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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
- 26
- 27
- 28
Right now, if one of them weren’t already dead, the fuming (and ill) witch would terminate those bastard twins with extreme prejudice.

This thought ignored several obvious facts and a few common sense rules.
First, never try fourth year charms if you haven’t studied since second year — they’re bound to backfire with painful results.

Next, always buddy up for charms and potions work. You may require someone to provide a recap at St. Mungo’s or identify the remains.

Another hard-won lesson? Don’t change potion formulas until you know what the ingredients actually do. Having a phobia about slimy and/or insect like substances doesn’t justify the risk or the outcome.

And the rule involving the twins — as in the Weasley twins — is this: Never experiment on yourself no matter how sure you are that a potion or charm will work. That a wall killed Fred — and not his doppelganger brother — hadn’t been expected during their Hogwarts years. If the dull-witted witch had been paying any attention to the last seven years of her life and schooling, she’d have remembered that each twin had five siblings and a dorm full of unsuspecting “testing dummies” to test on (testing dummy — someone eager enough and sufficiently stupid to swallow unknown substances; see definitions for “lab rat”…).

Given the outcome of her glaring errors, Pansy had actually been quite fortunate that her father had returned and thought to check on her efforts to actually study for school. He’d hung up his worn cape (the only one he still owned suitable for the wintery climes and heavy snowfall) and was making his way to her when a small explosion, a scream and a sickening sound like retching echoed down the hall leading to the kitchen.

In the aftermath of a series of unfortunate errors, Plantagenet found his only daughter smelling of smoke and pus, covered in open, festering carbuncles and upchucking horned slugs like the apothecary had set a bounty on them. In her haste to “catch up” and compete with the mudblood manker interfering with the rest of her life, Pansy picked a potion and practice spell the Weasley twins and Harry Fucking Potter cast well before their fourth years.

The troubles, as they say, were legion.

In order to make the Boil Cure potion, Pansy had to handle snake fangs (no problem), porcupine quills (still no problem) and horned slugs (absolutely a major fucking problem…). Not particularly bright but never indecisive, she made the rapid decision to substitute Pungous Onion and Powdered Ginger for the slugs because she thought she remembered the ingredients were mentioned in one of Draco’s reference texts for this potion.

In order to test the potion, the Slytherin dipstick decided to cast the Furnunculus spell on herself — multiple times — to induce the worst case of boils ever seen (without a co-resident case of Dragon Pox). Pansy retained no memory of the harm accidentally done to Gregory Goyle (and not to the intended target — her precious Draco) with just one casting of the spell by The-Boy-Who-Fucked-Up-Her-Life-By-Not-Dying. Thus, by the time the potion (minus the slugs) was ready, Pansy was sick as a dog; pus-filled cankers covered her body in layers, almost closing her eyelids and making handling her implements difficult — holding her potion spoon burst the boils on her palm (introducing pus to an already acrid potion).

In order to prove herself as good as any witch (meaning: Hermione Granger) who fought for the Light, she imbibed the potion whilst alone.

It was, indeed, fortuitous that Plantagenet Parkinson returned when he did. Cradling her like a baby, he rushed Pansy to St. Mungo’s magical equivalent of the Casualty ward where she currently perched on the edge of the hospital bed holding a bin sloshing with slime, stomach acid and dying slugs and hurling into the bin every 5-7 minutes.

George Weasley’s time outside a portrait was numbered if she had anything to do with it…

(Given Pansy’s magical “abilities”, had George known he’d have laughed his arse off…)

The first indication that the rule-loving Princess of Gryffindor (a nickname Hermione increasingly hated every time Draco got her wind up by using it) was about to commit some kind of school infraction reverberated in Draco’s head when the answer —

“This area will better suit our purpose.”

— arrived after Draco’s “innocent” inquiry —

“Is your aversion to flying related to your inability to navigate accurately?”

The fact that he got neither rolled eyes nor a sharp retort confirmed he’d landed too near her unspoken intent.

“Granger, the Quidditch fields are on the north-west side of the castle. You’re headed north-east.”
“Shhh. I’m trying to cast your charm.”

Shooting from dramatic swirls of her vine wood wand were tendrils of Draco’s Momento Mori [Remember When] charm — in etheric strands of clover green, burnt umber, oaken brown and light ochre — woven into a tunnel between the two Heads and a location proven hazardous to brooms and their riders.

In the distance, keeping a healthy separation between herself and the Whomping Willow, Ginny Potter leaned lightly on her Nimbus 2k1 broom. Carrying more weight than she had two months ago, the only Weasley daughter dressed herself for the upcoming activity in a pair of Fred’s old quidditch togs that hung loosely on her smaller frame. She tracked the “corporate heads” rounding the short wall of the Hogwarts greenhouses (still lovingly under repair by Pomona Sprout’s newest apprentice, Neville Longbottom) by the volume of their bickering, shielding her eyes from the charm-created sunlight with a leather gloved hand. Autumn weather occupied the space around the mother-to-be — including the area where a very irritated member of the species Salix Funerius Incitus [Violently Murderous Willow] complained.

Half a pasture away the natural contentiousness that defined Dragon and Lioness interactions for seven years (so far) punctuated the nearly deafening objections being expressed by the ill-tempered tree. The closer they got, the warmer the ambient breeze around the meadow blew — inciting the grouchy plant to moan and protest the lessening of extremity-numbing temperatures and skin-removing winds.

The quarrel approaching her was getting interesting. To camouflage her eavesdropping, Ginny made to remove her flying cape.

“I see,” Draco huffed indignantly, “this week has all been an elaborate ruse to gain my trust so you can kill me and claim it was a flying accident. For the record, if I die all my wealth reverts to the Malfoy trust.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Draco. Why would I expect to inherit anything from you? As the school’s on holiday, the castle is nearly empty — just staff. The staff tower —”

— Hermione’s non-wand-holding fingers painted a disorganized figure “8” pattern over her shoulder in the direction of the staff housing —

“— is obscured from view by the castle itself. Therefore, no one will see us and attempt to steal your charms before your register the magical patents worldwide.”

Draco mounted his broom, skimming the grass slowly to keep abreast of her. Sporting a wolfish leer, he annoyed her with incessant shoulder bumps that knocked her off stride (Hermione being more than a mite graceless where such balancing was concerned).

“Ah! This is goody-two-shoes rule-breaking behavior. We’re not using the stadium fields because no one knows we’re out here risking my life for your personal gain.”
“YOUR gain — I neither own nor work for Malfoy Enterprises.”

Yet, Lioness… and he banged her hard.

Hermione nearly turned an ankle trying to regain her balance after the particularly aggressive contact.

“Malfoy, STOP! I gain nothing if you’re injured or killed — which won’t happen if you do as I instruct. Unless I HURT you mySELF.”
“So the real goal is my… ‘do-mes-ti-ca-tion’?”

Each enunciated syllable dripped from his supple lips with sybaritic terror.

“You want to turn me into a cuckold so you can control me.”

The breathy accusation brought moist warmth channeled across and down the curved shell of her ear and into the dark sound canal, breaching the thin membrane protecting her brain and replacing thought with a dense fog swirling in the shape of Draco in various states of “undressed”. A sudden shiver — followed by invisible contractions lower down in her core — prevented a witty riposte.

Brooms, Hermione! Focus on the broom testing… she mentally chanted as a litany.

The brain fog cleared… sort of…

Morgana, help me — he’s much too good at this. My brain has to work today or I will harm him…

“Dragon,” she exhaled, through a sultry grin at her naughty thoughts, “no woman will ever control you — except your mother.”

Spinning 180˚ brought him into her path, forcing the frustrated Gryffindor to stop long enough for him to capture her lips with his own and raise a layer of perspiration over her whole body — she’d probably have to change knickers, too.

“Then you didn’t pay attention at dinner, Lioness,” he murmured, flying backward to avoid colliding with her stubborn forward progress.

Dark, smooth and playful, his voice brought a whimper from his novice possible-girlfriend that derailed her concentration again as she struggled to force her confused feet away from Draco and closer to the testing area. The sensuous shape changes Draco’s mouth made while teasing her — puckering and pouting — kept her eyes riveted on that tempting mouth of his and not where she was going.

“My mother has no trouble ‘controlling’ my father. And neither will my wife when I —”

Controlling you would be… satisfying, Dragon….

“HERMIONE!” Ginny screamed.

The Slytherin seeker curled an arm around her waist and snugged her against his body, snatching her a nanosecond before the homicidal tree limb nearly claimed her. Air whooshed from her lungs riding her yelp of surprise. She returned to herself when he placed her on her feet several yards away, seething with anger and concern at her carelessness with her own safety.

“That plant is DEADLY, witch! Watch where you walk!”
“This is YOUR fault, Dragon!” she upbraided him, “Stop distracting me!”

Draco well knew she’d been “thinking” below her navel. Aware he’d proven that Hermione Granger’s legendary brain could be overloaded when aroused with sexual thoughts, he sent a smirk and a look that said —

We both know what happened here, Lioness…

Aloud, he deferred —

“I’ll be a gentleman and accept responsibility… THIS time.” and put some distance between them to give his flatmate space to recover her composure.

Setting the quill and parchments to levitate and organize themselves to free her hands for spell-casting, Hermione silently chastised her brain for malfunctioning. She marched herself and her flying note-taking set-up to stand next to Ginny, waiting with crossed arms and foot tapping for Draco to “follow”. In the gentle warmth of the fall breeze, she swore Ginny’s throat-clearing cough sounded something like —

“Shag him,” — but she’d never stoop to ask.

The bossing began on his arrival.

“I’ve modified a few charms to allow me some control over your broom.”

That brought both of Draco’s booted feet to the ground and a stern expression to his face.

“Then I’m not flying.”
“I didn’t say I would take over; I require control if you’re not understanding my directions.”

“Orders, more likely…” the disgruntled Slytherin mumbled under his breath.

“Ginny, as you’re pregnant I won’t ask you to shadow him. Use your judgment — though I doubt there’s much chance of Draco getting hurt.”

Ginny thought otherwise. The concerned expression hadn’t left the Gryffindor beater’s face since Hermione’d floo'd her at 12 Grimmauld late last night.

Malfoy Enterprise’s new “broom engineer and legal strategist” had a million questions about flying in general and what tests would yield the best information. Twenty minutes into the call, Ginny understood how close to death these tests would push an unwitting Draco and volunteered to act as a “Safety Officer” to prevent the manslaughter by misadventure of the last male Black and Malfoy.

“I agree, Weaslette. Hate to have Potter misusing his auror privileges because something happened to his myopic spawn.”
“Don’t make me regret coming, Malfoy. You haven’t seen Hermione’s plans,” the head cheerleader for the ‘Dramione’ ‘ship warned, “— Zabini would love to shag her while you’re healing in St. Mungo’s — and it’s POTTER.”

The “Zabini” dagger got through.

“Point taken. My plans for the Head Girl require a sound body,” and with a mischievous grin Draco mounted his broom to hover, nudging himself closer to the test conductor.

Head down, reviewing her 2-foot thick pile of plans and notes, Hermione squeaked then soughed when Draco once more captured her lips in a tongue-teasing buss while riding his longest “pole”.

“We have work to do, Dragon.” she panted when her lungs demanded attention.
“If you two need time alone…” Ginny offered, displaying an “I-told-you-to-shag-him” twinkle in her eyes.

“Don’t encourage him, Ginny!”

“Encourage me, Ginevra. And your hesitant friend,” the test pilot instigated, sneaking pinches to her bottom.

“BeHAVE, Malfoy!”

“Discipline me, Lioness…” he crooned.

Hermione forgot how to speak when she sussed his meaning, color first draining then rising then draining again from her embarrassed expression.

“Merlin, Hermione!,” Ginny complained, seeing as they were accomplishing nothing, “Forget this broom nonsense and handle him!”
“I… He… Draco — GO!” the flustered (and aroused) lead test engineer shouted.

Having begun the assault on her restraint for this day, Draco streaked skyward at top velocity to a point roughly over the middle of the pasture.

“George’s right,” Hermione’s best friend laughed as she tracked his flight, “he’ll have you sprogged up before Halloween.”
“Stop laughing! You’re not helping!”

…and you could be right, Gin,…

A silver-grey otter with deep green eyes romped upwards and bossed him (in his co-Head’s no-nonsense voice) while the Slytherin seeker lazily circled. Booming over the winds whipped up by the agitated flora, the know-it-all’s patronus instructed Draco to sprint (with hard braking at each end) back and forth across the sky. Before he could clarify which direction, magical “lanes” appeared to guide his flight.

Unfortunately, one end aimed him at the carnivorous plant.

“Hermione, don’t you think those are a bit close to the Whomping Willow?” the nervous safety officer asked.

Intent on executing the plan she’d spent days writing and rewriting (in her head and on parchment), Hermione saw no reason to modify the test track.

“My measurement spell won’t cover the full length of the track if I rotate it away from the tree. Draco’s flown more rashly chasing a snitch. He’ll be okay… I think.”

Explaining the vagaries of up currents, downdrafts, turbulence and microclimates to a non-flyer consumed both their attentions until a seemingly minor change in wind direction swept Draco within range of the malevolent bark-covered “fingers” on that dirt-rooted menace.

Ginny left Hermione (whose back faced the potential problem) arguing the safety of her plan. Pushing off in hopes of preventing the collision, her broom ascended on an intercept path — that is, until strong eddies from the climate spell shimmied the Nimbus sideways causing her to miss grabbing Draco’s broom by inches. Hermione’s flying “lab rat” held on for dear life when the tree grabbed the back of his Firebolt, fighting to dislodge the hold of the sentient twigs whipping him unpredictably by the straw of his broom; without that flaxen “tail”, the broom was uncontrollable.

“Draco!” the future star of the Holyhead Harpies yelled as she lowered herself from above him on her new broom (an engraved wedding present from her husband), “Reach up! Grab on!”
“NO! My FIREBOLT!” was all he could scream.
“The tree will let go if you’re not on it!”

Back on the ground, the brightest witch of her age missed most of this.

Surrounded by filling parchments and automatic quills (like Rita Skeeter’s), Hermione updated her conclusions, revised her suspicions and captured her questions (as this was still Hermione Granger) to parchment. The irate howling of the sentient tree engulfed any sounds from the crisis whilst Ginny rescued Hermione’s business partner. Over her shoulder and out of her peripheral vision, Ginny and Draco flew a darting evasive pattern into and out of the willow to distract it until Draco’s precious Firebolt fell unharmed to the ground beneath the tree.

“Thank you, Ginevra.” the shaken crash test dummy wheezed out as he dismounted next to his oblivious flatmate. Bent over, hands on knees to quell his shaking, Draco heaved and expelled lungs full of air in an attempt to regain control of himself —
“Accio, Firebolt!”

— then turned his fierce glare on Hermione. Staying low to the ground, the broom jetted to its owner who kissed its sleek wood

“Malfoy, I know you’re angry,” Ginny tried to mollify the seething Slytherin, “Hermione doesn’t really understand how brooms work…”

Her attempt to soothe his mounting anger didn’t work completely.

“She bloody well will when I’m done with her! Hermione!”

Addressed in that tone with that name by that person, Hermione finally disengaged from her test analysis and looked up.

“Why aren’t you flying?”

Draco’s effort not to hex her turned him into a ferret (an involuntary animagus stress response — thanks to Barty Crouch Jr. — that started shortly after Voldemort moved into Malfoy Manor) and back.

“Bloody hell, woman, you nearly KILLED me in that TREE!”
“She didn’t do anything, Malfoy,” Ginny protested.

“She took over my BROOM — the bossy b- witch! Bloody braking stopped working and that fucking TREE grabbed my BROOM!”

Ginny swung out of Draco’s path as the seriously pissed off Head Boy stomped his way over to a woman he was fast falling out of love with.

“Yes,” his partner in the broom research admitted, “you weren’t flying fast enough to test the falling spell’s interaction with the broom’s magic. Did you get tangled in the tree?” she finished, a bit sheepishly.
“YES, Hermione; I DID! Ginny had to RESCUE me AND MY BROOM!”

The yelling two inches from her face ignited Hermione’s temper. Scarlet waves rose up her neck as she inhaled a huge breath for a small woman and counter-attacked.

“I WARNED you this would be DIFFICULT!”
“No more speed trials unless I’M in CON-TROL!”

No space existed between them. Draco enveloped her in male indignation, making her thoughts fuzzy and raising her awareness of places she shouldn’t be noticing right this minute. Anger, fear and surging adrenaline had him pumping pheromones in clouds that suffocated her reason.

“I’ll admit my handling of the broom might have been off —”
“MIGHT HAVE!?”

Unconsciously he’d plastered the front of him to the front of her, using his size to get in her personal space and force her attention on him.

And he had it — her complete attention.

Her Gryffindor-honest expression telegraphed her thoughts and they had nothing to do with the broom. For some reason, despite having been safely on the ground, she panted in rhythm to his own breathing. Instinctively he grabbed her wrist and felt their heartbeats synchronize.

Glaring down at her, Draco remembered how gorgeous her eyes were up close — dark chocolate centers melting outward to milk chocolate with flecks of caramel that glinted in the proper lighting. The part of him trapped against her hip woke up and stretched, completely sapping the blood his brain required to stay incensed at her inattentive handling of his broom. If his smaller brain got control they’d never get these damn-near lethal trials done — and Draco wanted to be done and back in their tower soon.

Releasing her, he stepped backwards (until his hard-on protested the distance from Hermione) then halted.

“Are you willing to move on?”
“Depends. What’s next?”

“I want to see how the spells interact during spins.”

Chasing a snitch trained Draco’s inner ear to ignore his stomach in tight, unpredictable turns.

“Fine. Tell me how —”
“I have to control the spin. To be a valid test, I have to rotate you a specific number of times at a known speed, both left and right, for five minutes each.”

“What altitude?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’ll cast the measurement charm while you decide,” and Hermione grasped his broom as she hurried past to give him privacy.

“Is she always like this?”

Slytherin’s first Crash Test Dummy waited out Ginny’s laughter for an answer.

“Yes and no. You know as well as I do that Hermione’s… stubbornness put Harry in the right place at the right time to find those horcruxes. All while keeping my git of a brother alive — and doing the cooking, apparating, clothes washing and haircutting for those two lazy prats.”

The smile on Ginny’s face made Draco very, very nervous. Whatever the bombshell was, she hadn’t dropped it yet.

“She’s absolutely befuddled around you, Malfoy. She’d have jinxed Ron for what you just pulled.”
“She almost IMPALED me in that tree!”

“Wouldn’t matter. She lets you get away with much more.”

Draco scrubbed at his afternoon facial stubble while he replayed their most recent dust up.

“Did I come on too strong with her?”
“Not for me to say. I can make an observation I couldn’t before, though… for what it’s worth.”

“As I’ve already had the life scared out of me by Voldemort and Hermione Granger there’s little you can do to me. Go on.”

“She loves you and it’s more than physical attraction. And you’ve convinced me you love her — don’t worry;” she hurriedly assured to his panicked expression, “I won’t mention it to her. I’ll handle Harry and Ron; you take care of her.”

Thanks to baby James’ impact on his mum’s hormones, Draco’s expression change (that raised both corners of his mouth equally) brought tears ambling down the redhead’s cheeks.

“I won’t hurt her, Ginevra. I vow on my mother’s life I’ll never intentionally hurt her again.”
“That’s good enough for me. She staring at us, you know.”

Indeed, Draco’s favorite Gryffindor pretended (badly) that she hadn’t noticed the discussion she couldn’t make out at a distance.

“Shall we get started?” Hermione called over to the private meeting participants.
“Why not,” Draco chuckled with a joviality he didn’t feel, “not dead yet, am I?”

His stern glance her way pushed Hermione’s lower lip further into her mouth and dropped the gaze of her expressive eyes to her feet. Satisfied she understood the issue had yet to be settled to his satisfaction, Draco mounted and flew low over a patch of tall, soft clover.

Once testing restarted, it took three minutes for Hermione to take control and ramp up the revolutions per second. It took four additional minutes for Draco’s inner ear to resign (causing a display of vertigo worthy of the magical medical books) and another minute for everything she’d fed him — breakfast, after breakfast snack, before lunch snack and lunch — to come rocketing back up his chest headed for his mouth.

Rather than fight Hermione’s control, Draco applied his superior knowledge to stabilizing the spins — flattening them out so the broom rode “easy”. When his inner ear decamped, his brain declared an emergency and applied maximum effort to tamping the queasiness threatening his stomach.

That left his poor broom thoroughly in Hermione’s control.

Disoriented and green with illness, Draco leaned further and further forward in a vain effort to hold back the rising intestinal tide — tipping his broom tip further and further downward towards the fast approaching ground. He lost the battle with his stomach, hurling chucks in all directions as the broom spun erratically and jerked itself over the clover field ever closer to the lake.

Ginny cast Arresto Momentum repeatedly — first silently then with increasing volume once Draco’s vomiting started — to no avail. The cornucopia of spells competing for dominance over Draco’s Firebolt collided in a manner that deflected her attempts to stabilize the rambunctious “vomit comet”. Forced to intervene directly, she hopped on her ride and headed Draco’s direction, praying the sight and smell of sick wouldn’t affect her own pregnant innards.

As the last of his meals made their way up and out while Hermione’s testing charm spun his broom at the speed of light, Draco’s falling spell malfunctioned under the barrage of Arresto Momentums and he accelerated face first into the icy lake.

The testing swot missed his sickness but couldn’t avoid hearing the splash.

Hermione arrived lakeside as the spluttering Slytherin dragged himself onto the shore, still dry heaving forcefully.

Ginny examined Draco for injuries.

Hermione, on the other hand, carefully examined the broom for damage.

Draco — having regained his equilibrium, his feet and his righteous rage — was not pleased.

“I thought I was JOKING about you trying to kill me!”
“I am NOT trying to hurt you. The magic’s complicated and so are the tests!”

“You’re taking advantage of me! You think the way I fly makes me invincible!”

“No — YOU think that! That’s why you FLY the way you do!”

“If you don’t want me around, just SAY SO, Granger, and STOP SAVING ME when the fucking WINNERS want me DEAD!”

At this point, Ginny silently predicted that make-up sex (or something like it) would be the next “confrontation” for these two.

“Floo me when you two work this all out,” she called over her shoulder as she made to leave.

In need of a nosh for herself and her hungry fetus, Harry’s wife declared the testing completed for today. With unhurried effort she vanished Hermione’s note taking materials to the Heads’ Commons, mounted her own broom and headed for food and a good shag with her husband at the Burrow.

“You’re overreacting, Malfoy!”
“You SCARED the HELL out of me!”

“I repeat, you are overre— DRACO!”

In a clever piece of wordless, wandless magic, Draco trussed her in a partial body-bind curse and forced her onto his broom in front of him.

“Time for a flying lesson! Rule number 1 — CONTROL the FUCKING BROOM!”

Firebolts were advertised at 0-70 mph in 10 seconds; Draco shaved a good three seconds off that time.

“Rule number 2 — Avoid HITTING things!”

The walls and towers of Hogwarts came at them rapidly and Draco hesitated until the last instant to make every evasive maneuveur. Fright and velocity plastered Hermione against his chest. Her terrified shrieking didn’t slow his speed one scintilla. In a few more seconds he screamed Alohomora at the top of his lungs and dashed them through the open windows of their Commons.

“And the final rule for this lesson is — if you have brakes, USE THEM!”

The broom jerked to an abrupt stop, inertia snapping her forward into her bonds then backward into her living, breathing (and pissed off) crash test dummy. Draco didn’t release her until her knee wobble dissipated as her feet anchored themselves in the carpet and her color became less like his own pale countenance. Strolling to his bedroom door — his overworked Firebolt thrown lazily over his shoulder — while Hermione fumed, he informed his flatmate how the rest of the evening would go.

“While you are making snacks and dinner — to replace the meals I lost to your tests, I’ll be soaking my battered body in the tub. You will pamper me and cater to my every whim until dawn or I will send for my house elves to finish your assignments. As your punishment for ignoring my safety and health, you will provide more personal information for my Muggle Studies assignment.”
“And if I refuse!?” she shouted back defiantly as he placed one foot over the threshold to his bedchamber.

“Then I will discipline YOU, Hermione —”

Fear and anticipation crashed in her head so explosively it made the source of her shudders and dry mouth difficult to attribute to one or the other. Suddenly, being trussed up and at his mercy seemed scary in a good way.

“— and you will love every minute of it.”

Jaw dropped in shock, Hermione didn’t notice the slackening of her bonds for some time.

Amongst a small cabal focused on improving the wizarding community, plans and preparations came together with surprisingly few deaths. Taking up the post-war encouragement to “take back your magical government”, the participants — particularly the impatient and violent younger members — moved incessantly trying to dissipate adrenaline. Whatever their prior contributions during the war, tomorrow’s actions would mark their first, but hopefully not their last, definitive actions to shape the future.

“…There will only be two opportunities with a high percentage for success — during the opening speech and during the fruit distribution to the children. We’ll know where the Minister is and he’ll be surrounded by his adoring public instead of aurors. Our contacts in the Ministry tell us Podmore’s under strict instructions to keep the public happy, so he’ll be hesitant to come after us and risk taking out any ‘innocents’.”
“Like to ‘take out’ a few of those ‘innocents’ myself starting with that tart Lavender Brown. Gods! What a bod that chit has on her — or that Granger slag. Be a right nice toy when I finish with her, she would. Real war hero.”

“Or the youngest of that daft cow Weasley. Bet she’s got a clue with six brothers —”

“Five — we took care of one of ’em.”

Chuckling and lewd agreement circled the room. The speaker — and leader of this mission — regained the attention of the room and continued after passing around a small token.

“Keep these close and hidden —”

He held up a knut charmed to display a message.

“— when they shake and warm, you’ll know what to do. The usual curses have the new Ministry tracers on them so stick to the new ones — Mortem Perfuga [Kill Betrayers], Cenum Munda [Cleanse Filth], Reduc Magicae [Take Back Magic].”

Designed by a sociopath, each spell reached its true potential when aimed at a targeted community member. Mortem Perfuga targeted pure-bloods, causing their superior blood to leak from every vessel, every cell, of the body. No counter spell existed because none had been desired. Half-bloods struck by Cenum Munda experienced the excruciating pain of having their insides suddenly on the outside. Like the first spell, no corrective spell existed.

The savagery of these spells, however, could not match the atrocity of the last. Designed for muggle-borns, Reduc Magicae ripped the magical core from the witch or wizard unfortunate enough to fall prey to its casting. In secret holding cells hidden in rural Cheshire, captured muggle-borns endured agony inflicted as the leaders of this next revolution perfected this new horror. None of the test subjects lived more than eight weeks after first experiencing the loss of their magic — and none died in less than a tormented fortnight.

Flipping his own coin in quiet admiration, Caligus Travers marveled at the quality of the Protean charm. A mouthed phrase murmured under his breath had the coin flashing pornographic messages as it tumbled between his thumb and index finger.

“So… Where’re the portkeys?” McNair asked. He’d been challenging the adolescent leader’s authority for days.
“Portkeys???”

Bobbing up and down, the young leader’s Adam’s apple communicated his lack of preparation for this question — leading to an undercurrent of murmuring at the boy’s expense.

“Don’t intend to hang around and have those bleedin’ assassins empty their wands on me. What’s your plan for protecting our arses?”

Meilyr Selwyn [“Youthful Man of Iron”], cousin to the currently missing Dolores Umbridge, refused to be fodder for the likes of this crew. His clever “speculations” on the recent occurrences in the Death Eater survivor community (expressed over a private lunch with the inner circle of zealots) would keep him safe for now.

“Afterward, you’re expected to apparate to the meeting places I’ve indicated.”
“But what if it all goes arse-over-tits, eh? Who’s backin’ us up? Not interested in having that Ministry lot use my sack for target practice,” Mcnair sneered.

“Portkey’s safer —” Travers agreed, “stunner spell won’t leave you standin’ there frozen like the bell end of one of your randy schoolmates.”

Low-level laughter increased in volume as did the carmine coloring crawling up the boy’s neck.

“Fuck all! You’re Death Eaters not one of Potter’s airy-fairies!. You weren’t demanding a port key when we snatched your arse from those aurors, were you Travers!? Follow the fucking plan and that blood traitor Shacklebolt will be one less obstacle to finishing the job!”

To back up his intent, the adolescent cast a prototype of the new undetectable Crucio curse to remind Macnair who’d freed him and who owned him. Silence consumed the space as the spell’s target collected himself from the floor, vomit leaking from his slack mouth.

“Any other objections?”

Travers half-smiled at the display of magical power and authority, deferring with a slight nod.

“No portkeys. You win, whelp.”

Within the thin group of true believers the elder members moved off to more secluded areas in the house to contemplate the choices of the more impatient youths amongst their brethren. Less driven by hormones and energy, each hoped their personal exit strategy would provide sufficient distance from what most thought was a poorly plotted disaster. If… When things went bad, those without a price on their heads planned to escape this ragtag collection of guerrilla revolutionaries.

“A word, son?”

Distancing themselves from the small enclave murmuring in even smaller groups of two or three dour-looking wizards, the young man stifled his instinctive response and steeled his features to follow the older man out.

“Have you thought, truly thought, what will happen if this goes badly?”

While the adolescent’s discipline was admirable, it brooked no indication that problems had been factored in.

“You tried it your way; now we’ll try it mine,” the man-child responded.
“Six months! That’s all I’m askin’! File your candidacy and take control without aurors huntin’ us like wild dogs!.”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll win,” the boy challenged before the word “control” died in the air.

“And you think this ups your chances!? You’re daft as a bush if you think this a better risk! Don’t get hasty now, son. ”

Differences aside, there was no doubt of the affection of the elder towards the youngster.

“Shacklebolt’s putting himself out there, Da — in public — for the picking. Never get a shot like this before the election. Law says Podmore would take the interim role and he’s no politician; it betters my chances.”
“And what if one of them over there’s snatched up by those aurors, hmm? You think that lot’ll shut their gobs to protect you? Me? I’m TELLIN’ you, boy, put paid to this and wait for the election.”

The hand the older man stroked over his 5-o’clock shadow left his doubt and his fear in place. Handing the future over to the young turks took it out of him, but living in this “new” world where subhumans and magic thieves ruled the lives of their betters rankled even worse. Sighing at the lack of quality choices, the old man gave in.

“I’ll cover your exit; don’t trust a one of them out there to have your back if you need rescuin’.”
“Have some faith —”

The aging man cut him off without hesitation —

“Done with ‘faith’, son. This time we win it. I’ll take care of whoever needs killin’ if there’s a problem. Look after yourself…”

Except for travel to the suburbs with her always randy spouse, Narcissa Malfoy — COO Emeritus of Malfoy Enterprises — hadn’t been to Paris proper in too long a time.

Stepping daintily, the reinstated Chief Operating Officer (COO) exited the weather-controlled outdoor floo that formed the centerpiece of the award-winning art deco entrance to the company’s continental headquarters. The building held warm memories for her; never had sex between the CEO and the COO been better than during the explosive fights to get this landmark entrance designed and built.

Erotic memories arched her lips upward with a leer that colored the sallow cheeks of the portal attendant as he escorted the beautiful executive to the penthouse level. For the better part of a month Lady Malfoy and that iron-willed Slytherin she’d attached herself to alternated fighting and fucking (because the nature of their liaisons could not be called love-making by anyone familiar with the term) over Narcissa’s demand that Findlay, Hadid & Duncan — the only all-female magitects [magical architects] in Europe — design the landmark building. Lucius smugly informed her that he’d beg her for sex before letting a “gaggle of pure-blood hens looking for a hobby while their husbands work” design his building. And begging wasn’t likely to happen the next 150 years.

Narcissa cut him off (intimately speaking) and four hours later Lucius caved like a roof with too much snow on it.

The completed edifice won every prestigious design award presented the year of its opening and cemented the reputation of the three women. This period of “reconciliation”, where Lucius remained at Narcissa’s “beck and call”, led to another successful Malfoy construction project — Lucius got Draco on Narcissa as an “Accept this because I’ll never speak the words ‘Forgive me’ aloud” gift.

“Lady Malfoy!” her long-time second greeted her, taking over from the relieved attendant, “It’s wonderful to see you again. I take it Draco’s tied up?”

Etienne Soupirant bowed over her hand as he had innumerable times in their common past and placed a warm kiss to the back (with a touch of his tongue to her middle knuckle). Back in their Hogwarts days, the searingly handsome Frenchman submitted the competing contract for her hand in marriage and he never let Lucius forget it (nor forgave the self-important sneering snob for winning her hand and everything above it).

“One could say that,” she remarked in a subtle double entendre not to be misunderstood by her longtime friend and Lucius’ perpetual rival.
“And Lord Malfoy? Will Lucius be joining us today?”

In 30 years of friendship, Soupirant’s sweet sexy baritone (husky with a hint of a growl in the low register) never failed to raise goosebumps when he spoke in that steamy tone. Hiring Etienne (to replace the 12th executive vice president during her husband’s volatile tenure as CEO — Lucius flogged the poor man with his snake cane for not using divination to accurately predict sales demand for their new potion) got the company back on track after the haphazard management of Lucius’ father, Abraxas. Of course, convincing Lucius to hire a man still drooling over the Lady of the Manor kept Narissa bent over the chaise lounge in her office suite servicing a territorial Lucius for weeks.

“No. Until all his legal issues,” and she spat the word out in disgust, “have been resolved, he’s barred from any dealings with the firm. I’m afraid you’ll have to be satisfied with second best today.”

At this the Frenchman gave her a serious look, decades of teasing and attraction wrapped in a cocoon of affection and unrequited love. He kissed the corner of her mouth — nearly breaching the bounds of impropriety.

“You were never second best in anything Narcie…”

The melody of his words traveled the chiseled plane of her cheeks turning them a healthy rose color. Only he called her “Narcie”.

“… and you never will be.”

No one doubted the deep love and commitment of Lord and Lady Malfoy —

But it doesn’t hurt to refresh Lucius’ “training” from time to time… Narcissa decided.

“Our agreement stands, ‘Tienne?”
“While I live and breathe, ma cocotte [darling].”

Widowed ten years and his children grown and on their own, Etienne promised her that if Lucius ever stopped treating her as she deserved, he’d change her name from Malfoy to Soupirant in less than a day. As her Malfoy marriage bond to Lucius could only be broken by death, the offer implied a murder and a rapid promotion of Draco to Lord of the Malfoy estate.

“Shall we attend to business?”
“Après vous…”

Sweeping her robes with one hand, she extended the other to Soupirant’s arm as he escorted her into the executive lift.

An hour later (because Narcissa managed her meetings very efficiently) all major business had been handled and decisions of a routine nature made.

“Thank you, everyone,” the COO graciously finished up, “for your continued efforts. It’s been quite a year but sales are improving and I’m certain now that we’ll meet our goals. Unless there’s other business?…”

Her gaze fell inquisitively on each of the twenty participants.

“No? Then we’re adjourned. Etienne and Xenos? If you could stay for a moment?”

Unused to unscheduled time with the boss’ mother, each shrugged and joined her at her end of the conference table. An offhanded wave materialized a rolling cart of elf wine and ouzo (the wizard distillation: said to be the inspiration for one of the biggest magical pranks played on muggles — so-called “Greek Mythology”) between the chairs where the two men sat.

“Gentlemen. As you know, the war has altered a great many relationship and advantages the Malfoys and this company once exploited. We must adapt or die; we can no longer rely on blood-status and social position and we may see our accumulated wealth siphoned off in reparations. Neither Draco nor I intend to sit idle; Draco has plans —”

— which translated to: Narcissa had a plan for Draco —

“and we shall begin them today. Nothing said here leaves this room.”
“Does that include inquiries by Lord Malfoy?” the handsome Greek grinned.

Xenos Metaxas had been Narcissa’s second hire after Draco’s birth. There was nothing quite like being surrounded by attractive men catering to every desire (except sex) to keep a girl young and feeling beautiful.

“Specifically Lucius. My loving husband is still mired in the past. To that end —” she hurried on to cover her flush at the frankly sexual images Lucius’ name brought to mind, “Draco proposes, and I heartily endorse, the establishment of an educational sponsorship program through our subcontractors and joint ventures.”

Never did she appreciate the brains and talent of these two more than right now. They’d leaped the logic; attaching the Malfoy name to such a philanthropic endeavor wasn’t the smartest approach before Lucius’ upcoming court hearing.

“I’ve made a list of companies,” she explained while distributing the parchments, “that have the right pedigree, skills we need to grow and weaknesses we can exploit. If your analyses confirm my choices, negotiate the sponsorship program — tell them we’ll pay for it in full — then make sure we own a controlling interest in their firms. I — Draco wants to steer them where he needs them philanthropically.”

Neither man bought the idea that Draco thought all this up alone.

“Once the programs are established” she continued, “I want to extend offers to these students for these universities.”

Two identical parchments materialized in front of the men.

“What’s the hook?”
“A three-year commitment with us or with a subsidiary of our choice after graduation.”

Looking down, the Frenchman noted the shortness of the candidate list.

“There’s only one name on here, Lady Malfoy.”

Impeccable breeding kept Etienne from speaking intimate endearments during business.

“And I’m sure your research will show my ‘suggestion’ will represent the company well.”

The lady dismissed them but Soupirant hung around for a few final words.

“If Lord Malfoy discovers I’m a party to this, he will demand I serve as his dueling ‘practice dummy’ — without my wand.”

The American jargon didn’t throw off her understanding of his words.

“Then I suggest, ‘Tienne, that you apply your usual discretion and keep Lucius’ impulsive ‘nose’ out of company business, a skill at which you excel.”
“Narcissa, I know this name; I suspect Xenos does as well. Are you sure this will work? Draco’s suffocating under Lucius’ entanglements as it is. “

His former boss glided near him on her way out, an affectionate gloved palm placed on one of his cheeks as she lightly bussed the other.

“That’s precisely why she’s the only current candidate for a sponsorship; if you know her reputation, you know Draco couldn’t find a better partner.”
“… in all senses of that word, eh cocotte [darling]?”

Chuckling at his discovery of her semi-transparent attempt to slip one by him, the Lady stepped on the conference room’s secure apparation pad and disapparated.

The besotted Soupirant sighed and smiled tenderly at the game he played with the happily married woman. Waving his wand to extinguish the lights, the Executive Vice President considered which of Paris’ many professional courtesans he would visit. He’d be with his long time love for the night — right after the Polyjuice potion in the pocket of his robes turned his hired courtesan into a credible Narcissa Black Malfoy clone.

Retrieving fresh samples of her hair from his robes and storing them in a clean vial, he left the building for the pleasure houses.
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