A/N: just tidying up some plot threads!

One

Draco's flat

Lucius died.

What more could be said?

Draco had hoped that Lucius died by hacking up what remained of his rotten lungs onto his eiderdown, all alone, departing this world in a sulphurous nest of his own piss and shit. But Mother said he died in his sleep in the company of the sole house-elf Malfoy Manor possessed that actually seemed to like him. Draco silently acknowledged Narcissa's unspoken implication that she was elsewhere at the time.

And it was at his funeral that Draco and Narcissa were to meet Hermione's parents for the first time.

Draco was nervous at the prospect of meeting the Grangers, and it showed as he knotted and re-knotted his expensive tie in front of the large mirror in their bedroom. Hermione tutted his fingers out of the way, fixed his tie and gently bumped noses with him (she'd put on her lipstick and didn't want to smear it). "You'll be fine," she reassured him. "Just be yourself."

"Be myself?" Draco perked up and dropped a cheeky kiss on her cheek. Crookshanks (who had moved into Draco's immensely larger flat with Hermione) tiptoed into the bedroom and curled up on top of Draco's expensive shoes. He'd quickly figured out that the tall blonde human who took up far too much space in the bed was quite particular about his shoes.

"Well, don't tell them you're glad the old bastard's gone and that you hope he's going to rot in a special place of the afterlife created just for him where his saggy white behind will be roasted for all eternity."

Draco deflated a little.

"Are we ready to go?" Hermione asked, grabbing her handbag and checking her black net fascinator was in place. "Drake, where are your shoes?"

Drake was wondering the exact same thing. He thought they were sitting by the side table by the door, but they weren't there –

However, an enormous, innocent-looking Kneazle-cat was.

"Crooks," Draco asked cautiously, not wanting to goad the animal into sudden poop-inducing movements, "are you lying on top of my shoes?"

Crooks yawned and closed his eyes.

Draco sighed. Normally he would have made it his business to ensure the bloody animal knew who was boss (i.e. not Crooks) but they were on the verge of running late. "Darling, can you move Crooks so I can get my shoes?"

"I can't! He'll shed on me!"

"Well, he'll shed on me, too!"

But Hermione had already wafted out into the hallway and out of earshot.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the orange beast. "You'll keep," he whisper-snarled before summoning a couple of house-elves to heave the enormous pretend-dead weight off Draco's best shoes.

Malfoy Manor

Lucius's funeral

There was quite a lot for Mr and Mrs Granger to take in – enormous, Gothic mansion and accompanying gardens, a small army of odd-looking and rather small... people? doing duty as ushers and caterers, and the piece de resistance: a mausoleum in the middle of the elaborate hedge maze behind said Gothic domicile.

Not to mention the inhabitants of this enormous pile.

Draco was charming, witty and almost slavishly devoted to meeting Mrs Granger's every need until Hermione told him to knock it off. Mr Granger was almost starstruck by the beautiful, grieving widow, making her dignified, graceful way through the funeral attendees/busybody onlookers, receiving their condolences. Dressed all in black, among the Gothic architecture and extensive gardens, it was – it was like something out of a movie! In fact, he was almost sure he'd fallen asleep in a movie with a familiar setting. Which one was it?

Mrs Granger, along with Draco, noticed the slow, sly approach of several single, or hoping-to-soon-be-single wizards, beady eyes on locked on target – a lonely, grieving, beautiful, stinking rich widow.

Mrs Granger cast about for a suitable conversation topic. Aha! The garden! Men often find the topic of flowers to be boring to the point of tears, and she was sure most wizards were the same.

"Mrs Malfoy!" she began rather too enthusiastically, "your gardens are an absolute delight. Really, they're quite stunning."

Narcissa's pale skin blushed dusky rose. "Thank you, Mrs Granger. I must admit, especially as of late, my gardens have been a great source of comfort to me."

Draco felt like a million different types of shit. His avoiding Lucius had the undesirable side-effect of not seeing his Mum as often as he should have. He and Hermione had her over regularly at their flat, but it wasn't the same, really.

Hermione squeezed his hand in silent support, and he felt a bit better. Still, he could do with a few minutes' self-flagellation. He made a mental note to complete them later.

"I'd love to have a small bouquet," Mrs Granger said wistfully.

"And so you shall!" Narcissa cried. "It will be a pleasure."

Now it was Mrs Granger's turn to blush, afraid she'd come off as a pushy Karen, or whatever it was the kids called horrid women these days. "You must let me pay you," she stammered but Narcissa wouldn't hear of it.

Hermione had an idea (of course). An activity that Narcissa loved with some end-goals in mind might be just the thing to stave off any depressive thoughts of her dearly departed. "Would you consider providing my parent's place of business with a weekly floral arrangement?"

"That would lovely!" Mrs Granger beamed. 'Wouldn't that be lovely, dear?" She jogged her husband's elbow as he seemed to be staring into space.

"Uh, yes, dear," he replied vaguely.

A tall, swarthy and handsome gentleman stepped politely into their conversation circle, accompanied by his ex-stepson Blaise Zabini. "Forgive me, Madame Malfoy, but I could not help but overhear," he said smoothly. "I have also been an admirer of your extensive gardens from afar, and I, too, would love a regular floral arrangement for my business practice, too – if you are in the business for it."

"Business?" Narcissa raised a pale hand to her cheek. "I – I had not thought of it" –

"As it happens," the man continued, "small business development is one of my specialities. I would be happy to answer any questions you may have."

As the older grown-ups continued to talk, the younger grown-ups (Draco, Hermione and Blaise) stepped discreetly to the side. "Is he on the level?" Draco fired at Blaise.

"Sure he is," Blaise replied. "His work involves giving business advice and making sure his clients don't do something that will either see them lose their money or their liberty. Don't worry."

Draco noticed how well Blaise's ex-stepdad and his mum appeared together. "Can you vouch for his character?" he growled. Hermione rolled her eyes.

Blaise shrugged. "He divorced my mum after six weeks of marriage, didn't he? And he came to your old man's funeral. Mum and my current stepfather didn't."

"True."

The trio headed into the manor to sample more of the culinary delights the house-elves toiled to exhaustion over, avoiding any path that would have taken them to the hedge maze.

Nothing to see there.

Two

Front page of the Daily Prophet

SERIAL KILLER APPREHENDED!

Aurors have confirmed that Julian Postlethwaite, 30, was arrested for the gruesome slayings of five witches and ten Muggle women over the past year. Postlethwaite's modus operandi appeared to involve the use of hypnotism, a technique he learned from the voluminous tomes on the topic kept in the Ministry of Magic's library, where he was, until recently, an employee.

Liaison Manager for Wizard-Muggle Co-operation, Ms Hermione Granger, reported today that the Ministry is devastated to learn that such a monster dwelled so innocently among their ranks and will ensure their recruitment and selection practices will be fine-tuned so they won't inadvertently hire any criminal maniacs in the future.

"I myself only spent the briefest amount of time with Mr Postlethwaite," Ms Granger said, "but I knew there was something sinister about him. A gentleman that good-looking and still living with his mum? In hindsight, I should have had him arrested the moment I met him."

Mr Postlethwaite is being held at Azkaban, awaiting his trial.

Three

The Breadmaking Academy

Northamptonshire

Early in the morning, long before the first class of the week was to start, Sean completed his stocktake, making extra sure his yeast hadn't made it to its expiration date or beyond. He flicked to the next page on his iPad, which contained the personal details of his new students.

He scanned the list, put the iPad down, went to coax a strong cup of coffee out of their industrial coffee maker – then headed back to his iPad again.

"Claire?" he called out to the back office.

"Wha'?" his boss replied.

"Why isn't a Chantrelle Grendel on the attendee list?"

"Hell if I know," his boss grumped. "Who is she, anyway?"

"She's the woman that's attended every breadmaking course we've put on in the last eight months."

There was a short silence. "The mutton dressed as lamb?"

"Yup."

"Weren't she the one who kept flinging herself at yer, mentally undressin' and trying to shag you senseless on the workshop floor, despite our need to comply with strict hygiene requirements?"

Sean sighed. "Yes."

A clacking of keyboard keys sounded from the back office. "She's not enrolled."

Hope started tippy-tapping in Sean's heart. "What if she's a walk-in?"

"No can do," came Claire's disembodied voice. "We're full. If, on the off-chance she does make an appearance, I'll send her off with a flea in her ear. Does that suit you?"

An elated Sean skipped to the coffee machine. That suited him rather well, actually.

The last attendee on Sean's iPad was a woman called Karen Brown. An innocent-sounding name, to be sure. Could it be possible that 'Karen Brown' was the proper first name and maiden surname of a woman who used to be known in certain circles as Chantrelle Grendel?

Sean would know, soon enough.

Four

Ministry of Magic

Hermione's office

Hermione hustled out of the lift as soon as the doors opened – she was running a little late, thanks to a certain cohabitant who insisted on spending the sunrise worshipping her body with his lips and hands and other body parts – accompanied by Croookshanks' howls of outrage from the hallway. (Draco shut him out of the bedroom – he couldn't get used to having sex with Hermione with that bloody animal sitting silently nearby - sometimes on the actual bloody bed - watching with unblinking, judgemental eyes. Draco may be adventurous in the bedroom, but he wasn't up for performing in front of a live audience.)

She rounded the corner to her department and sped past her secretary's desk, her mind already on pressing business matters. "Good morning, Patricia," she murmured, rooting through her handbag for her wand to unlock her office door.

"Good morning, Ms Granger!" came a mumsy voice from Patricia's desk.

A voice that certainly wasn't Patricia's.

Hermione looked up from her enormous handbag and did a double-take at the lady that wasn't Patricia standing by the desk with a sheaf of parchments in one arm and a cup of something warm and inviting in her hand. She was dressed in a sensible tweed skirt and a high-necked frilly blouse. A pair of glasses perched on a rather impressive beak-like nose, and her grey hair was pulled into a sensible chignon. She looked alert, professional and intelligent. Basically, everything Patricia wasn't.

"Please excuse my manners," Hermione stammered, "but who on earth are you?"

The non-Patricia hooted with gentle laughter. "Ooh, dear me, lass, you're right to ask! My grandson thought it would be a gas to surprise you, you see. He suggested, in jest, of course, that I could do the previous incumbent's job with one hand tied behind my back, and, well, he was given leave to make it happen!"

Her grandson being Hermione's most capable Senior Advisor, Hermione presumed, and she could probably bet that the person who 'made it happen' was the one that gave her such exquisite cunninglingus this morning. Thus saving his arse from the blistering bollocking she would otherwise have given him for interfering with her staff.

"My name is Mildred, and I spent thirty years as secretary to the Head Goblin at Gringotts. I was, up until this morning, retired, but I miss the hustle and bustle of a busy office, and when my grandson told me about this role, I leapt at the opportunity!" Mildred bit her lip. "If you don't mind taking me on, Ms Granger."

Ms Granger was lost for words. But she needed a secretary, and one was standing in front of her. "I trust the judgement of my staff, so, why not? Welcome aboard!" Hermione said a little desperately.

"Wonderful, Ms Granger!" Mildred beamed. "Now, I've taken the liberty of completing your daily and weekly schedule, and organised all the files you'll need for your first meeting." Mildred handed the parchments over to Hermione, then opened the door. Every item inside was sparkling clean.

"I did a little tidy up, but everything is still where it was before. The flowers on your desk are from the Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes" – a beautiful bouquet of red roses sat in a silver vase – "and this is for you." Mildred started to hand the cup to Hermione but stopped and waved her wand over it. Some steam curled up from the brew. "Now that's better, nice and hot. My grandson told me how you like your coffee. I hope I did it justice."

Hermione took an appreciative sniff. Good, strong coffee, bold enough to wake the dead. Perfect. "Thank you, Mildred, this is excellent coffee."

Mildred's cheeks went pink. "I'll give you five minutes' notice for your first meeting, dear," she said, exiting the office and quietly closing the door.

Sipping her coffee, Hermione withdrew the small card that was nestled in the bouquet.

Darling, (the note said)

an executive order was made to replace your secretary after your senior advisor happened to inform me that instead of making copies of an essential file, she set the staff kitchen on fire. And misplaced the essential file. This happened while you were at Downing Street last week. If you must blame anyone, please blame me. But don't blame me too much. I have a good feeling about Mildred.

Don't worry about Patricia, I made sure she was suitably pensioned off. She didn't mind leaving; she'd been wanting to spend more time with her husband since he recently took retirement. Everyone's happy.

Love,

D

Hermione sat down at her desk, devoid of unnecessary paperwork and dust bunnies. She took a sip of coffee and decided she could get used to this.

Somewhere in Wizarding London suburbia

"Oh, Ken, isn't this lovely?" Patricia's voice soared from the kitchen and into the living room, where her husband was reading the Daily Prophet. The lady herself soon entered the living room with a sprightly step, carrying a tea tray. Plopping the tray on a side table, she poured a cuppa and passed it to Ken. "We can be together all the time, now! Isn't this exciting? It will be just like our honeymoon!"

Ken's fingers gripped the Prophet in alarm.

"Oops! Forgot the biscuits!" Patricia giggled and sallied forth into the kitchen again.

Ken turned to the 'Situations Vacant' section of the newspaper. Surely there was something a wizard in his mid-sixties could do for a crust? If he spent all his time indoors with Patricia, he couldn't be held responsible for what might happen.

He spied an advertisement, nestled in a corner of the paper.

Product tester wanted! (the ad said.)

Keen, open-minded, enquiring individual needed for testing and fine-tuning new products under development.

Full medical cover provided.

No experience necessary!

Apply in person to Messrs F and G Weasley, c/- Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, 93 Diagon Alley.

Ken put the paper down and grabbed his cloak. That'll do nicely! he thought as he grabbed his cloak and headed to the Floo. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

Five

McLaggen-ageddon

It took some negotiation, plus a pay rise and increase in employee benefits, but eventually, Bunny agreed to get up to some shenanigans with Mr Malfoy.

Or, rather, get up to some shenanigans on behalf of Mr Malfoy.

Thus, Operation Get-That-Bastard-McLaggen-Where-It-Hurts began.

Bunny magically shrunk her blouse and shortened her knee-length skirt in a suitably dingy, private corner as she made her way down from Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to Magical Games and Sports.

She sultrily wended her way through the open plan office, ignoring the stares and leers from junior staff, zeroing in on her quarry: Senior Advisor Cormac McLaggen. Cormac, with a sixth sense for young and beautiful totty, looked up from his newspaper (he was analysing the sports results) and marvelled.

"Mr McLaggen?" Bunny asked in a breathy voice.

"That's me!" he said, hopping up from his pigsty of a desk (Bunny supressed a shiver of horror at the sight).

"I'm ever so sorry," - Bunny fluttered her eyelashes – "but my department's been receiving your mail as of late." (This was because Mildred, thoroughly loyal to Hermione, and by extension, Draco, nicked it before it got delivered to Cormac's department). She thrust out a sheaf of parchments, leaning over the desk as she did so. "Here you go."

"C-cheers," Cormac stammered. My word, what a fine pair of tits this girl had! What wouldn't he give to rub his face in between those – hang on, she was still talking. What did she say?

"Sorry luv, didn't quite catch the last bit."

The girl smiled prettily. "I was saying this must have been such an inconvenience. I really want to make it up to you. Fancy dinner with me this Friday?"

Cormac boggled. A tight, delicious bird just landed practically on his lap! "Sounds lovely, my dear," he swaggered. "Where shall we go?"

"How about Chez Louis?"

Cormac paled. He had some, er, outstanding business with them. "They're not really at their best these day," he lied. "Do you like Italian? How about Fratelli's?"

The girl smiled. "Sounds lovely. See you there at seven on Friday!"

As she turned away, Cormac called out "Wait! I don't even know your name!"

The girl winked lavisiously. "Call me Bunny."

Cormac's jaw dropped to the floor.

As Bunny wriggled her little bunny hips as she headed to the door, Cormac collapsed back on his chair. It's a miracle! A gorgeous little bunny descended from above and asked him out on a date! There was nothing suspicious about this at all!

Friday

Fratelli's

Cormac was half-expecting his little bunny to stand him up, but no – there she was, front and centre, looking sinful in a tight dress that looked like it had been poured on. She was a hungry bunny, too, ordering costly entrees, mains and dessert, pairing them with the wines their waiter so enthusiastically suggested. In between food and drink, she gave him come-hither glances, fluttering her eyelashes and (in his eyes) promising a lot more to come. Comac patted his full belly and hoped he'd be up to the task later on.

"Oh, my, that was a wonderful dinner, wasn't it?" Bunny purred as she patted her lips with her napkin and picked up her handbag. "You don't mind, do you, if I freshen up before we leave?"

"Not at all," Cormac leered, imagination already galloping off to X-rated places.

When the door to the Witches' closed, the waiter sashayed up with the bill. Cormac took a peek. Jeez, what a whopper! Still, not his problem. Bunny asked him out – in front of witnesses – so she's stuck with the bill. The tiny niggling part of his brain that was still a gentleman hammered on the sides of his brain to get his attention, but it was too late – his libido had a clear run for the rest of the evening. He popped a mint into his mouth and waited.

And waited.

When Cormac started twisting around in the chair to peer at the path to the toilets, the waiter reappeared with a small piece of rolled parchment. "This has arrived for you, sir," the waiter intoned.

Curious, Cormac unrolled the parchment.

Bunny's hopped away, you twit (the letter read).

Consider this payback for stranding Hermione with an enormous bill at Chez Louis.

Pay the man, you sad sack of shite.

D Malfoy.

Cormac gulped as he looked up at the waiter. He had very bulgy arm muscles and the glint of a winning prizefighter in his eyes.

"Perhaps we could negotiate?" Cormac stammered.

"No negotiating." The waiter hauled Cormac bodily out of his chair with one arm and frog-marched him to the kitchens.

Six

Ministry of Magic

Waiting at the lifts

"There is no way in hell that any daughter of mine is going to be called Petunia, and that's THAT!" Hermione's face was dangerously red.

"There's nothing wrong with that name! Mother likes it." Draco didn't go red, he went a sort of alabaster white when he got angry that made him look almost ghostlike.

"Where is it written that we have to continue the tradition of naming girls after plants and boys after constellations?" Hermione sniffed. "Who even made that tradition up, anyway?"

Hell if Draco knew. But it shouldn't be sniffed at!

The lift doors opened, and the quarrelling pair climbed on. As usual, no-one else on their floor was game enough to share a confined space with them.

The lift descended in surly silence.

Draco glanced at Hermione and sighed. Then pushed the stop button.

Hermione cradled her eight-and-a-half-month baby bump. In fact, she appeared to be holding it up. She looked very uncomfortable and fed up, and Draco felt like shit. He had contributed fifty percent to the bump, after all.

He crossed to her and gently kissed her forehead. "Won't be long now," he promised.

"Yeah, I'm absolutely looking forward to the next stage," Hermione snapped, but without her usual pepper. She leaned against the wall and sighed. "It's not critical that we have names ready for the baby before it's born," she said.

Draco did not like this. "What will everyone think?" he (thought he) reasonably asked.

"Fuck everyone."

Shocked, Draco laid his hands on the bump where he hoped the baby's ears were. "No swearing in front of the baby!"

But then he felt bad again. Hermione had endured a difficult pregnancy, beset with morning sickness for months, and enduring examination after worrying examination by Healers and Muggle obstetricians.

He was alarmed when Hermione began to sniffle. "I'm so tired, Draco," she admitted. A tear fell down her cheek. "I'm tired of being tired, and I'm scared of" – she took a breath in and out. "I'm scared of what's going to come next. What if I lose the baby right at the last minute?" She gripped her bump again, protectively. "A-and I'm sick of being fat! Everything about me is fat! Look at my fingers! Look at my feet!"

She began to cry in earnest.

Draco held the most important thing in the world close to him. Inasmuch as the bump would permit. He let her cry, rubbing her back soothingly. He remembered how upset Hermione was when she had to remove the engagement ring he gave her.

When the sniffles died down, Draco gently wiped the traces of tears away with his thumbs and kissed her rather red nose. "Listen to me. I won't let anything happen to you or the baby. I guarantee it."

"H-how could you possibly do that?" Hermione sniff-snorted.

"Sheer force of will," Draco admitted cheerfully. Of course he was talking bollocks, but Hermione cracked a smile. Which turned into a grimace. Draco leaned down and kissed it away.

"Draco," she said, "you'd best put the lift back into operation."

"Why's that?"

"My contractions have started."

To Draco, that sentence sounded like it came from underwater. "W-what do you mean? You're not due for" –

"Draco!"

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Draco slammed the lift into service, hopping from one foot to another and wringing his hands in agitation while it sedately descended. The second the doors opened in the atrium, he scooped Hermione and bump up in his arms and dashed through the evening crowd like a runaway train for the Floos.

"Draco," Hermione gasped, "we can't Floo."

"Why not?" he cried, already scooping up some Floo powder.

"Because of the baby!"

Oh, right. Bumps are not allowed to Floo or apparate. Especially not apparate. The potential consequences were unthinkable.

"Not to worry, Ms Granger! I have transport waiting for you." Mildred the miracle worker came through again, briskly leading an increasingly panicked Draco and increasingly calmer Hermione outside. "Best of luck dear, and to you, Mr Malfoy! We'll keep the home fires burning."

As the carriage clattered off to the hospital, Mildred headed back up to her desk and took out a piece of parchment. With a flick of her wand, it revealed the book that most of their floor had created, where they guessed the date of the baby's birth, whether it was a boy or girl, and what the name was going to be. So far, Mildred was in the money, having correctly guessed that the dear little scamp would arrive two weeks before the due date. And as for the sex? She guessed 'girl' and the name (at very long odds) would be... Belle.

Was Mildred a Seer?

Well, of course she was! She was very highly prized at Gringotts, informing her boss who was good for a loan and who to avoid like the clappers. Now that she was retired from the cut and thrust of finance, she didn't dabble in the divine arts. Too much. But with the trouble poor Ms Granger was having with the pregnancy... well, one had to be sure everything would be okay.

And it would.

Her inner eye soared over Wizarding London to her cosy home. A pair of pink knitted booties (in the Muggle tradition) were sitting on her comfy chair by the fire, halfway through creation. She must head home soon, she thought, and get knitting. Otherwise little Belle will arrive before the booties will!

With that, Mildred picked up her handbag and headed to the lifts.

The end

A/N: all done! Thank you for your patience, this story has taken longer to create that I thought possible. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Now I will return to my neglected story, Pathways. Hope to see you there!

NeverNik xox