Chapter 49

Tuesday 18 March 2003: AM

"Granger, wake up– wake up, darling– it's just a bad dream– Hermione, please!" Draco raises his voice as his alarm swiftly rockets toward panic. Hermione is still thrashing jerkily in his loose hold, whimpering like a child.

"Lumos!". Activating the bedside lamps does nothing to alleviate his concern: tears are streaming unchecked down his girlfriend's haunted face. He clutches her tighter, struggling to curtail her flailing limbs. Her wordless cries make his hackles rise, such is the depth of terror and pain they transmit.

"Shhhh, ma petite, it's alright, you are safe here... wake up... Please wake up," Draco implores, spooked by her continuing convulsions and the accelerated radial pulses beneath his encircling hands. He is on the verge of uttering 'Rennervate' to forcibly awaken her when Hermione's eyes finally snap open.

Whipping her head frenziedly, Hermione gulps in a lungful of oxygen and stares at him incomprehensibly for a few moments, before awareness relaxes her rigid muscles and she slumps against him. Sitting up against the padded headboard, Draco is doubly glad he made the effort to return the Transfigured four poster canopy bed back to its original state before they fell asleep last night last night; waking up in unfamiliar surrounds would have surely exacerbated Hermione's dread.

He trails his fingers softly down her naked back, pulling up the comforter to drape around her shuddering shoulders as her breathing slowly begins to regulate.

"You're safe here, ma pauvre lionne triste," Draco murmurs. He gently strokes her damp brunette curls away from her clammy face.

Relieved that he can no longer feel fresh tears dripping onto his shoulder and chest, Draco waits until her hiccoughing sobs have dwindled to soft snuffles before he quietly asks, "What's wrong, Granger? I'm here to listen, if it would help to speak about it."

"I had a nightmare. Probably because of therapy today. I used to have this bad dream recur when I was small. Usually when I was studying too much, or when the other kids–" Hermione abruptly breaks off her uncharacteristically staccato explanation, tensing in his hold.

"Never mind. It was a bit different this time, that's all," she rasps, trying to lean away.

Sighing, Draco lightly grasps her little chin in his fingers and turns her mulish face back to his. "Sweetheart, if you truly don't wish for me to cuddle you, or if you're not ready to talk, I will accept that. But please don't feel embarrassed – or deny yourself what paltry comfort I can provide – because you are worried what I may think of you, hmmm?" he coaxes. "You can tell me anything, Hermione. I won't judge you. Come, didn't you look after me when I had a terrible dream? I want to be here for you now. Please."

"It's not paltry comfort – you know that. Stop fishing. I don't like feeling… weak," Hermione sullenly mumbles; but she condescends to laying her head back against his heart and tentatively wrapping her arms around his back.

Curmudgeonly little witch. Draco folds in his smile and waits for her to continue her narrative.

"Malfoy – I'm going to assume you have a better than working knowledge of Muggle modern history? Yes, you're highly intelligent and well-read – of course you do," Hermione answers her own query.

"So… I did a project at primary school, about nuclear tensions between the USSR and the USA in the mid-80s… I was a shade too young to take it in at the time, but I absorbed enough that it fascinated and terrified me," Hermione divulges. "Oh– projects, they are kind of like an early essay–"

"I get it, Granger. Research and presentation, correct?" Draco risks the interruption.

"Right. Well, excuse me for not being aware of the extent of your expertise on Muggle schooling practices," she gripes. "Are you done butting in, Lord Malfoy?".

"That's Lord Culpepper to you, Elspeth," Draco flippantly retorts, delighted that Hermione's dry snark is returning. "My apologies: please, carry on."

"I'm walking up a steep country hill, on a beautiful summer's day… the sun is shining, the air crisp and clean… like something out of a Disney film," Hermione slowly describes. "When I turn to look back down the hill – I see a distant cityscape. A terrible stillness descends… the birds and wild creatures burst from their perches and burrows in an explosion of blurred motion. Then… comes the atrocious flash, the billowing mushroom cloud, the roiling, unimaginable heat surrounds me… and I am immolated where I stand, screaming as my flesh peels and disintegrates."

At Draco's horrified gasp, Hermione straightens and dejectedly sighs, "Sorry – fun talk, huh?".

"Hermione – I am so sorry. We can stop, if this is upsetting you too much–" Draco forces himself to relax his fierce embrace before he squeezes the breath from Hermione's lungs.

"No. I want to finish it," his stubborn lover announces, brows drawing together in an obdurate frown as she peers up at him. "You did insist, mon cœur," she reminds.

Draco bestows a quick smooch on her grumpy mouth before he nods in resignation. "Go on."

"Tonight, it started just the same – the dream – but when I turned at the top of the rise, you were beside me, holding my hand… Our eyes met, and we both knew what the scorching flashbang and the toadstool fallout meant– and –" Hermione's voice crumbles and fat new tears well in her distressed eyes.

"And you held me tight, you opened your mouth to say something, but it was too late, Draco – you were incinerated right in front of my eyes like a leaf in a bonfire – I can't, I can't stop seeing you d-d-die…" Hermione weeps piteously, her pain making Draco's heart stutter and stall.

"Shhhh, ma petite, hush now, it was just a dream – I'm not going anywhere, you hear me? Remember what I said to you, that first morning in the kitchen? 'You're stuck with me now', Granger," he supplies, rocking her tenderly. "Nothing is going to happen to me – you know I'm far too crafty (and committed to saving my own fair skin) to let anyone get the drop on me, OK?". Draco declares the last in a tone that brooks no argument.

"You promise?" Hermione raises her tear-swollen visage, desperately searching out his sincerity.

"I promise," Draco swears. "I didn't pine for you for years to lose you now."

Despite his flushed expression and flaming ear tips, Draco is pleased his diversion tactics have succeeded.

"Years? Truly?" Hermione asks in awe, and some lingering dubiousness.

"Truly." Kissing closed her eyelids, Draco hedges, "That is a tale for another night, perhaps. Can I get you some water?".

"Not just yet. Will you tell me something else happy, Malfoy? Please?" the woebegone witch petitions.

"What, my unrequited yearning gladdens your heart? Charming," Draco pretends to grouse. Hermione responds by sneaking her hand lower to lightly pinch his right bum cheek.

"Ow! Alright," he capitulates, as she giggles. "Let's see… it's Macdolas's birthday in a few weeks: April 4, to be exact. I'd like to host a party for him, maybe at the Manor? Invite all the Malfoy house elves, of course: plus Hagrid, Luna, Pansy; Blaise and Theo… and Potter. Though I categorically forbid any more worshipful Lightning Bolt costumes. Banned, absolutely banned," he stipulates with a wry twist of his mouth.

"Ooh – can we make it a surprise party? I bet he's never had a surprise party!" Hermione exclaims, swiping away the last moisture from her gorgeous eyes as she starts to plot.

"Granger… he's never had any party. Surprise or otherwise," Draco points out, hoping his next words don't plummet her into the doldrums once more. "He applied for the job at the Manor because that harridan Lady Mac Fhionnlaigh refused to employ him once house elf emancipation became law. She claimed she couldn't support his mother and him… Rotten old bitch," he mutters the last.

"He had to leave his mother behind? But… but that's heartrending, and horribly unkind," Hermione angrily notes. "What of his father? Or siblings?".

"I believe his father died suddenly when he was very young; and he has no siblings. House elves were only allowed to breed with their master's permission, and infrequently… usually when another was deemed too old to serve and a replacement required." Draco winces as he reveals the unpalatable history of house elf enslavement.

"I'm sorry – I never gave much thought to how we treated our elves, not until Dobby…" he lapses into an uncomfortable pause. "I'm sorry, Granger."

"I know. Dobby was very special to me… to us. I miss him so," Hermione wipes at her eyes again, before a familiar expression of canny determination settles upon her face. "We're going to throw Mac an amazing birthday party – oh, let's make it a costume party! Everyone has to come in costume – what should the theme be? Or is costume enough of a theme by itself?".

She bounces a little in his naked lap and narrowly misses squashing one of Draco's more vulnerable body parts. He protectively slides down a hand to cup himself as he weakly objects, "Must we? Shouldn't the focus be on Macdolas's crazy attire?".

"No – he'll love it, you'll see. And we can have party games, and his favourite foods–"

"–That would be all of them, then," Draco interjects.

"Pass-the-parcel, Pin the Tail on the Donkey – we'll change that to Hippogriff, you can draw a big one on a sheet of cardboard, please… what else? You'll have to tell me of some Wizardly games." Hermione taps her lips in contemplation.

Struck by the tempting idea of drawing a large roan donkey sporting the Weasel's grinning mug, Draco redirects his attention to the conversational thread.

"Not to rain on your parade, ma petite – but aren't those for children? I don't wish to infantilize Macdolas, you know. He's turning thirty this year, which – in comparison with wizards – is roughly equivalent to–"

"Eighteen. Don't look affronted, you interrupted me before. So Mac was, what? 'Sixteen' when you first hired him? Isn't that awfully early to be co-managing a household?". Hermione cocks her head like a curious brown sparrow.

"Yes. He really was a shade too young, but he was extremely confident… and potential elfish employees weren't exactly lining up to work at the notorious Malfoy Manor," Draco admits. "I asked Macdolas in our interview about his career goals, and he confessed he'd dreamed of being apprenticed at Hogwarts… but he needed to make more money to send home to his mother."

"You felt sorry for him. And I bet you doubled his salary on the spot," she shrewdly guesses. "Is there a chance Mac's mother might relocate to live with him? At the Manor?".

Shrugging, Draco explains, "Not at this time: apparently she remains strongly attached to their ancestral household. Macdolas returns every year to visit, during his annual leave… and he sends her half his income, without fail. Lady Fhionnlaigh refuses to pay above minimum wage, and his mother needs to purchase medicinal potions for chronic joint and muscular pain. We provide all medical care as part of our basic job package."

"As you should," Hermione sniffs. "Do you think we'll be able to keep the party a surprise? What will Lucy say about it?" she grins.

"Oh, he might bluster discontentedly for form's sake – but he'll doubtless be glad to see Mother happy… I assume you'll second her assistance? I have to say, I don't understand this odd Muggle custom of going to the effort of a surprise party merely to leap out en masse and scare some poor creature half to death," Draco dryly observes.

"Spoilsport. It's fun, that's why. Yes, I will convene with Narcissa as soon as possible and brainstorm our ideas." Hermione's excitement is palpable.

Thank goodness it's taken her troubled mind off that appalling nightmare. Draco cannot resist pecking a kiss to her thought-wrinkled brow.

Hermione smiles at him ingenuously. "What was that for?".

"I had to pay homage to how adorable you are, Granger. One kiss at a time." For the rest of my life. I hope.

She winds her arms back around him, snuggling gently. "You say the sweetest things, my silver-tongued Snake. You're quite the closet sweetheart, you know."

"Don't go repeating that outside of this bedroom – you'll ruin my rakish reputation in a flash," Draco teases. He shuffles them back to a horizontal position, tucking his beautiful witch into his side as she latches her arms and legs around him like a koala joey.

"Let's try to get some more sleep before your alarm shrills, hmmm?" Draco rhythmically pets her beautiful unbound caramel tresses, even as Hermione drowsily shakes her head in negation.

"I want to talk about Mac's party – and what shall we gift him? Should we make it an inside or outside event? They both have their advantages, and drawbacks…" her words begin to slur.

Continuing to soothe his hand along her hair, Draco is amused when she suddenly articulates, "Scavenger Hunt!"… and immediately produces a whistling snore.

Dors bien, ma petit amour drôle.


The thick raindrops steadily splatting against the kitchen windows match their pensive moods, Draco reflects. Despite them both managing a few more hours of slumber after Hermione's abominable nightmare, the atmosphere in the townhouse this morning is markedly sombre.

He sips at his redolent coffee, trying to study Hermione without being conspicuous. She is currently employed in spreading butter to some pre-ordained degree of perfect thickness and evenness on her wholemeal toast… but seems to lack a desire to actually ingest it.

"Stop staring at me, Malfoy – you're about as subtle as a brick through a window."

Well. That's telling me. He hides his wry pout in his plain white mug of java.

Hermione restlessly reaches for the jam jar, but Macdolas is quicker: the industrious sprite pauses in his fiddling at the radio station tuning knob to float the jar of strawberry conserves into her hand.

"Her Grace Lady Granger is sad? Macdolas offers his assistance with that which ails her?" he anxiously wrings his hands together, having clearly picked up on Hermione's sustained melancholy.

"I could use a hug," Hermione swivels on her stool, slipping down to kneel as Mac bounds into her embrace. "Thank you, Mac." His rough brown woollen replica Franciscan monk's robes ride up, revealing his leather sandals and large, nodular feet; the elf fastidiously tugs down the gown as Hermione maintains the affectionate clinch.

"Macdolas asks if Her Grace would not be happier to stay at home today and let the other Ministry drones buzz about the hive? We watch cartoons and drink hot chocolate?" he suggests.

"'Ministry drones' – you got that from Draco, didn't you?" Hermione turns a scolding frown onto her blond lover, who swiftly changes the subject.

"I already floated that idea, Macdolas – and was summarily shut down. Mayhap you'll have more success," Draco comments. "Ma petite, this is the perfect day to skive off for once… cuddling up with me on the couch, reading or watching television, listening to music, eating junk food… Come, doesn't that sound infinitely preferable to sneezing over some dusty old files and getting a stiff neck from your rickety office chair?" Draco wheedles.

Hermione smooths down Mac's rumpled reddish hair before perching on her stool once more. "Are you implying that my work is little more than pointless drudgery? How wonderfully supportive of you, Malfoy," she crossly accuses.

Oops. Poor tactics, given Hermione's currently perturbed emotional condition. Draco hastily stumbles to mend the damage his ill-considered words have caused. "Of course not – you are the brightest and best lawyer in the history of the Ministry, and I am your greatest advocate, Granger. I simply meant–"

"I'll thank you not to undermine how important my career is to me. Excuse me, I need to collect my wristwatch before we leave." Averting her face, Hermione abandons her plate of mostly untouched toast and half-drunk coffee, placing them beside the sink before she jerkily walks from the room.

Draco sorrowfully watches her leave, sensing his major-domo's intent eyes upon him. He snaps at Macdolas, "Don't be giving me that pitying look, champ! Hermione is having a tough day, that's all. It happens to everyone."

"Master Malfoy means well, but thoughtlessly aggrieves Her Grace when he urges her to stay home today," Macdolas decrees, nodding sagely.

"Kind of you to point out the error of my ways, Friar Tuck," Draco huffs. "What's with today's get-up, anyway?" he motions to the voluminous seal-brown hooded habit.

"Macdolas reads 'The Name of the Rose' by Umberto Eco; Her Grace Lady Granger promises Macdolas to procure the film from the Montevideo store," he proudly communicates.

"'Video' store," Draco absently corrects, pushing away his own dish and mug. "Be mindful of how much time you're spending glued to that TV screen: Muggles have a warning about developing 'square eyes', you know."

Elongated fingers worriedly tracing the shape of his occipitals, Macdolas scowls when he notices Draco's minute smirk. "Master believes he is funny, but Macdolas knows better," he snipes.

Draco's intended reproof is scuppered when Hermione flies back into the room. He stands up off the stool just before she cannons into him and nearly knocks him sideways into the granite-topped kitchen island.

"I'm sorry I was scratchy and hostile before, Malfoy – please, forgive me?" she entreats, tentatively linking her hands behind his neck and gnawing nervously at her full bottom lip. "You're the last person in the world I wish to antagonize… I apologize."

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Granger. I understand. I did not mean to downplay the importance of your career – nothing could be further from the truth. I am proud as punch of my supremely intelligent, gifted witch," Draco smiles down gratefully into her uneasy brandy eyes. "I apologize for my clumsy attempts to coerce you into spending the day with me; my selfish desire to spend more time in your company got the better of my good sense."

Hermione blushes at the compliment, shaking her head in demurral. "I think burying myself in work today is the best cure for my grumps… but could we do something special together tonight? No, not that kind of special," she amends, slapping rebukingly at his chest as Draco waggles his eyebrows provocatively and Macdolas quietly snorts behind them.

"I brought over my VHS copy of the movie 'Titanic' – have you seen it? No? Good. It's always better on the big screen, of course, but the TV will suit my purposes well enough." She leans in to whisper in Draco's ear: "There is a certain… artistic… scene between the protagonists that I believe might inspire one of our own, mon cœur." She nibbles at his ear lobe for extra effect; Draco sucks in a sharp breath at the delicious sensation.

Raising her voice again, Hermione continues, "Let's have an early supper, and watch it together tonight – Mac, why don't you ask Ruibby to join us? I think she'll enjoy the film, too."

Hold up – double-dating with our house elves?! Draco bites his tongue as Hermione quells his instinctive rejection of the proposition with a single meaningful look. "Great," he mutters, as Macdolas's ears twitch in keenness.

"Her Grace is too kind! Macdolas begs leave to spend one minute inviting Ruibby to this evening's exemplary plans?". At Hermione's quick nod, he Apparates on the spot.

"Did you really have to ask that little horndog along, Granger? Don't we spend enough time in his company? You know they'll start pawing at one another at some point," he pettishly complains.

"Well, would you rather they booked a time to watch it here themselves… unchaperoned?" Hermione swiftly counters. "The movie runs for three and a half hours – imagine what could happen on your couch over that period of time."

Godric's gonads. "I beg you to please desist," Draco groans. "Wednesday night is already looming. I hope I'm not asked for another sex ed tutorial before then."

"I have another suggestion for you, my talented, sexy wizard," Hermione beams at him.

"I think you should publish 'Your Guide to Elven Sexuality': it's meticulously researched, written, and illustrated, and there is a real market for it in this brave new world of house elves struggling to reconfigure their identities along with their freedoms. Perhaps you could add a short treatise on their long-withheld rights to bodily autonomy and elective fertility? Either way, you've done a fantastic job with it and it deserves to be shared with the entire Wizarding community," she avows.

Chuckling indulgently, Draco immediately dismisses the idea. "No – it's just a silly concept I noodled around with. I wanted it to be accurate and useful for Macdolas's sake, of course… but it's not worthy of publication."

Stamping her foot, Hermione challenges, "So you didn't do your best? Near enough was good enough for Mac, huh?".

"No – of course not! I spent hours making sure I had my facts straight and that the drawings were realistic–" Draco is stung, until he realizes Hermione's true intent. "Very clever, ma petite. However, reverse psychology is not nearly as effective on me as it is on you."

Regrouping, Hermione tries again. "Consider this, then: you publish the book under your full name and title… and gift a copy to Lucy for Christmas." Her wicked grin is infectious.

"Now you're talking," Draco concedes as they laugh together. Finally, the gloominess that has dogged their interactions since they awoke is starting to disperse. "I'll think on it."

Macdolas Apparates back into the kitchen, hopping from foot-to-foot as he whoops, "Ruibby consents to attend the screening of The Unsinkable Ship! How Macdolas wishes this day would fly past with the speed of a Peruvian Vipertooth!" he pronounces.

You and me both, rascal. Sensing Hermione beginning to withdraw from his arms, Draco obstinately tightens his clasp.

"Malfoy – I have to leave for work, I'm already running a few minutes late," Hermione laughingly protests. "You should get started on creating another painterly masterpiece for me to admire, too."

"Alright. I'll walk you to the Floo," he reluctantly draws apart, tangling his fingers in her smaller ones as they pivot for the doorway. A muffled electronic trill gurgles from somewhere behind them. Hermione looks at the third drawer down in dismay; Macdolas bristles like an irate cat upon hearing the sound.

"Dammit, that's my Nokia – I keep forgetting to retrieve it. It's probably Dad, I said I'd call him about dinner tomorrow night… Malfoy, would you mind answering it for me, please? Tell him we'll be there straight after I finish work? Thank you," Hermione grins at Draco's startled mien. "Don't worry, he likes you now, remember?" she shamelessly cajoles.

"On one condition," Draco sternly advises. "A proper kiss before you leave. It's a Granger-Malfoy Townhouse Rule." He points to his mouth and tries to not crack a smile.

"Oh, if you insist," Hermione's pretended lack of enthusiasm is belied by her capable hands avidly winnowing through his hair as she plants her lips firmly on his parted mouth. Draco's enjoyment of their feisty canoodle is only mildly diluted by the persistent tinny squeal of the mobile phone.

Tongues twining, Draco pours all his passion and tenderness into their kiss, as well as a healthy dollop of unbridled lust as his hands traverse Hermione's lower back beneath her black blazer, dipping down to skate across her curvaceous bum in the fitted matching trousers. She moans into his mouth at the firming caress; they both ignore Macdolas's exaggerated cough beside them.

"Duh-der-der-der, duh-der-der-der, duh-der-der-der-DER!".

Pestilent bloody technology! Draco growls as the wretched phone keeps singing its annoying monophonic tune. Hermione sighs as she remarks, "Dad is going to keep calling until you pick up – he's a bulldog sometimes. I'd better go, Malfoy. Passez une bonne journée, mon chéri." She pats his chest; he picks up her hand to press a last kiss to her palm.

"You have a good day too, ma petite. Be safe." Draco waits until Hermione and Macdolas have crossed the portal before snatching open the kitchen drawer and pressing the green call button.

"Mr Granger – sir. It's Draco speaking, Hermione had to depart for the Ministry," he cautiously introduces. The lengthy pause that follows is concerning.

"Little Wendy can't abhor being late to anything – though she was born two weeks overdue, if you can believe it," Bernard Granger chuckles. "Maybe that's why she turns up to everything ridiculously early."

"Ah, yes," Draco hurries to concur. "Hermione asked me to let you know we'd be delighted to attend dinner with you tomorrow night, as soon as she finishes work. Assuming the invitation still stands, of course. Sir."

"Leave it out, boy – we're past our initial argy-bargy. One 'sir' per conversation is plenty," Bernard snickers. "Wait until you experience Barney Granger's Peri-Peri Pyrotechnics, eh? I reckon you're a bit of a chilli lover like myself, right?" he confidently predicts.

"Erm–" Draco stammers. Visions of his mouth catching fire and his eyes bulging from a deliberate chilli overdose storm through his head. Hermione wouldn't allow her father to actually poison me, would she? No. Definitely not.

"Excellent! We'll see you after five, then. Listen, Draco – you needn't worry we'll place any temptation in your way… you know, grog-wise, I mean. We'll be serving plain tap water as well as that fancy sparkly shi–stuff, plus juice and sodas. Jane and I have never been big drinkers, anyway. I mean, we did get halfway sloshed that night in the Cortina–"

"Thank you very much, Mr Granger. I appreciate your consideration greatly." Draco adroitly heads off a further exposition on that subject. "Water is fine – sparkling or plain."

"Water it is. Now, be sure to bring your appetites, and that cheeky little Mac," Bernard instructs.

"I'm afraid he has a… [date? rendezvous? assignation?] prior engagement with his lady friend. But he sends his regrets," Draco tactfully answers.

"Good for him! You can tell me all about it over the barbecue."

I'd really rather not.

Before Draco can fashion an appropriate reply, Bernard booms, "Oh, and bring your good sketch pad and ink pens, Draco – Hermione said you'd love to draw a caricature of me tomorrow night, I've got a bit of one-upmanship going with my buddy Richard, he had one done recently – I'll give the street artist fair credit for toning down that huge beak in the middle of his face, but the rest of the thing's pretty trite.'

"I know you can do a far better job – I can't wait to see the crestfallen expression on Dick's noggin when I show him what our Hermione's boyfriend is capable of! Ha! Bye!" Bernard rings off as Draco gapes at the now-stilled silver device in his hand.

Dragon's balls, Granger – what have you dropped me into now? Draco catches sight of his befuddled countenance in the rain-darkened kitchen windows and resolves to spend a portion of his working day brushing up on his caricature-sketching skills.

At least Bernard Granger seems to have warmed up to me slightly… assuming I survive tomorrow night's dinner without requiring hospitalization. And he did refer to me as 'Hermione's boyfriend', right? I'd best ensure my caricature is the best one I've ever drawn.

And I'll slip a flask of capsaicin-alleviating cold milk into my pocket – just in case.


Tuesday 18 March 2003: PM

"Give it over, Granger – you're hogging the popcorn again," Draco whispers, sniggering as Hermione's grip tightens on the large glass bowl of fluffy, heavily buttered, white popped corn kernels.

"I am not! You've been scooping your big mitts in there far more than I have," she hisses in reply. "The rest is mine, pal."

"Fine," he shrugs, knowing she will feel the slight movement as her back is pressed flush against his front as they snuggle on the blue sofa, Hermione's legs between his own. "I'll commandeer Macdolas and Ruibby's bowl, instead – they seem to have lost interest in it."

With the tip of his bare toes, Draco prods the newly installed china-blue beanbag upon which the two elves are curled up together. His movement succeeds in (briefly) separating the fae lovers: Macdolas glares as he resettles beside his blonde sweetheart.

"Leave them – they're not doing anything you're not doing," Hermione argues.

"Yeah – but they don't have to watch us." Draco pulls a face as he notices Macdolas's hand creeping back around Ruibby's shoulder as they cuddle in front of the boxy television set.

"Be quiet, please: the scene I want you to take especial note of is up next." Digging him lightly in the ribs, Hermione kisses his salty lips before returning her attention to 'Titanic'.

Five minutes later, Draco attempts to inconspicuously adjust the uncomfortable bulge in his trousers with some surreptitious (but mostly ineffectual) wriggling.

"Do you understand now why I insisted we watch this?" Hermione's knowing look tells Draco he has not fooled her in the slightest. "And Jack Dawson is a total blond hottie – just like you," she breathes, licking her lips. The tiny flicker of her pink tongue does not help Draco's hardness to dissolve… quite the opposite.

"Indeed." For the love of serpents – how much more of this film is yet to roll? They haven't even hit the iceberg yet! Draco seriously contemplates wandlessly faking a power outage with a few sly wordless spells.

A disembodied head emerging from the Floo fireplace scatters his sneaky thoughts. Hermione gasps, Macdolas bolts off the misshapen corduroy monstrosity, and Ruibby shrieks.

Blaise Zabini's disturbed face meets Draco's surprised gaze. "I'm sorry to disturb you – but this can't wait."

Hermione stands up, heedless of the bowl of popcorn tumbling to its side and spilling kernels onto the lowline couch. Draco rises behind her, trepidation growing even before Blaise reveals the purpose of his Floo call.

Blaise's dark chocolate eyes are wild as he hoarsely explains:

"It's Theo – Potter's Auror Team just raided Nott House on an anonymous tip, Draco. They claim to have found The Manifesto hidden in his attic – they've bloody arrested him on suspicion of concocting and administering illegal potions, attempted kidnapping, and intent to commit sexual assault. He's been chucked in a Ministry holding cell until they can rouse a judge to sign off on administering Veritaserum."

Choking out jagged breaths, Blaise pleads, "Please, Draco – you have to help me. Theo didn't do this – he couldn't have! And you know what being shoved into a small space is going to do to him."

"Please."


French translations:

ma pauvre lionne triste – my poor, sad lioness.

Dors bien, ma petit amour drôle – Sleep well, my funny little love.

Passez une bonne journée, mon chéri – Have a good day, darling.