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The English Rose	By : TempestLore Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 20463 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the Harry Potter Universe, nor do I make any profit off of this story or any others.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
The English Rose

Chapter Ten

    “So what do you do with the…what did you call it?” Draco asked as he stood over the gardener, Matthew Murphy watching him work.
     “Sir?” the gardener asked and he looked up at Draco with a befuddled expression.
     “That dirt you’re putting your hands in.”
     “Oh, it’s mulch sir. It help keeps the weeds from taking over. I’m trying to get ahead of the Spring season, Sir.”
     “I see. Do you like this sort of work?” Draco asked. It didn’t look remotely fun to him.
     “I do,” he smiled. “Thank you for hiring me on fulltime. Mum thanks you too,” he said cheerfully as he continued to lay down a thick covering of mulch around the shrubs that lined the front walk of the Estate.
     “Your Mum eh? You still live with your Mum? Aren’t you…twenty?”
     “Twenty-four, Sir.”
     “So marriage just not in the cards for you or what? I’m sorry if I’m prying, Matthew.”
     “Oh, uh, no Sir. Marriage isn’t for me.”
     “Oh? Just haven’t met the right lady…or?”
     “Prefer blokes,” he said and he winked at Draco. “I can take a break and clean up, you know, if you were interested?”
     “No!” Draco said alarmed. “Consequently, why did you think I was interested in you in that way?” he asked, curious as to why he thought he might be gay to begin with. Had he been without the company of a woman so long that he’d lost his sex appeal where the ladies were concerned? This notion plagued his thoughts.
     “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
     “No, no tell me. Speak freely.” The man looked hesitant. Nervous.
     “I—it’s not my place to say.”
     “I’m ordering you to tell me,” Draco said growing annoyed and impatient.
     “You—you just dress, er—I mean you always look fresh and clean. Then there’s the rumors…”
     “What rumors?”
     “That you and the Misses aren’t really a couple.”
     “It that what you little scamps do all day long, gossip about my wife and I?”
     “No, Sir! I knew I should have kept my fat mouth shut.”
     “Matthew relax. Lady Malfoy and I benefited from an arranged marriage. You didn’t misread the situation, sadly. So that’s it then? You figured we were in an arranged marriage because I was gay so you thought, what? That I might want sex from you?”
     “You showed interest in my work and yeah I thought—that. Sorry, Sir.”
     “Apology accepted. I prefer the ladies, one in particular actually, but that hasn’t been going well. I’m hoping that’s about to turn around. Oh and I need another one of your hairs,” Draco said and the gardener smiled and plucked a strand of hair from his head.
     “Do I even want to know what it’s for?”
     “No. In fact, it’s a secret. Official Ministry business, so the need for secrecy is of the utmost importance. Do you understand?”
     “I do, Sir. You’re making a polyjuice potion.”
     “No, I’m not Matthew and never say that again. I’m merely testing out a new potion I brewed for fun, one that changes hair color is all. Just for fun, a bit of a hobby. Understand? It may help with the case against the bandit whose been taking down the checkpoints though. The Dark Lord seems to think that he's been changing his appearance so I'm testing out a theory with my potion.” The gardener shrugged and nodded. “Good, then we’re clear. Carry on,” Draco said as he carefully placed the gardener’s hair into his breast pocket.
     “I actually can’t. I need more mulch and the Misses didn’t give me the galleons for the other supplies I was supposed to get.”
     “Oh? Right then, clean up and meet me by the stables.” The man looked at him with that look again as if he intended to have a roll in the hay with him. “For fucksake, get your mind out the gutter,” Draco spat. “I meant that you can ride along with me. I’ve got to go into town. I just have to fetch Junior. Thought it would do him good to get out of the house a while. Thought we would stop in at the Quidditch shop. It’s about time he got his first broom. You can get more mulch and whatever else you need whilst we’re there,” Draco said and he tossed the man a leather pouch filled with gold galleons.
     “Right away, Sir,” the man said dutifully and Draco just shook his head.
     “Now if I could just be so popular with bloody Granger,” he muttered under his breath.

__0__

     “What’s wrong with him?” I asked, worried beyond belief. As if it wasn’t bad enough that my back still ached like I’d been swung like a ragdoll by a fully grown Mountain Troll, now Little Mal was sick. He’d been sick for days and no normal cold and flu remedy seemed to work at healing the tot. He wasn’t eating and he could barely keep any fluids down and his growing magic was out of control. He’d inadvertently set fire to the curtains in his bedroom, this when he had a violent coughing fit. I put the fire out with ease and the damage was minimal but I was too afraid to have any lanterns around him for fear that his magic would escape him again and the flames would rise up and burn the whole brothel down. It wasn’t just the fire episode either, on more than one occasion since the mysterious sickness struck my beloved little boy had become a bit of a magnet for poltergeists and other strange apparitions when they suddenly appeared in his bedroom. Ghosts. They were all shouting at me, and all at once, so much so I couldn’t hear a bloody word of what they were enraged about. They didn’t seem to bother Mal all that much, though he had told them to shut up so that he could sleep. Finally, after much research that yielded virtually nothing, I caved and took him to the Pureblood Healer. I needed answers as I was dreadfully worried about Malcolm.
     “What’s his blood status?” the Healer asked and I sighed and rolled my eyes.
     “I—he-halfblood,” I admitted with great reluctance. I failed to see what blood status had to do with my son’s illness at all.
     “And your papers say that you are a—“
     “Muggle-Born,” I said before he had the chance to say Mudblood. I was in no mood to hear that particular slur, not when I’d barely slept in days and my nerves were already frazzled.
     “So his Father is a—“
     “Pureblood, yes,” I said with narrowed eyes.
     “I see. Well therein lays the problem.”
     “I fail to see what blood status has to do with Mal’s illness,” I said cradling my son in my arms and stroking the blond hairs from his forehead. He looked so pale and he didn’t feel well at all as he leaned his back against me and rested. “Please, what’s wrong with him?”
     “Your son is exhibiting the signs and symptoms of Squibitis.”
     “What? Squib—itis? My son is becoming a squib—a person with no magic?” I asked in complete shock and horror.
     “It’s not to that stage…yet,” the Healer said with a concerned look upon his cracked and wrinkled face. “Squibitis is the childhood disease that leads to a magical person eventually becoming what society refers to as a squib, however, all it really means is that his magic is unbalanced.”
     “Merlin! This is worse than I thought. Is there a cure, something to reverse this? His magic is strong, too strong at times. I can prove it if you need me to,” I quipped going on the defensive. “Perhaps you’ve misdiagnosed him, what with prejudices against Muggle-Borns and all…You see a Muggle-Born Mum like me and you automatically assume that my child will eventually become a squib,” I scoffed.
     “Miss Winthrop, I am neither prejudice nor stupid,” the man said grumpily. “Your son has stage two Squibitis. The blood test confirmed it. Now do you want to hear more or do you intend to insult me instead?”
     “I’m sorry, Healer McTavish. I’m just so worried. His magic is strong.”
     “Most people who inevitably become squibs also started out with a powerful supply of natural magic. Before a cure was found, by none other than the great Salazaar Slytherin, many magical children from Pureblood families lost their magical ability altogether and became what you and I know as Squibs.”
     “You said it affected Pureblood children? Malcolm is Halfblood as I already told you,” I questioned, ignoring the fact that one of the founders of Hogwarts, a Slytherin nonetheless, was responsible for the cure that inevitably my son would need.
     “That’s because the disease usually strikes within the Pureblood community, but it’s not exclusive to those born of Pureblood persuasion.”
     “You’ll have to explain,” I said, ignoring the reference that Purebloods were a persuasion at all! And he said he wasn’t prejudiced against Muggle-Borns? Ha!
     “Your son is a Halfblood, his father a Pureblood--might I suggest we speak to him about the matter? We really shouldn’t wait.”
     “No!” I responded with a raised voice. The Healer looked at me strangely when I said it. “I mean, I can’t. He was a soldier in Voldemort’s army and he might have died. I—I don’t know how to contact him,” I lied. The last thing I wanted or needed was for Malfoy to find out about Malcolm. I had nightmares at the thought of Ginny raising my son as her own; this after Draco Malfoy took my son from me, which was protocol for unwed Mum’s of illegitimate children. Malfoy had the legal right to take Malcolm from me and that fear plagued my thoughts.
     “That’s unfortunate,” the Healer said with a frown.
     “Why?” I asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.
     “Because there’s a simple cure for Squibitis, if it’s caught soon enough that is. Your son needs a simple blood transfusion from a parent whose magic is stable.”
     “That’s it? Just a blood transfusion and he’ll be cured and he won’t turn into a squib, he’ll keep his magic?”
     “Indeed,” the Healer said and I felt relieved.
     “Well this is the best news I’ve heard all year!” I said gleefully as I removed my knit cardigan and began to roll up the sleeve on my drab dress. Money had been tight since Marcheline quit so I’d been forced to buy only the fabric that was on clearance, hideous fabric that nobody wanted because it resembled a potato sack. “Let’s get started. He can have as much of my blood as he needs.”
     “I wish it were that easy. No, I’m sorry, but your son doesn’t share your magical signature.”
     “What? He’s my son. How is that even possible?”
     “It’s common, Miss Winthrop. Children with strong magical backgrounds from one or both parents tend to take on the magic from one versus both of their parents. How can I explain this better?” the Healer said to himself laying a finger on his chin, deep in thought.
     “Please try,” I urged becoming annoyed.
     “When a baby is born he or she is born with two magical signatures, having both the Mum and the Dad’s magical signature coursing through their tiny bodies. The child will also have the same blood type as one but not both of his parents, unless the parents in question both have the same blood type. So let’s take your son for example since he’s the patient. The tests we ran from the blood sample we took from both you and Malcolm show that you and your son do not share the same blood type. He has his father’s blood type. For that reason alone you could never donate blood to him. Do you understand?”
     “Yes, of course, that is Muggle science,” I said and the Healer cringed when I said it but I didn’t care. This was too important.
     “Your son also has two magical signatures yours and his father’s.”
   “You said that he didn’t have my magical signature and that his magic has become unbalanced?”
     “Yes, it has.”
     “But why? And how do you know that he has his father’s magical signature and not mine?” I asked, hoping to hell I was asking the right questions as I tried to wrap my brain around just what was wrong with my son.
     “He has both magical signatures but yours is the one causing the havoc on his system and causing his magic to be unbalanced. It’s easier if I just show you. Now watch what happens when I mix a drop of your blood with your son’s blood,” the Healer said and he reached into the tray where two vials of blood were cased, mine in one vial and Malcolm’s in the other. With a dropper he squirt Malcolm’s blood onto a small tray. I didn’t notice anything, it just looked like normal, red blood. Then he squirted my blood onto the tray and I was in complete shock at what I saw when our blood mixed with one another’s. The magic in my blood began to attack little Malcolm’s blood.
     “My God,” I gasped. “My magic attacked his magic.”
     “Yes, now you see. His magic is fighting yours off and hence the battle rages on. It’s the reason for all his symptoms. I must say, it’s unusual to see a Muggle-born with such strong magic as yours is.”
   “That’s because blood status has nothing to do with magical ability,” I announced and I didn’t apologize for saying it.
     “Yes well, yours is just one sample,” the Healer said, dismissing my claim. I had no time to care that the Healer was a bigot though, not when my child was in danger of losing his magic and possibly his life to Squibitis.
     “So… what would happen if you put a drop of blood from his father onto that tray?” I asked.
     “It would balance out Malcolm’s magic.”
     “And the battle between magical signatures would be over? His magic would defeat mine? Is that how it works? What if my magic is stronger than his or his father’s?”
     “It has little to do with weaker or stronger although as I said your magic is curiously strong. Try not to look at it that way. Malcolm is growing older and his magic’s been awakened and is trying to establish itself. In order to do just that, his magic must be able to absorb any remaining magical signatures in his blood that are not compatible, meaning yours. Once that is complete he will have his own personal magical signature that is different from yours and even different from your husband—er I mean the father’s.”
     “But you said he has the same magical signature as his father?”
     “Yes, right now he does, but that will change with age and maturity,” the Healer explained.
     “So a blood transfusion from his father will balance his magic and make him whole and well again?” I asked. I had to be sure.
     “Yes.”
     “I—It will take time to find him, if he’s even alive. Is there something we can do to slow the progression of the disease in the meantime?”
     “There is, but it’s not ideal. Absent of a living father you could, in the interim, give him a transfusion of blood from a witch or wizard with the same blood type as Malcolm’s, whose magical signature is stable. That basically means an adult witch or wizard. Their magical signatures would be different but the balanced magic might help to alleviate some of the symptoms, at least for a while. Your son has a rare blood type though, but I can check the English registry for any possible matches if you’d like?”
     “Yes, please, right away. I’d like to halt the progression at least until I can track down his father.”
     “I’m friends with the Liege. Perhaps I could ask him to look into which regiment Mal’s father was in. He’s a General in the Dark Lord’s Army and a dear friend of the family. I’d just need the name of the father?”
     “No thank you,” I said and the Healer looked suspicious. I had to say something. “You know where I work, right?”
     “I—yes,” the old man blushed. I decided to use his unease with all things “brothel” to my advantage and perhaps his persistent questioning about Mal’s father and his identity would just go away.
     “He was just passing through—Mal’s father I mean. We didn’t share much time together, just a quickee in one of the upstairs bedrooms,” I lied and the Healer’s face turned a bright shade of crimson.
     “I see,” he said as he browsed the registry unwilling to look at the whore who stood before him. “Nobody in Blind Falls or anywhere in the country even seems to have your son’s rare blood type. I’m sorry Miss Winthrop—oh wait!”
     “You found someone with AB negative blood type?” I asked hopefully.
     “I did, and he’s right here in Blind Falls. What luck!” the Healer said with a gleeful expression. “It’s the Liege himself. I’ll just send an owl and hopefully—“
     “Please, don’t bother the Liege. Thank you for your time but I suddenly just remembered what regiment his father was in, so Mal won’t need blood from the Liege after all,” I said as I gathered my sleeping son in my arms to leave.
     “Just in case, I think we should contact Liege Malfoy. Better to be safe than sorry I always say.”
     “No, please, don’t bug the Liege. Really. Don’t,” I said as I fled with my son.

__0__

     I treated Mal to an ice-cream cone when he roused and lifted his head and then demanded to be set down because he wasn’t a baby anymore. His spirits seemed better after two scoops of vanilla, chocolate chip. “Are you sure you feel alright? I just need to buy a shower gift for Marcheline. It won’t take long just in and out and then back to The English Rose where I will run a warm bath for you and you can rest.”
     “Stop it, I’m alright,” Mal said annoyed as he licked his ice cream cone.
     “Alright, alright. So when you finish your cone we will pop into the gift shop and then straight home.”
     “Just go already, Mummy. I don’t want to go into that girly store.”
     “Mal, I can’t leave you here,” I said but then I looked around and the place was practically empty. I could see the gift shop from where we sat outside at a small table eating a yummy treat.
     “I’m a big boy. I’ll just sit here and eat my cone until you get back.”
     “I don’t mind waiting,” I said.
     “You don’t trust me,” Mal said and he pouted and turned his eyes down.
     “I trust you honey. I don’t trust other people is the thing.”
     “Is that my Daddy?” Mal said and I wasn’t sure if he was asking that particular question in order to get me back because I didn’t want to leave him alone, or if he genuinely thought every man on the street was potentially his father, because he asked a whole lot and each time he did I was wracked with anxiety. I closed my eyes and wished for death. I knew that eventually Mal would wonder about his father, but honestly, I thought it wouldn’t be for several more years. He was just too smart for his own good! Every man that came into the brothel was a potential father to Mal and it was sad to me that he craved that paternal connection, one that he was lacking. What was I supposed to do though, tell him that his Mummy used poor judgment when she shacked up with a man who was not only the enemy but also engaged to be married at the time we slept together? Never mind that he didn’t marry Astoria but instead wed my former friend Ginny Weasley. Telling him the truth wasn’t an option. Selfish or not, I didn’t want my son to hate me since I loved him more than life itself.
     “No, that is not your father,” I sighed answering his question and I followed his finger to see who he was pointing at. My heart welled in my chest and I felt butterflies flopping about in my stomach when I saw him. It was Matthew Murphy, our newest recruit and gardener to the Liege, Draco Malfoy, Mal’s true father. Of course he didn’t have to know that and if I could help it he would never know his father’s identity though the squibitis diagnosis was beyond worrisome.
     It was a glimpse was all and it only lasted for a second when Malcolm smirked at my unease. Such a familiar smirk. And yet each time I looked into my son’s angelic face I saw Draco. He looked so much like him and worse was the fact that he acted like him too. The way he chastised the burly Death Eater for having poor table manners was so unbelievably Malfoy I’m surprised the Death Eater didn’t kill us both. Malfoy had that effect on people, you know, to where they wanted to kill him and unfortunately for my son Mal inherited that from his father too. That worried me. I couldn’t protect him forever, but I’d die trying. It was odd, but sometimes at night I wondered about Draco’s mother, Narcissa, and how she felt raising a boy who was as smart as he was ornery. In more ways than one I felt like I understood Draco’s deceased mother. “No, he’s not your father. I do know him though. How about I prove that I trust you, alright?” I said and Mal shook his head, the smirk all but gone. “I’m going to say hello, but I’ll be just over there if you need me.”
     “Go already,” Mal said biting into his sugar cone. I straightened my dress and paced across the dirt road that was Main Street, to where Matthew shoveled dirt into a wheelbarrow. It was no doubt for his day job of tending to Malfoy’s overly lavish gardens.
     “Hi Matthew,” I said cordially and the man turned to face me. There was a look of confusion upon his face. “I’m Rose, remember me?”
     “I—should I?” he asked with an odd expression playing over his face. It was as if I was a perfect stranger to him. I wondered if it was a ploy, as if someone were around so he didn’t want them to know that he knew a Madam. I glanced around but nothing was out of the ordinary and Mal was still happily eating his ice cream.
     “What gives?” I finally whispered when he went back to shoveling.
     “I’m sorry Miss, but you must have the wrong gent. I dun know you, Miss.” His accent was different too. It was odd.
     “What? Of course you do. You helped me when I was hurt. We went to light the torches…Remember?”
     “I’m sorry,” he shrugged and then he pushed the wheelbarrow forward, running over my foot in the process.
     “Ouch! Watch where you’re bloody going,” I hollered after him as I knelt and rubbed my sore foot.

__0__


     “I think you can handle it, in time. I can teach you a few things, if you want me to,” Draco said to Junior as they exited the broom shop in Blind Falls carrying a spanking new Red Flier broom--a wizard’s first broom. He’d had one himself when he was about Junior’s age.
     “Can I twy it now, Uncle Draco?” Junior said tugging on Draco’s coat.
     “Not here on the street, it wouldn’t be safe,” Draco said and he looked at his watch and glanced down the pot-holed, dirt road. He was expecting a crew of Death Eaters’, something about new orders from the Dark Lord and they’d be arriving shortly. With no sign of the Dark Lord’s army, he crouched down and whispered to Ginny and Harry’s son. “You can’t call me Uncle, not unless we’re alone. You need to call me Father. Do you understand?”
     “But Mummy said that Harry is my real Daddy,” Junior said, confused.
     “He is, but it’s a secret. Nobody can know. Can you keep a secret?”
     “Yes,” Junior replied in whispers and Draco smiled.
     “To the whole rest of the world I’m your Dad, and it’s really important people think that. It’s like a game of pretend and what’s the first rule of playing pretend?”
     “Never break character,” Junior drawled.
     “That’s right. Now who’s your Dad?”
     “Harry Potter.”
     “Me, Junior,” Draco reminded. He was just too much like his father, he thought to himself and he worried. It was a bad decision for Ginny and Harry to tell him the truth. If anyone ever found out his true identity, well, he didn’t want to think about it. He was fond of the boy even if he wasn’t his biological son. That’s when he heard the shrieking of the Thestrals and he cringed. He hated those blasted creatures. They were as hideous as they were vicious. Thankfully Junior wouldn’t be able to see them since he’d never witnessed death. Draco and most others in Blind Falls were not so lucky and people scattered when the thestrals rode into town carrying Voldemort’s army on their backs.
     “Draco—I mean Daddy, do you think that little boy would like to play on my new broom? He looks sad,” Junior said and he pointed into the street where a small boy sulked with his head down and a melting ice cream in his hand. He wasn’t looking where he was going and Draco went on alert when he saw the flock of thestrals barreling into town. Clearly the lost boy didn’t see them either. The first one narrowly missed the young boy. That’s when he heard a woman’s screams, but there was no time to think as he pulled out his wand.
     “Wingardium Leviosa!” Draco said thinking quick on his feet when he saw the boy about to be creamed by one of the snarling, thestrals. With no time to spare he waved his wand and the blond child was lifted into the air in the nick of time as the thestral moved like a bullet beneath him. The child looked panicked as he hovered in the air so Draco guided him with his wand where he landed him safely next to him and Junior. “Good, no worse for wear, but you gave us a good scare,” Draco said scooping the tot up and into his arms. “What’s your name little man?” Draco asked as he stared into the little boy’s face.
     “Malcolm,” he said and he stared at Draco intently.
     “Nice to meet you Malcolm. Did you lose your Mum?”
    “No, she’s--”
     “Why did you leave the ice cream shop? I told you to stay right there! Merlin, you could have been killed by the thestrals,” Hermione chastised the boy as Draco looked on. So that’s her son? He looked familiar to Draco but he hadn’t put his finger on just what it was that made him seem so familiar.
     “I’m sorry Mummy. I just wanted to see the broom up close,” Mal said.
     “You scared me half to death! Come on, we’re going home,” Hermione screeched and she snatched the boy from Draco’s arms. “Thank you, my Liege, for what you did. I’m forever grateful.”
     “Wait,” Draco said, calling after them as she trotted off with her son. He turned to Junior and spoke quickly. “Do you mind if we give that little boy the broom I just bought for you? We can get you another one,” Draco asked and the boy with the mop of hair smiled up at him and nodded.
     “You’re a much nicer kid than I was at your age,” Draco said and he mussed his hand in Junior’s hair. He jogged ahead and Hermione abruptly stopped when he caught up with them, though she looked annoyed by the mere sight of him. “Junior wanted you to have this,” he said as he knelt and presented the Red Flier to Malcolm. The boy looked at it then sneered.
     “I don’t want it,” he said.
     “You don’t want it? Why not?” Draco asked.
     “Malcolm, don’t be rude to the Liege,” Hermione said with half gritted teeth.
     “It’s a piece of shite,” Mal announced. “I thought it was the Red Baron 4000, that’s why I crossed the street to get a look at it. The Red Baron is a better broom.”
     “Malcolm, that’s rude!” Hermione said in shock while Draco chuckled.
     “No, he’s right,” Draco laughed wildly. “The Red Baron is a better broom for certain.” He watched curiously as the little boy nodded in agreement.
     “See I told you Mummy.”
     “It’s a better broom alright, better trajectory, smoother landings, but it’s for teenagers and you aren’t big enough to ride a Red Baron,” Draco said. “Someday you will,” Draco smiled.
     “Alright, I guess I’ll take it,” Malcolm said and he reached out for the broom.
     “Oh no you will not, Mister. Rude boys don’t get lavish gifts and besides, you will fly that thing over my dead body,” Hermione said angrily and she took him by the hand. “Now apologize.”
     “I’m sorry,” Mal said in a drawling, bored tone.
     “No need, you were right after all, but to make your Mum happy I accept your apology. Granger, let him have the broom. I haven’t laughed that hard all bloody month,” Draco said.
     “Can I have it? Please!” Malcolm begged.
     “Oh fine, but you’ll have to ask Uncle Rob to teach you to fly.”
     “I’d be more than willing to train him up. I’m teaching Junior anyway and besides, we’d like a little company, wouldn’t we Junior?” Draco said to Ginny’s son and the boy nodded happily. “What say you both join us for lunch tomorrow and then we can make our way down to the Quidditch pitch for some flying lessons?”
     “No thanks. Malcolm is still getting over an illness.”
     “Oh, I see,” Draco said staring at the little boy. He did look unusually pale and there was a hint of dark circles under his eyes so he decided that perhaps Granger was telling the truth and the boy was sick. “Then when he gets better?” he extended the invitation and Hermione politely accepted. They were about to leave when the natural conversation suddenly died on the spot but that’s when Hermione’s boy tugged on his sleeve and Draco turned and crouched when it was apparent that the child had something to say to him. The boy leaned in and whispered something into his ear and Draco’s eyes went wide when he heard the words. The boy said to him, ‘we have the same eyes.’
     “What did you say Malcolm?” Hermione asked and she sounded panicked.
     “It’s a secret,” Malcolm said.
     “What did he say to you my Liege?”
     “You heard him, it’s a secret,” Draco replied but he felt a cold chill sweep through him when he gazed at Malcolm’s eyes and found the experience much like staring into a mirror. That’s when he knew exactly what it was that felt so familiar about the boy. Malcolm was his son! “I expect I’ll pay a visit to The English Rose tonight,” Draco said as he stood and faced Hermione.
     “I’m sure I’m busy. With Mal sick I just haven’t the time,” she said.
     “Make time,” Draco said sternly and he stared into the warm, chocolate pools of her eyes. It was a piercing stare, one that spoke volumes.
     “Al--alright,” she gulped. “Tonight.”

Review?
Sorry this took so long to put up. I ended up writing and rewriting this chapter, many times, but the good thing about that is that I have many of the scenes in this story already penned now and I will just have to piece them together in sequence *wink*
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The English Rose