Chapter 93

Saturday 05 April 2003: PM

The busy house elves bustling to and fro throughout the Manor and gardens pay Draco little heed as he heads for the party marquee. Whistling a cheery little tune, Draco is unsurprised to find Hermione exactly where he predicted she'd be… kneeling behind the hired music machinery, re-checking Bernard Granger's earlier set-up work. My darling little comptroller; this confirms she's feeling better, at least.

Watching her as she concentrates on consulting the diagrammatic manual, Draco smiles fondly as he remembers the homey joy of tucking her into bed beside him last night and reading aloud to her until she'd fallen asleep. She'd crankily complained that she was "still listening" the first couple of times he'd stopped speaking, but her obvious exhaustion had allowed him to gingerly slide the paperback aside and click off the lamp, on his third attempt to retire them for the night.

Upon waking this morning, he'd been vastly relieved to note the return of her regular condition of bright eyes and rosy complexion, as well as her usual dynamic energy and capacity for planning every last detail. He'd made them poached eggs on sourdough toast for breakfast, noting Hermione's revived appetite with great satisfaction, as she'd demolished all of her portion and cheekily gone after one of his browned, buttered slices. She must have been correct about simply being a little run-down… thank Salazar.

He now coughs softly so as not to startle her at her focused work. "I thought you said you didn't care about your father's efforts to set up the DJ machine, ma petite?" he gently teases, as Hermione sticks out her tongue to blow him a raspberry.

"Hey, smarty-pants – it's just as well I came down to check, Dad's somehow managed to plug the speaker jacks into the headphone outlets; buggered if I know how, they're colour-coordinated, for Godric's sake," she explains, holding up the red, yellow, and white tips to show him what she means. Her face lights up as she leans forward to stage-whisper, "Draco, I had the best idea yesterday: I'm going to coax, order, or just force Lucy into singing karaoke tonight– and I've thought of the ideal song choice, it's going to be so funny…!" she cackles uproariously.

The image of his patrician father belting out a Muggle pop song is indeed hilarious; Draco joins in her uninhibited laughter. "Hermione, if anyone can make Lucius Abraxas Malfoy belt out karaoke, it's you – but which song is it? Come on, you can tell me," he cajoles, running his head over her soft mahogany curls (currently tied back in a loose bun).

"Nuh-uh, you'll have to wait and see; well, wait and hear, I should say." Kneeling back on her haunches, she kisses his palm as he cups her cheek. "Does Narcissa need me for something, mon amour?".

"Not as far as I'm aware; she and your mother seem to have everything completely under control," Draco assures, crouching before her. "I missed my gorgeous girlfriend, that's all."

"We've been apart all of thirty minutes, you darling, romantic wizard. I shan't be much longer. We should start getting ready, the party officially begins in just over an hour. What about the Big Surprise: is that all settled, do you know?" Hermione queries, sounding a little anxious.

"Mother seems to think so; and if she says it's going to happen, it will happen. I do hope the happy shock doesn't kill the rascally little imp, Granger." Draco is only half-jesting.

"He'll be fine! But… I might look up a few heart-starter spells, just to be on the safe side," Hermione thoughtfully concedes. "Have you seen Dad? I want to explain how this works, his over-confidence is likely to start a small fire."

"I caught sight of him and Father slinking down the side path a few minutes ago, they had Kevyn with them – and they were carrying some of those big water toys, what do you call them...? Super Sprayers? Kevyn didn't look thrilled to be there, I hope they aren't getting up to any mischief– Merde! The peacocks!". Draco jumps up, already panicked about the potential for disaster.

"The peacocks? Super Soakers? Oh– no!" Hermione swiftly grasps the likely implications, rising as well. "Quick, I'll come with you."

"No, I can handle this, darling." (I hope). "Please finish up here, I'll meet you upstairs in our suite once I've sorted out Tweedledum and Tweedledumber." Draco kisses her pretty mouth, forcing himself to keep the embrace short and sweet. "Hopefully, they haven't had enough time to do anything irreversibly stupid."

"Malfoy, you have met my dad, right? Bernard 'Pandemonium' Granger?" Hermione chuffs a long-suffering sigh. "I still can't believe how quickly our fathers went from sniping insults and threats at one another, to becoming the weirdest besties since Donkey and Shrek… never mind, I'll explain later. Promise you'll be careful?".

"I'll be as cautious as a fox, I swear." Draco squeezes her delectable bum through her faded old jeans. OK – one more kiss, to fortify me against whatever fresh hell awaits.

Once their loving smooch is over, he dashes through the garden, toward the conservatory.

"Father? Bernard? Kevyn, are you about?" Draco shouts, his graphite eyes rapidly scanning the grounds. A slight scuffling noise directs his gaze upward, to the tiled rooftops. Oh, hell no.

Lucius and Barney are standing precariously atop the very highest sector of the sloping roof, enthusiastically firing the contents of two brightly-coloured plastic water rifles in the direction of the ostentation of highly-unimpressed peacocks huddled in the corner. Poor Kevyn is plastered flat against the ridge, eyes scrunched closed as he emits a low, terrified whine.

Just as Draco opens his mouth to scream at the fools to stop, King Blizzard stalks forward, fanning out his spectacular, quivering, snowy tail feathers. Lucius fiercely pumps his plastic firearm, discarding it in disgust when he realizes it no longer holds any water.

"Fils de pute! Barney, I'm out– cover me!" he screeches, as King Blizzard menacingly advances.

Bernard dutifully charges closer, shooting a stream of water at the angry fowl until his own gun is empty. "Kevyn, we need more ammo, stat!" he shouts.

"Get down from there, at once!" Draco yells, alarm tingeing his furious tone. "Leave Kevyn be, he's deathly afraid of heights – just look at the petrified bugger!". Kevyn's frightened whine increases to a howl.

Lucius wheels about, shoes slipping on the beshitted surface. "Draco– get up here, son! We need reinforcements, we're under attack!".

A loud thump sounds as Bernard missteps, falling down face first. "Luce, I'm going down!" he screams, unsuccessfully scrabbling at the slick tiles for purchase as he inexorably slides closer to the steep, slippery verge. "Tell Jane I love her – and that I battled bravely up to the end!".

Bloody foolhardy morons!

Apparating to the ridge, Draco grabs ahold of Bernard, then stretches to gather up Kevyn. "Father, do not move – I'll come back for you," he warns, before Disapparating back to the lawn below. He is deeply displeased when he sees Lucius unsteadily reaching for the abandoned Super Soakers, when he returns.

"Leave it!" Draco snarls, none-too-gently wrapping his hand around Lucius's arm. I feel like gripping him by the scruff of his fool neck. Mother is going to serve up his bollocks on brioche for this exceptionally ill-considered, perilous stunt.

His furious thoughts must mirror in his eyes once they've landed, causing Lucius to bleat, "Draco, my dear boy; your mother needn't hear of this minor mishap… I know you're loath to upset her, considering how joyfully she's been anticipating this party…"

"Save it: I'm considering Petrifying and locking up both of you in the attic, until the party's over, truly," Draco clips. "You could have broken your necks – wouldn't that be a lovely start to the celebration?! Whose idea was it, anyway?".

Hanging their heads in identical attitudes of sheepish shame, neither man speaks beyond an unintelligible mumble. Lucius makes a half-hearted stab at defending their rash actions.

"You don't understand, Draco – that wretched bird has mocked me for years! And it was working – we had the upper hand… well, for a singular wondrous moment, at least."

"Lucy's right, Draco: that big white bastard is arrogance personified, and we would have had him routed, if we'd been a bit more prepared," Bernard imprudently argues. "Er – what d'you say, we just keep this between the four of us, eh? My sugarpuss might not have the most positive reaction to hearing about what just occurred… she's banned me from cleaning our own gutters, there was a teensy mishap with the ladder a few years back, you see," he whispers to Lucius. "I could have sworn it was locked into position… you live and learn, right?".

"You clear your own guttering?" queries an astounded Lucius. "With your hands?".

"With gardening gloves, and there's this marvellous tool you can buy from the hardware shop–"

"Enough!" bellows Draco. "I'll grant you both a night's grace before I inform our womenfolk of your dangerous folly; but only on the proviso you both swear an oath to never again attempt to oust the peacocks, or climb onto the roof – or drag any of the staff into your dipshit schemes."

He focuses on the distressed elfin butler beside him. "It's alright, Kevyn; I'll take you inside for a hot cup of chocolate, for the shock. Do you need to see a Healer?". He solicitously pats the shivering elf's back.

"Nay, Master Malfoy – Kevyn did attempt to convey his discomfort with high places, before ex-Master Malfoy insisted Kevyn Apparate them to the rooftop… Kevyn is ashamed for freezing in fear," he chokily replies. "The dishonour!".

"You've nothing to be ashamed of, Kevyn, believe me. Lucius and Bernard owe you an apology, for coercing you into Apparating them onto the roof – and for blithely ignoring your acrophobia, it was very badly done of them." Draco glares at the rash pair.

"Sorry, Kevyn," they mumble as one.

Draco gestures irritably toward the side door. "Go bathe and change into your costumes, you look like chimney sweeps. I'll help Kevyn – and do you agree to honour my decree about staying out of trouble? Verbal confirmation, or I'm informing your wives… and Hermione."

Blenching, Bernard quickly shouts his assent. Lucius screws up his face peevishly, but also states his acceptance of the deal. Just before they shuffle off, King Blizzard screams a triumphant clarion call from above, rustling his feathers again in the classic 'train rattle' alpha peacock behaviour.

"Not a word, gentlemen," Draco warns. He places a steadying hand on the new elvish butler's spindly shoulder.

"Come, Kevyn; let's get you inside, champ."

Jane holds Hermione's head perfectly straight as Narcissa adds the final exquisite pearl hairpin to Hermione's upswept chestnut curls.

"Mum, I'm not five years old anymore – I can be trusted not to squirm," Hermione protests, even as she wriggles in an vain effort to glimpse her reflection in the gilded full-length mirror. Narcissa steps back, effectively blocking her view.

"Darling, we simply want you to ensure you absolutely knock off Draco's socks tonight… or should that be, stockings?" Jane laughingly muses. "Oh, Hermione! You look so beautiful, daughter o'mine." Jane hurriedly dabs a tissue to her eyes.

"Don't, Mum; you know I'll start crying, too," Hermione husks. "Thank you – both of you – for helping me get ready. You look amazing… Dad and Lucy are going to be totally wowed, you know."

Narcissa plucks at the sea-green silk of her knee-length tunic, coyly asking, "I'm yet uncertain about the hemline… is it a little short, do you think?".

"Not at all, Cissy: Artemis was the Goddess of the Hunt, wasn't she? Besides, Hermione's right – Lucius won't be able to keep his eyes off your shapely pins," Jane reassures her.

"Well, Bernard will be thoroughly bamboozled by the sight of you wearing that gorgeous gold robe, Jane. That crown is exactly right for Athena, so I shan't countenance another objection from you about accepting the loan, dear. Oh, it's so wonderful to be hosting a party for our friends and family again! The last five years…" Narcissa shakes her head and pins a determined smile to her flawless face. "This will be such a fabulous night, ladies. Now, do we have all our props at the ready?".

Jane crumples the tissue in her hand as she moves to gently hug her new friend. "I'm sorry you've been so lonely here, Cissy. My only regret about our friendship is that it didn't form sooner; but perhaps we're all just where we should be, at this point in time." She grabs another tissue for Narcissa.

"Now, shall we go downstairs and see which ludicrous costumes our men have selected? Not Draco, I know his costume matches yours, Hermione… but twenty odd years of marriage to Barney has taught me that anything he insists upon developing in secret is bound to be 'interesting', at the very least," sighs Jane.

"Lucius has been breaking into sniggers whenever I ask him what he intends to wear, too," Narcissa informs. "I'm pleased our husbands are getting along so well, but I admit to apprehension as to their gleeful attempts to outdo one another."

"Draco has struck some kind of deal with them, to ensure they'll be on their best behaviour tonight," Hermione pipes up. "He said he possesses some valuable leverage, and that he'll tell us more at breakfast tomorrow." She shuffles to the side to look in the mirror, gasping at the result of over an hour's primping and preening.

I can't believe that's really me… She touches a gloved digit to her artfully styled curls for a mere second before Jane and Narcissa act in unison to slap it away. "Ow! Steady on, I was just checking that's really me under there," she grumbles. "Tyrants."

"Loving tyrants," Jane amends. "Ready?". She clasps Hermione's right arm, while Narcissa holds the left.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Narcissa beams. "To the entrance hall!".

Draco paces at the bottom of the grand staircase, unaware that he is hampering the passageway of the staff until Mizrabel meaningfully clears her throat behind him.

"If Master Malfoy would please be so kind as to vacate the concourse?" she tersely requests, skilfully whisking a tray of scrumptious-smelling hors d'oeuvres out of danger of imminent collision. Not awaiting his quick apology, the elfin housekeeper spins to direct a few harried underservants back to the kitchen.

Scratching his head, Draco decides the safest place for him is tucked beside the left newel post. The Manor hasn't looked this busy or bright in years, he reflects, gazing in wonderment at the profusion of (primarily red and pink) flowers, ribbons, and festive signage. Outside, the gaming section of the party marquee is also sporting a thick ceiling covering of shiny red and gold latex balloons (which he now knows are biodegradable, as per Hermione's orders).

This is definitely going to be one hell of a party… I never would have guessed how radically all our lives would change when I opened the door to find my beloved Hermione collapsed against it – was it truly only seven weeks ago today? Impossible – we've lived a whole other lifetime in under two months!

"Ahem!" His mother's lyrical voice chimes, snapping him from his joyous musings. Looking up, Draco is immediately arrested by the utterly beauteous vision of Hermione Jean Granger as she shyly poses on the closest landing. Narcissa and Jane move slightly to either side, doubtless to provide him with the best possible view of his incomparably beautiful girlfriend.

Though he'd known the premise of her costume (given that she'd chosen and ordered both their attire weeks ago), Draco is unprepared for the depth of his discombobulation at how glorious she appears, dressed as Miss Elizabeth Bennett to his Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. The satin Regency gown's bodice snugly hugs her full breasts, dropping away to hint at the sweet curves of her waist and hips and flowing to the tips of her dancing slippers. The warmly-lit great room showcases the dress's unusual colour: soft cream, with just the faintest suggestion of blush-pink, like the heart petals of a pale winter rose. The sheen of the pearls scattered artfully throughout her lush hair compete with the glow of Hermione's bright, happy eyes as she gazes silently at his dumbstruck face.

"Parle, fils," Narcissa encourages, sharing a satisfied glance with Jane.

His mother's benevolent command breaks his inertia. With his eyes transfixed on Hermione's lovely face, Draco rushes up the steps that separate them until they are at eye level. The tightness in his chest and throat is unrelated to his form-fitting dark waistcoat and snowy linen cravat as he makes a formal bow to his beloved.

"Good evening, Miss Granger; your loveliness leaves me at a loss for words, though I am gladdened to have gathered my beleaguered wits enough to tell you I have never clapped eyes upon a more beautiful woman – not in life, nor in art," Draco earnestly proclaims. "May I have the honour of your company this evening?" he quietly asks, bending over her gloved hand as she demurely curtsies.

"My dance card is not yet filled, Mr Malfoy," Hermione murmurs, waiting until he has released her fingers before digging into her 'reticule' (her enchanted Extendable beaded bag, of course) to produce an elegant card with a small pencil attached by a thin string.

Draco rapidly inscribes the entire card with his initials, before smugly handing it back. "There: now I have claimed every dance, and I reserve the right to escort you to dinner, and to provide you with any refreshments that you desire, Miss Granger."

"You are uncommonly bold, sir; I reserve the right to cry off your complete arrogation of my time and person if you think to take any liberties," Hermione exaggeratedly sniffs, her expression alight with spirited humour. "Though it may not quite proper of me to remark upon it, you do cut a fine figure tonight, Mr Malfoy; the very Pink of the Ton, I believe."

Draco bows again, sensing the tips of his ears pinkening. He ignores the approving titters and applause from their mothers as he offers Hermione his arm.

"I believe we have been allotted the estimable task of greeting our guests as they exit the Floo, Miss Granger. Shall we?".

Nodding once, Hermione primly lays her hand upon the sleeve of his double-breasted black woollen tailcoat. Gathering the long skirt of her gown, she leans her head to whisper, "Draco… I wouldn't unduly protest if you do take a few improprieties later, provided you do so discreetly. Perhaps we could play 'Hunt the Squirrel'? Seeing you in all your Darcy-esque glory has left me feeling decidedly corky, mon coeur."

Thank Merlin for the baggy falls on my knee breeches. Draco nearly misses a step in their descent as he rapidly calculates the possibilities for licentious mischief. "Hermione… you are far too tempting an armful, ma petite. But – if I may risk being indelicate – what of your courses?" he murmurs into her ear.

"Lawks! I thank you for your solicitousness; they have not yet arrived, good sir. Pray, do not raise a breeze about it, I am in excellent health." Hermione carefully tosses her head; it is clear she is thoroughly enjoying their wordplay.

Laying his other hand over hers, Draco slyly winks. "As am I, my lady." He guides her to stand beside the Floo, momentarily abandoning his 'Darcy' persona to nibble gently on the alluring expanse of her slender neck.

"Mmmm… Draco, you'd better desist, our mothers are right behind us," Hermione mumbles, contradicting herself by tilting her head and gesturing to the deliciously sensitive spot behind her earlobe.

"Mind your manners, Blondie!" Bernard Granger's sonorous voice rings out, making both of them jump. Before they have turned to face him, Draco hears Jane and Narcissa gasp.

That cannot bode well. Draco spins on his heel, instantly comprehending why both women are aghast. Hermione echoes their mothers' consternation with an audible gulp of her own when she turns around.

On their left, Barney is advancing with a supercilious sneer wreathed across his newly clean-shaven face, while Lucius is strutting in from the right… Draco blinks furiously as his brain struggles to make sense of what his eyes are transmitting.

Bernard is dressed as Lucius: elaborate black three piece suit, charcoal half-cape, dragon leather boots, shoulder-length platinum wig, twirling a replica of the infamous silver snake-handled cane, with his nose stuck up as high in the air as it can angle.

Lucius is costumed as Bernard: pristine white button-necked dentist's coat, surgical gloves, shiny black loafers, thick reddish-brown wig, and matching faux moustache and beard; a huge, doltish grin stretches his mouth.

Despite his shock, Draco relishes the darkly humorous moment when the men realize they have played an identical trick on each other. Gaping and apparently struck speechless, they move as mirror images to point their forefingers as though they're duelling in the Wild West, twitching in a tight, uneasy circle.

Narcissa speaks first. "Are we seriously to believe you both dreamed up this… atrocity, independently of one another? Really?".

"Cissy, I think this is either a terrible case of 'hive mind' – or a single shared braincell," Jane faintly contributes her opinion. The two friends clutch hands for mutual support.

Hermione cups her hands over her eyes. "Malfoy – please, please tell me one of those stuffed portobello mushroom appetizers I snuck earlier was actually a hallucinogenic fungus, I beg you," she groans.

"Would that I could, Granger," Draco replies, gently prising her hands from her face. "Best to process it quickly and ignore them the rest of the evening, I think."

Barney is the first to regain the power of speech. "Lucy, you sly dog – have you been spying on me?! Did you send one of your ruddy owls to sniff around the house, or something? Or to intercept my package from Madame Malkin's?" he demands.

"Of course not, you lummox – and if you'd done your homework, Barn, you'd know that my suits and robes are tailored by Dege & Hackett," Lucius scorns. "You've clearly stolen and duplicated my sterling idea – did you bribe Kevyn for the scoop? How very dare you!?".

"Hey, leave poor Kevyn alone – he had no part in this lunacy," Draco defends the hassled elf. "I think you're both going to have to concede that you're far too similar for your own good, gentlemen," he tries to pacify, before their quick tempers flare further.

"Hmmm… I suppose it is possible; though I maintain I should certainly win the Best Costume Prize. My attention to detail is superb, unlike Barn Door's sloppy facsimile." Lucius crosses his arms. "Madame Malkin's, indeed."

"What crapola, Lucille: any dentist worth their resin composites knows to wear a mask along with the gloves," Barney retorts. "And you could have run a comb through that wig; I take pride in my personal grooming, you chump."

"The mask is in the pocket, stupide," Lucy reaches in to dangle it from his lean fingers. "Speaking of hair, that nasty, brassy blond wig is an utter disgrace – my hair is far more lustrous."

Bernard fluffs crossly at his silver hairpiece. "Well, I asked for the finest show pony style they had in stock – et voila!" he crows.

"Dad, stop it, please," Hermione commands, holding up an admonishing gloved finger. "Both of you need to remember that tonight is about celebrating Macdolas, not scoring cheap points in your bizarre game of one-upmanship."

"Hermione's correct, Lucius: another sharp word from you, and I'll ask Mizrabel to see you to your study for the rest of the night," Narcissa sternly decrees. "Yes, I will not hesitate to lock you – and you, Bernard – inside for the duration of the party, if you insist on behaving like recalcitrant toddlers."

Lucius sullenly responds, "Very well, Cissa, ma chérie impitoyable. I shall behave impeccably."

"Alright, Little Wendy – you have my word," Bernard agrees, sharing a look of outraged sulkiness with his lookalike.

Jane gingerly walks closer to Bernard, peering at him as though he's a newly discovered zoo specimen. "Barney, I love you dearly – but please, never do this again," she fervently implores.

"Seconded," Narcissa raises an imperious blonde eyebrow at her own spouse.

Draco almost yelps in relief when the Floo begins to reverberate. "Excellent: our guests are arriving." He and Hermione quick-step nearer the huge hearth, in an effort to distance themselves from their fatheaded fathers.

"Well, at least it's rarely boring here, Draco," Hermione smiles as she squeezes his hand in affectionate support. "Ready to kick up a lark, Mr Malfoy?".

"Most assuredly, Miss Granger."

Hermione's keen eyes expeditiously scrutinize the milling crowd as she and Draco welcome the last of the party attendees… well, except for Ruibby and the birthday boy, of course.

Minerva McGonagall bequeaths a tight, grateful smile as Draco gently chivvies the small group of extremely excited Hogwarts elves toward the other professors. Leaning toward Hermione, Minerva declares, "I'm certain that the selection of the collective noun of 'mischief' for elves was not a humorous coincidence; I'd have had more success herding cats. And to think, there are more coming later! Thank goodness Ruibby decided they'd best arrive in staggered shifts, or I'd have cried off altogether."

"We're very glad you're here, Minerva," Hermione lightly kisses the Headmistress's cool cheek.

McGonagall returns the embrace before looking about with some amusement. "My, what a diverse, joyful group! You've worked wonders here, Hermione," she approvingly pats the younger witch's arm.

"Well, it was mostly Narcissa and Mum who arranged everything," Hermione demurs.

"I wasn't only referring to the party, my dear." Minerva's gaze lingers on Draco; she softly laughs as Hermione reddens. "You know, I did used to suspect… never mind. You're a beautiful, inspiring couple, and we're fabulously fortunate to be a part of your lives."

Gulping past the lump in her throat, Hermione stammers, "T-Thank you – we're so grateful to have been given the chance to live our dreams, at Hogwarts– oh hell, I'm going to start blubbing, at this rate." She gropes for the top hankie she'd earlier stuffed into her bag.

"I am positive we shall all be sobbing felicitous tears at some point this evening. All is well, dear," Minerva smiles.

Blotting her eyes, Hermione regards the throng before her, her happiness surging as she catalogues their animated group of friends and family.

Minerva is attired in wine-red flowing robes, sporting an alarmingly realistic 'Medusa' head of hissing snakes, whose golden eyes slit whenever a male comes near.

Luna, aka Queen Mab (Monarch of the Fairies) is resplendent in a simmering, gauzy nymph-green slip embroidered with birds, bugs, and plants, wearing a vine wood crown and gossamer-fine wings.

Hagrid is 'Little John' from the legend of Robin Hood, wearing a huge leather jerkin over a coarse brown tunic, carrying a thick wooden staff; his hair and beard are as shaggily wild as ever. Fang and Crooky sit beside him, lopsided red bows tied around their necks.

Neville is clothed in a head-to-knee bright purple, puffy 'bunch of grapes' costume that had unfortunately become a little squashed in transit; Hermione grins as she watches her mother fuss over the quiet Gryffindor, helping him to un-pop each flattened grape, like the reverse of Muggle bubble-wrap.

Theo is a Byronic Dracula, flashing his pointed fangs occasionally as he chats with Narcissa and Lucius. Wirey is his antagonist sidekick: a miniature Van Helsing, swathed in a thick brown cape that he has so far refused to take off, despite visibly sweating.

Viktor and Ginny are adorably costumed as Cupid and Psyche, though Viktor's ornamental bow and arrow appear absurdly small in his huge mitts. Ginny's dazzling ivory toga showcases her loose auburn locks; she reassuringly strokes Viktor's largely-exposed brawny chest as he fiddles with his own cross-strapped toga in a fruitless attempt to gain more coverage.

Blaise is magnificent in a monarch-orange Italian Renaissance prince's outfit (including golden suede boots) as he delightedly squires around his hooded 'bodyguard' Gussie. Her head is nearly wholly obscured by the black cowl of her long trench coat. Snug jet pants and knee-high boots complete her ensemble.

Tavi fairly glows as she skips in place between her sister and Gelsomina (who has chosen a charming traditional 'Tarantella' garb: white peasant blouse, laced black vest, and layered red skirts with blue, yellow, and green horizontal ribbons decorating the lower hem). Tavi had proudly announced that her ornate blue and gold, pouffe-sleeved gown represents "Princess Anna Margherita Carlotta Teresa Canalis de Tingoli – or Anna-Maria, for short". She is fairly dripping in gold jewellery; even her thick spectacles have been cunningly embellished with fine gold wire, to match the child-sized tiara perched atop her flossy blonde braid.

Mrs Green is the most simply dressed of the quintet, in a plain black and white long dress, her grey head covered in a netted snood. She'd lightly elbowed Blaise as she'd explained she was "the governess", making the rest of the group chortle, including a slightly shamefaced Blaise.

Finally, Hermione's admiring gaze settles upon Harry and Pansy – or rather, Buccaneer One and Buccaneer Two. Apart from the wonky eye-patch obscuring his eyebrow instead of his glasses, Harry looks as dashing as Blackbeard himself, while Pansy is a regular Anne Bonny. They both wear bandannas, soft boots, dark blousy shirts and tight leather pants, though Pansy has topped hers with a vertically-striped red and black skirt. Hermione is relieved to see their 'cutlasses' are made of rubber, though.

Frowning to herself, she muses over Harry's whispered request to speak with her later. Her old friend had infinitesimally inclined his head in Pansy's direction, and his beryl eyes had been distinctly troubled. Whatever the problem is, Harry is both perturbed, and quietly angry about it, Hermione judges.

Her attention is diverted by the Floo's low rumble; calling for absolute silence, Hermione grins as the entire room seems to hold their breath.

As pre-arranged, Ruibby steers a blind-folded Macdolas out of the fireplace. "Just a few more paces, darlingest Macdolas – and please wait before opening the eyes." She waits for Hermione's thumbs-up gesture before untying the scarf covering her elven boyfriend's upper face.

Hermione raises both hands, silently mouthing the countdown. Three… two… one…

"SURPRISE!" The exuberant roar of the assembled throng is near-deafening. Macdolas's celery-green eyes fly open, though the rest of his diminutive body freezes in arrant shock. His astounded peepers continue to enlarge, until Hermione is actually nervous they might fall from their sockets.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAC!" the vibrant, merry crowd segues into their next congratulatory cheer; Narcissa waves her wand to unroll the giant banner hooked from the ceiling, repeating the cheery message in print. Confetti cannons boom, showering Macdolas and Ruibby in a colourful mini snowstorm, while Kevyn toots 'Happy Birthday to You' on a shiny brass trumpet. Everyone begins to lustily sing along to the familiar tune.

Draco tut-tuts as he rests his hands on Hermione's hips, leaning from behind to murmur, "Dear me, Granger… your surprise party appears to have ruined a perfectly good elf, darling. Look at him, he's about to short-circuit at any moment."

"Don't be silly, Mac will be fine," Hermione stoutly rejoins. "There's no need to hit me with the 'I-told-you-so' smuggery yet, Malfoy." She nibbles at her lip and crosses her fingers, hoping Macdolas will soon snap out of his sudden paralysis.

Birthday song over, the mob starts to sense something is amiss. Hermione is just about to move to Mac's side when the overwhelmed wee man shivers and gasps.

"All this… all this love… is for… Macdolas?" he grips tightly to Ruibby's hand, moisture pooling in his goggling green eyes. "Tru– truly?".

"For our dearest Macdolas, yes," Ruibby nods through her tears. "Happy birthday, mon chéri, mon unique amour, tout ce que j'ai."

Wrapped in Ruibby's loving arms, Macdolas's whole form shakes as he weeps out his joy. Hermione isn't surprised to hear Draco choking back his own tears as he hugs her close. Loud sniffles and sympathetic bawls echo throughout the grand hall.

Before the entire congregation devolves into a crying circus, Kevyn launches into a trumpeted rendition of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow'. The canny elves soon belt out the ditty, waving their hands to urge others to join in.

"…Which nobody can deny!" Hermione carols, letting the tears flow down her face. One by one, the guests come forward to wish Macdolas many happy returns, bestowing hugs and dampish kisses. Although he still appears somewhat overcome with rapturous emotion, Mac is recovering nicely and able to talk with a reasonable degree of coherence.

"Hermione, you just made that cheeky little scamp the happiest elf in the world, ma petite," Draco smiles down at her, tenderly using his own silk handkerchief to dry her face. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"No, Draco – we made this happen," Hermione corrects. "Thank you, mon âme."

"You're wonderful, sweetheart. Let's get this party properly started, yes?".

Straightening her shoulders, Hermione vigorously nods.

"Absolutely!".

French translations:

Fils de pute! – Son of a bitch!

Parle, fils – Speak, son

stupide – dickhead

ma chérie impitoyable – my ruthless darling

mon chéri, mon unique amour, tout ce que j'ai – my darling, my one true love, my everything.