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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
- 28
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“Listen, son — if this goes pear-shaped, protect yourself. Do you hear me? Get out and live to fight another day. Don’t try to save me.”

“Da, I can’t —”

A gentle shoulder squeeze stayed the younger man’s protest.

“Don’t destroy what we’re building, boy! Take the system down from the inside like we planned. If this ambush works, great… fine. But if not, save your arse.”

Through tears the insurrectionist hugged his father.

“Plans sound, Da, if these fuckers do what they’re supposed to. We’ll win it this time.”

Grizzled and haggard from the decades of losing, the veteran of too many wars doubted this time would be any easier on him. The thought of his grandchildren being forced to mix with subhumans kept him in the fray — at least while he still drew breath and wasn’t eating gruel through a straw.

“Won’t be safe to come back to this place for a while. I’ve charmed it to take out any coward who beats ya back here. Head for the hunting cabin. If I make it out, I’ll find you.”

A kiss to the boy’s cheek and a quick pat to his nape expressed love and determination in both.

“Selwyn!” the old soldier called out, moving purposely towards the coming battle, “What’re you thinking?…”

At regular intervals the sounds of apparition echoed in the increasingly empty countryside home: Death Eaters left to celebrate the New Year on Hampstead Heath.

So, later, did the Minister of Magic, in the muted sunlight of mid-winter.

“I’d like a moment — in both of our interests,” the serious man standing in the doorway requested politely, intimidating the home’s owner with his dark robes and intense stare.

The unexpected visit unsettled a man not known for improvising strategically without time to think — and help from a better brain.

“Certainly, certainly!”

A nod of the befuddled host’s head hastened his guest across the threshold of the ornate doorway whose hinges could use a good oiling and whose antique mechanical lock no longer worked without magical assistance.

“Sit, sit.”

“You’ve been a staunch supporter of pure-blood causes. Your work with the legal team in S.P.A.M. protected a number of innocent wizard families from being railroaded to Azkaban by that fucking mudblood-loving Ministry.”

“Well,” the pleasantly surprised and modest man started, “we do our best. Don’t forget — Lucius Malfoy created the organization, brilliant man that he —”

“Lucius Malfoy is an opportunistic fuck who hauled his arse away from the battle when our Dark Lord could’ve won! Don’t mention Malfoy again in my presence.”

Hostility in the blood-warded parlor brought the door squeaking closed and brought the homeowner’s only child close enough to hear the shouted profanities “fuck” and “Malfoy”. Garbled sentences and fractured words didn’t deter listening by the concerned (and curious) offspring.

“The world is changing… War will return to the wizarding community and when it does the filth that opposed Lord Voldemort will be removed for good. We’re regrouping, gathering soldiers and survivors who think like we do, to take over the British Ministry. Won’t stop there this time. When we’re done we’ll unite all of Europe under our cause.”

The listening older man paled, sweating in a room whose every structural orifice leaked warmth from the deteriorating edifice. Of an age where privation and hardship took it out of him daily, the much aged gentry-man blamed his present situations on involvement in the first two wars without any discernible victory. And there was a child to consider…

“What…” Plantagenet tried, throat dry from the threat implied in his guest’s words, “what can I do? Do-Do you wish to join S.P.A.M.? I’m sure I have the initiation spell here somewhere…” and he shuffled untidy parchments on the old wooden table to find a spell he’d personally administered more than 200 times but still hadn’t manage to memorize.

“No. I’m here to recruit you for a special job. Not all of my recruits can be trusted. I’m asking you to join me for an important job — today.”

Swirling mist shrouded the room after the casting of newly-designed silencing spell — one that couldn’t be broken by the present auror “toolkit” used by the Ministry. The one-sided conversation ended in less than five minutes.

“…’ve come sooner,” escaped as Plantagenet’s guest exited the parlor and removed the silencing spell, “I understand and appreciate your time. We’ll talk — I’m sure you’ll prove your loyalty in another manner. Thank you.”

The truly terrified dyspeptic host extended a shaky hand. His eavesdropping progeny, having botched a hasty Disillusionment spell, stood at a corner of the vestibule looking like a mistake by the magical carpenters the place sorely needed. The spellcaster blended near perfectly with the wall coverings and moldings in the hallway.

“Yes! Yes! Always happy to help where I can. We pure-bloods still have a war to win, eh?”

“That’s the right attitude,” the zealot agreed, staring at the misshapen parlor wall while formulating a revised long-term plan.

Long minutes later Plantagenet Parkinson stood, his head bowed against the ancient door of the mansion that sheltered his family for 15 generations, shaking like a leaf.

“… and that ends the tour.”

“And you actually scrub the walls and floors?!?”

“It’s not as bad as you make it sound, Dragon.”

“You led me to believe your home was a hovel, more like Won-Won’s.”

“Stop calling him that,” she warned as they re-entered the kitchen, “my parents worked and saved to buy this house. I’ve never lived elsewhere except Gryffindor tower.”

“The Weasleys could live here in something other than squalor. It’s got —”

“Stop it! They’ve been nothing but accepting of you!”

“Sorry… It’s… Granger, this place has five almost decently sized bedrooms and three almost usable baths. It’s not the Manor — obviously — but I’m not feeling claustrophobic.”

“What,” she glared at him, “do you know about claustrophobia? It’s a muggle psychological disease.”

“I read your psychology book when I got out of hospital.”

If that stare provided a harbinger, Hermione-Something-née-Granger would be an excellent mother one day. The book thief’s neck started itching when she hadn’t blinked in minutes.

“You had classes… I was bored and wasn’t allowed out of bed…”

The stare turned his neck red.

“It’s the only book I could Accio — I knew the title, saw you reading it.”

“I guess you’re forgiven. I’m very particular about my books. Next time, send a patronus and ask.”

Storms behind his eyes darkened from their normal grey.

“Dragon, what’s wrong?”

“Death Eaters can’t cast patronuses. You’re too much of a charms know-it-all to forget that.”

A year ago, camouflaged as a front line child soldier in the war, Hermione’d have pulled back and retaliated. Today she walked into his body, encircling his waist in her arms. Her gaze fell upon his unseeing eyes.

“That’s not true — your godfather, Severus Snape, cast them on more than one occasion. His patronus led Harry to Gryffindor’s sword in the Forest of Dean. You can learn the charm.”

“I tried. It requires ‘happy thoughts’ —” he mimicked at the last, sounding like a house elf on helium.

“I’ll teach you. Because I gain great satisfaction in proving you wrong.”

A squeeze from her arms and a peck on his jaw drew half a grin.

“Your bedside manner is atrocious. I’m healing from your mishandling of my broom and you’re taunting me in a strange place —”

“I’ve changed the wards, by the way. You can come here from any floo in Hogwarts or the Burrow.”

“What about from the Black House at Grimmauld?” Draco asked about his other ancestral home as he wandered her kitchen to take in the rear garden through the glass-paned doors at the far end of the room.

“If Harry catches you there I’ll be identifying your corpse at St. Mungo’s.”

“The house should have been my mother’s.”

“You have the Manor, which your family will inherit when you marry. Harry had nothing; Voldemort cursed his parents’ home in Godric’s Hollow when he cast that Avada so Sirius thought he deserved it. I’m sure your children won’t mind only inheriting the 60 or 70 manors, villas, hideaways, palazzos, flats —”

“You made your point, witch,” he grudgingly admitted in mock exasperation, “and its 304, not 70.”

Bustling about to collect breakfast ingredients, the correction stopped her dead in her tracks.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“Why would I joke about that? Property is always a good investment and it provides protection if a deal goes bad.”

At her deer-in-the-headlights expression, Draco sighed and made his way to where she’d stopped moving. Gently prying the egg carton and tomatoes from her grasp, he planted a tender kiss to her forehead and explained.

“Hermione, at the level Malfoy Enterprises operates in international wizarding business, deals gone arse over tits can lead to magical duels and the sudden deaths of company executives. We conduct all negotiations away from company properties. The security and protections on those ‘houses’ is some of the best in the world.”

After some mental gymnastics, she cast a thoughtful glance his way and resumed her pre-cooking preparations.

“I have a lot to learn before finishing university, don’t I?”

“You’re a swot; I have no doubt you’ll learn that and more well before they teach it to you.”

“Speaking of teaching, wash your hands — NO! Not Scourgify; wash.”

Draco couldn’t be more lovable, standing there stumped at what she meant.

“Let’s start at the beginning: this a sink and this is the faucet,” she lectured while pointing to each object.

“We have these at Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor, Granger.”

“But these don’t magically sense your hands being near them. You have to turn them on and off manually.”

“Manually?”

“With your hands.”

“I know what the word means! What I mean is, why not use my wand?”

“Dragon, this weekend is your first field trip into how muggles live and work. You’ll write a better parchment with real experience.”

But I don’t wanna do manual labor! YOU write the sodding parchment… he whinged silently.

“I’ll show you,” she instructed before turning each handle once on then off, “then you can wash your hands. Use the soap in the pump bottle next to the faucet.”

Figuring out what part of the pump bottle dispensed soap (and cleaning himself, the floor, the counter and the cabinet doors) swallowed up a good 10 minutes.

“Ready to cook?”

“No.”

“Ready to eat?”

“If you’re cooking, then yes.”

“In this house, if you want to eat you get up off your pampered arse and cook. Stand next to me and I’ll show you.”

“What are ‘we’ making?” he queried, taking over the slicing and chopping of veggies from her. The act resembled his preparations for the many potions he’d brewed, starting before he left the first time to attend Hogwarts.

“A hodge-podge. An omelette with ‘bangers’.”

“Bangers???”

“Cockney slang for sausages,” she replied, stirring the sweating onions in her pan to caramelize them.

“The language is ‘English’. These cockney cretins should try speaking it.”

“Do you want to get fed?”

“I'll place anything of yours in my mouth, Lioness,” he leered back at her faux pas.

“I walked into that one. If you want my help ‘feeding’ yourself, I suggest you stop insulting parts of this world you haven’t even experienced.”

One burned omelet and two charred ‘bangers’ later they sat down to a respectable breakfast at the table with a view of the lush garden behind the house.

“I’m curious. Why do you love the GP sausages so much? There’s a warehouse full in that extensible cooler at school and I see almost as many here —”

Hermione sliced into her omelette a little too aggressively. Three forkfuls of food met her lips unaccompanied by her gaze or her answer.

“If it’s too personal…” he offered.

“My parents and I loved them…” her voice trailed off in remembrance, “The scent reminds me of Sundays after church.”

“They’re alive, Hermione; you'll get them back. Damn clever of you to protect them that way. Potter filled me in on the details.”

Tears landed between her plate and the table’s edge in plodding single drops, yet she kept at the food. Deftly he cradled her warm, soft cheek in his large palm, wiping the few tears away with his thumb.

“The war only ended last spring, Lioness,” her visitor compassionately whispered, “The Ministry’s still inviting some of my father’s ‘acquaintances' to move into Azkaban. Once the Wizengamot trials are over you’ll have all the help you’ll need.”

“That’s what Harry said.”

Draco couldn’t help noticing the fluttering of her eyelids as they closed or the light pressure from her cheek as she leaned into his touch for comfort. This issue, the unresolved state of her parents, contributed to the sadness that seemed to shroud her whenever she wasn’t distracted with work.

“I suppose I should be glad it’s Potter and not Weasley who stole my answer.”

Both chuckled as he slowly withdrew his hand. Canting his head slightly, Draco examined her face to make sure she’d escaped the moment.

“Your saintly guardian,” the put-upon aristocrat began in his most persecuted tone, “misused his ‘Chosen One’ powers — again — and hauled me to the Ministry to give me ‘The Talk’ before dinner Christmas Eve. Wanted to make sure I understood how many ways he’d reassemble me if I hurt you.”

“Harry can be a tad over-protective.”

Furtively, her napkin absorbed the small puddle of memory in front of her.

“I would say so. He seems to have forgotten who the victim of his Sectumsempra was. Not that I hold a grudge.”

Agile fingers stacked the last bite of his own omelette for her, this time with a dollop of cream cheese and three tiny capers.

“Try this.”

The intimacy of feeding her — and caressing her fleshy mouth with his fingers to clean up the creamy mess his poor aim left behind— nearly tipped the tiny bite off of her quivering lips.

“Mmm… Good,” she mouthed around the morsel, “I apologize if Harry tried to intimidate you. I suspect you’d be evenly matched in a duel.” came out around the nugget.

“If I actually had my wand ready, yes; I suppose we would.”

“Enough, Draco,” Hermione grinned, “it’s not as if a Slytherin wouldn’t take advantage of a vulnerable opponent,” she chided him thoughtfully. Somewhere in the back of her analytical mind she recognized they were having fun in her world.

“You’ve discovered our chief strategy, Gryffindor. We’ll have to revise our plans.”

“I doubt that; even the dullards in your house were pretty formidable in a duel. Rumor has it that dolt Pansy casts a mean Crucio.”

“And yet you bested a lorry load of them without a single Unforgivable curse. Well done, Granger. I should be thankful you only broke my nose.”

“You, Malfoy, were an insufferable arse hell-bent on bullying those of us you considered beneath you!”

Sitting back, arms crossed, she leveled the “Granger Glare” at him to remind him why she punched him.

“I was kidding, Lioness. You’ve bested me in making decisions since First Year. Picked the winning team right away.”

This man opposite her at that moment bore little resemblance in behavior to the irritant she’d wanted to apprentice to the house elves.

Hermione’s brains weren't total porridge yet (at this distance from his inventive touches); somewhere underneath, Draco Malfoy remained a Malfoy: conceited, witty, arrogant, cultured, elitist, brilliant, opportunistic, sensual, sarcastic and ready to take offense at the smallest slight…

____________________________

“Ready for your third lesson?”

First came cooking, a skill Draco determined he could tolerate in small doses as long as he got to touch Hermione during the effort.

The second “lesson”, however, painted the most sour expression across his handsome features that she’d seen on him recently, despite their having finished almost a half-hour ago: in mere seconds Draco came to despise “cleaning up”. Lacking sympathy for households without house elves, Draco concluded that Hermione had a sadistic streak that revelled in torturing him — first that broom test and now the repeated plunging of his delicate hands in and out of scalding water bubbling with overly sweet-smelling caustic soap.

Staring disgustedly at the withered skin on his hands accompanied the delay in any response to her inquiry. Right this minute he wanted to punish her for this unnecessary lesson in muggle insanity.

“No more scullery tasks.”

“Can’t promise that, Dragon. Harry and Ginny are coming this evening for dinner. We’re having American BBQ.”

“Then no more forcing my hands into acid baths.”

Hermione clucked at his finicky complaint — “Really, Draco, it wasn’t that bad,”

“Look at my hands, witch! My fingertips have transformed into prune-shaped leather. How am I supposed to handle a snitch with THESE!?” and he thrust both hands — palms forward — into her face.

“Would you like me to take care of those for you?”

“Does it involve rubbing them between your —?”

“NO!”

“Pity. Yes. Please restore my hands to their former glory. And don’t make me do that again.”

“You can be rather moody for a man. Come join me in the library and I’ll see to your hands.”

A wink and a nod in the direction of the Library shut the petulant prima donna up and headed him at top speed in her direction.

Her surprised “DRACO!” escaped as he (intentionally) misjudged the distance and collided with her, tumbling her onto the cushy sofa face-first — beneath him.

“No need to offer yourself up in that manner, Granger. Yet.”

“You BOWLED ME OVER, you clumsy prat!” she shouted, scrambling to get out of the sexually provocative position.

“To make it up to me, you may restore my hands to human form while I question you.”

“— and I question you, Dragon.”

“Yes, yes — I’m aware of that particular obligation. Accio —”

Parchment and quills flew into a work setup over the side table supporting one of a pair of modern-styled lamps.

Mindful of his last question’s unintended hurt, Draco stuck to the more carefree inquiries.

“Tell you what, much though I’m terrified — given your legendary curiosity — what do you want to know about me, Granger?”

“You’ve only asked me two questions and I already know the answer to one —”

“Swot…”

“— it’s Draco Lucius Malfoy. So I’ll ask what your oldest or clearest memory is?”

The hand tremors were unmistakable as she massaged her favorite lotion, Odylique Lemon Butter, into his slightly dry skin.

“Would you rather ask me another question first, Dragon? To break the ice?”

“I’m trying to decide the order. I have memories back to my cradle.”

“Really?”

“I have near perfect recall — or I did until your crowd bashed my head in at Halloween. Runs in my mother’s family.”

“Then why were you second at Hogwarts?”

The idea that he could’ve bested her suddenly raised the perfectionist hackles of a young woman unused to NOT finishing first.

“According to my godfather,” he grinned in pure mischief, “it is almost impossible to memorize a text you haven’t attempted to read.”

“Tell me something that made you happy.”

“Until I moved to my own suite of rooms, my father would sing to me every night to quiet me down before putting me to sleep.”

“Lucius Malfoy!?

“The very same. He’d troop around the nursery with me until he got tired — or hoarse — then stretch out on the nanny bed. We’d both fall asleep. I’d wake up the next day in my cradle.”

“Anything else?”

“When I was younger…it tore me apart to see my mother cry…”

Soothing the skin rather than massaging the moisturizer into the muscled structures underneath it, her touch lightened on his hands. A tingle transmitted up the pensive Slytherin’s lower and upper arms causing gooseflesh ripples from his neck to his hairline.

“I’m not sure I know why she cried — except once: I asked her for a little brother, someone to take the blame when I’d been caught doing mischief. Damn house elves reported everything to my parents. She cried. Most pure-bloods I knew only had one child so I remember wondering what I’d done to upset her. I… I took her by the hand to the music room and played for her; she always enjoyed my renditions.”

Hermione hypothesized Narcissa might have suffered age-related infertility, based on Draco’s age and her best guess at his mother’s.

“I can tell you’re very close.”

“To my father as well. Lioness, I can see how you’d come away thinking he’s a purist bastard —”

Her retort interrupted his flow — “Because he is?”

“Get beyond that, and you’ll see he loves his family more than most of the so-called aristocracy of the British wizarding world. Nott’s father fucked his mother into an early grave trying to produce a pure-blood dynasty.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Theo’s father is a brute where women are concerned. Thaddeus married one of the Urquarts, a pure-blood but more common about it— like the Prewitts and Weasleys. I remember her as kindly but very frail. Didn’t stop that bastard father of his from getting child after child on her until Theo’s birth finally killed her. Fucker got daughters on almost every servant he’s ever hired and doesn’t acknowledge a one of them. Flint’s father’s no different; I heard Marcus’ mother tell mine she was glad he was taking his excessive ‘desires’ elsewhere. It’s not unusual in our circles. Father never did that to my mother. Hard as it is to believe, he loves her and he loves me.”

“I’d considered that when I came to the tower… after the battle. They never fought us, just kept asking after you. You’re fortunate.”

“I’m aware,” he inhaled and exhaled deeply, “ANYway, does that answer your question?”

“We’re even — for now.”

“So — next question: what’s your favorite thing to do in the summer.”

“Travel, although I’ve been unable to thanks to five years fighting Voldermort.”

“Where do you like to go?” he asked, paying close attention to her disclosure.

“I really want to go to the Greek Isles. I’d like to visit the less touristed places as well as the historical spots. I like to swim and sun bathe —”

“What do you wear on the beach?”

“A bathing costume.”

“What kind? Does it look like those abominable pyjamas? No,” he immediately corrected himself, deep in thought, “it couldn’t; you’d drown under the weight when the damn thing absorbed the Aegean Sea and caused an ecological calamity.”

“For your information, I wear a two piece suit. I like a tan when I can get one.”

“Clothes leave tan lines; nude is better. For both of us.”

“And on that note, next question.”

“What’s your dream job, as if I didn’t know?”

“Minister of Magic.”

Slack-jawed, Hermione’s shocked guest stared in awe and fear.

“That was unexpected. Care to explain?”

“So I can get the antiquated legal system fixed. Do you realize how unfair the current —”

“It took pure-bloods 300 years to get to the point —”

“Current law allows the virtual enslavement of elves, giants and trolls — all sentient beings. There’s little protection of the rights of anyone — except pure-blood family heads. Witches are still considered legal 'property' of our husbands with no rights to our children. The law allows the Ministry to remove a magically challenged baby from its family for any reason and place it in an institution forever. It’s not fair and I want to fix it.”

“There’s a reason for those laws, Granger; although I was aware of the ones concerning heirs. That psychistrophy book I borrowed —”

“It’s psy-chol-o-gy,”

“It’s a joke —”

“— and you stole it out of my bedroom —”

“Whatever. That psychology book had chapters on places that treat muggles with sicknesses of the mind.”

“Yes — treatment. Muggles don’t lock up their mentally ill without caring for them.”

“That’s not what your book says. It’s called ‘involuntary commitment’. Not to mention the number of mentally ill in your prisons. The book says —”

“I know what it says, Draco.”

“Not trying to get hexed here, Granger. Being around you and taking this Muggle Studies class has shown me that our world and your world aren’t that different.”

“My world?" Hermione near shouted, "I’m a witch, Draco — powerful enough to make you choose a better phrase!”

“Temper, Granger,” he soothed in hopes of quieting her ire, “I am more than aware of your ‘power’; I now harbor a fear of anything aimed at my nose. Thanks to your defense of me, half the school moves to the other side of the hallway during our rounds.”

He leaned in to kiss her neck and nearly scorched his lips in the heat radiating from her; anger stoked her temperature in steady increments (and his arousal).

“I’m saying you live in both worlds, but not the same way. I mean — look at what you’re doing right now. Would my hands be this rough if you performed all your cleaning with a wand?”

“No…” she admitted grudgingly, followed by an inaudibly muttered “spoiled, helpless prat…”

“You live differently when you’re not around other magical beings; I've witnessed it. But our worlds aren’t that different. Similar problems. Similar imperfect answers. Similar prejudices. Similar fucked-up government rules and regulations.”

“And you got all this from one book on muggle psychology?”

“Well… and the other books I ‘borrowed’ from that trunk in your room. You really have a gift for extension spells, I must say.”

“You were in my room!?”

“Yes; more than once.”

As the volume and electricity rose in her reactions to Draco’s transgressions, Crookshanks took it upon himself to protect Hermione’s best option for a life without that insipid rat-owning rodent-lover Weasley. The fur-covered water balloon jettisoned himself head-first from the floor into the limited space between them on the couch then proceeded to curl up in Draco’s lap with a contented huff.

In NONE of his nine-plus lives did the k-at expect to suffer through proximity to Ron Weasley again. Rumor had it Ron’s rat was dead, which represented the state the k-at thought all rats should achieve (followed by “toyed with” and “eaten”).

“WHY!?…”

Here, in familiar surroundings, Hermione’s temper brought magical sparks forth that encased her like a new-age aura. With a sigh over the volatility of his much-loved pet, Crooks disturbed his comfortable seat to lean over and lick her nearest body part. The moisturizer’s chemical taste had him spitting and sputtering onto her hands.

“The first time, I was curious. I hadn’t had a chance to see your layout. Do you recall threatening to remove my legacy-producing parts when I tried to switch suites?”

That admission paralyzed her. His hostess sat speechless at his gall, her k-at drooling lotion-tinged saliva (with cat hairs suspended in it) onto her pants while the Slytherin burglar disclosed his secret visits.

“The next time came when I got bored after that attack. I went looking for something to read or play with.”

Brief consideration sprinted through his healing head to confess his inventorying and cataloguing of her arousal-dampening, roomy white underwear. In the end, the wily Slytherin decided his seduction plan would go far better without that particular disclosure.

“Draco, my door is warded. How did you get in?”

“It’s not warded against me. I saw to that.”

“Explain, Malfoy. NOW.”

Sensing potential violence, the k-at dragged his carcass from the potential victim’s lap and flopped hard — all four legs shooting outward — onto Hermione’s lap with a meow meant to warn her to regain control of that rage.

In retrospect, the k-at wished she’d been this pugnacious with the rat-whisperer Weasley.

“I arrived hours before you on move-in day and placed a Malfoy blood ward on your door to ensure your safety. Only you or I can enter your room without permission. And the house elves — but I doubt they’d bother you with aurors patrolling the school, even if they were Imperious’d.”

“What about Lucius?”

“You interested in my father, Granger?” he poked, “Mother won’t take that lying down; then again, knowing my parents’ entertainment preferences, maybe she will.”

“No — I’m interested in my safety. I don’t fancy waking up with a wand at my neck because you’re snogging a mudblood.”

When he could speak again, a changed man was never more serious about his allegiances — social class and personal.

“Don’t ever call yourself that again. If anyone else does, I’ll deal with it personally.”

“I’m not sure whether I should kiss you for caring or break your nose again for violating my space.”

“While you’re thinking, I have some questions about the machines in this room.”

The subject changed and she let it (although Hermione remained enthralled that a blood ward wouldn’t repel her when she crossed the room’s threshold).

Absently (and with a light nip from Crooks to bring her back to the here and now) Hermione requested clarification.

“Wh-What machines?”

“Those —” and he pointed at the home theatre system, “Blaise’s step-sister has similar devices. She wouldn’t let me touch them.”

“Did you break something before she could stop you?”

“Not intentionally. I wanted to dance. I kept shoving those silvery discs into the slot but no music came on. She stopped me at the 12th one.”

The k-at noted his pet’s hand move to cover her face, small trickles of cat slobber now running down her fingers and nose.

“Crooks! Yech! Scourgify!”

“I thought magic was forbid— ”

“Don’t, Draco — or I’ll have my temperamental and protective kneazel deliver a bludger-sized hairball into your lap.”

While the k-at sighed at the necessity, he loved and therefore had to protect his pet. Disgusting wretching noises ensued as the feline worked up a decent sized hairball for delivery onto the offending guest.

“If you’re quite finished sterilizing yourself, I want to try your theatre out.”

“Fine. Which equipment do you want to start with?”

One look at Draco’s expression generated a whoosh of liquid, ruining yet another set of her knickers — before 10 a.m.

“The music playing machine. Do you dance, Lioness?…”

“Narcissa…,” Lucius growled from their four-poster bed. The sun hadn’t made it high enough in the sky to disturb the darkness in their suite.

“It’s a sound strategy, Lucius.”

Narcissa delayed any discussion of Lucius’ succession plan until she had his complete attention — intimately speaking.

“I will admit the obnoxious she-devil has… qualities that make Miss Parkinson seem… inadequate. Especially that ‘outlet’ merchandising idea. Rather brilliant.”

Lucius’ long fringe swept backwards under the gentle stroking of his mate’s soft touch.

“The Parkinsons haven’t dazzled the world with their brilliance or business savvy for centuries, as I recall, lover.”

Stimulation to his hypersensitive nipples gave way to stimulation elsewhere.

“Granted — but to insist I go along with this-this-this plan of yours to sully our bloodlines — it’s PREPOSTEROUS! Give me time — I can prepare Miss Parkinson sufficiently. If she can bear his heir and sign her name at Gringotts she’ll meet the mark adequately. Women of breeding with brains like yours, Cissa, take time to dis—”

Narcissa flip-rolled him until she sat astride him in the dominant position, his hips and scrutiny pinned to the bed.

“The Malfoys and the Blacks must continue, my love, and we must survive in this new climate where blood purity — whatever that once meant, given Voldemort’s ‘pedigree’ — is no longer the advantage it’s long been. Draco requires a partner, one capable of more than parting her thighs and spending Malfoy galleons.”

“You part your thighs quite often and quite well, thank Uther.”

“Lucius, I will not leave this family in a precarious state. It’s time we encouraged Draco to see to the family’s future — and to do so with a partner who can shepherd our legacy into the new millennium successfully.”

The tender kisses and tender strokes on his awakening phallus softened his objection.

“She’s a mudblood, Cissa!” the sulky family head whinged — with less conviction — from where his head lay in her lap.

“And what will you do if he refuses a contract with anyone else, my love?

“He wouldn’t DARE!”

“I want grandchildren, Lucius,” his wife confessed in a hushed exhalation, “preferably while we’re alive to enjoy them. I want my grandchildren to have every advantage in our world. With the right partner — and Draco’s cooperation — our son can lead the family out of this mess.”

“But the insolent witch —”

“— defeated that demented half-blood who’s responsible for our present predicament.”

“Cissy, you’re being unreasonable!”

Whinging meant he’d accepted he’d have to capitulate at some point. He never could refuse his witch.

“I will leave it to your capable management, my love, as always,” she demurred.

During the disagreement, the Lady snaked an adroit hand inside the front of those magically unbuttoned trousers of his, well aware no underwear would delay her arrival. Her soft hand, one of a pair that she soaked daily in emollients and milk baths, lightly traveled up and down the raised ridge of her mate’s attitude control system.

“But if a suitable match cannot be found within the year, will you please consider my suggestion, darling?”

Under her educated hands, Lucius surrendered to her ministrations as his body approached nirvana.

“I’ll wager their first — a male for sure,” Cissy teased the arrogant pure-blood, “— will look just like his handsome Pépé Lucius…”

— and the narcissistic prat actually smiled at the thought of “Lucius the Second” while he emptied himself onto her talented hand…

…a pure-blood Lucius the Second.
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