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The Best Of...	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 13807 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives. I almost own the laptop I'm writing this fanfic on, tho'.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
In the home of a pure-blood, a father and his surviving child discussed their New Year’s resolutions.

“I’ll see you in three months?”
“That’s a bad idea. We’ve lost our contact at the Ministry; recruiting and pruning will be harder. I’m staying.”
“That’ll not be happening. No sense in making us both targets. You might have to rescue me.”

Pride swelled in the parent as defiance and commitment flared in the child’s dark eyes. The young adult before him had grown up, filling out the slender frame that had been a trademark so far. Wide enough now, the father smiled, to fill a Quidditch goal.

“I can’t leave you here to do this alone! And I’ve had my fill of that inter-house unity shite. I’ll not play nice with mudbloods and the barrage of filth they let in Hogwarts!”
“Obey your father. You’ve done more than most — made me proud, you have. Your place is back in school, recruiting those that haven’t been brainwashed or bought off.”
“Will be a challenge for you, Da. We’ve handled the easiest. The rest are hiding or running.”
“You leave them to me. You’re the answer, you young’uns. We’ll hold on until you take over. Now on wit’ ya. We’ll be together soon enough.”

The young heir lowered his chin to his chest in defeat. They’d be together to celebrate success when the pure-bloods regained their rightful headship of the wizarding community and control of the Ministry.

In a year or two when a new Minister of Magic took office there’d be no elections required. The heir apparent stood before the elder ready to rule.
In this time, they served themselves from the abundance prepared to accompany their planning and plotting.

In a remote Scottish locale, a different pure-blood regretted the sacrifice he’d would soon make.

“Granger? Granger! I hope you’ve succeeded in producing something nonpoisonous!”

Exiting the fireplace, Hermione’s handsome dinner guest straightened his clothing, shifting his bundles to free up his wand hand for a quick once-over to remove any stray soot.

“Granger — where are you?”

Draco walked in the direction of the noise in their Commons area, irritated by her lack of response to his hail.

“Bloody woman’s probably reading some manual on boiling water…” he muttered.

Intrigued with what was happening in their newly remodeled kitchen, Draco’s feet aimed him towards the clattering sounds.

“Grange— ”

Sweet Morgana’s tits…

Hermione’s outfit triggered some kind of seizure rendering Draco speechless and motionless.

Never had a LDB [Little Black Dress] done to him what Hermione’s was doing without her knowledge. Hitting just above mid-thigh, the dress and the ankle-high boots introduced the catatonic Slytherin to a hidden feature of his favorite flatmate - her impossibly long and shapely legs. That ungainly nest of frizz atop her head had been tamed and lay in gentle curves down her back, longer and silkier than she’d kept it during the summer.
The woman in their expanded kitchen — the woman he’d never met before despite living with her know-it-all clone during the school year — saved him from embarrassment by noticing him standing in the doorway.

“Draco!” Hermione called out with a wide grin.

The spoon stirring something tempting rested in the pot as she snatched her earbuds out and approached the statue that resembled the Head Boy.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

No sarcastic retort came as previously unexposed cleavage completely consumed his sole working brain cell.

“Malfoy??? Are you okay?”
“No. I expected to see my house elves doing this menial labor,” he managed, an automatic response that required no actual thought.
“Did you read my note? I believe I was quite clear on the exploitation of house elves for a dinner I was perfectly capable of preparing myself.”

Unaware of the struggle for oxygen inside his head, Hermione damaged him further when she gave him an affectionate hug. Her head, resting softly just under and to the right of his chin, was trouble enough but her breasts, her bare legs and her body pressed innocently against the front of him refocused all of his brain cells to support the crisis in his trousers. She released him seconds before he lost control of his lonesome cock.

“I’m sure this will swell your head further, but I missed having you here snarking up the place. Come in the kitchen while I finish!” she invited with no recognition of his state.

My “head” is swelling, I’ll grant you… he panted mentally as she retreated back to the oven.

“Sit down. How did it go with your parents?”

Attention to the food distracted Hermione from the slow, unsteady march of one Draco Malfoy to the tiny table with two chairs in their enlarged cooking area. Each step rubbed his too full balls and too hard cock against the too rough fabric of his too tight silk skivvies. Exquisite pain accompanied every footfall.

“Draco?”
“You are stunning… GRANGER! Are you hurt!?”

The consequences of his compliment meant they’d have half as much fruit sauce for the dessert.

“No-no! I’m fine. Don’t come over! Let me sort out this mess.”

With a wand flick she had the spillage put to rights; unfortunately a wand wouldn’t put her to rights after those words coming from those pale, sensuous lips…

“I-I-I think we can start. Please take a seat at the dinner table.”
“Can I help?”

Did Draco Malfoy just offer to ‘help’ me with dinner? What did his parents do to him!? Hermione fretted, worrying at the skin on her lower lip.

“No, thank you. Please, let me serve.”

With his back to her Draco could manage a more typical quip to her request.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Granger — your service.”

The tea towel whacked him at his nape.

Seated at the dinner table, Draco stared at the soup bowl unconvinced he could stomach its contents. The child of privilege dipped his soup spoon gracefully into the thick liquid, ladled up half a spoonful of the creamy mixture and placed it in his mouth with hesitation and trepidation.

“Is it okay?” she asked, seeking his approval and chiding herself mentally for wanting it.
“Marry me, Granger.”

As it clattered noisily into her bowl, her dropped spoon sent droplets of soup onto the table cloth and onto her dress.

“Are you feeling well? First you compliment my appearance then— ”
“I like your outfit. You truly are stunning this evening. Where did you hide ‘Miss Frizzy Hair 1998’ — or have you been at the Polyjuice potion again? No whiskers, are there?”

She ignored him and finished her plaint.

“THEN you ask me to marry you. What’s going on?”
“Did you taste the soup?”
“Malfoy, I made the soup.”
“Any woman who can make Poisson d’Avril this exquisite — with Atlantic cod, no less — I’m obliged to marry.”

Hermione broke out in a hearty chuckle, all the while casting a discrete Scourgify to dispense with the soup stains.

“That makes more sense; your taste buds want to marry me.”

But the rest of me wants to shag you, Lioness, like… like… like…

Draco clamped two mental hands on the still-healing brain cells that were causing a problem in another region of his body currently hidden by the table cloth and his tenting trousers.

“Where did you learn to cook like this and why haven’t you fed me before? Seven years of eating in the Great Hall, Granger. Not very kind for a bleeding heart Gryffindor.”
“The Great Hall provides good meals, Malfoy,” the Gryffindor chef rebutted, “Most muggle children cook, especially those with working parents. It’s part of pitching in, helping at home.”
“Your parents made you do manual labor!?”

His horrified expression amused her immensely.

“Not labor, life skills. Work necessary to keep a home neat and well running. I’m sure the idea is foreign to you.”

To her surprise the doppelganger wearing Draco Malfoy’s face and clothing gave thought to her statement.

“My ‘training’ in life skills covered different topics — foreign languages, deportment, dancing, music, finance and management — ”
“Finance and management!? Don’t you usually read for that at university?”
“Not for legacy heirs. Most of us don’t attend university; we join the family business at a suitably well-paid executive level. My father’s more like a muggle in that regard — he insisted I actually learn about business and he expects me to attend the magical division of the London School of Economics when I graduate from Hogwarts. At least he did when life was predictable…”

Hermione’s hand left her lap to compassionately stroke the back of his hand and Draco’s problem with his obstinate cock started all over again.

“My point is — all good parents pass on life skills to their children; it’s just different skills for pure-bloods. So what about you, Granger? Going to set the Ministry on fire with your reform platform for magical beings?”
“Eventually,” she grinned slyly and the front of Draco’s trousers changed shape again, “but first I’m getting a university diploma in magical law — a double major in judicial practice and enforcement with a minor in contracts.”
“Isn’t that every law degree the universities offer?”

The green napkin landed square in his face between spoonfuls of the ratatouille and forkfuls of the French classic Sole Meunière.

“My compliments to the chef. Whoever cooked this for you has a brilliant career ahead of them as a chef.”
“Stop insulting me! I’ve prepared all these recipes before. I just had to make sure I included enough protein; wouldn’t want to be blamed for your weak performance on the pitch when the season starts.”

With his accurate throw her napkin came back at about the mid-point of her visible cleavage. Blushing, she snatched the cloth into her lap while an interested Draco Malfoy ogled her every move. He’d have to speak to his tailor about adding a charm for “growth room” in all his trousers — if there was such a spell.

“Well,” he cleared his throat to camouflage his obvious interest, “I may hire you to keep me properly nourished. All joking aside, Hermione, you should consider opening a restaurant in Diagon Alley. You would make a fortune.”

Once again Hermione leveled a thoughtful look on the stranger sitting across from her.

“Oh come on, Granger. In six months we graduate and all this petty house nonsense won’t amount to a sickle;” he lectured her — reusing Ginny Weasley’s logic, “I’m sure you’ve always seen yourself as an academic or some sort of do-good crusader defending the rights of the downtrodden and put-upon, but you’re a damn fine chef and you should look at all of your options. Not just the ones everyone else tells you to.”
“Who are you and what did you do with Draco Malfoy?”
“I’m here, Lioness. Great food and company always bring the real Draco out to play.”

And right now I have so many “games” I’d love to play with you, Gryffindor…

“Then I guess I’ll have to cook more.”

How does “the real Draco” like to “play”, Dragon?…

The “real Draco” had erotic thoughts rocketing through Hermione’s head… and body.

“You bloody well better. Oh! Your excellent fare distracted me from the wine. I brought two — a red and a white — since your stubborn streak left me with no knowledge of the main course.”
“Which do you recommend?”
“The white. The red would overpower the sole and interfere with the cabernet in the ratatouille.”

Draco barked out a laugh at the expression on her face.

“How long were you watching me!?”
“Granger, I’ve dined at some of the finest establishments on and off the continent. My potions skills can be attributed, in part, to my senses of smell and taste. ‘course my reputation as the Slytherin Sex God comes solely from my sense of touch.”
“You’re an arse, Malfoy.”
“Not tonight, Lioness. Let’s get the wine started.”

His lean, muscled body rose from the chair in a graceful manner, making short work of the cork after personally checking the stopper with a sniff. Transfiguring two empty glasses into stemware, Draco handed one to Hermione then poured for her, engulfing her hand in his to steady the glass. That sensitive snoot of his picked up the change in her scent — her normal lilac eau de toilette now carried hints of arousal.

I’m thinking the same thing, Princess…

“Let me know what you think,” he encouraged as he regained his own seat and sat back, long legs crossed at the thigh (to hide his response to her response) and his wine glass held comfortably in the hand draped over the chair’s arm rest.

Nimue knows — he’s gorgeous!…

Panicking at the uncontrolled ‘naked Draco’ images stampeding through her imagination, the Gryffindor Princess downed the wine in a single set of uninterrupted swallows. Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at her suddenly empty glass but he rose, always the gentleman, and refilled it as she grinned sheepishly at him.

She smells divine… Ready and ripe…

Dessert appeared thereafter and interrupted his sensorial investigation: orange-flavored crepes with a lingonberry melba topping.

“I hope you’ll enjoy this dessert wine; it will enhance the crepes;” he informed her, brandishing the bottle, “A muscato d’asti.”.

Two flutes appeared from nowhere, each monogrammed with a large “M”. Golden, effervescent liquid babbled into the elegant stemware from Malfoy Manor.

“Who told you?”
“Told me what?”
“About the lingonberries. They’re my favorite fruit. Did Ursula suggest them?”

The “Ambrosia” of Ambrosia’s Exquisite Ingredients was one Ursula Pierce, owner and gourmet purveyor to the wealthy and powerful in the wizarding world.

“No, Blaise did;” Hermione explained as they worked their way through dessert, “I floo’d him to get advice on your preferences. He came over to help me plan the menu.”

The temperature around Draco increased sufficiently to flush his pale cheeks. He’d have a talk with Zabini on the latter’s return from Italy.

Stay away from that scheming Italian, Lioness; I won’t let him claim you….

Needing to mark his territory, Draco made an unusual offer.

“Go get comfortable on the sofa; I’ll clean up.”

Again Hermione stared in unmitigated shock at the man who looked — but did not act — like Draco Malfoy.

“Be careful, Malfoy— ”
“Draco” he corrected, mid-sentence.

Her expression softened revealing a vulnerability he’d never seen from her before.

“Be careful, Draco,” she confided softly, “I could get used to this.”

… having you around, Dragon…

After a minimum of crashes, collisions and cursing, Hermione found herself stretched out on the magically elongated sofa in their Commons next to a seated Draco Malfoy doppelganger, completely relaxed and sipping the deliciously sweet sparkling wine.

“So… teach me the rest of the Granger Christmas traditions, Lioness.”
“We have dinner together.”
“Done.”
“Then we decorate the Christmas tree.”
“You’ve completed that without me.” he noted, nodding in the direction of the miniature tree trimmed in green and red ornaments on the mantle.
“Not really. I… I brought my family decorations from home. I wasn't certain you’d be willing— ”

In seconds Hermione found herself upright and her wine glass spirited away.

“Draco, I know your family doesn’t— ”
“Are you ever silent while conscious?”

Grinning in thanks at his willingness to indulge her, they set out together to charm the tree to its full height and apply the decorations. Collapsing back onto the sofa afterwards, Hermione found herself resting within the friendly curve of Draco’s arm.

“Next, milady?”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter to midnight.”
“I guess we can break with tradition this once.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“We used to exchange presents at midnight.”
“Then we will wait.”

Snuggling into his inadvertent embrace, a question got past her inebriated control.

“Draco?… Is there anything special you want to do?”

Oh yes, Lioness; I want to spread your lovely legs and bury my face at the source of that intoxicating aroma you’re giving off…

Once again, Draco gathered his few unaltered brain cells and wrangled that desire back in its mental cage,

Hermione levitated a plate to the sofa table, filled with Beaufort cheese and petite, sliced rounds of fresh-baked crusty French baguette brushed lightly with melted garlic butter. The savory snack delayed Draco’s answer for minutes as Hermione assembled small “sandwiches” to feed him.

He has the softest lips…

“It’s more about formal dinners, fancy balls and extravagant gift giving to others in your social and business circles —“ Draco paused as his tongue flicked out to lick cheese from her fingertip, “— everything is done to impress.”

Muscles she'd yet to use clenched tightly in her mid-section at the feel of his tongue wrapped around her finger.

“That’s sad.” she remarked after recoverin her voice.
“It’s tradition; just different from your own.”

Draco knew from the expression on her face that she was comparing and contrasting their experiences.

“It’s midnight. Will I turn into a toad or a Weasel clone?” he teased.

A single box floated through the opening in Hermione’s bedroom door to arrive in Draco’s lap.

“No risk of that. I never thought I’d say this, but you’ve been a prince. Happy Christmas, Draco.”

A bundle of boxes wafted over from their place on the sofa table and into her waiting lap.

“Draco, I said 75 galleons! Total, not each!”
“Granger, I can assure you that your entire gift cost me well under 75 galleons. The howler you replied with was explicit and quite deafening.”
“You first, then. I hope you like them.”

Draco meticulously slid a finger down the seams of the wrapping paper, careful to preserve the decorative covering and the enchanted ribbon that displayed mini-movies from Draco’s Quidditch matches. Lifting the box’s top, he removed two unknown objects.

“They’re… nice. What are they?”
“iPhones. Magically enhanced.”
“This looks like that thing you carry around and plug those ear strings into.”
“It is. It’s muggle technology. I’ve enhanced one of them. You can listen to your music while you’re cheating death on that broom. You can call me after we graduate — or Harry; he has one too.”
“Thank— ”
“Or you can call your father if he’s imprisoned.”

An answer to his incredulous stare was necessary.

“I started the research last summer for your hearing. Azkaban doesn’t ban all items; just magical ones. There are no regulations against him having this. I’ve modified your device with magical enhancements but not your father’s. Once I teach you and you teach him how to use it, he can speak with you from his cell… you or your mother… she can use it, too, if you lend her yours.”

Shock took its time receding from the language centers in his brain.

“Father’s been awful to you and Potter,” the astonished blonde whispered, “Why???”
“He could serve a very long sentence. Some members of the Ministry want to make an example out of your father for political reasons and Kingsley can’t intervene without undermining his own position. It’s not fair for you to lose him so someone can improve their political standing. He’s your father, Dragon…”

Hermione’s new nickname for him emboldened him. Pale lips found hers and began payment of a debt that kept getting bigger the longer he knew her. Brushing her lips with his own, the damaged parts of Draco’s brain found no problems with this form of “thank you”.

Merlin’s balls, she’s a natural!…

Morgana, help me! How does he DO that with just his lips?…

“Open yours,” he encouraged from lips now laid against her forehead.

Sliding the large, avocado-green ribbon off, Hermione ripped the complicated wrappings to shreds. Covered in tattered paper, she found herself holding two boxes, one large and flat and one small and cubed.

“You’ve just destroyed 1000 galleons in wrapping paper.”
“You were only to spend— ”
“75 galleons. And I spent less than that on your presents. Your oppressive instructions mentioned nothing about the wrappings.”
“Figures. Slytherin logic.”
“Always. That paper is made from real gold leaf. I would suggest collecting the debris to use as investment capital for your new restaurant if I didn’t think you’d hex me into the Veil.”
“No hexes tonight, Dragon. You’re safe with me.”

His serious, smoldering look perplexed her.

“Never say that to another Slytherin, Hermione.”

You may not be safe with me tonight, Lioness…

“Oh, Draco — it’s ideal!”

In the larger package sat a first edition of the tome “Hogwarts: A History” with a magical inscription by the author on its own special page. In the magical illustrations, the author conversed with her, answering many of the questions she’d speculated on during their search for the horcruxes.

“I’ve never owned a first edition.”
“Only the best, Lioness.”
“This must have cost— ”
“It’s one of several copies my grand-mère left to me. I don’t think it’s been opened in 200 years.”

Wandlessly, Draco summoned a handkerchief from his bedroom for her tears.

“It’s so thoughtful,” she sniffled, “Thank you, Dragon.”

His dinner date refused to relinquish her favorite present so Draco sat the smaller box on top of the book in her lap.

“This one next.” he directed her and she made a more careful effort to remove the wrapping this time.
“I’m not sure you can top…”

A single black pearl floated magically in the open center of a teardrop-shaped emerald on a braided platinum serpentine chain. The necklace rested on the white velvet liner inside the gift box.

“I can’t accept this, Draco.”
“At least let me see it on you before you turn it down.”

As Hermione scooted forward on the sofa, Draco removed the necklace from the box with deft fingers and placed the chain around her slender neck. His breath on her skin raised the hair on her nape. To escape its effects, the flustered Head Girl rose a bit too fast and made her way less than gracefully (unused to wine drinking) to the nearest bathroom — his.

“Dragon, whose was this?” she asked as she scrutinized the gem’s reflection. Its antiquity shone through the craftsmanship of the mounting and chain. His voice, when he answered, came from a place so close behind her that she shuddered in response.
“Blame Grand-mère Malfoy. Part of my inheritance. It’s been sitting in the family vault at Gringott’s.”
“It’s beautiful — Draco, this is too much…” she explained inadequately, laying a hand over the gem.

Raising her gaze to the mirror brought him into focus. The determination in those eyes unsettled her. She’d seen him arrogant, afraid, panicked, victorious and injured but never like this.

“Grant me this; just wear it for our engagements this week. I’ll take it back if it really bothers you.”

His step forward brought the front of him into physical contact with the back of her — with the result that she released her weight against him, undoubtedly under the influence of the wine and the man. Draco wondered if she felt the tingling shooting up and down his front.

“You make it beautiful, Hermione.”

Her head lazily found his shoulder behind her, revealing more of what lay hidden in that little black dress.

“Dragon…” she exhaled, covering him in her shapely softness.

She’d been attracted to young men — meaning: Ron — before, had even thought about her wedding night. But she’d never fantasized while awake to the point of soaking herself and right now she sorely needed either a change of knickers or a reason to remove them completely. That wasn’t a snitch in his pocket indenting her bum cheek.

“Not tonight, Lioness. That’s the wine talking.”

The words “Draco Lucius Malfoy” and “control” were synonymous until that brain injury a few months back (Draco’d inherited that control from his mother as Lucius’ sexual addiction to Narcissa was well know throughout the pure-blood community; the boy did inherit his father’s ravenous appetite for sex, though...).

The punching and kicking he’d withstood damaged something in his upper head, something specifically related to the witch leaning into him. The effort to restrict himself to half a hard-on nearly exhausted him. Wine he’d consumed by the barrel with no effects now striped him of any restraint over his own body after just a goblet-full. Here she was, Hermione Jean Granger — the Pride of Gryffinfor — ready to surrender to whatever Slytherin sexual exploits he chose… and he couldn’t do it.
Her disappointment could not be mistaken. Hermione tried to leave the bathroom, but Draco’s body blocked her escape from the searing embarrassment of her blunder.

“I-I-I’m so sorry. I thought—”

His mouth expertly communicated his desire without words. His lips grazed her nape, teeth playing with the clasp of the enchanted necklace that would never leave her neck if he had anything to do with it, then moved on to her ears, nuzzling just under the lobes. His hands at her shoulders kept them touching and sustained that unexplained tingling. Unused to any sensual attention, she shivered under siege from his talents.

So responsive to my touch…

“And you thought correctly.”

Rotating her front to his own, Draco snugged her close in a loose hug and lightly pressed his disobedient erection into her hip.

“Feel that? That’s for you, Lioness.”

Those hot, long, baby-soft fingers skirted across her scalp causing her to moan within the kiss and instinctively press herself closer to the lean body running 7 to 10-deg F hotter than her own. He sucked and pulled on her lower lip until it reddened (not that she could tell) and she felt herself “catching” whatever fever made him so hot.

Please, Dragon, don’t stop…

Together they had too many pulses — the one in her wrist as it rested on his hip, the one in her neck where he stroked her with a cloud-light thumb, the one in her head where the wine and the man bemused someone used to logic and reason and the positively pounding one in that very active area where her legs joined. The thumping in his chest set the meter for that throbbing male appendage that tapped at her hip in the same rhythm. All this addled her own heartbeat as it tried to synchronize with his.

More experienced than Hermione in this type of seduction, Draco set her cheeks, her cleavage and her lips ablaze.

My cock’s going to hate me in the morning now…

As unexpectedly as it started, he pulled away to gaze at her.

This isn’t fair, Dragon —

“When we’re ready, I’d prefer you be clearheaded. For now, let’s spend our first night together.”

Taking her hand, Draco led her back to the sofa and placed her in his lap. Hermione succumbed to the wine and the steady rhythm of Draco’s nimble fingers stroking her tamed tresses; she fell asleep quickly.

“In love with Granger, am I? Guess I’m pretty well fucked,” he informed himself aloud. And the thought brought the first honest happiness he’d experienced in a long time.

Leaning against the plump sofa cushions, Draco “slept” with Hermione for the first time.

In a pure-blood household still steeped in opulence, one reluctant Death Eater and one very smart non-Death Eater enjoyed an early dinner and retired to bed with absolutely nothing on but smiles.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am new to this site and this fandom (1 story up and complete) and I've been remiss in my thanks to those who have been kind enough to read my writing and leave words of encouragement. I'm too stupid to figure out the protocol despite seeing it in many stories.
I will admit that having to imbed such responses within a chapter is somewhat... confusing, but when in Rome...
Thank you to reviewers: staar, Kain, Trelweny, HarryGinny4eva, Victoria, Anon and ChaosLady. You keep me from deleting this unfinished.
Like all the authors on this and every fanfiction site, I love to hear from you; it stimulates my thinking and keeps me writing.
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