Chapter 54
Thursday 20 March 2003: PM
Hermione feels as giddy as a spring lamb as Draco sets her down just inside the doorway of his third-floor studio; he appears just as exhilarated, jubilant, and nervous as she, as his hands twitch at her sides.
"Hermione… Rose, I mean: do you want me to call you 'Rose'?"
Creasing her forehead thoughtfully, Hermione shakes her head. "No… I think I'd prefer to hear my Christian name exclusively on your lips, tonight. It always gives me such a thrill," she purrs. "I would like to call you Jake, though; it fulfils my fantasy of being the rich heiress taking pity on your 'starving Bohemian artist'," she winks.
"'Born in a cellar and living in a garret'," Draco quotes, arching an eyebrow. "I look forward to your benevolent largesse, my dear patroness," he bows, doffing an imaginary hat and looking boyishly cheeky.
"Now, I have a few small gifts for you– I hope– I hope you like them," Draco stammers, his glance flickering to the high bench running along one wall that houses a raft of art supplies and equipment. "Just – wait here while I fetch them, OK?" He hurries off without waiting for her response.
"Why don't you just Accio them over, Draco?" Hermione calls, smiling to herself as she watches Draco half-trip over the leg of an easel and then send a roll of canvas crashing to the floor.
"Merde! Sorry, sorry – I got it –" he rights the heavy fabric cylinder, turning to snatch up a ribbon-wrapped parcel and a glossy cherrywood box, before dashing back to where she waits. "Jack Dawson – Jake Malloy, I mean – is a Muggle, right? No magic tonight, beyond what we create together," Draco replies.
"Well, there's a popular theory that Jack is actually a time traveller, and he didn't perish in the cruel Atlantic after all… it does make sense, considering that more than one of the places he tells Rose about didn't exist in 1912–"
"Ma petite, as much as I adore your sharp brain, may I respectfully request that you enlighten me about 'Time Traveller Jack' some other time?" Draco gently requests.
He needn't think I didn't catch his tiny eye roll. Hermione's joy at their recent mutual testimonies of undying love cancel out any irritation at Draco's gesture of long-suffering indulgence to her quirks.
"Well, I am going to be a Hogwarts Professor of Arithmancy in the very near future, you know," Hermione imparts, trying not to look like the cat that got the cream and consumed the canary. "Minerva Floo-called me before we left work; I'm to start Monday week."
"Oh, Hermione – that's wonderful news! I'm so proud of you!" Draco gathers her in a clumsy hug, his hands still occupied with her presents. "Not that I ever doubted for a moment that the job was yours – McGonagall's no fool. You're going to be running that establishment before you're thirty: you mark my words," he confidently predicts.
"Ha! Unlikely. Minerva is doing a stellar job, and she has no plans to retire, as far as I know," Hermione deflects, blushing at her boyfriend's unswerving conviction in her abilities. "But we can discuss all that a little later: I am itching to know what you have for me," she nods to the boxes. "Pleeeeease?".
Holding out his gifts, Draco shyly directs, "Open the bigger one first… I tried to find one as near to the original as possible. Pansy outdid herself in sourcing it for me, as usual. If you don't care for it, you needn't wear it, of course," he witters.
Hermione holds up an imperious finger as she carefully brushes aside the last layer of protective tissue and reverently pulls out the diaphanous chiffon midnight-black peignoir. The golden speckles of the repeated horizontal comma-shaped pattern decorating the floor-length sleeves glimmer in the well-lit room.
"The sleeves aren't terribly practical… I suspect this garment is not meant to be worn for long before being deliberately divested," Draco seems compelled to provide a running commentary, as Hermione marvels at the sublime quality and workmanship of the sheer robe.
"Obviously, you can wear your otter kimono instead, if you prefer– I mean, no one's going to deduct points for authenticity of apparel– that fashion-obsessed twerp Macdolas is nowhere in sight, thank Salazar –"
"Dra- Jake," Hermione corrects, stepping forward to lightly notch his warm lower lip with her index fingertip, "This is bona fide, beautiful, and absolutely perfect. Thank you, my love." She glories in his pupils dilating at her use of the endearment.
"You– you like it?".
"Mon cœur… I cherish it. Merci beaucoup," Hermione samples his parted mouth with her own, relishing his involuntary gasp of pleasure at the soft touch.
Drawing away before she succumbs to her burning desire to snog him silly, Hermione tips her chin to the cherrywood box Draco in Draco's right hand. "Is that for me, too?" she prompts.
"Uh, yes. This is the closest I could get to– to the one in the film." Draco scratches at his ear as he explains, "It's a Malfoy heirloom – don't worry, it's perfectly safe, I spent a goodly part of my day… erm, cleansing it, and running spell checks. I hope you'll accept it permanently… as a token of my eternal– eternal devotion."
He fiddles at the gold clasp at the front of the case, flicking it up and down in an agitated manner that would be aggravating, were it not rather adorable. Hermione takes the box away from her jumpy lover before he succeeds in breaking the closure.
Uncertain whether she's relieved or disappointed that the box is too large to contain a ring, Hermione inhales a calming breath before raising the lid.
The black velvet-lined receptacle holds the most majestic necklace Hermione has ever seen; she gasps as she moves her head and the strong overhead lamplight hits the jewellery full-force. It is a huge heart-shaped emerald, bordered by perfectly matched diamonds, strung on a heavy silver chain. Feeling like Cinderella, Hermione moves to stroke the multi-faceted surface of the gem, but pulls her fingers away before she makes actual contact.
"Pick it up – it won't bite, I promise," Draco urges. "It's not as large as the 'Heart of the Ocean' – and that's a platinum necklace, not silver – but I hope it will suffice."
Suffice? Hermione has little doubt the superb jewel could fund a small nation for the better part of a year. And Draco just said he's gifting it to me… permanently. Blimey.
"It's– it's spectacular. I don't– I can't– it's clearly meant for your family… I wouldn't feel right– wait, that's what you meant, by 'cleansing', isn't it? This piece is enspelled to repel Muggle-borns," Hermione splutters, letting the lid fall closed on the dazzling, expensive, cursed bauble.
Huffing in frustration, Draco thrusts the case back into her hands. "You are my family, my darling ninny – and do you truly think I would allow any harm to befall you?! I will be crushed if you refuse to accept this small trinket of my sincere regard," he stiffly reverts to his snootiest tones.
Hell's bells – I've offended him. I'm simply unused to receiving wildly expensive jewellery; the closest Ron came to it was offhandedly slinging a candy bracelet my way on Valentine's Day.
"I apologize... I never meant to imply you would endanger me – I simply feel overwhelmed by your generosity. And maybe a little scared that the ingrained Pureblood propensities of the Malfoy line may yet override your doubtlessly superior curse-breaking skills," Hermione says, with a weak grimace.
"Weren't you extolling my many talents and unsurpassed brilliance, just yesterday? Trust me, Granger – I know what I'm about," Draco arrogantly proclaims, his mood uplifted. "I've been perfecting anti-curse spellwork since I was old enough to read."
"I never said 'unsurpassed'," Hermione mutters, unable to repress her grin at his cockiness. "But I accept your amazing gift with faith and gratitude. Thank you, mon chéri."
Her heartbeat skitters as she bashfully queries, "Would you mind leaving the room while I get changed, please? If – if you're ready to begin, that is." Hermione wedges the jewellery case under one arm and bundles the filmy wrapper more securely in her hands.
"No need – I have arranged a screen for your convenience." Draco steers her toward the antique wooden three-panel screen in the far corner of his workspace, the warmth of his strong, pale hand at the small of her back sends prickles of eager awareness dance along her skin.
"You've thought of everything, hmmm? I'm a very lucky witch," Hermione remarks, striving to offset her heightened excitement. Why am I so nervous? It's not like this is our first time.
It will be our first joining since we expressed the true depths of our feelings, though. Arrgh. Not for the first time, Hermione wishes her inner monologue would simmer down instead of relentlessly pointing out glaring truisms.
"Do shut up," she grumbles beneath her breath.
"I beg your pardon?" Draco stands beside the screen, mild amusement on his handsome face as he hears her self-chastisement. "Don't worry, my sweet lioness… this is going to be delightful. And 'twas your idea, remember?".
"Yeah, yeah, off with you then," Hermione flaps her hand in mock-irritation.
"Oh – one last thing," Draco retrieves a palm-sized velvet pouch hanging from one of the painted screen's pillars. "Wear this in your lovely hair tonight, please."
He tips out an antique replica of the butterfly tortoiseshell comb worn by Rose in the scene they are about to duplicate. The matte green of the oval cabochon in the centre of the insect's back is picked out in the découpaged stained-glass effect of the enamelled yellow, black, and green wing sectors.
Hermione harbours no qualms about running her fingers over the long, smooth teeth and textured embellishments. "You spoil me dreadfully, Jake," she smiles, as her eyes involuntarily mist.
"Hardly," he shrugs. "You deserve everything your heart desires, mon amour."
Just you – you're all I really want. Hermione shoos away Draco and dabs at her moist eyes before she begins to undress.
Draco drags the upholstered Edwardian camelback sofa (decorated in muted yellows, blues, and greens) into position, attempting to minimize the screech of its wooden feet on the polished floorboards as he muscles it into the optimum spot. Stepping back, he critically judges its final setting, covertly blotting his clammy hands on the thighs of his tan corduroy trousers. The workingman's suspenders hang loose by his sides; Draco straightens the collarless bib neck of his cream cotton broadcloth shirt, and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. The quick glimpse of his loathsome Dark Mark barely dents his ebullient mood.
He chances a glance at the wooden room divider; Hermione's clothing is carefully folded over the middle panel, her lilac dress contrasting with the deep purple woven silk that covers three quarters of the screen.
She must be putting the finishing touches to her hair. Fussing at the small worktable and plain wooden chair he'd earlier arranged opposite the borrowed couch, Draco sits in the chair, opening his canvas pencil kit to sharpen the tools of his trade yet again. He crosses one leg over his knee and balances his open sketchpad atop it.
A soft "ahem" alerts him to Hermione's presence. Looking up, Draco nearly slices off his thumb with the pencil knife as he takes full stock of her appearance.
Hermione is an utter vision… from the crown of her russet head to the tips of the little pink toes that peek out beneath the long hem of her gauzy black robe. She twirls the gold-tasselled end of the matching sash with flair, winking at him for good measure as Draco drinks in his fantasy made flesh.
Moving toward the camelback couch, she makes a production of inspecting the tableau he has arranged, noting the standing lamps that flank the furniture, and the way Draco has dimmed the overhead lights to create a mellow ambience.
"Don't artists need good light?" she challenges, with a delicious tip of her pert nose.
"Zat is true, but I am not used to working in such 'orrible conditions," Draco answers in an exaggerated French accent, somehow dragging his hot silver eyes away from her gloriously semi-revealed curves and angles, as he remembers his line.
Stepping closer, Hermione's free hand delicately parts the collar of the negligee, exposing the glittering bevelled emerald and diamond heart-shaped pendant.
"Jake, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls… wearing this," she caresses the necklace.
"Alright," Draco readily accedes.
"…and only this," she concludes, as he gazes at her in unfeigned captivation. "The last thing I need is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll."
Smirking, Hermione strolls to stand in front of him, holding out a bronze Knut to drop in his palm.
"As a paying customer – I expect to get what I want." Backing up two paces, Hermione keeps her cocoa eyes focused on his as she languidly curls her fingers around the peignoir's narrow lapels and lets it slither off her nude body to pool at her bare feet.
Don't ogle – you are a professional artist. You've drawn plenty of naked models before, Draco sternly reminds himself, as his breathing and pulse quicken instantaneously. Be cool.
"Over on the bed– um, the couch," he gulps, motioning jerkily at the camelback sofa. Hermione's low chuckle at his Freudian slip does little to calm his skyrocketing libido. He wriggles in his chair and stiffens his spine as she obeys his instruction, perching on the edge of the seat.
"Come – lie down," Draco guides, trying to keep his attention centred on her beautiful face.
Laying her head against the padded side of the couch, Hermione is at a loss as to what to do with her hands; she flails them around her head a few times, looking uncertain. Her left arm settles on the high camelback, only to slide off as she shifts uncomfortably.
"Can you– tell me when it looks right– "
"Yeah – keep that pose – put your arm back where it was," Draco interrupts, as Hermione dutifully complies.
"Put that other arm up… and there, your hand right by your face, there," Draco relaxes his drawn brows as Hermione curls her fingers. He starts to shuck his rampant nerves as his training takes over.
"Right… now, head down, eyes to me –" he forks two fingers at his own orbs – "keep them on me." Unnecessarily rotating his sketch pad, Draco takes a brief moment to clinically assess Hermione's pose.
'Clinically'… hah. I am hard-pressed to not leap from my chair and fall upon her like a hungry wolf. Sweet Circe… her high, plump breasts… her sweetly-flared hips… the pure line of her legs… the triangle of chestnut curls at the apex of her shapely thighs– her eyes, her splendid eyes–
"Try to– stay still," Draco falters, entranced by the unconsciously seductive way Hermione licks her lips and clears her throat. Her shining mocha gaze returns to his face as he warns himself to regain his famed self-control.
Puffing out a calming exhale, Draco eases his death grip on his pencil and studies his beautiful witch one more time; he knows that he will carry this image of his beloved Hermione in his head and heart until he draws his last breath.
A few practice strokes above the thick paper; he chooses to begin with the lateral projection of her hip and torso, allowing his professional training to take over. Cocking his head to the right, he ignores the scattered strands of platinum hair that fall across his forehead, flicking his intense regard back to Hermione's exquisitely naked body every few moments.
"So serious," Hermione twits, pouting her pretty lips in a wonderfully distracting manner; Draco half-smiles at her naughty antics as he sketches in the outline of her furled hand and head, his hair flopping down once more. He quickly moves to draw her comely face and luxuriant hair; her slender arms; then the scintillating verdant pendant, his confidence growing with each assured stroke.
Her breasts, next: Draco takes great care to perfectly replicate the rounded swells, using his fingertips to blend the pencil marks as he contours the underside of each sublime globe.
Of course, Hermione notices his bitten lip, tucked-in mouth, and creeping flush.
She gently teases, "I believe you are blushing, Mr Big Artiste… I can't imagine Mr Monet blushing?".
Draco retorts, "He does landscapes… Just relax your face–'
"Sorry," she licks her lips again and exhales, easing back into the pose.
"No laughing," he rebukes, as Hermione's mirth briefly bubbles aloud. He continues to shade in her breasts and navel, moving back to the texture of her hair and face as she looks at him with undisguised tenderness… and effervescent, profound love.
Love. Hermione loves me. She loves me. Draco must put aside his rapture when his trembling fingers threaten to derail the entire proceedings.
Concentrate. He assiduously disregards his thumping heartbeat and heated blood, determined to capture every last, divine detail of the magnificent woman lying but a few feet away. His fingers seem to move of their own accord as he soaks her in on an entirely different level of consciousness. Draco senses her magic softly seeking out his own as the air around them crackles; he welcomes her sorcerous ingress.
The only sound in the room is their erratic respiration, and the faint scratch of Draco's pencil as it glides across the paper. He is aware that Hermione has yet to take her brilliant eyes from him, as he awkwardly adjusts his posture. The thrumming of his manhood is clamouring to be noticed and actioned; Draco is aching to toss his sketch pad aside and join his Hermione on the old-fashioned couch.
Finally, his left hand stills its busy detailing and blending. Draco checks his work, quietly thrilled at the likeness he has produced. The drawing has unerringly captured Hermione's beauty and grace, but what Draco is most proud of is the expression in her stunning eyes… intelligence, happiness, desire… and unequivocable love. The physical proof of her deep affection staring at him from the pad on his lap fills Draco with boundless euphoria; and an overwhelming need to show his wondrous woman exactly how much he treasures her.
Wordlessly, he rises to lay down his pencil and sketchbook onto the adjacent table. Three strides, and he is kneeling beside Hermione, his hands glorying in their first plunge into her abundant loose ringlets. She hums in delight and leans closer.
Maintaining their intense eye contact, Draco murmurs, "Hermione… you are the most beautiful woman I've ever known, ma petite: inside and out. You have no idea how special you are – but I do."
Beaming shyly, Hermione sweeps his disordered flaxen fringe off his forehead, her fingers moving to cup his cheek. "You flatter me so, Jake… I know I'm just an ordinary woman," she demurs.
"You are extraordinary – and I shall never tire of reminding you of that unassailable truth," Draco pledges, kissing her eyelids closed as she giggles. "Don't you dare oppose me on this issue, ma trésor– I simply will not tolerate it."
"Well… if you insist… I suppose I can learn to live with daily compliments and protestations of your robust admiration," Hermione concedes. "We all have our burdens to bear," she sighs lustily.
Capturing her nimble hands in his, Draco earnestly declares, "Hermione, I admire you – I adore you – I love you with every fibre of my being. Tu es le centre de mon monde, et tu y resteras, ma glorieuse lionne."
He infuses his words with every last scrap of his passionate devotion. "Will you let me make love to you, Hermione? Will you let me worship you with my body, mon amour?".
Blinking rapidly, Hermione nods elatedly. "Only if you let me reciprocate… I love you so, Jake… just as you are. Make love to me, Jake Malloy." Whipping round her legs and propping herself to a sitting position, Hermione fuses her lips with his, dipping her tongue between his avid lips. Draco increases the pressure of their heated osculation, bumping forward until his upper body is chocked between her spread thighs.
"Need to– mmmfff– need to get rid of these pesky clothes," Hermione breathlessly cavils between kisses, her fingers almost tearing the buttons off his simple shirt. "You look so sexy, Jake – I loved watching you work– ahhh– your gorgeous eyes, looking at me… seeing me, seeing all of me… please, hurry," she entreats.
Buttons half-undone, Draco expedites the disrobing process by yanking the shirt over his head and hurling it onto the floor.
"Your pants– get them off– don't dawdle," Hermione commands, shamelessly rubbing her satiny breasts against his bared pectorals. Her scrambling fingers claw at the two-button fastening of his buff trousers. Draco rips at them, registering a distant ping as the top one flies free. He shoves the corduroy slacks and plain cotton boxers to his knees and bolts upright, kicking off his boots and socks and hopping free of the lot.
Before he can return to his kneeling stance, Hermione joins him in standing up, squeezing his buttocks and humming appreciatively. "Would it be shallow of me to tell you how much I love your fit body?" she tilts her head, grinning wickedly.
"Being described as a 'total blond hottie' is nothing new for me, ma chérie," Draco smugly repeats her comment from their movie viewing night. "You may sing paeans to my first-class good looks as often as you wish," he graciously condescends.
"Magnanimous as ever," Hermione drolly observes, sliding her palms down the backs of Draco's thighs, sending tingling frissons whizzing across his skin. "Tell me, Jake: do all your life drawing sessions culminate in you… tumbling your models?". Though she couches the question playfully, Draco detects the thread of apprehension in her voice.
"Never before. Only you," Draco solemnly promises, his own hands skating across her back and hips in energetic flourishes. He hesitates before deciding to confess, "Hermione, I'd not been with any woman… since I went into rehab. I didn't– meaningless sex wasn't something I wanted to revisit… and I could only envision myself being in a happy relationship… with you."
Silence. Draco wishes the words unspoken as Hermione's desirous touches halt. He attempts some damage control.
"I'm sorry, I did not intend to reference my sordid past– please, forget I said anything–"
"Stop. Please." Hermione wraps herself around his tensed body, waiting until their eyes reconnect. "I – I am surprised, that's all. Surprised… and humbled. I know you've much more experience than me, and I didn't expect… I never expected to hear you admit to voluntary celibacy, especially not because of… me. Thank you, mon cœur."
Retreating a little, her hands move to the diamond and emerald necklace swinging enticingly in her cleavage. "Now… would you help me take off this little 'trinket', please? I'd hate for it to be damaged when I claim you… in all the ways I can," she mugs a leer.
"Absolutely not – you'll keep it on throughout, Hermione," Draco rebuts. "I must insist. Help a destitute artist accomplish his prurient fantasy properly, hmmm?". He steps out of the puddle of his clothing and tugs her down onto the couch with him.
"'Destitute'?" Oh, right – poor, famished Jake Malloy… fighting plump Parisian pigeons for a few crusts… My heart bleeds," Hermione snickers.
"Mine beats for you," Draco quiets her laughing mouth by slanting his own over it. Her lips are already quivering and swollen. His blood buzzes in his veins as he grapples to move their limbs into position, each feverish glide of skin on skin making him dizzy.
"Jake… how– how shall we do this…?" Hermione pants, as Draco wiggles until he is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, facing her.
"I want to try something… it's called the 'Wrapped Lotus': I sit like this, and you mount my lap – yes, just like that – tuck your feet under me, at first. Yes, that's it," he encourages.
"Arms around me, too… when you're ready, wrap your lovely legs around my back… and take me inside of you, ma belle," Draco coaches. He yearns to bury himself in her sweet heat.
No. Patience, fool. We have all night.
He buttresses Hermione's back with his arms and takes a deep breath. "Kiss me, Hermione. Touch me… love me," he supplicates. Her intoxicating scent of roses, bergamot, and vanilla strengthens as she bends her head to claim his mouth with a possessive wildness.
"Jake– you are mine, I need you so– I want you so badly," Hermione growls, biting soft kisses along his jawline and nipping at his ears as he shudders. Her damp quim grazes the head of his straining cock as she restlessly adjusts her position.
"Hermione: lean back, support your arms by propping your hands… I need to worship your fabulous breasts. I won't let you fall." She willingly complies, thrusting out her bosom for his zealous attentions.
Cupping her neck with his right hand and banding his left arm more securely around her back, Draco begins by laving his hot tongue along her collarbones, revelling in her soft sighs and gasps. He suckles at the tops and sides of her dewy globes, teasing her with little puffs across her hard-budded nipples. He chuckles naughtily as her areolae prickle with fine goosebumps.
"You're such a tease," Hermione grumbles. "Why don't you– aaaahhhh…"
Her complaint dies away as Draco captures her nipple and suckles strongly, steadily increasing his pressure before replicating his caress on her other breast.
"Don't… don't stop… ohmigod, you drive me crazy… Ja-Jake," Hermione burbles. "You've tried this position… before?".
"Never– I read about it…" Draco replies between avid nuzzles and sucking bites. His hips jerk infinitesimally as Hermione's hot core nudges his turgid cock.
Must. Slow. Down.
His intention to progress slowly is dreadfully undermined when Hermione actively writhes her honeypot closer, mumbling incoherently as his stiffness slips through her wet folds.
"Hermione… please… I am losing control," Draco groans, holding her steady and withdrawing from her swollen, love-bitten chest.
"I'm ready to try this properly… Jake, help me– " Hermione tries to squirm closer without losing her precarious balance; she sends his eyes rolling back in his head as she accidentally pushes the engorged tip of his dick inside her.
"Wait – unghhh – slide forward… I have you, don't worry… now, press up against me, like a hug, mmm – fold your legs around my back and push down…"
Moaning and gasping together, Draco finally enters her tight channel; Hermione seats herself in his lap until he is buried inside her to the hilt. He rests his damp forehead against her brow to take a momentary breather.
"This is the sexiest damn hug I've ever had," Hermione whispers raggedly, scraping her ripe pink buds on his torso. Her short nails scratch deliciously along his spine.
"I bloody well hope so," Draco rasps proprietorially. "I'm going to kiss you breathless now, Hermione."
He follows his cocky words with immediate action; licking and sucking and teasing her lips before his greedy mouth captures hers in an urgent, open-mouthed caress. He gentles the pace after a few torrid moments, wanting to fully experience and appreciate the specialness of their joining.
Hermione catches on quickly, alternating long, languid kisses with tender eye contact. Her body slides and grinds against him, around him… up and down on his tumescent cock, in a wonderfully unhurried experience of mutual tenderness and desire. Their breaths sync as their magic coils together, mimicking their deeply intimate coupling. The desperate climb toward orgasm settles as they give themselves over to pure sensation and the exchange of complex emotions.
Draco isn't certain exactly when Hermione's energy begins to flow into his, and vice versa; but he delights in the loop they create, feeding love and lust and longing back and forth between their minds and bodies.
Their rhythm now is effortless, instinctual… each graze and grind ricocheting and multiplying. Their eventual orgasms twine together, creating a burst of pure light and joy. Molten waves of pleasure ripple and swell as their bodies tremble, limbs clamped tightly together and mouths bonded.
I love you, Hermione.
I love you, Draco.
Unmeasured minutes elapse as they absorb each other. The sweat on their bodies cools before they gently draw apart. Hermione combs the fair hair out of Draco's eyes and kisses his eyebrows, while his fingertips catalogue her vertebrae and trail across her shoulders.
"Lie down, ma petite," Draco invites, lowering himself flat on the couch, keeping his knees bent to accommodate his length. He widens his thighs to make room for her body to nestle between them, continuing to stroke her back and glory in the opulence of her tawny, silken tresses. His fingers snag on the enamelled tortoiseshell butterfly comb; he carefully extracts it and pushes it beneath the sofa for safekeeping.
"Are you alright, mon âme sœur?".
"Never been better," Hermione languorously replies. "You can 'wrap my lotus' anytime you like, mon chéri."
"I rather thought you just wrapped mine, darling," Draco jests. "It's also known as the 'yab-yum' position in tantra, my little scholar," he drowsily imparts.
"More like 'yum-yum'," Hermione yawns, cuddling into his chest. "Whatever you wish to call it: let's do it again… repeatedly," she decisively announces.
"You're insatiable, you know that?" Draco smiles into her abundant hair. "I adore your lascivious qualities, chatte."
"I adore you, Draco. My Draco," Hermione stresses.
Her words cause his throat to close; Draco can do naught but hug his darling witch as tight as he dares. The remnants of their magical cores mating still float about the studio, minute twinkles of luminance and bliss that appear to be fluttering around them in quiet approval.
Once Draco is sure that he can speak without fear of his voice crackling, he softly pronounces, "My Hermione… I hope you will always be my love."
"Always," she answers immediately.
Always.
All credit goes to James Cameron for the borrowed dialogue in the drawing scene of 'Titanic' (1997).
Samuel Foote (1720-1777) coined the phrase "Born in a cellar and living in a garret."
French translations:
ma trésor – my treasure.
ma belle – my beautiful one.
mon âme sœur – my soulmate.
Tu es le centre de mon monde, et tu y resteras, ma glorieuse lionne. – You are the centre of my world, and there you will remain, my glorious lioness.
