Chapter 52
Wednesday 19 March 2003: PM
"Draco! How felicitous, darling – we were just talking about you," Narcissa's tiny dimple in her right cheek momentarily indents as she graciously rises and ushers her son to sit in the armchair between her and her husband.
"Only good things, Draco – no need to look alarmed," Lucius adds, as he regains his own seat.
Salazar's smelly socks… Did Father actually make a little joke? Could that possibly be a tiny smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth, or do I need to borrow Potter's spectacles?
Draco's eyes wander over his sire's impeccably dressed form as he murmurs a return greeting to his parents. Lucius looks positively dapper, compared to his subdued presentation a few days ago. His ice grey eyes are– well, 'sparkling' is a shade or three too far, but they certainly possess a sheen they have notably lacked for quite some time.
Even the former Lord Malfoy's clothing looks to have been artfully tailored to better fit his underweight frame… and his silver hair is clean and lustrous.
Mother looks terribly pleased with herself… I believe her persistent urgings for Father to seek help have finally paid dividends.
"Your father's looking well, isn't he, Draco?" Narcissa prompts. The smug twinkle in her eye is rather aggravating; of course she cannot resist nudging at his consciousness and calling him out on his thoughts.
"Indeed: how are you feeling, Father?" Draco concurs. He accepts an aromatic cup of tea from Narcissa with a small nod of thanks.
"Quite well, Draco. I saw a Healer on Monday morning; your mother arranged for her to come to the Manor, of course. Ran a battery of diagnostic spells and eventually determined I am suffering from anaemia and depression." Lucius shifts restlessly in his armchair after his stilted confession.
Draco sips at his tea, surprised when a small chunk of something brown floats to the surface. "Er… what kind of tea is this? I thought you preferred classic black or green tea in the afternoons, Mother?".
"It's Chaga mushroom tea – Healer Kuznetsova recommended I imbibe it," Lucius answers. "It is a tad bitter at first, but there's a slight vanilla undertone that is rather pleasing."
Wonder how cross he'd be if I used that sentence to describe his current state of being. Draco dutifully quaffs another mouthful of the exotic beverage (mostly to hide his smile).
"Yes, Freya was wonderfully thorough," Narcissa enthuses. "She devised a detailed plan encompassing diet, exercise, regular exposure to sunlight, the teas, and some non-addictive anti-depressant potions." She cuts her cerulean eyes to her husband as she hesitantly adds, "Freya also recommended the benefits of intensive therapy… whenever Lucius feels comfortable with the premise."
Wow. The fact that Lucius is merely silently brooding at Narcissa's pronouncement and not flying into a cold rage at the heretofore 'preposterous' concept of psychotherapy is in itself a minor miracle. Draco shakes off the odd notion that he has somehow stumbled into a parallel universe… one in which his father appears only mildly uncomfortable with beginning to address his myriad demons.
"That's excellent news – the treatment plan, I mean," Draco comments. "If you ever need my assistance with any of it, you need but ask."
"Thank you, son." Lucius's smile is tight, but not unpleasant. "What brings you to the Manor today, may I ask?".
Draco fidgets beneath their dual scrutiny. "A few errands… I'm picking up an order I placed with Lutin's Pixel Entreprise; Ruibby told Macdolas it arrived yesterday."
His mother pounces on his hedged half-truth like a hawk on a fieldmouse. "And the rest? Come, mon fils: I don't need to call upon my Seer powers to know you're holding back a few critical details," Narcissa complacently declares.
"Well… the Ministry has finally made a few advances in apprehending the scum who have been plotting to harm Hermione – though one of their own Aurors is currently in custody for attempting to frame Theo last night… Don't worry, Mother, Hermione charged in there like a rampaging Erumpent and cleared Theo's name in under two hours. She was bloody spectacular to watch in action," his voice softens with awe and proud affection. "Potter is confident they'll be making accurate arrests by the end of the week," Draco assures.
"On a more domestic front: Hermione and I wish to host a surprise birthday party for Macdolas in a fortnight's time – the fourth of April, to be exact. Here. At the Manor, I mean. Not this parlour," Draco blurts. He flicks a quick assessing glance at his parents; Lucius is impassive, while Narcissa is eagerly leaning forward.
"What a lovely idea! Luncheon, or dinner? That date falls on a Friday – oh, dinner would be ideal, then. Shall we commandeer the ballroom, or would a temporary marquee in the grounds be best? What does Hermione want to do, Draco?" Narcissa chatters excitedly.
"They're not married yet, Cissa," Lucius rolls his steel-grey eyes; Draco forces himself to bite back his instinctively defensive retort as he sees his father's face relax into tolerant resignation, rather than caustic disapprobation. "I'm certain Draco has his own plans for this doubtlessly lunatic assembly."
Narcissa waves her fair hands dismissively. "Pah! Attempting to deny the inevitability of their union is utterly futile, Lucius. We discussed this: I shan't countenance any resistance on your part. Hermione Granger will be our daughter-in-law, and the sooner you wholly accommodate that idea, the easier your life will be," she warns, with the thread of immutable steel in her voice that Draco has respected (and feared) ever since he was old enough to speak.
"Cissa, you know I have made my peace–"
"Hold your Hippogriffs, we're not even engaged–"
The Malfoy men speak at once, their clamorous objections jointly dying beneath Narcissa's withering azure gaze.
"Draco, while I have had some… reservations… about your alliance with Ms Granger – Ms Hermione – be assured I do not oppose it," a chastened Lucius mumbles. "I was merely making the observation that you may have meaningful input into the plans for Macdolas's party."
"Thank you, Father. I do have some ideas… provided Mother and Hermione deign to include them," Draco mutters in a quiet aside.
"Mother – I'll thank you to not put the carriage before the Thestral. I have no wish for Hermione to skitter or feel uneasy thanks to undue parental pressure." Draco hates the fact that his traitorous ears are tipped pink, plainly signalling his rising embarrassment. "Please don't push."
"Very well. But darling, would you ask Hermione to contact me in regards to Macdolas's birthday extravaganza, please? Whenever she has the time, of course." Narcissa refreshes her fine china tea cup and watches Draco shrewdly over its rim.
"Certainly – but that is unlikely to occur until after the Spring Equinox Ball. Perhaps Saturday or Sunday would suit," Draco replies. Glancing at his wristwatch, he stands to leave.
"I must away, I've business in Diagon Alley." He kisses Narcissa goodbye, surprised when Lucius ignores his outstretched hand in favour of a brief, dreadfully awkward side-hug.
"Collecting your formal attire for the Gala?" his father asks as they relievedly step apart.
"Something like that," Draco temporizes, thinking of his planned visits to Gringotts and Cheruwellery's Fine Jewels. He turns at the door to impart his final nugget of information.
"Oh, one last thing: Hermione is determined that the party is to be costume-themed, and she intends to invite the gamut of Macdolas's friends and acquaintances… including Rubeus Hagrid, his boarhound, Hermione's half-Kneazle cat…"
"…and Harry Potter."
Chuckling softly, Draco slips through the portal as Lucius explicitly snarls, "Putain de merde!".
Better get used to being regularly invaded by Gryffindors, Father.
"Mac, I am positive Ruibby will like the lovely flowers you've arranged for her," Hermione wearily states for the third time (but who's counting?), as her nervous elven bodyguard frets over the massive vase of light pink, orange, and coral roses, interspersed with mauve carnations and delicate white coriander flowers, that sits on her desk.
"There's no time to send it back to the florist, in any case: it's time for us to leave, little mate. I've already texted Dad that Draco and I will be arriving later to dinner – I want to help you set up your bedroom before Ruibby arrives," Hermione reminds.
"Her Grace Lady Granger is the kindest, the most considerate, the dearest witch in the history of–" Macdolas looks perilously close to tears before Hermione interrupts his accolade.
"Thank you, Mac. Grab that vase securely and let's drop into my flat to collect the fairy lights before we go home."
Twenty minutes later, Hermione is stringing her old Christmas tree bulbs along the upper walls of Mac's small, converted boxroom when she hears the Floo activate.
"Macdolas? Granger? Where are you, ma petite?" Draco's sophisticated tones reverberate throughout the townhouse.
"I'm in Mac's room, Malfoy," Hermione hollers enthusiastically, affixing the last strand of lights in place with her wand and another sturdy thumbtack. Plugging the cord into the corner power point, she switches on the tiny lamps and nods in satisfaction as the glimmering decorations wink and flicker in a slow, repetitive pattern.
Perfect. Happy grin stretched across her face, Hermione flies into Draco's arms the moment he appears in the open doorway. He returns her bussing kiss with fervent pressure and zest.
"Hallo, my gorgeous girlfriend! How I have missed you," Draco cups her face in both hands, smiling down into her cheery face. Hermione notes how fine he looks, dressed in a navy suit and matching shirt and tie.
Block colour matching seems to be his particular fashion forté… though I'm yet to discover any colours or combinations that don't suit the extraordinarily handsome rogue. She cocks her head to the side as she enquires, "What have you been up to this afternoon, mon chérie? You look awfully pleased with yourself."
"All in due time, my curious lioness." Draco taps her lightly on the nose before he kisses it and steps back to scrutinize her current project.
As well as the fairy lights, Hermione has spruced up Mac's living quarters with some pretty pastel silk flowers her mother gave her, plus two red throw rugs borrowed from her Chesterfield. The enormous bunch of flowers Mac ordered has pride of place beside his king single-sized cast iron bedframe with its dark crimson velvet bedspread.
"Quite the little elfish love nest – you've outdone yourself, Granger," Draco declares. "Though the space is a bit too 'Gryffindor Red' for my liking," he teases, as she wrinkles her nose and feigns botheration.
"Where is the pygmy stud muffin, anyway?" Draco pulls a small paper bag from his jacket pocket. "Mother bade me to give him this, as a 'final touch'." He pokes it open before Hermione can chastise him. "Chockfull of rose petals from the Manor's gardens. Ah, Mother… you incurable romantic."
"Mac is upstairs, bathing; I gave him permission to have a calming soak in our tub while I finished decorating his room," Hermione clarifies. "Don't look so aghast, he's using his own toiletries. Poor little mite is jumping out of his skin with nerves… I added some Epsom salts to the bathwater."
Draco arches his eyebrow. "Is he experiencing cold feet? He shouldn't do anything he's not comfortable with… I thought he was ready for this."
"No – he is ready, he's just suffering some understandable jitters," Hermione affirms. "Mac is obsessing over minutiae to avoid dwelling on his fear of disappointing his beloved Ruibby in any way."
"Ruibby is going to be over the moon with this excessive floral tribute, at the very least," Draco carefully rubs his fingertips over the soft petals. "Did he leave any blossoms in the shop? I see he's been studying floriography, too."
"You should be flattered – Harry isn't really Mac's primary idol, you know," Hermione smiles. "Shhh – I think I hear him coming down the stairs. Be nice, Malfoy."
"Nice… bah," Draco grumbles, falling silent as Macdolas trots inside. The green-eyed house elf clasps together his hands in patent delight, whirling about the room as he takes in Hermione's efforts.
"Her Grace Lady Granger hath transformed Macdolas's humble lodgings into a boudoir fit for a king! Macdolas's cup runneth over!" he cries. Hermione elbows Draco in his muscled ribs to dissuade his chuckles at Mac's appearance.
"I'm glad you like it, Mac. Look, Narcissa sent on a bag of fresh rose petals to scatter on your bed, too." Hermione prompts Draco to hand the gift to his major-domo.
"Dare I enquire as to your wardrobe choice for this auspicious occasion, Macdolas? You look clean as a whistle, at any rate," Draco acknowledges.
Smoothing down the wide brocade cuffs of his red and gold mid-length jacket, Macdolas haughtily replies, "It is the preferred fashion of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Master Malfoy: a great and daring hero… and a dashing, faithful lover." He blushes on the last word, his face turning almost as red as his hair. "Macdolas believes his garb brings him good fortune… and his beautiful Ruibby tells Macdolas she likes him best in the colour red."
Hermione steps in before Draco can say anything half-smart to the mercurial manikin. "You look very handsome and debonair, Mac. Now, I'm going to run upstairs and quickly freshen up before Draco and I leave for Mum and Dad's place. I think Draco wants a word with you before we depart." Careful not to crush Mac's immaculate white cambric cravat or paisley-patterned waistcoat, Hermione kneels to hug her friend and deposit a loving kiss upon his shining forehead.
"Have a wonderful night, Mac. You'll be fine, never fear," she whispers.
Gulping, Mac can only blink and nod, while Draco frowns at her. Her boyfriend clearly mouths the words, "Wait for me" – which Hermione happily ignores.
Humming tunelessly, she risks taking the steps two at a time.
Lord Malfoy does have a mandated responsibility to look after his staff, after all.
"Granger, I can easily Transfigure this pot of tropical anthuriums into something less… phallic," Draco worries, as they stand before their Floo. "I don't want your father tearing strips off me for inadvertently offending your mother– I only chose them because they mean 'thank you for your hospitality'…"
Goodness gracious, what is it with the males in her life and their flower-based indecisiveness?
"Malfoy, Mum will love the potted plant, OK? Don't fuss. Dad will get cranky if we're late to dinner, though." She grabs his spare hand and squeezes it reassuringly. "The flowers are perfect – I didn't particularly notice the funny white… dongles, only the heart-shaped leaves."
"Oh. Good. But your dad might–"
Deciding actions trump words, Hermione drags her agonizing lover into the Floo with her.
Stepping out into her parents' fireplace moments later, she continues to tow a fretting Draco behind her as she calls out, "Mum? Dad? We're here!".
Jane Granger walks into the comfortably-decorated living room, swiftly untying a plain cream apron from around her waist before folding her arms around her daughter. "Hallo, sweetie – it's so good to see you looking well, and so happy."
"Mrs Granger – Jane – these are for you. They're tropical anthuriums: but I can Transfigure them into a different plant or flower though, if you'd prefer, it's no trouble–" Draco nervily offers.
Moving nearer to stroke the waxy tomato-red leaves, Jane pats Draco gently on his fair cheek. "They're stunning. Thank you, Draco. It's lovely to host such a thoughtful young man," she sets his mind at ease with her sincere acceptance of his gift.
Slipping an arm around her daughter's waist, she nods to the set of French doors separating the lounge room from the side terrace. "Draco, why don't you step outside and help Barney with the barbecue? Hermione, please bring the potted plant along to the kitchen – I've just the place for it. You can help me with the salad while our men have a little chat."
Hermione spares a consoling kiss to Draco's parted mouth before she adroitly snags the magnificent red, green and white plant from his uneasily flexing fingers. "Remember – he can smell your fear, mon cœur. Dad's really just a big old pussycat; and he loves a captive audience. If all else fails… show him your teeth," she whispers, with a wicked wink.
"Great. Thanks for abandoning me to the 'Father Dentist Granger', ma petite," Draco wryly complains. His Adam's apple jerks before he questions, "He doesn't carry dentistry tools upon his person, though… does he? Granger?".
Hermione simply waggles a little finger-wave as she follows her mother into the bungalow's kitchen. The mother and daughter tip back their heads and share identical-sounding laughs as they catch one another's eye.
"Poor Draco: I feel rather mean, considering the positively terrified expression on his handsome face," Jane Granger gasps, as Hermione unleashes a fresh cackle of mirth. "He isn't truly afraid of your father, is he? Barney is all bark and no bite, you know."
"I know, Mum – but it will do Draco's healthy ego no harm to have to work his charm more thoroughly than usual," Hermione immediately dismisses her mother's reservations. She sets down the pot plant on the edge of the oak wood benchtop and perches on a matching tall stool.
"Now, if you'll please hand me that chopping board and a sharp knife, I'll start slicing and dicing; and you can tell me how your week's been going, OK?".
Passing over the requested kitchen implements, Jane giggles as she begins, "Well… wait until you see your father's latest 'Man Cave' acquisition; he's really outdone himself, this time…!"
His left hand stills on the handle of the tall French door, as Draco allows himself a fleeting moment to steady his nerve. He can see Bernard Granger bent over the compact barbecue on the well-lit terrace in the backyard of the suburban bungalow, intently prodding and adjusting meat and vegetables.
Remember – Hermione said he's thawing toward you. He was surprisingly non-judgemental after learning of your addiction battle. Just go out there and make chit chat. You've got this. You are a wizard, you big chicken… just quietly Petrify the bloke if he pulls out pliers or a drill.
Winding up his internal pep talk, Draco quickly steps onto the terrace and announces his presence. "Good evening, Mr Granger. You have a lovely home, sir. Thank you very much for the dinner invitation; I've been anticipating it all week." Trepidation… anticipation… near enough.
Bernard Granger nimbly transfers an oversized pair of stainless steel tongs from his right hand to his left, freeing up his big paw to heartily slap Draco on the back.
Ouch. Draco grits his teeth and smiles stiffly as he stifles his wince.
"Draco! You're just in time to throw your peri-peri portion on the grill – here, take the tongs and snaffle that wing quarter," Bernard nods to the last piece of chicken left on the plate beside the barbecue.
Sweet Mother of Merlin – it's red enough to be mistaken for Mars. Draco considers using the giant tongs jammed unceremoniously into his left hand to surreptitiously knock the radioactive meat onto the tiled floor of the terrace, but decides against the tactic. Bernard would likely simply wipe it down and insist I eat it regardless.
He pats the hip flask full of chilled milk he'd stowed in the left front pocket of his black jeans before they'd departed the townhouse. It probably looks much worse than it really is.
"Looks bloody delicious, doesn't it?" Bernard gaily proclaims. "Marinated it overnight – wanted to ensure you got your money's worth. Go on, boy – throw it on," he urges.
Flipping the flattened scarlet portion carefully onto the grill, Draco hands back the tongs. "All yours, sir."
"Call me Bernard," Hermione's father magnanimously allows. "Want to have a talk to you, lad – man-to-man – before we go into dinner."
Ah. Shit. Run. Draco freezes before his legs can obey his brain's instinctive command. Bernard chuckles heartily beside him.
"Cool your jets, boy: I want to know whether you're here for the long run. With Little Wendy, I mean," Bernard elucidates. "I reckon the question's redundant, given the perpetually devoted look on your pale face… but I figured it was time I laid down the law, so to speak."
He snaps the tongs teasingly as Draco recoils. "Ha! Sorry – couldn't resist. I'm renowned for my cheeky sense of humour; I'm sure Hermione's mentioned it," Bernard guffaws. "So? Do you intend to live de facto with my favourite daughter indefinitely, or is marriage on the cards?" he presses, prodding judiciously at the chicken pieces.
"I'd marry her tomorrow if I thought she'd agree to it," Draco blurts. "Hermione means everything to me, Mr Gra–Bernard. If she ever left me, I don't know what I'd do… probably just fade away and die of a broken heart," he chokes.
Just thinking of a life without her is intolerable… insupportable. Draco is horribly afraid he is about to start sniffling… in front of his girlfriend's unpredictably caustic parent. Get a fucking hold of yourself.
"Good," Bernard casually replies. "Hold up that white platter, please – corn's ready."
Draco dutifully waits until the buttery yellow ears have been expertly stacked before he ventures, "You're not… angry? Worried it's too soon? Concerned your future grandchildren may carry the taint and stigma of their father being… an alcoholic?". Way to dig your own grave, dickhead. He literally bites his tongue before it can add any more bullet points to his list of faults.
"I wasn't impressed when I first learned about your relationship – no point pretending otherwise," Bernard admits. "However – I've watched the two of you closely, and there's no doubt in my mind you'd walk through fire if Hermione asked you to fetch her a hot coal. As for it being too soon… well, I knew within ten minutes of meeting my Jane that I wanted to marry her. Told her just that, actually," he puffs out his chest with pride. "My sugarpuss was naturally initially reluctant to admit she felt the same way, but I knew we were destined soulmates. You just… you know, right? And it's not physical – well, it is, but it isn't – it's deeper. Stronger. Molecular magnetism, higher consciousness, past lives… I dunno. Sounds like mumbo jumbo, but you know it when you feel it. And boy, did I feel it!".
Barney pauses in his manipulation of tongs and meat to nod emphatically at Draco, a wide smile splitting his bearded visage. "Here's the other thing: when our daughter decides on something – or someone – she will not be swayed. Takes a helluva lot for Hermione to give up her loyalty and love. I mean, it happens – ask Ron Weasley – but she is as fierce with her heart as she is generous and kind. You're a very lucky man, Draco… but I've a feeling you already realize that."
"Indeed I do, sir," Draco fervently agrees.
"Now, as to your last point… you're rehabilitated and in recovery – not the town drunk. And there's absolutely no reason to exclude you from the Granger genetic pool based on any genetic predilection to addiction," Bernard soberly states. "My parents died when my father drove home drunk from a pub, Draco. Trust me – I understand your concerns."
He claps a hand on Draco's shoulder, markedly more gently than his gesture of greeting. "Anything you want to add, Draco? Take the opportunity while I'm feeling unusually benevolent and maudlin, eh?".
"Potter– Harry, I mean… he mentioned that you didn't overly care for the Weas– Ronald Weasley. Did he do something unforgivable to Hermione?" Draco is unable to stop himself voicing the query (though he attempts to keep his pitch level, and relatively free of his entrenched antipathy).
"Unforgivable… well, I suppose that depends on your viewpoint," Bernard muses, pointing at a silver tray; Draco picks it up and holds it steady as the older man begins piling on the cooked Portuguese chicken pieces.
"Ron's not a bad bloke, Draco – oh, I know all about your rivalry, slug-puke hexes and nasty modified badges and what-not–"
"Weasley was the one who made himself spew slugs – and he was aiming for me," Draco protests.
"In defence of my daughter, after you'd just called her a 'Mudblood' – I'd shut up, if I were you… Back to Ron – and don't interrupt me again," Bernard warns. "Bottom line: I never thought Ron was good enough for my daughter. He was like a teenaged kid being given the rare opportunity to drive a Rolls Royce – but he treated her like an old Austin Metro with a clapped-out gearbox and three bald tyres."
"I'm sorry, I understood almost none of that analogy… Is Hermione the Rolls Royce, or the Austin Metro?" Draco is compelled to admit his confusion. Is Bernard Granger truly comparing Hermione to a car?
"Little Wendy's the bloody Rolls Royce, of course – bugger it, I forgot you wizardly lot are hopeless about automobiles," Bernard sighs. "I'll come at it from a different angle, alright? Ron's like a Labrador puppy. All appetite and enthusiasm, but will also indiscriminately drool over anyone and everything. Fun to be around, but tiresome without some proper training and restraint."
Here's a metaphor I can get behind. Draco grins as he imagines the Weasel as a goofy russet Lab.
He is distracted from his happy thoughts as Bernard continues, "But you – you're like… what's the name of those fancy dogs that were wildly popular in the 70s? You know – purebred, tall, snooty, silky long coats that need a lot of grooming?".
"Afghan hounds?" Draco suggests, not bothering to mask his perturbation. "You're saying I'm a show dog?". His schadenfreude at Weasley's unflattering description rapidly deflates.
Bernard snaps his fingers in delight. "That's the one – Afghans! I should have remembered that, toyed with the idea of getting one, years ago," he wistfully reveals. "Couldn't afford it – they cost a pretty penny."
"Beautiful animals, really. High maintenance, of course. Very intelligent, aloof, strong-willed, fiercely brave. Dignified, but stubborn as a mule." Laughing as he catches sight of Draco's affronted expression, Bernard finishes placing Draco's 'special' piece of chicken onto the tray.
"Cheer up, lad: I haven't finished. Afghans were originally bred as extremely skilled hunters – didn't know that, I'll warrant! They're savage and smart enough to bring down antelopes, and even leopards. Enough about dogs, though. You're a far better match for my girl, that's the crux of the matter. She deserves a man – a wizard – who'll put her first, every time. Ron Weasley didn't."
"Erm… right. Thanks. I will. I mean, I do. Put Hermione first," Draco blathers, cringing internally at how ruddy imbecilic he sounds.
"If you hurt my Little Wendy, I'll rope in Harry to 'Stump' you one night and bring you into the surgery," Bernard deadpans. "Let's just say – by the time you came to, you'd have a significantly altered set of teeth. Do you understand what I'm saying, Draco?".
"Absolutely. I'd rather cut off my left hand than ever hurt Hermione," Draco firmly promises. "By the way… I think you meant 'Stun', not 'Stump', sir?". Salazar's sake… I should have kept my mouth shut… I think Bernard was actually giving me his (warped) blessing…
"Is that right? Makes more sense, I suppose," Bernard turns off the gas barbecue burners before picking up the platter of corn. "Come on, Best in Show – let's see how you like Barney's Famous Portuguese Chicken."
"Draco? Is something wrong?" Jane Granger quietly asks, her kind hazel eyes seeking out his own across the large round pinewood dining table. "We have white pepper instead of cracked, if you'd prefer?" she offers.
"Uh, no, thank you, Jane," Draco raises his eyes from his plate, smiling reassuringly at her. "Cracked pepper is fine."
"Go on, Draco – try your peri-peri portion," Bernard encourages, his chocolate eyes agleam with mischief. "Anyone would think you were scared to take a bite!".
Hermione finishes dressing her salad and cocks her head. "I smell a rat… Dad, what have you done?" she accuses, craning her neck to check Draco's plate.
"What on earth?! Dad – why does Draco's piece of chicken look like it's been cooked under a flamethrower? It's redder than a post box!". Scraping back her chair, Hermione moves to switch her father's plate with Draco's.
"Honestly, Dad – you have such a puerile sense of 'humour' sometimes," she berates. "What if Draco were allergic to all this horrid chilli you've piled onto his meat?" she growls. "Like we don't have enough people trying to kill us!".
Bernard stays her angry hand, looking sheepish as he confesses, "It's alright, leave the plates alone, Hermione. I didn't really soak Draco's quarter in extra chilli – it's just a paste I slathered on. Semi-dried tomatoes and a bit of bog standard tomato sauce, that's all. It's not any hotter than anyone else's.'
"Sorry, Little Wendy. And you too, Draco," the dentist appends as an afterthought. While Bernard is hanging his head in shame (or at least, regret that he's been found out), Draco quietly slides his flask of milk back into his hip pocket.
"Barney, I'm so disappointed in you," Jane Granger says rebukingly. "Treating an honoured guest in our home in such a fashion… rather poor form, darling. You could learn more than a thing or two by emulating Draco's impeccable manners: he even brought me a beautiful pot of tropical anthuriums tonight."
"Not particularly polite to gift my wife a bunch of hoity-toity plasticky red leaves with little white wangs hanging off them, if you ask me," Barney sullenly grouses.
"If you're referring to the finger-shaped spike protruding from the spathe, it's called a 'spadix', Bernard." Draco figures he's earned the right to defend his floral offering, considering he was to be the butt of Bernard's culinary joke.
"See – it's even got the word 'dicks' in it!" Bernard whinges, as Hermione and her mother glare at him with identical expressions of aggravated condemnation.
"I think you should shut up now, my dearest husband. Please." Jane Granger turns to Draco once more.
"It's a shame Macdolas couldn't accompany you two this evening: Hermione tells me he's on a very important date tonight? And that you wrote and illustrated a fascinating instructional text to help guide him through it?" Jane prompts.
Draco falters halfway through chewing his tasty (and nontoxic) first bite of spicy chicken. Oh, Granger – why did you have to tell your mother about the unspeakable elfin doings taking place beneath our roof tonight? And tout my reluctant foray into authorship?
Aware that every eye in the room is focused upon him, Draco ensures he has diligently masticated and swallowed his entire mouthful of food before he replies. "Ah, yes, Jane… Macdolas has finally… won the heart of his lady love, Ruibby." A jolt of subject-changing inspiration strikes him.
"Has Hermione invited you to Macdolas's thirtieth birthday party yet? We're holding it at the Manor, on Friday, April 4. Hermione's decided it's to be a surprise celebration, and everyone is to come dressed in costume – to honour Macdolas's obsession with elaborate outfits," Draco pronounces.
"What a fabulous idea! We'd love to come. Thank you," Jane beams. "Are you planning a big party?"
"Well, we're going to invite all of Macdolas's elven colleagues, plus our friends… and I'll check with Ruibby if there's anyone else she thinks he'd like to attend," Hermione answers. "I've yet to talk to Narcissa to lock in the arrangements, but I'll be sure to make it a priority this weekend.
"Can I come as a Muggle dentist?" Barney pipes up. "I'll offer free dentistry for a year to the first elf who volunteers to let me have a gander at his or her teeth," he sweetens the deal.
"NO!" Hermione and Jane yell in unison.
"Bloody spoilsports. Won't let a man have any fun," Barney carps in a loud whisper.
Spearing another forkful of his delicious meal, Draco merely snickers.
"Such a fantastic film – I tell you, it never gets old," Bernard vigorously thumps the arm of the sofa for emphasis. "What say you, Draco? Got enough inspiration to draw my 'Little Shop of Horrors' caricature, now?".
What the fuck did I just watch? And this… musical… is meant to be a comedy? Truly? Draco can only gape as Hermione moves to switch off the video. She mouths "Sorry" as she returns it to its case and slots it back onto the shelf.
"Well done, Dad: I think you broke my boyfriend; or at least, traumatized him for life," Hermione dryly quips, sliding gently into Draco's lap and curling around him. Not like an alien vine, Draco hastens to tell himself. Not at all like that.
Kissing him tenderly, Hermione threads her fingers through his hair as she berates her father. "You do realize that Orin the dentist is the abusive, sadistic villain, correct? I worry about you sometimes, Dad."
"Pfft. Of course I know Orin's the bad guy – but you have to admit, he rocks the white jacket, Little Wendy. That's exactly what I'm after – the sense of sharp style he projects. Pass the lad his sketch pad and pens, please?" Bernard wheedles, as Jane shakes her head and chuckles with fond resignation.
"Look, I don't know if Draco's feeling up to it–" Hermione frowns.
"I'm fine, ma petite. I'll need a better light, that's all," Draco reassures his concerned witch.
"To the Man Cave!" Bernard hollers, causing Hermione to squeak and almost fall off Draco's legs.
"He means his study, Draco," Jane translates, gently pinching her spouse in retaliation for his raucous outburst.
"Ow – Jane, that was not nice!" Bernard says aggrievedly. Standing, he suddenly plucks his wife from her seat beside him, wrapping her securely into his chest and nuzzling at her neck as she shrieks and giggles. "Grrrrr… pinch me, will you? Nippy little jade – you're coming with me!" he jounces Jane up and down as he starts walking from the living room.
Hermione covers her eyes with her palms. "Oh, geez… can we leave now? Please? They're getting frisky, and I really don't need to see it. Like, ever again," she groans.
Draco grins. "But Granger – you were the one who insisted on packing my art supplies in your tiny, bloated bag… and I believe you were also the one who has staunchly defended our house elves' right to freely fornicate in our townhouse tonight… so that's a hard no on running away," he decrees, lacing his hands around her waist as she squirms.
"Besides – what could possibly explain your reluctance to enter the 'Man Cave'?" he curiously enquires.
Twisting to face him, Hermione inhales and exhales deeply before she solemnly describes the source of her unwillingness.
"Mum told me that Dad went out to a garage sale the other day… and returned as the incredibly proud owner of a new two seater couch." She pauses for dramatic effect.
"And?".
"Malfoy… it's no ordinary Muggle couch. It's the back bench seat of a Ford Cortina… with feet. Hand-carved, wooden feet… modelled on bare, human feet. Complete with a bedraggled, stretchy car seat cover – authentic velour, as it happens." Hermione's dismay is palpable.
"Mum took me in to see the monstrosity before we sat down to dinner… Draco, she had a big grin on her face… because they've already 'christened' it. They broke it in the first night it came into the house. Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you?" she grabs the thick folds of his cream Aran sweater and shakes him desperately.
"Don't make me go in there – it's too cruel!" Hermione implores.
They stare at each other in growing consternation, as more sniggers, growls, and coos emanate from the study down the hall.
"Oh, Jane – doesn't this bring back some sublime memories!" Bernard Granger's voice could be heard from the bottom of a well, such is his enthusiastic volume.
Draco and Hermione whimper as one.
"Granger – we can't skedaddle now. We'd never be forgiven," Draco grudgingly points out.
"I know," Hermione sighs. "Dad will be devastated if you don't finish his caricature."
"I'm starting to empathize with Potter walking in on us all the time," Draco discloses. "Granger – I really don't want to see that weird couch… or your parents snogging on it."
"Shall we pledge to Obliviate each other, once we're safely home?" Hermione jests.
She eases off his lap and rises to her feet, twining her hand with his and shooting him a wry smile.
"Come along, my brave, splendid mage– let's get this over with…"
"…and never speak of it again."
Chuckling softly, Draco follows her lead.
French translations:
Putain de merde! – Fucking hell!
