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“Darling, I’m home,” Draco called as he walked through the front door, stepping over Crookshanks. The half-kneazle growled, having missed his chance to sink his teeth into Draco’s ankle. He looked down at the offending creature. “You try this same trick every day. I’m not going to fall for it.”
“I’m in here!”
Draco hung his greatcoat and scarf on the coat rack and wandered into the kitchen. The sun had set, but the space was bright and cheerful. Best of all, his lovely wife stood in the centre, waving her wand at several different pieces of crockery. Her face was flushed, and she wore a faded linen apron over her work clothes.
Draco came up behind Hermione, wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his nose in her wild hair. She smelled like lemons and sea salt. “How was your day?”
“Uneventful. Thought I’d try a new recipe tonight."
“Needing a challenge?”
“Always,” she turned and planted a kiss on his cheek. “How was the hearing?”
“Also uneventful. The defence pushed the trial back again. Something about wrackspurts.”
Hermione waved a spoon at him. “I told you you’d regret going up against Luna.”
“How can I help?
“Set the table?”
Draco opened up the cutlery drawer. “Out of forks, it seems.”
“Check the dishwasher,” she said, leaning over the stove to examine her sauce. “I might need you to taste test this.”
Draco unlocked the dishwasher as Crookshanks mewled. The half-kneazle rubbed between Draco’s legs.
“Stop trying to trip me. Your mother puts the knives in blade up,” Draco groused as he emptied the appliance of all the plates, cutlery, and glassware. He had to admit the dishwasher was a bloody useful piece of machinery. Most of their friends simply kept house elves, but Hermione wouldn’t stand for it when such Muggle inventions existed. Draco privately agreed that the dishwasher was far superior, mostly because it didn’t judge him for his sweet tooth. He probably washed more dessert plates than any man in London.
Crookshanks, undeterred, continued to pout. He followed Draco to the cabinets as he put the clean dishes away, and then to the table, where Draco laid out everything they would need to dine this evening. When Draco uncorked a bottle of Pinot Grigio, Crookshanks yowled and jumped onto the table, depositing fine orange hairs on the starched white tablecloth.
“He might be hungry.”
“I’m sure he is, but he’s also trying to kill me.”
“Don’t say that,” Hermione admonished, turning off the cooktop. “Crooks loves you.”
Crookshanks stretched upward, hooking his claws into Draco’s fine wool trousers. A wicked gleam in his beady eyes challenged Draco to make one wrong move, and the fabric would be cut to ribbons.
“It’s been years of this, darling. I’m telling you, he hates me,” He glared at Crookshanks, who made no move to detach himself from Draco’s trousers. “I love your mother very much, and I feed you, brush you, hell, I’ve even taken you to the veterinarian-thingy.”
Draco’s eyes widened. That was it.
Hermione never had time to take Crookshanks to any of the unpleasant appointments the half-kneazle needed as he aged. Draco, who had the more flexible schedule, was always the one to take him.
No wonder the beast was angry with him.
Hermione waltzed over to the table holding a large dish between two oven mitts, a triumphant look on her face. “This might be my best chicken yet!”
She set it down and Draco untangled himself from his wife’s beloved pet to pull out her chair. He glanced over at the refrigerator as she sat. The magnetic calendar on the front said Crookshanks had another appointment next week.
Draco put on his most apologetic smile as he took his seat across from her and cut the chicken. “It looks and smells delicious, darling. Oh, by the way, I think the rescheduled trial will conflict with Crookshanks’s vet appointment. Would you mind taking him?”
Hermione took a bite of her meal and frowned. “Oh, um, goodness. I don’t think I can.”
“Not to worry,” Draco soothed. “Maybe you could ask Weasley?”
His wife perked up. “Yes, that’s perfect! Ron owes me a favour.”
Draco coughed into his napkin to hide his laugh. Finally someone more deserving would bear the brunt of Crookshanks’s ire.
He leaned over and hand fed Crookshanks a piece of the chicken, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Tear him a new one, will you?”