**Please note: the Dramione role-play scene in this chapter may present as 'non-consensual', but both parties have negotiated and given their prior consent, and the scene would stop immediately if that were to be withdrawn at any time.**

Chapter 48

Monday 17 March 2003: PM

"OK, Pansy – spill," Hermione smiles at Mac before she firmly closes the door to her temporary office; her diminutive elvish bodyguard is standing stoically in position in the hallway, looking surprisingly alert considering how hard his digestive system must be working after their long lunch with Harry. She shakes her head indulgently as she remembers Mac managing to sneak past Draco long enough to appropriate Pansy's abandoned plate, after all.

"Spill what? If you're looking for gossip on what happened when Potter caught up to me – there's nothing to tell," Pansy sniffs, conveniently burying her nose in the redolent purplish lilies sitting on Hermione's desk.

"Really? Your smeared lipstick tells a different story," Hermione chides, laughing as Pansy immediately raises her head like a startled fawn.

"What? No– it's colour-stay!" Pansy hurries to stand in front of the shabby little mirror. She ceases fussing at her immaculate maquillage as she realizes she's been had. "Ha ha, very funny." Pansy folds her arms and releases a world-weary sigh.

"Nothing happened: Harry kissed me as part of his apology, that's all." Her dazzling viridian green eyes still refuse to meet Hermione's acute regard.

"Huh. Harry's dishevelled hair and robes tell a decidedly divergent story, Pansy." Goodness gracious… is Pansy actually blushing? Hermione marvels at the unexpected vision.

"Potter's general slovenliness has nothing to do with me," Pansy haughtily asserts. "I mean – what's going on with his hairstyle, anyway? Does he cut it himself with a bowl and a pair of nail scissors? He's a primary representative of the Ministry and he should look and dress the part – not slob about like a… like a…" she trails off as Hermione clucks her tongue pityingly.

"'The lady doth protest too much, methinks'… Come on, Pansy, your secret's safe with me," Hermione soothes. "We're friends now, aren't we? I promise not to breathe a word to Draco… though the boys were the ones who had to remove my blinkers, after the fraught sexually-charged performance you and Harry acted out in his office," Hermione admits.

"Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK," Pansy snarls. "I loathe being the subject of spurious gossip! It's none of their bloody business! That fathead Blaise teed off on me, didn't he?" she demands.

Hermione hurries to assuage Pansy's aggravation. "No, they weren't disrespectful, Pansy. Well, Blaise did want to start a betting pool – never mind," she glosses over Zabini's roguish proposition. "We were all worried about you, and when Draco ordered Harry to go after you and grovel until you returned, Harry practically flew out the door in pursuit," she explains.

"He– he did?" Pansy breathes, looking oddly young and uncertain. She swiftly regains her composure, lifting an elegant shoulder to shrug, "Potter's cursed with an overactive conscience, that's all. He probably rescues flies trapped between sliding window panes. Bleeding Heart Syndrome up the wazoo," she mutters.

Moving cautiously, Hermione gathers the stiff Slytherin woman in a quick hug. "You looked like you needed that," she justifies her embrace. "I'm sorry for what Harry said to you; it was most unlike him to be unkind."

"He only spoke the truth. I was willing to sacrifice him – or I thought I was," Pansy glumly whispers, her pristine posture slumping as she leans against the desk. "Do you ever wish you could meet your teenage self and just shake some much-needed sense into her? I thought I'd made peace with that crass version of me… I guess it remains a bit raw."

"Oh, I still cringe thinking about how insufferably righteous I was," Hermione confesses. "No wonder I had a reputation for being an obnoxious little prig. I didn't mean to come across like that… I was defensive about my heritage, and utterly hell-bent on proving my right to be a witch," she sighs.

"But we're talking about you… and Harry," she steers the conversation back on track. "Pansy – do you have feelings for him?" she asks softly.

As expected, Pansy instantly scoffs. "I've a yen to jump his bones, if that's what you mean," she quibbles. "Though I couldn't tell you why – he's such a… a…."

"It's interesting how you're having trouble choosing the right descriptor," Hermione dryly notes. "Could it be because you haven't admitted to yourself that your attraction runs deeper than lust?".

"Oof – look at you, chatting so freely about the baser human conditions," Pansy is quick to retort. "Draco's been a terrible influence on the Good Golden Girl!".

"Or a brilliant one, depending on your point of view," Hermione rebuts. "Don't deflect, please: I am genuinely concerned for you, and I want to help… as your friend." She furtively crosses her fingers behind her back, hoping Pansy doesn't react negatively to the tentative olive branch.

The silence expands, finally broken by Pansy stepping away from the desk to give a flabbergasted Hermione a proper, tight hug. "You're a real sweetheart, Hermione. Thank you."

Is Pansy… sniffling? Hermione wills her expression to remain amiable and not alarmed at the unexpected display of emotion from her fierce new friend.

Drawing back, Pansy reveals, "I've crafted a new persona for myself out of the ashes of the old one – and I'm happy with who I am now – but every now and then, I get lonely… My family disowned me, you know. I don't miss them per se, but I miss knowing that there are people in the world who care about me, people who would drop everything if I asked them for help, you know?'.

"Oh, I detest myself for being soppy like this! I think that's why I come on too strong with Potter – it's a defence mechanism. I'll try to tone it down, I know he's sensitive and unused to my barbs and stings," she mutters.

Patting Pansy's taut shoulder consolingly, Hermione hums her empathy.

"Luna's been wonderful, but I don't get to spend time with her often… and when Har– Potter called me out in front of you guys, I was zapped straight back to that awful day, and being marched to the dungeons in disgrace…" Her velvet green eyes are dulled with the memories of shame and regret.

"I understand, Pansy. Especially about missing having a family to support you: but please know, we're your family now. Me, Draco, Luna, Theo – even Blaise, though he is a terrible ruffian," Hermione nudges her hip against Pansy's, relieved to see the raven-haired witch sporting a faint smile.

"And maybe you're not ready to hear this – but Harry cares about you, too. He was simply wild with himself when he realized how badly he'd hurt you. And you're right: maybe you should dial back your aggressive flirting a little; while I admire and respect your forthrightness, Harry is unaccustomed to that level of… pugnacity. I've known him for over half my life, so I am somewhat of an authority on the man, alright?".

Determining that Pansy may have reached her limit of deep and meaningful discourse for one day, Hermione makes one final statement. "Pansy, whatever happens between you and Harry is entirely your business, but I want you to know that as your friend, I am here to talk about it, vent, cry, offer (probably inept) advice – anything you need. And I won't be playing favourites, either. OK?".

Smoothing her palms down the fitted skirt of her gorgeous indigo fit-and-flare dress, Pansy nods her acceptance and smiles candidly.

Gosh, Harry is a goner if Pansy turns that guileless countenance on him, Hermione thinks with an inner chuckle.

"So… is there any chance I could ask you to buy and deliver a nightgown to me by this evening, please? High-necked, lots of buttons, semi-transparent white cotton? Regency-style?" Hermione changes the subject and adopts a supremely casual air while making the clothing request.

The last vestiges of Pansy's melancholy dissipate as she tips back her stylish head and laughs throatily. "Isn't that interesting? Draco sidled up to me when I returned to lunch and quietly asked about purchasing an eighteenth century men's silk banyan," she muses, tapping her manicured nails against her ruby-lipsticked mouth in a pretension of bemused contemplation.

"I wonder what games the two of you are planning for tonight's entertainment, hmmm?" she continues teasing, as Hermione's face flames crimson.

"Can you get the nightie or not, please," Hermione maunders, now wishing that Mac were free to go shopping for her instead.

Pansy squeezes her arm affectionately. "Of course I can, Little Miss Role-Play. It will be waiting for you when you get back to the townhouse. Provided you answer one teensy question for me…" she baits.

"Is this scenario you're planning going to be mostly improvised, or will you be working off a set script of some sort?" Pansy's query succeeds in Hermione's blood rush deepening.

"I'm going to write a short script in my afternoon tea break," Hermione reluctantly acknowledges. "Why is that so funny?" she asks aggrievedly.

"You two are such dorks," Pansy guffaws, as she heads for the door. "Good luck, Pollyanna. I might send a couple of gowns – Draco might wish to rip the first one clean off you," she smirks.

Before she departs, Pansy turns to say, "Hey, Hermione? Thanks. I'm glad you're my friend."

"Yeah – me too. Talk to you soon, Pansy," Hermione smiles and waves goodbye.

Mac slips in through the door, looking chuffed with the light forehead kiss Pansy bequeaths as she strides past him. He cocks his head puzzledly as Hermione thumps her burning forehead against the cool wood of her old desk a few times.

"Does Her Grace Lady Granger practise headbutts? Macdolas advises a softer surface for repeated thwacks," he decrees. "Macdolas learns the unforgiving nature of wood for self-castigation purposes before he becomes a free elf."

Oh, Mac - you darling little creature. Hermione squashes her loyal little guard into a tender hug. "Don't you ever go walloping yourself as punishment again, Mac – do you hear me? Or I shall be both cross and very upset," she cautions.

Mac's answering toothy smile would have her father in dentistry-based raptures if he could but see it. "Macdolas doubts he shall ever again feel the need for self-correction, Her Grace! He floats on Cloud Nineteen thinking about his Wednesday evening rendezvous with the superlative and seductive Ruibby!" he crows.

"It's 'Cloud Nine', sweetie," Hermione gently corrects. "Perhaps you should try to settle down a little; Wednesday is still a ways away, and you don't want to tie yourself in knots before the… main event, hmmm?". Knots – now I'm thinking about him tying up his little blonde girlfriend. Oh dear.

Her benign advice has little effect on Macdolas's ebullient mood, as he merely shrugs before skipping circles around her desk. 'Wind him up and watch him go', as Draco had laconically commented this morning. Hermione is relieved when her hyperactive fey bodyguard picks up an ancient feather duster and polishing rag tucked in a dusty corner and sets himself to telekinetically cleaning her office.

Four more hours of boring slog here, then my therapy session with Dr Rica… then home to Draco...

I can't wait.


"Why are you pricks still here, circling me like bloody sharks?" Potter grumbles, scratching at his scalp like a dog with fleas.

Draco puffs out a frustrated breath. "Because someone needs to give you some tips on the best way to handle Ms Pansy Parkinson – watching you ineptly lurching around her is painful and maddening, alright? Plus, we need to further discuss Operation Acromantula," he reminds the cranky Auror.

"I told you everything we know when the girls were still here," Potter objects, rocking back on his shabby office chair until it creaks in protest.

"Don't call them girls – they're women," Theo corrects, steepling his lean fingers beneath his chin.

Blaise barrels in. "Stow the semantics, Harry meant it as a term of affection, right mate? I reckon we should revisit that idea you had about taking Polyjuice Potion to impersonate Granger and 'staking a goat' at the Ball, so to speak," he prompts.

Everyone looks at Draco: he had vociferously supported Hermione's indignant refusal to countenance the proposition.

"No way – no way am I going to go behind Hermione's back on this. Just the thought of Potter looking and dressing as Granger makes me physically ill," he carps. "I don't need that in my head – ever.'

"And she's right, you don't have any proof that this sicko is planning something on the night of the Gala, anyway. It's being held in the heart of the Ministry, for goodness sake! He'd be mad to try it on then," Draco avers.

Harry rebuts, "Flint attempted to snatch her on her way back from the Courtrooms, Malfoy – I think we can correctly assume these bastards are recklessly overconfident, and use that knowledge in our favour."

"I won't keep secrets from my belov– from Granger," Draco sticks to his guns and wills away his blush at the abbreviated endearment. "Forget that harebrained scheme, Hermione would have all our guts for garters if we tried it. More importantly, we all discussed your list of suspects – and it could be any of them, or someone we've glossed over entirely," he frowns. "Also, it might be someone from an earlier, or later generation. You need to broaden your search parameters."

"Your list is heavy on the Slytherins and light on the other houses, Harry," Theo remarks. "Adrian Pucey, Gregory Goyle, Terence Higgs, Yatin Bhagat… I doubt they're capable of this kind of fell scheme."

"Greg is truly a changed man since the War, Potter," Draco chimes in. "Almost being immolated by Fiendfyre was an excellent motivator to rethink his philosophy on blood prejudice, as it happens."

Blaise adds, "Yeah, and I still catch up occasionally with Adrian and Terence – they're good guys, and I've never seen any indication that either of them are into anything dodgy. Yatin has been pursuing his true calling providing humanitarian aid in the mountain villages of Nepal for the last two years. You need to cast your net further afield, Harry."

"Well then – which names do you geniuses want to add to the tally, huh?" Harry snaps. "I'm not trying to be prejudiced against the Green Gang, I'm just struggling to find some evidence to point us in the right direction."

Draco squeezes the bridge of his nose, irritated by Harry's defensiveness. "Take a deep breath, Potter. What about Marcus Belby? He was in tight with the Slug Club: maybe he made some unsavoury friends there."

"Or Terry Boot? Cormac McClaggen? They both showed some interest in Hermione at Hogwarts," Theo pipes up.

"Highly unlikely – who else are you going to accuse? Seamus Finnegan?" Harry scoffs. "All those blokes fought against Voldemort and the Death Eaters in the Final Battle, remember."

The brunette wizard's seemingly automatic defence of his fellow Gryffindors riles up Draco instantly. "You just can't see it, can you?! People change, Potter. Seamus Finnegan was always quick to badmouth you when Voldemort first started making your life hell, as I recall," he cuttingly reminds. "Finnegan was constantly directed by his mother's opinions – who's to say a darker influence didn't persuade him to switch allegiances?".

Come on, Lightning Bolt – you need to be smarter than this. Hermione – and untold other witches and wizards – remain in peril while this scumbag is still lurking in the shadows. Draco's expression turns savage at the thought.

Blaise's mien has lost all of his usual easy-going bonhomie as he stiffly asserts, "You know most of us came back with Slughorn and battled against Voldemort too, right? I'm getting really fucking sick of all the anti-Snake rhetoric that continues to dog our footsteps." He folds his arms and glares at Harry.

"Peter Pettigrew was Sorted into Gryffindor," Theo quietly appends. "The Hat isn't foolproof – and we are all capable of making critical choices to change our fates, and our characters."

"Mother always says that 'everyone is capable of anything'… and that cuts both ways." Draco hopes that Harry is finally beginning to understand their position, as the bespectacled Auror's aspect morphs through varying stages of anger, disbelief, abashment… and clarity.

It's a marvel that Potter's hair hasn't fallen out in clumps, given the way he ritually abuses it. Draco winces as Harry grips his thick charcoal locks and worries at them again.

"Yeah… I'm sorry, guys. I see your point. I shouldn't assume that red is good and green is bad. I'll get to work investigating the rest of your suggested suspects," Harry concedes, looking deflated. "Anything else you want to talk about?".

"Pansy. What are your intentions toward her?" Draco gruffly challenges, deliberately replicating Potter's prior question to him during their first meeting in Interrogation Room Two. "You need to realize – Pansy presents a tough front, but her hard outer shell has been developed to protect her oft-wounded heart. I won't allow you to toy with her affections, Potter. If you intend to woo her, come chat with me about the best approach beforehand, do you hear?".

Theo and Blaise snicker as Harry shakes his head, projecting discomfort and discombobulation. "Your interfering counsel is superfluous, Malfoy! We just had a little spat. I already told you – I apologized for lashing out at her. The case has me on edge… we sorted our differences, and agreed to keep our interactions harmonious for the sake of the group," he blathers.

"How lovely – but you did not answer my original query." Draco is merciless. Witnessing Potter squirm in his ugly chair is both satisfying and amusing. It's nice to not be the man currently being razzed for refusing to acknowledge his true sentiments, too.

"Just because you're bobbing along happily in the Sea of Love with my best friend – it doesn't mean the rest of us are itching to follow suit, you know. Pansy and I are – friends. Well, we will be. Friendly. We are, I mean." Harry grabs the page of parchment nearest him and holds it in front of his scarlet face. "You can all leave now – I've got important research to begin."

"Have you asked Pansy to be your date for Saturday night?" Theo enquires.

"No – I'm going with Ron, anyway," Harry divulges. He returns the sheaf of vellum to its stack and drums his agile fingers on the desktop with weary resignation as he awaits their ribbing.

"Good for you, Potter. You won't be the only same-sex couple in attendance: but you'll definitely garner the most attention," Blaise nods approvingly.

"Before you throw shade in my direction, know that Pansy and Luna are accompanying each other, too," Harry warns. "Piss off already, you lot! You invite yourselves in here, mooch my Chinese banquet, and offer unsolicited and UNECESSARY relationship advice – get going before you really test my patience," he grouses.

"You're welcome," Draco rises; with a wink to his schoolmates, they all perform low bows and cackle, jostling each other as they depart the crabby Gryffindor's non-descript office.

Blaise gets in the last (cheeky) word before the wizardly trio go their separate ways.

"Do you reckon Potter and the Weasel will gift each other matching corsages?".


Draco pounces as soon as he sees his tired brunette girlfriend trudging through the Floo: Hermione barely clears the mantle before she is hauled into his tight, enveloping hug. Macdolas skitters clear of the closely entwined human couple and darts toward the townhouse's kitchen as Draco scatters tender kisses across Hermione's face.

She giggles as she tries to reciprocate; Draco holds her head steady for a last, smacking smooch, delighted to note her mood has visibly elevated.

"How was therapy, ma petite? And your first day back at work? Have you spoken with your supervisor about giving notice? Is Pansy OK? Has Macdolas chilled out yet? Are you hungry?". His barrage of questions ends.

"Whoa there, cowboy: you're starting to copy my interrogative mannerisms, and it's alarming," Hermione jests. "Anyone would think you hadn't seen me for five hours!".

"Five hours, seven minutes, and nine seconds," Draco solemnly amends. "I'm glad you comprehend my torment, Granger." He whisks off her work bag from her shoulder, gently pushes her onto the light blue couch, and kneels to undo and slip off her pumps.

"I've made chicken and leek pie with green salad for dinner – hopefully, our love-manic elf is dishing it up as we speak. Would you like me to ask Macdolas to bring it out here to eat in front of the television?". He nods to the boxy appliance now positioned on the sideboard.

"Oh – I forgot to ask you if it was alright – Mac and I brought it back from my flat on Saturday morning," Hermione guiltily explains. "I can return it if it's a bother… I realize it doesn't exactly fit your Scandinavian décor. Sorry."

Draco rushes to negate the suggestion he is displeased. "Of course I don't mind! This is your home, and I want you to be comfortable. It will be a delight to snuggle up with you to watch more literary adaptations, and whatnot," he smiles.

Hermione beams her relief. "Thank you, Malfoy. I'm afraid Mac has begun watching live TV, though. He's already heavily into cartoons – I think soapies aren't far behind," she laughs.

"Why is it that with every passing day, I'm more and more convinced I've reluctantly become a father of sorts – to our kooky house elf? I know – I was the one who brought him here, and foisted him onto you," he acknowledges. Sliding his arms around her waist, he breathes, "I don't regret it for a second; Macdolas significantly accelerated our relationship timeline… and saved your life. I can never repay my debt to the hectic imp."

He leans forward, teasing apart her warm and pliant lips with the tip of his tongue before intensifying their lip-lock, charting the shape of her mouth with gladdened gusto. Hermione links her hands behind his neck, her fingertips ruffling the short fair hairs here. Draco bumps her nose with his own in his eagerness to reduce the distance between them to nothing; Hermione breaks away to chuckle as he swiftly apologizes.

"It's OK, Draco… but if you keep this up, I will have to skip supper altogether in favour of leading you upstairs," she winks naughtily. "Ooh, that reminds me – I've written an outline for our evening plans." She scrabbles in her page and pulls out a sheet of closely-written parchment.

"Pansy made fun of my organizational habits, but I think deep down she's merely envious of our connection," Hermione huffs.

"Eh – I said much the same to Potter. I'm quite enjoying spectating their silly little courtship dance… provided he doesn't bumble about overmuch and inadvertently hurt her," Draco discloses. "By the way, she sent you a package," he points to the soft square parcel on the coffee table.

"Excellent! I'm really looking forward to tonight," Hermione claps her hands gleefully. He can't help but notice the way the gesture makes her rounded breasts jiggle beneath her plain cream cotton business shirt and unbuttoned khaki jacket.

She's so innocently charming – and so amazingly sexy. Draco is about to suggest saving the pie and salad for later when Macdolas bounces back into the lounge room.

"Doth Her Grace Lady Grace and Master Malfoy wish Macdolas to serve their plain but nourishing dinner in the living room? Macdolas is happy to oblige," he chirps.

'Plain but nourishing': that's the last time I sing his praises, Draco glowers.

"Thank you, Mac, the dining table is fine. We'll be in directly," Hermione answers. "Come along, handsome," she tows a willing Draco behind her.

She pauses just shy of the entry to the kitchen/dining room. "Mon cœur, before I forget – therapy was effective, though draining; work was busy, but boring; I told Mrs Sandore about the possibility of my resignation; Pansy is fine; Macdolas remains a livewire; and yes, I am hungry.'

"Now… will you tell me about your day, please? I missed you too, you know… my clever, talented, beautiful wizard." Hermione lays her head against Draco's chest and pats his brawny shoulder affectionately as they walk together to the ash wood table. Macdolas buzzes about underfoot like a three-foot high mosquito.

Before he replies, Draco takes a moment to savour how extraordinarily right this scenario feels.

This wonderfully warm-hearted witch is the absolute crux of my existence – I'd tolerate a thousand rascally sprites to keep her there for the rest of my life…

Though I do wish this particular scamp came with an 'off' switch.


Bidding goodnight to Macdolas, Hermione checks her appearance in the hallway looking glass before turning off the rest of the downstairs lights. The beeswax candle lodged in the brass candlestick that Mac produced before he'd departed for Malfoy Manor (after enthusiastically showing Hermione Draco's elven sex ed book and telling her he was keen to show it to Ruibby tonight) is already lit.

The low light of the taper displays a hint of the semi-transparency of her high-necked, snow white nightgown. Pansy came through brilliantly on the last-minute request. The garment appears modest in its chin-to-ankle coverage, but the fact that she is wholly bare beneath it – and the thinness of the cotton – gives it a subtly wanton quality that Hermione finds quite titillating.

Wait until Lord Cortland Culpepper gets a load of Miss Elspeth Fernsby, Hermione grins to herself as she carefully holds clear her long hem and starts to ascend the staircase. He's going to be putty in my governess's hands. I do hope he's quit whining about his assigned character name by now.

Tromping heavily on the landing (as arranged), Hermione fakes a gasp of shock as the bedroom door opens. A backlit Draco snakes out a hand to grasp her right forearm.

"Miss Fernsby – a word? It shan't take but a minute," he pulls her inside the bedroom and firmly closes the door behind them.

Her gulp of surprise is genuine, this time: for the modern bed with its padded fabric headboard has been magnificently Transfigured into a canopy four poster, complete with ornate burgundy drapery and tasselled curtain tiebacks. The rest of the furniture has been similarly transformed, creating the stunning effect of a rich gentleman's private boudoir. A large candelabra provides the only source of illumination.

Hermione finds her voice. "Lord Culpepper – this is most unseemly–" she nervously protests, as Draco guides her toward the end of the huge bed and seats her against the heavy carved post.

"Come, Miss Fernsby, you've nothing to fear from me; I simply wish to enquire on the progress of my wards' education," he rumbles. "And perhaps you would be so kind as to read me a short chapter from my current novel… I fear my eyes are sadly strained and unfocused tonight." Draco sinuously arranges his lean form against the fat white pillows, the gaping neckline of his sapphire blue silk banyan showing a goodly expanse of his muscly ivory chest.

"Bethany and Meredith are both intelligent and industrious, my Lord," Hermione murmurs, transfixed by Draco's incarnation of all her historical romance fantasies as he indolently lounges a few feet away and watches her like a hawk, cloud-grey eyes glimmering.

"Excellent. If you don't mind, Miss Fernsby?" he picks up 'Rules of Surrender' off the pillow beside him and pushes it into her hands, intentionally lingering the stroke of his long fingers. "Here's my place," he points to the pertinent paragraph.

Clearing her throat, Hermione primly begins.

"'He caught her lower lip in his teeth and, when she gasped, took her mouth with his tongue. He filled her with his flavor, probed her, enticed her–' Lord Culpepper, this is unmitigated, licentious… obscenity! I fear you have lured me to your bedchamber under false pretences, sirrah!" She makes her outrage clear as she jumps to her bare feet.

Draco is on her in a flash, pinning her hands behind her back as he nuzzles at her jawline. "Not so fast… Elspeth. I've seen the sly, inflamed looks you've arrowed in my direction, little governess. Your curiosity betrays you, my dear. And do call me Cortland… I've a yen to hear my name upon your panting lips."

"Let me go!" Hermione cries; her budded nipples press into Draco's torso through the flimsy fabric, heightening her swelling desire. "You're grossly abusing your position, Culpepper!".

He clucks his tongue deprecatingly. "Say 'Cortland', darling: and fear not, I will not take your virtue… unless you ask me nicely. There are many other ways to bring you to peak, sweetling." Draco nips at her ear, dragging his warm lips down to the frilled neck of her nightie.

"Culpepper – Cor-Cortland, I beg you to desist… unhand me…" she unevenly beseeches. Already she is having trouble remembering her own dialogue, such is the mind-blowing effect of Draco's touch on her vibrating skin. Goosebumps are erupting along her neck and arms as he crowds her until her back is fully pressed to the post, her hands looped behind it.

Winding the nearby curtain tieback around her wrists, he quickly secures it to the wooden support, breaking character briefly to whisper, "Remember your safe word, ma petite," before re-assuming the part of the lecherous lord.

"Now… let me deal with this pesky, provocative shroud forthwith–" Draco grabs the sides of her buttoned collar and ruthlessly rips it clean down the middle, all the way to the bottom hem as Hermione thrashes against the bedpost.

His wolfish grin at the sight of her bared breasts and damp sex makes her even wetter. This is much hotter than I'd anticipated, she thinks feverishly, thrusting out her breasts in the hope Draco will take the unsubtle hint.

"Such pretty bubbies..." Draco cups them eagerly, strumming at her rose-pink areolae with increasing vigour, flexing to apply his tongue and teeth to them in turn. Hermione whimpers as his artistic fingers seek out her glossy coffee curls and puffy folds.

"You like that, acushla? Your enticing cunny loves my fingers, hmmm? So tight… and hot–" he slips inside as her head flops onto her chest. She surrenders to the almost-excruciating rapture of having her pleasure points expertly stimulated.

The experience appears to be affecting Draco equally intensely, judging by his grating respiration and bedewed skin. The rococo banyan has fully come apart as he half-crouches over her writhing body; Hermione catches glimpses of his straining erection when he shifts restlessly.

"Cortland – take me, make me yours," she sobs, improvising an acceleration of their plotline. "Please… I need to feel you inside me…"

"You'll belong to me, and me alone, Elspeth – is that what you want? Decide quickly, angel," Draco urges.

"Yes – yes–" Hermione tests the bonds of the tasselled tieback as she leans closer. Her fetters are rapidly loosened, before Draco tugs her supplicant body to lie supine on the bed, now binding her wrists above her head and refastening the curtain rope to the post. He shucks off the blue silk gentlemanly wrapper in one fluid motion, before crawling predatorily atop her.

"Open up, little governess – I ache to feel your trembling quim clamp down on my thick cock," he croons, helping to nudge apart her legs. Balancing above her on one elbow, he places his left hand against her cheek and gazes fiercely into her passion-blown dark pupils.

"Now, Cortland," Hermione moans.

With a powerful snap of his hips, Draco plunges inside her soaked sheath until he bottoms out, stretching her softness with his tumid length and girth. They groan in unison as Draco continues surging back and forth, each driving thrust a shade more powerful than the last. Her hips and legs stretched as wide as she can splay them, Hermione revels in the ripples of bliss that their primitive joining is creating.

"Elspeth – your honeypot is the sweetest I've ever known," Draco mumbles, his eyes as wild as his pelvic rhythm. "I intend to fuck you all night, darling," he grunts.

Hermione ruts against him desperately, shuddering as Draco's cock keeps rubbing and twisting her clitoral wall. She arches up as he pushes down, chasing her apex with more enthusiasm than finesse. The pressure building in her burning loins is nearly painful, such is its profundity.

"Ma petite – I cannot hold off, I'm coming," Draco yells; bearing down hard, Hermione milks him savagely. His release finally precipitates her own, each hot spurt setting off another convulsion inside her. Nerves aflame, Hermione clamours, "Draco!"; she rides out the glorious carnal experience with her blond lover until they collapse in total satiation. The now-familiar miniscule dancing dots of their merged magical nuclei drift across their sprawled forms.

Uncharted minutes pass, as they lie side-by-side in the big canopy bed, tenderly exchanging enervated little kisses. Draco unties her hands, checking for any redness or soreness before gently gathering her into his arms.

Hermione is the first to regain the power of speech.

"Lord Culpepper… are you pleased with the results of Miss Fernsby's scriptwriting endeavours?" she teases.

Rolling her into a recumbent position again, Draco chuckles. "Oh, Elspeth… just wait until you read the 'letter of recommendation' I plan to compose on your behalf…!"

Her giggles are smothered by his descending mouth; Hermione happily decides that 'role-play' is definitely here to stay.


The quoted excerpt is from 'Rules of Surrender' by Christina Dodd, published 2002 (page 240).

Acushla (1825): is an Irishism (derived from "a chuisle", "heartbeat") used to mean "darling, dear".