It's A Fine Life [PG-13] for floorcoaster
Title: It's A Fine Life
Author/Artist: vox_rowan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Also none of JK Rowling's original characters or Potterverse belongs to me, I just like to play with her toys sometimes ^_^ No profit is made from this, particularly since I've been putting off writing papers since this is 1000x more fun. Inspirations and credits include: A title borrowed from 'Fruits Basket', 'Sex in the City', specifically Miranda's "jig is up" scene, and some fanon characteristics such as Draco concealing his scars.
Warnings: Mild swears and references to sexin' and a moment of awkward Britsh-ness
Summary: Draco Malfoy loves authentic Indian food, sappy movies, and Hermione Granger's hair. Only one of these will help him solve his problems with the other two.
Notes: I have not seen ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith’ on principle, so this fic might be a bit more broody than what the request entailed, but hopefully it will be entertaining! I wanted to make this really good since I’m a big fan of the receiver. Thank you for making my Fridays that much more “THANK GOD!”
Part 1
Morning. Early Summer. Home.
The most difficult thing about waking up next to Hermione Granger is that great mop of bushy hair that runs rampant atop her head. There is rarely a morning when the stuff has not worked its way into one or more of my facial orifices to wreak vengeance for its temperamental owner. You cannot imagine the singular horrors of waking up to what should be a bright morning day and instead encountering a fluffy mass that blocks off all air and light.
There was a time when she considered cropping it short for convenience. It took two very long rows and three weeks of impassioned pleading on my part to prevent this. You see, I, Draco Malfoy, love Hermione Granger's hair.
When I am bored I play with it. When I want to make her shut up and listen to me, I can bury my fingers in it and direct that ceaselessly chattering mouth to meet mine in more productive endeavors. When I am tired I bury my face in it. Most importantly, no matter how composed, how informed, and how bossy the little witch gets her hair never quite lets her reach that stage of perfect know-it-allness. Her hair betrays her by acting as a thing with a mind of its own and its defiance encourages me to believe that there is so very much more to Miss Hermione Granger, Teacher's Pet and Professional Nuisance.
On this particular morning her hair has worked its way into my ear canal and is quietly creeping with malicious intent towards my brain. With a shudder I extract the errant lock from my skull and then proceed to push my face into its mass while murmuring something about morning sex to its owner. I have recently been reading about something called 'subliminal messaging' that Muggles are evidently experts at using in their artwork. It sounds ridiculous but I would like very much to make her late for work this morning so I am trying it out.
"Malfoy, I have meetings all morning, I have to get on."
I blink in surprise and lift myself to peer over her shoulder which is turned away from me. Her voice is surprisingly free of sleep which means that she's been up for some time.
"Alright, well then at least eat something before you go," I murmur, kissing the shoulder, "Or let me pack you something to eat." As mundane as it sounds, half the strength of our relationship is founded on the fact that I can keep her more or less properly fed which does wonders for her mood.
"I'll eat out," she replies, scooting away from me and heading towards the loo. Her manner doesn't suggest that she is angry but she is certainly withdrawn and preoccupied-- possibly because of me.
“But if you eat out then you’ll miss the rather filthy note I’d planned on leaving in your brown bag,” I murmur teasingly as I ghost in after her. She hates it when I interrupt her morning routine but I don’t care because the other half of our relationship is based on the fact that I can get away with a lot of things that would otherwise drive her batty.
She smiles wanly and begins brushing her teeth, never a good sign. When she is tolerant and absent like this, it means that she’s pretty ticked off about something. But I can honestly recall nothing in the past few days to warrant the silent, brooding treatment. That’s not her specialty anyway. That’s mine.
Hogwarts. Library. A Long, Long Time Ago.
Father has given me any number of reasons to detest Granger. She doesn’t belong here. Perhaps she doesn’t deserve death and torture. Malfoys are not monsters after all. But she isn’t appropriate and really it would be better off for her to be with her own people in the end. Separate. Not in our world.
I don’t need reasons to hate her. She’s annoying, bossy, loud, insufferable, and endlessly occupied with business that is not her own. Worst of all she hasn’t the pride to drop the two idiots that she hangs about with. The Mudblood isn’t stupid you can say that for certain. All the good ideas from that meddling bunch have most certainly originated from her bushy little brain. And yet like all the other pathetic twits around here she just fawns over Scarhead, content to lurk in his shadow. I hate it. If she must be here, violating the magical world with her impure breeding she could at least show a bit more spunk.
She practically lives at the library. There is a desk that she likes particularly, probably because it is near the Restricted Section. I am sitting there now after she has left at an unusually early hour, no doubt to go moon over Potter. There is a faint scent in the air, but not the feminine, perfumey kind that Pans leaves in her wake. It is something clean and fresh, like standing near the sea. My arm is throbbing dully now and I know time is running out to complete my mission. I inhale deeply. For a moment I wonder what she would say if she caught me here, breathing the air that she has tainted.
Granger runs the shower until it gets hot and steps in. I lay out a towel for her, brush my teeth, and then with gentle waves of my wand begin to apply the concealment charms on my arm and chest. It’s not really necessary to do anything more than my arm, but knowing that if my shirt somehow gets ripped off no one will point and stare is comforting. I try to do this while she is in the shower because nothing is worse than being laughed at over such a petty, vain matter. In a few moments, we trade places: I in the shower and her at the mirror, precisely brushing her teeth.
The bedroom is wrapped in silence as we finish our preparations to leave, each moving around the other without even a look or a glance. Sometimes this is how it happens, even when we are feeling loving and kind towards one another. After she has neatly tied her oxfords and straightened her work shirt, she gives me an absent kiss and steps into our Floo to head for work.
Hogwarts. Aftermath.
We are sitting in the Great Hall. Mother is casting furtive glances about, tightly gripping my hands with her own slender, pale set. I want to wriggle out from between my parents, particularly away from my father who is hunched over me, glaring at nothing. I cannot tell if he is trying to shield me from the self-righteous looks of anger or shrinking into himself, fading away from my sight. I do not feel anything right now, not even the shame of failure. That will come later. At the moment I feel utterly and completely useless and I would not object to walking off into the Forbidden Forest to let the centaurs toss me around for a few hours, just for the sake of something finally happening on my terms.
People are running around and shouting and fixing and healing. I see the obnoxious trio, battered and triumphant, and of course the Boy Who Lived, looking properly heroic and modest. I could vomit. And I realize that there is absolutely nothing holding us here but our own shame. The Aurors from the Ministry could give a knut about keeping an eye on us. We are broken.
I turn to my father a few hours after I realize this, opening my dry and dusty mouth to tell him that we could leave and no one would give a damn when standing before us is a girl that I barely recognize. She is dirty and bloody and her nose is in the air, but not in a condescending way. It’s just habitual.
Granger.
“Malfoy if you’re going to sulk at least be useful,” she says briskly, “I need help clearing a path out of the castle so that they can start bringing more teams in.”
Mother looks up and I see her lovely blue eyes widening with the startled, naïve shock that only happens when Father has pleased her particularly. My father doesn’t even react outside of flinching further into himself. I rise silently from the bench, carefully prying Mother’s hands loose, and then I follow Granger outside. The air is quiet now but still smoky with the scorched heat of spells and there is an iron taint in each breath that I take.
We clear the path silently, she with her wand and I with my hands. I dare not even ask for magic at this point, but with each object that I push aside my hands become more sore and chapped. I like the feeling because it gives me something to concentrate on. Neither of us speaks or even looks at the other but somehow we work in tandem.
“You’re an idiot.”
“But I don’t hate you for it.”
I look up and all I can do is nod.
Granger and I live in a generously large duplex flat that sits just on the edge of Magical London. We are permitted to have our own Floo, but there is quite a bit of Muggle technology in the house that operates thanks to Granger’s Electro-Charm, which she invented one summer while ‘bored at home’. Potter never understands why we bother with this strange mish-mash of magic and Muggle and I explain that it is because Granger won’t permit House Elves and I am far too rich and lazy to do housework. This is a lie because actually I do all the housework and cooking since Granger never really got into the habit and I have lots and lots of free time.
I put the laundry into our queer, Muggle machine, I cast cleansing charms around the house to freshen the air, and then I proceed into the study, clicking my tongue at the usual mess of books and parchment. There is a computer, of course, but I use it more than she does. I start sorting books and parchment to put away when a thickly folded folio falls out of the pile. I reach down and touch the stationary. It is smooth and white and official. My mouth quirks mischievously as I open it to poke my nose in the busybody’s business. Her precise, prissy handwriting neatly fills the columns in a report marked conspicuously as “Official Secrets”.
Draco Malfoy continues to lead a relatively subdued life and remains hidden away from the media by interacting mainly with the Muggle World. He has not made any suspicious contacts or acquaintances since my last report. My conclusion is the same as always: Draco Malfoy is no longer involved in any movements which would subvert the strength…
Part 2
Afternoon. Early Summer. Home.
There is a moment when things change. The first time I mounted a broom, the moment I felt the Dark Mark sear into me, the fire that nearly killed me and claimed Crabbe. Each moment contains a single pause, a cusp which stretches on forever where the heart and blood fall still at the importance of the decision to be made.
I glance at the date on the report and then fling it away. It is recent.
The moment a decision is made there is simply action, blind and unplanned, guided by adrenaline and emotion. It is raining and I think briefly that Granger has probably forgotten her umbrella. But she is a witch and can simply repel it with a flick of her wand. And no one will ever question her right to flick that wand, cast that spell, and enjoy all the benefits of being Magical. Because even if she was not born to that world, she became a part of it through blood and pain and tears. She is a hero. And I am not even a villain. I am merely a stooge who became so irrelevant that the Ministry didn’t bother with Azkaban.
I walk angrily through London, ignoring traffic and rain. Both are in my way. I walk until suddenly I am at the café where the best scones and tea in the entire Muggle world are served. Before I really know it I am slinking in to sit at a table. The waitress knows my face by now and gives me a sly smile as she brings my usual order: one blueberry scone, the daily special scone, and a cup of Lady Grey tea.
Muggle London. Some Months Ago. Scone Shop.
The witch across from me has clearly never ventured far from Magical London. Her eyes dart nervously about as I order for the both of us. I suspect that she has also never thought that Muggles are perfectly capable of making delicious scones. She may not be the one after all.
“I am looking for someone special, of course,” I say with a smile. I can feel what Mum refers to as my ‘snake-charmer’ forming on my face. According to her, Pans, and plenty of other females, I can be quite charming when I’m not being a right arse. And right now I want this witch to be very, very comfortable.
“I understand,” she nods with a sly smile of her own that is a bit crude. She has overdressed for the occasion and her décolletage is showing but I don’t mind. Granger is not a traditional beauty and she is rather slim for my tastes. The witch in front of me is clearly offering everything I want and more. But I have standards, particularly for this sort of dalliance.
Then again we should really be meeting in some smoky bar with dim lighting. That’s how they do it in the movies. No one goes to a tea shop to be incognito.
“It’s very intimate,” I murmur as I lean forward, “It isn’t so much my reputation as that of my current partner that I am concerned with.”
The witch looks puzzled and then smiles, “You don’t want to disgrace her.”
I lean back and shrug, “Either way people will certainly have their opinions, but if it is possible, I would spare her too much humiliation.”
“Then shall we go somewhere very discreet? Perhaps Paris?” Her greedy little eyes are lighting up and I know she is not the one. If this were Hermione sitting across from me she would be serious and grave. There is no substitute for Hermione, but I at least want someone with a vague sense of morality. I’ve lost my taste for those who love ill deeds since the War.
Another Obliviation, another day.
“No lady friends today, luv?” the waitress teases me.
“No, not today.” I have never brought Granger here and I chose this spot not only for the scones but because it is in a part of London that she detests. I can meet witches in private here before making a decision.
“You ought to settle down, y’know. Good-looking bloke like you, spending his youth and charm on silly little ninnies. Find yourself a good girl and marry her.”
I laugh and take a bite out of my scone. When she leaves I sober again. The girl of my dreams should come walking through the door right at this moment, but the shop remains empty thanks to the rain.
I drink tea in silence and glance at the local cinema listings aimlessly until the sun begins to sink into its rosy bath of summer-sunset. I return home to the flat and begin fixing our dinner. Without thinking, I make the spicy lamb vindaloo that she is overly fond of. I’ve been trying for months to get her to try some of the many other offerings from India, or at least something that is an actual native dish, but she is British to the core and eats it with the same enthusiasm as Americans and their bloody General Tsao chicken.
“You’re home,” I state superfluously as she steps out of our Floo, brushing her clothes irritably. She’s early. Usually I’d be applying heating charms right now to keep the food fresh but here she is, stepping forward briskly with an absent smile to accept the glass of red wine I proffer in exchange for a light peck on the cheek.
“How was your day?”
“The usual. Went out for a walk, saw the ducks, looked at the cinema listings,” I reply pleasantly, pulling out a chair at the table for her before seating myself.
“Mmm, vindaloo,” she coos, smiling far too brightly now as she fills her plate, “Anything good then?”
“Not ‘til the weekend I think. There’s some sort of American film which has been causing a lot of controversy since the main actors are evidently having a riotous affair under the nose of the poor, beleaguered wife back home.”
It wasn’t the type of film that she would see. Granger hates celebrities, romantic comedies, action films, science fiction, and anything else remotely fun. She likes serious, arty films, especially things made in obscure corners of the world with ambiguous endings. But I am in a petty mood.
She pauses ever so slightly in her eating. It would have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but I was watching her very carefully now. “Oh.”
I give her a tight grin, “Well unless you’ve got something better going on this weekend, you might humor me a bit. After all, it’s not as if I’ve got anyone else to associate with… you know friends to go to films with.”
“Is that so?” she replies, looking up at me, her tone cold. We lock eyes and stand on the cusp.
“Yes but you’d know all about that wouldn’t you? What a good little boy I’ve been?”
Her brown eyes spark with anger and her mouth twists in fury, “Not really. Considering that you’ve been stepping out on me. I suppose your stupid little walks and dinners and movies and ducks haven’t been enough to appease that ever-so-bored appetite, have they Malfoy?”
“What are you going on about, Granger?”
“You’re cheating on me!” she shrieks, slapping the table with her hand and jolting her wine glass so that it leaves a great, red slosh on the table.
“I am not-what are you talking about, Granger?” my voice rises to match hers.
Things are going far too quickly now. We should be having a long drawn-out dinner trading subtle barbs until the dramatic climax. Clearly she’s been simmering for a while and it never takes much to get me started so we plunge ahead.
“Every day a different witch at that stupid shop-and you’ve never taken me there once. That’s how I know, Malfoy.”
“You only know because you’ve been spying on me, you little sneak,” I hiss.
Her brown eyes widen in shock and we are silent, staring at one another, chests heaving.
Part 3
Diagon Alley. Years Back.
We're walking through Magical London and if I see one more witch or wizard stop in their tracks to gape I will level the place with my wand. Granger is good at ignoring this sort of thing, but she's spent her entire post-war life being wooed by the media. Tomorrow’s gossip rags will certainly harp on how compassionate she is for taking a poor son-of-a-bitch like me in.
"Let's go into Muggle London," she says brightly, "No one cares about either of us there."
It's diplomatically phrased but I balk at the idea. The few times I have ventured there have been dirty, noisy, and unpleasant. There are so many of them, teeming and whizzing about in their horrible Auto-Mobiles, and talking into their cellyphones. I don't see how she can just jump in and out of either world so easily.
Still, I let her drag me out of Diagon Alley and into the smoggy air of London. Surprisingly, for all the clamor and bustle, it is a relief. In this place I can lose myself.
A few weeks ago, when I'd shown up at her office for the fifth time in as many days she'd coolly remarked that I needed a hobby. Too much money and free time meant that I'd finally annoyed my only real friend in the Wizarding World.
"I was never very interested in Muggle Studies," I say in a casual tone, "I'd probably die if I tried to go out here on my own."
"It's hardly darkest Africa," she remarks playfully," Just remember green is go and avoid the large things speeding along on the black stuff."
I glare at her, "I know how to avoid Auto-Mobiles, Granger."
"I can practically hear the capitals in your voice," she laughs and then she stands suddenly on her toes and kisses my cheek lightly, "Funny boy."
I felt a slight heat rise in my face and look away at the teeming city before us. Muggles were different from me but they didn't care one whit about my existence simply because they didn't know anything about me. It was a rather nice thought.
"Perhaps I'll re-acquaint myself with Muggles," I murmur.
She licks her lips before replying.
"No!--well--no! I wasn’t spying!"
"'No well no'? What kind of answer is that? I saw the report in the study, Hermione. Tucked between the pages of that bestiary you bought the other weekend. Just sitting neatly there, marking your place.”
“It wasn’t like that, Draco… I’m not spying on you.”
“But you wrote that report.”
“Yes.”
“And submitted it to the Ministry.”
“Yes, but--!”
“-So you admit to gathering information and personal details about my life, relaying it back to the Ministry, and adding your own professional assessment of my threat levels to the sanctity of crown and country. What part of that isn’t spying, Granger? When did you first decide to make me your personal mission? At the ball? After the war? Did you at least wait a few months for me to really fall in love with you before you started?”
I can practically feel the sneer in my voice as it squirms its way between my lips, through the tense air between us, and chokes through the ventricles of her breaking heart. I am furious at her and terrified. So I speak with reckless abandon, smashing my way across the planes of our relationship, confirming all the nasty little self-doubts that I've harbored over the years in spite of what I know to be true. And of course I am trying to cover my own arse, trying to avoid exactly why I’ve been meeting every trollop with a wand between here and Scotland at that tea shop.
She loves me and I love her, and regardless of whether or not this affair sprang out of some leftover mission from the war years, no one could maintain a fallacy of such depth and length. Certainly not Granger. She is clever and resourceful but she is an awkward liar and much of my anger is at the fact that she's managed to carry off even a small part of this conspiracy.
This doesn’t matter at the moment. Right now, I want to hurt her. I want to extract the twisted pleasure of watching her brown eyes fill with tears as she shakes her tangled curls forward in a familiar gesture of shame and embarrassment.
"You never trusted me in the end," I continue, "To you I'm just the same prat of a Death Eater that killed your beloved Dumbledore and betrayed the good and the great. I suppose it feels very fine to have done such charity work on behalf of the Ministry. The Rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy. Quite a feather in your cap, Granger."
“Stop it.”
“And I suppose it was Potter that put you up to it. With Weasley whispering in your ear-“
“Stop it!”
“--of course I imagine it was the Weasel that made the selling point. You always did carry a torch for him. I suppose it was your way of getting back at him for choosing Brown over you with the added benefit of proving that no matter what you'd always be devoted to him-“
“Draco, Stop!”
“--and by now everyone else has settled down and started a family, but you're practically a free agent, the perfect femme fatale and spy thanks to your condition.”
As soon as the words fly out I regret them. I regret the fact that I'd ever been born to say those words. It is worse than ‘Mudblood’, worse than standing idle while my aunt tortured her, worse than anything that I've ever done in my whole life.
She gives a soft, little moan and the color drains from her face. I reach for her immediately, murmuring the usual platitudes that come out when someone has gone too far. Of course she backs away from me, which is unbearable and without thinking I grab her slender wrist, yanking her against me. I am not a brawny man, but I am taller and stronger than Hermione has ever been. But she is stubborn and like a lynx when cornered. After two quick slaps to my face and a few ladylike cruses she wins her release.
She just stands mutely for a moment, staring at me, and then turns away.
"I thought you had forgiven me for that," she says softly before she exits the room. I stand, listening as she moved around upstairs. I can see her in my mind's eye, methodically packing things into her little beaded purse, shrinking whole drawers of clothing expertly with her wand until at last, grasping a handful of Floo powder, she steps into the fireplace, tosses it, and firmly declares her destination in spite of the tears threatening to spill over her cheeks.
Granger’s Flat. In Better Times.
We fight and fight over nothing until finally I grab her by the lapel of her crisp, white shirt and kiss her angrily. It is not our first kiss but it is the first that has drawn blood. And it is not the last blood to be drawn that night because Granger has nails and likes to use them when she is particularly excited.
I’ve been with plenty of women but I’ve never bothered to learn what pleases them. With Granger I am an eager pupil. We tear into one another, consuming over and over until at last we fall exhausted onto the bed, laughing and out of breath. The room is a wreck and so are we. I fall asleep with her damn hair sticking to me all over with sweat.
It is not like this every time, between us. Sometimes we are slow and thoughtful, opening the pages of our bodies to one another to savor what has been written. And there are times when it is simply a good way to fall asleep after a long day. But I love her more and more with each time because I can feel her heart melting beneath her sweaty skin. She is rewriting me day by day and I am undone.
Part 4
A Genuinely Good Indian Place. Early Autumn.
In Muggle movies, when a bloke screws things up with his girl, he sends her flowers, sings outside of her window, declares his love for her at a grand sporting event-- that sort of thing. Muggles call it Hollywood magic and it’s true. In the movies no matter how badly something is broken, there is always a spell to fix it. But Granger loathes romantic comedies and finds them patronizing, which shows you what a really horrible woman she is. Romantic comedies are wonderful. Particularly the old ones with musical bits. If Granger were a proper girl I could just do a grand Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers number with her and somehow it would all right itself.
Then again we've hurt each other far too much at this point so it takes an entire summer of sending and re-sending my bribes of rare books until she finally accepts the only copy of Nimue’s Gramarye in Magical England. As with all the other books, I have tucked a single word written on the back of a business card.
Come.
The card belongs to a restaurant where I have eaten every night for the past few months and lingered until close. They serve a vindaloo that even I can eat and have authentic native cooking that I’m sure Granger can be coaxed to try out. If she ever shows up. The owner is starting to tear his hair out from wondering whether I am some sort of critic and if he is about to become the Next Big Thing.
"Well?"
She appears before me suddenly or perhaps I have simply given up the hopeful habit of glancing at the door each time it opens.
For a moment I just sit there like an idiot, staring over my fork of Calcutta-style biryani, drinking in the sight of her. She is perfectly dressed for dinner with an ex: a flattering outfit to remind me of what I’ve lost with minimal makeup so as not to imply desperation. I recognize the outfit from every break-up and make-up scene ever written.
But her hair, that marvelous mane, is my ally. It has begun to escape the jeweled clip that she wears at the nape of her neck and its tendrils are giving me friendly little waves as they lift in the slight draft.
"I was looking for a surrogate."
I open with my best material. No need to pretend or cover things up. The straight and honest truth is the only thing that will save me at this point. Even ‘I’m sorry I was an unforgiveable ass and please let me spend my life curled up at your feet apologizing’ won’t work.
She sits down abruptly, her eyes flickering as her brow creases and her mind goes to work.
“What?”
“I was looking for a surrogate. For us. But I can’t exactly go around advertising that publically and so I had to do things rather under the table. Hence all the secrecy and tawdriness. I suppose if I’d been above board I’d have attracted a slightly less slattern crowd.” I give her a hopeful smile.
“A surrogate…?” Her brown eyes are filled with doubt but there is something else there that I can work with.
“For children, Hermione. I was trying to find us a surrogate mother.”
Malfoy Manor. Ages Ago.
My parents are throwing their bi-monthly 'Sorry We Chose The Bad Guys' charity ball and all-you-can-eat crow extravaganza. On the left is my father with a broad smile slathered in false humility strapped on his face as he shakes the hands of Ministry toadies. On the right is Mother, smiling thinly at Pureblood witches far less pedigreed while they swill our expensive champagne and sniff over the decor. And here I am, skulking at the back on an overstuffed fainting couch from the 19th century. I’m always amused that the Death Eating Gang never realized that the Manor was coated in Muggle antiques from Mother’s collection. Voldy’s favorite chair was an Hermes piece from France that Mother had acquired during one of her shopping binges in Paris.
I am Draco Malfoy and I do not give a damn. There are plenty of young folk hanging about because even if I am in disgrace I have lots and lots of money and I spend it on everything that attracts these buzzards: impromptu trips, illegal potions, booze, and gambling. I am fun.
No one important ever comes, just the usual hangers-on and those who never made a choice either way but waited to see how things shook out. This is why I am profoundly shocked to see Hermione Granger striding through the crowds towards the couch, armed with a glass of very good Merlot. She has clearly had a few other glasses before this one because she totters slightly as she stands before me, glaring down. One of the less discreet witches from my crowd starts to sneer and opens her mouth but I cut her off with a glare. With courtesy unheard of from the indolent Malfoy heir I pull myself out of my lounging position and ask her soberly if she would like to sit.
"No thank you, Malfoy, I have had quite enough favors from your family for a lifetime." After these precise, icy words, she upends her glass over my head and then marches off, slightly unsteady on her thin heels. The witches and wizards start with the usual arse-licking--someone runs off for a wet handkerchief--but all I can think about is how happy I am to see her again.
Later that night, after the ball, I turn up at her place. You can find out almost any piece of information with the right pull, like the fact that Hermione Granger has recently moved into a flat just at the edge of the intersection between Muggle and Magical London, and that furthermore, this move accompanied a nasty, drawn-out breakup with her fellow war hero, Ronald Weasley. There are rumors of an affair on his side but that fails to explain why she committed the unforgiveable crime of dumping a quality wine out.
She opens the door and I can tell that she is dead drunk.
"Faff off, Malfoy."
"Well I would but you wasted a rather lovely Merlot back there so I brought you another one.”
She scowls at me and shakes her hair back from its attempts to creep forward and drag me into the dark flat.
“I told you that your family has given me quite enough gifts already, Malfoy.”
“I don’t recall giving you anything more than a few sneers and some cheap insults during our school years, Granger.”
“Oh, right. That’s your Aunt Bellatrix’s specialty. She gives the sort of gifts that keep on giving. Or maybe I’ve got that wrong. It’s the gift that stops things giving.”
I stare uncomfortably at her for a moment until she finally reaches forward and takes the wine from my hand. The gesture has an uncomfortable tone to it. It feels like surrender. I follow her inside until we reach the dimly lit parlor where the remains of a fire are smoldering. She slumps into a chair and gestures for me to sit as well. Then, she pops the wine open with a flick of her wand and swigs it. I restrain the urge to tell her that it should really be allowed to breathe first.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Ronald, you know he has a big family so… I suppose it was always expected that we’d have a few. I really only want three. Three is a manageable number. Any more than that and we’d be in the poor house and frazzled out of our wits. And Ron is clannish so there’s really no hope for it…He’s not the sort to adopt y’know.”
“Granger…”
“The ‘Cruciatus Curse’ is one of the forbidden curses because it not only causes agonizing pain but it acts according to the will of its caster. Particularly vicious infliction can cause permanent, irreversible damage.” She recites it in an inebriated parody of her answers from days long ago in Snape’s classroom.
She takes another swig and the glugging sound fills the silence. I sit back and stare at the dying embers. There is absolutely nothing that I can say.
“No one knows except for him-and now you,” she whispers softly. .
We finish the bottle and another one that night. I do not take advantage of her although it wouldn’t be that difficult. Instead I sleep on her couch next to her disgruntled orange beast and in the morning I take her for breakfast.
“But the staff at St. Mungo’s said the damage was permanent,” she whispers.
I wave my hand in annoyance, “Wizards never think big. I took your test results to a Muggle doctor who is an expert in this sort of thing-and no, Granger, never mind how I got them-but he believes that the damage is merely limited to your uterus and that he can still recover viable eggs. The only thing is that a child born to magical parents has all sorts of wonky things going on with it, something about blood magic, so we’d have to find a witch to act as surrogate and it will be dreadfully complicated but-“
“-Malfoy!”
“Yes, Granger?”
“You want to have children with me?”
I stare at her, “Of course I do, you great, silly idiot. And if we can’t do it with those testy-tubes and petri plates then we’ll just find children somewhere. I’m sure I can afford at least a baker’s dozen of drippy-eyed orphans for you to alternately smother and scold.”
She is looking at me with those great, big brown eyes now and I suspect it is that look in particular that I live and die for.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug, “I suppose I didn’t want to get your hopes up too high. It might not work. And also I wanted…” I pause because the words are really too tender and near my heart to say right now.
Because I can’t exactly say ‘thank you’ or ‘you gave life a point’ without diluting the truth which is: ‘I utterly love you’ and ‘You cannot begin to fathom how important you are to me’.
Where the hell is a grand, romantic speech when you need one?
“…I wanted to give you something really good for once, something that I did on my own,” I conclude lamely.
Granger looks as if she wants to have a good sniffle and I am beginning to believe in the power of Muggles and their Hollywood magic, but we haven’t finished off all the business at hand. At this point I am willing to forget everything and start fresh but Granger is all about balance.
“I wasn’t spying-not exactly,” she begins, sniffing into her dinner napkin. The owner peeps out from around the kitchen and makes a disappointed face. He has seen enough Bollywood films to know what is going on. If things work out, we will dance off into some random scene from Switzerland, surrounded by prancing milkmaids and his restaurant will remain Not The Next Big Thing.
“Then what was it?” I ask gently, reaching a hand across the table. She places hers inside mine, her fingers small and cold.
“They did ask me to spy on you when they found out that we were friendly. I didn’t want to but it was part of the plea bargain that your parents reached. You were under official surveillance for a long time, but no one was really inclined to look kindly on you and everyone thought that once you’d gotten bored with spending money and diddling witches you’d try for a shot at becoming a Dark Wizard. So I sort of started to gradually fill in my own thoughts on your behavior as a counter to all the other reports.”
“You were putting in a good word for me,” I remark dryly.
“Yes. And you were trying to be a good boyfriend. Very stupidly, of course, but you were.”
“And a good father, Granger.”
She laughs and squeezes my hand. The owner comes from his hiding place and peevishly asks if we’ve enjoyed our meal. I decide to be generous.
“Yes. It’s been wonderful. I’m sure that I’ll recommend it to all my friends,” I reply with a broad wink.
Granger is confused, the owner is delighted, and I have nearly reached my Hollywood ending.
Part 5
London. One of Many, Many Fights.
“Granger. Granger-Granger! Granger, stop!”
She is briskly heading away from me, shoes clipping precisely against the concrete of the sidewalk. It is the end of one of our many dates and she has offered me the key to her flat, which I have refused. Naturally it escalated into a row and now we are once again at an impasse. I am so tired of running after her.
“Why should I stop, Malfoy? It’s like this. Every damn time. And on top of it you never call me by my name.”
I stare at her. She has a habit of swooping back into feminine non sequitur and the speed can be dizzying.
“You are upset,” I begin slowly, cautiously moving towards her.
“Yes! You big idiot! You don’t want to live with me? Fine. Then stop shagging me too. In fact, stop seeing me altogether.”
I tilt my head, “Is this really about me moving in, Granger?”
“Yes,” she insists stubbornly.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because if you loved me you’d move in!” Her statement explodes from her chest and she stares at me, her brown, brown eyes wide and angry. I stand perfectly still.
“I…”
There are so many stupid Muggle romantic movies where the man whips out a string quartet, or makes some perfectly timed, slightly comedic speech about love. And not a one of those comes to mind right now when I blurt out:
“I love your hair!”
She stares at me, too boggled to be angry. It’s a start.
“I love your hair. It’s annoying and it tries to strangle me every morning. I think it hates me more than Crookshanks. But I love it. I want to wake up to its homicidal intentions every single day until I die. But I can’t do that in your flat. I can’t do that anywhere that is just your place. Even if I’m just some lay about with too much money I can’t just…” I trail off because I can’t really explain what I want. Loving Hermione Granger My Gracious Redeemer cannot be my sole reason to exist in this world.
She gives me a strange look, “Is that why you’ve been doing that ridiculous ‘Muggle Exploration’?”
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“Yes it is.”
“It is not.”
“It is! You do things that even Muggles don’t care about! Who tries every single flavor of curry from the corner restaurant just to gain a ‘true appreciation of Indian Muggles’? I mean, curry isn’t even a tenth of a percent of what India is and-“
By now I am standing in front of her, looking down at that damn mouth working in its usual prissy mode but then she stops and laughs softly, shaking her head.
“I love your stupid hobby. Because only you would think that watching those awful romantic comedies would teach you about how women think. And yet you still have no idea why I get so upset with you sometimes.”
She lifts her hand to touch my cheek.
“It’s our flat. I promise. And… and if it takes a while longer for you to live there, then I can wait.”
I moved in four long rows, twenty spats, and three months later.
Morning. Bloody Cold. Winter.
"Do not even let the thought cross your mind, wench."
Although I am three-quarters asleep with the remaining quarter just barely conscious, I react on old instincts to Granger's less than subtle attempts to push her ice-cold feet underneath the warm cave of my lower-thighs. She is at least a foot shorter than me which facilitates her attempts to invade the temperate homelands of my body with her militant, poorly-circulated limbs. I learned my lessons well after the very first week of sharing a bed with her.
That was a few years ago and the evil little witch still tries.
She grumbles for a moment and tries for a coy mewl, but I am hardened against this sort of seduction. Granger's feet are truly awful things to experience in the morning and I do not like to be jolted awake. I prefer the slow, sleepy emergence into daylight with lots of quiet laughter, kissing, and eventually something delicious brought in on a tray by a House Elf who has been properly hired and paid in spite of the fact that the creature hardly knows what to do with the funny gold coins that the Mistress insistently bestows each week.
Our particular elf, Thistle, was the result of a full half year of rhetoric and concessions on my part. Even Granger has to admit that freshly baked croissants dripping with homemade preserves are worth bending a few principles for. The flat is too much for me to look after on my own now because of the freelance work that I’ve been doing as a movie and restaurant critic for Muggle papers. Furthermore, in six months' time we are expecting and extremely fussy houseguest to move in and make all sorts of demands on our time so Thistle will be well-paid and well-needed.
And now she is doing the things that I prefer in the morning, murmuring little endearments and cuddling closer to me. Of course this is simply a change in battle tactics but I decide to let it slide because it is Friday and I want her to call in sick to the Ministry and spend the day in bed with me. After all, in war and love, it's all about give and take.
"I can't believe you're going into work on New Year's Eve," I grit through my teeth as she finally inserts the ice blocks under my thighs. She makes a little sound of pleasure and I consider putting something sticky and full of burrs into her hair when she isn't looking.
"Just for a few hours."
"Bull. You'll spend the whole night there and toast with a cup of that smoky black tea you drink when you start going mad from work."
"No I won't. I will spend precisely two hours there, after which you are going to meet me so that we can Portkey to Paris and get married."
Hermione Granger, witch of many talents and occasionally shocking surprises.
"We're-- we're what?"
"Well you weren't planning to knock me up without making me an honest woman first, were you?" she growls, sliding her body over mine so that she can sit up and straddle me. By now I am fully awake in all parts and she is clearly holding the high ground in this skirmish.
"Quite honestly I hadn't even thought about it." I admit to this freely. If she is planning to slap me and run off now after all that we've been through then it just bloody well isn’t meant to be.
"Of course you didn't. Too busy admiring the full bosoms of prospective surrogates," she says with a little smirk, "Men are so typical. You think being a good mother simply means having a set of 'big uns'."
I frown. She really spends too much time with the Weasel. “Granger, I want to marry you more than anything in the world…but don't you want the whole thing? White dress, flowers, and your parents?"
She giggled, "No white dress. I've put my eggs into someone else's basket so the jig is up."
"Alright," I smile, reaching for her wild, wild hair to pull her close, "Why New Year's out of curiosity?"
“Because it’s like one of those stupid movies of yours. Eloping to get married at midnight on the Eiffel Tower with a background of fireworks and the Parisian lights. Ridiculous.”
She moves in to kiss me and I don’t bother to defend my much-abused taste in cinema. After all, when a man gets everything that he wants, he can afford to be a little generous.
Someday. Not Near. Not Far. Soon.
“Dad I want blueberry-stuffed waffles.”
“I want strawberry.”
“Pears it is.” I grin at the chorus of groans behind me and Hermione gives me a reproachful look. She thinks that teasing the children is quite horrible but I don’t really see the purpose of having children unless it is to tease them. After all, before I can blink they’ll be at Hogwart’s and safely out of range.
“You are awful,” she murmurs, linking her hands over my stomach, which has expanded slightly from too much comfort and home life. Having a bit of a gut is nice. It’s something for the cat to curl up on when he gets bored of being chased around by four unholy terrors. It also gives my wife something else besides my shoulder to poke when she gets into one of her snits.
“Can you make vindaloo tonight?” she wheedles, massaging my stomach and I know that I will do this regardless of the fact that she begs for it at least once a week. When our surrogate was pregnant with our third child the two of them demanded it nearly every meal so this is a welcome relief.
“Certainly, wife-of-my-heart, after which we are going to watch the latest Knightley vehicle. I hear she is particularly plucky in this one.”
My wife groans into my shoulder and shakes her hair because Americans seem to only know about two or three British actors at any given time--usually the ones who have cheated their way into television roles by faking American accents.
“I don’t grumble when you bring work home,” I smile, and she knows this is a complete lie. I grumble a lot. And then we have a row, out of the children’s hearing range, and then we make up, especially out of the hearing range of sharp little ears.
Waffles are plated with strawberries, blueberries, and not a hint of pear. And slowly, but surely everyone is fed and dressed and out the door. She is the last to go, turning with an amused smirk to kiss me before stepping into the Floo. It’s sexy and just a little over-long so that my youngest, who is on a school holiday today, groans loudly to cut us off.
I should really thank whoever wrote this script. Very stereotypical, of course, but what a bloody marvelous ending!
ferretbush_post is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.
Author/Artist: vox_rowan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Also none of JK Rowling's original characters or Potterverse belongs to me, I just like to play with her toys sometimes ^_^ No profit is made from this, particularly since I've been putting off writing papers since this is 1000x more fun. Inspirations and credits include: A title borrowed from 'Fruits Basket', 'Sex in the City', specifically Miranda's "jig is up" scene, and some fanon characteristics such as Draco concealing his scars.
Warnings: Mild swears and references to sexin' and a moment of awkward Britsh-ness
Summary: Draco Malfoy loves authentic Indian food, sappy movies, and Hermione Granger's hair. Only one of these will help him solve his problems with the other two.
Notes: I have not seen ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith’ on principle, so this fic might be a bit more broody than what the request entailed, but hopefully it will be entertaining! I wanted to make this really good since I’m a big fan of the receiver. Thank you for making my Fridays that much more “THANK GOD!”
Part 1
Morning. Early Summer. Home.
The most difficult thing about waking up next to Hermione Granger is that great mop of bushy hair that runs rampant atop her head. There is rarely a morning when the stuff has not worked its way into one or more of my facial orifices to wreak vengeance for its temperamental owner. You cannot imagine the singular horrors of waking up to what should be a bright morning day and instead encountering a fluffy mass that blocks off all air and light.
There was a time when she considered cropping it short for convenience. It took two very long rows and three weeks of impassioned pleading on my part to prevent this. You see, I, Draco Malfoy, love Hermione Granger's hair.
When I am bored I play with it. When I want to make her shut up and listen to me, I can bury my fingers in it and direct that ceaselessly chattering mouth to meet mine in more productive endeavors. When I am tired I bury my face in it. Most importantly, no matter how composed, how informed, and how bossy the little witch gets her hair never quite lets her reach that stage of perfect know-it-allness. Her hair betrays her by acting as a thing with a mind of its own and its defiance encourages me to believe that there is so very much more to Miss Hermione Granger, Teacher's Pet and Professional Nuisance.
On this particular morning her hair has worked its way into my ear canal and is quietly creeping with malicious intent towards my brain. With a shudder I extract the errant lock from my skull and then proceed to push my face into its mass while murmuring something about morning sex to its owner. I have recently been reading about something called 'subliminal messaging' that Muggles are evidently experts at using in their artwork. It sounds ridiculous but I would like very much to make her late for work this morning so I am trying it out.
"Malfoy, I have meetings all morning, I have to get on."
I blink in surprise and lift myself to peer over her shoulder which is turned away from me. Her voice is surprisingly free of sleep which means that she's been up for some time.
"Alright, well then at least eat something before you go," I murmur, kissing the shoulder, "Or let me pack you something to eat." As mundane as it sounds, half the strength of our relationship is founded on the fact that I can keep her more or less properly fed which does wonders for her mood.
"I'll eat out," she replies, scooting away from me and heading towards the loo. Her manner doesn't suggest that she is angry but she is certainly withdrawn and preoccupied-- possibly because of me.
“But if you eat out then you’ll miss the rather filthy note I’d planned on leaving in your brown bag,” I murmur teasingly as I ghost in after her. She hates it when I interrupt her morning routine but I don’t care because the other half of our relationship is based on the fact that I can get away with a lot of things that would otherwise drive her batty.
She smiles wanly and begins brushing her teeth, never a good sign. When she is tolerant and absent like this, it means that she’s pretty ticked off about something. But I can honestly recall nothing in the past few days to warrant the silent, brooding treatment. That’s not her specialty anyway. That’s mine.
Hogwarts. Library. A Long, Long Time Ago.
Father has given me any number of reasons to detest Granger. She doesn’t belong here. Perhaps she doesn’t deserve death and torture. Malfoys are not monsters after all. But she isn’t appropriate and really it would be better off for her to be with her own people in the end. Separate. Not in our world.
I don’t need reasons to hate her. She’s annoying, bossy, loud, insufferable, and endlessly occupied with business that is not her own. Worst of all she hasn’t the pride to drop the two idiots that she hangs about with. The Mudblood isn’t stupid you can say that for certain. All the good ideas from that meddling bunch have most certainly originated from her bushy little brain. And yet like all the other pathetic twits around here she just fawns over Scarhead, content to lurk in his shadow. I hate it. If she must be here, violating the magical world with her impure breeding she could at least show a bit more spunk.
She practically lives at the library. There is a desk that she likes particularly, probably because it is near the Restricted Section. I am sitting there now after she has left at an unusually early hour, no doubt to go moon over Potter. There is a faint scent in the air, but not the feminine, perfumey kind that Pans leaves in her wake. It is something clean and fresh, like standing near the sea. My arm is throbbing dully now and I know time is running out to complete my mission. I inhale deeply. For a moment I wonder what she would say if she caught me here, breathing the air that she has tainted.
Granger runs the shower until it gets hot and steps in. I lay out a towel for her, brush my teeth, and then with gentle waves of my wand begin to apply the concealment charms on my arm and chest. It’s not really necessary to do anything more than my arm, but knowing that if my shirt somehow gets ripped off no one will point and stare is comforting. I try to do this while she is in the shower because nothing is worse than being laughed at over such a petty, vain matter. In a few moments, we trade places: I in the shower and her at the mirror, precisely brushing her teeth.
The bedroom is wrapped in silence as we finish our preparations to leave, each moving around the other without even a look or a glance. Sometimes this is how it happens, even when we are feeling loving and kind towards one another. After she has neatly tied her oxfords and straightened her work shirt, she gives me an absent kiss and steps into our Floo to head for work.
Hogwarts. Aftermath.
We are sitting in the Great Hall. Mother is casting furtive glances about, tightly gripping my hands with her own slender, pale set. I want to wriggle out from between my parents, particularly away from my father who is hunched over me, glaring at nothing. I cannot tell if he is trying to shield me from the self-righteous looks of anger or shrinking into himself, fading away from my sight. I do not feel anything right now, not even the shame of failure. That will come later. At the moment I feel utterly and completely useless and I would not object to walking off into the Forbidden Forest to let the centaurs toss me around for a few hours, just for the sake of something finally happening on my terms.
People are running around and shouting and fixing and healing. I see the obnoxious trio, battered and triumphant, and of course the Boy Who Lived, looking properly heroic and modest. I could vomit. And I realize that there is absolutely nothing holding us here but our own shame. The Aurors from the Ministry could give a knut about keeping an eye on us. We are broken.
I turn to my father a few hours after I realize this, opening my dry and dusty mouth to tell him that we could leave and no one would give a damn when standing before us is a girl that I barely recognize. She is dirty and bloody and her nose is in the air, but not in a condescending way. It’s just habitual.
Granger.
“Malfoy if you’re going to sulk at least be useful,” she says briskly, “I need help clearing a path out of the castle so that they can start bringing more teams in.”
Mother looks up and I see her lovely blue eyes widening with the startled, naïve shock that only happens when Father has pleased her particularly. My father doesn’t even react outside of flinching further into himself. I rise silently from the bench, carefully prying Mother’s hands loose, and then I follow Granger outside. The air is quiet now but still smoky with the scorched heat of spells and there is an iron taint in each breath that I take.
We clear the path silently, she with her wand and I with my hands. I dare not even ask for magic at this point, but with each object that I push aside my hands become more sore and chapped. I like the feeling because it gives me something to concentrate on. Neither of us speaks or even looks at the other but somehow we work in tandem.
“You’re an idiot.”
“But I don’t hate you for it.”
I look up and all I can do is nod.
Granger and I live in a generously large duplex flat that sits just on the edge of Magical London. We are permitted to have our own Floo, but there is quite a bit of Muggle technology in the house that operates thanks to Granger’s Electro-Charm, which she invented one summer while ‘bored at home’. Potter never understands why we bother with this strange mish-mash of magic and Muggle and I explain that it is because Granger won’t permit House Elves and I am far too rich and lazy to do housework. This is a lie because actually I do all the housework and cooking since Granger never really got into the habit and I have lots and lots of free time.
I put the laundry into our queer, Muggle machine, I cast cleansing charms around the house to freshen the air, and then I proceed into the study, clicking my tongue at the usual mess of books and parchment. There is a computer, of course, but I use it more than she does. I start sorting books and parchment to put away when a thickly folded folio falls out of the pile. I reach down and touch the stationary. It is smooth and white and official. My mouth quirks mischievously as I open it to poke my nose in the busybody’s business. Her precise, prissy handwriting neatly fills the columns in a report marked conspicuously as “Official Secrets”.
Draco Malfoy continues to lead a relatively subdued life and remains hidden away from the media by interacting mainly with the Muggle World. He has not made any suspicious contacts or acquaintances since my last report. My conclusion is the same as always: Draco Malfoy is no longer involved in any movements which would subvert the strength…
Part 2
Afternoon. Early Summer. Home.
There is a moment when things change. The first time I mounted a broom, the moment I felt the Dark Mark sear into me, the fire that nearly killed me and claimed Crabbe. Each moment contains a single pause, a cusp which stretches on forever where the heart and blood fall still at the importance of the decision to be made.
I glance at the date on the report and then fling it away. It is recent.
The moment a decision is made there is simply action, blind and unplanned, guided by adrenaline and emotion. It is raining and I think briefly that Granger has probably forgotten her umbrella. But she is a witch and can simply repel it with a flick of her wand. And no one will ever question her right to flick that wand, cast that spell, and enjoy all the benefits of being Magical. Because even if she was not born to that world, she became a part of it through blood and pain and tears. She is a hero. And I am not even a villain. I am merely a stooge who became so irrelevant that the Ministry didn’t bother with Azkaban.
I walk angrily through London, ignoring traffic and rain. Both are in my way. I walk until suddenly I am at the café where the best scones and tea in the entire Muggle world are served. Before I really know it I am slinking in to sit at a table. The waitress knows my face by now and gives me a sly smile as she brings my usual order: one blueberry scone, the daily special scone, and a cup of Lady Grey tea.
Muggle London. Some Months Ago. Scone Shop.
The witch across from me has clearly never ventured far from Magical London. Her eyes dart nervously about as I order for the both of us. I suspect that she has also never thought that Muggles are perfectly capable of making delicious scones. She may not be the one after all.
“I am looking for someone special, of course,” I say with a smile. I can feel what Mum refers to as my ‘snake-charmer’ forming on my face. According to her, Pans, and plenty of other females, I can be quite charming when I’m not being a right arse. And right now I want this witch to be very, very comfortable.
“I understand,” she nods with a sly smile of her own that is a bit crude. She has overdressed for the occasion and her décolletage is showing but I don’t mind. Granger is not a traditional beauty and she is rather slim for my tastes. The witch in front of me is clearly offering everything I want and more. But I have standards, particularly for this sort of dalliance.
Then again we should really be meeting in some smoky bar with dim lighting. That’s how they do it in the movies. No one goes to a tea shop to be incognito.
“It’s very intimate,” I murmur as I lean forward, “It isn’t so much my reputation as that of my current partner that I am concerned with.”
The witch looks puzzled and then smiles, “You don’t want to disgrace her.”
I lean back and shrug, “Either way people will certainly have their opinions, but if it is possible, I would spare her too much humiliation.”
“Then shall we go somewhere very discreet? Perhaps Paris?” Her greedy little eyes are lighting up and I know she is not the one. If this were Hermione sitting across from me she would be serious and grave. There is no substitute for Hermione, but I at least want someone with a vague sense of morality. I’ve lost my taste for those who love ill deeds since the War.
Another Obliviation, another day.
“No lady friends today, luv?” the waitress teases me.
“No, not today.” I have never brought Granger here and I chose this spot not only for the scones but because it is in a part of London that she detests. I can meet witches in private here before making a decision.
“You ought to settle down, y’know. Good-looking bloke like you, spending his youth and charm on silly little ninnies. Find yourself a good girl and marry her.”
I laugh and take a bite out of my scone. When she leaves I sober again. The girl of my dreams should come walking through the door right at this moment, but the shop remains empty thanks to the rain.
I drink tea in silence and glance at the local cinema listings aimlessly until the sun begins to sink into its rosy bath of summer-sunset. I return home to the flat and begin fixing our dinner. Without thinking, I make the spicy lamb vindaloo that she is overly fond of. I’ve been trying for months to get her to try some of the many other offerings from India, or at least something that is an actual native dish, but she is British to the core and eats it with the same enthusiasm as Americans and their bloody General Tsao chicken.
“You’re home,” I state superfluously as she steps out of our Floo, brushing her clothes irritably. She’s early. Usually I’d be applying heating charms right now to keep the food fresh but here she is, stepping forward briskly with an absent smile to accept the glass of red wine I proffer in exchange for a light peck on the cheek.
“How was your day?”
“The usual. Went out for a walk, saw the ducks, looked at the cinema listings,” I reply pleasantly, pulling out a chair at the table for her before seating myself.
“Mmm, vindaloo,” she coos, smiling far too brightly now as she fills her plate, “Anything good then?”
“Not ‘til the weekend I think. There’s some sort of American film which has been causing a lot of controversy since the main actors are evidently having a riotous affair under the nose of the poor, beleaguered wife back home.”
It wasn’t the type of film that she would see. Granger hates celebrities, romantic comedies, action films, science fiction, and anything else remotely fun. She likes serious, arty films, especially things made in obscure corners of the world with ambiguous endings. But I am in a petty mood.
She pauses ever so slightly in her eating. It would have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but I was watching her very carefully now. “Oh.”
I give her a tight grin, “Well unless you’ve got something better going on this weekend, you might humor me a bit. After all, it’s not as if I’ve got anyone else to associate with… you know friends to go to films with.”
“Is that so?” she replies, looking up at me, her tone cold. We lock eyes and stand on the cusp.
“Yes but you’d know all about that wouldn’t you? What a good little boy I’ve been?”
Her brown eyes spark with anger and her mouth twists in fury, “Not really. Considering that you’ve been stepping out on me. I suppose your stupid little walks and dinners and movies and ducks haven’t been enough to appease that ever-so-bored appetite, have they Malfoy?”
“What are you going on about, Granger?”
“You’re cheating on me!” she shrieks, slapping the table with her hand and jolting her wine glass so that it leaves a great, red slosh on the table.
“I am not-what are you talking about, Granger?” my voice rises to match hers.
Things are going far too quickly now. We should be having a long drawn-out dinner trading subtle barbs until the dramatic climax. Clearly she’s been simmering for a while and it never takes much to get me started so we plunge ahead.
“Every day a different witch at that stupid shop-and you’ve never taken me there once. That’s how I know, Malfoy.”
“You only know because you’ve been spying on me, you little sneak,” I hiss.
Her brown eyes widen in shock and we are silent, staring at one another, chests heaving.
Part 3
Diagon Alley. Years Back.
We're walking through Magical London and if I see one more witch or wizard stop in their tracks to gape I will level the place with my wand. Granger is good at ignoring this sort of thing, but she's spent her entire post-war life being wooed by the media. Tomorrow’s gossip rags will certainly harp on how compassionate she is for taking a poor son-of-a-bitch like me in.
"Let's go into Muggle London," she says brightly, "No one cares about either of us there."
It's diplomatically phrased but I balk at the idea. The few times I have ventured there have been dirty, noisy, and unpleasant. There are so many of them, teeming and whizzing about in their horrible Auto-Mobiles, and talking into their cellyphones. I don't see how she can just jump in and out of either world so easily.
Still, I let her drag me out of Diagon Alley and into the smoggy air of London. Surprisingly, for all the clamor and bustle, it is a relief. In this place I can lose myself.
A few weeks ago, when I'd shown up at her office for the fifth time in as many days she'd coolly remarked that I needed a hobby. Too much money and free time meant that I'd finally annoyed my only real friend in the Wizarding World.
"I was never very interested in Muggle Studies," I say in a casual tone, "I'd probably die if I tried to go out here on my own."
"It's hardly darkest Africa," she remarks playfully," Just remember green is go and avoid the large things speeding along on the black stuff."
I glare at her, "I know how to avoid Auto-Mobiles, Granger."
"I can practically hear the capitals in your voice," she laughs and then she stands suddenly on her toes and kisses my cheek lightly, "Funny boy."
I felt a slight heat rise in my face and look away at the teeming city before us. Muggles were different from me but they didn't care one whit about my existence simply because they didn't know anything about me. It was a rather nice thought.
"Perhaps I'll re-acquaint myself with Muggles," I murmur.
She licks her lips before replying.
"No!--well--no! I wasn’t spying!"
"'No well no'? What kind of answer is that? I saw the report in the study, Hermione. Tucked between the pages of that bestiary you bought the other weekend. Just sitting neatly there, marking your place.”
“It wasn’t like that, Draco… I’m not spying on you.”
“But you wrote that report.”
“Yes.”
“And submitted it to the Ministry.”
“Yes, but--!”
“-So you admit to gathering information and personal details about my life, relaying it back to the Ministry, and adding your own professional assessment of my threat levels to the sanctity of crown and country. What part of that isn’t spying, Granger? When did you first decide to make me your personal mission? At the ball? After the war? Did you at least wait a few months for me to really fall in love with you before you started?”
I can practically feel the sneer in my voice as it squirms its way between my lips, through the tense air between us, and chokes through the ventricles of her breaking heart. I am furious at her and terrified. So I speak with reckless abandon, smashing my way across the planes of our relationship, confirming all the nasty little self-doubts that I've harbored over the years in spite of what I know to be true. And of course I am trying to cover my own arse, trying to avoid exactly why I’ve been meeting every trollop with a wand between here and Scotland at that tea shop.
She loves me and I love her, and regardless of whether or not this affair sprang out of some leftover mission from the war years, no one could maintain a fallacy of such depth and length. Certainly not Granger. She is clever and resourceful but she is an awkward liar and much of my anger is at the fact that she's managed to carry off even a small part of this conspiracy.
This doesn’t matter at the moment. Right now, I want to hurt her. I want to extract the twisted pleasure of watching her brown eyes fill with tears as she shakes her tangled curls forward in a familiar gesture of shame and embarrassment.
"You never trusted me in the end," I continue, "To you I'm just the same prat of a Death Eater that killed your beloved Dumbledore and betrayed the good and the great. I suppose it feels very fine to have done such charity work on behalf of the Ministry. The Rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy. Quite a feather in your cap, Granger."
“Stop it.”
“And I suppose it was Potter that put you up to it. With Weasley whispering in your ear-“
“Stop it!”
“--of course I imagine it was the Weasel that made the selling point. You always did carry a torch for him. I suppose it was your way of getting back at him for choosing Brown over you with the added benefit of proving that no matter what you'd always be devoted to him-“
“Draco, Stop!”
“--and by now everyone else has settled down and started a family, but you're practically a free agent, the perfect femme fatale and spy thanks to your condition.”
As soon as the words fly out I regret them. I regret the fact that I'd ever been born to say those words. It is worse than ‘Mudblood’, worse than standing idle while my aunt tortured her, worse than anything that I've ever done in my whole life.
She gives a soft, little moan and the color drains from her face. I reach for her immediately, murmuring the usual platitudes that come out when someone has gone too far. Of course she backs away from me, which is unbearable and without thinking I grab her slender wrist, yanking her against me. I am not a brawny man, but I am taller and stronger than Hermione has ever been. But she is stubborn and like a lynx when cornered. After two quick slaps to my face and a few ladylike cruses she wins her release.
She just stands mutely for a moment, staring at me, and then turns away.
"I thought you had forgiven me for that," she says softly before she exits the room. I stand, listening as she moved around upstairs. I can see her in my mind's eye, methodically packing things into her little beaded purse, shrinking whole drawers of clothing expertly with her wand until at last, grasping a handful of Floo powder, she steps into the fireplace, tosses it, and firmly declares her destination in spite of the tears threatening to spill over her cheeks.
Granger’s Flat. In Better Times.
We fight and fight over nothing until finally I grab her by the lapel of her crisp, white shirt and kiss her angrily. It is not our first kiss but it is the first that has drawn blood. And it is not the last blood to be drawn that night because Granger has nails and likes to use them when she is particularly excited.
I’ve been with plenty of women but I’ve never bothered to learn what pleases them. With Granger I am an eager pupil. We tear into one another, consuming over and over until at last we fall exhausted onto the bed, laughing and out of breath. The room is a wreck and so are we. I fall asleep with her damn hair sticking to me all over with sweat.
It is not like this every time, between us. Sometimes we are slow and thoughtful, opening the pages of our bodies to one another to savor what has been written. And there are times when it is simply a good way to fall asleep after a long day. But I love her more and more with each time because I can feel her heart melting beneath her sweaty skin. She is rewriting me day by day and I am undone.
Part 4
A Genuinely Good Indian Place. Early Autumn.
In Muggle movies, when a bloke screws things up with his girl, he sends her flowers, sings outside of her window, declares his love for her at a grand sporting event-- that sort of thing. Muggles call it Hollywood magic and it’s true. In the movies no matter how badly something is broken, there is always a spell to fix it. But Granger loathes romantic comedies and finds them patronizing, which shows you what a really horrible woman she is. Romantic comedies are wonderful. Particularly the old ones with musical bits. If Granger were a proper girl I could just do a grand Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers number with her and somehow it would all right itself.
Then again we've hurt each other far too much at this point so it takes an entire summer of sending and re-sending my bribes of rare books until she finally accepts the only copy of Nimue’s Gramarye in Magical England. As with all the other books, I have tucked a single word written on the back of a business card.
Come.
The card belongs to a restaurant where I have eaten every night for the past few months and lingered until close. They serve a vindaloo that even I can eat and have authentic native cooking that I’m sure Granger can be coaxed to try out. If she ever shows up. The owner is starting to tear his hair out from wondering whether I am some sort of critic and if he is about to become the Next Big Thing.
"Well?"
She appears before me suddenly or perhaps I have simply given up the hopeful habit of glancing at the door each time it opens.
For a moment I just sit there like an idiot, staring over my fork of Calcutta-style biryani, drinking in the sight of her. She is perfectly dressed for dinner with an ex: a flattering outfit to remind me of what I’ve lost with minimal makeup so as not to imply desperation. I recognize the outfit from every break-up and make-up scene ever written.
But her hair, that marvelous mane, is my ally. It has begun to escape the jeweled clip that she wears at the nape of her neck and its tendrils are giving me friendly little waves as they lift in the slight draft.
"I was looking for a surrogate."
I open with my best material. No need to pretend or cover things up. The straight and honest truth is the only thing that will save me at this point. Even ‘I’m sorry I was an unforgiveable ass and please let me spend my life curled up at your feet apologizing’ won’t work.
She sits down abruptly, her eyes flickering as her brow creases and her mind goes to work.
“What?”
“I was looking for a surrogate. For us. But I can’t exactly go around advertising that publically and so I had to do things rather under the table. Hence all the secrecy and tawdriness. I suppose if I’d been above board I’d have attracted a slightly less slattern crowd.” I give her a hopeful smile.
“A surrogate…?” Her brown eyes are filled with doubt but there is something else there that I can work with.
“For children, Hermione. I was trying to find us a surrogate mother.”
Malfoy Manor. Ages Ago.
My parents are throwing their bi-monthly 'Sorry We Chose The Bad Guys' charity ball and all-you-can-eat crow extravaganza. On the left is my father with a broad smile slathered in false humility strapped on his face as he shakes the hands of Ministry toadies. On the right is Mother, smiling thinly at Pureblood witches far less pedigreed while they swill our expensive champagne and sniff over the decor. And here I am, skulking at the back on an overstuffed fainting couch from the 19th century. I’m always amused that the Death Eating Gang never realized that the Manor was coated in Muggle antiques from Mother’s collection. Voldy’s favorite chair was an Hermes piece from France that Mother had acquired during one of her shopping binges in Paris.
I am Draco Malfoy and I do not give a damn. There are plenty of young folk hanging about because even if I am in disgrace I have lots and lots of money and I spend it on everything that attracts these buzzards: impromptu trips, illegal potions, booze, and gambling. I am fun.
No one important ever comes, just the usual hangers-on and those who never made a choice either way but waited to see how things shook out. This is why I am profoundly shocked to see Hermione Granger striding through the crowds towards the couch, armed with a glass of very good Merlot. She has clearly had a few other glasses before this one because she totters slightly as she stands before me, glaring down. One of the less discreet witches from my crowd starts to sneer and opens her mouth but I cut her off with a glare. With courtesy unheard of from the indolent Malfoy heir I pull myself out of my lounging position and ask her soberly if she would like to sit.
"No thank you, Malfoy, I have had quite enough favors from your family for a lifetime." After these precise, icy words, she upends her glass over my head and then marches off, slightly unsteady on her thin heels. The witches and wizards start with the usual arse-licking--someone runs off for a wet handkerchief--but all I can think about is how happy I am to see her again.
Later that night, after the ball, I turn up at her place. You can find out almost any piece of information with the right pull, like the fact that Hermione Granger has recently moved into a flat just at the edge of the intersection between Muggle and Magical London, and that furthermore, this move accompanied a nasty, drawn-out breakup with her fellow war hero, Ronald Weasley. There are rumors of an affair on his side but that fails to explain why she committed the unforgiveable crime of dumping a quality wine out.
She opens the door and I can tell that she is dead drunk.
"Faff off, Malfoy."
"Well I would but you wasted a rather lovely Merlot back there so I brought you another one.”
She scowls at me and shakes her hair back from its attempts to creep forward and drag me into the dark flat.
“I told you that your family has given me quite enough gifts already, Malfoy.”
“I don’t recall giving you anything more than a few sneers and some cheap insults during our school years, Granger.”
“Oh, right. That’s your Aunt Bellatrix’s specialty. She gives the sort of gifts that keep on giving. Or maybe I’ve got that wrong. It’s the gift that stops things giving.”
I stare uncomfortably at her for a moment until she finally reaches forward and takes the wine from my hand. The gesture has an uncomfortable tone to it. It feels like surrender. I follow her inside until we reach the dimly lit parlor where the remains of a fire are smoldering. She slumps into a chair and gestures for me to sit as well. Then, she pops the wine open with a flick of her wand and swigs it. I restrain the urge to tell her that it should really be allowed to breathe first.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Ronald, you know he has a big family so… I suppose it was always expected that we’d have a few. I really only want three. Three is a manageable number. Any more than that and we’d be in the poor house and frazzled out of our wits. And Ron is clannish so there’s really no hope for it…He’s not the sort to adopt y’know.”
“Granger…”
“The ‘Cruciatus Curse’ is one of the forbidden curses because it not only causes agonizing pain but it acts according to the will of its caster. Particularly vicious infliction can cause permanent, irreversible damage.” She recites it in an inebriated parody of her answers from days long ago in Snape’s classroom.
She takes another swig and the glugging sound fills the silence. I sit back and stare at the dying embers. There is absolutely nothing that I can say.
“No one knows except for him-and now you,” she whispers softly. .
We finish the bottle and another one that night. I do not take advantage of her although it wouldn’t be that difficult. Instead I sleep on her couch next to her disgruntled orange beast and in the morning I take her for breakfast.
“But the staff at St. Mungo’s said the damage was permanent,” she whispers.
I wave my hand in annoyance, “Wizards never think big. I took your test results to a Muggle doctor who is an expert in this sort of thing-and no, Granger, never mind how I got them-but he believes that the damage is merely limited to your uterus and that he can still recover viable eggs. The only thing is that a child born to magical parents has all sorts of wonky things going on with it, something about blood magic, so we’d have to find a witch to act as surrogate and it will be dreadfully complicated but-“
“-Malfoy!”
“Yes, Granger?”
“You want to have children with me?”
I stare at her, “Of course I do, you great, silly idiot. And if we can’t do it with those testy-tubes and petri plates then we’ll just find children somewhere. I’m sure I can afford at least a baker’s dozen of drippy-eyed orphans for you to alternately smother and scold.”
She is looking at me with those great, big brown eyes now and I suspect it is that look in particular that I live and die for.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug, “I suppose I didn’t want to get your hopes up too high. It might not work. And also I wanted…” I pause because the words are really too tender and near my heart to say right now.
Because I can’t exactly say ‘thank you’ or ‘you gave life a point’ without diluting the truth which is: ‘I utterly love you’ and ‘You cannot begin to fathom how important you are to me’.
Where the hell is a grand, romantic speech when you need one?
“…I wanted to give you something really good for once, something that I did on my own,” I conclude lamely.
Granger looks as if she wants to have a good sniffle and I am beginning to believe in the power of Muggles and their Hollywood magic, but we haven’t finished off all the business at hand. At this point I am willing to forget everything and start fresh but Granger is all about balance.
“I wasn’t spying-not exactly,” she begins, sniffing into her dinner napkin. The owner peeps out from around the kitchen and makes a disappointed face. He has seen enough Bollywood films to know what is going on. If things work out, we will dance off into some random scene from Switzerland, surrounded by prancing milkmaids and his restaurant will remain Not The Next Big Thing.
“Then what was it?” I ask gently, reaching a hand across the table. She places hers inside mine, her fingers small and cold.
“They did ask me to spy on you when they found out that we were friendly. I didn’t want to but it was part of the plea bargain that your parents reached. You were under official surveillance for a long time, but no one was really inclined to look kindly on you and everyone thought that once you’d gotten bored with spending money and diddling witches you’d try for a shot at becoming a Dark Wizard. So I sort of started to gradually fill in my own thoughts on your behavior as a counter to all the other reports.”
“You were putting in a good word for me,” I remark dryly.
“Yes. And you were trying to be a good boyfriend. Very stupidly, of course, but you were.”
“And a good father, Granger.”
She laughs and squeezes my hand. The owner comes from his hiding place and peevishly asks if we’ve enjoyed our meal. I decide to be generous.
“Yes. It’s been wonderful. I’m sure that I’ll recommend it to all my friends,” I reply with a broad wink.
Granger is confused, the owner is delighted, and I have nearly reached my Hollywood ending.
Part 5
London. One of Many, Many Fights.
“Granger. Granger-Granger! Granger, stop!”
She is briskly heading away from me, shoes clipping precisely against the concrete of the sidewalk. It is the end of one of our many dates and she has offered me the key to her flat, which I have refused. Naturally it escalated into a row and now we are once again at an impasse. I am so tired of running after her.
“Why should I stop, Malfoy? It’s like this. Every damn time. And on top of it you never call me by my name.”
I stare at her. She has a habit of swooping back into feminine non sequitur and the speed can be dizzying.
“You are upset,” I begin slowly, cautiously moving towards her.
“Yes! You big idiot! You don’t want to live with me? Fine. Then stop shagging me too. In fact, stop seeing me altogether.”
I tilt my head, “Is this really about me moving in, Granger?”
“Yes,” she insists stubbornly.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because if you loved me you’d move in!” Her statement explodes from her chest and she stares at me, her brown, brown eyes wide and angry. I stand perfectly still.
“I…”
There are so many stupid Muggle romantic movies where the man whips out a string quartet, or makes some perfectly timed, slightly comedic speech about love. And not a one of those comes to mind right now when I blurt out:
“I love your hair!”
She stares at me, too boggled to be angry. It’s a start.
“I love your hair. It’s annoying and it tries to strangle me every morning. I think it hates me more than Crookshanks. But I love it. I want to wake up to its homicidal intentions every single day until I die. But I can’t do that in your flat. I can’t do that anywhere that is just your place. Even if I’m just some lay about with too much money I can’t just…” I trail off because I can’t really explain what I want. Loving Hermione Granger My Gracious Redeemer cannot be my sole reason to exist in this world.
She gives me a strange look, “Is that why you’ve been doing that ridiculous ‘Muggle Exploration’?”
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“Yes it is.”
“It is not.”
“It is! You do things that even Muggles don’t care about! Who tries every single flavor of curry from the corner restaurant just to gain a ‘true appreciation of Indian Muggles’? I mean, curry isn’t even a tenth of a percent of what India is and-“
By now I am standing in front of her, looking down at that damn mouth working in its usual prissy mode but then she stops and laughs softly, shaking her head.
“I love your stupid hobby. Because only you would think that watching those awful romantic comedies would teach you about how women think. And yet you still have no idea why I get so upset with you sometimes.”
She lifts her hand to touch my cheek.
“It’s our flat. I promise. And… and if it takes a while longer for you to live there, then I can wait.”
I moved in four long rows, twenty spats, and three months later.
Morning. Bloody Cold. Winter.
"Do not even let the thought cross your mind, wench."
Although I am three-quarters asleep with the remaining quarter just barely conscious, I react on old instincts to Granger's less than subtle attempts to push her ice-cold feet underneath the warm cave of my lower-thighs. She is at least a foot shorter than me which facilitates her attempts to invade the temperate homelands of my body with her militant, poorly-circulated limbs. I learned my lessons well after the very first week of sharing a bed with her.
That was a few years ago and the evil little witch still tries.
She grumbles for a moment and tries for a coy mewl, but I am hardened against this sort of seduction. Granger's feet are truly awful things to experience in the morning and I do not like to be jolted awake. I prefer the slow, sleepy emergence into daylight with lots of quiet laughter, kissing, and eventually something delicious brought in on a tray by a House Elf who has been properly hired and paid in spite of the fact that the creature hardly knows what to do with the funny gold coins that the Mistress insistently bestows each week.
Our particular elf, Thistle, was the result of a full half year of rhetoric and concessions on my part. Even Granger has to admit that freshly baked croissants dripping with homemade preserves are worth bending a few principles for. The flat is too much for me to look after on my own now because of the freelance work that I’ve been doing as a movie and restaurant critic for Muggle papers. Furthermore, in six months' time we are expecting and extremely fussy houseguest to move in and make all sorts of demands on our time so Thistle will be well-paid and well-needed.
And now she is doing the things that I prefer in the morning, murmuring little endearments and cuddling closer to me. Of course this is simply a change in battle tactics but I decide to let it slide because it is Friday and I want her to call in sick to the Ministry and spend the day in bed with me. After all, in war and love, it's all about give and take.
"I can't believe you're going into work on New Year's Eve," I grit through my teeth as she finally inserts the ice blocks under my thighs. She makes a little sound of pleasure and I consider putting something sticky and full of burrs into her hair when she isn't looking.
"Just for a few hours."
"Bull. You'll spend the whole night there and toast with a cup of that smoky black tea you drink when you start going mad from work."
"No I won't. I will spend precisely two hours there, after which you are going to meet me so that we can Portkey to Paris and get married."
Hermione Granger, witch of many talents and occasionally shocking surprises.
"We're-- we're what?"
"Well you weren't planning to knock me up without making me an honest woman first, were you?" she growls, sliding her body over mine so that she can sit up and straddle me. By now I am fully awake in all parts and she is clearly holding the high ground in this skirmish.
"Quite honestly I hadn't even thought about it." I admit to this freely. If she is planning to slap me and run off now after all that we've been through then it just bloody well isn’t meant to be.
"Of course you didn't. Too busy admiring the full bosoms of prospective surrogates," she says with a little smirk, "Men are so typical. You think being a good mother simply means having a set of 'big uns'."
I frown. She really spends too much time with the Weasel. “Granger, I want to marry you more than anything in the world…but don't you want the whole thing? White dress, flowers, and your parents?"
She giggled, "No white dress. I've put my eggs into someone else's basket so the jig is up."
"Alright," I smile, reaching for her wild, wild hair to pull her close, "Why New Year's out of curiosity?"
“Because it’s like one of those stupid movies of yours. Eloping to get married at midnight on the Eiffel Tower with a background of fireworks and the Parisian lights. Ridiculous.”
She moves in to kiss me and I don’t bother to defend my much-abused taste in cinema. After all, when a man gets everything that he wants, he can afford to be a little generous.
Someday. Not Near. Not Far. Soon.
“Dad I want blueberry-stuffed waffles.”
“I want strawberry.”
“Pears it is.” I grin at the chorus of groans behind me and Hermione gives me a reproachful look. She thinks that teasing the children is quite horrible but I don’t really see the purpose of having children unless it is to tease them. After all, before I can blink they’ll be at Hogwart’s and safely out of range.
“You are awful,” she murmurs, linking her hands over my stomach, which has expanded slightly from too much comfort and home life. Having a bit of a gut is nice. It’s something for the cat to curl up on when he gets bored of being chased around by four unholy terrors. It also gives my wife something else besides my shoulder to poke when she gets into one of her snits.
“Can you make vindaloo tonight?” she wheedles, massaging my stomach and I know that I will do this regardless of the fact that she begs for it at least once a week. When our surrogate was pregnant with our third child the two of them demanded it nearly every meal so this is a welcome relief.
“Certainly, wife-of-my-heart, after which we are going to watch the latest Knightley vehicle. I hear she is particularly plucky in this one.”
My wife groans into my shoulder and shakes her hair because Americans seem to only know about two or three British actors at any given time--usually the ones who have cheated their way into television roles by faking American accents.
“I don’t grumble when you bring work home,” I smile, and she knows this is a complete lie. I grumble a lot. And then we have a row, out of the children’s hearing range, and then we make up, especially out of the hearing range of sharp little ears.
Waffles are plated with strawberries, blueberries, and not a hint of pear. And slowly, but surely everyone is fed and dressed and out the door. She is the last to go, turning with an amused smirk to kiss me before stepping into the Floo. It’s sexy and just a little over-long so that my youngest, who is on a school holiday today, groans loudly to cut us off.
I should really thank whoever wrote this script. Very stereotypical, of course, but what a bloody marvelous ending!
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