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The Politician\'s Wife	By : pir8fancier Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 14170 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment.

To this day, he denies it. Over the years, I have tried to trick him into admitting that he had cursed himself so that I would be responsible for the presentation. Because it is so his leitmotif. He always stops short of bearing any responsibility for anything with an iota of controversy surrounding it. He moves heaven and Earth, sits back a safe distance to watch worlds collide, and then creeps back in to feast on the spoils.

Like a jackal.

"You know that curse you cast that gave you bronchitis—"

"What curse?"

"This looks very like the curse you cast at the end of that Jenkins business."

"What are you on about, Hermione? I fail to see any resemblance between that nasty cough Dom has and the enormous boil I visited upon Carstairs' very deserving sweaty forehead."

"Will you just admit it? You're driving me mad."

"I'm so glad. We're even. Because you enter the room and I go completely gaga. You reduce me to an inarticulate wretch; I can't even string a sentence together. Your manifest charms are such— That hurt!"

"I've really had enough of this. Tell me the curse."

His breath tickled my ear.

"That is not a curse. It's an incantation for…"

"Yes?"

"Disgusting sod."

I didn't see him for the rest of the week. Normally we'd bump into each other in the lift at some point during the day or at the very least attend the same meeting, but not this week. Thank Merlin!

Hovering over my desk in a frantic flutter, a memo greeted me early Tuesday morning when I entered my office, reminding me that our final meeting regarding "that matter" was on Friday. Implied but not stated was that we'd reconnoiter at his flat for lunch per the usual. I was half tempted to cancel the lunch and suggest we wrap this up at the Ministry, his office or mine. For the life of me, I couldn't put a name to what happened in his office, and I'm not sure I wanted to. Whenever I thought about the warmth of his hand and the length of his fingers, my stomach clenched in the most alarming manner. If I didn't know better, I'd have called it fear.

Words like irritated, furious, disgusted, horrified, and appalled typically describe my standard reactions to him for the past thirty years, but dangerous? If someone had asked me if I thought Draco Malfoy were someone to be afraid of, I'd have had a nice long laugh. That spoiled, narcissistic dilettante?

Now?

The guffaws were nowhere to be heard. Oh, yes, he was dangerous. I'd never felt the slightest niggle to ever apologise to Draco Malfoy for the completely justifiable scorn I'd lobbed his way over the years, and now after only a few short weeks into this project, I found myself actually penning him an apology. And, what was worst, I felt compelled to hand it to him in person.

What in the hell was the matter with me?

It wasn't often that I admitted I was out of my ken, but fortunately my normally rather sizeable ego took a sensible back seat to my instincts. On the heels of that sneeze, I squeaked out a "Bless you. Good morning, then" and fled his office, his apology clutched in my hand. I headed back to my own office at a near run, collapsing at my desk, the back of my neck damp from sweat.

As the week wore on, however, I found myself far too busy to even think of Draco Malfoy and those hands of his. In addition to my normal workload, I saved Carstairs his job. I wasted most of Tuesday, all of Wednesday, and a good deal of Thursday evening completely revamping a White Paper that he'd been tasked with writing on the recent presidential election and how this would affect relations with our U.S. counterparts. He expected me to sign this utter waste of parchment, even though several of his suggestions were in direct violation of policy. Despite being career ministry, he had no more than the most cursory understanding of current government policy. If it parked itself on his desk and sang Rule Britannia, he'd still be at sea.

To add insult to injury, he spelled a number of names wrong, including my own. (It does not have a "y.")

It was not germane to the task at hand, but not for the first time did I find myself asking: if a man ogles your breasts every time you walk into a room, is it too much to ask that he at least have the decency to learn how to spell your name?

By three on Friday, I'd convinced myself that the entire episode with the apology and the hands and the awkward breakfast was nothing more than a holdover from the previous week's unpleasant exchange. Armed with rolls of parchment reduced to the size of matchsticks, I Flooed into Malfoy's flat, determined to stick to business, eat lunch, most definitely refuse the wine, and wrap up this Jenkins business once and for all. At which point we'd return to a normal state of affairs: effortless loathing on my part, practiced scorn on his.

Despite my steely determination to keep this formal and to the point, it was all moot the second my feet touched the hearth. There was Malfoy, lying on the sofa, curled up into what looked like a most uncomfortable ball. His hands, pressed together, fingertip to fingertip as if in prayer, were tucked under one ear. Although dressed in his normal attire—a suit costing the equivalent of a small car—the knot in his tie had been yanked loose, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and he wasn't wearing a jacket. Plus, and this was absolutely jaw dropping, he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. I couldn't have been more shocked than if he'd been naked.

My immediate reaction was incandescent rage. How dare he lie there, nursing some massive hangover, when we had work to do? Clearly, last night had been devoted to plying some bint with vodka and champagne. Based on the pained look on his face, he must have downed a fifth of Chopin and an entire case of Tattingers trying to get into her knickers. I was about to just let into him, tear strips off of him, when he looked up and wheezed, "Granger?", which was followed by a coughing fit so ferocious that by the time he'd finished hacking, I wouldn't have batted an eyelash if one of his lungs were lying on the floor.

"Malfoy, you idiot! Why didn't you owl me? Why aren't you at home? What is the matter with Pansy, letting you use magic in this state? Has she gone mad? Why—"

He held up his hand.

"Am not. Wrap up this Jenkins business. House-elves so annoying. Nothing. In Paris with mother. No," he croaked and tried to sit up.

"Don't be a silly bugger. Lie back down this instant." I pushed on his shoulder. Falling back into the sofa with a grunt, he closed his eyes. "Do you have a—" I put a hand to his forehead.

He was burning up.

Fortunately, basic first aid was something all of us mastered in the first three months of the war. Parking myself on that horrible coffee table with the elephant legs, I kept one hand on his forehead, and with the other, I cast an Anti-Fever Charm.

"Chest hurts," he mumbled and brought a wan hand up to his sternum in a futile attempt to stem another nasty coughing fit.

"As soon as this charm takes hold, I'll get you a glass of warm water. That should loosen up your chest."

He nodded, but I wasn't really sure he heard me. Always naturally pale, his cheeks were rouged in garish spots of twin colour, stark against the extreme pallor of the rest of his face. Curling in on himself even more, he began to shiver from the fever. I cast a Tempus every few seconds—waiting, waiting, waiting… And it didn't go down. He got hotter. I cast the charm again. Nothing happened. Then I knew; whatever I am, I'm a damn good witch, and the only reason that charm would fail would be because he had magicked himself into bronchitis or pneumonia—or whatever stupid, ridiculous disease he'd given himself—so that I'd be, ostensibly, responsible for getting Jenkins sacked. But he'd bollixed it up, and now he was so sick, his magic wouldn't work even if he knew the counter-spell.

"You stupid, stupid man!" I shouted. He tried to open his eyes, but even that proved too much for him. I grabbed his shoulders and began shaking him. "What spell? What evil incarnate, Dark Arts spell did you cast on yourself?" He didn't answer me, but began coughing again. I held him through it. God he was thin. He must have been sick all week. I knew if we didn't get that fever down, he'd be hallucinating any minute. The heat from him had me sweating.

"Malfoy," I whispered in his ear. "You have to tell me. Merlin, please, what is the spell?"

His answer was to slump against me, murmuring, "Sleep."

I'll 'sleep' you, I thought. I let him down gently, keeping a hand on his forehead, and took a deep breath. Okay, this was magic, impervious to whatever spell I could cast. I'd have to fight this the Muggle way. If he didn't respond in fifteen minutes, I was Side-Apparating him to St. Mungo's.

I ran to the closest window, opened it, and pointed my wand at the set of flats opposed.

"Accio paracetamol!"

I heard the sound of glass shattering, then several bottles of paracetamol came hurtling into the room, hitting the far wall. Excellent. I waved my wand in a large circle and yelled "Reparo" several times, hoping against hope that it fixed all the windows. I didn't have time to do anything else. I raced to the kitchen, grabbed the first glass that came to my hand—a Waterford crystal brandy snifter—and filled it up with water. Racing back to the living room, I gathered up the nearest bottle of pills and shook out four, which wasn't the wisest thing I could have done at the time—not for his stomach—but that was the least of our worries.

"Malfoy, can you sit up?" I barked at him.

"No and too loud," he complained.

Bugger him! I used a Levitating charm and got him upright. He blinked at me. "I really feel rather rotten. Do not do that again."

"Open your mouth and swallow these pills now."

He frowned.

"Now!" I ordered. He closed his eyes again, but at least he opened his mouth.

I threw the pills into the very back of his throat and brought the glass up to his lips. Splashing water everywhere trying to get him to swallow those pills, it was a measure of how sick he was that he didn't even complain that I'd soaked his shirt. He made to lie back down again.

"No, absolutely not. Into the bathroom with you. Now. Come on. Sling your arm around me."

I had to get him into a cool bath. It would be several minutes before the paracetamol worked. If it was going to work. He groaned but managed to get on his feet with a little help, and I basically carried him the length of the flat. I tried not to panic, but he was broiling, the heat from his frame warming through my clothes in an instant. Once we reached the bathroom, I propped him up against the wall, turned on the taps, and began to undress him.

"You are the most irritating man alive. If you weren't on the verge of death, I'd kill you. Now, come on, off with the… Yes, now your shirt. Trousers, if you please; lift your… Shoes next. Oh for God's sake, these laces… Have you eaten anything this week? I swear you've dropped at least a stone, and you're far too… Put a hand… You are… Alright, yes, now sit… I know it's cold, but it will help with the fever. Please!"

He grumbled, he whimpered, at one point I even think he growled, but he slowly immersed himself in the cool water. Grabbing his drinking glass, I began to sluice water over his shoulders, all the while one hand glued to his forehead. I counted to twenty, to thirty, to forty, and if he didn't respond by the time I reached two hundred, that was it. Naked or not, wet or not, I'd haul him up by his armpits and…

It worked. Whether it was the chilly water or the pills, I don't know, but by one hundred and forty three he was cooler. The fever hadn't broken, but I wasn't Apparating us to St. Mungo's just yet.

"F-f-f-f-freezing," he stuttered, as he began to shiver uncontrollably. "Think my nuts have atrophied from the c-c-c-c-cold."

"They are fine, I assure you. Another minute and then we'll get you into bed."

He lay the length of the bathtub with his knees propped up and his head cushioned from the hard porcelain by the towel I had rolled up into a little bit of a pillow. Although his eyes were still closed, he managed to raise one eyebrow, and then winced as if that hurt.

"Been l-l-l-l-looking have we?" he said with a ghost of his usual sass.

"No," I said primly. "I've know enough about the male anatomy to be quite certain that a dunk in a cool bath will not do them any harm. Nothing worse than a dip at the seaside."

A little smile appeared.

"We shall have to go to the seaside together and do a t-t-t-t-t-temperature test. I'm partial to Torquay. But only if you're n-n-n-n-naked as well. It's only f-f-f-f-fair."

I snorted.

"You are feeling better. That sounded practically normal. As in salacious. Up and then we'll get you dried off and into bed."

As I towelled him off, he said not a word, just gripped my shoulder for balance as he continued to shiver. I did not look. As drying off his genitals didn't elicit any ribald comments, I began to get worried.

I stood up to check his forehead again. "This is Pansy's job," I muttered and sighed in relief. He was a little warm, but not dangerously so.

"She's pants at this sort of thing," he admitted. "Anything m-m-m-m-medical? Utterly worthless. Dom broke his arm when he was three and she was in hysterics for hours. Thank you. I only feel half dead now." He shuddered once more, then tilted his head just slightly and gave me a weak smile.

There it was, that dropping of his mask. Despite the gray hair, he'd always projected this almost ageless quality; Malfoy seemed perpetually thirty-four. When he was younger, he seemed older; now that he was older, he seemed younger. Usually he was set in a permanently young but not callow time warp. Now he looked every year of his age. What was so astonishing was that he let me see him like this. There was no witty bon mot or quip to hide behind. No smirk or arrogant smile.

I dropped my hand.

"I don't think I'd be very sanguine about another woman giving my husband a sponge bath, phobias about medical maladies or not."

There was that tired little smile again.

"Yes, well, you know we depraved aristocrats. Orgies, sponge baths from co-workers. It's all the same to us. God, I feel like utter shit."

He reached for his bathrobe on the back of the door, and when I saw it, I huffed in disgust. Of course, it was some ridiculously expensive black silk affair, which, under different circumstances, might have made him look debauched and rather sexy; the contrast between his fair hair and the deep midnight of the silk was striking.

"Have you nothing better than that?" Something in a plaid flannel would have done nicely. I raised my wand to Transfigure it into something more appropriate. He glared at me and held up a hand.

"Are you mad? This kimono cost me three hundred pounds."

"I suppose it out of the question that you have a pair of pyjamas somewhere in this den of iniquity?" I snapped.

He pulled the robe tightly around his middle and knotted the belt. Merlin, he was rail thin. "What for?" he snapped back. "I want to sleep. It feels like a five-hundred pound elephant is sitting on my chest."

"Are you going to tell me the counter-curse for that hex?"

His response was to shuffle into the bedroom and climb under the covers. He was asleep in thirty seconds.

After Transfiguring one of his towels into an extremely thick wool blanket and tucking the ends under his shoulders and feet, I returned to the living room, shutting the door behind me. I might have to grovel on his behalf, but I didn't want him to hear me doing it. With a sigh you could hear in Cardiff, I flipped open my mobile.

In every family, there is always one branch that draws nothing but sneers and jeers from the rest, and my Aunt Janet had earned that distinction in Clan Granger. My father always claimed that his parents had found her in a church pew, took pity on her, and adopted her; the fact that she and my father are twins was somehow immaterial. She married a man who matched her, sneer for sneer. Quite a feat. The old saw, opposites attract, was not the case here. More like peas in an insufferable pod. Whether it was nurture or nature, they raised a brood of equally arrogant brats that no one liked.

Which wouldn't have mattered one iota if I hadn't been a witch. None of them, with the exception of my cousin Caroline, were particularly intelligent. But being a witch, I couldn't exactly broadcast my position in the Ministry of Magic (one of the youngest department heads in history). The party line was that I was nothing more than a file clerk in the Muggle Ministry. I had followed up the first lie with a second—Ron also worked for the Ministry, as a janitor. If I had given either of us even remotely successful careers, my aunt would have been compelled to ask probing questions vis-à-vis our positions. As it stood now, she could lord it over my mother that her children were scaling the financial ladder with alacrity while her brother's only child was a file clerk married to a janitor. Fortunately, she would barely acknowledge our presence at the odd family get together, only gleefully ascertaining every now and then that we were still in our horrible dead-end jobs. Ron, privy to the deception, would complain loudly whenever he was in her presence about how he had raging blisters on his hands from pushing a broom all day.

We were identical in age, Caroline and I, and, naturally, we had been hated rivals up to the point I went to Hogwarts. Somehow, my parents had successfully fobbed off all questions about where exactly it was I went to school. My aunt and uncle eagerly drew their own conclusions that it was some sort of boarding-school-cum-prison for wayward teenagers. And it wasn't like I could disabuse them of this notion, given that in reality I went to a boarding school for wizards. It made for extremely trying holiday dinners: Aunt Janet served dinner on paper plates accompanied by plastic cutlery because she was terrified that Ron and I would nick the china and silver.

Ron would have despised Caroline on principle—being a spawn of the hated Aunt Janet—but Caroline deserved to be hated in her own right. She knew we couldn't have children (which entailed another enormous lie) and that it was horrible for us, but she never failed to regale me with endless stories about hers, always finishing up with "Have you thought of adopting?"

My polite hello and inquiry regarding the family was followed by a thirty-minute laundry list of the astonishing academic achievements of Beowulf and Gladys. I had expected nothing less. Finally, stopping to catch her breath, I seized the moment.

"Caroline, may I bend your ear for just a moment?" Not waiting a single second for her to get a word in, I ploughed on. "The National Health. My God, this country is going to the dogs." Her father espoused a similar rant every holiday meal, so I was fairly confident this would be met with in-kind conservative claptrap. "Ron was diagnosed with pneumonia, and they sent him home with a handful of paracetamol." With anyone else, I'd have used the old "my friend" excuse, but I wanted those meds right now. She might have balked at prescribing something for a sight-unseen friend, but I was hoping that if it was Ron, she'd pony up the script without too many questions.

"Typical," she snorted. No, the political apple didn't fall very far from the tree.

"Yes, one can only hope that the Tories will get in next election and abolish this National Health nonsense." I would make amends for this outlandish statement by writing a very large check to Labour and the Liberals, come next election.

To forestall one of Caroline's favourite rants, I rushed in with my request.

"Do you mind writing Ron a script for some antibiotics? He's just miserable, with a nasty fever."

Caroline might be a horrible person, but she was an excellent doctor. And she knew me. I wasn't the hysterical type who fretted over every sniffle. If I said Ron was ill, he was ill. Five minutes later, after cataloguing all of Malfoy's symptoms in copious detail, she'd promised to call in a prescription to the nearest Boots for some antibiotics; I pick up some cough syrup with codeine while I was there.

Another ten minutes was spent denigrating the current Labour government and I signed off.

I made to check on Malfoy before I went to the chemist; he hadn't moved. Although his breathing was a little rough, his fever wasn't any worse. I sat on the bed for a moment watching him sleep. He'd need to eat something soon, maybe some chicken noodle soup. I doubt the Chevaliers had delivered anything that would appeal to him. I'd pick up a couple of tins of soup at the Boots, along with some ginger ale. Once I'd gotten some soup down him, I'd reheat the lunch the Chevaliers had sent. But I hadn't eaten since six, and I was feeling a little light-headed myself. I couldn't even have a cup of tea because there wasn't so much as a single tea leaf, never mind a teapot, in this nightmare of a flat. Do I dare go home and fetch some pyjamas, tea, and teapot? Surely, the ten minutes it would take to Apparate there…

"Malfoy, I'm going to the store and home for just a bit."

No response.

I put a gentle hand to his shoulder and shook him, just a little.

"Malfoy."

Nothing.

"Draco."

He opened his eyes.

"I need to go out for a bit. Get you some Muggle medicine. Will you be alright?"

Expecting a challenge—some tired but emphatic refusal to take Muggle medicine—I braced myself for the inevitable argument. He turned his head to my hand resting on his shoulder, kissed a knuckle, and went back to sleep.

I didn't stop shaking until I reached the Boots.

Although I raced like a mad woman, the trip to Boots and a lightning tear through my home took over an hour. Thankfully, he was still asleep, albeit his forehead a little warmer than I would have liked. Some soup, a cup of sweet hot tea, and a dose of antibiotics should keep the fever a little at bay until I could shove additional paracetamol down his throat. First, I needed to get some soup in him, then the meds. The antibiotics, codeine, and paracetamol would play havoc on an empty stomach.

The interior decorator had thoughtfully supplied the kitchen with an excellent array of pots and pans, which had never been used. I don't know why I was surprised and subsequently enraged. Nothing happened in this flat except seduction and sex, and nothing reflected that so much as pots and pans that had yet to see a flame and the absence of a teapot. God knows why this bothered me so much. I wasn't a prude. And if Pansy didn't mind her husband's loathsome behaviour, who was I to comment?

Yet it did bother me. Quite a bit. And mostly because it said nothing about the Malfoy I now knew. Yes, it was a perfect reflection of the man before all this Jenkins business, but not now. The decorator art on the walls rankled. The leather and chrome furniture, not an antique in sight, irritated. For God's sake, he didn't even have a pair of pyjamas stashed away. A winning combination of anger and extreme hunger—I was so famished I could have chewed a mouthful of carpet—fuelled me so that in a trice I had soup on the table, along with a plate of warmed over Chicken Kiev, courtesy of the Chevaliers, and a pot of tea steeping.

After a ridiculous amount of grumbling, he finally got out of bed. Making a discreet gesture toward the loo, I blushed—which was just silly; I'd seen the man naked before—and beat a path to the dining room.

I was just pouring the tea when he appeared at the doorway. He stopped to study me.

"What?"

"You look as out of place as a spider on a wedding cake—all domestic, efficient, and starch juxtaposed to my chrome and glass. What did you call it? A den of iniquity?"

I gave a quick glance around the flat and curled my lip. "It's revolting. I don't know how you stand it. It's not even—" I bit my tongue.

With little more than a shuffle, he made his way over to the table and sat down slowly.

"How do you feel? Tea?"

"As if I've been thrashed within an inch of my life, but I'll survive. Yes to the tea. This soup looks…very noodle-ish."

"It's hot and nourishing," I sputtered.

"I wouldn't bet on the nourishing bit, but it certainly is hot. You are ridiculously easy to wind up. Not even what? This flat, I mean."

"Well… You. It's not even you. I mean… That." I pointed at the computer-generated faux Picasso over the sideboard.

"Really? I'm flattered that you think I'm not that shallow and insulted that you think I have bad taste." With a sigh, he put his spoon down. "I can't eat anymore. This is vile. It tastes like it's from a tin."

"Because it is from a tin. While I fully intended to hunt down a free-range chicken, slaughter it myself, then make chicken stock; and while that was simmering, hoofing it over to Covent Garden to get fresh pasta, and then hire a car to scour Sussex for the sweetest of baby carrots, I thought saving your life from your botched spell was more important. What was I thinking?" I held up a forkful of chicken. "Would you like some Chicken Kiev?"

He made a face. "God, no. And here I thought you were perfect. I expected you to do both. You get full marks on the tea, though." He lifted his mug. "Looks like something from your kitchen. Utilitarian and hideous."

"I'll bring the Spode next time."

"See that you do. That vial of pills on the table for me?"

He swallowed the pills without any complaint and made to get up when he eyed the pyjamas still in their plastic—a gift from Ron's Great Aunt Hortense—that I had flung on the sofa.

"Please tell me I'm hallucinating." Malfoy pointed at the pyjamas.

I gave him a look.

"Has anyone told you that glaring is one of your many fortes? That is the ugliest plaid I've even seen in my life, and I speak with some authority. Remember: I was the judge for the Highland fling contest at the Ministry's Christmas bash. And even if I hadn't been, I still wouldn't wear them on principle. They are undoubtedly your husband's cast-offs, and even he has the sense not to wear them. Not even Oxfam would want them. My advice? Burn them. If Weasley refused to wear them because they are too ugly… Well, I think that says it all."

"Ron hates pyjamas. He sleeps—well, ahem. He sleeps…" I stirred my tea to draw attention away from my blush. "In not anything."

"That did not make any sense. Ugh. Even thinking hurts. I assume you mean sans pyjamas. Of course, were you my wife, I'd be pulling off my clothes the second I got in the door."

"They are warm—"

"And atrocious. Rather bigoted and probably stupid of me, but I am well enough to refuse to have that shade of fuchsia anywhere near my person. That is nothing more than blackmail material. One snapshot of me in those things and I could never show my face in Milan ever again. Now I must stop talking because my chest hurts like holy fuck."

Which reminded me that he needed a dose of cough syrup and more paracetamol. In addition, I ran the hot water tap in the bathroom sink and had him lean over the basin with a towel over his head to loosen all the gunk in his chest. While he was letting the steam do its job, I fluffed up the pillows and cast a Scourgify on the sheets. Well medicated, with some soup and a cup of tea in him, I could leave without too much guilt.

"I've got to go," I said, tucking the blankets under his shoulder. He put a hand on my wrist.

"I'm sorry I insulted your tinned soup. Stay. You know what a ninny I am. I'll forget to take the medicine and then I'll die and it will be all your fault." Then he puffed out his bottom lip in a mock pout.

"We both know that you are so far from a ninny as to be laughable." I pulled my hand away but couldn't resist brushing back an errant lock of hair from his forehead. "I have to go home. Ron is Firecalling from the States at nine. I'll be back later to check on you."

I was at the door when I heard him say in a sleepy voice, "I'll change the flat."

Ron's enthusiasm for the United States knew no bounds. After ascertaining that, yes, he would be Portkeying home on Sunday afternoon, I let him rattle on. He even suggested we forgo Greece next summer and go camping at some place called Yellowstone, which had many wonderful sights, including bears that tear the doors off cars hunting for bags of crisps. After our experience in the war, just the mention of the word "tent" caused me to flirt with an anxiety attack. Despite responding with manufactured enthusiasm, I had no intention of camping ever again. The allure of the Greek beaches and time with his family would, no doubt, hold sway come next August.

It was just ten when I Flooed back to Malfoy's flat. He was sitting up in bed, asleep, his head lolled to one side. Although his cheeks had lost their fever blush, his forehead wasn't as cool as I would have liked. He started at my touch and murmured in a sleepy whisper, "Didn't think you'd come back. Is it late?"

"Just ten. Ready for your meds?"

After gulping down a handful of pills, he moved over to the left-hand side of the bed, scooted down under the covers, and turned over so his back was facing me. "Am lonely. Stay until I fall asleep. Please? The light won't bother me." He waved a hand in the direction of the dresser, which was covered in rolls of parchment. "My final analysis on Jenkins."

I woke-up at dawn, horrified to realise that I'd fallen asleep while studying his notes. Parchment lay scattered over most of the bed. I don't know how he'd done it, but I was under the covers. He lay spooned against me, our hands intertwined, exactly the very position Ron and I fell asleep in every night.

Having lain with only one man in my entire life, I took a guilty minute to savour this. Over the years, Ron had bulked up. He now looked something like his father did at forty, solid, a far cry from the gangly youth I married. I didn't mind. The weight suited him, smoothed out his angles. Lying with him was the essence of comfort and warmth. Malfoy wasn't as tall as Ron, so his knees fit better in the crook of mine or my rump fit better against his stomach. No, this was nothing like Ron. It was closer, more possessive: the plane of Malfoy's chest tight against my back, the silk of his robe crushed between us. Despite the heavy blankets, his body was cool against mine; the fever must have broken during the night.

I'd be lying if I said it felt wrong or foreign. In truth, it was marvellous. The hint of an erection butted against my backside, while the in and out of his sleep tickled the back of my neck. If he woke up and pressed his mouth to me, I'd be done for. My nipples tingled at the thought.

And now I knew what that horrible clenching of my stomach had been that morning in his office.

Desire.

I eased out of bed and used my wand to silently gather up and shrink all the rolls of parchment so they fit in my pocket. The Floo powder had just left my hand when I heard a faint, "Hermione?" I stepped forward and tumbled into my own living room, soot and tears staining my cheeks.

To Be Continued
- 6
- 7
- 8
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The Politician\'s Wife