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The Best Of...	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 13808 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives. I almost own the laptop I'm writing this fanfic on, tho'.

Chapter List
- 30
- 31
In a villa on the Amalfi coast, a pre-release version of Draco’s weather spell made the wonderful weather perfect for the two magical beings.
The previously scheduled arrangements included a dark-haired siren — half-Turkish, half-Roma and all-woman — who’d been ‘invited” to ensure a weekend that would start the new year off in the best manner possible. That plan crashed and burned with the arrival of the unexpected guest from the floo in the young heir’s bedroom.

“Do you ever get up before noon?”
“Frequently, for lady guests.”

The sensual half-smile on the secret-half-blood’s face communicated what activities motivated his “getting up”. Through a hidden door, Fazilet Azref Tilki [Beautiful Elegant Fox] sashayed into the room wearing nothing but a golden tan and a salacious smile full of pure-white teeth. Every bit six-foot of stunning curves with full breasts, she teased a clearly frustrated young client.

“Bu yüzden sizin için yeterli değilim, aşık? [So I am not enough for you, my love?]”

Rubbing his forehead in the well-recognized symbol for a coming migraine, Blaise smiled apologetically.

“Burada, ‘Arkadaşım’ çok fazla. Bu gece için planlayalım. [My “friend”, here, is too much. Let’s reschedule for tonight.]”

Pansy (for the moment) stood hands on hips glaring hexes at the Mediterranean beauty.

“Who the fuck is she, Zabini?”
“Eğer bana bıraktığı şey, tatlı bir tane olacak emin misin? [Are you sure you'll have anything left for me, sweet one?]”
“Her zaman senin için, cara. [Always for you, cara.]

Switching from Turkish to English, the sex-brained inhabitant of the effectively empty bed tried to return to his original plan for the afternoon.

“I have a date, Pansy.”
“I’m not leaving. Cancel it.”
“O bir avuç görünüyor… [She seems a handful…]”
“Evlen benimle ve tüm bu kurtar beni. [Marry me and save me from all this.]

Had she actually learned any hexes or curses in the last few days of bookwork, Pansy would’ve used the unselfconscious and statuesque woman for target practice.

“Benim diğer istemcilerin itiraz ediyorum. Ve tabii ki bir kadın için çok fazla. [My other suitors would object. And you are obviously too much for one woman.]

With a chuckle, Fazilet spun lightly on the balls of her feet and departed in the direction of her clothes, leaving a courteous salutation (and the scent of jasmine) behind her like breadcrumbs.

“Until later, Blaise. Nice to meet you, Miss Parkinson.”

Fixated on Blaise as his eyes followed a lovely day of pleasure escaping his grasp, Pansy poked again to refocus attention back where it belonged.

“How did she get in here without the floo?” the Slytherin princess cross-examined her unwilling host. “Your bedroom’s warded like a Gringotts' vault.”
“Pansy, why are you here?” he intoned flatly, “Again.”
“It’s obvious to me that the Malfoys have gone Mudblood for the holiday season — they’re not having the usual parties — and I simply can’t stand another minute studying. I need entertainment.”

Shock (and a lack of concern over his own nudity in his own bedroom) saw the 2000-thread count Egyptian-cotton sheets, from tribal looms in North Africa, bunched back to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of why Blaise Zabini’s bed seldom stayed empty.

“I’m happy to entertain you. Come! Join me —”
— and he slid over to make room, gobsmacked when his classmate sprawled, fully clothed, on top of the sheet.

“Pansy???…”
“I… FUCK! I HATE being poor. I HATE Granger. I HATE Lucius Fucking Malfoy. I HATE studying.”

Settling herself on her back, hands clasped behind her head, Pansy missed her effect on her housemate.
High maintenance she may be, Draco’s newly-hired VP of Marketing mused through a risqué smile, but what pure-blood prima donna isn’t?
Reclining against the upholstered headboard, the Italian observed her, making no attempt to hide the barometer of his desire; she was, after all, in his bed.

“You’ve never cared about grades before, Mistero, why now?”

His new name for her — “Mystery” — didn’t register.

“To prove to Draco he’s making a mistake with that Mudblood. She’s half the witch and twice the bitch I am.”

Sensuous movement laid him next to her, snuggled in the nest of bed linens.

“Can no other man penetrate that conniving heart of yours?”

Blaise’s affectionate touches — to her cheek — got ignored.

“Like who?” she genuinely puzzled over.
“Many would fall at your feet, if you’d let them.”

The kiss to his cheek came with a genuine friendly smile.

“I forgive you for sniffing up that slag’s arse at the Malfoys. I’ll eliminate Granger from Draco’s life, we’ll get back together and life will go back to what it should have been if fucking Voldemort hadn’t lost. Now —”

As the pampered raven-haired princess hauled herself out of the ornate Italianate four poster bed, thousands of galleons of hand-sewn covers hit the floor.

“— drag your lazy arse out of that bed — I’m starving for something other than that atrocious porridge my father cooks.”

Two finger snaps later eventually had them seated on the expansive veranda at a table laden with a sumptuous brunch feast including “the best of Britain”.

“Are we spending the holiday together?” he spoke around a mouthful of Prosciutto-packed persimmons — succulent sweetness stuffed into a salty wrapper (much like his uninvited guest).

The unexpected inquiry jerked Pansy forward over her plate in a vain attempt to avoid soiling one of her few nice blouses with the savory cheese squirting out of the back end of the fig under pressure from her ravenous bite.

“Until Draco regains his sanity.”
“Meaning: until he stops spending time with the Head Girl.”

His answer waited while she’d slurped the last strand of angel hair pasta into the crowded space inside her mouth (that already held a rather large prawn sautéed in lemon, butter, olive oil and light seasonings). In deference to Pansy’s issue with slimy and crawly foods, the seafood came cooked, shelled and headless.

“Meaning when he gets his head out of that Mudblood’s interfering arse. And I’m miffed at you, Zabini — you weren’t exactly helpful at the Manor on Boxing Day.”
“It seemed Draco had made a choice…”

Dancing around Pansy’s vile temper was becoming a profession for her Hogwarts housemate.

“It seems Draco’s lost his fucking mind since he got the shite beaten out of him. That bitch’s been taking advantage of his brain damage and I intend to put a stop to it.”

Serving herself the “secondi”, the second Italian course, Pansy loaded her plate with Ossobucco Milanese. Shoveling the veal in like the china would sprint away, any responses took a long time coming.

“Care to explain?”

Slytherin through and through, Blaise reminded himself that a vindictive Pansy was a crazy and lethally dangerous Pansy. Casual squirming placed his favorite anatomical parts between his protective thighs. Just in case…

“I’ll be as smart as that tart in a month — two, tops. I’ve been studying all that crap I slept through in class.”

Her time at St. Mungo’s with a never-before-seen combination of boils, infections and chemical burns made the magical medical journals in several countries (and a few continental newspapers).

“When I’m done there won’t be a hex or a curse I can’t use on that filthy strumpet.”

Pansy lacked the innate ability to attack most issues with facts.

“And Draco? He won’t like you dueling with Granger —”
— especially if he gets hexed rescuing you before Hermione transfigures you into a flobberworm…

“He won’t remember there was a ‘Head Girl’ once we christen that bed in his tower. I know how to fix what ails him in positions that slag of a ‘war hero’ can’t get into or out of. Leave it to me; I know what Draco likes. We’ll be married five days after graduation — before my father solves our lack of galleons with a marriage contract to someone not-Draco…”

None of the beauty of the pristine beach penetrated her thousand-yard stare. Pansy Parkinson, mentally speaking, sat nowhere near Zabini’s seaside villa — where a suddenly serious young Slytherin made no effort to hide his longing for the bat-shit crazy and thoroughly disinterested witch in the seat next to his.

After detailed instruction on the handheld device (frequently interrupted by Draco’s bratty complaints to “end the lecture and get on with it”), Hermione joined him — in a snit at his disdain of her discourse (she’d prepared notes).

“This double-triangle silent nob thing on the distant control —”
“— Remote control,” she corrected.
“— works like a time-turner. All that lecturing and you omitted the fact that I could watch an entire moving story in a quarter the time.”

Whizzing voices, imitating animated chipmunks, accompanied blurred images racing by on the screen.

“You miss the dialogue. Why watch if —”
“Most of those tappas —”
“TAPES,” she corrected acerbically, “Tappas are Spanish —”
“Joke, Granger — brew yourself a sense of humor during dinner. These stories are so obvious. Take this one — ‘Halloween’.”

She’d really rather not; her parents’ pre-marital relationship barely survived her father’s brief stint of slasher film fandom. A war not far enough in the past made these films unwatchable for Hermione.

“The masked killer’s a bit squidgy for all that stalking, if you ask me. And where are the Aurors? Com-plete-ly unrealistic. Why the focus on virgins? Outside of sex magic and fertility rituals, they're more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Muggles don’t have Aurors, we have police.”
“So you’re a Muggle now?”

He missed her eye roll.

“AND,” she emphasized (to shut that cheeky mouth of his), “you know a great deal about ‘virgins’?”

The k-at, nestled between them on his back, poked a paw at his pet in an effort to improve her civility towards their guest.

“Poor word choice. Killing them randomly is time-consuming and wastes powerful magic.”
“You’ve sacrificed a few? Virgins, I mean?”
Do you have a standard “deflowering method”, Dragon?…
“I wouldn’t name it ‘sacrifice’ and nothing about them is ‘methodical’. Virgins demand attention, patience, proficiency and… restraint before one can achieve satisfying results.”

Her knickers demanded attention behind that clarification. Her desire demanded restraint.

Is he talking about patience, control or bondage?!?…
“You’ve paled.”
Is she trying to tell me something?…
“Is this topic unsettling, Lioness?”

Two nods allowed her to skip further “virgin” monologues.

“Let’s watch something else then. This contraption is fascinating. Must have been invented by a squib.”
“One more insulting comment about Muggles and you will find yourself under ‘restraint’ in our tower for the weekend. Muggles have different — but every bit as clever — ways of living.”

Thoughts of himself in restraints and Hermione in something… form-fitting… blocked any processing of her warning.
Their orange chaperone’s dissatisfaction (at having two clueless adolescents to supervise) led to a sneezing fit and a need for comfort kibble; his pet required companionship but their time together seemed more like skirmishes.
A foreign voice spoke in Draco’s head — This is where you apologize to her, you barely-legal Tom-noddy! — instructing and insulting him simultaneously.
Crookshanks inelegantly scrambled off the edge of the cushion (to avoid being squashed between his pet and her guest) when Draco (in response to that “inner” voice) shifted swiftly in Hermione’s direction.

“My apologies, milady,” he murmured into the palm of her hand, kissing it with a touch of tongue, “the ‘old’ Draco remains within. Do you have other preferences for our entertainment?”

Seeker-fast, she snatched the remote away to end the “virgin-chasing” loop on the screen.

“HEY!” he complained. “Doing research here!”
“Sample size is too small for an accurate conclusion,” she countered and Draco groaned. “I think you’ll enjoy this more,” his lioness called over her shoulder as she vacated the sofa and bent forward to insert the DVD for the “The Matrix”.
“Best moving image I’ve seen all day.”

Being ogled in those shape-revealing jeans returned her blush, reaching her pink-painted toes first. Reseating herself at the opposite end of the sofa served to scold him for acting like a Malfoy.

“Thought you had a different ‘show’ planned for me, Lioness.”
How will I get any sleep tonight with him talking about SEX every five minutes!?…
“Watch the movie, Dragon,” she bossed — taking her secret smile to the kitchen to start lunch.
How will I get any sleep tonight with her making me think about SEX every five minutes!?…

Despite their easy transition to Muggle hostess and guest, Draco’s efforts (once again) to dictate her wardrobe nearly caused another row —

“Getting you one of these zippered body suits tomorrow,” bounded through the entryway over the sounds of futuristic movie combat with “The Matrix”’s “Mr. Smith”.

She considered hexing his food with one of Fred and George’s famous stomach-pummeling spells but settled for a verbal warning.

“Watch. The. Movie, Ferret!”

Lost again in Neo’s world, he missed her dig.

“This Morpheus person; quite charismatic. Reminds me of our scheming Minister, don’t you agree?”

Sitting herself back on the sofa as she served his lunch in the Library, she noted he’d looped the “Tiffany” ninja-in-a-leather-Dominatrix-suit scene on “slo-mo” speed.
His non sequitur — “Never leave me, Lioness,” — sent her forkful of peas scattering over her lap. His “What is this?” interrupted her hasty Muggle retrieval of her dropped peas from the crevices and corners of the sofa cushions.

“Done watching Tiffany?”

Jealousy from Miss Always-In-Control brought naughty thoughts to his mind.

I love “Gryffindor” Granger — wears that heart right out in the open where a Slytherin can manipulate it…

“It’s over,” Draco declared while punching the power button with a knuckle. “Neo’s the last, best hope; blah, blah, blah — another ‘Scar-Head the Great’. Old story; already lived it. The food, Granger?”
“Shrimp chowder and bacon-tossed peas. From my mother’s time in the States.”
“Mrr mbar buzs a Wnk? [Your mother was a Yank]?”

The stuffed mouth made his question nearly unintelligible. “Granger cuisine” caused uncultured face filling and uncivilized conversation around utensils laden with delectable, over-sized portions.

“Mum did a year abroad in dental school. Met her best friend there, my Aunt Phillipa.”

The watchful wording gave no clue whether either Jeannie Granger or Aunt Phillipa were no longer who they’d once been.

___________________________

“Keep feeding me like this and I won’t fit on a broom. Shall we dance off the stones?”
“If you’re done watching ‘Tiffany’ —”

In thirty seconds Draco dreamed up 90 ways to exploit her possessiveness before this “research expedition” ended.

“I’ll only be a minute,” the resident expert on everyday Muggle torture declared as she gathered their used kitchenware. “Seeing as your hands haven’t healed, I won’t force you to cleanup — this time,” she shouted into the Library.
“Because you refuse to use magic in an emergency!” he yelled back; her huff of disapproval brought half a grin to his face.
Quality shite-stirring — it’s an art…

Kitchen tidied, the hostess found Draco sitting cross-legged on the library floor bookended by two stacks culled from the shelved CDs (neatly organized in the “Granger Anally-obsessive Sorting System” by year of release, genre, sub-genre, artist, producer, country of origin, version {live, collection, reissue, etc}, language, ISBN, record label serial number and number of discs per release) while acting as a temporary mattress for the k-at snoring in his lap.

“Crooks! Draco isn’t your personal possession; he’s our guest! Please use your own bed.”

The list of humans — Muggle or magical — that Crookshanks deigned not to damage was short: Jean Granger, Molly Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Harry and Ginny.
The list the tabby tolerated with something less than trauma-causing disdain was even shorter: George Weasley (the k-at divining George’s superior magical talent and recent loss), Teddy Lupin (the k-at divining the baby’s youth and orphaned state) and Luna Lovegood (the k-at divining a kindred — if otherworldly — spirit).
The animal’s opinions about Ron were well known in the red-and-gold school tower.
Hermione’s father and the k-at scheduled skirmishes away from interfering observation by the women in the Granger household (who disapproved and tended to defend Hermione’s clairvoyant companion).
So to see her temperamental half-kneazle playing cozy mates with her temperamental half-reformed Dragon forced the k-at’s confused owner to create yet another mental list of curiosities to analyze and obsess over later.

“Leave him. I find I enjoy his warmth.”

Her k-at liked Draco — and Draco liked her k-at.

Reaching up, he handed her the shorter stack of CDs — “That chest rattle of his creates a very soothing vibration in my still sore muscles”.
The new broom’s lead test engineer had the decency to look down in contrition for her contribution to his lingering injuries. Taking the discs, she efficiently organized the pile into something resembling a themed playlist, loaded the 20-CD hopper and hit “PLAY” on the device.

“We can just listen, if you prefer.”
“Not,” he protested, as music filled the comfortable space, “on your life. I want to see if you’re as graceful with music as you are on stairs or in heeled formal shoes.”

To his utter shock, she started this contagious jump thing with a tiny bit of hip thing and her arms raised over her head as “Dreams” filled the room. A specific something in his pants twitched when her narrowed eyes came with a contradictory — and very predatory — smile.

“I thought you wanted to dance?” she challenged.

Draco’s jaw executed independent choice to stop the drool accumulating at the edge of his lower lip.
Damn right, Lioness!

Without a second thought to his soreness (or Crooks’ continued comfort), her Slytherin shot up off the floor. They stadium danced their way through thumping club selections like “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, “Vogue”, “Sparky’s Dream” and “One Week” by a group called “Barenaked Ladies” (a wish fulfillment Draco understood).

Confidences and confessions escaped with the continued exertions:
“Oh my GOSH! You can ‘Vogue’!? Wait — show me that move, please. Are you sure you’re not gay???”
“No, Granger; strictly hetero. Why are you so gravity-challenged off the dance floor?”
Her scowl reminded him who he was messing with.
“I could remark on your ability to dance at all, Lioness. Where’s that clumsy Gryffindor I have to charm dress shoes for to keep her upright? And where did you learn to dance?”
“I’m not unfamiliar with pub crawling.”
A single arched brow from her Slytherin flatmate had her admitting all.
“I have — had — an older cousin… When I’d visit, we’d sneak out to a club somewhere in London; he said it would ‘restore the universe’s balance’ since I spent so much time sitting and reading. My parents loved to dance, here, on Saturday nights.”
“Won’t have to schedule club time with Zabini, now that I have you to lead me astray.”
That offer brought enough body moisture to stick her clothes to her.

A disc transition ushered in funky sounds from her mother’s favorites, many by American artists. “Connected” changed up Hermione’s style — less stadium fan moves and waaay more hip rolls and shoulder dips that mystically tugged the Head Boy closer.
“Do your pure-blood parents know about your secret life hanging out in Muggle clubs? I doubt they’d approve.”
“You mean Father wouldn’t — and no; he’s no idea how I spend my leisure time.”
“Hmm… Not surprising. Your father’s views about Muggles and Muggle-borns are well known.”
“As are yours regarding blood purists and Death Eaters.”
“You’re fine with his being my second-least favorite living person — behind Pansy?”
“I would remind you Father’s feelings are probably similar. You both enjoy the arguments more than either will admit.”
“No — don’t go there. Why hasn’t your father divested the company of anything Muggle?”
“Because thanks to Mother and Etienne, my second in command, those products are nearly a third of our net profit and we need every sickle — not to mention Mother would use Father’s severed bollocks as dangling ornaments over our blazing Yule log if he meddled.”

“The Humpty Dance” (which he’d learned on a drunken dare in a dive on Cypress frequented by the local Russian mobsters) gained him props from her. When “funky-&-fast” transitioned to “down-&-dirty”, it required little effort for him to place his hands lightly on her hips and move her within body heat distance, the merest tug placing their fronts scant inches apart. The infectiously danceable blues “Give Me One Reason” had hips undulating hard — side to side — with pelvic bumping to the front.
“I’ve never brought anyone home before…”
“Never snuck a date in after curfew? That’s difficult to believe, even for a bookworm,” as pretty as you…
“I’ve never really ‘dated’,” because Ron never asked and you’ve yet to do so properly…
“Really? I’m sorry you got an ungentlemanly, ill-mannered, genitally-inferior git the first time out of the gate,” Maybe you’d be more interested in shagging a Slytherin stallion?…
“Dragon, that’s foul! It not about sex. There was always so much to do… school… S.P.E.W… the war… after the war…” You…
“You did — and do — a great deal, Lioness…” for me…
“Nice of you notice. I assume that means I can expect a large donation to S.P.E.W. from Malfoy Enterprises when classes resume?” So I can watch Lucius Malfoy carted off to St. Mungo’s…
“Is this part of your plan to have my father die from heart failure?” Merlin, witch! You scheme like Mother…

Draco’s pants tried to Vanish themselves when she pulled that ‘round-the-world pelvic move on “No Diggity”, a scorcher groove the platinum playboy had sweated to in every club on the Cote d’Azur (tightly riding the rapturous rear-end of some local beauty).
Moves like THAT and you’re a not SHAGGING me!?!?!? How could I be so WRONG about you, Lioness!? How could MEASLEY be so wrong about you for seven FUCKING YEARS!?
Pheromone fog frosted the windows’ interior like warm breath painted on chilled panes. Both panted with the exertions and the effort to keep up mentally with where their bodies were already sprinting.

No non-Veela should have irises as dark or pupils as expansive as Draco’s were.

Is this how the seduction starts this weekend, Dragon?
If she moves like that in bed…
If he moves like that when we’re…

The only being with a brain cell left (not dedicated to its sexual response center) sauntered over to the cabinet housing the source of all this burgeoning sexual liberation (— and trying to place “marriage contract” and “human kittens” in their proper order). Coiling his fat-laden legs, the k-at sprang upward (sort of). Being a portly and overly well-fed being, the familiar’s rear claws scrabbled before landing atop the CD player with a *whump* that shook the optical heads — causing the next to last CD to queue up for play.

Slow, hold-‘em-tight songs abruptly oozed from the speakers.
The more experienced formal dancer snaked his arms around his partner and led them into the rhythms — coming as close to sex as one can when upright and clothed.
“I never thought Krum spoke enough English to ask you to the Ball. You were beautiful — stunning. Pansy said I ignored her after your entrance.”
“It didn’t look that way to me; I watched you dancing with her.”
“Yeah? Like what you saw?” What to see more of it?…
“Yes — and I shouldn’t have, given our relationship then,” How is this ever going to work between us?…
“Pansy and I were comfortable together then; we’re not anymore,” Are you listening?…

Leaning his cheek into her hair, Draco distracted himself (from his overwhelming compulsion to bed her on that sofa not three feet away) by discussing song #3 of the “set”.

“I’ve heard this singer before.”

She’d laid her entire front against him — barely supporting her own weight — with her cheek resting over his heart. That inexplicable tingling sent voltage to areas that didn’t need more motivation. Her person felt small and fragile against his chest.
I’m going to die of blood loss from a hard-on…
Brainless (thanks to their closeness), he established a light grind where he rolled into her — and she rolled back. Twice he’d barely stopped his innate Malfoy bond magic from unbuttoning his trousers — from the inside.
Is wanking all night in your hostess’ shower considered ill-mannered in Muggledom?…

“It’s from a movie — ‘The Bodyguard’. Mummy and I loved it. Must have watched it half a hundred times… she and I… Dad gave up on us.”
“Introduce me to this story.”
“It’s a ‘chick flick’, Draco; you despise sentimentality.”
“I Have Nothing” played — “I don’t want to have to go where you don’t follow…”
“That’s unfair; my objection is to public mawkishness. It’s unbecoming.”
“Quite the romantic, aren’t you?” she quipped, “I can see why girls in all four houses tried to get you into their knickers.”

The one girl at Hogwarts who’d never sought his tender attentions shimmied against his chest — pressing tighter against him as the grinding intensified. The desperate eighth-year Seeker mumbled every Quidditch feint he’d memorized to manage his “problem”.

“Granger, I don’t ‘get into’ ladies knickers; they’re uncomfortable to wear.”
“Meaning you have experience with wearing ladies knick-”

Draco’s abrupt change of subject left her question (and what would have been a very interesting answer) incomplete.

”What’s the story about?” he asked as a desperate diversion from carnal thoughts.

His attempt to “lighten” the grind (and return blood to his upper head) failed when his partner pressed against him with more force.

“The lead actress is a famous entertainer,” Hermione finally explained, “and her manager hires the male lead as her bodyguard because he’s the best. They hate each other at first — he’s a perfectionist and she’s used to getting her way. Then they’re attracted to each other but he retreats because he says he can’t do his job properly if they’re ‘involved’. They argue a lot, her family gets attacked and he has to protect them.”
“I’m assuming they end up together?”

Multiple rhythms — the music, their steps, her hips, his panting — synchronized the pulse in his cock, making it increasingly difficult to dance.

“Not telling. You’ll have to watch it with me to find out.”

Draco understood, in the moment, that Merlin meant to torture him for his wicked, wicked ways. The “old” Draco was no monk; why this “new” Draco hadn’t made a move on the clearly interested witch made absolutely NO sense to the Malfoy bits plotting the overthrow of Hermione’s virginity.
Loving her could prove detrimental to his normal schedule for sexual relief...
“Thank you for coming,” he heard make its way through the muffling effects of his shirt.
I’d love to, Lioness, but I’d prefer your assistance with that. Might have to negotiate a Ministry contract first, though… Then swallow Veritaserum for Potter… Body-bind the Weasel… Sedate my father… and take his wand… and free our house elves…
“I-I-I wasn’t sure…” she stuttered out. “It hasn’t felt like home since… I’m failing badly at saying that I’m better.”
“Glad to be of service. I’m here for you, if you need a shoulder or a good listener.”
GODS OF OLYMPUS!!! She’s turning me into a SIMP! I sound like that self-conscious oaf Longbottom!

Having completed the task that sent him onto the cabinet in the first place, the k-at tumbled himself down (falling through the wires connecting the CD player to the amp and speakers) which saved Draco from further restraint issues.

The absence of music broke the enchantment for both dancers.

___________________________

“Dinner will take some preparation,” she announced to him, once both were in the kitchen again.
“What are ‘we’ serving — will my hands be damaged again? Because if they will, Granger —”

The spoilt brat distinctly heard — Cease your tiresome complaints before she hexes you — inside his head…
Outside of the Malfoy mating or marriage bond (which Hermione certainly shouldn’t have), voices from unseen individuals were justification for admission to the “Janice Thickey Spell Damage Ward” at St. Mungo’s. Blaming his hallucination on the stress of new Muggle surroundings, the disoriented Head Boy gave his noggin a quick tic and regained his composure.

“I’ll clean the kitchen, for Godric’s sake! And, yes — your hands will get quite messy but I doubt you’ll need another manicure.”
“What will I be sacrificing my talented fingers for?”
“An American barbecue; another of Aunt Phillipa’s recipes. Beef brisket hand-rubbed with spices then slow-cooked on the grill on the rear porch. Macaroni and cheese, cole slaw and baked beans to accompany.”
“Granger, it’s -10ºC [14ºF] out there!”

Pulling him to the sink by his shirt, she spun to place a brisk buss on his unsuspecting lips.

“Used your spell on the porch. It’s a balmy 25ºC [77ºF]. Please wash your hands, grab the meat and place it on the counter.”

Draco reached for his trouser buttons with a suggestive smile.

“Can you not be 12 years old for five minutes!?” she groused.

Shrugging, the opportunistic Slytherin re-buttoned his fly (he and his mating bond had made it to button #4 of 5) before responding impudently with — “You weren’t specific…” — whilst making mental note to convert some of his trousers to zippers. Zippers would speed access and opportunity.
As he grumbled at yet another unplanned manual task, Hermione picked up his snarky “You owe me a manicure,” muttering and laughed at him.

“What is barbecue?” he wondered aloud as they stood side-by-side forcing the granulated seasoning onto and into the defrosted meat. “Is that the same as ‘BeeBeeQue’?”
“Yes. It’s camp cooking. Tougher cuts of meat are well-spiced then roasted slowly over an open fire to tenderize them. It’s second nature to me after a year cooking for Harry and Ron.”

A contemplative look accompanied her memory of “The Hunt”, as Arthur Weasley called it.

“I was sure we’d perish. No idea what we were looking for. Food was scarce… Sometimes we went days without, which set Ron’s mood sour. Harry’s an awful cook,” exploded out of her with a barking laugh, “and Ron —”
Love these “Weasel the Wanker” stories…
“Ronald believes all women should spoil him like his mother does — cooking and keeping house in between producing little Weasleys.”
“Despite your gender equality efforts, some pure-blood traditions are resistant to change — not to mention Beastley doesn’t appreciate you.”

The mischievous smile was new to the collection of expressions he’d cataloged from her.

“And you do?”
“Enough to know I’d rather have you finish those ridiculously complex arithmancy equations to get my broom spells working than have you mimicking a house elf.”

Nothing more came from her cooking partner regarding the “brood mare” portion of her plaint…

His hands protested the gritty feel of raw meat with seasonings. Pirouetting, he shifted himself to where cabbage cutting and macaroni boiling were going on and took over from Hermione

“So you don’t want me to cook for you?”

His forced exhalation toppled the empty pasta box to the floor.

“Don’t be ridiculous; I’ve compared your cooking to great sex, and I love great sex.”

Not that I’m having any… both acknowledged silently.

Noting her unease with the “sex” endorsement, he hurried on.

“I’m say-ing you’re a brilliant witch who shouldn’t have to choose between business pursuits and family management. And Measley’s a ginger git if he can’t see that.”

Blushing put paid to his efforts to encourage her to work on his broom problem and to keep cooking for him. As smug spread through his brain, that errant signal without an obvious source sent encouragement —

Continue to make my pet happy and I might let you stay alive to play with her…

Hampstead Heath shone for those with the ability to see the celebratory fair setup within the confines of a Muggle construction zone. “Keep OUT!” signs (in bright yellow with fire engine red lettering) — buttressed by Notice Me Not and Muggle repelling charms — cordoned the area. Magical heaters (in levitating pots) provided warming supplemented by conjured breezes acting as fans, making the dead of winter as comfortable as a fall festival day.
Tents (their sides held open with festive sashes that changed color as patrons passed) revealed all manner of games, treats and music — the cacophony carefully contained within each tent by a Ministry-invented Silencio to ensure parents did not abandon their adolescents to the spine-jarring discord escaping each tent (and turning Aurors into child-minders). For once, Britain’s miserable winter weather cooperated with sunlight unhindered by the ever-present clouds the country was known for.
Per Dumbledore’s pre-death wishes, flagons of spirits, ales and lemon drops floated by on self-refilling trays (available for half-a-knut (thanks to reparations paid by Azkaban-avoiding former Voldemort sympathizers — Lucius Malfoy amongst them). One hour after its opening, not a complaint could be heard from the celebrants. The same could not be said for two fairly famous Auror trainees (under Disillusionment charms to keep their fans from rioting…).

“We’re supposed to be training to be Aurors, not bleedin' circus monkeys.”

An unintelligible protest punctuated Harry’s momentary discontent with Ron’s efforts to securely anchor the tie-down ropes for the third time. They’d been forced to wrangle the flapping material with hands, arms and chests each time it attempted to escape. Ron’s carping didn’t improve his partner’s mood.

“Whinging’s not helping. Sooner we’re done, sooner we’re off-duty. So, where’re —” Harry groaned as he wrestled with the heavy canvas shelter, “— you headed for the weekend?”

Ron grunted — “Megan’s,” — as he wrestled his wand from entanglement in the canvas flaps. “Her mum’s insistin’ I act like a ‘family man’ and have dinner there more often. Bloody nag’s ruining my time off.”

“Your girlfriend’s preggers, mate. Kiss time off and your arse goodbye; Megan owns you.”
“You’re just a riot, aren’t you? It’s a nightmare! Mum’s no better — askin’ if I’m saving for our own place; when’s the wedding… I’m too young to be tied down!”

Harry couldn’t help laughing at Ron’s tactical error: abdicating parenthood prevention to his girlfriend. Not every willing witch was as conscientious or collected as Hermione Granger. Ginny had near convinced him that Megan better suited Ron’s deep-rooted do-nothingness (suggesting a Ron-Hermione relationship would’ve seen him hexed into gender neutrality for his lack of ambition and male chauvinism).

“You and Gin have plans? Maybe you could, you know, invite me along and save me from some really awful cooking at Megan’s.”
“Having dinner at Hermione’s —”

Hopefulness shanghaied a face that hadn’t shown any since Megan’s announcement on Boxing Day. Pouncing on the opportunity, Ron interrupted — “What’s she cooking? Her Shepherd’s pie’s nearly good as —”
Harry’s interrupting finish — “with her and Draco,” — punctured Ron’s escape plan.

“Ferret’s got you fooled too?”

Frustrated wand flicks from the ginger secured the lopsided canopy (leaving a 2-inch gap above the ground on one side and 2-inches of fabric folded on the ground on the side opposite).

“‘She’s happy again. Not crying and sad all the time. She’s lost pretty much everything.”
“Still got us!”
“True, mate… but Gin said she needed something else, something we couldn’t give her.”

With everyone he cared about pleasantly settled (except his best mate), Harry avoided reminding Ron of his choice to replace Hermione with Megan. Standing away from the crooked canvas, Harry declared completion (if not actual success). Two pops like small caliber Muggle gunfire saw the “Boy-with-the-Scar” and the “Boy with the Pushy-Almost-Mother-In-Law-Who-Can’t-Cook” spirited away from the festivities.
As morning proceeded, community members arrived with alarming regularity. None could predict whether families would feel safe enough to bring themselves out in the open after violent government overthrow — twice. But resiliency (and free intoxicants) ruled the day. Small sprogs ripped and ran among the attractions and games, clogging the paths for those brave enough to apparate anywhere but the authorized “transport” pads.
Ministry employees, in festive primary-colored robes, waited with smiles and lists to ensure each child received a gift. Weasley Wizard Wheezes designed and built a brilliant pile of “erector set” toys — capable of being charmed into something similar to their dormant purpose. Thus the four-wheeled blocks of wood would, with a wand swish from the wizard in the portrait behind the Minister’s empty chair, become an elegant miniature carriage or a zooming pint-sized lorry.
Into this return to life-before-war apparated small groups of determined men who brought neither families nor a desire to enjoy the free libations. The younger blood supremacists arrived at the celebration’s start, wandering through each tent and venue, taking careful notes…
“What’s the schedule?” a disguised Death Eater checked from within the safe confines of the Gobbledy Gook charm — to passersby their speech would sound like a dead language from the missing kingdom of Atlantis.
“Treats for the kiddies until his ‘Majesty’ shows up.”
“Then…”
“Best to set to when he’s got all his ‘worshippers’ around him. Harder for them bleedin’ Aurors to stop us without takin’ out them Mudbloods and their sprogs.”
“Ain’t your baby sister married to one? You got a nephew, eh?”
“Took care of ‘er ‘better half’ meself before Old Voldie bit the dust, if you know what I mean.”
“The boy?”
“Selwyn’s dealt with ‘im. Think he used the little bugger to test that magic-removing hex in the dungeons back at the estate. ’S what the filthy little subhuman deserved; Sis shoulda known better.”
“So when the kiddies surround ‘im—”
“Then we cut lose and end this the right way, once and for all…”

Decorations in the main tent, which awaited Kingsley Shacklebolt’s arrival later in the day, mimicked his office and a toy factory simultaneously.
Behind the Minister’s throne-sized fauteuil chair sat a Disillusion’d portrait of the greatest wizard in the world: a “jolly ol’ elf” whose magic delighted children with presents one night a year for millennia — until the night he mistook the spout of a dormant (but still active) Hawaiian volcano for a cave chimney (after a bit too much dragon nog with Nicholas Flammel). From that point onward, parents were forced to absorb the responsibility (and cost) for bringing joy once a year — lest their tykes discover the truth of how a whiskey-goggled Santa clogged up a live tropical volcano. The image-altering charm protected the painting from being mobbed by short people seeking freebies.
With a bit of Legillimency (by the crafty veteran gift-giver wearing his infamous red suit in the camouflaged portrait), each child received a gift-wrapped treat closest to their secret wish (with not a galleon spent by their parents). A Santa-signed coupon for a free butter beer at the Leaky Cauldron had the young ones skipping off — enamored with their slowly rebuilding Ministry.
The early cohort of cut-throats were later joined by a more grizzled group who laughed and drank — but not too much of either — while passing information on Auror counts and locations (as well as best guesses on what protective spells had been placed around the venue).
“Quite a to-do, eh Bow?”
“Counted at least 11 of those kiss-arse’s of the Ministry’s milling about like they own the place.”
“Do tell…”
“Whistle got dry and I tried to cut through the Creature department’s tent. Had to circle the bloody thing — steppin’ in Centaur shite the whole way.”
“Good to know. Won’t make that mistake myself…”
“Best to take them ‘beasts’ out first, else they’ll make a mess of the gettin’ at the real filth. Herd of ‘em could level this place and us with it.”
“Stampede might work in our favor if they take out some of them Aurors…”

By late morning the midways and path were pleasantly full of guests, many of them under 4-feet tall. A simple spell on the wands of attendees ensured Kingsley didn’t throw the biggest party in Europe; only magical citizens of Great Britain were invited.
Hyperactive children practiced their gluttony with sweets — bypassing the highly nutritious flobberworm fritters — for never-ending portions of flaming kiwi cups (guaranteed to scorch drooping beards and floppy scarves), no-melt (but messy) ice cream, and self-propelling custard pies (every parents’ most hated dessert — a 12-inch ‘round Weasley Wizard Wheezes confection that hurled itself at the eater’s mouth and usually missed).
Parents — chasing their sugar-powered sprogs — could dull their headaches with unlimited pints of free imported Pinnock’s Giggle Water, Paulopabita's Fishy Green Ale and Ogden’s Old Fyrewhiskey.
Men strolled green paths with families nowhere in sight. Each imbibed exactly one drink and each wore a long jumper despite the pleasant temperature. Grouped in twos, these wizened teams used sophisticated hand signals to track the Minister as he moved through the supportive crowd, thanking them for their trust in the magical government and promising — if re-elected — to see to the most pressing concerns still challenging magical citizens.

“Mind you, when that Débridement revealin’ spell hits, should be able to tell the filth from the wizards.”
“What’ll they light up — like a tree on Christmas mornin’?”
“Never seen it spelled, but Travers ‘as. He’s castin’ it today. Swears by it.”
“You think they got it right? Think it’ll work?”
“It better or them bleedin’ Aurors will roast us on our wands — and we ain’t got no ‘extra lives’ like old Voldie, do we?”

By early afternoon one could not wedge a finger through the herds of witches and wizards packing the tents and clogging the paths. Gaming tents attracted the largest crowds as reputations were made (and jovially damaged) and every child who played won something useless.
Gobstones drew the most participants (mostly for the entertainment of watching the loser’s marble-like playing pieces make flatulent noises whilst spitting harmless goo at the player) — despite rumors to the contrary, the game was NOT invented by the Weasley twins. Wizard darts were played in a tent adjoining the St. Mungo’s “First Aid” facility. The wizarding version of the game required magical players (while blindfolded) to hurl modified snitches (similar to the snidget birds first used in Quidditch) at targets that maneuvered (under their own power) in and out of the spectators to avoid being speared by the spiked snitches. Thrown “darts” frequently lodged in the tender portions of adult anatomies (for which no prize was awarded but howling laughter could be heard from bystanders…).
Near half-past 1:00 the final group of provocateurs arrived, plans solidified into cohesive operational tactics that could go very well or oh-so wrong. Lessons learned from losing the war informed the careful execution of their insurrection. Every speck of information passed on by means of Protean-charmed coins. Strolling apparently aimlessly through the revelers, a family prepared to retake its heritage; the son smiled with purpose while the father’s expression remained neutral, giving no indication of his underlying concern.
“Mind what I told you, son. At the first hint of trouble, you get yourself safe.”
“Da, today’s our day — I promise ya!”
“Our dead leader made the same prediction; I’ll wait until the score’s taken before believing. Be careful and trust none of that lot.”
“We’ll take it back, Da. Put things in the right order.”
“I hope so, son… I hope so…”

At 2:00, an hour before tea would be served to the enthusiastic crowd, the Minister of Magic strode in and took a seat on the special chair built to bring him a head’s height over the children waiting patiently for a chat, a handshake and a gift courtesy of their government.
At 3:15 a handsome young boy, straddling childhood and adolescence, marched up to shake the Minister’s hand and discuss weighty things…

“What’s your name, son?”

The boy — much past the size for lap-sitting whilst begging for a gift — stood (if the observer discounted the excited fidgeting) next to Kingsley’s left hand where it rested on the ornate “throne’s” armrest.

“Wilibald Williamson, sir! From Winnersh.”

Excitement amped the boy’s magic; his aura pulsed like a full-body halo.

“Quite a mouthful. What would you ask for?”
“A shield spell!”

The boy read the puzzlement on the Minister’s handsome face, a face unmarked despite the skirmishes it had engaged in.

“Got older brothers — Alaric and Baldwin. Tired of getting my arse handed to me. I MEAN HEAD!” the boy rephrased when his mother, Pamphila, shouted “Wilibald!” over the laughing parents waiting with their own miscreants.

From behind Kingsley’s seated form, an “elf” transformed a magical block into a chiseled pyxis, carved with intricate runes on its hinged top. Wilibald’s eyes followed the floating gift into his outstretched hands.

“It’s yours; open it so your friends here know the Minister didn’t just give you an empty block of wood.”

Adrenaline shakes stayed the not-quite-a-boy only a second before the latch popped and a fine blue mist rose, sinking through the modest clothing near his heart.

“That should keep you safe for —”

A blast and a shout consumed the end of Kingsley’s final words as a curse sunk into his chest — driving the bleeding Minister back into the high-backed chair and forcing the chair and the injured man to the floor in front of Santa’s painting — who’s Disillusion charm dissipated to reveal Albus Dumbledore spelling healing charms at Kingsley between hexes that incapacitated the attackers who hadn’t fled.

“I GOT HIM!” a not so youthful Death Eater screamed in triumph before a dead man in an enchanted painting dropped him to the grass in the tent.
“Hurry, Wilibard!” his “mother” barked. “I’m needed out there!”

From behind enchanted decorations, Wilibald transformed back into an adult adorned in Auror robes. The law enforcement officer found his feet quickly and wove a stasis spell around the head of magical government until it proved safe for Healers to attend to him — if he lived.

“THIS WAY!” the young leader of the rebellion — to restore blood purity to the magical Britain — commanded his assassins.

With the Minister dead, the melee could be expected to disintegrate into chaos within minutes.
From the midway, WWW fireworks sounded the alarm amidst the screaming and scrambling of a populace trained more than a year ago in this form of self-preservation. Ministry employees (from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement) swished their wands to turn benches and stools into portable floos — designed to allow a group to leave en masse then to relocate itself nearby to avoid being rendered inoperative. George Weasley would receive a second and third Order of Merlin for the invention and saving of many visitors’ lives.
Running like the fires of Hell hounded him, Travers approached the Midway full speed and cast the spell meant to mark those unworthy of wielding magic.
“Débridement” the dark madman barked into the din, circling his wand above his balding pate like a Yank handling a lasso.
Sky swirled as it followed the revolution of Travers’ wand in a compacted space filled with magic. The spell, created and tested in the dungeons of the estate on Muggle-born family members of the revolutionaries, burned the clothes — and skin — of Muggle-born adults and children zapped by the spell’s flying thunderbolts. Pure-bloods and half-bloods in the escaping crowds snatched up terrified victims to shield with their own bodies, the spell crashing harmlessly into them and dissipating. Travers swore, unprepared for failure, then ran to join the others. Citizen soldiers chased him.
To his left, near the barrier between the magical space and the Muggle world, Aurors snapped their wrists to snap the wands of the new Death Eaters too bold or too stupid to cast Apparate spells and escape intact. To his right, Selwyn, the “Old Man” and the “Boy King” cut down volunteers who joined for the Ministry. Pamphila Proudfoot (joined by the fully-grown Wilibald Williamson) engaged the father, the witch being a former Auror he’d tangled with at the Battle of Hogwarts when spring failed to grant rebirth to their fascist political movement. She directed the “irregulars”: spontaneous volunteers fighting back against the more seasoned avatars of dark magic.

Neither change, nor victory, arrived on the revolutionaries’ schedule — or at all.

“Cast the CURSES!” the father shouted to the select inner circle members who’d been trained in their use.
Travers switched to casting Mortem Perfuga at those rescuing Muggle-borns. The few who succumbed hurled the Muggle-borns in their arms through the floo before collapsing as every drop of blood in their bodies leaked into the soil beneath them. Selwyn joined Travers in the casting, their combined efforts wreaking terror for seconds. Within sight distance, the father and the boy cast the equally vile Cenum Munda to stop the rescues by half-bloods. Only chaos reduced the impact of people suddenly ripped open and dropping their entrails as the casters could not distinguish pure-bloods from half-bloods in the stampeding throng. The spell bounced off more than half its targets until the Spell Shields rose within and around the pavilion tents, limiting the damage the newly crafted spells could cause. Volunteer healers — all former Aurors — scooped up the injured with haste and apparated directly to St. Mungo’s trauma unit, where the Minister of Magic had himself arrived only minutes before.

“Boy, we’re done here. Minister’s dead — time to leave NOW!” and with a half spin, the father embraced his favorite child — and only living son — to apparate away.
“RETREAT!” Selwyn screamed while dueling Pamphila. She’d cornered him between the magical fencing and a Shield Spell when the pure-blood blood-draining spell caught her from behind. Wilibald Williamson charged Selwyn and his savior, Pyrites, hurling Avada’s through tears.
Minus a commander, the less experienced and less intelligent militants were losing quickly. Aurors and irregulars apprehended them (none too gently) for transport to the cells deep within the Ministry. Still, skirmishes and confrontations could be heard and seen. The children had all been evacuated to their homes or the hospital.
“Not saving your arse again, Selwyn,” Pyrites yelled — then he tackled Selwyn to apparate both away from the carnage and another defeat.

Behind the reconstituted Death Eaters, Auror Williamson charged full speed carrying his dying wife through a floo to St. Mungo’s.
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