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The Best Of...	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 13808 -:- 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
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In light of Hermione’s rising terror at dinner with his parents, Draco apparated them to the front portico and avoided the floo for fear his clumsy flatmate would stumble and cover herself in soot — or set her expensive new gown on fire.

Continuous compliments, beginning as she descended the stairs from her quarters in their tower, had inverse effects on her confidence and anxiety — lowering the first while raising the second. All in all Draco could not wait for the evening to be over, hopefully without his father or his more-than-friend co-head damaging each other verbally or magically.

“You’re gorgeous, Lioness. You’ve nothing to be nervous about.”

“Says the son of the spiders to the fly.”
“Hermione —”

He’d gone serious, using her given name and ignoring the bitter cold and whipping winds around them.

The quality of his father’s magical management of the estate had obviously slipped despite Draco’s regular Gringott’s deposits of galleons from his work at Malfoy Enterprises. The weather at the entrance should have been perfect. In protest of his mandatory participation in the sullying of his home, the moody Malfoy family head had dismantled the weather charms for the day.

“You defeated the Dark Lord.”

“No, Harry —”

Draco was having none of it.

“Saint Potter of the Scar dueled the Dark Lord but you outthought him. Your brains located those accursed ‘bonus lives’ of his and stopped a holocaust. You bow to no one on the other side of these doors.”

Casting a wandless Memini Cum [Remember When] spell replaced wind and cold on the Manor's steps with sunny fall weather, relieving some — but by no means all — of Hermione’s shivers.

“I will protect you, Hermione.”

Nothing’s going to harm you while I’m around…

Hot cocoa eyes rose to meet his with fear and conviction balanced precariously.

“Promise?” she demanded.

Do I matter enough to you to protect me from your parents, Dragon?…

“With my life, if need be. And you are well aware of my character — I’m known to be both a Slytherin and a coward.”

Laughing — and the gentle swipe of his thumbs from side to side across the backs of her hand — set her shoulders in Gryffindor position. Reaching over, she took his arm, sighed and locked herself into battle mode.

“Draco Malfoy” announced at the entrance swung the biggest doors Hermione had ever seen — aside from the entrance to Hogwarts — inward and away from the couple and revealed a smiling Narcissa Malfoy. Beside her stood a bored Lord Lucius whose only thoughts were on dinner and the naked, bondage sex his mate promised if he maintained his façade of hospitality with the lower-class, unrefined infiltrator to his pure-blood fortress.

“Draco!”

Great! His mother’s as pretty close up as he is…

The Lady of the Manor glided gracefully forward to embrace her only child, ruffling the hair at his nape (until he scowled) and laughing freely at his displeasure.

“More and more like your father every day.”

In the intervening silence of Narcissa repositioning to greet their guest, Draco noted the silent but palpable staring battle waged between his flatmate and the Lord of the Manor.

“Ms. Granger — I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Draco’s mother, Narcissa Black Malfoy.”

Hermione lost the staring contest with Lucius when she startled at the touch of Narcissa’s manicured hand on her arm. Courtesy demanded a response and eye contact from Hermione. The most recent bane of Lucius’ existence caught his smug grin of mini-victory.

“You’re well-known, Lady Malfoy. Pleased to meet you officially,” and the oft clumsy Gryffindor made it down and up in her curtsey without toppling to either side. Holding her hand, Draco thanked Uther’s Ghost that his modified “Fall No More” anti-falling spell worked on the heeled slip-ons of awkward, nervous brainiacs.

“As are you, my dear. You are quite accomplished for a witch your age.”
“And quite well arrayed. The dress enhances your best features.”

Even Draco caught Hermione’s stunned intake of breath and genuine blush of embarrassment. It took him a few seconds to recognize the true source of Hermione’s nervousness. The compliment came from the wrong Malfoy.

That curtsey placed those shapely legs of hers in full view of the sexual glutton named Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Back on two feet, tree-bark brown eyes communicated her intent to make Draco pay for her accurate prediction about the height of the slit in her newest gown.

“Thank you, Lord Malfoy.”

Proving all Malfoy males appreciated beautiful women, Lucius tenderly lifted Hermione’s palm to his soft lips and placed a lingering kiss, chuckling at her second — and much louder — gasp. Next to her, Draco stiffened in preparation to fulfill his promise to protect her.

“Forgive me, Ms. Granger. I’ve only seen you in war regalia, ready for battle. I must say, you — how do those uncultured masses you call ‘friends’ put it? You ‘clean up nicely’. Your gown compliments your ‘assets’ very well.”

Undaunted in the silent war between herself and the head of the Malfoy family, Hermione lobbed her own volley.

“With such a charming and stunning wife, I’m surprised you noticed me. Are you flirting with me, Lord Malfoy?”

The coughing fit consumed Lucius’. Oxygen interruption kept the former Death Eater from maintaining contact with his undesirable guest’s hand and bent him over in a paroxysm of hacking. Hiding her own smile at Hermione’s cheekiness, Narcissa laid firm taps to her mate’s back in hopes of dislodging whatever irritated his windpipe.

The impertinence of that stubborn, mouthy, intrusive little —

Laughter brought Lucius' mental rant up short.

“Well said, Granger!”

Your brain is so sexy, Granger, I’m getting hard…

“Shall we adjourn to the —” the hostess suggested when Lucius regained his composure (as much as he would given the “status” of their “guest”).

The Lady’s efforts to move her information gathering along were thwarted by outside forces.

From the main floo in the family study came a clamor as an insistent house elf sacrificed its tiny body over and over again to block the admission of two uninvited visitors. Draco stiffened once more as the voices of the interlopers registered, causing his partner to turn that truth-detecting frown of hers directly on him.

Sighing at his abominable luck since Hermione punched him, Draco prepared for the inevitable confrontation that would ruin a perfectly executed arrival.

“Miss!” the poor elf shouted with a voice that broke repeatedly into squeaks, “the Master and Mistress is with the young Master and his guest. They isn’t expecting you, Miss!”

“Pansy — no party, see? Come back to the villa with me. I will keep you entertained.” the continental accent pleaded.
“Grow a set, Zabini. We’re always welcome in the Manor,” Pansy lied back.

Through the adjoining study’s ornate 8-foot double doors — that exploded open and collided with the walls on either side — strutted Pansy Parkinson followed by an apologetic Blaise Zabini.

“Draco! Haven’t seen you all — wh-wh-what is she doing here!?” Pansy stammered as she identified the Manor’s guest.

“Good evening Miss Parkinson. I was unaware you’d be joining us this evening.” Narcissa greeted without a hint of the vexation she felt.

As evidenced by the upturn on only one corner of his pale lips, Narcissa’s “Supper for Sub-standards” just got entertaining for the Lord of the Manor.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see,” Lucius crooned mischievously at his fuming wife, “Miss Parkinson. Blaise. Welcome!”

The Italian clicked his heels lightly before bowing his head in deference to his hosts.

“Ciao, Lady Narcissa; Lord Lucius. Draco.”

Pansy refused to acknowledge the Lord of the Manor — the bastard she held responsible for her poverty, her empty bed and the presence of that blood-tainted bodyguard bitch at the Manor.

“Good afternoon, Lady Narcissa, Draco,” the vindictive Slytherin offered instead.

The obvious snub was not lost on Lucius Malfoy.

“Ciao Bella. Come ha fatto la cena andare? Mi hai qualsiasi dolce risparmiare? [Hello, beautiful. How did dinner go? Did you save me any dessert?]”

Draco understood most of the words spoken to his dinner date. He considered shoving all of them back down the Italian’s throat using his fists.

“Sembra che hai portato la tua 'dolce' con voi.[It looks like you brought your 'dessert' with you.]
“Did the lingonberries work?”
“Quite well. Thank you for suggesting them. Come Drago, prendono il lavoro. [Like Draco, they require effort].”

At the easy laughter shared by the Italian lady-killer and the Griffindor heroine, thoughts of murder and opportunity crossed the minds of several of the Slytherins in the room.

Why does that bitch have BOTH my options for a better future sniffing at her Griffindor arse!?
Can I get that Italian layabout to sweep that mudblood out of our lives?…
Mental note: kill Zabini sloooowly after dinner…
Miss Parkinson may have met her match for Draco’s attentions…

“When did you learn to speak Italian?…”

…and WHY did you learn to speak Italian, Lioness?…

The controlled emotion in Draco’s inquiry brought Hermione’s perplexed gaze to his.

“Blaise tutored me last summer while we worked on keeping you a free man. He developed a charm —‘Lingua Franca’ — to improve my fluency.”
“Tell my Italian ‘friend’ that your exquisite meal — including ‘dessert’ — was consumed. By me.”

The only man you’ll be serving ‘dessert’ to…

“Blaise can hear you, Draco.”

Pansy apparently wasn’t the only Slytherin unhappy with misplaced “attentions”.

Jealous, Dragon? Why???…

“Will you make a special dessert just for me, cara?”

The last five minutes tamped Pansy’s insecurities and anger not one bit.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Zabini — not you too!?!?…
Fuck NO, Z. She will NOT be making ANYTHING for your sorry arse!…

“Happy to as I owe you for your help. I’ll owl you.”

I’ll murder every owl in that tower, Lioness…
Just a little push off the Owlery and no more mudblood in my life… could be attributed to Pansy or Lucius. Draco and Pansy weren't the only Slytherins contemplating a crime of passion.

“Bring it anytime, Bella — I’d love to taste all of your ‘desserts’.”

Not if I Crucio your arse first, you Italian lech…
Taste!? A MUDBLOOD!?!?!… could again be attributed to either Pansy or Lucius — or both.

“Are you and Blaise joining us for dinner, Miss Parkinson?”
“No” from Blaise got overruled by “We’d love to, Lady Malfoy” — louder and dripping with treacle — from Pansy.
“To the dining room, then? Hatter, please set two additional places.”

Narcissa turned, triggering choreography honed over their long marriage, and met Lucius as he mirrored her. His arm sat at the ready when both faced the proper direction. Behind them Draco mimicked his father’s dance-like turn and escorted his own partner to dinner.

Hooking her arm in his, Pansy tugged a reluctant Blaise towards the battleground more commonly known as the Manor’s dining hall.
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