A/N: đź’—đź’— Happy Valentine's Day, guys đź’—đź’—

However you choose (or don't choose) to celebrate it, I wish you all the best.

Thank you very much for reading.


Chapter 84

Monday 30 March 2003: AM

Hermione gingerly slides from the bed, unable to lie quietly for another second. The pallid light creeping around the edges of the heavy drapes indicates it's too early for her alarm to sound, but the excitement of starting her first day as a Professor of Arithmancy had her blinking awake over an hour ago. She'd snuggled into Draco's warm body and tried to get back to sleep, only managing a light doze.

I don't want to wake him – but I know I will if I keep twitching in our bed. The stone floor is cold beneath her bare feet as she steps off the rug, crossing to peep out the tower window. Forgetting the discomfort of the chilled floor, Hermione gazes through the slim chink of view between the curtains, awed anew by the realization that she is truly back at her beloved Hogwarts, realizing a long-discarded dream… with Draco Malfoy. My beloved Draco Malfoy.

"Granger? Come back to bed, I'm lonely," the object of her affection croakily wheedles, his eyes slitting open like a cranky kitten's. "The sun's barely up – it can't possibly be time to arise, surely?".

"No, we've an hour or so yet," she checks the bedside clock, grinning as she jumps back between the sheets Draco is holding open, deliberately pressing her icy feet onto Draco's warm legs. His shriek of outrage amuses her no end.

"Devilish minx! That was unkind, ma petite." Despite his grumbles, Draco hugs her tight, burying his sleepy face in her mussed curls. "I love you, Professor Granger."

"I love you too, Professor Malfoy."

"'Associate' Professor; don't forget I'm on probation for the first fortnight," he reminds.

"It's not 'probation', Draco – Headmistress McGonagall wants to give you time to find your feet and manage your workload," Hermione immediately corrects. "I'm also technically a novitiate… the only reason I'm teaching alone is because Minerva is so desperate to hand off the Arithmancy classes."

"That, and the fact you're a mastermind," he adds. "A highly-organized mastermind: don't think I didn't see you sneaking a look at your lesson plans in the bathroom, when you were supposed to be brushing your teeth."

"Well, I wasn't sure if I'd overreached in expecting the Third Years to have already grasped the intricacies of Pythagoras's constant, and I wanted to have a back-up exercise in case…" Hermione trails off as she feels Draco's chest expanding. "You're silently laughing at me, aren't you? Mischievous git."

"Darling, I'm not laughing at you; I'm delighted by your pure enthusiasm and brilliance, of course," Mr Smooth swiftly rejoins. "I'm so happy for you, Hermione. And I'm honoured to be here, sharing your joy."

"Draco… is this what you really want? Working at Hogwarts, I mean." She holds her breath before he nods, firmly and unequivocally.

"I really do want this, Hermione. I promise. I would have been content to follow you here regardless, but I've always wanted to return to Hogwarts… maybe try to give back a little," Draco concludes, his tone sombre. "And before you say I've given enough, I must disagree. Some debts can never be repaid."

She opens her mouth to rebut his claim; Draco swoops on her parted lips, kissing her deeply. Though she knows it to be a partial distraction, Hermione fervently returns his ardent embrace. I wonder if it will always be like this, between us… an utter conflagration of the senses, even when our loving is soft and sweet. Logically, I realize that nothing remains static – but I can't imagine ever not feeling this blanketing desire for my beautiful wizard.

Rolling her onto her back, Draco smiles down as she pouts in protest at the ending of their smooch. "I want to continue, too – but you'll have my hide if I dare make you late on our first day, Granger," he reasons.

"You detest tardiness as well, Malfoy." Hermione strokes back his white-blond fringe. "Your hair's getting long, mon amour."

"Mmm… I'm overdue a haircut. I'll try to fit one in this weekend, when we're back on London; or perhaps I'll get a set of clippers and buzz it all off," he grins.

"Don't you bloody dare!" Hermione squalls. "I adore your hair, it's so silky and soft… and manageable. I wish mine weren't so crazy," she wistfully muses. "I'm thinking of getting a shoulder-length bob for summer, actually."

"I absolutely forbid it – haven't we had a similar conversation before? Clearly I need to resort to stronger methods of deterrence." Twirling a thick brown ringlet around his lean finger, Draco leans down to peck the tip of her scrunched nose. "I'll invent and cast a spell on these gorgeous tresses if you force my hand – something that renders your glorious mop impervious to all sharp implements, perhaps." He gracefully flips himself up and out of the bed before she can argue her case. "Hurry up, I want to watch you get dressed."

"I'll cut my hair if I want to, Draco," Hermione rebelliously mutters.

"Of course – and I'll shave my head if you ever do, Hermione."

Tossing a pillow at him, Hermione pokes out her tongue as she scrambles out of bed. Draco swoops on her, hoisting her over his shoulder as though she's a sack of grain, blithely ignoring her huffing protests.

"Naughty witch – I saw that insolent gesture. I think you need a shower to cool down that hot head of yours." He strides toward the compact bathroom.

Her screeches turn into giggles, then sighs, as he rubs big circles over her cotton panty-clad buttocks, the oversized white t-shirt that once belonged to Draco having long since ridden up around her waist. "That feels amazing, Malfoy."

"Better than a cold water rinse, I'll wager." He flicks on the tap marked 'C'. "In you go, Granger."

"Alright, the joke's gone far enough, I'll be good– "

"What rubbish, you're forever pushing my buttons… and I bloody love it," Draco snickers. Sliding her down his shoulder, he turns off the tap before nuzzling his cheek against her forehead. "Call me sappy, but waking up with you – living with you – earning the right to share your golden orbit… this is my dream come true."

"Hullo, Sappy."

"Hullo, Smartarse."

"You're pretty darned dreamy yourself, Malfoy."

"Come, let's get ready. Impressionable young minds await our combined excellence, don't forget."

"Always that soupçon of arrogance, huh?"

"Bien sûr, my love."


Monday 30 March 2003: PM

"Draco! Over here!" Hermione's enthusiastic holler and wave has half the heads in the Great Hall turning in his direction.

Great. Assiduously ignoring the whispers and pointing fingers, Draco marches to the teachers' table, keeping his eyes trained on his exquisite girlfriend. He nods hello to Luna as he slides in beside Hermione, robustly kissing her on the corner of her mouth.

"Draco… has something happened? You look a little strained," Hermione props her chin on her hand, speaking quietly as she scrutinizes his drawn features. "Was Potions full-on? You had the Seventh Years all morning, right?". She reaches out to stroke his forearm as it tenses on the gleaming cutlery.

"It was fine." Crap, that came out more abruptly than I'd intended. Fashioning a close-lipped smile to his face, Draco tries again. "Nothing I can't handle, ma petite. I didn't have to do much, Kvothe knows what he's about."

Hermione withdraws her hand, her lovely whiskey-brown eyes clouded with concern. "OK."

Bloody buggering hell, now I've upset her. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I don't mean to be gruff." Moistening his dry mouth, Draco divulges, "One of the students left a toy skull and snake on my desk – they'd magicked the snake to curl through the skull holes, like– like a Dark Mark. Quite a clever bit of spellwork, actually." His attempt to lighten the retelling of the incident goes over like a lead balloon.

"Who was it?!" Hermione launches herself upright, as though she fully intends to charge over to the offending pupil and administer a severe punishment in the middle of luncheon.

Gently tugging her back into her chair, Draco murmurs (in his most placatory tone), "Darling, please don't worry about it. It was just a nasty little prank, nothing to get het up about. I'm guilty of more than my fair share of tormenting my professors, don't forget."

"Teenagers can be such arseholes," Hermione (rather loudly) growls. "Do you know who it was?".

"I can't be certain; truly, it's not important. How was your morning? Were your Third Years already au fait with Pythagoras's theorem?".

Completely ignoring his clunky change of topic, Hermione vows, "I will find out who it was, you know."

"I don't doubt it; but please, Granger, let me deal with this. I'm certain the culprit wants to get a rise out of me, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction," Draco sighs. "Besides, your Number Two Fan – Head Boy Joseph – went out of his way to loudly denounce the stunt as soon as he entered the classroom, as well as zapping the display into tiny pieces."

"He did? What a lovely young man," Hermione beams. "Why is he my 'Number Two' Fan?"

"Well, I'm forever your primary Ardent Admirer, of course," Draco risks a quick nip to her ear lobe, sobering his expression as Headmistress McGonagall lifts a quelling eyebrow in their direction.

"Don't mind Minerva; she's really very progressive," Luna chimes in, leaning forward from Hermione's other side. "Did you know she's supporting MacRu founding a Hogwarts House Elf Union? Apparently she's been encouraging the other elves to start one for ages, but no one wanted to put up their hand to take on the responsibility."

Squinching closed his eyes, Draco sends up a fervid prayer to the universe at large that 'MacRu' haven't already bitten off more than they can chew. They haven't yet worked here a full day…

"That's why you can actually see a few house elves serving luncheon, today," Luna continues. "Look – there's Mac now," she indicates to the table at the far end of the cavernous space. "Isn't he clever?"

Opening his eyes, Draco watches as Macdolas 'dances' a soup tureen across the wide table, grinning like an escapee gibbon. Ruibby stands at the next table over, earnestly consoling a crying First Year Gryffindor girl.

Minerva might regret her largesse before the year is out; Macdolas is going to cause so much pandemonium, and Ruibby could probably take over the running of this place if she ever truly wanted to, Draco smirks to himself.

His amusement is brusquely interrupted when a red envelope zooms through the Hall, dropping onto his empty plate with a discordant clatter. The Howler twitches irritably as Draco snatches it up. He tells Hermione, "Please– don't follow me–" before bolting from the dining area, his face and ears aflame.

Talk about a walk – no, run – of shame. Once he's clear of the Great Hall, Draco quickens his canter to a gallop, his feet instinctively taking him down a narrow passage and out a skinny side exit, the outline of the door barely discernible against the old masonry. The Howler is heating up in his tightened fist; Draco keeps running until he reaches an old oak tree near the bottom of the long grassed hill. Yanking open the horrid Howler, he fumbles for his wand as it begins to bellow.

"DRACO MALFOY – YOU ARE A DEPRAVED, DESPICABLE DEATH EATER! YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS IMPARTING YOUR WICKED DARK KNOWLEDGE TO IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG MINDS–"

The screaming magical red telegram is finally silenced when Draco hurls a 'Confringo' at the rotten missive, blasting it into nothingness. His sweating fingers slip on his wand as he leans back against the reassuringly broad tree trunk, heaving ragged breaths as old guilt and shame engulf him.

Maybe this anonymous harbinger of hate is right – maybe I should never have countenanced returning to Hogwarts… what if my dubious past reflects poorly on Hermione's flourishing academic career? Fuck – I was so eager to merge our lives and careers, I didn't give enough thought to the repercussions… His shoulders bow as he considers reassessing living and working at the castle.

I could still buy us a nice home in Hogsmeade, and easily build on a studio; Hermione will be disappointed, but better that than she be tainted by association…

"Boy, that Howler was a doozy, huh?" Neville Longbottom's mellifluous voice interrupts Draco's agonized musings. "My Gran's sent me a few over the years, but I've been pretty lucky to not be savaged by prejudiced strangers. Nougat Chunk?" Neville rounds the wide trunk, shaking a Honeydukes bag invitingly.

"Nougat Chunk… what?" Draco dully replies.

Neville digs out a big lump of the sweet confection, diffidently offering it upon his palm. "My hands are clean, don't worry," he misinterprets Draco's reluctance to partake.

"T-Thanks, Neville." Popping the nougat into his mouth, Draco is glad its gooey texture makes speech impossible for a little while. Neville chomps into his own piece as the two men gaze out at the Scottish landscape.

When Neville speaks again, his words are quiet and sincere. "I've got a bit of a hidey-hole in the next tree over," he jerks his dark head at the massive yew; a fringe of dense moss partially conceals the hollow within. "Sometimes… I find all the noise and people in the Great Hall a bit… too much, so the elves pack me a little picnic. They always give me enough to feed a giant, if you're hungry. No pressure, of course." The Gryffindor Herbology professor steps back with a shrug. "And the hollow's bigger than it looks, you won't have to sit in my lap or anything," he laughs.

I have to admit, hiding in a tree hollow sounds like frigging paradise, right now.

"I'd like that – lunch, I mean. Not sitting in your lap," Draco's lips curl in a wry smile. "No offence."

Guffawing, Neville carefully pulls aside the moss, revealing a cosy nook, lit by four suspended candles. A dark blue and green tartan blanket covers the ground, a wicker basket open in its centre. Neville folds himself into a cross-legged stance with easy grace. "Help yourself, Draco."

Copying Neville's seated position, Draco reaches for a sandwich, surprised to find his appetite has recovered. I guess I've been more stressed than I realized… though I wish I'd not spoiled Hermione's joy over her first official teaching day by being a dramatic git. I'll have to make it up to her, somehow...

"My Gran didn't really encourage talking about one's feelings," Neville comments, almost to himself. "Purebloods are supposed to be proper and phlegmatic at all times – well, I don't have to tell you that, do I?".

Munching on his corned beef and mustard sandwich, Draco soberly nods.

"I reckon it'd take some adjustment, living and working together… having to routinely express your feelings, when your ingrained instincts are to bottle up the negative sentiments and deal with it yourself," Neville continues. "I get that."

"Yeah – I feel like a right louse for having some doubts… I'm raining on Hermione's parade, and that's the last thing I want," Draco vehemently replies. "I despise the fact that my past is always going to come back to haunt me… haunt us, now. What if the parents who object to my teaching appointments come after Hermione, too? She's already copped flak for being my girlfriend… maybe I should just call it quits now, before anything else happens–"

"Bullshit." The emphatic oath halts his self-pity party immediately. "Hermione chose to be with you, just as she chose to come here to live and teach with you, Draco. She doesn't support anyone or anything she doesn't wholeheartedly believe in – trust me on that. You do her a great disservice by not having confidence in her faith in you."

"But you just said you understood how it's hard to open up!" Draco sputters.

Neville sighs. "Yeah – but I didn't say you should stop trying, did I? You're just going to have to find your big boy boots and pad them out with newspaper until they fit, if that's what it takes to fully communicate and share your problems with your soul mate... your magically soul-bonded mate," he stresses. "You're a right lucky bastard, Draco.'

"Here's another thing – these people who are set against you being here – do you really give a flying Fwooper what any of them think of you? Don't allow their narrow-minded bias to ruin your dream, or sour your special, blessed relationship with one of the loveliest women I've ever been lucky enough to call my friend." Neville bites into a crisp red apple with vim, munching meditatively. "Stuff the lot of 'em."

Gulping down the last of his crusts, Draco stares at the draped verdant moss, his mind zinging through all of Neville's indubitably reasonable arguments. He's spot-on: the only opinions that matter are those of the people who I love and respect… and I have a life partner now, though I still have some trouble believing our requited devotion is real, and not a lengthy fever dream. I should be talking to Hermione about all this, not moping in Neville's hollowed haven.

Jumping to his feet, Draco somehow manages to avoid whacking his pale head on the ancient wood. "Thanks, Neville – for your eminently sound advice, as well as the food. You're a bloody smart wizard, you know."

Neville winks lazily, not bothering to rise as he pumps Draco's proffered hand. "You're welcome. Feel free to hole up in here any time you need a breather, or some thinking space." He motions at the mossy 'door'. "Go on then, go find your witch! Hurry up, before she sends out a search party and brings every curious bugger here to wreck the serenity," he jests. "Sod off, already."

Grinning, Draco starts sprinting uphill once he's cleared the moss veil. He gracefully lopes back into the castle via the same small door, his mood considerably cheerier and more hopeful than when he'd fled. Entering the Great Hall in search of Hermione, he nearly cannons into a couple of little First Years. His sharp reflexes avoid a collision just as he hears the shorter boy excitedly proclaim,

" – then the sword chopped off his foot! Professor Rahl said this was bound to happen, what with letting house elves visibly roam the castle willy-nilly. But then Headmistress McGonagall told Professor Rahl to kindly keep his uninformed opinions to himself, before she whisked Macdolas to the infirmary."

Macdolas? Infirmary? 'Chopped off his foot'?! Draco looms over the kid, urgently barking, "What happened? Macdolas is hurt?". He steps back a foot as the boy quavers.

"Yes, sir – I didn't see it, but Bruce Geoghegan was in the corridor and he saw the whole thing, he told Marianne Mathieson and she told–"

"Never mind all that – but was it Macdolas? One of the new elves?" Draco has to stop himself from shaking the information out of the gabbling lad.

"Yes, Bruce reckons the elf – Macdolas – was trying to get the sword loose from one of the suits of armour on the second floor but it fell off really suddenly and it was a lot sharper than anyone thought it would be, it went straight through the elf's boot and everything and he fainted because of all the blood," the boy informs, blue eyes agog. "Bruce ran and got the teachers and then he came and told everyone–"

Tearing through the Hall, his own gorge rising, Draco staves off his incipient panic attack as he flies toward the Infirmary. Stupid, weapon-loving little ninny! Not even here two days but he manages to amputate his own foot! What if it's permanent – what if even Madame Pomfrey can't save the appendage– what if he– ?! His vision starts to darken around the edges as his legs keep churning. He is dimly aware of a pack of students scattering as he bursts into the sick bay's foyer, eyes wild…

…Only to see Macdolas sitting up in the nearest bed, looking bright as a button as he daintily sips at a cup of steaming tea, his other gnarly hand grasping a chocolate digestive biscuit. Rapidly scanning him up and down, Draco sags in relief as he notes the only visible injury is a small bandage on Macdolas's left big toe… his intact left big toe.

Hermione detaches from the crowd gathered at the bedside, her arms wrapping Draco in a tender hug. Draco vaguely notes that Headmistress McGonagall, Luna, and Ruibby are also in attendance, as he instantaneously relaxes in her embrace.

"He's alright, he's going to be fine," she murmurs into his ear, as the blood unpleasantly rushes back to Draco's head. "Mac's OK, mon amour. Everything's alright, Draco. Come," she leads him to one of the visitor's chairs, Transfiguring it to a double seater with a quick whip of her wand. "Sit down, darling. I'll get you some water."

"No – please, just let me hold you," Draco breathes. His voice tightens as he explains, "A boy in the Great Hall said he'd chopped off his foot– I ran here straightaway–"

"The power of the school grapevine," Hermione buzzes a raspberry as she shakes her head in exasperation. "I was told he'd sawn off his fingers – I freaked out instantly. Luna had to threaten me with a judicious face slap," she smiles at the blonde, who is standing on the other side of the bed, comforting a sniffling Ruibby. "Fortunately, we weren't far away, I'd been trying to find you…"

"I'm so sorry, Hermione – I never meant to worry you with my histrionics." Draco swallows hard. "I'd love the chance to speak with you about that; not right now – not here – but as soon as possible, please?". His anthracite eyes rapidly blink as he anxiously peers into her hickory-brown ones.

"Of course – but let's both assure ourselves of our elfish mischief-maker's well-being, hmmm?" Hermione rejoins, her hand constantly raking through the hair on his nape. "Please reserve your scolding for later, sweetheart; I've a few choice things to say to Mac, too, but he's safe, and Minerva already gave him a scathing tongue-lashing, once Madame Pomfrey assessed and treated his wound."

"Did Madame Pomfrey have to re-attach his toe? He seems remarkably unaffected," Draco frowningly observes.

"Um… no, not exactly," Hermione hedges. "He was extremely lucky – the point of the sword sheared off his big toenail, but Madame Pomfrey said it will grow back as good as new, in time. There was a little blood loss, but she's given him a restorative potion and said he should stay off that foot for the rest of the day. He doesn't even need to stay in the ward overnight, which is great."

Naughty, born-under-a-lucky-star little rascal. Draco glares over Hermione's shoulder as he realizes Macdolas is soaking up all the concerned attention like a three foot tall sponge. Scaring us all half to death with his meddling foolishness!

"Malfoy, your face will stay like that if the wind changes," Hermione whispers. "Mac doesn't mean to worry us – he's intensely curious, and exuberant, you know. It's why we love him so."

"Love him?! I– I– I–" a grating screek emanates from Draco's mouth as he furiously works his jaw. Burying his face back into Hermione's abundant chestnut tresses, he mutters, "Merlin knows why – I do dearly love the pesky wretch... I thought – I thought I was going to lose him… like I lost Dobby. I can't– I never want to– "

"Oh, Draco – my darling Draco, my dearest love – I'm so sorry. I understand," Hermione delicately rests her warm palm against his cool cheek. "I know, mon coeur."

Uncaring of the inquisitive stares they are bound to be attracting, Draco impulsively captures her soft mouth in a prolonged, passionate kiss, pouring all of his tumultuous love and gratitude into the embrace. Hermione keenly responds, meeting him stroke for stroke and all but straddling his lap on the widened chair as their hands thirstily rove over each other's shoulders, necks, and backs.

"Ahem! Professors Malfoy and Granger, I strongly recommend you avail yourselves of your current free period after luncheon to continue your… discussion, in private," Headmistress McGonagall's clear tones effectively break apart their burgeoning clinch. Blushing a little, Draco catches Minerva's eye, relieved to see it twinkling, though her expression stays stern.

"Erm… thank you, Headmistress," a pinkened Hermione shuffles upright, bestowing a quick peck to Mac's brow as she bids him goodbye. "Mac and Ruibby, we'll come see you tonight in your suite."

"Assuming Ruibby allows Macdolas to return to their communal quarters – Macdolas must work industriously to return to Ruibby's good graces, after his puckish devilry causes her such distress!" Ruibby turns her face into Luna's side, her agitated tears renewed.

"There, there," Luna coos. "He's a germ, but he's still your cherished germ, Ruibby."

Draco busses a hard kiss into Mac's rumpled red hair, bending to speak directly into the sprite's wittering ear. "You've frightened at least a year off my lifespan today, Macdolas; for the love of snakes, stay out of trouble for the next eight hours, please. You're a regular pain in my arse, but I never want you to come to any harm, alright?" .

"Master Malfoy– Master, Macdolas–" he chokes.

"Save it. Just rest up and apologize to your poor terrified girlfriend, you peanut." Draco leans over to gently pat Ruibby's arm, before he slides his arm around Hermione and nods farewell to the rest of the room.

"Thanks, guys."


"Close your eyes, please."

"Malfoy, you've already covered my eyes with your hands – it seems a tad redundant to have to close them," Hermione argues, as they stand just before the open threshold of their tower bedroom.

"Always with the cheeky comeback," Draco theatrically sighs. "Easy! I was kidding," he defends, as she blindly reaches back to tickle his ribcage. "Ready? I was going to save this for tonight, but now is better, I think." It's well past time I focused on my lovely witch, today.

"Stop stalling and show me my surprise, please," Hermione whinges.

Kissing the sweet lateral curve of her neck, Draco whispers, "Surprise, ma petite," as he moves his shielding hands from her eyes, resting them upon her hips.

"Oh, Draco!" she gasps; he can hear the pleased wonder in her voice, though he cannot see her face. "It's beautiful!".

Their bedroom is ablaze with tiny shimmering gold and silver magicked bulbs, spelling out "Congratulations on Your First Day, Professor Granger". A bunch of sweet-smelling lilacs in an earthenware jug sit on Hermione's chest of drawers, their heady fragrance wafting about the bedroom.

"Lilacs signify growth, progress, and wisdom; all of which you already have in spades, of course. I just want you to know how proud I am of your achievements, and how much I adore your huge, sexy– "

"Draco!"

" –brain," he ends the sentence with a smirk. "How rude of you to think I meant something crude, Professor!"

Hermione turns, playfully smacking his chest. "Thank you, Professor," she tips up her head to kiss him, wrinkling her nose as he steps away.

"You've missed your other gift," he points to the left side of the vase, where lies a slim rectangular box, festooned with a gold ribbon.

"Oh, goodie!" Hermione pounces on the present, picking off the ribbon with painstaking care and setting it aside. Flipping open the box, she exclaims, "A gold fountain pen! With my name engraved! Draco, you didn't have to do this!". Tracing the calligraphic inscription ('Professor Granger') with a reverent finger, she looks at him with tear-wet eyes.

"It's a special fountain pen, actually… I've enspelled it to automatically refill its ink from its matching inkwell," Draco nods to the other little box beside the flowers. "I'm in charge of keeping the receptacle full, of course. I'm aware you are perfectly adept at flourishing a quill, but I know you also enjoy using a well-crafted pen, darling. Oh, and I wanted the pen to be inscribed, "Professor Hermione Granger', but there wasn't quite enough room," he regretfully states.

Picking up the pen to test its heft and fit in her fingers, Hermione stutters, "Draco – this is a solid gold pen."

"Yes?"

"It's a solid gold pen," she pointedly repeats, brunette brows drawn as he indifferently shrugs.

"It's the best – you deserve nothing less, mon âme."

"Oof! I can't believe you sometimes!" she huffs.

"This does seem to be a rather roundabout way of saying 'thank you, Draco'," he drawls.

Flinging her arms around him, Hermione tips down his head to stare directly into his chagrined eyes. "Thank you, Draco… my wondrous, thoughtful, ridiculously indulgent wizard!".

"You're welcome," he imperiously nods. "Perhaps a little kiss for your nice boyfriend, yes?" he taps his bottom lip.

"Nope, not yet – I have a little something for Mr Flash-the-Cash, too." She disengages to rifle through her bedside drawer, beaming as she hands over a medium sized box, wrapped in silver paper. "It's not fancy, or precious metal – just stainless steel – but I hope you like it."

In direct contrast to Hermione's meticulous treatment of the gold ribbon, Draco ruthlessly shreds the metallic paper and prises open the cardboard box.

"It's a go-cup, for hot drinks," Hermione bashfully supplies. "I know what a bear you are without regular coffee infusions, Malfoy… I enchanted it with a permanent warming charm, although you can switch it to a cooling charm in summer, if you like." She turns it over to show him the front. "I guess we really are on the same wavelength, huh?".

The smooth metal is engraved with the title, 'Professor Malfoy'. Draco runs his trembling finger over the lettering, before he clutches the cup in one hand, reeling in Hermione with the other. He seats her beside him on the wide bed, his heart thumping with intense emotion.

"I will treasure it always, Hermione. Thank you," he rasps, laying a feathery kiss on her mouth. "I apologize for dashing out of lunch like a maniac – I was already worked up over the toy skull incident, and then when that Howler arrived, I let my moody fears and latent hang-ups get the better of my common sense."

Hermione winds her hands around his neck, glumly chewing at her lip. "Draco, please talk with me, when things like this happen in future… I know all of this – us – might take some getting used to, but I'm here to share your burdens, too."

"I know – I ran into Neville Longbottom, and he set me straight," Draco admits, chuckling at Hermione's flabbergasted face. "He's a savvy, cool guy, it turns out."

Hermione harrumphs. "Neville is a supremely cool, exceedingly good egg, and he always has been; he was the first friend I ever made here, you know."

"I thought his toad Trevor was your first Wizardly friend," Draco grins. "Pax! Anyway, I'm going to take his sage advice and talk to you, instead of playing the dipshit and running away to brood. I didn't want to derail your elation over your first day of teaching, and yet I almost succeeded in doing just that. I'm sorry, Hermione."

"Draco, you've nothing to be sorry for; I've been guilty of not communicating my fears and issues, too," she earnestly answers. "I'm so used to solving my own problems – and being my own support crew – that it's hard to let you in, sometimes. And we won't always be on the same page, emotionally: which is all the more reason for us to take turns helping one another over the rough spots. You've not ruined anything, so put that daft idea out of your head right now, mister." She bares her ivories in mock ferocity.

"Gods, you're amazing, Hermione… I can't believe you're real, sometimes," Draco shakes his head in wonderment. "Kiss me, mon adorable petite amie de genie."

"Avec plaisir, mon charmant petit ami de genie." Hermione puckers up before enthusiastically planting her lips on his hungry mouth.

Moulding her to his chest, Draco rests his back against the mattress, wishing they had more than a few more minutes to canoodle. As always, his spirits boost straight to 'enraptured' the moment their bodies and mouths touch.

I'd suffer through a thousand stupid, petty Howlers to earn the right to stay here with my extraordinary, wonderful witch, he vows. Neville was absolutely correct – 'stuff the lot of 'em.'

Nestling Hermione closer in his arms, Draco sets about showing Hermione just how much he loves her… one sublime, inflamed kiss at a time.


French translation:

Bien sûr – of course.

mon adorable petite amie de genie – my adorable genius girlfriend

Avec plaisir, mon charmant petit ami de genie – With pleasure, my charming genius boyfriend.


I wrote a little Valentine's Day offering (starring MacRu).
Here it is, if anyone is interested:


Red Roses for Ruibby

Excerpt from the journal of Free Elf Macdolas of the Clan Fhionnlaigh, major-domo of Malfoy Manor.


Friday 14 February 2003

5.30AM

MacD rises early to harvest the reddest roses from the garden; last night the Lambent Lady Malfoy benevolently grants MacD permission to cut 'as many blooms as he wishes' from the rampant shrubs. Darlingest Ruibby is sure to appreciate this tender token of MacD's most profound, pure, patient, passionate, and perfectly principled adoration!

6.12AM

Due to a slight oversight in forgetting to wear thick gloves, MacD must seek medical attention from Mizrabel before commencing his regular manservant duties. 'Tis fortunate indeed that the bright crimson hue of the roses exactly matches MacD's accidentally shed blood from the vicious thorns…

Ex-Lord Malfoy witnesses MacD's unscheduled entrapment in the rose bush and reluctantly intervenes, calling him an 'asinego' whilst wielding the freeing secateurs. Possibly this term means 'enthusiastic gardener' in another language? A dozen of the finest scarlet roses are now safely trimmed and bundled, awaiting delivery to the beautiful Ruibby's chambers later today.

6.57AM

Checked three old dictionaries in the Manor's library before discovering that 'asinego' means 'silly little ass'! (as in the donkey, not MacD's finely-shaped buttocks).

Ever-cognizant of his vaunted status as the courteous chamberlain of Malfoy Manor, MacD stoically refrains from pointing out to ex-Lord Malfoy that MacD is not the dippy denizen roaming the gloaming gardens at six o'clock in the morn, chasing snowy peacocks hither and thither and shouting vitriolic abuse at the proud fowls!

MacD finds the word 'jobbernowl' (numbskull or nincompoop) whilst perusing the etymological tomes and reserves it for future comebacks.

8.10AM

First sighting of the pulchritudinous Ruibby at breakfast; MacD is so stunned by her effervescent beauty and grace that he does trip and drop ex-Lord Malfoy's favourite coffee cup on the floor (the wretchedly ugly one with the open-fanged coiling snake design that sweetest Ruibby refuses to touch – and who could blame the darling?! The horrid beastie mug looks positively venomous, MacD himself shudders to transport it from the kitchens to the breakfast parlour each morning, though he be brave of heart and mind), thus spattering the former patriarch with hot java and smashing the cup to 'effing smithereens', according to a certain jobbernowled wizard, who also has the cruel temerity to accuse MacD of deliberately dousing him and destroying the crockery!

Lovely Lady Malfoy tells her cantankerous spouse to not be a drama queen, to which he replies, "Drama king, my Cissa," though Lady Malfoy does be having the right of it. 'Twas but a matter of moments before MacD did vanish the spilled coffee and unenthusiastically restore the cup to its previous (appalling) intact reptilian china state, though to hear ex-Lord Malfoy complain, he be near blinded by a few specks of the warm beverage splashing into his chilly grey deadlights.

The beautiful blonde enchantress Ruibby coolly bids MacD good morrow; she deigns to enquire after his visibly perforated digits, seemingly mistrustful of his hastily-fabricated excuse of an unanticipated encounter with a dicker of biting Doxies in the cellar.

"Doxies require a steady hand and even steadier reflexes," says she, likely obliquely referring to MacD's recent mishap with the Dread Snake Cup. "Ruibby must insist on accompanying Macdolas on any future Doxy-ridding expeditions." MacD struggles to stifle his elated grin at the prospect of spending more time with his precious sweetie pie (though his strong abhorrence of cobwebs and their arachnid occupants will dilute the romantic aspect of their cellar-bound party somewhat).

11.04AM

MacD's first attempt to deliver the roses fails, as the smellfungus* Kevyn accosts him whilst transporting the bouquet, insisting that the blossoms are destined to grace the dining table for the semi-familial Malfoy dinner this evening! MacD fights to keep possession of the flowers and stave off Kevyn's grabby mitts, causing Lady Malfoy to intervene in their high-pitched stoush; she orders temporary elfin separation and some peace and quiet "pour la amour de Merlin". MacD brings the roses back to his room to regroup.

*[another fine word learned in the library today, meaning an excessively fault-finding person].

3.16PM

MacD despairs of ever successfully supplying his posy of passion to the adorable apple of his eye! Every time he tries to sneak the bunch into her quarters, he be stymied by busybodies and meddlers. Ex-Lord Malfoy [spitefully] sends MacD on a fruitless mission [fool's errand] to hang multiple fake owl effigies from the Manor's eaves, though MacD stridently advises his ex-Lordship that the resident peacocks have long since grown accustomed to delivery owls and lost all fear of the flying messengers. "Macdolas," says he, "do I, or do I not, pay your salary?"

"You do not, Master ex-Lord Malfoy," replies MacD. "Master Lord Draco Malfoy provides renumeration, as befits his status as the current Malfoy nobleman."

Ex-Lord Malfoy growls something rudely incomprehensible in French before Her Lyrical Ladyship arrives and whisks him away. MacD dutifully hangs the silly owl statuettes, laughing when King Blizzard kicks them to bits from the rooftop.

5.35PM

MacD rejoices, for the roses hath been delivered at last! Darlingest Ruibby is yet busy in the kitchens; MacD is a-tremble with anticipation of her reaction to his gifts of the bounteous blooms, plus the double set of amethyst hair clips MacD commissions (the stones being a perfect match for her shrewd, sparkling violet eyes).

In an effort to occupy his frenetic mind, MacD wanders back to the library to research more archaic insults for the next time ex-Lord Malfoy compares him to the backside of a mule, only to come upon young Master Draco Malfoy completely absorbed in the pages of his old Hogwarts yearbooks. MacD does attempt to quietly withdraw from the abode, but Master Draco bids him come sit for a while.

"Macdolas, how goes your courtship of the fair – and fierce – Ruibby? Has she accepted your gifts this year, or will you be rescuing them from the rubbish bin once more?" he caustically asks, though he swiftly follows his sharpish query with an apology for MacD's sensitive feelings.

"I'm sorry, Macdolas… I too know how deeply unrequited love can cut." Young Master looks to his lap and carefully traces the outline of a photograph; MacD stealthily peers closer until he sees it depicts the Golden Trio standing before the decimated Hogwarts castle after the Battle, though Master Draco snaps shut the book before MacD can exactly discern which figure* drew his interest.

The Level-headed Lady Malfoy enters before MacD can tactfully coax more salient details from Master Draco. Her Lovely Ladyship exclaims at Master Draco's early arrival, wondering aloud why he does not have better plans for Valentine's Day than to join his mother for supper. Master Draco brazenly uses MacD as an excuse to escape his loving mother's gentle probing into his affairs of the heart, claiming MacD wishes a private audience to discuss his amatory troubles.

Before MacD can indignantly protest being reeled into Master Draco's tissue of lies, he is whisked upstairs to Master Draco's old quarters and teased about his love of writing limericks in honour of his sweetest Ruibby.

MacD should know better than to give in to Master Draco's assertations of sincere interest in his latest poetic masterpiece, but his modest ego does get the better of his good sense; he orates his special Valentine's Day verse for the Master's entertainment, complete with practised complementary gestures:

'A poem for my dearest Ruibby

Whose eyes are so very pretty

Her nose is quite long;

Each nostril, a song –

Macdolas is glad they're not zitty!'

Master Draco laughs so violently he falls off his bed and collapses on the floor. MacD tries to stalk off in high dudgeon, but Young Master stays his affronted exit with a hand to his shoulder.

"Macdolas, I apologize – but for the love of Snakes, I beg you to keep that poem under revision… May I suggest an alternative, one that is sure to soften the hairiest of elfin hearts?". He rummages in his bedside chest of drawers, unearthing a slim volume that falls open to a page bookmarked with a faded red ribbon. "Here," he offers.

'The Secret' by John Clare (1793-1864)

'I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.

And when I saw a stranger face
Where beauty held the claim,
I gave it like a secret grace
The being of thy name.

And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.'

Master Malfoy claims it does not signify that MacD has in fact repeatedly professed his profound love and admiration for his angelically splendid Ruibby; he urges MacD to transcribe the love poem onto a pretty card for his beloved.

MacD is willing to try anything once… and Master Draco is widely considered to be attractive and suave (for a human, anyway). MacD applies himself to Master's suggestion, post haste!

[*MacD whole-heartedly supports Master Draco if he pines for another Wizard; however, he does strenuously believe Young Master to be far superior to the likes of Mr Ronald Weasley].

9.11PM

ALL HOPE IS LOST. MacD witnesses his One True Love marching into the kitchen to distribute her red roses to the other staff – Ruibby goes so far as to give a perfect bud to Kevyn!

Master Draco finds MacD suffering from hay fever in the Zabelle salon and offers his handkerchief to stem the flow of irritant tears, reassuring MacD that his prepossessing Ruibby does not truly intend to crush his spirits and soul with her arctic responses, but mayhap she is simply yet to fully process her complex feelings… MacD remains unconvinced.

Master Draco says to concentrate on being the best elf MacD can ever be: not for the sake of his Ruibby, and not because anybody 'deserves' love; but because building good character is priceless, and its own reward.

MacD asks Master Draco if he believes he will ever find true love, to which Master brusquely replies, "Love isn't a dropped glove, Macdolas. I'm not going to open my door one day to miraculously find the woman of my dreams standing there." He barrels out of the salon after curtly bidding MacD goodnight.

MacD returns to his chambers to bathe his sore eyes before completing his final rounds of the Manor.

10.02PM

HOPE YET LIVES! MacD passes by the lesser scullery and spots his darlingest Ruibby carefully arranging a lone red rose in a slim crystal vase (from MacD's original bunch, as identified by the dried bloodstain on the lower petal)! She peruses MacD's painstakingly transcribed poem, bequeathing it a precious kiss before refolding and slipping it back into her copious apron pocket! Moreover, MacD's hard-working honeybunny wears the gifted amethyst hair clips beneath her coiled blonde braids – they winkle and glint in the tender lamplight that lovingly bathes her dove-soft face.

MacD must lay down quill and parchment, his happiness knows no bounds and verily itches to be expressed in interpretive dance!

10.10PM

Ex-Lord Malfoy cruelly cuts short MacD's exultant dance by coming to his door and threatening to use the gardening shears to cut off MacD's 'grotesque, hairy toes' if he does not cease 'stomping about heavily enough to wake the dead!'. MacD considers asking the deathly pale ex-Lord Malfoy if he speaks from personal experience of being roused from slumber in just such a fashion, but thinks better of displaying such acerbity in the midst of his ongoing Ruibby-based jubilation.

Though his dearest Ruibby still refuses to formally accept MacD's fervent suit, her tiny softening (much like a slab of good yellow butter put out to thaw on a sun-lit windowsill) makes his full heart sing with love, and renewed hope for the future.

MacD retires to bed, to dream of his blonde belle (after working on a few more of his singular romantic limericks).

Goodnight, MacD's kindred-soul and heart's desire: the exquisite, incomparable, stupendous Ruibby. Macdolas will forever be…

Your eternally enamoured elf.