Chapter 53
Thursday 20 March 2003: AM
Hermione muzzily raises her head from her deliciously soft, supportive pillow as the wide mattress rocks beneath her.
Squinting in the pale morning light, she sleepily mumbles, "Malfoy? Wha's wrong…?". Her bleary eyes dimly perceive her boyfriend sitting cross-legged beside her, covering his face in a classic 'Monkey See No Evil' pose and twitching in agitation.
"Granger – don't go downstairs. Save yourself, ma petite," the blonde wizard dramatically whispers. He shudders as he wraps his woollen dressing gown tighter around his muscular form.
Flopping out a lethargic hand to rub at Draco's bent leg, Hermione tries to focus on the pith of the problem. "Downstairs? Who's there? Is Harry OK?" she struggles to rise as worry sets in.
Draco slides down the bed, pinning her gently back to horizontal and encouraging her to rest against his chest. "I'm sorry, Granger – I did not intend to disturb you. Potter's not here – and he's fine, as far as I know." He huffs a deep breath. "No… this particular domestic turmoil is unique to the Townhouse of Granger-Malfoy… As if the squeaking bedsprings last night weren't traumatic enough," he grimly mutters.
"Stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what's going on, please," Hermione groans. "It's too early for your cryptic allusions… and if you've been to the kitchen, why didn't you bring us back some coffee?" she bemoans the oversight.
Kissing her forehead, Draco finally reveals the source of his angst. "I couldn't get anywhere near the French press – not after I stumbled upon that.. that… scene. Granger, Ruibby stayed the night… and Macdolas is blithely trotting around the kitchen shirtless, clad only in some lurid cerise silk pyjama bottoms! Ruibby appears to be wearing that blue smoking jacket of his that Crookshanks perforated– and very little else–" he blathers.
"Oh." Hermione is at a loss for a more insightful response.
"He's proudly making her the world's biggest breakfast, judging by the mess he's made! That's not even the worst of it… They're both riddled in hickeys. What's that Muggle disease, 'neasels'? 'Cheasels'? If I didn't know better, I'd promptly diagnose the pair of them with it and shove them straight into quarantine. Separately," Draco stresses. "I'm uncertain whether they had sex last night – or tried to eat each other."
Hermione cannot contain her burbling laughter, despite Draco's miffed expression. "It's – it's measles, Malfoy. Look, aren't you glad they… um… had a good time? You did remind him about the Contraception Charm yesterday evening, didn't you?".
"After you forced me into a last pep talk, you mean?" Draco chips. "Yes, I made the horny little horrorhead repeat it thrice before I fled. Why are we surrounded by sexed-up couples all of a sudden? As if witnessing your parents flagrantly pawing at each other on that atrocity of a couch last night wasn't enough to scar me for life – now this. We may have to sell up and move. No, wait – have you heard back from McGonagall yet? Tell her we're relocating to Hogwarts, please. Immediately," he decrees.
"Such a drama queen. Your talents are supremely wasted off the stage," Hermione ribs, resting her chin on Draco's sternum as she smiles into his cantankerous face. "I haven't heard back from Minerva… she said she'd likely owl me by close of business today; she mentioned wanting to officially announce my posting at the Gala tomorrow night.'
"But I know you're only jesting about moving to the castle permanently: we haven't agreed on what we want to do yet. Buck up, Malfoy – Mac and Ruibby will settle down into dull old domesticity soon enough," Hermione laughingly predicts. "Just like us, right?".
"Oh, no… We may be domestic, but we'll never be dull," Draco corrects, pretending arrogant disdain as he glides his artist's hands up and down her back. "I discover something new and wondrous about you every day, Hermione Jean Granger. You are a rare phenomenon and a blessing, and I intend to keep exploring you for as long as you'll let me," he solemnly pledges.
Forever. Hermione's breath catches as the word almost spills from her mouth. No, I am far too vulnerable as it is… Draco's ongoing reluctance to tell me he loves me is preying on my nerves. Hermione bites her lip and tucks her head into the crook of Draco's arm to hide her emotional fragility.
"Granger? Have I– have I said the wrong thing?".
"No. It's fine." You just haven't said the right thing yet. Hermione wiggles free of Draco's hold, averting her eyes as she brightly proclaims, "Let's present a united front downstairs with our elfish lovebirds, hmmm? And maybe organize some breakfast – and coffee – of our own?". Swinging round her legs and sitting upright, Hermione feels Draco's hand trail off her nude back as she rises and makes for the bathroom.
"Won't be but a moment," she calls over her shoulder before firmly snicking closed the door. Don't push him… he's clearly proven his commitment time and again. You're a greedy girl, Ms Granger.
Staring at her woebegone mirror image, Hermione allows herself one final heavy sigh before she bends to wash her face.
Macdolas dashes to the door of Hermione's office as a heavy knock sounds from outside.
"Come in," Hermione calls, as Mac tenses; her fierce fae bodyguard has been particularly energetic in his defence of her workspace this morning.
Eyeing him now, Hermione suppresses a grin at how he is channelling his seemingly never-ending jubilation at his wildly successful night of carnal 'firsts' with his petite blonde girlfriend. Mac's Renaissance 'Romeo' outfit has definitely been chosen to reflect his newfound confidence. The laced black and blue jacket over the plain white rough linen shirt and studded black leather belt are given extra jaunty flair by Macdolas's air of delighted complacency… and the jet-black knee-high soft suede boots are simply adorable.
"Oh look – it's Puss in Boots," Draco had sniped, when Macdolas had proudly waltzed out of his room, a smug Ruibby clinging to his arm. "Hurry up, Casanova – you should have escorted Ruibby back to the Manor by now," he'd chided.
"Macdolas is not late! Macdolas sees his darlingest Ruibby home safely, then returns for Her Grace Lady Granger!" their manservant had squawked.
At Hermione's stern glance, Draco had swiftly apologized. "Sorry – you have just enough time. Macdolas, when you return with Hermione this evening, I'd like you to immediately decamp to visit the Manor indefinitely… Hermione and I have plans tonight," he'd instructed.
"We do?" Hermione had asked, baffled. "Have I somehow forgotten them?".
"Not at all… I'm planning a little surprise," Draco had revealed, one blond brow arched suggestively. "A private surprise, Granger."
Ruibby had giggled at the arrested look on Hermione's face. "Her Grace is fortunate to have such an inventive paramour; though Ruibby is luckier," she'd simpered, as Macdolas had leaned in to deliver a rapacious smooch.
Hermione had laughed aloud at Draco's exaggerated groan, momentarily dispelling her lingering melancholy after the morning's despondency. "I've plenty of time to get to work, Mac. Take your time – but maybe kiss Ruibby goodbye properly at the Manor… I think Draco's had enough visual proof of your affections for one day," she had gently suggested.
The elven couple had wasted no time in Disapparating from the townhouse, twined around each other as they'd winked out of the kitchen with a loud snap… leaving the two humans alone together.
Fidgeting at the strap of her leather work satchel, Hermione had improvised a need to procure another comb to tame her curly locks, and turned for the stairs. She'd stiffened as Draco had caught her about the waist, his breath warm against her ear.
"Hermione… is something the matter? You don't seem yourself, ma petite," he'd quietly remarked.
Forcing herself to relax, Hermione had casually shrugged. "I've a busy day at work; I suppose I'm guilty of letting my mind wander to the office already."
A pause. "Are you certain that's all that's troubling you? You look… distressed." Draco had gently rotated her within the circle of his arms, peering deeply into her shifting eyes. "Hermione? You've not seemed happy since you left our bed this morning."
"I'm fine – just a little tired. Like I said, big day ahead," Hermione had pulled away from his light hold, though her heart had screamed for her to stay. "Be right back." She'd smiled tightly and hustled up the staircase before Draco could question her further.
Berating herself for her cowardice, Hermione had intentionally dawdled in their bedroom until she'd heard Macdolas Apparate back into the lounge room.
I don't want to admit my hurt over such a trivial issue, she'd justified her evasive behaviours. I know Draco loves me… I feel it, in everything he does. What did Luna say? 'Words are cheap but deeds will keep'? She's right (as ever)… but my silly heart yearns to hear his words.
Even her goodbye kiss to Draco had lacked her usual uninhibited enthusiasm; she'd clattered into the Floo before Draco had done more than open his mouth to express his obvious perturbation.
Lost to the memories of her troubled morning, Hermione straightens in her chair as a familiar deep voice speaks her name… or a mangled Bulgarian version of it.
"Herm-own-ninny! Ve haff not seen each other for too long," Viktor Krum appears not to notice Macdolas as he strides into the room; the indignant elf is forced to leap to the relative safety provided by her filing cabinet, lest he be bowled over altogether by the hulking ex-Seeker. Hermione stands and is immediately folded into a gentle hug.
"Viktor! I didn't realize you were in London?" Hermione's words are muffled against his black woollen jacket. As she disengages, she vigorously shakes her head at Macdolas, who is glowering suspiciously at her old friend from atop the metal cabinet.
"Viktor, I'd like you to meet Macdolas of the Clan Fhionnlaigh; he's my Chief Security Advisor, and– "
"Major-domo of the House of Granger-Malfoy," Macdolas concludes, hitching at his heavy leather belt and reaching for the now-missing small medieval dagger (that Draco had confiscated as soon as he'd seen it). Hermione frowns as Mac covers his telling grab by pretending to adjust the belt's prong and strap.
"Macdolas recognizes Master Viktor Dobroslav Krum, Bulgarian Seeker Extraordinaire, Goblet of Fire Participant, ex-Durmstrang alumni… and ex-beau of Her Grace Lady Granger," Macdolas sounds torn between vibrant admiration and loyal reprobation. The elf's osseous hands twist as his wide mouth is caught halfway between a smile and a snarl.
"It is alvays pleasure to meet friends of Herm-own-ninny, Mister Macdolas," Viktor offers his huge mitt to shake. Gingerly accepting, Macdolas's expression is comically cycling between dazzled and censorious.
"The 'House of Granger-Malfoy'?" Herm-own-ninny… you marry Draco Malfoy, already?" Viktor smiles, though his dark ochre eyes are sad. "He is very lucky wizard, to claim you as beautiful bride."
"No – no, we're not married, Viktor," Hermione hastens to correct.
"Yet," Macdolas snips. "Her Grace Lady Granger and Master Malfoy are most happily shacked up," he stresses, folding his arms and nodding for emphasis.
"Macdolas – please, be respectful. To me, if not to Draco," Hermione's neck begins to flush red as Viktor chokes back a surprised chuckle.
"Macdolas begs pardon – Macdolas does not intend affront," his triangular ears droop.
Viktor sombrely comments, "I haff heard of your bravery, Mister Macdolas: I am forever in your debt for saving my– for saving Herm-own-ninny." He bows formally to the surprised sprite.
Hermione interrupts before Mac can either launch into his familiar hyperbolic string of Viktor's honorifics… or turn on him in jealous defence of Draco.
"Mac, would you mind giving us some privacy, please? Viktor will never harm me," she assures, as Macdolas flicks a narrowed glare at her tall friend.
"Macdolas stands guard outside the door for five minutes, until Master Krum leaves," he deigns, with an officiously haughty air that Draco himself would have trouble emulating. "Macdolas reminds Her Grace Lady Granger that the Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson arrives shortly for their luncheon appointment," he hops down from the cabinet and struts to the door, closing it behind him with a sharp crack.
"Sorry – he's very protective of me," Hermione sighs, resting her hip against the edge of her battered desk. "Mac's really quite sweet… He's been much nicer to you than he was to Ron," she weakly smiles.
Viktor shrugs his massive shoulders, smirking genially. "I vonder to myself when I read newspaper article: how does Ronald Veasley feel about letting Herm-own-ninny slip through his fingers? Ronald does not know vot he has until he loses it, I think."
Time for a subject change – stat. Ignoring her renewed blush, Hermione asks, " Are you in town on business, Viktor? I've been following your company's successes in the business papers – you're doing very well for yourself," she refers to Viktor's slowly-expanding enterprise of specialized Quidditch training camps and professional coaching facilities.
Viktor pinkens at her praise, shyly ducking his head. "Thank you, Herm-own-ninny. Business is steady. Is not the same as playing, but this ageing body is glad for less aches and pains ven I wake."
"Ageing? Viktor, you're only three years older than I!" Hermione scoffs, grinning.
"Vell, I do not miss bruises and bone breaks from Bludgers and Beaters," Viktor admits. He scans her from head to toe. "You are well, Herm-own-ninny? You are more beautiful than I remember… but I vorry terribly ven I read of this recent attack… if you need help, I am here for you. Alvays," he shifts from genial to savage in a heartbeat, hands clubbed into tight fists.
Laying her hand lightly atop Viktor's bunched, thick forearm, Hermione assuages his concerns. "That means a lot to me… thank you, Viktor. Please don't worry – between Draco and Macdolas, I am more stringently guarded than the Crown Jewels," she wryly reveals.
Viktor relaxes his tense stance somewhat. "He is good to you – Draco Malfoy? He treats you as his queen?" he hesitantly enquires.
"Yes… Yes, Draco is– well, he's everything to me. He's my… he's my heart– he has my heart," Hermione stumbles over expressing her innermost feelings, tears involuntarily welling. I need to remember that… instead of obsessing over foolish, stereotypical expectations of romance. She makes a conscious effort to brighten her expression.
"Viktor, will you be attending the Spring Equinox Ball tomorrow night? I'd offer to have dinner with you this evening, but I– we – have other plans." Apparently.
Nodding, Viktor smiles gently. "Yes – I haff been asked to give small speech about fostering better business relations between our countries. Mr Zabini invites me to sit at his table: may I ask for one dance with you, Herm-own-ninny? If your– if Mister Malfoy does not mind me stealing away his lady, for one – vot is the word?... ah, nostalgic waltz."
"Of course – and never mind Draco. He's doesn't control me," Hermione spiritedly declares. "I look forward to it."
"Good. And now, I must away… lest your fierce little kuche pazach – guard dog – show his teeth." Viktor cranes his head, softly kissing Hermione on both cheeks, before raising her knuckles to his lips for a final salutation. "I alvays know you are not meant for me, Herm-own-ninny: I only vish to see you happy. Be joyful, skŭpa."
Damn – he's still heartbreakingly sweet. Hermione affectionately squeezes his hands in wordless response, before he turns to leave.
The door opens just as Viktor reaches it: Macdolas pompously announces, "Master Seeker Krum departs as The Professionally Prosperous Mistress Pansy Parkinson enters!". Pansy stands behind him, eyes widening as she notes Viktor's presence.
"Hello, Viktor. Are we still on for that meeting with Blaise at three o'clock?". Even with her two inch stilettos, Pansy has to stretch to accept Viktor's buss on both cheeks.
"Of course, Miss Pansy. I vill be there," Viktor asserts. "I hope I do not insult by saying you are pretty as a picture… You haff special bloom today?" he cocks his head as he smiles down into Pansy's glowing face.
Hermione watches on, intrigued by Pansy's unusually flustered disposition as she flaps her hands at the compliment.
"Go on with you, Tall, Dark and Durmstrang," Pansy deflects. "Unless you want to join us for lunch?" she looks to Hermione for confirmation of her impulsive invitation.
"I thank you, but I leave you lovely ladies alone for now," Viktor demurs. "Enjoy your luncheon. Goodbye, Mister Macdolas," he bows, before pivoting to walk away with his renowned athletic grace.
Hermione turns her attention to her Slytherin pal: Pansy yet appears a tad hectic. "Pansy? Are you OK? You look… weird," Hermione observes.
"Pfft – I look fabulous, as ever," Pansy needlessly yanks at her slate-grey jacket and smooths a miniscule crease from the matching suit trousers. "You heard Viktor – 'pretty as a picture'" she winks, stepping back to take in Hermione's appearance.
"You're the one who seems odd today, Pollyanna. Did something happen between you and your Bulgarian buddy?" Pansy wonders.
"What? No – Viktor just dropped by to say hello, and check on my well-being," Hermione explains.
"Have you quarrelled with Draco, then?" Pansy probes.
"No!" Hermione denies, a trifle hotly. She exhales in relief when she spies an anomaly on Pansy's immaculate presentation.
"What's this, Miss Pretty as a Picture?" Hermione leans forward, triumphantly plucking a short, wavy black hair off the lapel of Pansy's dark emerald satin blouse.
"That's – that's my hair – I just combed it," Pansy fibs, snatching at the lone strand.
"Yeah, no…" Hermione chuckles as the other woman makes a series of failed, desperate grabs for the tell-tale tress. "Your hair is much longer: and besides, I've cut this black mop before. This is Harry's hair," she confidently professes.
Witnessing Pansy blanch, then crimson, is both amusing and alarming. Hermione takes pity on her, wrapping a friendly arm around Pansy's shoulder as she steers them toward the elevator bank.
"Are you coming with us, Mac? To enjoy some hot food, and gentle prying into Harry and Pansy's 'friendship'?" Hermione sniggers as Mac reaches for Pansy's hand and swings it back and forth whilst trotting alongside her.
The house elf/bodyguard makes her laugh again as he sheepishly wheedles, "Would The Patently Pulchritudinous Miss Pansy Parkinson please petition Master Viktor Dobroslav Krum for his autograph, during their afternoon meeting? Macdolas believes his sweet Ruibby to be an avid fan."
"Bullshit," mutters a disgruntled Pansy. "It's just as well you're cute, you little suck-up."
Thursday 20 March 2003: PM
Whomever called them 'butterflies' in the stomach was a moron – they're much more like baby spiders… Hatchling baby spiders, spilling from their tiny soft eggs and winnowing through my unhappy intestines in an entirely revolting fashion.
Draco is glad he skipped lunch when his gorge rises. Stop thinking of spiders… You certainly don't need to remember that hideous mutant Aragog that Hagrid worshipped. Stop! Think of something else… practise what you intend to say to Hermione, again. Slower, this time.
Sucking in a deep breath, Draco's head snaps about as the Floo activates. He nearly trips over his own stupid feet as he rushes toward it.
Hermione has just cleared the marble mantle when Draco sweeps her into his strong arms. He buries his face in her rose-and-lavender fragranced curls as she emits a startled 'Eep'.
"Malfoy? Has something happened?" Hermione pushes at his chest, worry sharpening her clear tones. She briskly lays her palm flat against his forehead: checking for a fever, Draco supposes.
"No, no – I'm quite well. Do not worry, ma petite," he hums softly. Turning his head, he addresses their bustling seneschal.
"Macdolas – you may leave. Go, visit Ruibby, stay at the Manor for as long as you can tonight," Draco urgently instructs. "Go on – piss off already," he barks, as Macdolas merely blinks sceptically.
"Hey – why are you picking on Mac?" Hermione berates. "That was not nice, Draco."
"Sorry, sorry… Macdolas, I'd be much obliged if you'd see your way clear to granting Hermione and I our privacy, please," Draco amends, as Hermione's tense expression eases.
The manservant taps his foot and exaggeratedly rubs his elongated fingers together in the well-known gesture of requesting payment; his sly manoeuvre is hidden from Hermione, who has her back to the elf.
Extortionate, opportunistic little turd! Draco peels back his lips in a grimace, reluctantly nodding his agreement to the unsubtle bribe as he mouths, "Beat it!".
"Macdolas wishes his most gracious, generous employers an excellent evening! Bonsoir!" he Disapparates, his wicked grin stretched from ear to jumbo ear.
Drawing away from Hermione, Draco battles to keep his jumping nerves in check. He slips her black leather work satchel off her shoulder and lays it down on the coffee table before he speaks.
"Hermione… would you please sit down? I have something I wish to tell you," Draco begins, his heather eyes tangling with her puzzled cocoa gaze. "It's not bad news… well, it's not news, per se… it's something I've been meaning to discuss– meaning to say, that is– for an age–"
"Malfoy. I'm listening. Your uncharacteristic vacillation is not helping to calm my jitters, though," Hermione mordaciously comments. She sits primly at the far edge of the light blue couch, crossing her ankles and holding her hands in her lap as she awaits Draco's reply. Her stiff spine and the near-imperceptible tight lines around her closed mouth betray her apprehension.
"Hermione: please don't be anxious. I know you were upset this morning, and I finally figured out why… I should have said this weeks ago, I'm sorry. Anyway– I promise you, this is not a difficult conversation– well, not for you, it's hard for me– not hard, I shouldn't say hard, it's more, um, challenging… no, not a challenge, more like a–a process–"
"For fuck's sake! You're killing me! What on earth has gotten into you, Draco?" Hermione growls. "I'm sorry – but honestly, Malfoy, you are seriously starting to get on my wick with your silly dithering. Are you breaking up with me?" she demands, rising to her feet and balling her small hands into angry fists.
"What?! Of course not! Why would you even consider–"
"Are you cheating on me?"
"No! How can you think–"
"Are you secretly engaged to another? Are you terminally ill? Do you have a sexually transmitted disease? Have you gotten another witch pregnant?" Hermione mercilessly thunders on, windmilling her arms in wild, frustrated gesticulations.
"NO! To all of that – bloody hell, what a wretched litany of prospective sins! Dammit, will you just sit down and listen?! I AM TRYING TO TELL YOU I AM MADLY, HOPELESSLY, INFINITELY IN LOVE WITH YOU, HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER!" Draco shouts out his Grand Confession with all the finesse of a raucous dockworker.
Well… fuck. That… did not proceed as I'd hoped. Draco cringes as his hollered declaration seems to echo endlessly in his red-tipped ears. Hermione flumps back down onto the sofa as though she's been whacked with a broom. He hurries to her side as her breathing grows ragged.
"Hermione – are you OK? Ma petite, mon amour– I am sorry, I did not mean to blurt that out in such a crude fashion… I have been practising my speech most of the day – I am such a daft prat!". He feels like mimicking Macdolas's now-retired habit of whacking himself in his idiot noggin.
"Say it. Your speech. Your planned speech. Please," Hermione is staring at him with huge, amazed, whiskey-brown eyes.
Draco forces his frozen feet to shuffle closer, sitting sideways beside his beloved sorceress. He gently gathers her chilled hands to nest them within his own clammy ones, chafing them solicitously.
"I couldn't decide whether I should lead with English or French – I ended up going with pidgin Buffoon, as it turned out," he weakly jokes, smiling more freely as Hermione's mouth twists restively.
"English, to start with – I don't want to miss any nuance," she commands, with the singular bossiness that Draco simply adores.
"Well… here goes everything." Draco delves deep into his floundering reserves of courage and ignores his squalling vulnerability as he finally tells Hermione what his heart has known for years.
"I love you, Hermione. I love you, and I am in love with you… and I will love you forever. You have held my stupid heart in your capable little hands since the day I first met you… since you barged into my train carriage looking for Neville Longbottom's runaway toad–"
"–Trevor," Hermione appends, folding in her lips to repress her mirth at Draco's mild exasperation.
"Why would anyone call a toad 'Trevor'?" Draco gripes. "I digress: Granger – would you mind refraining from interrupting me with amphibious trivia while I'm pouring out my fragile heart, please?" he sighs.
"Of course. Carry on," Hermione is openly giggling now, her eyes bright and sheeny.
"Where was I? Oh, explaining how my snooty pre-pubescent self took one look at a toad-hunting, brilliant little witch and fell for her like a ton of bricks. When I realized you were Muggle-born… well, I was devastated. I knew my father would likely disown me for entertaining any thought of you, even in passing." Draco swallows hard.
"And then – Voldemort. Becoming a Death Eater… all my wicked, dangerous deeds in Sixth Year… Dumbledore's murder." His throat tightens his next attempted words to a wheeze.
Trying again, Draco husks, "Then… that awful night you were captured and brought to the Manor – and Aunt Bellatrix tortured you – gods, I'm so sorry, Hermione. After all that – I knew I never stood a chance with you… not that I ever did."
Shaking her head strenuously, Hermione objects, "Draco, you did everything possible to protect me – you refused to identify Harry, Ron and me – you saved us, Draco. And I know now that you used your Occlumency to shield me… please, let go of your guilt. Please," Hermione beseeches.
Draco grips her hands a little tighter, awed (as ever) by her sweet, generous heart.
"Hermione… I know I don't deserve you. You are a dream come true – my dream. I worship you, ma petite. I don't mean that I put you on a pedestal and idolize an idealized version of 'the perfect woman': you are flesh and blood, and we don't always agree, and sometimes you need a little space and I need a little reminder that you're always right–"
He smiles as she hiccoughs an amused laugh. "But I want you to know that you are my soul mate. I love you with every atom of my being. Will you… will you let me love you, Hermione? And accept my deepest apologies for not telling you sooner?".
Draco isn't aware he is holding his erratic breath until faded grey spots dance across his vision.
"Breathe, Draco… I've heard that kissing an insentient wizard is markedly inferior to smooching a conscious one," Hermione whispers, tracing his lips with the tip of her forefinger. A tear rolls down her nose as she leans closer; Draco uses his left thumb to wipe it away, as she gulps.
"Please don't cry, Hermione – I never wish to make you unhappy. If this is all too much, I promise I shan't pressure you further…"
"Oh, Draco – my lovable goose! I'm crying because I'm so damned happy, you silly wizard!" Hermione sobs, launching herself at him like a torpedo and toppling him back onto the couch. She crawls atop him immediately, peppering his face and neck with dozens of effervescent little kisses. Draco does his best to return her caresses, feeling his heart swell and flutter like an overinflated balloon. They inevitably bump noses and teeth, finesse lost to eager joy as they giggle and sigh.
Hermione pauses just before Draco can capture her pecking mouth properly; she sits back on her heels, catching his hands to yank him half-upright. Her mien is elated, yet serious.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy – I love you. Body and soul, heart and mind. You are my one true love, and I am so in love with you… sometimes I fear I'm dreaming you – dreaming our life together," she imparts, using their conjoined hands to knuckle away a few more stray tears.
Beaming down at him, Hermione divulges, "I've always been attracted to you – though I wouldn't admit it, not for a long time – and now… well, now I am wholly, irrevocably, rapturously in love with you. 'I never wish to be parted from you from this day on'."
"Hey – that's my line! Draco protests. "Darcy says that, not Elizabeth!".
"Shush – I left you the preceding quotation, didn't I?" Hermione allows.
Voice cracking only slightly, Draco recites, "I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you. I love you, Hermione Jean Granger."
"'You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you'… my Draco." A luxuriant sienna curl escapes her ponytail to brush against Draco's cheek, soft as an eider feather.
"Again – my line," Draco grouches. "I only forgive you your impudence and outrageous theft because you're the love of my life… my Hermione." Keeping hold of her left hand, he stretches to cup her neck and draw her back down atop him.
"Kiss me, ma petite… ma chérie. Embrasse moi, mon âme sœur… mon ange," Draco entreats, pouting as Hermione resists his seeking lips.
"Not yet, mon amour – I'm still waiting to hear the French version of your tardy love avowal," Hermione wags her finger in mock-admonishment. "Hmmm?".
"Prepare to swoon at my unrivalled, expert 'Frenchery', my beautiful, miraculous, demanding little lioness," Draco brags, propping himself against the side arm of the sofa and pulling Hermione flush against him. There is just enough space between their heads to maintain eye contact.
"Je t'aime; Je suis amoureux de toi… I love you; I am in love with you." Draco fervidly explores Hermione's mouth, his tongue sweeping across her bottom lip and briefly furling with hers.
"Je t'aime passionnément; Je t'aime à la folie… I love you passionately; I love you like crazy." He grazes her top lip delicately between his teeth, revelling in her stuttered breaths puffing against his mouth.
"Je t'aime avec toute mon âme; Je t'aimerai toujours… I love you with all of my soul; I will love you forever." Hunger turns his next kiss into a possessive claiming, both their mouths open and slanting, changing angles and taking turns to advance and retreat.
"Draco – that's enough French exposition and tutelage for now, I think," Hermione whimpers as his hands rove from her hips to her neck, lingering to cup her firm breasts through her simple lilac shift dress.
"Indulge me with a final request, Granger: Laisse-moi te montrer à quel point je t'aime…"
"No – let me show you how much I love you," Hermione ripostes. "My French is improving, wouldn't you agree?".
"I'd have to set some tests before I could grade you properly, ma petite… I find practical examinations are the best marker of a student's progress, non?" Draco licks his lips lasciviously.
"Extra points for an… oral presentation?" Hermione leers, chortling at Draco's momentarily shocked reaction.
He rapidly recovers his poise. "Of course." Draco's fingers seek the top of the zipper running along Hermione's spine; he stops abruptly before he can slide down the tab.
"Hermione – wait. We have yet to explore my surprise… activity this evening," Draco murmurs, smiling at the aggrieved look she shoots him.
"What – is it better than enthusiastically celebrating our freshly-declared, thoroughly requited, mutual love right here on the couch?" Hermione grouses, scrabbling her fingers at the buttons of his rough-hewn ecru cotton shirt.
Wriggling free, Draco nods emphatically. "Satisfaction awaits in the upstairs studio… for both your curiosity, and your raging lust for me," he pronounces, po-faced. "Besides… do you truly wish to imitate your parents' predilection for 'getting frisky' on sofas?" he alludes to the Grangers' shenanigans on Barney's hideous new piece of furniture the night before.
"Ugh – fair point," Hermione shudders, stilling her scrambling hands. "What kind of surprise? Oh, and if anyone's lust is raging – it's yours, mon beau."
Draco stands, swinging Hermione into his arms before she has a chance to argue against his bold move. "Your keen senses seem to have missed the significance of my current outfit, ma trésor. Does it not remind you of another blond artist…?" he prompts, waggling his brows.
Hermione's knitted forehead clears within milliseconds. "Jack and Rose – 'draw me like one of your French girls'!" she guesses, squealing gleefully.
Managing not to visibly wince at the shrill outburst, Draco confirms, "Exactly. But Hermione… call me Jake tonight, hmmm?"
Laughing blithely, Hermione kisses his ear and whispers, "I love you so much, Jake Malloy."
"I love you more, Hermione Granger… Toujours."
Draco pauses on the landing, unable to resist bestowing a trembling kiss on his sweet Hermione's ripe mouth, determined to imbue it with all the love, longing, desire, and soulful passion he has long harboured for the beautiful witch in his arms… my glorious, unique, spectacular Hermione.
Tu es la femme de mes rêves, ma petite.
You are the man of my dreams, mon coeur.
The quoted lines bandied back and forth between Hermione and Draco are from 'Pride and Prejudice' by Jane Austen.
Bulgarian translation:
Skŭpa [скъпа] – dear one
French translations:
Bonsoir – Good evening.
Embrasse moi, mon âme sœur … mon ange – Kiss me, my soulmate… my angel.
Mon beau – My beautiful one.
Toujours – Always.
Tu es la femme de mes rêves, ma petite – You are the woman of my dreams, my little one.
Bonus content: Chapter 4 of 'Harry's Apology'.
Thursday 20 March 2003: AM
Rap-tap-tap.
"Come in," Harry bids, automatically rising from his ramshackle old chair to greet his visitor. A wave of dizziness causes him to blindly grab at his desk, accidentally dislodging a slew of carefully arranged files.
"Fuck!" Harry snarls as he barely manages to stop the whole pile from tumbling to the carpeted floor of his poky office. He boxes them back into a steady stack as light footsteps approach from the doorway.
"Quite the blue tongue on you, Auror Potter," Pansy Parkinson's coolly amused voice remarks. "Here I thought you were such a good boy, too…" she teases.
Hoping his sharp bout of vertigo has now passed, Harry turns to face the brunette witch. He attributes his quickened heartbeat to some residual wooziness. Nothing to do with the stunning picture Ms Parkinson presents as she leans against the front of his scarred old desk.
"Good morning, Pansy." Harry hopes the smile wreathing across his tired face doesn't look as stupidly eager as it feels. "How– how are you? Have you been good– I mean, are you well? You look well," he blabbers.
It is the truth: as usual, Pansy is dressed to the nines. Her slate-grey tailored pants suit and emerald satin blouse (which perfectly matches her eyes) and two inch stiletto heels with their dainty ankle straps are professional, pretty… and unbelievably sexy. Harry fiddles with the top file on the endangered stack and wills his thoughts to quit rambling in unwanted directions.
"I'm well; though many would attest to my inability to be good," Pansy chuckles. She leans a little closer, peering into his eyes as her mirth dies away. "Harry… you don't look quite the thing… are you ill?".
She smells like strawberries. Ripe, sweet, little red berries… and a hint of mint… Harry wonders, as the room spins oddly. Must have stood up too quickly… floor's a tad unsteady, too…
"Harry? Harry!"
He has a moment of bemusement as Pansy's slim hands grapple at his waist, the contact burning even through the layers of red Auror's robes and trousers…
Darkness.
The soothing sensation of gentle fingers rhythmically burrowing and raking through his hair and scalp is positively rapturous. Harry makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a purr as his eyes slowly open. Much to his regret, the fingers abruptly cease their caress.
"Harry, you goose – when did you last eat something? Or get more than an hour's snatched sleep?" Pansy's voice is soft and worried, despite her scolding words. Her mint and berry scent is stronger, enveloping. Harry struggles to make sense of his surroundings, his jade eyes flicking side-to-side. He can clearly see Pansy's beautiful face looming over him, but the rest of the room is a jumbled blur.
"You're OK: you fainted, but I caught you before you could brain yourself on your muddled pigsty of a desk," Pansy informs. Her hand tentatively recommences combing through his thick dark locks as she adds, "I was going to call for help, but your breathing and colour quickly returned to normal. I diagnosed sleep deprivation and stupidly working yourself into the ground, and let you rest for a while."
I'm lying down… my head's currently resting in Pansy's lap. Harry squinches his eyes closed, swamped by feelings of humiliation… and longing. No one's touched me this intimately in an age, he wistfully reflects. Guess I am the 'sad old dude' Pansy recently accused me of being. He sighs, bunching his sore muscles in an attempt to extricate himself from his current position (hopefully, with some bare modicum of grace… dignity has already jumped out the window, it would seem).
Pansy presses her left hand against his chest, halting Harry's awkward movement. "Take a little longer; I've nowhere else I need to be just yet," she diffidently states. A small pause elapses before she hesitantly adds, "Your hair… it's softer than I thought it would be." She leaves her warm palm resting atop his torso for a few precious seconds, before elegantly lifting and twirling the shapely appendage.
Harry lifts his head, squinting through his eyelashes as Pansy Accio's the water glass from his desktop.
"Have some water, please." Pansy supports its base as he carefully imbibes half the tumbler in small, measured sips. It flies back to the table with another swift flick of Pansy's wrist. She stays silent as Harry closes his eyes and succumbs to the not-so-small joy of her comforting touch on his hair and his heart.
"Thanks, Pansy," he mumbles, raising his right hand to cautiously cover her smaller one and lightly squeezing in a gesture of gratitude. "Sorry to be a pain."
A lone strand of glossy sable hair unwinds from behind her ear and tickles his cheek, before Pansy regathers the tress. "No need to apologize, Harry Potter. I know how hard you're working to solve this dreadful case… I can plainly see how much it's weighing on you. You're a truehearted friend… Hermione and Draco are lucky to have you in their corner."
Hearing her unexpected praise makes Harry gulp; he swiftly pretends a cough, to cover the revealing sound. He chances asking a personal question, focusing his nearsighted eyes as best he can. Hope my glasses didn't break when I… passed out.
"Pansy… does it bother you? Draco and Hermione… being so obviously committed… in love?" Harry holds his breath, already regretting the impulsive query.
To his utter relief, Pansy tips back her head to chortle, drawing his intense green gaze to the alluring lines of her pale throat. "Worried I'm still holding a candle for that blond ferret? Ha! I blew out that flame yonks ago, Harry," she assures. "Besides, Draco stamped himself 'Property of Hermione Granger' from the moment he first clapped his grey eyes on her, I'll warrant. I'm happy for him – for both of them."
"Yeah… me too," Harry is surprised at his own sincerity. "Never thought I'd say this… but Malfoy and Hermione are a great match – a true match. There's a… a special quality about them, you know? Like…"
"Magic?" Pansy winks. "I'm kidding… I feel it, too. Like we're in the presence of something… fated. Mystical. Pfft, listen to me waffling on like a daft, doe-eyed teenager," she scoffs.
Harry smiles guilelessly. "I could listen to you waffle all day, Pansy." He delights in her rising blush.
"Morgana's bum – you'd give Draco a run for his slick money, saying things like that," Pansy announces, in a low grumble. "I take it you're feeling better?" she prompts.
I guess that's my cue to stop nuzzling my head into her stroking fingers like a needy tabby, Harry regretfully decides. "Uh, yeah… I should get up. Have you seen my glasses, Pansy?" he begins to prop himself up on his elbows.
"I rescued them when you toppled: hold still, Harry," Pansy plucks the round spectacles from her jacket pocket, using both hands to scrupulously hook the metal arms behind Harry's sensitive ears. He subdues a shiver of quiet pleasure at her delicate touch.
"There you go – you're all set to save the world again, Auror Potter. Oh, wait – one more thing–" Pansy pulls out a small bag of Honeydukes Chocoballs, popping one in Harry's parted mouth before he can protest.
"Chew well, and swallow," the raven-haired witch instructs, her fern green eyes glinting with good-natured humour. "And eat regular meals, Harry; I might not be around to save you, the next time you faint." She shoves the bag of strawberry-and-cream mousse-filled chocolates into his hands.
"I didn't 'faint' – I may have momentarily lost consciousness," Harry objects, sitting up so that he is mere inches away from Pansy's lithe form. He already misses the sublime feel of her fingers trailing through his messy mop… and the heat of her body.
"You swooned, Harry," Pansy snickers. "No need to be ashamed – we're friends. I shan't tell more than half a dozen of our cronies about your unfortunate little episode," she razzes.
Harry cringes at the thought of Blaise and Draco needling him… or worse, Hermione's inexorably sorrowful rebuke at not taking proper care of himself.
"Listen, Pansy – I'd appreciate you keeping this to yourself, please," he tries for a casual approach to asking his small boon. "Wouldn't like to worry Hermione – she has enough on her plate."
"Here's the thing, Harry… my Slytherin pride demands a favour for a favour," Pansy maintains. "What's in it for me?" she winks impertinently.
"A hug?" Harry slowly scrambles to his feet, using the nearby desk for support. He is thankful his balance seems restored and reliable. Holding out his hands, he helps Pansy to also stand.
"Isn't a hug more beneficial to you than me, Potter?" Pansy's easy cheer has faded, much to Harry's chagrin. She looks almost… nervous.
Damn: I've overstepped. Harry begins to lower his arms, his own face losing its light-hearted demeanour.
"You're right… Sorry – I didn't mean–" his dejected apology is knocked aside as Pansy suddenly jumps fiercely into his embrace.
"Shut up and hug me, Harry – quick, before I think better of it," Pansy whispers into his ear, before she nestles flush against him, her face tucked into his shoulder.
Harry rapidly obeys, intoxicated by her warmth and sweet, fruity fragrance… entranced by the hourglass curves of her shoulders, ribs, and waist as he gingerly sweeps his calloused hands up and down her back. He discovers that Pansy is trembling slightly… as is he.
She is the first to draw away, keeping her face averted. Harry lets his hands fall to his sides, aware that his breathing is now pathetically berserk, as a direct reaction to their fleeting clinch. He surreptitiously checks he is not obviously 'standing at attention'. Thank Merlin for thick uniform robes.
"I'd better go– meeting Hermione for lunch– sorting out details for the Gala– better go," Pansy sounds as discombobulated as Harry feels. He dredges up his infamous Gryffindor courage before she bolts out the door.
"Pansy. At the Ball tomorrow night – I'm going to claim a dance with you. A long one," Harry stresses.
She blinks slowly. "You… you are?"
"Yes. Oh, one more thing…" Harry steps forward, holding her chin in place with the tip of his forefinger as he drops a gossamer kiss on her pretty pink mouth. She tastes like Chocoballs, too. And luscious, sensuous woman.
"Say hi to Hermione for me, please." Harry revels in Pansy's flustered mien… and the way she unconsciously licks at her lips when he breaks their gentle kiss.
Pansy gives an infinitesimal nod before slipping out the door.
Whistling quietly, Harry pops a couple of Chocoballs into his mouth, chewing with relish. Any lingering traces of fatigue and unsteadiness have vanished, leaving him feeling decidedly buoyant… and jubilantly resolved.
I am going to be the best friend you ever had, Pansy Parkinson.
The very best.
