Chapter 96

Saturday 05 April 2003: PM

Pansy stands up at the table to cast a quick 'Muffliato'; although Harry and co are well out of hearing range (sequestered on the other side of the chamber, sampling the lush desserts), it's best to be thorough.

Back in her chair, she steadily regards each of her fellow witches in turn. "OK, I've guaranteed we won't be disturbed. Has anyone else noticed anything strange about Hermione, tonight?".

The glittery wings on Luna's costume flutter as she shrugs her petite shoulders. "Do you mean her pregnancy, Pansy? It's certainly the most logical explanation for her radiant bloom and prodigious appetite. Based on her symptoms, I estimate she's approximately four or five weeks enceinte; but of course, I'm merely making an educated guess."

Trust Luna to already have the issue comprehensively figured out! Pansy chuckles as she notes Gus's gobsmacked expression.

Ginny is beaming as she leans forward and delightedly slaps the tabletop. "By Aphrodite– I thought she had a certain special glow! I wasn't sure, I didn't want to say anything unless Hermione did… but yeah, I saw her positively savaging that huge leg of marmalade-and-ginger glazed ham at supper, now that you mention it. Are they keeping 'mum' about it until they announce their engagement, Pansy?".

"Hermione's pregnant? But– she and Draco have only been dating for a couple of months… haven't they?" Gus adds, in a stunned tone.

Thrusting up her palms in a 'slow down' gesture, Pansy urgently replies, "Listen – I don't think either Hermione or Draco have taken into account the possibility that she's preggers! Well, not consciously, anyhow. I tried to subtly broach the subject earlier, but Hermione shut me down every time. That's why I called this meeting. As far as I know, they're not engaged yet, either. I doubt Draco would be keeping that quiet, much less Hermione."

"Pregnant…" whispers a disbelieving Gus. "But… surely they'd be vigilant about casting the contraceptive charms? I mean, come on – this is Hermione Granger we're talking about! 'The Brightest Witch', yeah?".

Shaking her head pityingly, Pansy puts a consoling hand on Gus's arm. "True, but they're soul-bonded, Gus; not to mention, they can't keep their sweaty little hands off one another… including tonight. I saw them slinking outside not ten minutes ago, the raunchy Regency rabbits."

Luna chips in. "Gus, are you worried about accidentally conceiving a child with Blaise? I'd recommend using Muggle contraceptives as well as the Charms, just to be on the safe side." Her sky-blue eyes are filled with sympathy.

"We're– we're not– I mean, not yet– we've, uh…" Gus stutters. "Bloody hell, don't all stare over at him!".

Of course they ignore her, swivelling in their seats just as Blaise polishes off his last spoonful of hazelnut gelato. He must sense their combined gaze, though his industrious tongue doesn't stop licking clean his cutlery with slow, deliberate strokes. His attention is wholly focused on Gus as he looks at her from beneath his thick, dark lashes, the corners of his full mouth tipped up slightly. Once the dessert spoon is clean, he swipes the tip of his tongue over the last droplet of ice cream on his upper lip, keeping his mouth parted for a few intense heartbeats.

Ginny is the first to comment on the raw sensuality zinging between the Slytherclaw pair.

"Gus, please don't take this the wrong way… but damn, woman – that was hot." Awe tinges her voice. "What's that busy tongue feel like in the flesh… so to speak?". Cackles of feminine laughter erupt around their table.

"Freaking amazing," Gus mumbles in reply. "That's all I'm going to say about it– and eyes up, that's my boyfriend," she mock-warns. "Luna, thank you for the advice."

"You're most welcome, Gus."

Deciding they've wandered too far off track, Pansy reminds, "So… who's going to have a quiet word with Hermione? I think we should vote on it: everyone in favour of Luna acting as our envoy, raise your hands."

Three arms rapidly shoot upward, causing Luna to gently frown. "This feels like a flagrant abuse of democracy, Pansy. Why do I have to speak with Hermione about it? She's bound to mention it herself, sooner or later."

"Knowing Pollyanna and her singular capacity for not acknowledging what's right beneath her nose, 'sooner' could potentially be nine or so months away, Luna," Pansy cajoles. "You don't want our dear friend to be blaming her labour pains on constipation, do you? And she's less likely to bite off your sweet head than ours, darling."

Ginny adds her support. "Plus, if you invite Hermione to a casual morning tea at Hogwarts, you'll be well positioned to help her deal with her inevitable shock, and to decide how she's going to tell Draco. Assuming he hasn't already guessed, that is."

"No, I think he's still clueless, too." Pansy rolls her eyes. "I considered asking Harry to have a similar conversation with the boys… but I think it's only right that Hermione be the first to discuss the situation with Draco. Harry's not specifically referred to it yet, but he commented on her heightened emotional state earlier, too."

Before Luna can again protest, Pansy steamrolls, "Righto, Luna is our rep, agreed? Excellent." She fist-bumps the other three witches, grinning as Luna is the last to reluctantly perform the gesture. "Thanks, Luna."

Accepting her assigned role with good grace, Luna's usual dreamily benevolent smile returns… though perhaps with a trace of smugness. "I'll forgive your high-handedness as it's for a good cause, Pansy; and because this primary Granger-Malfoy pregnancy is a beautiful thing… as is karma."

Eh… that's worrying. No, no, I'm being silly – Harry and I don't share a soul bond, for one thing… and Luna doesn't have a vengeful bone in her body. I shan't give any credence to that knowing look she's wearing. Pansy crosses her fingers. Just in case.

Absentmindedly listening with half an ear to her friends' animated, joyous discussion of Hermione's pregnancy, Pansy contemplates sharing her newly-discovered feelings for Harry, before rapidly rejecting the idea. Her confession to Hermione had been spontaneous, and blathering on that she is in madly love with the bloke would be both indiscreet and insensitive, given that his long-term ex-girlfriend is present. Not that she is concerned that Ginny would be jealous or upset, or anything but quietly supportive… but it still wouldn't be right. Or well-timed, as there is no way she wishes to detract from their communal joy in Hermione and Draco's pregnancy.

Besides… I'd like a little time to simply savour the sheer wondrousness of this feeling… and to find the courage to tell my gorgeous boyfriend. Well, if I tell him. No, when I tell him… Oh, crap.

This relationship business is a damned sight harder than it looks.

The path to the conservatory is not particularly well-lit; Draco shamelessly uses the excuse of 'minding their footing' a few times to pause Hermione's headlong dash outside, drawing her back into his arms to avidly kiss and caress her. Their panting breaths mist the chill air of the spring evening as their hands roam over one another's bodies in the near-darkness. The loud music emanating from the party marquee dials down to a background hum; all Draco can hear is Hermione's encouraging moans and the blood thrumming strongly throughout his passion-dazed brain.

"Do you– do you think anyone– oh, Draco!– n-noticed us leaving?" Hermione mutters against his mouth. Her breasts test the limits of her tight, low bodice as she assiduously presses them against his half-unbuttoned waistcoat.

Not more than half the room, he reckons, wisely choosing not to repeat the estimate. "Hermione… do you truly care? You've already ruined my chaste reputation, Miss Granger." He feels her smile against his jawline, before she suckles the ultra-sensitive spot just beneath his ear. "Sweetheart… please, please don't stop…"

Naturally, his contrary lioness ceases her ministrations. Pulling away just far enough to look up into his eyes, she coos, "Compromised you, have I, Mr Malfoy? Not yet, I haven't." She boldly palms his hardness, managing to undo three of the buttons of his falls before he stays her hand.

"Ma petite– not here– the conservatory–" he chokes.

"Mmmm, I suppose you have a point; it would be 'shockingly loose in the haft' to be caught 'giving a girl a green gown'," Hermione gleefully shows off her extensive knowledge of early 1800s vulgarities. "Hurry, Draco – I'm burning up for you, mon coeur." She tows him back onto the stone path, her other hand holding up her satin gown's hem to avoid tripping.

When they reach the conservatory, Hermione impatiently reefs open the door; Draco accidentally bumps into her back as she freezes upon the threshold. He catches a brief glimpse of a peculiar, amorphous dark shape near the long dining table, before she swings around and shuts the door with a soft clack.

"Go back, and don't ask– I beg you, please don't ask– " she babbles, trying to steer him away.

Even in the dim light, he can discern that her eyes are wide and goggling. His momentary concern that something rotten is afoot is assuaged by her involuntary, horrified giggle.

"Another couple already snuck in there, didn't they? Hermione?" he prompts. A suspicion as to which pair is currently in engaged in flagrante delicto creeps into his brain. "Oh, hell no… It's Macdolas and Ruibby, isn't it?! Opportunistic, furtive, ribald little blighters!".

Her laughter only partially muffled by her hand, Hermione nods. "Draco, you can't pass judgement on them; after all, we were about to do exactly the same thing– no, not exactly… I don't know how they managed that angle, to be perfectly honest–"

"Enough– enough! You were correct, I shouldn't have asked…!" Draco groans, though her mirth is infectious.

"Shhh – they'll hear us!".

"Not bloody likely – I can hear them now, actually." Amorous squeaks and grunts are leaking through the closed door. "Do you trust me to Side-Apparate you to my old suite, darling?" Draco quickly asks, doing his utmost to disregard the confronting sounds of elfin copulation.

"I trust you wholly." Hermione instantly wraps her arms around him. "Whenever you're ready, Draco."

With a crack and a whoosh (and an overweening sense of relief), Draco Apparates them to his Manor bedroom.

Exhaling sharply, Hermione keeps her eyes closed for another few seconds, only opening them once Draco has activated the lamps on either side of the huge antique four poster bed at the centre of his old room.

I've never enjoyed the disorienting effect of Side-Apparation, but I would have thought I'd at least have gotten used to it, by now. I feel woozier than ever… ugh.

Firmly shaking her head to dispel the minor ache, she instead turns her curious attention to her first proper look at Draco's old private sanctum. Though she'd been given a cursory peek inside at his chambers when they'd first arrived this morning, party preparations had kept her busy most of the day; and when it had come time to dress and ready themselves, Narcissa and Jane had insisted on spiriting her away to Narcissa's rooms to prepare.

Now, Hermione primly folds her gloved hands in front, adopting her most 'aristocratic' pose as she walks from the end of the massive bed and leisurely tours the spacious bedroom. Her ever-active imagination clearly pictures the snooty pre-teen Draco lording it up in the impeccably styled, expensively furnished and decorated room. Everything has been chosen for its premium quality and luxury: the mahogany bed suite, wardrobes, chests, armchairs, bookcases, display cases, floor-to-ceiling heavy drapes, thick rugs, and bedding. The colours surprise Hermione; rather than the emerald green and silver standard of his House, the primary hue is a deep cream, with calming sage green accents. The touches of muted gold on handles and lamps provide further warmth and elegance.

Present-day Draco stands motionless by the side chest of drawers, one hand behind his back, the other slipped into the pocket of his breeches. His grey eyes gleam with arousal, amusement… and a hint of nervousness.

Oh– is he worried I judge him for this opulence? The thought is both endearing and bothersome. Having finished her impromptu inspection, Hermione swiftly strides to her boyfriend and rests her hands on his slim hips.

"This is a beautiful room, Draco. You're still concerned I think you a snob, aren't you?" she decides to take the bull by the horns. "Haven't I told you– shown you– proven to you, that our differences in background and status are negligible, and utterly unimportant?".

His Adam's apple bulges as he swallows hard before slowly replying, "Yes, you have, Hermione… but being in here… it reminds me of everything I used to take for granted, and how foolish I was in thinking any of it important." He bends his head to stare intensely into her eyes. "All that matters is you, and us – and the life we share. I never want you to doubt that, Hermione. None of this frippery matters– not one whit. I'd give it away in a heartbeat if you asked it of me; tu n'as qu'un mot à dire, mon cher petit ange."

"Steady on, I've grown to quite like the fancy stuff, as it turns out," Hermione jokes. "It's just as easy to love a rich wizard as a poor one," she winks. "Besides, this is not quite what I expected. I thought it would be much more darkly dramatic and brooding?".

"It was– but after– after the War, Mother went on a manic renovation and refurbishment binge; it was her way of coping, and it filled the empty, lonely days. I didn't care at the time, I simply asked her for something different… something quiet." Draco restlessly pulls his hand from his pocket, his fist closing over a small pouch. He tries to slip it back unnoticed, but Hermione is too quick.

"What's that?".

"It's the cameo you gave me… I carry it wherever I go." Draco drops his head, his silky blond fringe obscuring his eyes.

He's such a romantic… Hermione's heart fills along with her eyes. Here come the waterworks again…

She lets the tears fall as she reaches up to encircle her arms around his neck. "You carry my heart and soul with you, Draco. Please, never doubt that."

"I'm the luckiest man alive," Draco whispers. His thumbs gently brush away her tears. "Please don't cry, ma petite. I adore you, Hermione."

Smiling through her sniffles, Hermione attempts to switch up the mood.

"That's 'Miss Granger' to you – and didn't you bring me here for the express purpose of placing me in a thoroughly compromising position?" she saucily reminds. "And you'd best go about my ravishment quickly, before our guests begin to gossip of our mutual absence." She boldly pushes herself closer, until she is wedged between his spread thighs. The heated bulge of his manhood rests just against her lower belly, making her breathing speed and her loins tingle in heady anticipation.

"How remiss of me; but I must insist on the importance of prioritizing pleasure over timeliness, Miss Granger."

Draco grips her hips, deliciously thrusting once against her satin-sheathed softness, before placing her at arm's length. He ignores her discontented grumble as he shrugs out of his tight jacket and waistcoat, then undoes the tight knot at his throat, unwinding the white cravat. All his removed clothing is precisely folded and placed upon the pillows. Next, he unbuttons his trousers, yanking them down to his knees; the rigid length of his proud cock visible through the long tails of his fine ivory cotton shirt.

"You're not wearing any underclothes!" Hermione exclaims, making no effort to tear away her greedy gaze from his bobbing, reddened member. The simmering desire in her lower abdomen flares to a blaze. This will be their first lovemaking since Draco's poisoning, as Hermione hadn't wanted to set back his recovery; and Draco had voiced similar concerns about adding to her exhaustion since leaving Hogwarts for the weekend.

Well, it looks as though my patience is about to pay dividends, Hermione smugly meditates. I'm raring to go – and evidently, so is my sexy wizard.

Smirking and nodding, Draco slowly palms himself once, twice, before sitting back onto the bed. His silver eyes are feral with need hunger as he pats his strong thighs and asks, "Care to ride St George, poppet? It's the best way to ensure your attire – and beautiful hair dressing – remain in a respectable condition."

Hurtling forward, Hermione stops only to kick off her slippers. She begins to peel down her elbow-length gloves before Draco commands, "Leave them on… I promise not to soil them, ma petite. It adds verisimilitude to the scenario."

I cannot argue with that. Wiggling her fingers back into the gloves, Hermione figures it's time to treat Draco to some teasing of her own. Her knees press into his as she stands directly in front of him, bending to gather the long hem of her gown and the thin chemise beneath, bunching it in her hands and raising it a centimetre at a time. Draco grunts in surprise as the fabric rises to her waist.

"Miss Granger! You're not wearing any drawers, either… my, my, you're a wicked little chit, hmmm?". He reaches out an eager hand, only to have it smartly slapped away. The dress falls back down to her ankles.

"You may touch me when I give leave, Mr Malfoy: and no sooner," she reprimands. "I, however, shall touch you where I please. Lie back." Hermione encourages the action with a prodding finger to his chest, pleased when Draco flops flat onto the bed without another word.

Slipping her slim fingers beneath his warm ballocks, Hermione coos, "Do you like me playing with your twiddle-diddles, sir?". Uncaring about potentially staining her gloves, she grips his swollen shaft, running her thumb just below the tip as he groans incoherently. She alternates soft strokes with firmer twists, loving his responsiveness.

"Or perhaps you'd rather I licked at your Sugar Stick?".

His laughter reverberates through the room. Draco props himself on his elbows, grinning at her. "You're so funny, and sexy, and smart, my gorgeous witch. Have pity on your het-up boyfriend and let me return the favour; lift your dress again, chérie."

Winking, Hermione does as he asks, moaning as he runs his graceful hands up the back of her legs, squeezing her buttocks, dipping his fingers all-too-briefly into her wetness before repeating his actions. Her hips jut forward, inviting him to take further liberties; but he seems determined to tantalize and tease.

"I can scent your honeyed quim, darling– I must taste you," is the only warning Draco gives before he kneels, his fingers expertly holding her open; he bequeaths an open-mouthed kiss, using his tongue to lick assured stripes up and down her inflamed folds. Hermione cries out as he gently nips at her puffy pink pearl, her legs shaking. Fire courses through her veins when he slips his fingers inside her slick channel, rubbing and thrusting with increasing speed. His mouth closes over her clitoris, turning her gasp into a short scream.

"I-I can't take much more before I combust– mon cher, stop, let me ride you," Hermione pants, her dress slithering over his pale head for a moment. He gives one last long suckle before he complies, bouncing back onto the bed, blond hair mussed and his lips gleaming with her juices. The fact he is still wearing his shirt and mirror-shined high black boots serves to enhance their delicious debauchery.

"Oops! The contraception charms!" Hermione suddenly recalls. She and Draco hurriedly recite one apiece.

Heavens, that was a close call. Don't get lazy, woman.

Tucking her skirts up again to straddle his bare thighs, Hermione is about to impatiently plunge down onto his hardness when Draco requests, "I want to see your Cupid's Kettledrums– pull down your bodice, Miss Granger." He tacks on, "Please?" after she raises a haughty eyebrow.

Hermione sits back on her haunches to tug free her tender breasts, popping them loose of the gown and corset with some effort. Her beaded nipples further swell as she switches between lightly pinching at them and provocatively cupping together the sensitive globes. "Like this, Mr Malfoy?" she simpers.

"'Zounds! You're killing me, my prime little article."

His muscular arms flexing, Draco lifts her toward him, setting his bell-end at her damp entrance and keeping his hands firmly gripped around her hips, holding her long dress clear. He stares into her passion-drunk eyes as he drags his cock up and down, shifting his pelvis agonizingly slowly. He waits for her tiny nod before he pushes inside with a single thrust; they groan together at the initial blissful stretch. Hermione sinuously wriggles, her unfettered breasts jiggling as she sets a vigorous pace.

"I'll skip the trot and go straight into a canter, if you've no objection," she huskily announces, her gloved fingers further rumpling his hair before finding proper purchase on his taut shoulders.

"None whatsoever – ah, tu te sens si bien – ride me as hard as you like, Miss Granger." Draco mouths at her nude chest, fastening his lips around each pink nubbin as best he can as Hermione picks up the pace even more. The tiny lights of their soul-bonded magic form a kind of filmy shield around them, a semi-transparent canopy extending around and over their bodies, glowing golden.

Draco surges upward with every one of her powerful downward slides, heightening their sensual rapture. He is softly muttering in rapid French – speaking too quickly for her to understand more than one word in five – but his tone is unmistakeably encouraging and adoring.

Knowing she is close to her peak, Hermione changes the angle until her mons bumps directly into the root of Draco's thick cock at the end of her downstrokes; the extra friction is all she needs to ignite. Shuddering, she screams unrestrainedly, fiercely squeezing her inner muscles as her climax burns throughout her body and mind.

Draco's apex soon follows; he bellows her name, clamping her tightly against him as he crests, his head buried in her bosom. They tremble in one another's arms, breathing rapidly and raggedly. Hermione leans down to rest her forehead on his, sharing a tender smile.

Gods, I love you, Miss Hermione Granger. I'll love you until I draw my last breath, mon trésor.

As I will always love you, Mr Draco Malfoy. Je t'aime de tout mon coeur et de toute mon âme.

Their warm mouths meet in a soft, sweet kiss, tongue-tips twining and retreating in perfect harmony… bodies sated, skin tingling, their mated spiritual cores brushing and blending. Hermione drowsily wonders if they truly need to return to the party, as she contentedly nestles into Draco's chest.

She scowls a little as he telepathically picks up on her idea and answers aloud, "We do have to go back for the giving of the gifts, Hermione; unless you want my mother to come looking for us? I thought not," he indulgently snickers. "Here, let me set you to rights, ma petite. You look thoroughly ravished, my beautiful witch."

"Mmm… you appear as though you were ridden hard and put away wet," she pertly replies, snickering along with him. "Just a few more minutes, Draco."

"Alright, darling. As you wish." Withdrawing from her body, Draco Accio's a clean washcloth from the adjoining bathroom, carefully wiping them both down. Once her dress covers her legs again, he cradles her in his lap again.

"The party can wait for us a little longer, I'm sure."

"Where are they?! We cannot wait much longer, Mizrabel is already cross at the delay in bringing out the cake." Narcissa drums her fingernails on the clipboard she carries, frowning as she scans the assorted crowd of merrymakers.

Slow-dancing a few feet away from the testy matriarch, Harry and Pansy share a smirk.

"I'd better go round up that pair of horndogs before Narcissa loses her legendary cool," Pansy whispers as she pats Harry's chest and steps back. "My guess is, they're either in the conservatory, or upstairs in Draco's old suite; since you don't know your way around the Manor, would you please check outside for them, Duckie? I'll head upstairs."

"OK, love. It's nearest that exit, right?" Harry jerks his chin.

"Yes – and do your best to make sure they're presentable before you herd them back in, please… Eh, maybe I should come with you, Morgana only knows what state Hermione's dress is likely to be in now," Pansy frets.

"I can effectively perform a 'Scourgify', never fear." Harry twirls a long lock of Pansy's silky straight black hair around his forefinger before he moves away. "It'll be quicker if we split up, darling. Won't be long." He busses a fond kiss onto her lovely mouth and heads into the gardens.

I hope they are in Draco's bedroom… I've unfortunately already seen more than enough of their racy antics, over the past few months. Harry loudly whistles and ensures his booted feet thud onto the flagstone path as noisily as possible as he approaches the garden house. That ought to be sufficient warning – and I'll knock five times, for good measure.

His knuckles are raised to strike the conservatory's door when it flies open; Macdolas and Ruibby nearly tumble to the ground to avoid a collision. Despite the paucity of the exterior lighting, Harry notes their clothing is dishevelled and their skin passion-flushed.

Oh, for the love of lions…!

"The Revered Master Auror Harry James Potter doth startle MacRu!". Macdolas hastily stuffs his shirt back into his trousers, while Ruibby cloaks her scarlet face behind a painted fan she magicks out of thin air, squealing an unintelligible greeting.

"Uh– right– I'll just– they're waiting– " Harry vaguely waves at the marquee looming in the darkness back behind them. "Cake," he ineptly concludes.

"Master Potter is a most gracious messenger!" Ruibby frog-marches Mac past Harry, jinking away as fast as her little legs can propel her.

Waiting until they are out of sight, Harry guffaws into his cupped hands, thanking his lucky stars that he didn't simply barge in. As he lowers his hands to his sides, he dimly discerns faint movement at the side of the colossal temporary tent… and a flash of familiar red hair.

"Who's there?". Lit wand in hand, Harry rushes to the spot, his wariness morphing to surprise. "Ron?"

"Um… hi, Harry." Ron Weasley sheepishly comes forward, carrying a large satchel stuffed with… fireworks?

Placing the bag gently onto the ground, Ron squints beneath the wand-light. "Guess you never expected to see me wandering the Malfoy estate, yeah? Can't say I ever dreamed I would, either… I've almost finished," he points to the bag. "George needed some last minute help with the finale set-up; I do have permission to be here," he says in an anxious rush. "We thought we'd be done by now, but a couple of those mad peacocks pecked George and delayed us. Wait until you see the customized Wildfire Whizz-bangs George created, they're bloody brilliant! Uh, anyway, I'll get going– sorry to have disturbed you."

Ron hefts the weighty bag back on his shoulder, turning to leave with a timorous smile.

"Ron– wait– are you alright? I mean, how are you? It's good to see you." Harry circumspectly scrutinizes his old friend. He looks a bit thinner… a trifle sad, but… composed. Stable. Grounded.

"Yeah, I'm good. No, I'm well," he corrects. "Hermione was forever correcting me on that, wasn't she?" Ron grins. His genial expression sobers as he hesitantly asks, "Are you guys all OK? Dad– um, he filled me in on what happened with Mum, when she had a go at Pansy in her shop the other day. I wasn't prying," he quickly clarifies. "When I turned up at The Burrow this morning, Mum and Dad were in the middle of a huge barney, before Mum ran upstairs bawling. I'm sorry, Harry– I don't agree with what Mum said or did, either. It's bollocks! Dad was as livid as I've ever seen him, you know. He told Mum if she didn't stop interfering in all our lives, she'd soon find herself alone and lonely… with no one to blame but herself."

Ah, hell. Harry blows out a frustrated breath. "Bugger– I just wanted to make sure your mum knew she'd crossed a line, Ron. I won't let anyone hurt Pansy, she's… never mind." Harry rubs a hand over the faint idiosyncratic scar on his forehead, trying on a wan smile for size.

"I get it, mate– uh, Harry. Don't worry about Mum, she needed to hear it. And Dad and I got stuck into a whole fresh batch of her jam drops while she was brooding upstairs," Ron shamelessly chuckles, before fussing at the strap of his bag. "Are you and Pansy OK? Sorry– I shouldn't have asked–" he backtracks.

"It's fine, Ron. Yeah, we're great," Harry quietly assures.

"Good, good. Um… take care of yourself, hey? I should keep moving, George is probably having puppies wondering where I've gotten to."

Harry smiles. "'Kittens, mate: the expression is, 'having kittens'."

Ron shrugs, unperturbed. "Whatever. They both have litters, don't they?".

"True. You take care too, Ron." Harry offers his hand, relieved when Ron instantly accepts, shaking firmly.

"See you, Harry." Waving, Ron lopes behind the tent, pulling out his own wand to light the way.

Harry waves back, watching until Ron's silhouette is nothing more than a blur at the edge of the thick ropes holding the tent in place.

It was good to see him… I'm glad he seems to be coping OK. Maybe – when we're both ready – there's a chance for us to forge a new, healthy adult friendship. I hope so.

Hearing a burst of raucous laughter from the party, Harry swivels and heads back inside.

Draco waits until Narcissa has wound down her diatribe before he meekly enquires, "May I ask if the Big Surprise is on track to go ahead, Mother?".

"You may indeed ask, mon fils; whether or not I decide to answer you is another matter entirely," Narcissa coolly responds. She leans closer to hiss-whisper, "Draco, while I understand it is nigh impossible to resist indulging your youthful passions – don't make that terrible face, I predict you shall be extremely grateful to eventually learn that desire yet rages as your age creeps higher – I must emphasize that as a co-host, you should observe some basic proprieties at this party."

"I will. My apologies, Mother." Draco fashions a suitably contrite expression onto his face.

"Not your best approximation of remorse; but nor is it your worst. Come, Macdolas is champing at the bit to open his gifts." Narcissa imperiously gestures to the long table heaped with gaily-wrapped presents of all shapes and sizes. "Do be sure to try the cake, Mizrabel has outdone herself."

The veracity of his mother's statement is supported by the snaking line of partygoers lining up for seconds, and even thirds, though they've yet to make much of a dent into the monumental three-tiered chocolate confection. Mizrabel is cutting off portions with the skill of a surgeon, fairly vibrating with pride as she receives effusive compliments on her decadent, rich creation.

Hermione is animatedly chatting with Macdolas and Ruibby; Draco grins as he registers the birthday elf hopping from one skinny leg to the other in his excitement, his avaricious gaze concentrated on the multitude of gifts piled upon the table.

Draco possessively curves his hands around Hermione's waist, dropping a sly kiss onto her collarbone as he settles behind her, loving the shy smile she gives as she twists to look at him.

"Has Narcissa forgiven us yet?" she murmurs.

"Oh, you were never in trouble, Mother made that clear. I, however, am a 'perfidious influence', apparently."

"She does have a point," Hermione wisecracks, giggling when he growls into her ear. "I can live with that most happily, provided I'm the sole recipient of your rakish ways."

"Mais bien sûr, ma petite." Draco holds his love a little closer as Narcissa announces the next stage of the party is about to commence.

The crowd converges upon their table with impressive speed. Ruibby meticulously catalogues each gift and giver as Macdolas eagerly shreds wrappings and launches into an exhilarated commentary.

"Macdolas's cup runneth over! Dearest Family, Friends, Colleagues, fellow G.R.E.A.S.E.R.S., Casual Acquaintances, Esteemed Employers and ex-Lord Malfoy, Macdolas offers his deepest gratitude and humblest thanks for your wondrous largesse!". He all but dives onto the laden table.

"From The Luminescent Lady Luna Lovegood, a crystal-and-cork necklace…"

"Black tourmaline for healing and protection, obsidian to absorb negative energy, amethyst for serenity, and Butterbeer corks to deter Nargles," Luna explains, slipping the necklace over Macdolas's head and kissing his delighted cheek. "The corks are enchanted to spin whenever Nargles are nearby, Mac."

Waffling his fervent thanks, Macdolas only progresses onto the next present after Draco helpfully prods him between his spiny shoulder blades.

Mac screws up his nose a little as he says, "The Wirey gives a book of poetry… in German, which Macdolas does not speak."

"Sie sind herzlich willkommen– you are most welcome, Herr Macdolas." Wireceaster complacently nods.

"There's a gift voucher for Honeydukes tucked into the front flap," Theo adds. "Happy birthday, Mac."

Perking up, Mac smiles widely. "Thank you very much, Master Nott… er, and the Wirey." He moves onto opening a slim envelope.

"Mistress Chaser Ginevra Molly Weasley and Master Seeker Viktor Dobroslav Krum provide two tickets to the July British and Irish Quidditch League Finals!" Macdolas jumps in the air a few times like a crazed jackrabbit.

"Rein it in, you're not even a third of the way through," Draco cautions. "Next!".

Tavi excitedly shouts, "Pick the big heavy box now, Mr Mac! It's got more than one present in it, but it's from all of us, Mr Blaise said so!". She runs forward at Hermione's beckoning, helping Mac tear off the pretty blue paper. Peering over their heads, Draco is momentarily baffled by the revealed assortment of polished metal.

"That's an authentic replica of an Italian suit of armour, 'cept Mr Blaise ordered it to fit you exactly – and the 'Best of Disney' videocassette set was my idea, Gus got you a book on medieval weapons, Mrs Green knitted you this Gryffindor-red scarf–" the child enthusiastically wraps it around Macdolas's skinny neck, " –and Gelsy made you this whole box of her famous cannolis with ricotta and pistachio filling, plus she included her secret recipe for it, but if you try to share it the recipe'll go up in flames, so you probably shouldn't do that, Mr Mac." Tavi solemnly shakes her head.

Having lost the power of intelligible speech due to his ecstatic emotions, Macdolas can only hug each gift-giver, rapturous tears dribbling down his cheeks. Draco dabs at the sprite's wet visage with a supply of paper party napkins whenever the elf spins near enough.

Neville's somewhat clumsily-wrapped offering is next: a lovely potted floribunda rose with deep crimson inner petals, shading out to a golden apricot.

"I bred it myself, by cross-pollinating the 'Ruby Celebration' with the 'Climbing Mac'; the blooms last for ages and it's healthy and strong… like you and Ruibby," he quietly compliments. "I had to use an accelerated growing charm to make sure it flowered for the party, but that's temporary, don't worry." The tall Gryffindor blushes when Ruibby slides off her chair to hug him tightly.

Bernard nudges forward a small package. "Here you go, champ! This is from my lovely Jane, too, of course. Make sure you keep the warranty, it's guaranteed for twenty-five years; these're built to last, alright."

"A Swiss Army knife! Dad– you know Mac isn't supposed to be handling blades!" Hermione scolds, as Mac ducks out of reach, his nimble fingers busily opening all the various attachments.

"No, no, Little Wendy: it's a Leatherman Multi-Tool, which is quite different, I assure you," Bernard looks inordinately proud of himself, while Jane mouths, 'Sorry, darling," to her unimpressed daughter.

"Plus it's got a nylon sheath to clip onto his belt, and a free mini torch. Pretty nifty, eh?"

As usual, Barney doesn't know to quit while he's ahead, Draco thinks, managing to restrain Hermione and her would-be strangling hands.

Hagrid neatly redirects their attention with his present. "Here yer go, laddie; I reckon tis jus' the thing ter go with yer new Swiss Army– er, I mean ter say, yer new multi-tool thingamajig," he hastily amends. "It's a whetstone, see? Now, I made it meself, afore yeh sliced off yer toenail, but if yeh're not goin' ter be keepin' anything sharp-like, yeh can always use it as a paperweight, of sorts."

Loudly thanking Hagrid, Mac prudently dances away with the coarse lump of grey rock, Hermione groaning in reluctant resignation.

"Now for our gift, Macdolas," Narcissa hands over an ornate set of keys and a gilt-edged card. "While it doesn't involve knives, I'm positive you shall enjoy it; a week's vacation for you and Ruibby at our château in Saint Paul-de-Vence, with a little spending money. Joyeux anniversaire, cher coeur." She lays a light kiss upon the elf's forehead.

Mac's eyes goggle when he notes the lavish amount of Galleons listed on the card. "Lady Malfoy and ex-Lord Malfoy are far too kind!".

"By all means, feel free to return our gold, then," Lucius mutters, quieting under Narcissa's glare. "Ah… enjoy, I mean to say."

Mac grins and blithely ignores him.

"The Revered Master Auror Harry James Potter and The Pulchitrudinous Piratess Pansy Parkinson bequeath Macdolas a framed autographed copy of Witch Weekly (featuring 'The Boy Who Lived and Died and Lived Again Saves the Wizarding World!') and seven pairs of woollen socks!" Macdolas reverently strokes the magazine and socks with equal awe.

"The socks are charmed to change colour and style depending on the outfit you're wearing on any particular day, Mac," Pansy points out. She oomphs a little as a choked-up Macdolas flings his arms around her and Harry's leather-clad legs. "You're welcome, sweetie."

Kreacher prises Mac loose from Pansy with an annoyed huff. "Kreacher's bequest is timely indeed – 'The Rules of Decent and Civil Behaviour for the Very Proper House Elf'. Study it, learn it, live it, young Macdolas." He holds out a forbidding gnarled hand before Mac can so much as contemplate a hug. "Do not."

Undaunted, Mac homes in on the remaining offerings on the table, including Soap On A Rope from Kevyn, and a shiny CD-Walkman (and various 80s pop CDs) from the combined Hogwarts elves.

"How on earth did they manage to purchase that?" a bemused Draco asks Hermione. "Much less know what one is?".

"It was Ruibby's idea; she asked Narcissa, who tasked Mum with buying one," Hermione answers, grinning as Mac clamps the small headphones over his flittering ears and fiddles with the silver buttons. "Ooh, he's going to love Headmistress McGonagall's gift– look, Draco."

Minerva removes the lid from a large circular box with dignified ceremony. "Now, dear Macdolas, please bear with me; the reason I am unwrapping your gift is because it is a planned event, not a material possession."

The room quiets to an expectant hush as Minerva removes a shabby, faded-black crooked wizard's hat, carefully holding it aloft as she gravely imparts, "After careful consideration, the Board has agreed to hold a special ceremony at the end of the coming week, in which the Sorting Hat shall be utilized to assign each and every willing Hogwarts elf (and any other interested member of staff who has not been previously included) into one of the Four Founding Houses. The very first elfish employee to be Sorted will be Macdolas."

The bedraggled old Hat smugly winks as Mac and Ruibby gasp in tandem, the rest of the smiling audience benevolently applauding. McGonagall adroitly pops the Hat back into the box and snaps closed the lid, mild amusement upon her intelligent face at the muffled sounds from within.

"Best not to let it start singing at an informal gathering; I'm afraid our Hat's grandiose leanings are proportionate to its high boredom levels." She gently lays her thin hands against Macdolas and Ruibby's cheeks. "Thank you both for zestfully instigating a most welcome new tradition at the castle, dears."

Uh-oh, more tears. Draco briskly nudges forward the completed portrait of MacRu. "Happy birthday, little mate."

"Oh, Master Malfoy – it's us– kissing– MacRu are truly beautiful! Master is the kindest, most talented, most thoughtful wizard–" Ruibby snuffles into Mac's concave chest, her boyfriend's encircling arms quivering with his own fervid emotion.

"Mac dear, these are the best film and television videocassette adaptations of Jane Austen's novels that I could find," Hermione explains, gesturing to her present. "I hope you and Ruibby enjoy them as much as I did." She kneels down to hug the couple as they babble their voluble gratitude.

Eventually composing herself enough to speak, Ruibby produces a red velvet jewellery pouch from her reticule, shaking it into her palm with great care.

"Darlingest Macdolas, you once offer Ruibby a family heirloom, which she foolishly hurls into the raspberry pudding batter in a fit of misplaced pique; please accept this commensurate token of Ruibby's deep affection, on this happiest of natal days."

"Sweetest Ruibby honours Macdolas with a… customized signet ring?" Macdolas whispers, as his girlfriend slips the heavy gold ring onto Mac's right index finger.

"Yes, yes: a griffin for the House of Granger, a snake for the House of Malfoy, a lion for Macdolas's huge heart… and a ruby for Ruibby." The tender kiss Ruibby drops on the ring's flat bezel makes the majority of the agog company sigh.

"Macdolas is verily the happiest elf in the history of the world…" he sobs, peppering his wee girlfriend with kisses galore as she giggles and tries to kiss him back.

"Draco, even you have to admit they are the most adorable little creatures you've ever seen," Hermione comments. "I can sense you thinking it, there's no need to say it aloud, mon coeur."

"I'll grant you they're rather cute… when they're not shagging in the conservatory, I suppose."

Hermione waits until Mac and Ruibby's passionate embrace has dialled down to 'affectionate' before she softly taps their diminutive shoulders. "We have one last surprise for you, dear little Mac." She gestures to where Narcissa waits at the entrance to the marquee.

The happy chatter dies away as Lady Malfoy guides a tiny female elf into the large space, murmuring quiet reassurance all the while.

The elf's hair is a faded carroty-red, liberally laced with grey, swept off her dignified face into a low knot at the nape of her neck. Shrewd kiwi-green eyes convey both apprehension and determination as she slowly makes her way toward Macdolas and Ruibby, her polished walking stick tapping rhythmically on the ground with every measured step.

"M-Maw?" Macdolas incredulously stammers, shivering as though fevered. "Macdolas's Maw… is here?!"

"Aye, wean. Havnae a smourich fer yer mother, laddie?" Beathas asks, tucking her cane beneath her arm to hold out her trembling arms. "Co-là breith sona dhut, Macdolas."

"MAW!" Macdolas hurtles forward, though his exuberance swiftly morphs to delicate carefulness once he reaches his mother's rheumatic arms.

Hermione contemplates twitting Draco for his acute intake of breath at the heart-plucking sight of the reunited fey mother and son. But I won't… it's not as though I'm any less affected.

Narcissa quietly informs, "Macdolas, Beathas has accepted our offer of permanent employment at the Manor; she will be of invaluable assistance in her part-time role of mentor and relief housekeeper, depending on the needs of the estate. We are honoured by her presence."

"Lady Malfoy– Macdolas has no words–" he chokes out.

"No, dear: this was Hermione's idea," Narcissa says. "Your mother is most keen to meet your paramour, by the way."

Beathas raises her head to sternly rebuke, "Now, wean… what's this aboot yer bidie-in– yon lassie Ruibby? Ah reared ye better, nae?".

Ruibby bobs a dainty, nervous curtsey as Mac flushes white, then red. "Maw! Macdolas wrote you of his darlingest Ruibby– of Hogwarts– of MacRu's sanctioned cohabitation– "

"Och, stap yer haverin' or I'll gie ye a skelpit lug! Introduce yer bonnie jo, Mac." Beathas scrupulously returns Ruibby's curtsey, knocking away Macdolas's hovering helping hand. "Ah'm nae dwaible yet, son."

The affectionate mother-son elvish banter continues; Beathas graciously accepts a comfortable chair after judiciously quizzing Ruibby and declaring her a 'fine, braw lass'.

Mac positively vibrates with pride and delight, one hand gently resting on his mother's slight shoulder, the other spindly paw snugged around Ruibby's tiny waist as he elatedly introduces Beathas to the crowd of well-wishers.

Draco brings back a couple of chunks of divine chocolate cake, kissing away the moist crumbs from the corners of Hermione's mouth after she devours her slice in a few greedy bites.

The whole party – with the exception of Fang, Crookshanks, Boadie, and Kreacher (who offers his services as the animal custodian) – moves outside to watch the dazzling display of fireworks provided by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. They whoop and cheer in rapt awe as the sky explodes with coiling silver Catherine wheels; glowing sparklers spelling out Mac's name; zooming copper-gold rockets with long whirling pink tails; roaring yellow lions; floating poison-green snakes; and a finale of fire-breathing scarlet dragons that ultimately collide to scatter tiny grinning elves, which merrily dance over the manicured lawn before winking out of existence.

"Hermione, this is hands-down the greatest party Malfoy Manor has ever seen," Draco avers, draping his black tailcoat over her shoulders to offset the moderate cool. "You've performed miracles, darling… even my curmudgeonly father is smiling," he directs her attention to where Lucius is standing hand-in-hand with Narcissa.

"Well, our mums did all the hard work, honestly," Hermione demurs, unabashedly cuddling into his warm, solid male chest. "I'm so happy, Draco." She lifts her head to stress, "With you… with our life together. I feel like we can conquer anything that life throws at us, you know?".

"I agree; but please, don't tempt fate, ma petite," Draco chuckles. "She's always listening, you know."

"You're oddly superstitious sometimes, my wonderful wizard," Hermione teases. "We'll be fine, darling."

Gazing about the jolly, boisterous gathering, Hermione fixes the extraordinary moment in her memory, hiding her small smile as she silently wishes on Venus.

It can't hurt… though I wholeheartedly believe that Draco and I will weather life's storms with fearless fortitude, regardless.

This is just the beginning, of the rest of our lives… I'm so excited for it!

French translations:

Tu n'as qu'un mot à dire, mon cher petit ange – Just say the word, my precious angel.

tu te sens si bien – you feel so good.

Mon trésor – my treasure

Je t'aime de tout mon coeur et de toute mon âme – I love you with all my heart and soul

Mais bien sûr – But of course

Joyeux anniversaire, cher coeur – Happy birthday, dear heart.

Scottish slang & Gaelic translations:

Aye, wean. Havnae a smourich fer yer mother, laddie? – Yes, child. Don't you have a kiss for your mother, boy?

Co-là breith sona dhut – Happy birthday to you

bidie-in – live-in partner

Ah reared ye better, nae? – I raised you better, didn't I?

Och, stap yer haverin' or I'll gie ye a skelpit lug! – Oh, hush your nonsense or I'll slap you over the ear!

bonnie jo – pretty girlfriend

Ah'm nae dwaible yet – I'm not feeble yet

Braw – beautiful, wonderful