A/N: Love to reviewers and Countess Black

For those of you who guessed, the quotes were from 'A Song of Ice and Fire' by George RR Martin. I chose 'Winter is Coming' for the Lestranges because of their singleminded, Stark (heh) devotion to a ruler that wasn't good for the country.

The 'diminutive gentleman' is Tyrion Lannister, and the queen is his sister, Cersei.

Draco had huge faith in his own luck. It was, he thought, almost tangible, that sense of things falling into place for him. He was used to it. But learning to give it a nudge, all the same.

So the cat was with Father, and his parents had responded to his hints about wanting to 'rest' with Hermione this evening, so if they would excuse them both after supper...?

Unfortunately, it hadn't played out quite like that, because when he came in, Hermione was bent over her manuscript, pen working. She looked deeply involved and not terribly amorous.

"Still at it, love?"

"Almost done." She poked her tongue out and scratched a bit more. Draco didn't know whether to be charmed or appalled she'd got so far. She had, so far as he knew, eighty odd pages (and the Letters were only fifty six!) and gave no indication of getting bored.

All the same, he felt a strange pride, watching her work. She'd done what she said she would, and from the glimpses he'd sneaked, he thought she'd done it well. Parkinson, he had to admit, would not have.

Strange. He'd not thought of her in weeks. He felt a slight pang, not painful, but startling. He didn't love her-had he ever? Or had he simply wanted a well bred wife to lie with?- but he felt he owed her more than being forgot entirely.

"How do you feel, love?"

"Fine, Draco. Yourself?"

"I'd welcome a bit of company." There, he'd said it. Hermione nodded and set down her quill, silently undoing the fastenings on her robes.

"Angel, I didn't mean...unless you want you."

Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak. How could she tell him she never wanted to? Draco was, she had to admit, not bad looking in an objective sense. Not to her taste, perhaps, but not ugly.

And he was surprisingly considerate when it came to...this. He'd never pushed, never demanded, never done or said the slightest thing that might hurt or embarrass her. But the fact remained that Hermione didn't want to have intercourse with him.

She laid down all the same, and Draco pulled his own clothing off and helped her lie back on the nest of pillows and bolsters the elves put there so they could read in bed.

Draco spelled down the lights and began to kiss her, lightly brushing her collar bones, her chest, the tops of her breasts. Hermione laid under him in polite silence, neither participating or fighting; he got the rather creepy feeling she was nearly a spectator in her own body.

"I mean it, darling. If you aren't in the mood, you needn't say yes."

Hermione sighed. "I don't mind." That was the best she could do for him, but at least it wasn't rejection. She'd swore and meant to keep her oath, but the oath hadn't mentioned liking what they did in bed.

"Is it the pain, love? We could get you a potion to-"

"No! I mean, I honestly don't mind. It hardly hurts at all anymore."

Draco cringed, face hidden by shadows. He could smell the slightest tinge of raw panic, a carefully controlled, almost unconscious burst of fear that Hermione shoved down the second it reared up in her.

But it hurt him, almost physically, that she didn't want to take a potion he gave her. No doubt she would if told-Hermione was nothing if not dutiful, he had to admit- but he found himself craving more than that.

Draco laid down and pulled the covers over both of them. The fur was warm and soft, each tiny hair tickling them and snuggling them both. He extinguished the candles entirely and for a few moments they lay in the darkness silently, side by side.

"What can we do to help with this, precious?"

"I never said no. If you want to, don't refrain." Hermione was starting to feel resentment. He could use her any time he liked; was that not enough, that he needed to rub it in as well? Did he want her to beg him for it like a dog?

Draco had never expected his wife-whomever it was, Parkinson or Hermione-to have urges like he had. Everyone knew women didn't. And as far as he was concerned, it was rather a nasty business anyhow, especially as Hermione seemed to find it both painful and shaming.

But he had the uncomfortable sense he was being dishonourable somehow. As bizarre as Draco's morals were, he recoiled from the idea of forcing himself on a woman. Everyone knew women were entitled to their modesty, and that a man who'd take it raped and stole at the same time. Draco had seen his fellow Death Eaters enjoying that sort of sport and it made him sick, in body and spirit.

"That's very brave of you, love. It is."

"No, it isn't." Hermione rolled on her side, facing the windows, and breathed the cold sea air. Draco spooned her and snuggled so his chest was against her spine. He wanted to kiss her neck desperately.

"Are you...having urges?"

"Always."

She half rolled. 'Sorry?"

Draco knew he'd been vulgar and ungentlemanly and should beg forgiveness. But he couldn't help it; instead, he smirked and lightly poked her ribs. She huffed and rolled back over. 'I mean, is it the veela thing?"

Veela thing. Draco was surprised how much it hurt to hear that. He didn't want it thought of like that- it was part of him, like his bones, but certainly not the only part. Is that what she thought, that everything he did, he did for that reason?

"Is it so strange that I'd like to because I want to be close to you?"

Hermione realised as soon as he spoke that she'd hurt him. His voice had a slight raggedness to it, an unevenness. Was he hurt? Or had she simply pricked his masculine vanity?

"I didn't mean it that way."

"No?"

"You've never asked me when it wasn't that, Draco. Was I supposed to know this was different on instinct?"

Fair, he had to admit. Draco breathed the blackness of the room and listened to the tide. 'I've asked when it wasn't."

"When?"

"Our wedding day."

Hermione rolled to face him. "It was that then, too. You told me you'd stop being so...concerned...once we'd consummated it."

"Oh." Draco breathed a bit more. 'I did."

"I know." Hermione remembered their first time with absolutely no nostalgia whatsoever. It had just been an embarrassing necessity, like a pelvic exam, and no more personal.

Draco remembered things rather differently. The first nap they'd ever taken together...holding her while she cried the first time...that night, when he knew she'd be there when he woke...he'd been so deliriously happy he couldn't believe it.

And now what? At the surface, he had the ideal Pureblood situation; he lived in an ancestral home with a wife who was perfectly willing to do whatever he liked, and his parents were there as well. Why wasn't he happy?

"I'd like a walk, Hermione. Will you be all right by yourself?"

Hermione nodded. "I'm sleepy, actually. Wake me when you come back. If you want to, I mean."

Draco waited until she'd rolled on her stomach and nestled into the pillows to take his leave. Donning his clothes, he padded from the room and walked aimlessly toward the battlements, hoping to find some perspective in all this.

He settled on the hard stone, back to the castle, and simply relaxed, trying to find something in himself he could draw on for this. A moment later, he heard a discreet sound and turned to find his father studying him.

"Hello, Draco. Not contemplating trying to fly, are you?"

"Not without a broom, Father. Does Mother know you're up?"

"No, and you shan't tell her, unless you'd like me to transfigure you into an aphid."

Draco grinned. "Wouldn't."

"Would. That's how Nero Malfoy dealt with his brother, Drusus, when the former presumed to take his pudding when they were children."

"I thought he simply pinched him until he cried."

"That's what they'd have you believe." Draco snorted and abruptly put his arms about his father.

"Something wrong, love?" Draco stepped back, looking abashed.

"Everything. An aphid?"

"It's a sacred family tradition."

"That you've just now invented."

"Which renders it no less sacred. Everything is quite a lot, you know."

"Hermione is...is..."

"Not co-operating?"

"No, she is. She's willing. But it makes her unhappy."

Lucius sighed softly. "One can't expect a woman to feel about it as men do, Draco."

"She asked me if I wanted it because of the veela...the veela part of me."

"Did you?"

Draco felt no shame to be discussing this with his father. He had no cultural expectations otherwise, after all. 'No. I just wanted to be close to her."

"Did you tell her that?"

Draco bit his lip. "To what end? She'll say yes if I ask her, but she doesn't..."

"She's not doing it for love, is that right? Just to please you?"

"Yes." Why couldn't he happy with that? That she wanted to please him? 'Shouldn't that be enough?"

"No." Lucius Malfoy gave his son a gentle little shake. 'If one wants obedience, Draco, one buys a house elf."

Draco looked as though he'd been slapped, so Lucius pressed on. 'One can't share a life of the mind with a house elf, Draco. You can with Hermione."

"Not like this. She won't let me."

Lucius wished he could fix this, but he couldn't exactly march into the bedroom and demand the girl love his son, could he? (Could he?) He'd simply have to give Draco the best advice he could and hope the boy used it well.

"But you say she's always amenable to you?"

"Always. I made her swear that night."

"I remember. And you think that's why?"

"Of course it is." Draco looked bitter, almost angry. 'She hasn't seen Weasley or Potter in months and they've still managed to muck everything up nicely."

"Time will help, Draco. And you mustn't expect too much, too soon. Hermione was happy."

"She could be happy now if she'd let herself."

"Could she?"

"Don't see why not."

Lucius had to smile at his son's stubbornness and the fact his voice had taken on a petulant quality that he'd not heard since the boy was, what, twelve?

"I'm proud of how gentle and patient you've been, Draco. Just keep it up and everything will improve."

He didn't tell his son what he was really thinking. That it might not, for one. Perhaps this was just the best Hermione could do. And even if it wasn't, Lucius wondered if Draco understood how unlikely his desire for a passionate love match was-the girl had been, thus far, and exemplary daughter in law, and wife, from what he could tell.

But Lucius had seen many things in life, and one of them was his observation that marriages made with unwilling people generally don't produce bone searing passion, or even strong emotion. He didn't doubt that the girl would grown fond of his son-who wouldn't?-but he strained to see it getting much beyond that. Their bonds would be children and running the household and familiarity, after a while. It would serve. It would have to.

But he couldn't bring himself to say that to his son. And he might be wrong-certainly, stranger things had happened. 'Keep your expectations reasonable, Draco."

Draco nodded. 'Yes, Father. Is Mother all right?"

"She's tired, Draco. It's been a strain on her, to say the least."

"All of us." Draco was thinking of what he'd seen, and the year he'd spent waiting to die because he didn't hate an old man enough to kill him.

"Quite. Think on what I said, hmmm?"

"Yes, Father."

"And take that wretched orange fleabag, he's quite colonised my pillow."

"He'll colonise mine."

"Yes." Lucius looked blandly at his son until Draco laughed. 'Father!"

"Do you remember, Draco, that time you poured ink on my desk. You were two, I believe."

"A bit. It was fun."

"Mmm. This is my revenge, then."

"Hermione will cabal with him if I let him back in."

"I'm caballing with him now. Which is more dangerous?"

Draco wrinkled his forehead. 'Depends, I would say."

"Miserable child. Take your wife's cat and go on." They went inside, and Lucius plucked a sack of suet and hair from his pillow and handed him to his son.

Draco carried the cat back to the bedroom. Hermione was sleeping, and Draco put Crookshanks down and quietly undressed, slipping under their robes and moving her so she lay on his chest.

In the bedroom, Narcissa rolled over and gave her husband a long look. "Lucius?"

"Yes, love?"

She was still doing it. "Lucius."

"Hmm?." Lucius pretended to ignore her, but he couldn't, not for long, not since he was sixteen and had seen Andromeda Black's beautiful sister, shy as a doe, standing on the very edge of the pitch, watching as they flew, blushing slightly. She's not changed, he told himself, and meant it. Hardly at all.

"Healer Stone said you shouldn't be up and about."

"Young people these days, impudent as anything. You and I were doing magic when he was wearing nappies."

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy."

Lucius sighed loudly. 'You know me altogether to well, Cissy."

"Speaking of impudent, what were you saying to our son?"

Lucius raised an eyebrow. 'Does anything happen you don't know about?"

Narcissa considered. 'In Peru, perhaps. But only once or twice."

Lucius laughed and kissed her, and told her everything. Narcissa frowned, her forehead wrinkling like Draco's was prone to do.

"It's so much harder than when he was small."

"It is. Do you suppose we could distract him with a sweet?"

Narcissa shook her head. 'If anyone needs distracted, it's Hermione."

"Best of luck. If I don't run the cat, I'm running them both. That child has never had an unserious thought in her life."

"Would he could teach her to play. That would ease things."

Lucius shook his head. 'He's tried. She's just too serious."

"No cause is hopeless, I daresay."

"Time?"

"Time." They laid in silence another moment, until Lucius cracked his neck rapidly. 'I could do with a sweet myself, actually."

Narcissa giggled, feeling young again. 'Do you remember when we'd sneak down to the kitchens when we were expecting Draco?"

"Father was furious."

"I know." She giggled again and nestled against him for a moment. 'Since you've already disobeyed the medi-wizard..."

Lucius rose and handed over her dressing gown. Narcissa skinned into it, and they made their way to the kitchens, feeling slightly silly and very lighthearted. As they ate their quaking pudding, they discussed potential ways to alleviate the situation between the children.

The children themselves were in bed. Hermione woke up. 'Draco?"

"Hmm?" He set down the magazine he'd been reading and smiled. Hermione felt the cold air nipping her skin, and considered closing the window against it. Her body felt anchored to the bed, and warm, and alive, so instead, she pressed her lips to his.

Draco was so incredibly startled that all he could do was blink rapidly. 'Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"What-what-"

She couldn't tell him it was because she was nineteen and alive, and the salt air was sweetly chilled and that she ached in her bones. Words would never convey a thing like that, and even if they could, Draco had no poetry in his soul. More than Ron did, perhaps, but still not much.

Instead, she let him slide atop her, and this time it didn't hurt at all. Draco was careful to go slowly and be gentle and whisper sweetly to distract her as he thrust, and Hermione lay still and felt their heat displacing the cold night air, making a pocket about the both of them.

And Crookshanks sat in the corner, smugness in every line of his body. After the humans had done (and what an ugly thing it was, all angles and bare pink flesh! How glorious it is to be a cat!) the elves came and silently drew baths for both of them.

As his Girl was washed, Crookshanks came and sat by the tub, smirking as much as he could at the elf, who ignored him.

Had Draco been asked, he would have had no insight into his wife's bizarre yet heartening change. Crookshanks would have sneezed derisively at the idea that the Male had done anything-nature, he would have said drily, does tend to take her course.