right and never will be."
He cannot resist plundering Hermione's bonny mouth for a deep, radiant kiss before he answers her query. Her energetic response and the impatient way she tows his willing body atop hers again effectively scramble his brains to pulp… and harden his loins into steel.
"Mmmphff, tu as un goût si sucrée–" Draco mumbles against her luscious lips as he strives to remember whatever it was he wanted to say.
"I taste so sweet? It must be the strawberries and apple juice," Hermione deliberately misunderstands, clamping her lissome legs around his waist and grinding provocatively.
"It's not that – it's you," Draco corrects, groaning as her delectably bare breasts pleasurably abrade his torso. Her nipples are already beaded and he can feel the growing dampness of her core even through his woollen trousers and cotton boxers. "Wait, sweetheart – I must tell you…"
"Hmmm? Go on, then– " she hums as she places equidistant kisses along his jawline.
Somehow, Draco manages to cool his blood long enough to solemnly state, "Hermione – I'd love to teach at Hogwarts, or paint at Hogwarts… I'll do anything and go anywhere, as long as I can be with you." He shyly ducks his head before looking back at her to elaborate, "Assuming you want me to live with you in the castle, of course. And yes, I do want to work at our alma mater," he anticipates Hermione's repeated demand to know his true leanings.
"Thank you, ma petite. You've been a busy little bee, haven't you? Any other surprises for me?" Draco nuzzles below her ear, surreptitiously inhaling her uniquely captivating scent of rose geraniums, bergamot, and vanilla. Pure Amortentia.
Hermione begins to shake her head, stilling the motion as she recalls, "Yes: we're going to have dinner with Mum and Dad on Wednesday night. Dad wants to make his 'famous' Portuguese butterflied chicken on the barbecue; I hope you like a bit of chilli. Or a lot. His spice measuring techniques are a bit fast and loose."
"With a side of arsenic for me? Lovely," Draco grumbles. "Must I go? You know your father is gunning for me, Granger. He wants my head on a platter – just so he can pull out all my teeth at his leisure, I suspect."
"Dad asked after you, actually. Wanted to know how you were coping, after he read that horrid Prophet article," Hermione startles him with her admission. "But don't let him know I told you that he's softening; he wants to terrorize you a little longer."
"Happy to oblige," Draco quips. "I suppose the randy little rascal downstairs is to accompany us? And Granger – you have no idea the trauma I've suffered tonight. No idea," he stresses with an exaggerated full-body shudder.
Hermione looks shifty. "Well, about that… I think we should leave Mac here. And he could ask Ruibby to come over, so they can have some… privacy," she intimates.
"Privacy? What – oh. Oh, no. Dragon's balls! Under our very roof?! Do you know what he informed me, just before I fled upstairs? Macdolas assured me that he has 'the utmost confidence in his future sexings, now that he knows how to usher his Gentleman into Ruibby's Altar of Venus'!" he indignantly paraphrases.
Hermione is gasping from laughing so fiercely. "W–Would you rather they risk getting caught in flagrante delicto in the Manor? By Lucy, perhaps? Come on, Draco: they're both of age, and Ruibby's aggressive pursuit of claiming Mac's chastity is tying him up in knots," she wheezes in rebuttal.
Knots: I need to insert a small chapter about the do's and don'ts of bondage. Draco makes a mental note to include that in the guidebook.
"This is simply ghastly, any way you look at it," he bemoans. "I just reminded myself to add a chapter on rope play to my elven sex ed manual, for Salazar's sake!".
"'Elven sex ed manual' – you wrote one for Mac? Oh, Malfoy – you've such a kind, soft heart!" Hermione sprinkles adoring kisses over his blushing cheeks.
"Wrote and illustrated one – a tasteful interpretation, I hope. Thought it might be easier than having to detail everything in person," Draco gruffly explains. "Yes, yes, I realize it's hilarious," he grouches as her laughter escalates. "It's much less funny when you're living it, believe me. And don't go attributing altruistic motives to my actions: I find it nigh impossible to deny you anything, as you well know."
Hermione nods merrily, clearly rejoicing in his admission of devotedness to her every whim. "So it's agreed? Mac and Ruibby have permission to… indulge in some rumpy-pumpy in his bedroom while we're out?" she ploughs on, disregarding Draco's cringe.
"Did you have to couch it in such a fashion?" he whines. "Can't we – I don't know – can't we pack them off to a… a… bed and breakfast, or something?".
"Malfoy, I have yet to hear of any B&Bs catering to house elves," Hermione clucks. "And you did tell Mac when he moved in that the old boxroom beside the laundry was his own private domain, to do with as he wished," she reminds him.
"I should know better than to start a debate with a lawyer. Very well – but you are taking over this wretched business, now. My peace of mind is shot to ribbons," Draco dramatically declares.
"Pfft. Always with the over-acting," Hermione ribs. "We can tell Mac in the morning – together," she winks, her cinnamon eyes shimmering with amusement.
Such a cheeky little enchantress. Draco catches his breath, lost in the sheer delight of desultorily cuddling and conversing with the woman he has desired for so long.
"Ooh! That reminds me – Minerva told me that she believes you protected the First Years when they were subjected to the Carrows' forced torture… is that true?" Hermione petitions, her aspect growing serious. He stays silent as she continues, "Did you try to shield me too, Draco? Back at the Manor… when Bellatrix…"
His throat closes with an overload of emotion; Draco inclines his chin in the slightest degree.
Hermione thirstily captures his lips, arching up into him and feverishly running her hands all over his broad back and shoulders. The bold stroke of her tongue into his mouth sets him aflame; he responds by settling deeper into the apex of her thighs and driving down to bump his hardness against her warm core. Molten waves of pleasure deluge his senses and shred his prior unselfish intention to let his worn-out lioness achieve some recuperative slumber.
Breathing jaggedly, Draco breaks off from their impassioned kiss to apologize, "I wasn't able to safeguard you from much of the pain and invasiveness of Bellatrix's torture that night – I'm so sorry, Hermione, I was hopelessly panicked and terrified for you–" he is unable to finish as the horrible memories stream relentlessly into his psyche.
"Shush… I am amazed that you tried, Draco – and you did help, I felt it, though I didn't realize it was your intervention. I thought Bellatrix must have been devolving in her hysteria about the Sword of Gryffindor, and that was why the pain eased dramatically." Hermione cradles his face in her hands as she smiles beatifically and whispers, "Thank you."
Don't thank me, ma chérie; I didn't save you, when I should have. I have made so many mistakes… Draco tenses his jaw as his doubt and disgust rear their ugly heads.
"Hey, none of that," Hermione firmly grasps his chin and draws his despondent gaze back to her own determined one. "If you'd tried to free me from your unhinged, evil aunt back then, we'd likely all not have lived to see the dawn. You did protect me, and I am forever grateful, and humbled. You're a good man with a good heart, Draco… you're my sweetheart, and I pinch myself every day because I cannot believe my serendipity."
I am going to gush like a defective faucet in a moment. Draco doesn't dare try to speak, lest he completely disintegrate.
"So – are you going to put your own Gentleman Usher to good use tonight, or what?" Hermione incites, shamelessly nudging his rampant stiffness with her lace-covered mons.
Groaning, Draco inches away. "You're exhausted, ma petite; may we take a rain check for tomorrow night, instead? Unless you're willing to reconsider returning to work tomorrow… I thought not," he says as Hermione mulishly shakes her head.
"Your seductive pout is ruined by that big yawn," Draco wryly points out, ignoring her grumpy protest as he rolls off her tempting body to stand. He quickly shucks off his trousers and boxers, leaning over Hermione to tug off her lacy panties in one efficient action. "Under the covers with you, sweetheart."
Draco flips back the bedding and slides in to spoon against her back; he valiantly ignores the deliberate, slithering fidget of her rump against his groin.
"Go to sleep, minette – tomorrow we'll either play Hogwarts dress-ups, or 'Regency Governess Breaks the Rules and is Summarily Punished for It'," he smiles against her abundant sienna tresses.
"You've been reading my book," Hermione drowsily accuses, lacing her fingers through his as she adjusts his arm below her bare breasts.
"Just the smutty bits," Draco concedes. "Bonne nuit, ma belle sorcière." He softly kisses her temple and closes his eyes.
"Bonne nuit, mon beau sorcier." Hermione falls asleep in a handful of heartbeats. Draco fights sleep for a few minutes, luxuriating in their harmonic intimacy.
Je suis votre sorcier, Hermione. Toujours.
Monday 17 March 2003: AM
"Her Grace Lady Granger – Master Malfoy approaches!" Macdolas's over-loud, animated announcement jolts Hermione from her focused perusal of the towering backlog of boring administrative files on the right side of her borrowed desk. She takes a moment to (mentally) thank Marilda Sandore once again for having the foresight to temporarily move her into a small spare office in a back corner of the Auror Division.
I love Mac dearly – but his voice could shatter crystal when he is at the height of his excitability levels. Perhaps he will settle down once we go to Harry's office for lunch and a catch-up on the case. He's been climbing the walls ever since we suggested the Wednesday night plan to him over breakfast.
Hermione spares a quick look in the dull mirror above her desk, her heartbeat quickening as she tucks that one aggravating curl back behind her right ear. My boyfriend is here!
"You don't need that mirror to tell you you're the fairest of them all, ma petite." Draco's flattering words are as suave as his cultured tones.
Turning to deliver a pithy quip about stealing compliments from fairy tales, Hermione's mouth parts in surprise and joy as she takes in the massive bunch of lilac and white flowers Draco is holding out. The fine darker purple stripes on the outer petals perfectly offset the paler centres. Mac is beaming by the open doorway… and still jiggling like he's being lightly electrocuted.
"These are Peruvian lilies; and I shall tell you their floriographic meaning tonight, Granger," Draco cuts a meaningful look in the direction of the jittery elf.
Trying not to pinken at the sexual intent behind his words, Hermione gathers the fragrant bouquet in both hands. "They're gorgeous, Malfoy. Thank you." She leans forward to kiss her appreciation, but is stymied as Macdolas wedges himself between them.
"Macdolas places the glorious blooms in water for Her Grace Lady Granger and reminds his venerable employers that His Most Revered Excellency Auror Harry Potter awaits their combined presence in his office!" he officiously pips.
The flowers are summarily snatched from Hermione's hands and carefully inserted into a newly magicked ceramic vase on Hermione's work table.
"Has he been like this all morning?" Draco frowns as they track Macdolas's gambolling progress around the room. "He looks like Rumpelstiltskin; admittedly, the court jester's outfit isn't helping," he observes.
Swallowing her chuckle, Hermione defends her vivacious little bodyguard. "He must have asked my opinion on which gifts to present to Ruibby at least half a dozen times since we arrived this morning; he'll calm down by the end of the day, I'm sure," she avows, sotto voice.
Mac frets at the elasticized hems of his black and green harlequin-patterned jumpsuit. The bells on his bi-horned padded hat and curled-toed Crakow boots jangle as he fusses with his attire.
"Macdolas – you look the very picture of a deranged court attendant. Stop your twiddling and come along," Draco dryly instructs. He takes Hermione's right hand in his left as she reaches for Macdolas's gnarly digits.
"Don't ruddy skip," Draco mutters before Hermione elbows him into silence.
It is a short walk to Harry's office. Macdolas does the honour of knocking, flinging open the door with gusto as Harry's low voice grants them entry.
The modest space is filled with people and the enticing smell of hot food. Hermione blinks as she registers Pansy perched atop Harry's desk; Blaise is occupying one of the two armchairs in front of it, Theo the other. Harry wrenches his brooding stare from Pansy as all the men rise at their approach.
"Hi, Harry, Pansy, Theo, Blaise," Hermione gives Pansy a quick side hug, kisses Harry's cheek, squeezes Theo's wiry arm, and steps neatly out of Blaise's way as he looms in for a tight embrace. Draco growls and blocks him anyway.
"I didn't know you guys were joining us for lunch?" Hermione queries. From the corner of her eye, she notes Draco and Blaise tussling briefly over the chair; Draco claims it with a well-timed shove and beckons her over to sit in his lap. Hermione wiggles into it immediately, hiding a smile as he subtly adjusts his position when she mock-innocently rubs against his crotch.
"I ran into Theo when he was on his way up to meet with Blaise and Pansy half an hour ago; he suggested we should all sit down and brainstorm who could be behind the roofie plot," Harry answers.
"Lightning Bolt told us what happened at your flat yesterday, Hermione – are you OK?" Pansy's jade eyes gaze at her keenly. Harry makes a cross sound at the nickname, to which Pansy pays no heed.
"I'm fine, Pansy. I feel better knowing that my friends have my back," she smiles gratefully.
"Whatever you need, Hermione; you only have to ask," Theo affirms, as he sits back down. Harry remains standing.
"Parkinson – you can have my chair. I don't know why you wouldn't take it when I first offered it to you," Harry gripes.
Pansy tosses her head imperiously. "I'd rather sit atop your desk – my luscious legs are displayed to their best advantage… and knowing that it irks you makes it all the sweeter, Potter," she goads.
Harry scowls, choosing to ignore Pansy in favour of promoting the wide array of Chinese takeaway dishes to Hermione. "Here – I got your favourites, love. Honey chicken, special fried rice and sweet and sour pork. And beef in black bean sauce, Mongolian lamb, and prawn omelette. Plus there are spring rolls and crispy fried noodles in those white bags," he points. "Paper plates and chopsticks on the side there."
"Thanks, Harry." Hermione quickly fills a single plate for herself and Draco, piling it high as she decides that it will be fun to share. Everyone else follows suit, Mac sidling up to the table ahead of Blaise and helping himself to a generous portion of each container. He sits down on a conveniently located metal filing cabinet and starts scarfing down his luncheon.
Watching Mac expertly wield chopsticks is truly a sight to behold, Hermione ponders, as she tucks into the delicious spread. Draco takes advantage of her momentary distraction to steal one of her battered pork morsels.
"Come sit in my lap, Golden Girl – I won't nick your food," Blaise promises, sitting beside Pansy and patting his strong thighs with his free hand.
Draco answers for her. "Get your own girlfriend, Zabini. Hermione's mine." He snuggles her a little closer, being mindful of the plate of food she holds.
Harry sighs. "Must you two constantly rub our faces in your overblown romance?" he snipes; his remonstration carries a sharp edge that is markedly unlike his usually equable temperament.
Poor Harry – he is taking on too much. He still looks dog-tired: he mustn't have gotten a wink of sleep last night. Hermione doesn't get a chance to soothe her old friend's unrest before Pansy jumps in.
"Leave off, Lightning Bolt! Just because you're a bitter bachelor – it doesn't give you the right to piss all over our friends' happiness," she censures. "Look to what's lacking in your own life before you criticize other people's."
Harry stands up, gripping the edge of his sturdy desk as he snarls, "Going to bang that drum again, Pansy? Since when did you become such an advocate for sloppy romance, anyway?".
"Around the same time you first had that stick lodged up your arse, Harry," Pansy retorts with vim. "What's your problem with me? You've been grimacing in my direction ever since I walked in."
Harry sucks in a deep, angry breath. "You want to know what my problem is? Go back five years, Pansy – back to the day you were oh-so-willing to give me up to Voldemort without a second's hesitation. And yet you're waltzing around here now like that never happened – as if saving your own skin wasn't more important than overthrowing a demonic terror," he rasps furiously.
The room has fallen utterly silent; even Mac has ceased his diligent chomping as he soaks up the sudden melodrama with astounded eyes.
Oh, Harry. There's more to this than meets the eye, Hermione sadly ponders.
Pansy unfreezes, precisely laying down her plate and wooden cutlery. She swivels elegantly off the desk, standing to face the angry man behind the desk. Her carefully blank eyes and rigid spine betray her turmoil.
"I apologize, Auror Potter. For both my reprehensible actions that day, and my oversight in not asking your pardon sooner. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to enjoy your lunch with your friends." Pansy smiles tightly and manages to not look a single one of her ex-schoolmates in the eye as she glides toward the door, opening and closing it almost noiselessly.
Everyone remaining in the office stares at Harry with varying degrees of concern and accusation. Before any of them can speak, Harry fists at his hair and moans in self-directed frustration.
"I know - I'm an arsehole, alright? I'm sorry – I don't know what came over me… just seeing her sitting there, baiting me… swinging her legs…" he growls anew.
"I have a fair idea what's going on," Theo murmurs, as Harry's head whips around to glare at him.
"I'd best go after her; you really hurt her then, Harry," Hermione begins to slide off Draco's lap, but his arm hooking around her waist holds her in position.
"No you won't, Granger – Potter is going to find her, and apologize profusely," Draco sternly intones. "He will do whatever it takes to restore her equilibrium, and bring her back to his office. Go on, Harry – run along," he urges.
To Hermione's surprise, Harry hustles to the door without a word of objection, leaving it ajar in his haste.
"His Excellency Master Harry Potter speaks cruelly to the Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson," Macdolas sorrowfully remarks. He looks longingly at Pansy's half-finished plate, swiftly dropping his avaricious eyes as Draco frowns at him.
"Well, that escalated quickly, didn't it?" Blaise jabs a chopstick in the air as he announces, "I'm running a betting pool: I'll stump up fifty Galleons that those two will be rolling in the sack by the end of the Spring Equinox Ball. Any takers?".
"Blaise!" Hermione's squawk is drowned out as Draco and Theo simultaneously reply, "You're on."
"Excellent," Blaise grins. "Care to nominate your preferred timelines?"
Hermione wrests herself free of Draco's slackened hold to round on the juvenile men. "Forget it! No one is taking that bet, Blaise. I'm sure you're way off base, anyway. Harry's just under a lot of stress, that's all."
She grits her teeth as the Slytherins share the same pitying look at her opinion. "What?".
Draco hesitantly expounds, "Granger… though you are the most intelligent and savvy person I've ever met… in this instance, you can't see the Forbidden Forest for the Whumping Willows, ma petite. You could have started a fire with the heat coming off Potter and Pansy right now. Harry wasn't irate because of historic misdeeds; he was riled up by Pansy's proximity."
Wait – really? Hermione's comprehension of the tense situation shifts as each wizard nods in turn. She flops back down onto Draco's lap as she struggles to process this astonishing new development. He affectionately kisses the side of her ear.
"I'd be extremely surprised if both of them don't appear somewhat… rumpled when they come back," Blaise asserts.
The final word goes to Macdolas, after he swallows his last mouthful of rich Chinese fare.
"Macdolas asks Master Malfoy if 'rolling in the sack' is the same as playing 'hide the sausage'? And is 'dancing the Paphian jig' exactly the same as 'making butter with one's tail'? Macdolas has many questions requiring answers," he earnestly pronounces.
With the exception of Draco, the humans burst into laughter in unison. Hermione laughs even harder as she hears Draco's petulant response.
"Humping Hufflepuffs – is it Wednesday yet?".
French translation:
tu as un goût si sucrée – you taste so sweet
Bonne nuit, ma belle sorcière – Goodnight, my beautiful witch.
Bonne nuit, mon beau sorcier – Goodnight, my handsome wizard.
Je suis votre sorcier, Hermione. Toujours. – I am your wizard, Hermione. Always.
The quoted excerpt blurb is from 'Rules of Surrender' by Christina Dodd, published 2002.
Bonus content: Chapter 1 of 'Harry's Apology'.
Monday 17 March 2003: PM
"Pansy – hold up!" Harry races down the narrow corridor, catching a transient glimpse of swinging sable hair before she disappears around a corner. He kicks up his galloping pace another gear, grateful that the rest of the Auror Division have apparently already left the floor to feed their faces at the Ministry cafeteria (and are therefore unable to witness his hurtling pursuit of the maddening brunette witch).
Harry slows his feet, attempting to school his features into an expression of amiable approachability as he impulsively turns down a dead-end spur leading to an ancient archives room. Thank Godric. Pansy has her elegant back to him, her posture uncharacteristically hunched as her hand stills on the dull brass handle of the unlocked door.
"Parkinson. Why didn't you wait? You must have heard me calling you," Harry quietly asks, coming close enough to note the fine tremor running through her shoulders.
"Could you leave me alone, please." Pansy's voice is husky and pitched just above a whisper. She fumbles at the door handle and manages to open it, slipping inside without turning to face him.
Oh, no – I've made her cry. Harry hesitates at the half-open portal, wondering if he will do more harm than good if he continues to pursue the upset woman.
Screw it – I need her to know I regret my nasty, hasty outburst. Entering the windowless space, Harry pulls out his wand and utters a soft 'Lumos': a thin beam of light streams from the tip.
He feels more than a stab of guilt at the sight before him. Pansy is leaning her back against a stack of haphazardly stacked old parchments and books, arms wrapped around her middle… sobbing noiselessly.
Lowering his wand, Harry clears his throat. "Pansy… please don't cry. I'm sorry I spoke so harshly to you, in my office. I was out of line–"
"Can't you just leave me alone? P-please," she croaks. The dim light yet affords him a view of the distraught witch ineffectively swabbing at her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands.
"Here–" Harry retrieves a clean (albeit crumpled) white handkerchief from one of the many pockets of his scarlet Auror's robes, waving it in front of Pansy's face like a white flag of surrender. She doesn't take it: Harry risks raising his right hand to carefully blot beneath her sad moldavite-green eyes himself.
"I feel like such a heel… making you cry," he mutters, popping a muscle in his stubbled jawline as his fury turns inward. "It was badly done of me – would you please accept my apology?".
Silence. Harry continues his gentle ministrations, transfixed when her lashes fully flutter open and her jasper-green gaze meets his. Has she always been so pretty? So… enchanting? He dazedly stows the hankie back in his pocket.
"Only on the condition you accept mine," Pansy husks. A slow smile dawns on her face like the coming of first spring. Acting purely on irresistible instinct, Harry doesn't realize he is bending his mouth to skim across her sensuous lips until he makes first contact.
Shivers careen across his nerve endings, multiplying as Pansy meets his light pressure with her own, her tongue shyly darting to ravel with his before retreating. Harry's wand clatters to the dusty floor as his hands find superior employment gliding over her curvy hips, his calloused hands snagging on the dense material of her dark navy dress.
Her nimble hands thread through his thick black hair, yanking and smoothing in equal measure; Harry glories at the sensation and slants his mouth more aggressively as their kiss intensifies in a matter of milliseconds. He crowds her into the tottery archived stack, uncaring when a thick sheaf careens off the top to land with a heavy thump.
"Pansy…" Harry's fingertips brush against the underside of her ripe breasts as she tugs at the collar of his robes and slips a hand to the curve of his neck, nails scraping deliciously over his collarbone.
Later that night, Harry wonders wistfully how far they would have gone with their unscheduled (insanely flammable) clinch, had they not been startled by voices in the nearby corridor.
Breaking apart and breathing unevenly, Harry shakily adjusts his rounded spectacles, unable to look away from the beautiful sorceress before him.
He gathers his nerve to request, "Pansy… would you please accompany me back to my office? You can sit on my d-desk as long as you like." He hopes she cannot see his blush as the unintentional innuendo echoes in his ears.
Chuckling softly, Pansy nods. "I'd like that." Straightening, she hesitates before offering her hand to shake. "Friends?".
"Friends," Harry immediately agrees, briskly shaking her slim hand and dismissing his sudden clanging disappointment. I'm tired, and stressed. Emotions all over the shop. Yeah.
Stooping to pick up his wand, he deactivates the light and gestures to the ajar door. "After you."
Walking back side-by-side in sedate silence, Harry tells himself he leaves his hand resting ever-so-lightly on Pansy's hip because he is naturally solicitous… just in case she stumbles in those spiky high heels.
Friends take care of each other, after all.
