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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
- 21
- 22
- 23
“Ms. Granger, I must apologize for our atrocious manners; the House of Malfoy has work to do to return to its former eminence. You have been exceedingly helpful to Draco and to me and we’re only now thanking you formerly.”
“Please, Lady Malfoy. It’s fine. Everyone deserves fair consideration. I’m well aware of how the world can force choices on us all — good and bad. I’m happy it worked out for you both.”

Blaise placed his hands on Hermione’s chair and pulled the seat out for her with a deft move — thwarting Draco’s own attempt at gallantry. His personal seating choice, selecting the open seat next to Hermione, forced Pansy to the opposite side of the table — next to Lady Malfoy.

“Have you and Miss Granger met, Miss Parkinson?”

“We’ve attended classes together in past years,” Hermione responded before Pansy processed the question, flashing a smirk Pansy would’ve slapped off her face had she been close enough. Pansy’s only N.E.W.T.-level courses were Divination, because Sybil Trelawney took every student who registered, and Advanced History of Magic because the professor was dead — Binn’s ghost lectured whoever showed up and gave no final exam.

Draco noted the unreadable expression his mother sent his father’s way as Lucius noted equally unreadable looks passing between that mud—… witch Draco was imprisoned with at school and his son.

“With your permission, Miss Granger, we’ll have the salad course next. We needn’t stand on formality—”

At the head of the table, opposite Draco, Lucius Malfoy’s mouth and eyes widened in preparation to protest this unexpected breach of protocol.

“And why wouldn’t we —” he protested, each word louder than the last.

The true authority in the Malfoy household twisted her porcelain-white neck in the direction of the love of her life and finished her sentence.

“— as you are joining us for a family meal. Don’t you agree, Lucius?”

Her withering stare powering that cultured smile reduced his willy by half.

“By all means, my dear. Let’s introduce our… guest to our family traditions.”

“I’m pleased you agree, my love,” Narcissa sent with a sly wink and an intimate “squeeze” under the table that had Lucius leering in spite of the visitors.

Eyes wide at the subtle foreplay she’d just witnessed at the formal dining table, the realization dawned on Hermione that Narcissa “managed” her husband’s moods and disagreeable disposition with style, intelligence, class, powerful magic…

…and, if Draco was any barometer — SEX. Flirtatious, playful S-E-X.

The mental image of Lucius, bare-arsed but for an Olympic speedo, in a leather chest harness with a leash cord held loosely by Narcissa brought Hermione near to tears behind her hastily raised napkin.

“For informal family dinners we always serve the salad course first.”

Draco’s “commoner” flatmate had no idea what formal course sequencing was. She’d been far too concerned about what new hexes and jinxes Lucius might cast to memorize proper serving etiquette.

“Draco and Lucius have a dreadful addiction to sweets. They’d avoid anything green altogether if I didn’t insist.”

At this, Hermione hurried her napkin to her mouth anew to mute the mirth she struggled to subdue.

The hostess soon joined the gaiety — to the chagrin of two pouting male Malfoys.

“Oh, Lucius! Don’t frown — you’ve said yourself you need to cut down. It took both of us to keep Draco from levitating those chocolate truffles of yours into his cradle every evening.”

“That hasn’t changed. I find candy papers all over our Commons.”
“The Commons?” Lucius goaded, hoping to reveal where Draco spent his time in their tower.
“The Commons and my bedroom,” Hermione added with a smug grin and Lucius’ wine glass shot away from him towards the table as the elder Malfoy once again struggled to control his coughing without soiling himself.
“Granger!” exploded from the mouths of Pansy and Draco simultaneously.
“I’m sorry — I was unclear. Draco pinches candy from the bag I keep in the kitchen. I’ve taken to hiding it in my bedroom to slow his consumption.”

Hermione’s smirk now resembled an innocent half-smile. Her statement did nothing to clarify whether Draco sought out her “candy” in its new hiding place.

“I warned you, Father. Granger doesn’t intimidate easily.”

At those words the salad course arrived, served by house elves in half-tuxedos (tops only with some strange nappy-like bottom). Unable to ignore the indentured servants but unwilling to stage a protest without an escape plan, the founder of S.P.E.W. satisfied herself with common courtesy.

“Thank you, Mack.”

“Youse is welcome, Miss Hermione.” Mack grin-grimaced back, immediately smitten by the legendary Hermione Granger who defended house elves (but had to be avoided when holding clothing).

Quiet consumption ensued.

“You look beautiful this evening, cara.”
“Thank you. The gown was a holiday gift from Draco.”

What!?!? And I’m wearing LAST YEAR’S ROBES!?!?!…

You have the legs to do it justice… two Malfoy males concluded, one admittedly reluctant to acknowledge those shapely diversions.

“And the jewel?” the Italian instigated further.

Having accompanied Draco to the Malfoy vault at Gringott’s to retrieve it, Blaise well knew the source.

“That would be Draco’s legacy from my mother, Morella Malfoy. It’s been in the family over 900 years.” the current head of the dynasty clarified for the other guests.

In clipped phrases, Lucius explained the historical significance of bestowing the necklace: the act usually announced a Malfoy’s intent to wed. Abraxas, the last Malfoy suitor to do so, presented the goblin-made heirloom to Morella Graff-Trin [“shrewd manipulator”] in satisfaction of the dowry in their marriage contract. Lucius broke with tradition by gifting his fiancee the ancient Malfoy signet ring (sporting the Malfoy crest) made by the first sire of the dynasty — Aloysius Malfoy — for his betrothed, Lilith the Faire.

“I’m sure Draco meant the bauble as merely a convenient gift,” Lord Lucius finished with a hard look at Draco, demanding concurrence.

My son just broadcast his intent to marry that m—…
That bitch is wearing MY necklace!…
So my son is serious about this witch…
Thank me later, mi compagno…

“I haven’t agreed to keep it, though.”
“You should. You make it more beautiful, bella.” and in a sudden move, Blaise leaned over to plant a lingering kiss on Hermione’s cheek.

Behind her napkin, Narcissa smiled at the burgundy wave creeping up Draco’s neck. A full fledged battle for the attentions of Hermione Granger played out at her table and Narcissa fully endorsed it. Competition brought out the best in Malfoy males. Seated beside her, Pansy Parkinson appeared ready to ignite. Had Pansy not feared she’d be reduced to dust like Voldemort, the furious pure-blood would’ve hexed Hermione and Draco for that necklace nonsense. Possibly for the first time in her life, a Parkinson would have to work for something that mattered. For his part, Draco noted the effect the exact sentiment he himself expressed to Hermione on Christmas Eve had on his dinner guest — when rendered in that laughable accent Blaise affected around women.

You fucking Italian cock-blocking, woman-stealing son of a polygamous…
So help me, Zabini, I’m going to hex your balls off, you mudblood loving…
Excellent execution, Mr. Zabini. Now would be a good time to apparate your prize away from my Manor… and leave my mother's heirloom necklace where it belongs…

Lucius looked on with hopeful anticipation. His enjoyment of the disruption to his wife’s “Meals with Mudbloods” evening earned him a warning, delivered in the scary look tucked within the serene expression Narcissa affected. If Merlin actually listened this time, that cheeky Italian fop — and not the last Malfoy heir — would claim that sharp-tongued muddled-blood home intruder and save Lucius’ marital retreat to Alsace, France (and his bloodline).

Falling back on formal manners only delayed the necessary confrontations but Lucius was fast running out of opportunities to encourage Blaise and to survive this “dinner”. First he lobbed an observation grounded in the young Italian’s clear interest in the Head Girl.

“Blaise, you and Miss Granger seem to have struck up quite a friendship since last summer.”

Everyone but Pansy pretended not to notice the increasing noise of Draco’s knife scraping against the antique plate as if he meant to saw it in two.

“Dull knife, Draco? Here — use mine,” the clueless femme fatale offered.

Not the knife that’s dull… the normally kind Gryffindor decided.

“Bellezza e mi conoscono bene, dopo la scorsa estate. [Bella and I are well acquainted after last summer].” Blaise acknowledged in Italian, recognizing that everyone — except Pansy — got the gist of his reply.

At the completion of Zabini’s double entendre, the ping of 300-year-old china snapping in two under pressure got everyone’s attention. Hatter rushed in to replace the ruined greenery — that Draco disliked — with another unbroken plate full of raw salad.

Hermione grinned, reasoning out Blasie’s beaviour.

“Is everything alright, Drag- Draco?”

She’d almost called him “Dragon”. The elder Malfoys caught the momentary mistake, Narcissa expressing curiosity and Lucius glowering in disapproval.

“Volete cucinare per me, cara [Will you cook for me, cara]?”

Draco went scarlet at the repeated use of the intimate moniker meaning “heart”; he’d warned Zabini last summer to stop.

“Se Drago mi lascia ogni momento, sono felice di. [If Draco leaves me any time, I’m happy to].”

At the sound of his name rolling from her lips in Italian, Draco had to drop his napkin in his lap to hide his growing stiffness, Narcissa’s fork missed the morsel she’d aimed at because she had to stifle a smile and a laugh — her Italian wasn’t that rusty, Lucius openly glared his shock that the mudblood had countered his every move to separate her from Draco — and Pansy just fumed, unable to translate the Italian but perfectly capable of translating the body language of her classmates

You obviously require further reminders about that Italian charm and who to aim it at, Z…
Are you slumming, Draco!? Leave this slut to Zabini!
Are you mental, son!? Leave this… witch to Zabini!
Are you willing to lose her, Draco? Do you care for her as she clearly does for you?…

Blaise leered as Draco burned.

In the seat across from his, the Italian registered — with Slytherin satisfaction — Pansy’s growing jealousy at Draco’s reactions to the innocent conversation.

Zabini poured on the charm.

“My villa in Milan has a well-equipped kitchen and an elevator to my private quarters.”

Draco inhaled a cherry tomato, choking silently as the fruit blocked his windpipe, and had to be assisted to restore his breathing. The sight of him fish-mouthed and gasping for air accelerated Pansy’s dash to slap him on the back. Her efforts came to nought as Hermione cast a wordless, wandless Anapneo charm and resolved the problem before it escalated into a life-threatening emergency. Refilling his goblet herself, his rescuer scooted closer to pass the water and her concerns to the appreciative junior Lord.

“Are you better? Have a sip of this —” and Draco’s protective “friend” held the goblet until satisfied his slightly shaking hands wouldn’t spill it down his robes. Draco made sure to lightly stroke her fingers holding the vessel with one of his own in a bold display of possessiveness that prompted a blush and a shy grin from the sole Gryffindor in this nest of snakes.
“How will I survive after graduation without you around to save me, Lioness?”

Lioness… thought Narcissa.
Lioness??? thought Blaise.
Lioness!?!?! thought Lucius.
Fuck that Lioness shite! thought the remaining dinner guest.

At the privileged table of the pre-war poster-family for “Toujour Pur”, the world was a-changin’. Hermione Granger better suited Draco’s future, in Blaise’s opinion. Narcissa’s cautiously emerging concurrence would have shocked the Italian half-blood (if he’d been aware of it).

Into this awkward post-rescue silence the second antipasti course appeared, snails still in their shells and prepared Crete-style.

“Oh! I’ve wanted to try these.” Hermione enthused.

Pansy stared at the “insects” — mollusks cooked in their “carry-all” homes — in her bowl. Anything slimy or crawly qualified as “insects”. She’d been crap at potions because she’d refused to touch half the ingredients.

“You enjoy Greek cuisine, Miss Granger?”
“I do!” Hermione replied, warming to a subject she enjoyed, “I’ve eaten at a number Greek restaurants in London but I’ve only cooked a few recipes and I loved them all. Draco gave me a cookbook on Greek peasant recipes, so we’ll be trying those.”

Hermione’d dragged Harry to a great hole-in-the-wall muggle restaurant last summer as Ron balked when she confirmed that his mother’s version of steak-and-kidney pie wouldn’t be found on a menu of Greek dishes.

“Peasant recipes suit you.”

The incendiary look Hermione shot Pansy after that “observation” wasn’t lost on Lucius or Narcissa. Interested in what would happen next, the Lady delicately returned her snail fork to her plate, giving her full attention to the confrontation brewing between the young women under the guise of eating the epicurean delicacies.

“While they may be called ‘peasant’,” Hermione lectured a disinterested Pansy, “most of the finest gourmet recipes have their roots in common fare. It takes skill and effort to turn meager ingredients into a nutritious, flavorful meal.”
“I can see why you would consider insects ‘gourmet fare’.” Pansy snarked back, denigrating the guest and the cuisine in a single mistaken outburst.

No one impugned the cuisine at Malfoy Manor; especially not a charity case who’d avoided living at the Leaky due to the kindness of Narcissa Malfoy. Pansy had yet to learn not to bite the hand that fed and dressed her since the war ended.

The bint should know better than to tangle with the family who’s keeping her fed and clothed…

With that thought foremost in her mind, Narcissa dropped a venomous memory jogger of the Parkinson’s present financial troubles and to whom they should be grateful for yesterday’s Christmas feast.

“I’m sorry our choices don’t meet with your approval, Miss Parkinson,” the hostess commented equably, “I took great care in assembling your Christmas repast. Were the choices not to your liking?”

The pale (and poor) Slytherin blanched at the rebuke.

Lucius struggled to retain his outward calm, trapped between pride at his wife’s defense of their generosity and dismay that Pansy couldn’t keep up in the battle for Draco’s affections. The paranoid patriarch’s worst nightmare played out around the table: each mistake by Pansy brought Lucius ever closer to a half-blood grandchild.

“Don’t let Granger fool you, Mother,” Draco lazily interrupted in a sly effort to draw his mother’s claws out of Pansy’s tender ego, “she’s a first-class chef. I tried — and failed — to persuade her to get her frizzy head out of those useless N.E.W.T texts and open a restaurant in Diagon Alley. Her Sole Meunière is better than sex.”

Unless it’s with you, Lioness…

“Draco!” Narcissa and Hermione gasped in concert.

Have to read up on ways to make you take that “sex” crack back, Dragon…
Nothing that slut cooks is better than sex with me, “Head” Boy

Pansy, aware that Draco’s statement probably meant he’d shagged his first mudblood, glared at Hermione through narrowed lids. Anyone observing the Hogwarts Heads closely recognized the double meaning in every phrase.

“You can compare the two objectively, son?” Lucius interjected, pleased to see Pansy’s head snap in his direction. His best option for pure-blood grandchildren needed to get back in the game.
“I’ll defer any further discussions as the ladies prefer my silence on the subject. We would do well to invest in Hermione as she’s sure to be a success — she’ll work like a house elf and we’ll reap the financial rewards.”
“Not so fast, Malfoy. I’ve done a preliminary analysis of my own and I would expect preferential terms over ten years with all dividends and payouts on the net not the gross.”

Even Lucius grudgingly nodded at Hermione’s rudimentary efforts to keep the Malfoys from stealing. Not one to surrender to the invading horde (unless they looked like a snake and brought a big one with ’em), Lucius loaded another round in his mudblood cannon and lit the fuse.

“So, Ms. Granger. What menu did you serve my son that has him ready to abandon carnal pleasures?”
“Sole Meunière, Ratatouille and crepes with lingonberry compote.”
“Don’t forget the Poisson d’Avril.” Draco added as he fished the last cooked snail out of its shell. Pansy’s gag reflex could be heard by all as she watched in gut-churning disgust.

Narcissa Malfoy noted every interaction between the Hermione-Draco-Pansy and the Draco-Hermione-Blaise triangles while Draco lauded the culinary skills of his co-head. But the protective mother found herself most intrigued that Hermione Granger had an educated palate, would spoil her son with his favorites prepared by her own hands and safeguarded him like a watch-dragon.

“So know-it-all fits you to a tee, Granger. Can’t imagine that ginger boyfriend of yours gets a word in with you doing all his scullery and his thinking for him.”

If Pansy’d had an inkling of a clue, Hermione’s expression — a deadly smile accompanied by a darkening of the hazel glints in her eyes — would have warned her off. Instead (commensurate with Hermione’s long-standing opinion that concussed trolls registered higher on the IQ charts than Pansy) the dull-witted Slytherin adopted a rather smug expression as the war hero returned her own fork to her appetizer plate then carefully wiped her mouth with her napkin before responding.

Much like Ron with Draco at the Burrow earlier that day, Pansy picked the wrong witch to mess with.

“Some wizards prefer intelligent witches. I see no reason for a woman to be uneducated in business. Many marry into families with successful companies. I would think financial skills would be beneficial, give her husband someone to work ideas out with. She might prove the better of the pair,” Hermione finished as she retrieved her fork and savored her next snail.
“And Ron Weasley isn’t my boyfriend; neither is Harry Potter.”

The sharp retort gained Hermione points with the Lady of the Manor.

“I forgot; in mu—”

Pansy swallowed her intended word choice in response to the firebolts Draco’s stare sent her way —

“— muggle-born marriages that’s probably true. Your kind have to work, don’t they? In our world, no pure-blood wife would ever meddle in her husband’s business affairs.”

Narcissa chuckled lightly — never a good sign.

“I seconded Lucius at Malfoy Enterprises, Miss Parkinson,” Malfoy Enterprises’ former Chief Operating Officer [COO] corrected, “I have a gift for strategy and Lucius found my ideas ‘beneficial’, as Miss Granger put it, and profitable. I am, after all, a Black and a Slytherin. Of course, once Draco was born my role changed — his cradle joined me in my office on those limited occasions when I worked. I try to keep abreast of the current operations of the firm with my son.”

Pansy paled considerably; this gambit was not woking as planned. Having set the stage, Lucius’ second in command opened up the audition for Draco’s preferred consort.

“How about you, Ms. Granger? What are your thoughts on ‘working mothers’?”

Hermione did smug as well as any in Salazar’s house at Hogwarts.

“My mother and father owned their own dental practice; it’s the life I was born into. Since the war…”

Draco ached at the heartbroken shadows in her soulful brown eyes.

It’s okay, Lioness. I’ll help you get them back…

With a slow, controlled breath, Hermione continued.

“Since the war, I’m… changing my expectations somewhat. Family matters more to me and I don’t think I want to have an only child — not that there was anything wrong with my childhood —“
“— other than being a mudblood,” either Pansy or Lucius mumbled.
“— but I’d love to find someone to marry and work with… maybe start our own potions or charms business so I could balance having a career and a family. I have no intention of wasting my education but I won’t sacrifice my family on the altar of career achievement.”
“Well said. I felt the same when we got the news about Draco. I’ve never regretted my choices. We women are better at multi-tasking and we’re stronger magic wielders.”
“Cissy — I take exception to that!”
“If we members of the ‘fairer’ sex were any more powerful, Lucius, angry magic would have maimed half the wizards in Britain. Especially during childbirth.”

Everyone at the table — except Lucius and Pansy — laughed, acknowledging the truth in Narcissa’s words.

“Cara, you’re welcome to join my family’s company when you graduate. I’lI see to our eight bambini and I won’t come to work before noon.”

Back the fuck OFF, Z!…
Shut the fuck UP, Zabini!…
That’s it, Mr. Zabini, charm her right off to Italy…

“I believe I said work ‘with’, not ‘alone’. And I didn’t hear you mention ‘marriage’. It’s hard to imagine you settling down to a wife and ‘eight’ children.” the lone Gryffinfor at the table laughed.

Certainly not with a fucking mudblood… one or both pure-blood supporters thought loudly.

“You forget, Bella. My mother was one of nine; my father one of eleven. And I’m North African — my grandfather had four wives at one time.”
“What a sane way to handle female moods...” Lucius mused aloud.

Narcissa immediately “twisted” the hidden attitude adjustment knob in her disgruntled spouse’s crotch, “Don’t get any ideas, Lucius.”

“As an only child, I’m not good at sharing,” came Hermione’s good natured rebuff of Blaise’s procreation offer, “Thank you for being so ‘generous’, Blaise.”

Excellent choice, Lioness. He might live to see tomorrow…

“Pansy — are the snails not to your liking?”

Two Slytherin females, whose families had long legacies in the green and silver dungeons, squared off over the innocent-sounding questions in a battle Pansy hadn’t meant to start. Only one was armed with the wits to handle the altercation.

“I’m… sensitive to seafood, Lady Malfoy.”

Adopting a surprised expression, Draco feigned surprise at Pansy’s new “allergy”.

“Really? I suppose it couldn’t be your positive distaste for all thing insectoid? I seem to remember having to handle all of the slippery and dripping materials when we were paired in Potions fifth year.”
“I remember handling some dripping items myself,” she countered back at Draco with a wink and a sinful grin.

Draco blanched at the public reminder that he’d taken what was left of Pansy’s virginity in the lab behind Snape’s Potions classroom the afternoon before their fourth year holiday break. With the Italian heart thief working on his flatmate, the Head Boy preferred details of his own previous encounters stay buried.

At the smirk on Lucius’ face, Narcissa reasserted herself into the fray.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the next course. Nothing to offend your sensitive palate.”

Servants delivered a Cretian feast — pork with leeks and plums and chaniotiko boureki, a casserole of potatoes, zucchini and mint held together with myzithrn cheese.

“May I trouble you for the recipes, Lady Malfoy? I’d like to prepare these back at school.”
“I’ll have the kitchen staff provide you a copy. What makes this different is the spice — Greek boureki omits the Cretian spices. I find this version more flavorful and it’s my son’s favorite — isn’t it, Draco?”
“I’ll say ‘Yes’ to anything that will keep Granger in our kitchen.”

Feminist fire flashed behind Hermione's calm expression while she stared through him.

I didn’t say cooperative and pregnant, Lioness… even if I did think it…
You need an adjustment to your expectations of me, Malfoy…

“If she’s unwilling to consider the restaurant trade, maybe she’ll put her money where her brain is and help me get those new brooms into production. Her rough estimate netted a 25% return per broom after startup and production expenses.”

The swot in their midst updated her own estimate in real time.

“35%”
“New brooms?”

Lucius Malfoy’s unwanted gate-crasher suddenly captured his complete and undivided attention — and Narcissa's, who began her mental divestment of the increasingly unacceptable Pansy Parkinson. The intellectually challenged slag steadily receded as the first choice to conceive the heir to the houses of Black and Malfoy.

“We’re working on behavioral reconditioning; Granger has a paralyzing fear of flying. In the process she’s come up with a novel idea: she thinks Malfoy Enterprises should license and market my anti-falling charm for training brooms.”

The older Slytherin scoffed between sips from his refilled wine glass.

“Anti-falling? There is no such thing. No charm can keep up with the brooms available today.”
“That’s where you're wrong, Lord Malfoy. The sampling rate issue can be overcome with the right tuning.”
“Nonsense, witch! Stick to cooking — you’ve no head for brooms and flying.”

Uh-oh trampled through two minds at the table. The third mind snickered at the gaffe by the undesirable “guest” of the Manor. The fourth head leaned in to catch every detail of Hermione’s response.

“With all due respect, sir,” and the gloves came off in the conflict between the Mudblood and the Death Eater, “you’ve no idea what you’re speaking of. The problem with Draco’s charm — which does exist and works very well —”

Passion drove Hermione on, coupled with unbounded outrage at the denial of Draco’s success in inventing something new and useful.

“— is the sampling rate and the shape of the repulsor wave. All that’s needed are some careful calculations and prototyping.”
“You’re misinformed due to your phobia, Miss Granger. I rode my first Silver Arrow before you or my son were thought of and I’m telling you it can’t be done.”
“I beg to differ, Mr. Malfoy. My initial calculations indicate that the charm’s execution speed isn’t the issue — somehow the flying charm interferes with the falling charm as the broom accelerates. I’ve only had a few hours to consider it but I’m sure Draco can find an answer and when he does, Malfoy Enterprises will be the most sought after brand for training and family brooms.”
“The licensing fees… Toy brooms generally sell for much less than family or racing models…”

To everyone’s surprise, this contribution came from Lucius and not Draco nor Narcissa.

“I’ve given that some thought. Once a customer decides on a broom with the charm — and Draco’s warm weather spell, it’s best to keep them as a customer. I thought a trade-in program would provide multiple sales from each purchaser. Inexperienced flyers, like me, will want to move to a full-speed broom as soon as possible. The trade-ins can be refurbished inexpensively enough and resold by the Malfoy Outlet.”

Blaise Zabini leapt the logic hurdle fastest.

“Molto BRILLIANTE! The net profit on the refurbished brooms could be near 30%.”
“Higher,” Draco cut in, “because the broom sellers will mark the faster brooms up if they know training versions will be traded in. We’ll be able to buy them in bulk for knuts.”
“Only,” the Italian considered aloud, “if the licensing puts the liability on them. Can’t let the stores resell the trade-ins unless Malfoy Enterprises re-certifies them as safe.”

With a grin, Draco announced his newest hire.

“Z, I have the perfect job for you, seeing as you’re failing every N.E.W.T. class. You’re my new vice president of marketing and product development.”

In the last half-hour, dessert and Pansy had been forgotten. Around her sat the current CEO, the “retired” CEO, the “former” COO, the new “consultant” for Research and Development and the just hired head of Marketing for Malfoy Enterprises — and Pansy lacked a clue as to what they were all so excited about.

Hoping to remind Draco of why they worked well together, the petulant Slytherin recklessly re-inserted herself into the discussions.

“If Granger doesn’t fly, why is she working on those brooms? She’s not an employee, is she?”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Draco began his warning, “but this will all be fantasy if Granger and I can’t fix those spells.”
“No, Pansy, I’m not an employee and I don’t intend to be.”
“WHAT!?” Lucius bellowed as the image of lost galleons gaited through his head.
“I’ll be attending university in the fall. I won’t have time to assist Draco with the broom’s development.”
“Neither can be that difficult if you can do them,” Draco’s former fiancée taunted, “I’m sure Draco and I can fix his little 'stick' problem while you’re off playing swot.”

The assertion and the look garnered scowls from Draco, Hermione and Narcissa.

“Miss Granger has more applicable charms experience in this area, Miss Parkinson. And I want to hear more about this ‘outlet’ merchandising plan.”

No one not named Voldemort would ever challenge Lucius again in his ancestral home.

“I’m sure,” Pansy snarled at Lucius’ insult, “Draco and I will find a solution working together. Sooner, in fact.”
“I thought you’d be spending more time with Plantagenet, Miss Parkinson, with his trial approaching. I'm sure your father needs you more.”

The verbal slap reddened Pansy’s features as surely as if Lucius had used his hand.

“Where were we?… Where will you attend university, Miss Granger? Surely you can delay until the broom’s problems have been solved?”
“I’d rather not defer. And I don’t know ‘where’ yet. I’ll need financial support to attend.”
“Then why in Merlin’s ba—”
“Lucius?”
“What, witch!?” the irritated “retired” CEO of the shrinking family business snapped at his emeritus COO.

A raised eyebrow from his lovely wife changed his tone.

“Yes, my dear?”
“You’ve pestered Miss Granger enough. I’ve had the kalitsounias reheated three times. She’s our guest.”

At those words, Pansy snickered into her napkin.

“Draco’s the head of the firm,” Narcissa continued, “he’s perfectly capable of working out an arrangement for Hermione’s —”

The “popping” and “snapping” sounds came from necks, not apparations. Every set of eyes and ears at the table registered Narcissa’s use of Miss Granger’s first name.

“— assistance to get the product to market. We’re here to thank her for her brilliant help in keeping Draco and me out of Azkaban. Let’s not spoil it by badgering her with business.”

No one missed Narcissa’s hand slinking under the table. The Slytherins, however, recognized it wasn’t aimed at Lucius’ knee. Her finger sliding to the side of his trouser buttons, and accompanied by her most appealing smile, gained his surrender.

“As you wish, my love,” he spoke after kissing her other palm tenderly, “but I’ll expect a demonstration broom by summer. September is prime season for broom sales. Have I made myself understood, Draco?”

Something between a grin and a frown traveled across Draco’s mouth. That Lucius relented and now believed the product possible definitely chuffed the son but the timetable for getting the broom to market started yesterday. In his state of mental flux, he missed the next shift of the ground beneath him.

“… enjoy the gardens.”

His mother was offering Hermione a tour of the Manor. The place she received her blood status “tattoo” courtesy of his aunt, Bellatrix the Psychopath.

“I-I-I wouldn’t want to bother you, L-L-Lady Malfoy.”

Only those in the Manor when the Snatchers captured her recognized the source of the fear returning to her with each memory.

“I’d like to see the ballroom. Draco, remember the Christmas ball in fifth —?”

Pansy choked back the rest of her taunt when the lethal glare from her male classmates descended on her. She’d meant to unnerve the healing Gryffindor with a reminder of Bellatrix’ abuse of her in the chandeliered party room. During one of their meager meals together her father had relayed Lucius’ account of the torture and escape of the “Golden Trio”.

Draco resolved in that moment to re-educate Pansy on acceptable behavior around his flatmate.

Hermione’s palpable anxiety almost gave the malicious witch a victory — until Narcissa stepped in.

“That portion of the Manor is still under renovation. I’d intended to have it redone — with my study and the game room — before the Incident,”

— Narcissa’s term for the war Voldemort lost was “The Incident” —

“…but circumstances overcame my initial plan. No matter! I’m sure you’ll appreciate the music room — it’s been completed in the classic Greek style — and the rear portico. Come! I won’t take “No” for an answer.”
“Take a chance, Granger. I’m sure Mother will tell you enough embarrassing tales of my childhood to keep you supplied with “Draco jokes” until graduation. It will give me a chance to spend some time with my house mates,” and with a murderous grin, Draco’s eyes recaptured Pansy in their gunmetal-grey crosshairs.
“Please go, Miss Granger. My wife can be as inflexible and insistent as you. I’d rather not become the innocent target for her wrath after your departure.”

Jerkily, the frightened woman-child’s gaze moved between Draco (her plea for rescue obvious to all), and Pansy (where light-brown lightning flashed in her furious glare).

“I would love to, Lady Malfoy; thank you,” she resolved, her inner Gryffindor asserting itself again, “Would it be possible to see the kitchen as well?”
“Consider it done! We’ll return to you all in, say, a half-hour? Drinks will be served in the front parlor — the one you arrived in, Miss Parkinson.”

At that final rebuke, Narcissa rose from her chair, prompting Hermione’s identical movements, and glided out of the room ahead of her guest.

“Father? Blaise? Why don’t you get started in the parlor? Pansy and I have some catching up to do.”
“I’m sure we can —” she started.
“I’m equally sure we cannot, Pansy. My request was for your benefit, not mine. Father’s heard worse from me.”

Without a further word Lord Malfoy and Blaise Zabini left the room.

“Blaise, you have your choice of my Henry IV Cognac Grande Champagne or my Glenavon 1850 Special Liqueur Whisky — holiday presents to myself.”

The younger man’s whistle echoed through the long hallway they traversed to the parlor. The self-centered head of the family gifted himself with 220,000 galleons [£1.1 million] cognac and a “cordial” blend — rumored to be the most potent alcohol-based aphrodisiac known — valued at 300,000 galleons [£1.5 million] (when a bottle came on the market).

“We Italians always prefer cordials to bubbles.”
“Explains your inability to run a business into anything but the ground.” at which the handsome Italian laughed easily.
“But our talents are unmatched in the sensual pleasures, Lord Malfoy; surely those should earn me some respect.”
“Only if you’re successful in wooing my ‘guest’ back to your villa. Permanently.”

Lucius’ holiday wish reverberated back into the nearly empty dining room where two former lovers pretended to enjoy their wine in silence. The metallic *click* of the parlor’s doorknob latch bolt into the strike silenced the retreating voices.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Lover,” Pansy accused without any verbal foreplay. Pouting lips barely softened her angular, covetous features.
“Your behavior at dinner justifies my avoidance.”
“You honestly expect me to believe,” Pansy countered, her volume and her ire rising with every spoken word, “that you feel something other than disgust for that-that-that fucking MUDBLOOD!?”
“What I expect,” the new, brain-damaged Draco responded as soft and threatening as sudden death itself, “is for you to respect the Head Girl, my family and my home. If you wish any further contact with me, you will modify your behavior in my presence and in the presence of Hermione and my parents.”
“Hermione…” Draco’s stunned pure-blood housemate exhaled on a breath, staring in astonishment.

Rearing back in her chair to take in this new Draco as her tears welled, Pansy spoke truth to the room.

“You love her.”
“Grow up, Pansy. She’s a war hero and she’s saved my arse more than once. The better she and I get along, the better the Malfoys survive these post-war punishments. I will not have you upsetting her — or my mother — this close to father’s trial.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Draco.”

Cold as the snake on his family crest, Draco smiled and Pansy trembled in response.

“You didn’t ask a question. We’ve been friends —”
“Lovers, Draco… We’ve had SEX countless times here and at school… We had a marriage contract…”

Draco felt sorry for Pansy. A great deal had been taken from her over the last year — not as much as many others lost, but a great deal for the spoiled, rich-bitch she’d been before — and the loss of her father to Azkaban remained a probability.

“— but it’s a different world. Survivors adapt.”

Pansy regained her composure, reabsorbed the tears that hadn’t escaped and restored her posture to its normal haughtiness as the clock ticked the seconds away.

“You’re right, Draco; brilliant as ever. Can’t win a ‘new war’ with ‘old wands’.”

With that settled, Draco rose — offering an old friend/fiancée his arm as courtesy demanded — and escorted her to the parlor, completely missing the steel infusing itself in her spine and behind her eyes after their “discussion”.

A “new war” requires “new wands”, Lover…

Narcissa stared at the commotion that exploded before them when “THE” Hermione Granger, champion of house elves and founder of S.P.E.W. for their benefit, entered the palatial Malfoy kitchens.

Demurely, so as not to further rattle the kitchen staff, Hermione made her entreaty —

“May I ask who prepared dinner?”

Four elves self-identified by trying to hide — one behind the other. Their pushing and jostling to keep from being the center of attention gave Draco’s date ample time to approach and kneel, her legs steadying her through the slit in that dress.

“I’ve never eaten better. Could you provide me the recipes?”
“Miss may have —”

From the elf’s other hand a pot swung upwards and landed on the crown of his knobby head with an audible metallic ringing; he’d beaned himself as punishment for acting without Lady Malfoy’s permission.

“Your have my permission, Zaphod — and do, one of you, clean up that blood before you slip on it.”

Thirty elves scrambled to respond to the ounce (or less) of blood dripping from the elf’s wound. Reaching into the miniature evening bag at her wrist, Hermione retrieved a plaster and a small spray-bottle of antiseptic.

“Let me tend that…”

Unnoticed by the soft-hearted Gryffindor was the absolute worship of the now 70+ house elves who came to see the miracle — a witch willing to care for an elf. When she regained her feet, she found a scroll of parchment tied with a festive ribbon pressed into her hand.

“Asks Mr. Draco if you wants help. Trillian and me knows the school — we’ll help Miss Hermione.”
“Happy Christmas.” she called, noting Nacissa’s growing impatience with the “Miss Hermione” worship. Rising carefully to prevent toppling, a grayish hand came out to steady her and sent a bolt of static down her hand and arm.
“You is a powerful witch, you is. Your children will have magic like wizards and elves…”
“Mabel?” Narcissa prodded, not unkindly, to the clearly Confunded elf, “You seem distracted. Please see to yourself; no more work today.”
“Yes, Mistress.” and the little elf walked off, the faraway look only now dissipating in her eyes.
“You’ll have to forgive Mabel. Lucius’ grandmother swore she had the “gift” of divination. Such a ridiculous notion; how could such a talent come to a house elf?”

The racist diatribe would have offended Hermione had Narcissa’s tone not communicated something entirely different: the words spoken by Mabel to Hermione noticeably unsettled the normally unflappable Lady of the Manor. No doubt existed in the Gryffindor’s head about Narcissa’s reaction to what sounded like a prophesy.

[In the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, not 60 minutes later, four sage magicians — including two dead ex-headmasters — pondered the meaning of two prophesies that suddenly appeared in the Department of Mysteries: each contained the name of the Dark Lord paired with that of a magical being yet to be born…]

Following a step or two behind and to the left of the mistress of the house, Hermione immediately sensed the heavy wards in place along the hallway walls to her left.

“I had high hopes that the demolition and restoration work would have been completed by now but my darling Lucius keeps changing his mind — two rooms, no? No! Three rooms. A fireplace in each? Yes. No. TWO fireplaces in each. He can be quite the spoilt brat.”

To this small revelation Hermione let loose an unrestrained laugh.

“So you’ve noted a similarity in Draco’s behavior?”

That glint of intelligence, mixed with cunning and humor Hermione found charming and infuriating in Draco, sparkled in his mother’s eyes.

“Almost every day I prepared him for his trial. I have him to thank for learning Italian.”
“Oh?”
“I asked Blaise to teach me so Draco wouldn’t understand when I was cursing him. I thought that was safer as Draco mentioned he’d never studied Italian.”
“He hasn’t studied —”

Hermione’s nod of acknowledgement came five or six seconds too early.

“Thank goodness! Blaise taught me some truly crude phrases.”
“— because his first nanny came from Italy. He no longer speaks fluently but I’m sure his understanding is on par with his French and Spanish. You can see the necessity of speaking and reading any language you negotiate contracts in.”

All things considered, Hermione hid her chagrin and her anger fairly well given her flatmate had told her the facts and completely obscured the truth about his language skill.

That Slytherin FERRET understood EVERY word I said!

In deference to the embarrassment Narcissa suspected accompanied that flush climbing Hermione’s exposed décolletage, the tour moved on to the reading room, the sitting room and Lucius’ man-cave in quick succession.

“When the work is complete we will have an expanded game room. Draco and Lucius adore poker and strategy games. Both are quite accomplished at ‘Go’.”

While not one with time or inclination for games, Hermione learned “Go” in her lower school accelerated maths class. She’d used the deceptively simple pastime as an example in her N.E.W.T. thesis proposal. The game dated back nearly 3000 years.

“It’s one of the few board games I enjoy. Draco’s never mentioned it.”
“Good to know! When you visit next time we’ll play in teams; women versus men.”
“Would that be fair?”

Another “Hermione” chit fell into Narcissa’s “Preferred Consort” mental bucket, hidden by the easy laughter of Draco’s mother.

“I’ll not abide false modesty to save Lucius’ nor Draco’s egos. I have admitted my own gifts in strategy and you, Miss Granger, outwitted more than a few dedicated adversaries to defeat the Dark Lord. And before you protest,” she replied to the unspoken rebuttal on Hermione’s lips, “No one has ever stolen their way into the Black family vaults.”

The swish of their robes provided a counterpoint as each considered where this visit would lead in the near- and far term. Inevitably they arrived at the hallway’s end where another set of ornate doors — looking every bit of two-stories tall — opened at Narcissa’s approach to a fabulous music room.

Before her lay the first room that was clearly “Malfoy”. Reminding Hermione of Draco’s decorating “alterations” to their Commons, this room shouted its status as the family’s favorite gathering place.

At least half the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, glass comprised one entire wall — standing easily 20-feet high and sporting a killer view of the gardens and the “pond” at the rear of the manse. Along the other walls stood shelf after shelf of music related items — small instruments, sheet music, various magical meters and tuning equipment and books. Books on music composers. Books on music styles. Books on music interpretations and critiques.

And on the lowest shelves sat a collection of children’s magical musical books at just the right height for little hands.

To the right of that glorious garden view sat a 10-foot Steinway grand piano — from their magical division — playing Erik Satie’s less performed but hauntingly beautiful “Gymnopedies #3”, a piece well-loved (for differing reasons) by both women.

Lost in the melody, words from the hostess wormed their way into Hermione’s consciousness.

“…gave it to me during the last month of my confinement with Draco.”
“The piano?”
“Yes. Lucius thought it safe to present the gift. At eight months we had reasonable assurance Draco would arrive safely.”

Unspoken was any explanation why concerns for Draco’s “safe arrival” led his father to delay the piano’s delivery.

“Does Draco play?”
“That’s him you’re hearing. The piano captures any piece he plays on it. I taught him until he left for Hogwarts. He’s far surpassed me — Dumbledore accommodated our wish to have him tutored at school. We provided an instrument in one of the empty towers for visiting professors.”
“Is it still at Hogwarts?”
“Sadly, no. Minerva McGonigal informed us that the tower was another casualty of the Incident…”

Acquisition of an instrument sized for their tower hit the Gryffindor’s mental to-do list.

“Ms. Granger… I owe more to you than I can repay. Draco and Lucius are my life… If anything happened to either of them, it would…”

In the expression of the once haughty aristocrat — large, slow tears punctuating each incomplete sentence — Hermione recognized plain-spoken honesty: the elegant, and still frightened, woman before her prized family above all.

“I shall ask an additional boon, knowing I have no right to do so given what you suffered before my eyes in my home. As a Malfoy, a symbol of many things to many wizards and witches, Draco will be in danger for some time. Please look after him.”
“I’m happy to help —”
“No, Miss Granger. Until Lucius’ trial is over, the House of Malfoy will be a target. You’ve shown a willingness to assist us and I’m imposing on that courtesy to beg a promise. Will you vow to protect my son if it is in your power to do so?”

Would Hermione, indeed, make a life vow to a woman who’d have never spoken to her a year ago because of her “blood status”? The genius third of the Golden Trio considered this silently as her straightforward gaze held that of the desperate mother before her.

“What I am comfortable doing,” Hermione responded after some time, “is treating Draco fairly and compassionately — as I would anyone else. If he requires my aid, I can assure you he will have it. You have my word on that.”

Standing before Narcissa Malfoy was a living, breathing conundrum.

Beautiful in an unconventional manner, endowed with brains and magical power in staggering quantities and gifted with a benevolent stubbornness, the young woman defied categorizing. “Mudblood" no longer fit a witch who’d kept her secrets (and protected her friends) under a Cruciatus inflicted by Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. “Swot” seemed unfair when she’d provided the brilliant idea to market Draco’s spells with training brooms — not to mentioning executing the raid on the House of Black vaults whilst impersonating her dear, deceased sister. “Prude” nor “Spinster” would apply as Hermione Granger was anything but uninspiring, unemotional or unresponsive (if the looks between her and Draco were any measuring stick). And she wore the mantle of “classy” and “accomplished” while cooking gourmet meals for her co-Head.

Never one to put all her eggs in one basket, Narcissa cemented her new strategy on the spot in her post-war plan to rescue the House of Malfoy.

Hermione Granger played a huge role in the revised strategy.

Touching her index finger to her chin in a thoughtful gesture, Narcissa magically restored her makeup and dried her tears. The cunning matriarch would have to settle for laying the first stones in the path towards a prosperous future (though she meant to secure them more firmly as soon as possible). Nonetheless, progress had been made and Narcissa would foster and nurture it until the House of Malfoy stood, once more, influential and unassailable within wizarding Britain.

“I promised to return you to Draco within the half-hour and he’ll be anxious if we’re late. Let me express again my heartfelt regret at your experiences in my home. I hope you’ll return many times to experience our hospitality as it should have been. And I thank you once more for your service to the House of Malfoy. Now! Shall we rejoin the others?”

Dipping a knee in a shallow curtsy, Hermione acknowledged the words and followed the matron of the Manor to the parlor.
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