Hey, chocolaterox pointed out that my silliness is rather fluff-like. I know what you mean, I have always had difficulties incorporating non-fluffy silliness. But, I'm going to try my damndest to add silliness in this story that isn't just fluff. If it doesn't turn out all too well, then I apologize, but I'm going to do my best! Oh, and thank you very much for the critical criticism chocolaterox. For that I give you e-chocolate. Or, perhaps a chocolate covered Draco in a future chapter. (Haha, I can totally see that as a prank of sorts!!!!!!!) 3

This chapter will involve some silliness. I mean, come on: Draco in a Muggle home. What CAN'T go wrong?

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The only thing I may get published is an essay on garlic in antiquity (which I am proud of), but other than that, I own nothing and, no, there are no references to Harry Potter in my essay. Sorry.

Chapter 5

Welcome to the Grangers

The letter was sitting on the kitchen table the next morning, pale white envelope standing starkly against the dark mahogany wood. They found it odd, rather peculiar to see the letter there, with no sign of an owl anywhere in the room. They assumed that it had nibbled on the various fruits sitting neatly in a bowl nearby, and had promptly left through the window kept open for the sake of keeping the fire alive.

She immediately recognized her mother's neat and tidy writing, the way she curled the bottom of her g's made it more than recognizable as her mother's.

Draco rummaged through the fridge, knowing that it was well past breakfast and the Great Hall would be void of all foodstuffs. Yanking out the milk, he listened as she tore open the letter.

"Hm."

He tilted his head at the noise, turning to look to her as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. "What is it?"

She lowered the letter, folding it neatly before placing it on the table. "My parents are inviting us to supper tomorrow night."

Cereal clattered onto the counter as he stared at her, heedless of the capacity of the bowl and how it was now overflowing with the sugary breakfast food. His mouth twitched, jaw hanging open, jerking slightly to the side as he gawked at her.

"Wh…what did you just say?'

She shrugged, having expected his response, and moved over to tilt the box so that no more of the food would be pouring out. "My parents want us to come over for supper; they want to get to know you."

"How do they even know we're together?"

Her cheeks blushed with embarrassment as she focused a little too much on cleaning the mess. He slowly turned on the spot, watching as she fidgeted with the cereal, already hearing the answer in his mind before she even spoke it.

"I told them."

"Why the hell would you tell them? For all we know, they'll go blabbing to Old Weaslette and then everyone will know! You told me you wanted to wait before telling everyone because of Weasel and his stupidity!"

He was mad, that was certain. Annoyed at the fact that they had to keep it a secret, irritated that she went ahead and told her parents without letting him know, and irked that the only reason their relationship was being kept in the dark was because of her stupid friends.

"Draco," she said in a deceptively calm voice; she was just as irritated as him at the situation, "I told my parents because I trust them and cannot lie to them. They, least of all, deserved to hear the truth than the lies we've been spreading."

"But how do you know they won't…?"

"I told you," she said, turning around to give him a fierce look, "I trust them. They understand our situation, they know how Ron is and has been during Christmas break, and they promised me that they would tell no one unless I gave them permission."

"So you performed a vow?"

"We don't need to perform some magical spell in order to keep a secret," she sighed. "They're my parents, I'm their daughter, we have a mutual understanding, trust and love for each other that is unconditional and creates a strong bond than any vow."

Huffing loudly, he crossed his arms. "They've been staying with the Weasels, how can you be so sure that they aren't telling the whole lot right now?"

Hands on hips, she took one menacing step forward and if looks could kill, he would have been obliterated on the spot. "We trust each other," she snapped. "Just how you trust me and I trust you, my parents and I trust each other. If they promised not to tell anyone, then I know that they won't. Not everyone has the same relationship with their parents like you did."

His face fell briefly, shock sliding over his features before the muscles relaxed with such speed that his mouth was left hanging ajar. Less than a second pass before the muscles tensed, jaw clamping shut, cheeks taut, and brow knitted furiously as his eyes reflected every possible negative emotion for a single human being to feel.

She felt the pain radiate off of his body, felt the anger burning his core, and regret thrummed through her in a quick beat, urging her to step forward and apologise until she was exhausted from it.

She reached out tentatively, hand trembling as tough fearful of what might happen if it made contact with his body. He drew away before they ever made contact, body jerking violently to the side to avoid her touch as his eyes glowed fiercely. Thunder clouds, dark and menacing, flickering from the brilliantly dangerous flashes of lightning that shot down to kill anyone in their path.

"Don't."

His voice was like the thunder to the lightning of his eyes, deep and rumbling, hoarse and laced with anger that could only ever be surpassed by the rage he felt when he thought that her love had been a sham.

"Draco…I'm sorry…"

"Sorry for what?" He snapped now, quick, like the short but violent echoes of thunder that swiftly followed the lightning. "Sorry because my parents didn't give a damn about keeping my secrets? Sorry that my dad thought more about his own life than mine? What are you so sorry about? Or are you regretting ever saying that?"

Her body tensed, ready to fight back with just much aggression as him, hands clenching at her sides as she prepared for a vicious rebuttal. But instead, the only thing that came out of her mouth was a loud sigh of annoyance, directed more towards herself than anything else in the world.

"I always say the worst things," she mumbled, rubbing her face.

"Not at all, you're the nicest fucking person in the world," he growled.

"Oh sod off!" she cried. "I'm sick and tired of you getting so bloody angry every time I say something stupid. I'm sorry for being tactless and horrible with social situations, I'm sorry your father was a bloody prat, and I am not sorry that the man got what he deserved! Are you happy now?"

"No! I'm not." He turned away from her, running his hands over his face as he heaved a breath. She was right; he always overreacted. But, could he really blame himself? It wasn't like he'd had the perfect life most had assumed he'd had; his father had either never been there or had been too busy setting himself up as the authoritative figure to give a damn about his son and wife. His mother had been growing listless in the final years, even more so since the death of his father. It was almost as though she had attached her life force to his, and he saw the blame in the woman's eyes whenever they looked at each other. Gone were the sweet gazes and gentle words, the kind touches had disappeared, the smell of her attempts to bake, the sound of her singsong voice echoing throughout the house.

She had been replaced with a shell, a woman who had lost her husband and, or so she believed, her son. He knew she spent her time thinking that she had done a horrendous job raising him, knew that she saw of him as a failure; what kind of son kills his father? He still loved her, still cared for her, but it hurt to see the accusatory looks every second her gaze met his.

His parents were not like Hermione's, who, when he had seen them that one time in second year, seemed so warm and inviting. She spoke of them with high regards, her eyes glowed whenever she spoke of them, there was love and devotion in her voice, and now she spoke of their trust.

There was never any trust between his parents and him, never any love, at least not in the last few years. Once he had turned fifteen, everything had changed. Once the menace of Voldemort stepped back into their lives, the little trust that they had had between each other had completely dissipated.

It was only natural for him to be upset with her; she compared her loving family to his cold one, had snapped at him the truth that he had wanted to avoid for years.

The only family he had were imprisoned murders and empty shells, and those who might have shown love had been killed by his own blood or by those his father supported.

Perhaps if Sirius Black had lived, he might have been given a chance of a loving family member once his mother deteriorated, maybe if Tonks came to accept him as her nephew, she might provide him with the loving embraces his mother now neglected to grace him with.

Maybe, perhaps, what if…all of these uncertain futures, all of these regrets…it hurt so much to think about, but he could not stop thinking about it.

The tears were sliding down his face before he could even register them, hell; he felt the warm arms around his before the scalding tears even made a dent in his mind. Her breath was gentle against his neck, her whispered words sweet against his flesh, and her touch warm and comforting as she pressed his body to hers.

He wanted to relax at her touch, wanted to melt while her arms were wrapped tightly around his body, pressing hers gently but firmly against his. His eyes were shut; he didn't even remember closing them, and her lips were pressed against the back of his ear.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, holding him tighter as his body trembled in her embrace. "I didn't know…I was tactless…" She didn't need him to tell her what was wrong, didn't need to hear the whole story of his life, all she knew was that something happened in his life that made her words feel worse than a knife to the heart.

She saw his tears, saw the pain in his face and body, swore that would smell it if it exuded a scent of any kind, and she wanted to do nothing more than to take it away.

'This is love,' she thought softly, 'wanting to take away all of his pain, no matter what.'

He heaved a loud breath, leaning his head back to sigh loudly as he shut his eyes against the pain. She had no idea why he was upset, no clue as to why her words hurt him so, and yet, she was willing to console him without a question.

If that wasn't love, then he had no idea what it was.

But it didn't mean a part of him didn't want to throttle her.

"You are horrible tactless," he breathed out, turning in her embrace to look down at her.

Her amber eyes wavered, unable to look into his watery grey orbs, frightened at the way the tears clung to his lashes, terrified at the idea that something in his life had hurt him enough to make him cry. The storm clouds were gone, lighter in colour, very much reminiscent to the sky after a gentle shower.

The raindrops were his tears…

"I don't need to know why," she said softly, leaning up to kiss away his tears. "I don't want your life story; I just want to say I'm sorry for being a prat."

"I should hate you."

Her eyes lifted, panic lacing through them as her lashes fluttered wildly.

"I should…my education has taught me to hate you. I was born and raised to despise every part of you, and even now, I should hate you for what you said. I should throttle you, call you every foul name I know, and refuse to be near you ever again." He exhaled softly, tilting his head down to press his lips to her hair. "But, being the git I am, I can't. You hurt me…just the fact that you can hurt me is more than enough reason to stay away. But I can't bear the thought of staying away from you."

This time, her tears clung to her lashes, like diamonds glittering in the morning sun. "I'm sorry…I'll think before I speak."

He shook his head. "Don't apologise, Hermione. It's your nature to fight back, you don't care about the consequences, you say what's on your mind, and you fight back with every weapon you have. I hate and love you because of it."

She felt her lips curl into a smile at the compliment, her eyes glittering with unshed tears as she gazed up at him. "We are hopeless, aren't we?"

His hand was stroking her hair, an act that calmed him more than it did her, easing the pain away at the feel of her in such close proximity, the sensation of her heart beating against his in a timeless dance of love and compassion. Her warmth was soothing, her breath gentle against his cheeks, and her soul unbelievably beautiful, no matter what they said to each other.

"Why is that?"

Her lips twitched, the smile broadening as she pressed closer to him, enjoying the feel of his warmth. "Because, we just can't stop arguing…I think we love it too much. But…but I think we'll both learn what we can and can't say in an argument…especially me. Even though I think I should always be allowed to say what I want."

He couldn't help but grin down at her as the last bit of pain faded away, the memories dissipating into smoke as the present became once more the centre of his attention. "Remember, Hermione, there's always a line. I know you, I know that you will always say what you want, and I love that, but there's a line that should never be crossed. Or…"

"It will go from an argument to something hurtful," she finished with a nod. "I know…and again, I was being quite tactless."

He pressed his lips against her forehead, his smile soothing against her skin. "As long as you realize that."

They stood like that for some time, his lips against her forehead, her body pressed gently against his, unaware of the passing time, unheeding to the forgotten food that lay on the counter and floor, ignoring every outside force until a soft laugh bubbled out of her mouth.

Arching a brow, he glanced down at her, curious to know the reason behind her laughter.

"I'm sorry," she giggled, unable to stop the laughter from increasing. "But…this is so odd. I feel like we should be standing at either end of the room, screaming at each other, instead of…this." She gestured to their position, eyes glowing with mirth.

He grinned down at her, pressing several kisses to the dimples in her cheeks, hugging her laughing form closer to his. "I can think of something more productive we could be doing…"

"Do you still want to meet my parents, even after my tactless words?" she interrupted, pulling away from his embrace to look him in the eyes.

His shrug indicated nonchalance, but she knew that a small part of him still hurt over her words. They would work on that, she thought. By the end of this school year, she planned on knowing every little thing about him, and planned on telling him every little secret she had. For now, however, they would have to enjoy the moment.

"I suppose so." He tugged her closer, pressing several kisses to the corner of her mouth. "Now, where were we…?"

Rolling her eyes in disbelief, unable to understand just why he felt like shagging after she had just hurt his feelings – what a masochist – she pulled out of his arms, grabbing the letter on the counter.

"I'm going to write back right away," she said with a laugh.

His hands twitched in the air, as though he itched to grab her and kiss her. Damn, he loved it when she smiled like that, especially after they argued. It washed away the pain and guilt and made him realize that, no matter what was said and done, at the end of it all, she would be smiling at him and his heart would only love her more.

Right now, however, he just wanted to kiss and ravish her, and his little minx was waving some damn letter around.

"But…"

"Enjoy your cereal," she said, tapping with the parchment. "I'll confirm that we will come down to visit them tomorrow night for supper, and I'll notify Headmistress McGonagall."

He sighed heavily as she rushed up the stairs and listened as she rummaged through her belongings for parchment and quill to reply. The sigh extended as he realized just what he had done.

He was going to meet Hermione's parents…Muggle teeth doctors…he was not looking forward to it.

He had formulated every possible argument and had voiced every single one, he had distracted her by pointing at paintings and suits of armour as he created new ways to prevent the inevitable from happening, but, at the all of it all, his efforts were in vain and only resulted with a very annoyed Hermione and a rather tardy arrival in Hogsmeade.

According to her, they would be Apparating into the backyard of her parents' home, which was located in a suburban part of London. He had himself prepared for the worst, always thinking that Muggles lived in small, cramped places, without lights and working only by candlelight.

That was a lie…he knew what Muggle buildings looked like and had heard of their infamous electricity. What it was and how it worked, was completely unknown to him; all he knew was that it made glass bulbs light up like candles, those weird screen-boxes to turn on and show the shrunken people inside, and the variations fridges and stoves to hum and sizzle.

"Won't it be cold?" he wondered aloud as they neared their Apparition point.

Hermione rolled her eyes for the thousandth time that night, resisting the urge to give the man a good, hard smack. "Honestly, I have no idea what I'm going to do with you," she sighed, pushing him along when he paused to wait for her answer. "We use air conditioners and heaters."

"What's an air conditioner?"

"You are the single-most annoying being in the existence of all mankind," she groaned, sliding on ice when he almost refused to budge. "Walk and I'll tell you."

When he took a few steps forward, she heaved one more sigh and followed him, making sure that she would be able to shove him forward in case he decided to stop again for an undetermined amount of time.

"So, what are they?"

She cursed; a low rumbling sound that delighted him; his sweet Hermione was turning into a real Slytherin-girl!

"An air conditioner," she began before he could ask again, "is an electronic device that, when attached to the vents throughout a house, shoots cool air into the house once it gets too hot."

"How does it know it's too hot?"

"There is a thermometer placed in the house, an electronic one, that records the temperature of the home. A pre-set base, or comfortable, temperature is programmed into the thermometer and the air or heat turns on according to whether the temperature is too high or too low."

"So," he began slowly, "this device is powered by that curious electricity you use, and it heats up or cools down a house according to a preset temperature?"

"Yes."

"Bloody brilliant!"

"Yes, I know, now walk!"

He marched on, a childish grin on his face as she grumbled and groaned behind him, pleased with his current learning experience. Throughout his childhood, he had been forced to stray away from the Muggle lifestyle; he had been taught that they were barbaric in their lack of magic and beneath them because of such. Now, since the beginning of his reform years ago and since meeting Hermione Granger, he was learning that Muggles were, most likely, above wizards. They made due with what they had and exploited and created things that would help them live comfortable lives without magic. They had this fascinating electricity, which he had no clue how it worked, that powered so many devices that kept them in touch in spite of long distances or provided heat and comfort. They had aeroplanes, trains, and cars that helped them travel long-distances in shorter periods of time, they had ways of creating clothes that were easy, they had these amazing, invisible libraries filled with information and text located within the depths of the strange and confusing Internet, and damn him, they had created an infinite array of weapons and fashions to kill.

He was quite pleased and excited to learn more about this fascinating group of individuals.

The Apparition was more difficult for him than usual; he had to hold onto Hermione and rely on her to relocate them; he had not clue where her home might be located. It was a little more painful than usual, expected to say the least, but it was not horrendous.

He, embarrassingly, stumbled when they landed on a patch of cool snow in the backyard of a quaint home. As he sat up, ignoring the cool feeling of the snow soaking through his pants, he looked around at the small yet comfortable backyard. The fence was lined with cedars, snow hanging in thick patches on the leaves. There was a deck, on top of which rested a table and a barbecue, the first of which was covered by a thick layer of snow, the latter of which rested near the backdoor, as clean as the path that trailed from the backdoor to the stairs of the deck.

Getting to his feet, he looked over the home, quite pleased with what he saw; he expected nothing less from the people who raised someone like Hermione. It was a modest two-story home, the colour of which he was unable to determine due to the fading light of 4 o'clock in the afternoon, but he assumed that it was brick with several sections paint an eggshell or white hue. The roof was tiled, and the windows were simple and white.

Hermione had already brushed off any snow on her legs and turned to him, offering him her hand. He gently grasped it in his own, squeezing it gently, more to ease his nerves and excitement than to comfort her, and she slowly led the way onto the deck.

"My parents are expecting us. We can leave our shoes at the backdoor, because we will be Apparating from the backyard when it is time to leave." She turned to smile at him as they arrived at the backdoor, which remained covered by a sheer curtain on the other side. "Don't be nervous."

"Easy for you to say," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair; he wanted to look presentable, at the very least. "They aren't going to hurt me, will they?"

How many times was she going to sigh tonight? It was only four and she had already lost count.

"No."

"What if they try to experiment on my body?"

"They are not mad scientists."

"What if they try to examine my teeth?"

He shouted the last words, as though it was the most horrifying thought to ever cross his mind.

She stared at him, trying her hardest to keep a straight face when all she wanted to do was burst into laughter. He looked downright serious, body tense, eyes wide with fear, and he shook like the last leaf in a windy autumn day.

"I'm sorry…I can't…" she cried, her words ending on a loud laugh as his words repeated over and over in her mind. It was just too silly, the idea that he was terrified at the thought of her parents examining his teeth.

The back door opened to such a sight, Hermione leaning on the wall, laughing so hard tears poured from her eyes, Draco standing to the side, looking uncomfortable and annoyed.

Needless to say, Jean was quite baffled at the scene and could only stand in the doorway, arms crossed, wondering just what had happened to cause such a ruckus.

The very second Draco's eyes met hers, his cheeks mottled red and he began fiddling with his hair and every piece of clothing he had on. This caused Hermione's laughter to increase and she was soon heaving for air, unable to laugh any longer.

Ignoring her daughter's shrill giggles, Jean smiled over to Draco, who was now adjusting his scarf, as though it would make him more presentable. "You must be Draco."

He nodded, as though afraid of blurting out the wrong thing and either making a fool of himself or insulting the family.

"I'm Hermione's mother, Jean Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, reaching out a hand in greeting.

Swallowing thickly, he reached out and clasped her hand in his, a little part of his upbringing trying to tell him that in touching a Muggle he was now tainted. The reformed and stronger side, however, reminded him that the only way he would ever be tainted was through having sex with Weasel, and it managed to calm some of his nerves.

"Draco Malfoy and the pleasure is all mine," he said, rather glad that his voice was void of annoyance – directed to the laughing bushy haired girl – and nervousness.

"Oh mum," Hermione giggled, wiping away her tears as she turned to face her mother. "You should have heard him. It was hilarious! Did you know he asked me... mmphf!"

Draco's hand was quickly wrapped over his lover's lips, sealing whatever words she had to say within her mouth. He grinned up at Jean before turning to Hermione. "Now, I don't think it's the time to say such things. Let us get in and relax before you start telling stories."

Hermione's curses were muffled by his hand, but her elbow could not be stopped from digging into his diaphragm and winding him. Jean watched the couple scuffle, one hand on her hip, and she couldn't help but let out a few chuckles.

"Come on, you two, supper is almost ready." Leaving the door open, she turned and went back into the kitchen.

"Please don't tell her what I said," Draco whispered to Hermione in a pleading voice as they banged their boots on the edge of the backdoor.

"Why?" she hissed, stepping onto the mat inside of the house, bending over to remove one boot.

"Because it's embarrassing," he whispered, stepping in after her to remove his boots, shutting the door behind him.

Rolling her eyes, she placed her boots on the side of the mat and adjusted her jeans, rolling up the hems just a bit to stop them from dragging on the floor. "Fine, but only if you promise to tell them what you said after supper."

He grumbled quietly behind her, placing his boots next to hers, before nodding. "Fine."

Now pleased that the inevitable was pushed further away, hoping that Hermione would somehow forget about it, he lifted his head to take a look at the home. He had to admit that he was rather surprised; Muggle homes were not unlike Wizarding homes. They were currently in a dining room, although much smaller in size than the one he had at one, it was homely, with pale peach walls, a classic dinnerware cabinet holding various pieces of china and silverware that looked to be more family heirlooms than purchased goods, and a lovely, average sized table taking up most of the room.

To their right was a doorway leading into what had to be the kitchen, a small window of sorts cut into the wall, very much resembling a serving window or counter. Inside, he could saw that the room was decorated with various little kitchen-related articles, a cow-spotted milk jug resting by the stove, two salt and pepper shakers shaped like little round people, and a colourful fruit bowl filled with various fruit.

What baffled him most was the stove; there was no fire, no evident sign of heat at all; the top looked like a simple slab of black that, as he neared, had rings drawn on it in all four corners, each one varying in size; two large, two small.

"How does that work?"

The words were out before he could stop them, and Hermione chuckled loudly while Jean jumped, having not heard either person step into the kitchen.

"Oh my," she breathed, leaning on the counter, one hand pressed to her chest. "Please, a little warning next time before you decide to sneak up on me."

"Sorry mum," Hermione answered.

Draco, however, was undeterred in his pursuit for knowledge and repeated the question on the workings of the stove. Jean blinked several times while Hermione switched between giggles and sighs.

"Sorry again, mum; he keeps asking all of these questions on how Muggle appliances work," Hermione said, moving out of the kitchen briefly to step into the main hallway, removing her coat and scarf to hang them onto the banister of the stairs by the main entrance.

"Oh, well," Jean said, unable to stop herself from smiling. "We use electricity." She gestured for the blond boy to step over beside her, shoving the panel on the back of the stove. "See this?"

"It looks like…what is it again…one of those clocks that Hermione told me about. A digit-all clock, right?"

"Digital," Hermione corrected from the doorway, watching with pleasure as her mother trying to explain the workings of an electric stove to the poor Wizard.

"Close enough," he said with a wave, pleased enough that he remembered what it was.

Jean giggled, and nodded, continuing in describing the workings of an electric stove to the poor man. Just as she was about finished, Hermione's father stepped into the kitchen, having finally vacated the living room couch to greet his daughter and her lover.

"Hermione, dear," he said with a smile, taking his daughter in a hug to plant a fatherly kiss on her cheek.

"Hi dad," she replied, stepping back to interrupt the conversation between Draco and Jean to introduce her father. "Draco, this is my father, Robert, dad, this is Draco Malfoy."

Draco looked distraught at the idea that his learning experience was being interrupted, but smiled at Hermione's father, reaching out to take his hand in a friendly greeting. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Granger."

"Please, call me Robert."

Nodding, Draco smiled at the man, quite pleased that someone with such a kind face was the father of the woman he loved.

"Well then," Jean sighed after a moment's silence, "is someone going to help me with supper, or are you all going to stand around the kitchen?"

"We'll help," Hermione offered before Draco could object, "just let Draco take his coat off."

Once she had dragged and nearly torn the poor man's jacket off, hanging it on top of hers, she tugged him back into the kitchen, washed up, and they began the process of helping Jean out.

"So," Draco said, quite pleased in having successfully mastered – at least he thought he had mastered it – the method of chopping carrots with a knife, "Mrs. Granger, can you show me how to work a microwave?"

"It's Jean dear," Hermione's mother replied from where she stood by the stove, adjusting the heat level for the potatoes. "And why would you want to know how to work a microwave?"

"Draco," Hermione sighed from across the kitchen table – which he noticed was smaller than the one in the dining room –, pausing in her preparations of beans to glare at him. "You are not allowed outside help; it's the rule."

"But that's not really fair," he replied, examining a carrot piece, debating as to whether or not it was too thick or thin. "You already have an advantage, being a Muggle and all."

"I know about as much about cinematography as you know about microwaves," she reminded her.

Jean watched the couple with curiosity, wondering just what they were talking about.

"Mum," Hermione said suddenly, "promise me you won't teach him how to use a microwave."

Blinking, Jean frowned at her daughter. "Why?"

"We made a promise," she replied. "He would learn about microwaves on his own, and I would learn about cinematography. But it can't be a real learning experience unless he does it on his own."

"But how are you supposed to learn about cinnamon-toe-graphy through experience?" Draco replied.

"It's pronounced ci-ne-ma-to-gra-phy," she corrected, "and I have to do research. The learning experience is different, but I'm still learning."

He muttered quietly, dumping his carrots into a bowl before examining an onion. "How do I do this?"

Jean chuckled as she watched Hermione lean over, explaining the process of peeling the outer skin from the onion, showing him how to go about it, and warning him that onions had a tendency to make people cry.

"Malfoys do not cry," Draco said proudly, with an air that made Jean think of a made who was from a rather privileged family and upbringing.

Several seconds later…

"Damn this onion!"

"You're crying."

"I am not!"

"I see those tears."

"I hate this," he whined, sniffling loudly, about half done dicing the onion.

"Do you want to see a trick I use?"

Turning to Jean, Draco nodded, his sniffling and teary eyes making her think of a sad young boy who had lost his favourite toy. She stifled several chuckles and made her way over, beginning the process of explaining how wetting the knife with cold water might help.

Robert stood at the doorway, watching the scene act out, and smiled in spite of himself. He had been nervous that Hermione had fallen head-over-heels for some prat of a man, that, with her past history of boyfriends, she had chosen yet another unsuitable jerk. He had to admit, he was quite pleased with Draco. While the man held himself with an air of sophistication, he was unafraid of asking questions, curious about every little thing he did not know, and showed nothing but care and love for Hermione. He saw the way they looked at each other, even in annoyance, and he knew that there was nothing but devotion and loyalty in each other's eyes.

Robert was, to say the least, more than pleased with his daughter's choice of man, and even more pleased that the two loved each other. He would, however, still have a planned man-to-man discussion with Draco to ensure that the man's intentions were nothing but good.

Until then…'Welcome to the Grangers,' he thought with a smile, moving back to living room, listening as Hermione laughed when Draco asked another silly question.

This was going to be rather eventful.

Okay.

Not as long as the last chapter, but I had to cut it short. I originally intended to dedicate just ONE chapter to Draco and Hermione's supper at the Grangers, but I found I just wrote way too much.

Haha.

So, here's the first half, it will be concluded in the second half, and we may just finally see Jean and Robert's reactions to Draco's dentist-related question.

Now, if some are wondering why Mr and Mrs. Granger are so…accepting and ask few questions, most of these questions will be answered in the next chapter but remember: their daughter is a witch. I'm certain that they've exhausted just about all questions they had on her and her friends, especially when they all first met in Diagon Alley in Hermione's second year. If they do have any questions, they will be reserved for supper, not for during the planning.

I know I made the introductions a bit abrupt, but, again I kind of had to cut this short and I was somewhat distracted in writing the second half (I take the train to school, and someone jumped in front of a Via Rail train – they go REALLY fast – at one of the stops along the way, so I was a bit distracted at the sight of a body on the tracks covered in a blanket – I could still see his feet). So…yeah, I may have not been 100% focused on it, but I did my best considering the circumstances.

So enjoy.

Remember critical criticism is always more than welcome and, with Christmas coming up, I may start putting more recipes.

Oh, and please, in the last chapter, I feel like I got more "Story Alerts" and "Favourites" than reviews. It was somewhat disappointing, because authors thrive on reviews. So, please review. I understand that school is coming to an end and most of you are probably very busy, but I was kind of sad to see only a few reviews.

I may have to put a 5 reviews minimum or no chapter rule up (yes, 5 reviews, due to the amount of reviews I received for the prequel, and I assume most of you are reading this one).

So please, REVIEW! My life depends on it. Not really…but my ego does, and if I start seeing a severe lack of reviews, I just may stop writing this altogether.

Sorry guys, but I write for two main reasons: 1. myself, for my pure enjoyment (and yours, but mostly mine, haha), and 2. to improve in my writing. If I don't receive reviews, if I don't know how my writing is doing, then I see no point. Remember, I plan on making a living out of this, and in order to do so, I need to hear criticism and opinions on my work. I need to know your thoughts on it, or, really there's no point to me posting this anymore. I know that 64 reviews may be a lot for only 5 chapters, but I feel like a lot of your are just favouriting or story alerting and not telling me why or what I can do to improve. I repeat: so please review!!!!!!!

Thank you.