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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
- 24
- 25
- 26
For the first time in almost seven years, a spoilt — and formerly lazy — student of magic poured over texts from the library at Hogwarts. In a day’s time a parchment had been authored that got past the suspicious scrutiny of the Headmistress and gained permission for books from the school’s still formidable library to be borrowed “long distance” (in deference to the student’s present financial circumstances and academic standing towards graduation). The reply tersely granted permission and terms:

“Touch your wand to this parchment and forward it by Henrick—”

— “Henrick” being the owl assigned to the Headmistress’ office and currently cleaning its talons on the ledge —

“to the Head Librarian. He will see to your requests. Please ensure that your floo accepts his visits and that your wards are set correctly as I wouldn’t want to lose another staff member so soon after the war.

Let me congratulate you, Miss Parkinson, on your decision to take your education seriously. Better late than never.

Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry”

Seated at the formal dining table (the only space expansive enough to hold three years worth of texts from 2nd, 3rd and 4th year) was Plantagenet Parkinson’s daughter, unrecognizable in appearance or activities.

To the father who periodically paced past her work area, Pansy seemed disheveled. Wisps of hair escaped her hastily captured ponytail. She wore an unfamiliar ensemble consisting of a too-big Quidditch jersey (Slytherin, of course) and baggy soft fabric trousers sporting a drawstring. No hint of her usual perfume wafted outward.

Leaning into her hands, elbows to the tabletop, Pansy stared at the book directly in front of her and the eight or nine that ringed it in an arc. Stacked around her “reading circle” were short piles of books — some jumping, some whinging and some growling — waiting impatiently to be handled and used.

The greater change, to the shocked father’s awareness, came with the realization that Pansy was studying. Sweat-producing, baggy-eyes inducing, profanity provoking work consumed his formerly academically allergic daughter. Darkness fell hours ago yet here she remained, empty plates resting on 300-year-old chairs pressed into service as trays, mumbling potions ingredients lists and charm pronunciations while alternately swishing, flicking and slamming her wand around.

For the umpteenth time, the proud papa inquired as to how he could encourage further success in this endeavor —

“Budgie, anything you need?”

Frowning communicated her displeasure at his return to her childhood nickname. There was nothing small, cute or bird-like about Pansy anymore (if there had ever been).

Her wyvern — the mythical and fearful British creature with two legs, the front and back of a dragon and the scaly middle of an eagle (including the wings) — would snack on that Gryffindor otter when all was said and done.

If and when Pansy actually understood the written instructions for producing a patronus.

Obligations the day after their “sleepover” kept the heads apart for most of the day.

After a heated argument (where Draco threatened to abandon trousers and pants while in the Commons for the remaining six weeks of their school holiday), Hermione relented and cooked the whiny, spoilt brat a “full English fry up” with poached eggs, fried bacon, fried mushrooms, fried dough with butter and jam, fried vegetables — better known as “bubble and squeak”, fried hash browns and grilled tomatoes (because she refused to add another dollop of grease to the puddle swimming on his plate). As neither preferred the taste of black pudding, Draco’s new personal chef substituted half a dozen bangers for him and a slice of lean turkey breast for herself.

She gagged, watching him spoon the highly flavored grease up and into his mouth.

“Puck’s horns, Draco! Where’d you learn to eat like that?”
“Quidditch. Don’t wrinkle up that pretty nose of yours! This, my non-flying friend, is the breakfast of champions. Ask Krum or one of your pathetic Quidditch-losing friends —”
“— that you failed to win against how many times? Even after your father bought brooms for your entire team?”
“No matter. THIS is what we all eat to start the day.”
“I won’t cook like that — it’s-it’s-it’s unhealthy.”
“Do NOT mess with tradition, witch. Save the boring, wholesome meals for the House Cup party. I’ll be back around dinner. What are you preparing?”
“I wasn’t aware I was cooking.”
“Oh come on, Granger. Why would I go home to eat when I can have my favorites here with you?”

Despite recognizing his thinly veiled attempt to flatter her cooking and her company, Hermione succumbed to its charm.

“Flattery won’t always work, Ferret.”
“Only has to keep me fed today. I’ll figure something else out for tomorrow.”
“Prat.”
“Swot”
“Brat.”

Distracted by clearing their dirty dishes and table linens muggle-style, she dropped an armload of school-issued plates when his body pasted itself against her back and bum.

“Lioness…”

A nuzzling shake of his head swung her hair away from her neck, exposing it for the nips and licks he left as a goodbye.

“Dragon, stop. Please. Now I have to clean this up.”

Before she’d drawn her wand he’d spun her hard into his chest and kissed her an “I’ll be back” that curled her toes.

“No, you don’t” and the plates reassembled themselves in her arms like a movie playing backwards while he walked towards their floo.
“I’l be at Blaise’s villa then at the Manor doing Malfoy Enterprises work. Floo me.”
“Do you have your phone?”

He nodded, curious.

“I’ll call you — to check in. It will be good practice for you.”
“As you wish, Lioness. And you?”
“I’m going to investigate that broom of yours to see why speed interrupts the anti-falling spell.”
“Don’t ride without me. I have plans for this evening and they don’t include time in the hospital tower reading you a bedtime story.”
“Ha-ha. Don’t hurt Blaise.”

That devilish smile that meant pure mischief wet the crotch of her zip-up pyjamas.

“Never crossed my mind.”
“If you make one scratch on him, you’re on your own — broom, cooking and snogging.”

His smile fell and rolled into the fireplace to join the listening end of George’s “Floo Bug”.

“You’re kidding!”
“Try me,” she dared him.
“I will expect a treat for letting that sexual predator get away with harassing you, Lioness.”
“I always reward good behavior, Dragon.”

The entire front of his trousers tightened.

Got to get her back into something… accessible… tonight…

Got to find my other pair of zip-ups before bedtime…

“Until dinner.”

Backing in, Draco vanished in the crackling flames of their fireplace.

______________

Grinning at the rapid progress made in her first adult relationship, Hermione straightened up and showered after breakfast then set herself up in their Commons with Draco’s broom to familiarize herself with the spells that made the broom fly. The Commons tables and floor held books, pamphlets from the broom manufacturers, parchment sheets and quills — muggle and magical. Within the hour stacks of notes scattered themselves all over the Commons while a chaotic arrangement of ball-point pens held her frenetic hair in a messy twist.

Mid-morning the floo disgorged puffs of smoke along with a hail from Hermione’s best female friend (with all apologies to Luna Lovegood).

“Are you decent?”

The innuendo pricked the Head Girl.

“Not if you’re going to tease me.”
“Were you poisoned at dinner?”
“No. Come through; I have no intention of giving your brothers ammunition.”

Scraping sounds heralded Ginny’s arrival in the Commons.

“School start early?” she remarked, taking in the study-driven mess in the Commons.
“Working on a project with Draco. Come in the kitchen. Tea?”

The pregnant Gryffindor nodded, too focused on stepping past the piles of materials without tripping to answer.

“So?” Ginny prodded as she took Draco’s usual chair at the kitchen table.
“It went well. Lucius Malfoy is still a blinkered arse. Lady Narcissa surprised me. Dinner was exquisite.”
“And after dinner?” Ginny encouraged with an eyebrow waggle as she seasoned her tea.
“Gin — oh, I forgot! Will tea be okay?”
“Harry’s son is only objecting to cream right now,” she grinned.
“It’s a boy!?”
“Mum performed the spell yesterday. Harry’s over the moon about it.”
“I’m so happy for you both.” Hermione gushed, hugging her friend.
“Did you test out my contraception spell?”
“Ginny! No we did NOT!”
“Why not?”

The question colored Hermione’s cheeks as she flopped onto the other chair. How much of the answer she wanted to reveal equaled how much of the answer she’d yet to figure out.

“I’m not ready —”
“I won’t argue the point. What was it like, being at the Manor?”
“His mother’s beautiful. It’s unfair for one family to hold the license on good looks. Lucius kissed me —”

Tea dribbled down Ginny’s chin as she slammed her beaker on the table.

“He what!?”

A few moments were spent recapping their entrance.

“Then Pansy and Blaise arrived and we —”
“I thought his mother invited you?”
“You’re correct. Pansy invited herself. She couldn’t be thicker, Gin.”

The “Rita Skeeter Capture” expression Hermione wore got Ginny’s attention. Mopping at her blouse to dab the spilt tea, Ginny knew that whatever confrontation Pansy and Lucius initiated, Hermione had won handily.

“How long did the duel last? I’m assuming Draco handled Pansy; can’t see him going after his father.”

Chesty, satisfied laughter preceded a summary of the contest and its outcome.

“Lucius and I were fairly evenly matched until Draco brought up my idea to license his flying charms to training broom makers.”
“You hate flying — why would you suggest that?”

Draco’s broom, haphazardly dropped amongst the reference books and parchments, hadn’t escaped Mrs. Potter’s notice.

“Draco flew me to Paris Christmas Night.”
“Did you shag there?”
“NO. I experienced the charms between bouts of absolute terror during the trip. Draco’s created anti-falling and temperature-control charms; I suggested he market them and he informed Lucius of my idea.”
“What did his mother say?”

The question caught Hermione off-kilter.

“I have five brothers. Mothers are as fierce as bicorns when it comes to their sons. How did Lady Malfoy react?”

Hermione reminded herself that Ginny Weasley came from a family of very shrewd minds. Except Ron’s.

“She refereed the contest between Lucius and me and she cut that ignorant bint Pansy off at the knees.”
“Seems like you passed the ‘Mum’ exam and the pure-blood chit failed. And when did Lord Malfoy become ‘Lucius’?”

Hermione gave a thoughtful glance to her friend before formulating an answer.

“Being around Lucius Malfoy always unsettled my confidence despite appearances. If whatever’s happening between Draco and me —”
“— which we’re going to discuss before I leave here —”
“— if we’ve got a chance together, ‘Lord Malcontent’ needs to see me as an equal.”
“And Draco?”
“Supportive when he wasn’t threatening Blaise. Blaise decided to ‘help’ Draco out by flirting shamelessly with me to force Draco’s hand in front of his parents. Draco nearly hexed him into the Veil. That Slytherin of mine can be possessive.”

Leaning back in her chair, Ginny pinned Hermione on her choice of terms with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that! Merlin, it’s all happening so fast! I mean, a fortnight ago I was explaining about the war and last night —”

— Hermione stopped abruptly, staring at Ginny in shock at the almost revelation.

“Don’t stop now!”
“Last night we slept together — shared a bed in sleeping clothes,” she added hastily when Ginny thought to comment on the similarity between the terms “slept together” and “shagged” (Ginny having listened in on their pre-sleep activities with George last night).
“What made you look at Draco differently?”
“It will sound silly…” she sighed, eyes unfocused with memory, “The night of the battle I brought clean linens to the tower Kingsley assigned to the Malfoys. Draco’d been so frightened that someone would kill them all in their sleep he’d put a blood ward on the tower — only Malfoys could go in or out. So I knocked and he answered. He stepped out and I stuttered something stupid about clean linens then I looked at him; no one bothered to treat his injuries and he’d been in nearly as many duels as Ron, Harry and me. I Accio’d my purse and tended to his wounds.”
“I don’t quite see —”
“He asked," Hermione cut her off, "if I could see to his parents, said he couldn’t care for them properly as the Ministry had collected their wands after he’d set the ward. I followed him in and did what I could while they slept. When I turned to leave he… he just stared at me from somewhere else and said ‘Thank you, Hermione. I’m sorry about Fred.’ For the first time in seven years he wasn’t a Malfoy with me and it got me thinking…”
“Something you haven’t been doing much of lately,” Ginny quipped to avert the tears she felt forming from her friend’s disclosure and her memory of her brother’s death.
“Yes — I admit I’ve lost my mind and I haven’t a clue what to do about it.”
“Shag him now and work it out later. For once, don’t overthink it.”

The logical Gryffindor had pondered that approach. Ron’s complaints during their short but tumultuous romantic period made an impact — especially with last night’s sleeping arrangements.

“It’s different for you. You’ve loved Harry since second year. I mean, I know you spent time with Neville and Dean, but you both knew each other — we were all friends. How will I know if there’s more to us than physical attraction?”
“Meaning you are attracted to him?”
“Meaning I want him to show me where that reputation came from. Not used to losing control, really. It never happened with Ron once the war ended. Sorry if that seems harsh.”

Hermione’d never been more grateful for their friendship, as Ginny returned her beaker to the table and bestowed a gentle smile on her friend before speaking again.

“I remember worrying that Harry wouldn’t feel about me the way I felt about him. I was jealous of you, you know.”
“Me!?”
“You got to be with Harry all the time! You three were always together — at school, at the Burrow, at Quidditch, in detention —”
“— Ron and Harry got detention —”
“And there I was trying to avoid making an arse of myself by acting like a fifth wheel.”
“We never thought of you that way — you’re like my sister.”
“I know. I tried to hate you but I couldn’t. That simple prat I married and I worked it out. Draco’s more complicated, though… You two despised each other forever — and there’s the ‘trust’ issue.”
“Trust issue?” Hermione mimicked, as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind a thousand or more times.
“Is he being honest with you or will that horrid pure-blood plonker return and break your heart once his father’s trial is over? I don’t think he’s using you but only he can prove that.”
“That’s why we’re not shagging. The snogging’s good.”
“Only good?…”
“Actually, it’s fantastic. Dragon has the softest lips,” she let slip as a dreamy look came over her.
“And the hardest wank, I’d wager —”
“GINNY!”
“Convince me you don’t have any knowledge of his ‘gifts’ and I’ll back off.”

The most wicked grin ever graced Hermione’s face as her eyes darkened with pent-up desire.

“ Let’s just say if we were shagging, I’d have no complaints.”

The other occupant of the kitchen sat fanning herself with a hand at the mock heat Hermione’s frank observation blasted out before becoming serious once again.

“It’s not just physical, is it?”
“No,” the Head Girl exhaled, cautious in giving voice to her heart’s truth, “it’s not…”

Gazing over the nearly cold tea in her beaker, Ginny compassionately forced the admission her friend had prodded from her about Harry years earlier.

“Ready to admit that you love him?”

______________
“I was thinking that tomorrow we’d perform some field trials.”

Her words formed an invisible point to drill their way through the mental cage of sensation the paella induced in him. After Ginny’s independent confirmation that Blaise remained functional, Hermione’d produced a “reward” to encourage Draco’s efforts towards better decision-making. A traditional paella — chock full of fresh veggies from Ursula’s, prawns, calamari and the traditional rabbit — enraptured his brain in a fog of food porn.

“Hmm? I missed that, Lioness.”

He’d finally come up for air as the last of the prawns worked it way passed his Adam’s apple. In a weird ritual reminiscent of Hogwarts, Draco sorted his paella — rice, veggies and protein — into separate piles on his plate and ate them in that order.

“I said, we should test out your broom tomorrow and get some readings while you’re using the spells.”
“Or I could teach you how to —”
“It requires expert maneuvers and I will be conducting the tests. Are you available?”
“I’ll floo mother to take the executive committee meeting tomorrow. Should work out. How did you spend your day?”
“Researching the theories behind spell interactions and their problems.”
“You sound frustrated, Grfyffindor.”

Should she admit that solving this interference and speed problem looked harder than she’d predicted?

“This will take work, Draco.”
“News flash! Granger predicts solving the rate problem with my spell will require swot-power! OWW! Control that temper, Hermione!”

A small raised area discolored his forehead where the napkin ring collided with it.

“Don’t tease! I’m feeling enough pressure to prove your father wrong.”
“If it’s more than you can handle, Pansy’s always…”

Empty plates sailed from the table to the sink, landing at speeds that chipped the edges. Draco’d been forced to duck twice to avoid being impaled by flying flatware — and all this from a witch who usually cleaned up muggle fashion.

“Lioness! Lioness — I won’t joke about Pansy. Don’t let her get under your skin.”
“This has to work, Draco. It’s your chance to make your own mark and I won’t be the reason it fails. Can you make your tray of snacks tonight, please? I’ve made a mess here.”
“You owe me — hitting me then making me prepare my own nosh. I require a reward for behaving well.” he declared with a kiss to her exposed neck.
“If I’m to be forced to provide a ‘reward’ I might as well hex you now for my own enjoyment.”

His head disappeared into the cooler to start the nosh tray. In that position the door provided a barrier to any spell casting his volatile housemate aimed his way.

After dinner, the owl — known affectionately as “Errol” at the Burrow and crashing into their Commons window butt-end first — precipitated a request for academic assistance while Draco fed himself and Hermione mixed cheeses and nutmeat after-dinner snacks.

“Whatever species of flying disaster this is should be put out of its, and our, misery.” Draco concluded, removing a thick roll of parchment from the bird who toppled sideways each time Draco righted it. The innermost sheet bore a short note addressed to Draco.
“It’s from Professor — OW! Bloody carnivorous MENACE!”

Impatient for its treat, Errol helped himself to a piece of Draco’s hand.

“Here, you piss poor excuse of a fowl and off with you!”

Several expensive soda crackers, and a few of the biscuits Hermione baked and hid, made their way to the balding, moth-eaten avian messenger. A final squawked complaint and the bird hopped and tumbled his way to the outside ledge and back to the Burrow while Draco made his way back to the sofa.

“Do you have time to help me with an assignment? I have to interview a muggle-born before school starts.”

I made sure of that, Lioness…

Last week’s owl, bringing misery and school work in a single parchment, delivered the pre-work for Draco’s mandatory “Muggle Studies” class — a post-trial requirement of his monitoring by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Merlin’s willingness to shine on Draco once every blue moon popped up in his third skimming of the pre-term assignment: Arthur Weasley would be teaching the class this term. Draco ripped enough parchment from the bottom of the bundle for a note and scribbled madly while the impatient bird squawked its displeasure at being detained without a treat. Permission from the Headmistress and the new Professor arrived before dawn on Boxing Day.

Chewing hid her smile: What better way to explore each other’s background and past than a school project?

“I have a questionnaire but the professor —”

— Professor “Won-Won’s Dad” as Draco thought of him —

“— encouraged us to improvise if we find any interesting topics. Are you willing? I’d have to present the results to the class, but I’ll run it all by you first.”

Only if I get to ask you the same questions, Dragon…

“I’ll do it on one condition.”

The relaxed musculature of his thigh stiffened under her neck where her head lay.

“Go on.”
“I want to administer the same questionnaire to you. That way we each get to know each other better. Do you agree?”

The “trust” issue Ginny mentioned not eight hours ago now had a plan of action attached.

“You’ve no idea what that means, Granger…”

A return to her last name brought her gaze to his face, to get a feel for what he was thinking.

“Whatever you’ve done, I accept. It won’t affect our friendship — I promise. Let’s get started; I’m sure this will take at least the weekend.”
“Sure?” his uncertain voice queried.

Are you asking me or yourself, Dragon?…

“Yes, and so are you.”

Whisking her hand in a casual manner shot a stack of parchment and one of Hermione’s self-inking quills (better known in the muggle world as a ballpoint pen) onto his lap, replacing the comfortable weight of her head on his thigh. Draco’s calm and courage seeped into the sofa cushions and skirted away; the prospect of being interrogated by Hermione softened his backbone.

“You’re name?”
“Draco, you know my name.”
“N-Not your proper name. I mean — it’s Hermione Something Granger.”
“Jean. Hermione Jean Granger…”
“Hermione???”

Her voice didn’t carry three inches in that hushed tone, much less the foot and inches between them on the sofa.

“Jean was my mother’s first name…”

Draco knew better than to show her pity; she’d despise pity from him. For Hermione, the safest — and most compassionate — option was something to do, to focus on.

“Where… Where were you born?”
“Paris, of all places. Dad took a specialty class there on cosmetic dentistry. He refused to leave Mum here as her due date was only five weeks away. They argued because Dad said I was conceived on their anniversary while Mum insisted I was conceived during their Christmas celebration a month earlier. Said they shouted quite a bit as she had no intention of traveling a week before her due date. Mum was right.”

Right then and there Draco got an education. In the midst of sadness Hermione laughed easily at the circumstances leading to her birth on the wrong side of the Channel (if you’re a Brit or “La Manche” if you’re French dual-citizen Granger). Retelling a Granger family story loosened her shoulders; she’d leaned back into the sofa cushions sipping her sparkling water with a smile of remembrance nestled across her face.

“I’d heard this ‘discussion’ for years as a little girl, but our vacation to Paris was meant to show me the city as they’d experienced it the week I was born…”

And now the war orphan laughed at the mental images of her father’s ridiculous attempt to keep his very pregnant wife happy on a trip they might not be able to afford once their little miracle arrived, what with the upcoming cost of child minders during their work times and nappies and eventual school fees.

“You’re mother didn’t box his ears, did she? Where do you get your violent streak?”

Draco considered the patience of Jean Granger, waddling from place to place near the end of her pregnancy, appreciative of her husband’s intent if not of his choices for them both.

“From my mother. All Dad would ever say about her labor was ‘it didn’t end soon enough, but it did end well’. Mum nearly broke Dad’s hands and punched him twice!”
“What’s your first memory?”
“I have several but the one I remember most clearly isn’t a happy one. Do you still want to hear it?”
“Up to you, Granger. I won’t reveal it if you don’ want me to.”
“I want you to know… to understand what makes me a Gryffindor.”

The tinkle of her water glass as she rested it on the tabletop preceded her small sigh. Draco smirked away from her view as she mimicked his habit of running a hand through his hair when stressed or anxious. The gesture was new to her repertoire of responses.

“It happened at a pre-Reception school visit. My parents realized fairly early that I enjoyed learning. Dad couldn’t see the benefit of paying a minder when I was ready for some type of formal schooling. So…”

The word “So…” rode a long exhalation into the room.

“I’d been placed in a three-year-old class for the visit. The teacher treated us like infants. I got up and wandered into the Reception class where the teacher was doing maths with these wonderful rods. He let me stay after I answered several questions correctly.’
“Wait! Let me note this: ‘Always been a swot’.”
“I’m not cooking for you anymore.”
“Erasing as you speak.”
“While the teacher worked with a small group, three of the boys came over and kicked my rods. I stood up and asked them to stop. I hadn’t yelled or made a fuss until they pushed me to stop me collecting the rods.”

She’d been bullied at the tender age of three.

“Did you cry?”
“Not exactly…”
“How ‘exactly’ did you respond?”
“After they knocked me down the third time I teared up a bit and I did yell but the teacher had to make his way from the other side of the room. When they tried to push me again…I hit the biggest bully.”
“Can’t hear you, Gryffindor. How did you handle them?”
“I hit the biggest prat.”
“As you’ve yet to confess at a volume I can easily understand, I’m assuming you practiced that right cross on some child almost twice your age and probably twice your size, right?”
“No child should be bullied, Draco!”

I’m just one more in a long line of fuckers to hurt you, Gryffindor…

“I’m hardly one to argue with that sentiment. The school responded?”
“Yes,” she sighed again, “the teacher missed the bullying but saw my punch and immediately escorted me to the Headmistress’ office. The school decided that my intellectual acceleration was not matched with sufficient emotional control —”
“HA!” was Draco’s unrehearsed reaction.
“Thank you. They sent me home and advised my parents to bring me back in two years when I’d learned to control my temper.”
“I sense from that Slytherin-like grin on your Gryffindor face that you got even.”
“I skipped Reception and first form Maths at school. Guess whose class I was in?”
“They didn’t try to intimidate you?”
“They did,” and Draco shuddered at the wickedness of her grin.
“I’m a witch, Draco. Underage witches often have uncontrollable magical ‘accidents’.”
“Was blood drawn?”
“Not from me.”
“Possibly by you?”

In that ungainly manner Draco found more and more endearing, Hermione stood and began to clear their dishes for the night.

“You should see London.”

Out of her view, Draco cocked his head to the side. She hadn’t answered his question.

“I’ve seen London many times.”

Hermione’s decision to postpone questioning him returned his calm.

“Not with me. I think it would give you a better perspective for writing your parchment.”
“Let’s go this weekend. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Student can’t leave the gr—”
“Underage students — we’re both 18, legal adults. When do you want to do this?”
“Friday, early. We can stay at my parents’ place for the weekend.”
“Lioness?… Wouldn’t a hotel be better? Or the company flat in Kensington?”

His tone, caring and concerned, brought her from their kitchen as she dried her hands from washing up. Muggle habits still dominated her cleaning style — when her temper stayed in its restraints.

“Not if you’re with me, Dragon.”

Any number of emotions passed between them — empathy, sadness, resignation, determination… And one additional sentiment sent to the fearful yet fearless Gryffindor from her Dragon:

“And, yes; my ‘uncontrolled child magic’ did bloody their noses a bit — but only their noses.”

Pride.

One day I’ll be half the man she is right now…

In a well-to-do section of the Scottish countryside, a returning eighth year visited shop after shop preparing for his post-graduation life.

Time spent at the printers discovered a color mismatch in the placards and an address typo on the business cards. Fortunately the quills and specialty engraved chocolate frogs (with his picture card) came from an entirely different proprietor and were perfect, just as ordered. Arrangements were made with a realtor to lease small offices throughout Britain for his staff and as shipping destinations for the printed goods.

Blank draughts from Gringotts, drawn on the family vault, settled all accounts and announced to the businesses that mattered that something significant was happening and they’d want to be part of it if they desired more galleons in their coffers.

In a well-to-do section of the English countryside, a returning eighth year visited shop after shop preparing for his post-graduation life.

Time spent at the printers discovered no color mismatches in the placards and the address on the business cards sent all correspondence to the family’s ancestral home. The wrapped hard candies were just as ordered though he wished the quantities could be increased. Arrangements were made with a realtor to identify inexpensive sub-lets in key portions of Britain for his helpers; the printed goods would be shipped to his home.

Pre-filled draughts from Gringotts, drawn on the insurance proceeds from a recent family “death”, settled all accounts within his budget and announced to the businesses that mattered that something significant was happening and they’d want to be part of it if they expected to survive when the wizarding world righted itself.

Moving slowly so as not to wake the snoring man in her transfigured bed (yet another chaise lounge got repurposed in their haste), the Lady of the Manor retrieved her silk robe (from where her paramour had thrown it across the room before their last “encounter”) and left the music room for the parlor. Reclining her tired body on the parlor lounge, eyes closed, Narcissa Malfoy leaned back into the cushions and let her mind wander over this year’s Boxing Day dinner party.

Great Uther’s Ghost, help me… she exhaled to the shadows.

Narcissa Black Malfoy, part of two important pure-blood families, found herself plotting how to shed the pure-blood cretin hankering after her only son and heir to free him to pursue a “mudblood" that outshone most of the pure-blood witches born in the last 200 years.

Had she put pen to paper to create a dossier of the perfect daughter-in-law, Hermione Granger would still have brought traits that Narcissa overlooked.

Smart, a powerful magic wielder, witty, polished (if a bit clumsy), confident and proud of who she was, the young woman dropped a case of bludgers through Narcissa’s long-term plan for Draco and the House of Malfoy. Reason reminded her that the impact of Voldemort and his inability to win the sodding war shouldn’t be discounted as a root cause for the re-planning. That thought only made the situation more incredible.

How had someone her own parents and grandparents had drilled her to shun as “dirt” managed to plot and execute the strategy that destroyed hundreds of years of pure-blood advantage and quiet supremacy?

Hermione Granger was no “mudblood”.

Inside that scheming head of hers, the future lay before Narcissa in clear mental images. Lucius failed to see past his own arrogance and elitism over being "Toujour Pur" and filthy rich: the truth, however, glowed like the sign over “Brigitte’s” bordello in Knockturn Alley: without a new strategy, pure-bloods would lose their ability to control magical Britain because they’d lose their influence over its governing body — the Ministry of Magic. Law after preferential law would be ripped from the bloody books when “equality” and “fairness” prevailed.

If Narcissa didn’t act and do so soon, life would be miserable for the Malfoys (while they lasted).

How convenient, then, that Draco desired a young witch who would be called on to shape the future for her role as the brains behind the “Boy Who Smoked Voldemort” —

— and how fortuitous for the Malfoy’s future that the witch was already halfway in love with her son?

Rosemerta?… Narcissa pleaded silently, Let our grandchildren have Draco’s hair, please…
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