Chapter Two: Whatever Goes Down, Must Come Up
Author: unseen1969
Beta: dormiensa
A/N: Below
Whatever Goes Down, Must Come Up">“Granger, since you’re down there,” Draco drawled, smirking at his lap where Hermione’s head was conveniently resting. Blushing fiercely with realization, she pulled her ear away from his sculpted abdomen and sat up hurriedly. Draco threw the three linty Knuts onto Madame Centis’ table and, grabbing Hermione’s hand, dragged her out of the tent before the charlatan could make heads or tails of them. He hustled the two of them towards the exit.
“I’m telling you, Malfoy, I felt a kick,” Hermione insisted as she carefully edged herself through the rusty turnstile at the carnival exit.
“No, you didn’t, Granger,” Malfoy scoffed. He grunted as he sucked in his gut and squeezed himself through the exit after her. Ugh. I overdid it eating all that shite. Note to self: get back on the egg whites and grilled chicken diet before my six-pack becomes a keg.
“Tight fit, Malfoy? Beginning to show already, are we?”
“Very funny, Granger. I’m so buff I shine. I’m just a little bloated from all the carnival food you’ve been shoving down my craw all evening.”
“I did no such thing, Malfoy! Everything you ate was of your own volition.” She rattled them off as she counted on her fingers. “The popcorn, the toffee apple, the corn dog, the fried dough…“
*Urp* “That’s enough, Granger.”
“The ice cream, the deep-fried lard on a stick, the soft pretzels…”
“I said,” *urk* “shut it!”
“…that freaky mutant turkey leg the size of a pterosaur’s …”
“Harf!” Draco interrupted, bending in half over the side of a convenient dustbin.
Hermione patted him absently on the back and held his shaggy blond hair away from his face as she finished, “… and let’s not forget the double order of beer-battered onion rings.”
“Yak!” her companion agreed.
“You’ll have to stop eating crap food like that, Malfoy. It’s not good for the baby,” Hermione admonished him. “Have you thought about names yet?”
Shaking his head vehemently, Draco opened his mouth to answer, but instead bent double again. “Ralph!” he protested elegantly, despite the fact that his stomach was trying to escape through his nostrils.
“What was that? ’Raif?’ Raif Malfoy? Merlin’s acne, why don’t you just name him ‘Bully Bait’ instead? Honestly, Draco, you might want to stick to your mother’s family’s astral naming traditions. Even a silly constellation name like… like Scorpius would be a more fitting name than ‘Raif’ for baby Malfoy, don’t you think?”
Draco whirled to face her, nose-to-nose. “Granger!” he shouted, spraying her with spit. “I said ‘Ranulph’, not ‘Ralph’,[1] and I said it because I was violently vomiting the vile victuals you fed me. There is no baby Malfoy. I am not pregnant!” He panted, glaring at her with wild, bloodshot eyes.
Hermione smiled apologetically at a passing middle-aged Muggle couple who were staring at them in shock. “He’s had too much candy floss,” she stage-whispered to them conspiratorially. “It goes right to his head, poor lamb.” They nodded and hurried away. She waved a hand in front of her face. “Stop breathing on me, Malfoy. You reek.” She rummaged once more in her beaded bag and from its depths pulled out a small tin. She opened it and popped a small white lozenge into his mouth. “Have a mint.”
Scowling, he sucked ferociously on the breath mint, his hand rubbing his sore abdomen. Catching sight of her thoughtful expression as she watched his hand, he turned away with a huff and stalked off towards the Apparition point. He wanted to go home to a shower, his toothbrush, and an entire tube of toothpaste. His mouth tasted like a pair of Professor Slughorn’s sweaty garters. He Disapparated without a backward glance.
*****
Later that evening found them in their pyjamas, sprawling on the sofa in front of the fireplace in their shared flat, where they lived as roommates in a strictly platonic arrangement.
Absolutely, completely platonic.
Nope, neither one had ever had any sexual thoughts whatsoever of the other one. Ever. Whenever she caught herself eyeballing the muscular, dripping wet Draco as he walked through the living room wrapped only in a skimpy towel, Hermione vowed to herself it would be the last time she noticed. She’d made that very vow six times that week, in fact, including that evening. It wasn’t her fault if the towels kept shrinking every time she did the laundry. It had to be something in the water.
For his part, Draco would swear that for years he had barely known that Hermione was actually a woman. Having discovered that she always left her bedroom door ajar when changing her clothes or undressing for bed, he swore that he never purposely checked out Hermione’s many … assets. All right, yes, he might accidently see some part of her creamy skin, but that couldn’t be helped: her bedroom door was across from his and when he lay on his bed at a certain angle with his head hanging over the edge as he craned his neck just so, the occasional glimpse was unavoidable.
“So,” Hermione began, fiddling with a cup of tea as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking about what the fortune teller said.”
At the opposite end, Draco threw his head back against the arm of the couch and groaned. “Are you still thinking about that shyster seer, Granger? Give it a rest!”
“No, Malfoy, this could be important. What if she’s telling the truth? What if it is a real prophecy?”
Draco snorted loudly and rustled his copy of the Evening Prophet as he folded it open to the crossword puzzle. He picked up a quill from the end table.
Undeterred, Hermione went on, “I think we should analyze it. Break it down into its parts and see if we can make sense of it. Tomorrow, let’s go see Parvati and Lavender at their head shop to get their opinion.” She nudged Draco’s leg with her foot. “Are you even listening to me?” He grunted, carefully filled in an answer, and then picked up his mug to sip his tea.
“Are you a virgin, Malfoy?”
At that moment, several things happened simultaneously: Draco spewed for the third time that night, thankfully just hot tea, but unfortunately this time all over Hermione; Hermione shrieked in surprise and jerked away, falling off the couch and breaking her elbow when it caught on the coffee table on her way down; and, the whoosh of the Floo signified an incoming call, which neither the wounded Hermione nor the affronted Draco heard.
“Did I hear you right, Granger?” Draco demanded over her piteous moans. “Are you seriously asking me if I’ve ever gotten laid?”
“Draco, really!” came a voice from the fireplace. “The poor girl is obviously in pain; the least you could do is answer her question; now, are you or are you not a virgin?”
“Mother!”
[1] Traditionally, ‘Ralph’ is pronounced ‘Rafe’, while ‘Ranulph’ is pronounced ‘Ralf’. Don’t believe me? Feinnes … and yes, look it up!
Continue or ToC
Beta: dormiensa
A/N: Below
Whatever Goes Down, Must Come Up">“Granger, since you’re down there,” Draco drawled, smirking at his lap where Hermione’s head was conveniently resting. Blushing fiercely with realization, she pulled her ear away from his sculpted abdomen and sat up hurriedly. Draco threw the three linty Knuts onto Madame Centis’ table and, grabbing Hermione’s hand, dragged her out of the tent before the charlatan could make heads or tails of them. He hustled the two of them towards the exit.
“I’m telling you, Malfoy, I felt a kick,” Hermione insisted as she carefully edged herself through the rusty turnstile at the carnival exit.
“No, you didn’t, Granger,” Malfoy scoffed. He grunted as he sucked in his gut and squeezed himself through the exit after her. Ugh. I overdid it eating all that shite. Note to self: get back on the egg whites and grilled chicken diet before my six-pack becomes a keg.
“Tight fit, Malfoy? Beginning to show already, are we?”
“Very funny, Granger. I’m so buff I shine. I’m just a little bloated from all the carnival food you’ve been shoving down my craw all evening.”
“I did no such thing, Malfoy! Everything you ate was of your own volition.” She rattled them off as she counted on her fingers. “The popcorn, the toffee apple, the corn dog, the fried dough…“
*Urp* “That’s enough, Granger.”
“The ice cream, the deep-fried lard on a stick, the soft pretzels…”
“I said,” *urk* “shut it!”
“…that freaky mutant turkey leg the size of a pterosaur’s …”
“Harf!” Draco interrupted, bending in half over the side of a convenient dustbin.
Hermione patted him absently on the back and held his shaggy blond hair away from his face as she finished, “… and let’s not forget the double order of beer-battered onion rings.”
“Yak!” her companion agreed.
“You’ll have to stop eating crap food like that, Malfoy. It’s not good for the baby,” Hermione admonished him. “Have you thought about names yet?”
Shaking his head vehemently, Draco opened his mouth to answer, but instead bent double again. “Ralph!” he protested elegantly, despite the fact that his stomach was trying to escape through his nostrils.
“What was that? ’Raif?’ Raif Malfoy? Merlin’s acne, why don’t you just name him ‘Bully Bait’ instead? Honestly, Draco, you might want to stick to your mother’s family’s astral naming traditions. Even a silly constellation name like… like Scorpius would be a more fitting name than ‘Raif’ for baby Malfoy, don’t you think?”
Draco whirled to face her, nose-to-nose. “Granger!” he shouted, spraying her with spit. “I said ‘Ranulph’, not ‘Ralph’,[1] and I said it because I was violently vomiting the vile victuals you fed me. There is no baby Malfoy. I am not pregnant!” He panted, glaring at her with wild, bloodshot eyes.
Hermione smiled apologetically at a passing middle-aged Muggle couple who were staring at them in shock. “He’s had too much candy floss,” she stage-whispered to them conspiratorially. “It goes right to his head, poor lamb.” They nodded and hurried away. She waved a hand in front of her face. “Stop breathing on me, Malfoy. You reek.” She rummaged once more in her beaded bag and from its depths pulled out a small tin. She opened it and popped a small white lozenge into his mouth. “Have a mint.”
Scowling, he sucked ferociously on the breath mint, his hand rubbing his sore abdomen. Catching sight of her thoughtful expression as she watched his hand, he turned away with a huff and stalked off towards the Apparition point. He wanted to go home to a shower, his toothbrush, and an entire tube of toothpaste. His mouth tasted like a pair of Professor Slughorn’s sweaty garters. He Disapparated without a backward glance.
*****
Later that evening found them in their pyjamas, sprawling on the sofa in front of the fireplace in their shared flat, where they lived as roommates in a strictly platonic arrangement.
Absolutely, completely platonic.
Nope, neither one had ever had any sexual thoughts whatsoever of the other one. Ever. Whenever she caught herself eyeballing the muscular, dripping wet Draco as he walked through the living room wrapped only in a skimpy towel, Hermione vowed to herself it would be the last time she noticed. She’d made that very vow six times that week, in fact, including that evening. It wasn’t her fault if the towels kept shrinking every time she did the laundry. It had to be something in the water.
For his part, Draco would swear that for years he had barely known that Hermione was actually a woman. Having discovered that she always left her bedroom door ajar when changing her clothes or undressing for bed, he swore that he never purposely checked out Hermione’s many … assets. All right, yes, he might accidently see some part of her creamy skin, but that couldn’t be helped: her bedroom door was across from his and when he lay on his bed at a certain angle with his head hanging over the edge as he craned his neck just so, the occasional glimpse was unavoidable.
“So,” Hermione began, fiddling with a cup of tea as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking about what the fortune teller said.”
At the opposite end, Draco threw his head back against the arm of the couch and groaned. “Are you still thinking about that shyster seer, Granger? Give it a rest!”
“No, Malfoy, this could be important. What if she’s telling the truth? What if it is a real prophecy?”
Draco snorted loudly and rustled his copy of the Evening Prophet as he folded it open to the crossword puzzle. He picked up a quill from the end table.
Undeterred, Hermione went on, “I think we should analyze it. Break it down into its parts and see if we can make sense of it. Tomorrow, let’s go see Parvati and Lavender at their head shop to get their opinion.” She nudged Draco’s leg with her foot. “Are you even listening to me?” He grunted, carefully filled in an answer, and then picked up his mug to sip his tea.
“Are you a virgin, Malfoy?”
At that moment, several things happened simultaneously: Draco spewed for the third time that night, thankfully just hot tea, but unfortunately this time all over Hermione; Hermione shrieked in surprise and jerked away, falling off the couch and breaking her elbow when it caught on the coffee table on her way down; and, the whoosh of the Floo signified an incoming call, which neither the wounded Hermione nor the affronted Draco heard.
“Did I hear you right, Granger?” Draco demanded over her piteous moans. “Are you seriously asking me if I’ve ever gotten laid?”
“Draco, really!” came a voice from the fireplace. “The poor girl is obviously in pain; the least you could do is answer her question; now, are you or are you not a virgin?”
“Mother!”
[1] Traditionally, ‘Ralph’ is pronounced ‘Rafe’, while ‘Ranulph’ is pronounced ‘Ralf’. Don’t believe me? Feinnes … and yes, look it up!
Continue or ToC