Chapter 65
Saturday 22 March 2003: AM
Yawning blissfully, Hermione stretches beneath the covers and shifts closer to the marvellously warm human furnace lying beside her (also known as Draco Lucius Malfoy). Her extending hand encounters something hard, thick, and covered in fine cotton; she grins wickedly and carefully explores his length and girth through the soft fabric.
Draco groans and nudges forward into her firm clasp. "Ungggh… please…"
"Please… who?" Hermione murmurs, slipping her nimble hand inside his boxers. "Say my name, mon coeur."
"Please… Heidi?" Draco cracks open one slate eye, laughing fit to kill as Hermione immediately withdraws her hand and slaps his bare chest indignantly. "Henrietta? Harper? Holly? Heaven? Am I close?" he snorts.
"You were close to getting your 'fiddle-diddle' tuned… sadly, you preferred poor comedy to sexual intimacy," Hermione scooches away, faking disinterest as Draco tries to regather her against him. "Your loss."
"Come, ma petite, don't be like that… you know I'm teasing, although you are my Heaven," he coos. "Hermione – of course you're the only woman I ever want to touch the Malfoy jewels."
"'The Malfoy Jewels', is it?" Hermione sputters. "How lordly of you! And save the cheese for brunch, smartarse. 'You're my Heaven'… honestly," she clucks her disapproval.
"You wound me, sweetheart... come, don't be scratchy, chaton. Unless you want to scratch my itch," he leers.
"Incorrigible... you're a terribly sexy wretch," Hermione giggles, abandoning her pretence at resistance as Draco kisses her chin and jawline. She cups her hands around him again, relishing his involuntary moan as she lightly grips his tip, slowly dragging down her fingers.
"What time is it? I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule any amorous exploration until after brunch," Hermione taunts.
"Sod the ruddy brunch – Macdolas can meet and greet, he thrives on the attention," Draco plays with her nipples, flicking his thumbs back and forth as her breath catches with pleasure.
"That's rather irresponsible of you, Malfoy... abdicating your hosting duties for the sake of carnal satisfaction? Tut-tut," Hermione yanks his boxers to his knees and shuffles forward, hooking her left leg over his hip. She guides his hardness to her sex, bumping aggressively and groaning in delight as he slides against her sensitive outer folds.
"Ah, ta chatte est si douce et mouillée," Draco rasps. "I am completely at your mercy, Granger. Time to make good on having your wicked way with me, yes?" he manages to bend his head to suckle at her hardened buds, without breaking their erotic clinch.
"Oh, rest assured I intend to take my pleasure... like this, first– " she positions herself so that the swollen head of Draco's turgid cock rubs at her clitoris in exactly the right spot - "and perhaps I'll allow you to enter 'heaven', depending on our time constraints... and my largesse," she goads with a snicker.
"Had I known what a wanton enchantress you are, I would have acted on my attraction much sooner," Draco pants. "I cannot get enough of you, Hermione – I'm putty in your pretty little hands, and you take full advantage of the fact, don't you?".
"That does not feel like putty – more like cast iron," Hermione thrusts against the hard rod in question, loving the helpless moan Draco releases. "I call bullshit on you pursuing me sooner – I turned up on your doorstep and seduced you silly, remember?"
"I am not likely to forget – it was and always will be one of the greatest nights of my life," Draco vows. "Kiss me, my beautiful witch."
Hermione blithely presses her mouth to his, desperate to show him how much she wants – no, needs – him. Her instinctive, wordless mewls intensify as Draco matches her passion with his own, hungrily licking at her lips before plunging his tongue deeply in her willing mouth.
They fumble at the bedclothes, stripping them back as their embrace grows steamier. The cool air is welcome on Hermione's flushed skin. Clutching at his strapping arms and sinewy shoulders, Hermione slides down as Draco pushes up, rolling her hips for maximum friction.
Legs shaking, Hermione gasps as Draco guides her onto her back, propping his hands beside her head as his mouth mimics the rhythm of his snapping hips. His fingers curl into the sheet beneath as she arches beneath him, rubbing her breasts against his pale, muscled chest.
Frottage certainly has much to recommend it… "Oooh, do that again, please– " Hermione interrupts their kiss as Draco presses down a shade harder. He swiftly obeys, growling as she tilts her pelvis in response.
"Tu vas jouir si fort sur ma bite, Hermione ... je brûle pour toi, chérie. Gods, you feel amazing," Draco groans. "The more I have you – the more I need you, ma petite."
"I feel– I feel the same, Draco… mon amour, mon âme sœur… please, don't stop…" Hermione cries. Their jagged respiration fills the bedroom, as they urge each other on with kisses and eager touches.
"Wait, wait! The contraceptive charm!" Hermione remembers. She rapidly chants the spell, as Draco does the same.
Cripes – that was close… I'd better pay closer attention to Luna's pearls of wisdom, particularly on crucial Wizarding dates, she resolves.
Her hair is a tangled mess around her head, partly obscuring her vision. Sealing her lips to Draco's once more, she bucks energetically as she chases her orgasm.
No one else has ever made me feel like this… only you, Draco.
Only you, Hermione… my Hermione. Come for me, precious girl. I'm close –
Her eyes fly open, vaguely registering the now-habitual light display of their magical centres blending and fluttering. The sorcerous dots shimmer as they suspend in the air directly above them, illuminating the dim bedroom. Keening uninhibitedly, Hermione crests, her body shuddering in waves of rapture; she scrapes her nails lightly down his torso in sheer delight, as he doggedly continues to grind into her sensitive mons and clitoris.
"Hermione– I'm about to come– I can't hold off any longer– " Draco babbles. Twisting slightly, she arcs closer, using her hand to guide him inside as he starts to spill; she holds him tightly as he finds his own peak, pulsing strongly.
He claims her mouth desperately, his arms trembling as he strives to keep his weight off her. Hermione wraps her legs around his buttocks; his hot, convulsive release prolongs her own acme. His back is studded with perspiration, his expression blissful as his kiss morphs to tender and tranquil.
Tracing the beautiful lines of his high cheekbones, Hermione uses their soul bond to communicate her pure joy.
I love you, Draco. What we have… it's so incredibly special – just like you.
You are the special one, Hermione. I love you so much, ma petite lionne.
Lips slowly releasing, they gaze raptly at one another. The shimmering magical sparks brush against them affectionately, feeding the loop of energy, power, and unadulterated love.
Knock! Knock knock knock!
Draco swears fluently in a wild mix of French and English while Hermione startles; she chokes back a giggle as a high, elven voice squawks through the closed door.
"Master Malfoy and Your Golden Grace, your brunch guests arrive! Macdolas advises you be late!".
"DON'T COME IN HERE!" Draco roars, agilely rolling them onto their sides and grabbing for the discarded covers.
"Macdolas would not dream of invading the sanctity of the Granger-Malfoy boudoir!" Mac's vexation is clear, despite the distortion through the wall. "Macdolas respects the private sexings of his masters!"
"Oh hell – he did not just say that!? Please tell me he didn't say that," Draco groans, flipping up the coverlet to hide his reddening ears. Hermione chuckles at his embarrassment, poking her head back out to address their fretting butler.
"It's alright, Mac: will you please make our guests comfortable, and tell them we'll be down in a few minutes? Thank you, dear."
"Yes, Your Grace Lady Granger. Macdolas also apprises that the Wirey and Signorina Gelsy are ambulant, though the Wirey complains most vociferously of hammers in his head." The undertone of gleeful schadenfreude is undisguised.
"Give him some aspirin and Pepper-up Potion, then!" Draco hollers aggrievedly. "Off you go, scamp!"
An annoyed sniff, before little footsteps descend the staircase.
Hermione's chortles increase to out-and-out guffaws, as Draco pretends to smother himself with a pillow.
"Interfering little pissant," he grouses.
"He's just doing his job – and he's right, we are late," Hermione argues. "We'd best have a quick shower… we're somewhat… sticky, right now," she smirks.
"Agreed: but you must promise not to ravish me again, Granger; I'm quite spent," Draco grins, planting nipping kisses along her inner wrist and forearm. His striking white-blond hair tumbles endearingly over his brow as Hermione stares adoringly at him.
"I told you it would be epic, hmmm?" she smugly reminds. "Hop up, lazybones. You don't want Mac to return to bleat another lecture, do you?".
"Whose idea was it to bring the rascal into our employ? What was I thinking?" Draco sighs self-pityingly.
"Yours - because you love him like a little brother, and you were worried about his broken heart," Hermione prompts. "My gorgeous, sappy boyfriend."
Draco ducks his head shyly. "Not at all – it was a staffing issue. Lord of the Manor and all that, don't you know?".
He pops to his knees and whips off the bedding in one rapid movement. "Hurry up, time's a-wasting, my beautiful little laggard."
"Hey...!" Hermione retaliates by pinching at his lean hips and belly; they briefly wrestle and giggle together, before he plucks her into his arms and jiggles her all the way into the shower.
My funny, cheeky, sweet-hearted man.
Saturday 22 March 2003: AM
"Hurry up, Gus – Mr Blaise is going to be here any minute, and we still have to fix your hair!" Tavi impatiently yowls from the loungeroom.
Gus grits her teeth, already regretting consenting to this outing. Hobnobbing with rich, fancy witches and wizards... getting ideas above our station... Tavi's near bouncing off the walls and we haven't even left for the damned soiree!
Catching sight of her scowl as she passes the tiny, cracked mirror in their doll-sized bathroom, Gus unwillingly cracks a laugh. You'd think we'd been invited to a funeral, the way I'm carrying on. It's just a weirdly timed meal with people you barely know from work, she tells herself. Sit quietly in the corner and stuff your face with expensive food if you can't think of anything to say... And whatever you do, DO NOT let Blaise Zabini demonstrate just how freaking charming he can be. That way, madness lies.
Well... the insanity of unchecked infatuation, anyway. Just because he's stunningly handsome... tall... strong... funny... charismatic... unexpectedly sweet... oh, and a rich, sophisticated Pureblood, let's not forget that – none of that means you should fall at his feet like an overripe apple.
"Gus! GUS!" Tavi shouts stridently.
Quickening her strides, Gus charges into the living room with her dander up. "Tavi - please show me the respect of not screaming at me from another room – and my hair is perfectly fine, it does not need 'fixing'. Hello, Mrs Green," she affectionately pats the hand of their septuagenarian neighbour, who is putting the finishing touches to Tavi's complicated hairdo.
"Hullo, pet – the kidda's right though, there's nowt wrong with looking your best, lass. We've still time–"
A jaunty rap sounds on the front door.
"No time now - what a shame," Gus murmurs insincerely. "Tavi - would you like to answer the door? And CHECK it is indeed Blaise, before you open it, please," she admonishes, as the little girl tears erratically down the short hallway. She's favouring her right hip a little... she'll want to be careful of it, and not overtax herself, Gus critically assesses.
"Let the child run wild a wee bit today – she's hankering for magical company summat fierce, and she's taken a proper liking to this bobby dazzla man of yours, Gus," Nella Green nods sagely from the shabby armchair. She pulls down the sleeves of her hand-knitted aqua cardigan to fully cover her wiry arms.
"He's not MY bobby dazzla man– " Gus lowers her voice as her raucous objection echoes in the small apartment. "He's simply a work acquaintance – you know this, Mrs Green. This is not a fairy tale – and Blaise Zabini is not a prince."
"Well, that's disappointing," Blaise's amused drawl sounds as Tavi tows him around the corner. "My dreams of royal pretensions – hopelessly crushed. Oh, well," he sighs theatrically. "I suppose one lord in our group is aristocratic enough."
Gus twitches in horror, mouth agape. "I didn't– I didn't mean for you to hear that," she lamely replies. "Um, Blaise – I'd like you to meet Mrs Green; Mrs Green, this is Mr Blaise Zabini," she rushes to change the subject and divert attention from her flaming face.
Blaise turns his megawatt smile onto Nella; he reaches to kiss her thin hand, only to have his own smartly slapped.
"Haddaway with ye, lad – no cadging my good favour that easily," she lambastes, as Blaise's genial expression temporarily freezes. He holds up his big hands in surrender, tipping back his head to let loose an infectious belly laugh.
"I'd best up my game – between you and Gussie, my ego is in sad tatters," he grins, sketching a graceful bow.
"Well, now – she lets ye call her 'Gussie'?" Nella queries. "Interesting."
"I do not – I've already warned Mr Zabini about that," Gus snaps.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Green," Blaise ignores the caution. "I understand your husband was a wizard? And your accent is charming... you're a Novocastrian?"
"Geordie, aye," Mrs Green sniffs, though her faded blue eyes are bright with shrewd humour. "You're a canny, canny lad – a class act – but I'll be wanting a word with ye, afore I let you take my lasses anywhere. Gus, Tavi – we'll not be but a wink."
She holds up a peremptory, gnarled finger as Gus tries to object.
"Mrs Green– really, it's not necessary–"
"Wait out in the hallway, please."
Oh, hell – like I'm not embarrassed enough. Gus throws a desperate look at Nella; she mouths 'Be nice' to the older woman, before hustling Tavi outside.
"Gus, you told me it's rude to eavesdrop," Tavi tsks, as Gus presses her ear to the keyhole.
"Doesn't matter – I can't hear a thing," a disgruntled Gus admits, stomping down the corridor.
Blaise lets himself out of the apartment a few minutes later, whistling as though he hasn't a care in the world.
"Ready to go, Ms and Miss Gilmont?" he cheerily asks.
"What happened? What did Mrs Green say to you?" Gus blurts, before she can rein in her apprehensive curiosity.
"Oh, Nella and I came to an understanding," Blaise blithely deflects. "She's a pussycat, beneath all that Northern bluster." He cocks his head as he notes her annoyed expression, bestowing his slowest, cockiest, most captivating smile.
"Ah - you were hoping Mrs Green would chew me up and spit me out, huh?" He shakes his head pityingly. "Here's the thing: Nella can smell bullshit a mile away – she informed me so herself – and I've told the truth about my interest in you all along... Gus." The short syllable sounds like an endearment, shaped perfectly by his comely mouth.
Tavi is watching them indulgently; she slips one hand in Gus's... and surprises both adults by reaching for Blaise with the other.
"Hurry up, please," she urges, skipping between them a little awkwardly. Gus feels her heart clench as she witnesses how gently Blaise takes Tavi's hand... and subtly steadies her slight lurch by offering his muscular forearm as ballast.
Does he have to be so goddamn nice?!
Grumbling inwardly, Gus nevertheless feels her spirits lift, as they make their way out of the tired old building.
This just might be a fun day, after all.
Saturday March 22: AM
"Where's Pansy, is she here yet? Is she OK?" Harry meets them at the bottom of the stairs. Macdolas deflates the giant breath he'd inhaled, looking decidedly cranky as Harry effectively cancels whatever ridiculous string of honorific titles the verbose elf had intended to spout by way of announcing Harry's presence.
"Hello to you, too, Potter," Draco dryly remarks. "How would we know where Pansy is, you drip? We've literally just come downstairs."
"Oh. Right. Sorry." Harry leans forward to give Hermione a light hug. "Hi, Hermione – how are you feeling, love? Did you sleep well?".
"Hi, Harry – I slept fantastically well, thank you," Hermione answers.
Draco pretends to cough to hide his sardonic grin as he considers how they 'woke up'. He nimbly dodges Hermione's jabbed elbow to his ribs.
"Has anyone else arrived? Where's that paralytic little bounder Wireceaster – has he finally been prised off the furniture?" Draco addresses Macdolas.
"Macdolas sends the Wirey upstairs to bathe, Master Macdolas – the Wirey stinks, Signorina Gelsomina tells the Wirey so!" he exultantly crows, rubbing together his osseous little hands.
Draco performs a double-take as he takes a closer look at the diminutive butler's odd appearance.
"What the devil is smeared across your face, Macdolas? No, don't sneak off–" Draco grabs the back of his studded leather lamellar armour before the elf can skitter away. "Turn to face me, please."
Huffing truculently, Macdolas spins on his hand-stitched brown boots, the skirt of his Clan Fhionnlaigh kilt flaring. He crosses his arms as he jerks up his face for Draco's inspection.
The overall theme of Macdolas's outfit is clearly 'Scottish Highlander'; the orange, green, blue, yellow, and purple plaid squares of the traditional tartan kilt are teamed with a coarse brown shirt, topped by the laced-together leather chest plate. Tucked into the side of the wide brown leather belt is a sheathed sword, and Macdolas's brassy red locks have been styled with two small plaits at either temple.
The pièce de résistance is inarguably the bizarre splotch of bright blue pigment adorning most of Macdolas's pointy face, beginning in the middle of his hairline and continuing straight down to bisect his nose and mouth, ending past his chin. A smaller blue stripe also marks his other cheek.
Really makes his green eyes pop… in a deranged kind of way.
"Macdolas: am I correct in identifying that is my good Jackson's Cobalt Blue Genuine paint currently liberally daubed across your phiz? Dare I even ask why you saw fit to raid my art supplies in such a crazed fashion?" Draco wearily enquires, scrubbing agitatedly at his own face.
"Macdolas and Ruibby watch Her Grace Lady Granger's video 'Braveheart', Master Malfoy; 'tis the true story of the Great Scots warrior and patriot Sir William Wallace – Macdolas proudly wears his darlingest Ruibby's gifted kilt and adopts the stylings of the mighty Braveheart!". His brogue thickens as he bawls, "Tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM! Alba gu bràth!".
He fumbles at his heavy sword, but Draco is quicker, deftly confiscating the item before it can draw innocent blood. Potter isn't making the slightest effort to hide his hilarity, while Hermione is biting her lip and silently shaking with mirth.
"Did I not tell you last night that your dangerous stash of borrowed weaponry was to be returned to the Manor, post haste?" Draco rebukes, shoving the sword against the hallway coat rack (for the time being). "And that paint is designed for canvas, not skin – wash your silly face at once, please, before you suffer an allergic reaction or suchlike."
"Macdolas did return the borrowed blades to the Manor – this be his privately acquired sword! Macdolas isn't stupid, Master Malfoy; he reads the tubes and learns paint is only unfit for consumption," he condescendingly advises. "As long as Macdolas does not purposefully ingest the Cobalt Blue Genuine, he remains unimperiled."
"Let him keep his Braveheart make-up, Draco," Hermione lays a gentle hand on Draco's arm. "He's actually done a fine job of replicating the look – you should watch the film, it's reasonably historically accurate."
"Macdolas thanks Your Grace! Ruibby helps Macdolas immensely; his beloved applies the paint and braids the hair," the puffed-up pygmy nods.
"Let's hope she's prepared to nurse you back to health when you sicken from paint poisoning," Draco wryly comments. "Please return this sword to your room; we've a multitude of guests arriving, and I won't allow blades anywhere near Gus Gilmont's younger sister, Macdolas."
"Gus has a little sister?" Harry asks, bemusement wreathed across his features. "She's never spoken a word of her before."
"Some detective you are, Potter – it shan't be long before Gilmont is your superior, I'd wager," Draco gibes. "Blaise is bringing them both to brunch, if you must know."
The sound of the Floo resonates from the lounge; Harry outstrips Macdolas off the mark as they scurry to investigate the new arrivals.
"Potter's utterly potty for Pansy, isn't he?" Draco whispers to Hermione as they progress to the living room at a far more sedate pace.
"Shhh - look at them!" Hermione breathes delightedly as they round the corner. Theo and Luna are standing to the side; Harry makes a beeline for Pansy as she exits last, skidding to a stop and grinning ingenuously as he carefully enwraps her hands with his.
"Hi, Pansy."
"Hi, Harry."
The couple stare raptly at each other, oblivious to their audience.
"And you lot claim Hermione and I are sickeningly sweet," Draco carps. "Step away from the Floo, we're expecting half of London to arrive. Good morning Theo, Luna." He half-hugs Theo and kisses Luna's cheek; Hermione moves in to greet the pair.
"You look much better today, Hermione... the hectic flush you were sporting last night has been replaced by a much more natural glow," Luna calmly observes. "Is it from your magical cores further combining, or perhaps– "
"It's our soul bond!" Hermione hastily interrupts. "Thank you, Luna; you look well-rested? That's a gorgeous shirt-waister you have on," she gestures to the cockatoo-pink dress Luna is wearing.
"Oh, yes – we stayed with Theo and had a slumber party... it was fun, though we fell asleep rather quickly," Luna divulges. "I understand proper slumber parties involve pillow fights and staying up all night gossiping, is that right? Pansy did rant for a while, but she had every right to, of course."
"Anyway, Theo loaned me his shirt, I Transfigured it a little to better fit. Pansy's wearing his pants and top, she said his personal style is refreshingly contemporary." Luna points to Pansy's bright red silk blouse and black stovepipe trousers.
"Gryffindor red – that's an interesting selection," Draco can't resist pointing out.
"Malfoy, do stop baiting them – they're adorable together... " Hermione hisses, sotto voice. "We'll have to organize a big slumber party soon, Luna; I'm sorry you never had one in the Ravenclaw dormitories. Girls only, Draco – though Theo may attend, if he promises not to spill our secrets," she smiles.
"Why should Theo get a run?" Draco whines. "That's grossly unfair."
Hermione merrily ignores him. "Guess what – Blaise is bringing Gus Gilmont – and her little sister!" she squeals excitedly. "Plus, Mum and Dad are coming, and Narcissa... we're all going to have so much fun catching up."
"When does Lucius's home arrest end, Draco?" Theo enquires. Harry and Pansy are still shyly gazing at each other and holding hands, though they have moved clear of the Floo.
"June first. It will be an adjustment for him... I think he's developed some agoraphobia (understandably so), but he has agreed to work with a therapist, if you can believe it," Draco replies.
"Wow. That's great, Draco. Narcissa must be thrilled – and relieved," Theo muses.
The Floo actuates as Draco nods. Jane Granger steps out, followed by her husband; Draco's brows join in puzzlement as he takes in Bernard's unusual choice of headwear: a bright yellow, plastic… helmet?
"Mum – Dad – I'm so glad to see you!" Hermione throws herself into her parents' open arms, hugging them fiercely. Affectionate kisses are exchanged; Jane draws aside her daughter, tears of relief in her eyes.
"Sweetie, are you alright? We were so worried after reading the Prophet this morning – but Draco told us how brave and strong you were last night. Let me look at you," Jane presses her hands to Hermione's cheeks, holding her in place as she scrutinizes her physical condition.
"I'm fine – I'm terrific, actually," Hermione reassures her mother. "We got him, Mum – McLaggen won't see daylight again for a very long time. Flint, too," she bares her teeth in a triumphant victor's grin.
"That's my Little Wendy – we're so proud of you, daughter o' mine," Bernard chimes in. He fumbles at the straps of the helmet. "Help your Dad out, please, love? Your mother insisted we use the dratted fireplace system – I didn't want to risk banging my head if I ended up in the wrong ruddy chimney," he expounds.
"Dad, you know the Floo is perfectly safe – you just have to speak your intended destination clearly and assuredly; I do think wearing a bicycle helmet is overkill… but you do you," Hermione shakes her head resignedly, though she is smiling widely at Barney's unconventional approach. She swiftly unsnaps the nylon fastenings and hands him the helmet.
"Now, you know Luna, and Harry; I'd like to introduce you to Theo Nott, and Pansy Parkinson," Hermione does the honours.
"Hi, Luna love; Theo – lovely to meet you; and hello, Draco – you're looking pale, nothing new there, eh? Let go of the woman, Harry – I want to shake the hand of the witch who busted that bastard's testicle," Bernard unceremoniously shoulders Harry aside to vigorously engage Pansy in an enthusiastic handshake.
"If ever you need dental work, Miss Parkinson – just open your mouth a tad wider, let's have a quick gander – nice, nice, nothing wrong with a regular check-up, though – what was I saying? Oh, right – free dentistry for life from the Granger & Granger Surgery, all costs covered, of course… however, if you happen to bring in your house elf for a look-see, I wouldn't say no…" Bernard 'hints' cheekily.
Pansy rocks with laughter. "Sorry to disappoint, Mr Granger – I don't have a house elf, but I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
"Call me Barney, I insist," Bernard gregariously decrees. "Wipe that scowl off your face, Harry – no one would think to look at you that you've just helped put away a couple of evil, predatory scumbags… though of course, full credit goes to Pansy and Hermione."
"Of course," Harry flatly echoes. "You can let go of Pansy's hand, now."
Bernard chuckles. "No need to get tetchy, Harry. You know I've only ever had eyes for my Jane."
"Jane's standing over there – I suggest you join her," Harry deadpans.
Macdolas breaks the tension. "Master Malfoy, visitors knock on the front door! Macdolas bids good day to Her Grace Lady Jane Granger and Father Dentist Granger," he chatters, hopping from one foot to the other.
"Excuse us, please," Draco snugs his arm around Hermione's waist, leading her to the front door. "Thank you, Macdolas; would you please direct everyone to the back garden? Is everything in place?"
"Indeed, Master Malfoy! The redoubtable, radiant and resourceful Ruibby be putting the final touches to the brunch banquet, Macdolas thusly recites the mouth-wateringly flavoursome and delectable selections– "
"Save it until we're all seated, Macdolas," Draco ruthlessly curtails the elf's high-pitched, loquacious description.
"He's over-stimulated already – I fervently hope the menu is low in sugar," Draco mutters, as he reaches for the handle of the front door. "And he'd better not pick a fight with Wirey; I'm positive it's no coincidence that Macdolas has chosen a combative knight's costume today… he's a pugnacious little chit."
He swings open the door before Hermione can predictably charge to Macdolas's defence.
"Zabini. Hello, Auror Gilmont… and you must be Miss Octavia," Draco smiles at the little blonde girl standing between the two adults on the stoop. "Please, come in."
"Good morning, Lord Mr Malfoy. It is a very, very great honour to meet you, Miss – I mean, Ms – Hermione Granger," the child carefully bobs a wobbly curtsey, plucking at imaginary skirts around her jeans.
Draco's mouth parts in surprise when Blaise solicitously steadies Octavia's balance with one big paw. Well, well, well… He files away the observation for later examination and discussion (read ribbing).
Hermione beams at the girl. "Hello! Please call me Hermione – and this is Draco. We're very happy you could join us, Octavia. Hi, Blaise. Good morning, Auror Gilmont. Thank you so much for your help last night."
"There's no need to thank me – I was just doing my job," Gus mumbles. "Erm, thanks for inviting us – I understand if it's too much of an imposition, you probably didn't expect us to tag along– "
"Oh, Auror Gilmont - we're honoured to have you here, truly. Just as long as you promise not to talk shop with Harry all day," Hermione winks.
"Please call me Gus; and this rascal is Tavi," Gus visibly relaxes.
The child's eyes are eagerly darting around the townhouse's foyer; Tavi keenly petitions, "Excuse me, Miss Hermione and Mr Draco… but do you really have house elves? I've never met one before, but I've read as many books as I can about them. Mr Blaise told me you have five… I thought he must be pulling my leg."
"Well, we have five here today, but three of them are just visiting," Hermione answers. "Please come out to the back garden, you can meet them all… plus the other witches and wizards. Oh, and my parents are here, too; and Draco's mother should arrive soon.'
"Now, please don't be frightened when you first clap eyes on Macdolas; he's famous for his elaborate costumes, and today he's dressed as a medieval Scottish warrior nicknamed 'Braveheart'," Hermione gently cautions, as Tavi trots close behind her through the kitchen/dining room.
"That's Sir William Wallace, isn't it? Gus reads me history texts as bedtime stories," Tavi cheerily explains, as Hermione's eyes widen in surprise. "She says that too many fairy tales build unrealistic expectations of the truths of life."
A touch harsh – but fair, Draco internally concedes, while Blaise chuckles.
"I do throw in regular stories, too," Gus says defensively. "And we've an excellent collection of 'Feminist Fairy Tales', in which the heroines save themselves, or the dopey prince." She shoots a smug look at Blaise, whose snicker abruptly fades.
"Ouch," Zabini comments. The intense look he gives Gus makes her cheeks pinken, before she resolutely looks elsewhere.
Draco hastens to open the French doors for their little group. "Sit wherever you like; and don't worry about our neighbours, the whole property is sound- and magic-proofed," he informs. "Hermione, ma petite: would you please make the introductions? I think I just heard the Floo."
"Of course, Draco." Hermione busses a quick kiss on his willing lips, before shooing him back inside.
Pacing into the lounge, Draco quirks an eyebrow at the sight of Ginny Weasley and Viktor Krum passionately lip-locked on the couch… hands roving and squeezing frenziedly.
No prizes for guessing how they spent the night. Ginny's golden dress has been Transfigured into a smart, shimmering jumpsuit, while Viktor is attired similarly to Draco and the other men: dark jeans and a collared shirt.
"Ahem." The amorous couple don't even look up; Draco tries anew.
"Ten points from Gryffindor!". Aha, that did the trick; Ginny athletically jack-knifes off Viktor, springing to her feet. She relaxes her stance as she spots Draco sniggering beside them.
"Channelling your inner Prefect Prat again, Malfoy?" Ginny snipes, though without any true heat.
"Well, would you rather Potter had stumbled upon your impromptu snog-a-thon?" Draco rebuts. "I imagine that would be somewhat embarrassing – for everyone concerned."
Viktor pushes his thick fingers through his rumpled dark hair. "Draco makes a good point, Ginny-evra – we haff to take care not to rub Harry's eyes in salt."
Riiiight. Draco nods emphatically. "And fair warning: Potter and Pansy have been busy making goo-goo eyes at each other, since she arrived. But for the sake of Gus Gilmont's little sister, can you please refrain from any more heavy petting until you're alone again? Great. Head to the kitchen and through the French doors, we're eating outside."
Ginny flicks her long auburn ponytail over her shoulder. Gathering Krum's hand, she tugs him upright, before sauntering in the direction Draco indicated.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Draco; sorry we got a little carried away," she breezily underplays their heated clinch. "See you outside."
Viktor hasn't taken his eyes off her since they sprang apart, Draco ruminates, tapping his bottom lip as he watches the loved-up couple depart. Luna might be onto something with her 'seventeen percent' spring equinox theories… I hope they took heed of her warning, last night…
Hummmm-rumble-whirrrr. An atypically frazzled Narcissa Malfoy emerges from the Floo, fluffing at her blonde coiffure.
"Draco, mon fils – I do apologize for running a little late… the new potion Healer Kuznetsova prescribed for your father has… well, let's just say it's resulted in some unexpectedly beneficial side effects – some friskiness – and, ah, one thing led to another– "
"No! Mother, please – that's more than enough information," Draco interjects, appalled at Narcissa's sudden candidness. Eeww. This must be my karma, for encouraging Barney Granger to retell the story of Hermione's conception at every opportunity.
"Let's– let's just join the rest of the party, shall we? And never speak of Father's… renewed sprightliness… ever again," he implores.
Narcissa's tiny, wicked smile as she takes Draco's proffered arm instantly makes him nervous.
"You needn't think your generation miraculously discovered sex, Draco; and Lucius is not yet fifty, there's plenty of spark left in his Fizzing Whizzbee – no, don't cringe, you'll be glad of your inherited stamina, when you and Hermione are our age," she ploughs on relentlessly.
Merlin's sagging arse! What on earth's gotten into my perfectly proper, patrician parent? Draco quick-steps into the kitchen, hoping that exposure to the gathered company will silence Narcissa's unasked-for frankness.
"Speaking of which: are you planning on dithering over your proposal to that darling girl much longer? I don't mean to harangue you, Draco; but you must admit, you've already spent a decade pining for Hermione… it's past time to speed things up, don't you think?" Narcissa prods.
Jolting to a stop beside the dining room table, Draco turns his shocked face to her. "Wait– you– you knew how I felt about her? Ever since…"
"Ever since you first laid eyes on her? Yes, Draco. I'm sorry I never discussed it with you… of course, all our dreadful blood purity rhetoric initially put paid to that, and then… the War, and its aftermath…" Narcissa fiddles at the clutch of her chic handbag.
"I was racking my brain to think of ways to somehow engender a fresh meeting between the two of you – of course, I never wanted Hermione to be in any danger, this roofie business was simply horrific, and terrifying–" her voice chokes.
Mind awhirl, Draco quietly waits for her composure to return.
"You were fading away in front of me, Draco; not physically, but you were starving for love and belonging… locked up in your own modern ivory tower here, painting furiously and withdrawing a little further from the world with every sundown," Narcissa's mouth quivers. "I can never thank Hermione – and all your friends – enough, for bringing the light back into your eyes, my son."
Throat tight, Draco shuffles to enfold his mother in a close, heartfelt hug. She returns the embrace with interest, her slender frame shaking a little. The two stand together silently for a smattering of moments, before the hubbub of genial conversation drifts in from the open French doors.
"I love you, Mother," Draco says, hoarsely yet firmly. "But please – trust that I have my own timeline, for Hermione and me. It has to be right, for both of us."
"Very well," Narcissa sighs acquiescingly. "Do please remember that I'd much prefer to be a fun, hip, young grandmother, though."
"Mother – no one says 'hip' anymore – and you literally just bragged about your youthful vitality," Draco groans. "You're doing my head in, honestly."
"What a terrible thing to say to your poor mother!" Narcissa laughs. "I love you too, Draco. Come, let's join your bruncheon party and show them the true wondrousness of Malfoy hospitality."
Hooking her arm through his once again, Narcissa struts confidently out the door, her peach-coloured silk gown swishing softly at her ankles.
A sea of relaxed, happy faces focuses upon them. Draco takes a minute to appreciate the scene.
Macdolas and Ruibby's capable industriousness has resulted in two long tables (covered in plain white linen tablecloths), situated parallel to one another, in the spacious, high-walled back garden. Glasses and cutlery gleam in the unfiltered sunlight of a beautiful spring day, and each place setting is decorated with a single pale yellow rose; larger posies of the blossoms are the centrepieces.
The delicious smells emanating from the staggering array of dishes available are utterly scrumptious; Draco is amazed at the quantity and quality available.
Our elves were naughty little scalawags last night (well, with the exception of Kreacher) – but we're extremely fortunate to have such clever, talented, loyal employees… no, family, he corrects. He catches sight of Hermione waving spiritedly at them from the far table. Her vivacious face is alight with happiness and relaxed contentment.
"Draco, over here! I saved you both a seat," she beckons, patting the empty chairs to either side of her. "Hurry, sweetheart – Macdolas is growing cross, he's champing at the bit to enumerate all the dishes." Hermione points to the chair at the head of the other table: Macdolas is standing atop it, jittering like a cat on hot bricks. His foot taps an impatient rhythm, audible even over the din of numerous conversations.
Pulling out the seat for Narcissa, Draco slides into his own. Acting on impulse, he bends his head to Hermione's to capture her lush mouth in a fervid, passionate kiss. His thumbs stroke the side of her jaw as benevolent snickers break out around them.
"Wha– what was that for?" Hermione dazedly asks, as he finally withdraws his lips. "Not that I'm objecting, mind."
Smiling reverently at her, Draco announces (deliberately projecting his voice for the rest of the party to hear): "That was to unequivocally say, I love you, Hermione Jean Granger; I always have, and I always will."
"Now, Macdolas – what are you waiting for, shrimpet? Get a wriggle on – we're starving, here!"
French translations:
Ta chatte est si douce et mouillée – Your pussy is so soft and wet.
Tu vas jouir si fort sur ma bite, Hermione... je brûle pour toi, chérie – You're going to come so hard on my cock, Hermione ... I burn for you, darling.
mon amour, mon âme sœur – my heart, my soulmate.
