Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The beaded bag jingled erratically as Hermione’s hand alighted on a vast assortment of objects. She pushed aside her daily items: a lip balm she’d been working on for three years, four cauldrons, five reference volumes from the MLE library, six potion vials, and seven self-inking quills. Digging around them, she moved to a sublevel within the spacious purse and grasped at what were presumably a sack of eyeballs, a master suite of furniture, the gift she kept forgetting to wrap, some treats for Crooks, and a roll of Spellotape.

In the submerged depths, her fingers deftly maneuvered around a Rememberall, a set of Extendable Ears, an emergency Portkey, a cherished item she’d turn into a Horcrux should the need arise, keys to nowhere, and a grass scented candle.

The purse kept jingling.

“Just a moment more. It must be in here somewhere…”

Inhaling grandly, Hermione resumed her wandering search. She ripped her old tent, sliced her finger on a sheet of loose parchment, and accidentally poked Nigellus in the eye.

“Nearly at the bottom…”

Scrapping at the worn velvet, her fingers slid across lint decades-old before finally clutching at three Knuts.

“Aha! I knew they were in here. Thirteen days ago I made change … well, never mind. The point is you doubted me.” Smiling triumphantly, she reached for Draco’s folded arms and, after prying his fist open, deposited her loose Knuts in his hand.

“For you. And now our deal is back on. My lunch money for a week!”

Unamused, Draco looked down at the petty change. He tossed Hermione a disgruntled look. “You want what you want, and I want what I want.” He picked at the ancient fuzz. “And for the record, I do not want these coins—I’m a billionaire—and I will not enjoy this manifestly nightmarish excursion to the Muggle carnival.”

Hermione reached up on her tiptoes and patted him on the head. “I know, but if I recall correctly, you said a similar thing about the zoo, too. Then, you bought it.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

*****

Magic could never fabricate the exact shade of putrid green that coloured Draco’s notoriously pale skin. It was a sickening hue of defecated asparagus that made onlookers’ stomachs curl, incited jealousy among the carnival’s freak shows, and made Hermione howl in delight.

“Oh Draco, your face!” She slapped her knee. “You look positively wretched. Let me take your picture?”

Hermione jostled about inside her beaded bag, certain a Polaroid was within.

“Take your time, Granger. My spirits are at an all-time high. This evening is one for the Pensieve.”

Hermione suppressed a snicker. “No need to look so spoiled. Two more attractions then it’s sayonara.”

The trip to the carnival had started well enough. The couple had Apparated to an abandoned area and walked leisurely to the site of the travelling carnival, quips aplenty and laughs voracious on the part of Hermione. She did her best to not share all the information she knew about carnivals and Draco did his best to hide his piquing interest.

“I’m curious about this corned dog?”

“Corndog. It’s a hotdog dipped in batter and fried hard.”

“A hot dog?”

“Trust me, you’ll love it. In these parts, it’s fine dining.”

Satisfied that he’d be getting the absolutely best the Muggle carnival had to offer, Draco commenced a steady stream of questions concerning Ferris wheels and the prospects of winning a stuffed toy.

At the entrance, they had purchased an indecent amount of tickets, and for the first forty-five minutes, the carnival experience advance smoothly. Upon disembarking from the Chair-O-Planes, the world began spinning off axis.

 “I’m in need of a break. We should play games at the arcade.”

“Only if you’re prepared to lose.”

It wasn’t until well-reasoned advice went unheeded that things went wonky.

“Malfoy, it’s a fool’s errand to eat that entire turkey leg. We should at least rest fifteen minutes after you’ve consumed that kilo of meat.”

Draco pointed imperiously with said turkey leg. “To the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

“I’m definitely telling you ‘I told you so’ later.”

And now Hermione was gladly laughing at Draco’s expense.

“You look ridiculous.”

“If you say it…”

“Malfoy, that would be cruel. Let’s head to the House of Mirrors. I want you to get a good look at yourself.”

*****

Not prone to sighing, Draco let out a huff. He had survived the carnival—or was about to survive it,— a   as the exit was fifty meters away. At the first sheen of sweat, he had put it in his mind to buy all the carnivals everywhere to shut them down.

In halting steps, he shuffled forwards. Please Merlin, don’t let her see or say anything.

“Ooh Draco! Look there. It’s a Fortune Teller.”

“Prophecies are for Potter and you hate Divination.”

“Well, it’s a carnival and we need the full experience. What’s the worst that could happen? You can sit there and I’ll get my palm read. Deal?”

“I already took all your lunch money.”

“Another deal, then?”

Draco looked longingly at the exit post, positive disaster would follow. “After you.”

*****

Madame Nickolia Centis was a stocky woman of fluid though studied movements. Tiny silver bells and bangles tinkled as she stood, revealing her pirate/gypsy costume that clashed comically with her overall neat appearance. She smiled grandly and beckoned the pair within the cramped tent, bedecked with fraying tapestries, gilded curtains, and stuffed with odds and ends from starter Divination kits.

 “We’ve made a mistake.”

The seer turned her inner eye to the naysayer, masking her distaste swiftly. She took them by the elbows ushering them in with meaningful silence.

“Madame, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“None of your fuss; fussing shan’t be tolerated.  Have a seat. Put your bums in a chair.” Not waiting to be told a third time, Hermione sat awkwardly as Draco relaxed watching the show.

“What a lovely cryst—”

“Silence, young lady! Let the gentleman speak.”

Uncomfortable with the attention, Draco deflected easily.  “She’d like her palm read.”

“No—the spirits are channeling.” She began quaking. “My body! The spirits! YOU!”

For ten frightful minutes, Draco and Hermione watched as Madame Nickolia Centis spun in dizzying circles, chanting haikus, making windmills with her arms, and recklessly rubbing her crystal ball.

“Perhaps we should call the authorities?”

 “THE SPIRITS WILL SPEAK. SPIRITS SPEAK!”

Virgin Malfoy womb

Be filled that which is hollow

Unicorns guard thee

Hermione turned to Draco, eyes wide in amazement, and put her ear to his six-pack. “I felt a kick!"

Chapter Text

 

“Granger, since you’re down there,” Draco drawled, smirking at his lap where Hermione’s head was conveniently resting.  Blushing fiercely with realization, she pulled her ear away from his sculpted abdomen and sat up hurriedly.  Draco threw the three linty Knuts onto Madame Centis’ table and, grabbing Hermione’s hand, dragged her out of the tent before the charlatan could make heads or tails of them. He hustled the two of them towards the exit.

“I’m telling you, Malfoy, I felt a kick,” Hermione insisted as she carefully edged herself through the rusty turnstile at the carnival exit.

 “No, you didn’t, Granger,” Malfoy scoffed. He grunted as he sucked in his gut and squeezed himself through the exit after her. Ugh. I overdid it eating all that shite. Note to self: get back on the egg whites and grilled chicken diet before my six-pack becomes a keg.

“Tight fit, Malfoy? Beginning to show already, are we?” 

“Very funny, Granger.  I’m so buff I shine.  I’m just a little bloated from all the carnival food you’ve been shoving down my craw all evening.”

“I did no such thing, Malfoy! Everything you ate was of your own volition.” She rattled them off as she counted on her fingers. “The popcorn, the toffee apple, the corn dog, the fried dough…“

*Urp* “That’s enough, Granger.”

“The ice cream, the deep-fried lard on a stick, the soft pretzels…”

“I said,”  *urk* “shut it!”

“…that freaky mutant turkey leg the size of a pterosaur’s …”

“Harf!” Draco interrupted, bending in half over the side of a convenient dustbin. 

Hermione patted him absently on the back and held his shaggy blond hair away from his face as she finished, “… and let’s not forget the double order of beer-battered onion rings.”

“Yak!” her companion agreed. 

“You’ll have to stop eating crap food like that, Malfoy.  It’s not good for the baby,” Hermione admonished him.  “Have you thought about names yet?”

Shaking his head vehemently, Draco opened his mouth to answer, but instead bent double again. “Ralph!” he protested elegantly, despite the fact that his stomach was trying to escape through his nostrils.

“What was that? ’Raif?’  Raif Malfoy?  Merlin’s acne, why don’t you just name him ‘Bully Bait’ instead?  Honestly, Draco, you might want to stick to your mother’s family’s astral naming traditions. Even a silly constellation name like… like Scorpius would be a more fitting name than ‘Raif’ for baby Malfoy, don’t you think?”

Draco whirled to face her, nose-to-nose. “Granger!” he shouted, spraying her with spit.  “I said ‘Ranulph’, not ‘Ralph’,[1] and I said it because I was violently vomiting the vile victuals you fed me. There is no baby Malfoy. I am not pregnant!” He panted, glaring at her with wild, bloodshot eyes. 

Hermione smiled apologetically at a passing middle-aged Muggle couple who were staring at them in shock.  “He’s had too much candy floss,” she stage-whispered to them conspiratorially. “It goes right to his head, poor lamb.”  They nodded and hurried away.  She waved a hand in front of her face. “Stop breathing on me, Malfoy.  You reek.” She rummaged once more in her beaded bag and from its depths pulled out a small tin. She opened it and popped a small white lozenge into his mouth.  “Have a mint.”  

Scowling, he sucked ferociously on the breath mint, his hand rubbing his sore abdomen. Catching sight of her thoughtful expression as she watched his hand, he turned away with a huff and stalked off towards the Apparition point. He wanted to go home to a shower, his toothbrush, and an entire tube of toothpaste.  His mouth tasted like a pair of Professor Slughorn’s sweaty garters. He Disapparated without a backward glance.

*****

Later that evening found them in their pyjamas, sprawling on the sofa in front of the fireplace in their shared flat, where they lived as roommates in a strictly platonic arrangement.   

Absolutely, completely platonic.

Nope, neither one had ever had any sexual thoughts whatsoever of the other one.  Ever.  Whenever she caught herself eyeballing the muscular, dripping wet Draco as he walked through the living room wrapped only in a skimpy towel, Hermione vowed to herself it would be the last time she noticed. She’d made that very vow six times that week, in fact, including that evening.  It wasn’t her fault if the towels kept shrinking every time she did the laundry.  It had to be something in the water.

For his part, Draco would swear that for years he had barely known that Hermione was actually a woman. Having discovered that she always left her bedroom door ajar when changing her clothes or undressing for bed, he swore that he never purposely checked out Hermione’s many … assets. All right, yes, he might accidently see some part of her creamy skin, but that couldn’t be helped: her bedroom door was across from his and when he lay on his bed at a certain angle with his head hanging over the edge as he craned his neck just so, the occasional glimpse was unavoidable.

“So,” Hermione began, fiddling with a cup of tea as she spoke.  “I’ve been thinking about what the fortune teller said.” 

At the opposite end, Draco threw his head back against the arm of the couch and groaned. “Are you still thinking about that shyster seer, Granger?  Give it a rest!”

“No, Malfoy, this could be important. What if she’s telling the truth?  What if it is a real prophecy?”

Draco snorted loudly and rustled his copy of the Evening Prophet as he folded it open to the crossword puzzle.  He picked up a quill from the end table.

Undeterred, Hermione went on, “I think we should analyze it.  Break it down into its parts and see if we can make sense of it. Tomorrow, let’s go see Parvati and Lavender at their head shop to get their opinion.” She nudged Draco’s leg with her foot. “Are you even listening to me?” He grunted, carefully filled in an answer, and then picked up his mug to sip his tea.

“Are you a virgin, Malfoy?”

At that moment, several things happened simultaneously: Draco spewed for the third time that night, thankfully just hot tea, but unfortunately this time all over Hermione; Hermione shrieked in surprise and jerked away, falling off the couch and breaking her elbow when it caught on the coffee table on her way down; and, the whoosh of the Floo signified an incoming call, which neither the wounded Hermione nor the affronted Draco heard.

“Did I hear you right, Granger?” Draco demanded over her piteous moans. “Are you seriously asking me if I’ve ever gotten laid?”

“Draco, really!” came a voice from the fireplace. “The poor girl is obviously in pain; the least you could do is answer her question; now, are you or are you not a virgin?”

“Mother!”

Chapter Text

 

“Mother! The answer to that question is none of your concern.”

Still unwell from his carnival experience, Draco slowly stood up from his sitting position to tend to Hermione on the remnants of their coffee table. Looking only at Hermione’s injured elbow, Draco began working on it while telling her, “You’re a train wreck, Granger. Two left feet prone to crashing into my handsome direction. It’s a wonder to survive making tea every morning. Now, move it slow and easy for a while, and if there is pain take two of those…?” Draco asked Hermione looking at her.

“Aspirins. There is still lots more you need to learn about the Muggle world, and your bedside manner could stand improvement,” answered Hermione.

“Well, now that that is done, Draco, answer the question! Are you or are you not a virgin?” his mother insisted. She felt she as well as Hermione deserved an answer. After all, she gave birth to him and had ‘dedicated’ a whole week to his birth. Lucius had been a boar about calling on the Healer every single day of that week while being insulted about his manhood. My poor Lucius.

Still feeling quite queasy, he rose slower than he’d knelt previously. He was not about to give an answer to that particular question.

Hermione repaired the table to sit on and staunchly looked straight into Draco’s stormy gray eyes. “Narcissa, I’d dare say that your son no longer is a virgin. Besides that, Madame Centis was quite clear on her Prophesy,” she told his mother, mimicking the fake fortune teller’s accent:

Virgin Malfoy womb

Be filled that which is hollow

Unicorns guard thee

Narcissa looked from one to the other, steadying herself with as much decorum as she could muster, and ordered them both to follow her to the Manor immediately.

Stunned by her harried reaction, Draco and Hermione rose from their sitting positions, but did not follow. They both saw enough of the Manor between the uncommonly tedious and mandatory Dîner de Dimanche, the unveiling of up-to-the-minute criticisms courtesy of Lucius, and the continued probing of their ‘uncouth bourgeois’ living situation.

Draco felt woozy as he surmised his mother’s objective. “No, Mother, we will not be travelling to the Manor today. You will explain what you know or think you know here. This conversation will not be held anywhere else; this is non-negotiable.”

In a show of support which threatened to topple their usually contentious and heated—in a strictly platonic sense, of course—relationship, Hermione literally stood by Draco. “Narcissa,” she said, “I was merely teasing Draco because of his gluttony and am  not in the least worried that the Prophesy is true. If you ask me, it’s hogwash. Divination is and will always be something to laugh about and get people to think they have something to look forward to or find a reason for the situation they might be experiencing. It’s not something to believe in. Unless you’re Harry.”

Narcissa, not feeling the least deterred, changed tactics. “Well, if you absolutely doubt this Madame Centis, then why did you bother going? Why was it something you entertained if you are sceptical? Dubious origin aside, I insist that it should be investigated to preclude any missteps about this so-called Prophesy.”

 “I took him to a Muggle carnival; visiting the Gypsy’s tent is complusory, Narcissa. I could foresee additional research  if there was  viable evidence to suggest that Draco is carrying the next Malfoy heir. However, men are incapable of being impregnated, so he can’t possibly be with child,” Hermione emphasised through clenched teeth.

Fighting the oncoming headache with a deep breath and closed eyes, Narcissa responded, “I was so looking forward to trying out this new spell that I’d read in The Quibbler about male pregnancy. Draco, would you humour your mother and at least let me give it a go, for old time’s sake?”

“Absolutely not, Mother! The Quibbler is full of fictitious information; I have no idea why you read such rubbish.”

At the mention of a spell, Hermione spoke up, “Do you happen to know the spell from memory?” Giving Draco a sideways glance she noticed that even in sickness he rolled his eyes at her gullibility. But, a new spell meant something more to learn, and Hermione Granger would never pass up such an opportunity.

“I am glad that you at least, want to try. The spell is easy enough, it is: Gravidanza Uomo Rivelare. The wand movement takes a little longer to master. They’re a bit tricky. I shall leave you two to it and send a diagram of it by owl. I will be impatient to learn the results. That is, if the spell even works,” Narcissa cautioned and exited their disreputable, shared flat.

Chapter Text

Draco was done with Granger’s tricks. 

He’d woken up screaming because she’d placed a pillow under his pyjamas top last night to give him a baby bump.  He’d complimented the omelet she’d made for him, which he later discovered had been filled with finely chopped pickles.  He’d opened the freezer to find twenty pints of ice cream.  He would never tell her how much he craved the Rocky Road, a flavour he usually abhorred.  It was just there, all alluring and marshmallow-y, calling to him.

He blamed the corned dogs.

No, he blamed Hermione Granger. 

And he would take his revenge as soon as he could concentrate.  Which was hard to do when she looked so pretty in her yellow sundress, with her chestnut curls piled on top of her head.

When his mother’s eagle owl flew through the open window and perched on the edge of the breakfast table, Draco reached for the note on its legs, prepared to Incendio it.  The bird pecked his hand.

“Eeeep!  Bloody hell!”

“Nice squeal,” Hermione scoffed.  “This owl is obviously for me.”

For the next two minutes, she studied Narcissa’s diagram and swished her wand through the air with precise movements.  She muttered, “Gravidanza Uomo Rivelaire.  Gravidanza Uomo... This isn’t hard at all.  Ready for your pregnancy test, Malfoy?”

“Not happening,” Draco answered.

“You owe me.”

“What?”

“You said you’d win me that stuffed unicorn with the glitter hooves last night, and you didn’t. Therefore, you owe me.  Plus, your mother’s owl is waiting for the results.”

“Fine,” Draco snapped.  He stood up, glared at her, and began to unbutton his white shirt.

Oh boy, thought Hermione.  Her heart started to race.  She hadn’t expected this. 

That sharp, gray glare of his was a nice touch, too.  It made her think of their sunny breakfast table – their table—and of Draco leaning her back onto it as he swept aside pickle omelettes and eagle owls.  Her body flushed with heat as he threw his shirt onto the floor.

She’d seen Draco’s naked chest plenty of times.  It couldn’t be avoided whenever she noticed the household’s shrinking towel problem.  However, she’d never stood quite this close to his naked chest before. The sight of it, so strong and fit, made her feel fluttery inside.  It was just there, all alluring and hard, calling to her.  She clenched her hands into fists, resisting the urge to touch the muscles of his flat abdomen.

“Well,” he said impatiently.

“Right,” she whispered.  “Yes.”  She held out her wand and performed the spell’s movements flawlessly.

“Gravidanza Uomo Rivelaire!”

Nothing happened.

Well, that wasn’t true.  Crookshanks strolled into the room, meowing for tuna.  But other than that, nothing happened.  No flash of light, no thrill of magic.  No baby.  No male pregnancy.  The prophecy was false, the product of a Muggle charlatan’s imagination.

“Want to try again?” Draco asked softly.  “Maybe you mispronounced it.”

Hermione looked up into his eyes and saw his glare was gone, replaced by a strange, intent expression she couldn’t interpret.  She caught her breath and swayed forward slightly.

Just then, Crookshanks hissed at Narcissa’s owl.

“No,” Hermione said, blinking. She took a step back.  “I’m sure I performed it correctly.  Guess you dodged that hex, Malfoy.”

“And here I had already chosen colours for the nursery,” he said.  His voice was almost solemn as he picked up his shirt and shrugged back into it.

“Green and silver are no colours for a nursery,” she said.

“I beg to differ.”

Hermione refrained from answering as she fed Crooks and the owl and penned a note to Narcissa, informing her that her only son was not up the duff. 

Now, it was time to move onto the second important matter at hand:  the best way to discover if her hot, twenty year old, billionaire flatmate was a blushing virgin.

Consulting the two biggest gossips in Wizarding Britain seemed like a good place to start.

*****

“I never slept with him,” said Parvati Patil.

“I thought you did,” said Lavender Brown.

“No, I thought you did.”

“I lied.”

“Oh.  I lied, too.  I’m so sorry that I lied to you, Lav-Lav!”

“Oh, me, too, Par-Par!  Can you ever forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive!”

“Best friends forever!”

Hermione felt her stomach lurch as she watched the two girls hug and coo.  Merlin’s Dead Goldfish, Lavender was actually crying.  And Parvati’s dark eyes were shiny, too.  If they didn’t stop soon, she would hurl all over their cramped, stuffy Divinationlove-nest.  Otherwise known as 81 Diagon Alley or The Cryptic Mystic, for all your divination and lifestyle accessory needs. 

“So, neither of you have slept with Malfoy,” she said.  “But can you tell me who has?”

“Oh, sure,” said Lavender, wiping her tears with her fringed scarf.  She and Parvati had adopted the Bohemian style of their mentor, Trelawney, only with shorter skirts and more leg.  “He’s slept with everyone.  Padma, Hannah, Millicent, Cho...although I’m not sure if I believe her.  She was mad at Harry when she told me.”

Parvati continued, “Daphne, Astoria, Seamus, and Pansy, of course.”

“Pansy’s a lesbian,” Hermione said.

“She is now, but... wait, do you think she lied, too?” Parvati asked.  “What are you getting at, Hermione?”

Resigning herself to a visit, Hermione sat on a comfy pouffe and told them about the carnival, the Muggle fortune teller, the prophecy of Draco’s virgin pregnancy, his blush, Narcissa’s Quibbler article, and the negative results of the Gravidanza spell.

“Did his belly glow blue or red?”

The question hadn’t come from Lav-Lav or Par-Par.  It had come from a wispy, girlish voice somewhere behind a display of crystal balls. 

“Luna?” Hermione said.

“Hello,” Luna Lovegood answered.  She walked toward them, smiling pleasantly, her infamous radish earrings swaying.  Her long, blond hair was twisted up into a loose bun and secured by two tarnished forks. 

“Did he glow blue or red?” she repeated, sitting down on a silky, floor pillow.

“Um... neither,” Hermione said.

“Then, the spell didn’t have a negative result.  It didn’t have any result at all.”

“How do you know?” Parvati asked.

“Because I wrote the article.  I was researching interesting bedroom techniques when I ran across the phenomenon of male pregnancy.  The Ministry’s trying to keep it secret.  You know how they like to control everything.  But as sure as there are Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, men are conceiving.”

Before Lavender could turn the conversation to interesting bedroom techniques, Hermione said, “Luna, this was my wandwork for the spell.  How does it look?”  She flicked her wand in the complex motions.

“Perfect.”

“And I said Gravidanza Uomo Rivelaire.”

“Ahhh,” said Luna.

“What?”

“It’s Grav-i-daan-ZAAH, not Grav-i-DAAN-zaah.  That should help.  Red if he’s pregnant, blue if he’s not.”

Lavender and Parvati immediately started chattering with excitement over the prospect of a pregnant Draco Malfoy, the crystal beads of their bracelets winking light all over the shop as they made gestures about big stomachs and baby showers.

Luna took this moment to lean close to Hermione and whisper, “And if you want to test his virginity, all you need to do is see if he attracts unicorns.”

“What?”

“The unicorns in the Forbidden Forest.  They frequent the waterfall about six hundred steps into the forest, east of Hagrid’s hut.”

Hermione knew the place.  She’d gathered aconite there.  It was lovely, but she had never seen a unicorn before.

“Don’t tell them the location,” Luna said, rolling her large eyes toward the cryptic mystics.  “They’d harass the poor creatures, which want nothing to do with non-virgins.”

“How do you know that?”  Hermione asked.

“I used to go there to read and think, and the unicorns would approach me.  Half of dozen of them.  It was like standing in the middle of the brightest possible light.  They really are whiter than snow.  But after Neville and I got busy in the potting shed, I never saw them again.”

“But aren’t unicorns attracted to purity of body and spirit?”  Hermione asked.  “Draco has the Dark Mark.  He may be reformed now, but it’s a powerful taint, nonetheless.”

“Oh, unicorns are highly literal creatures.  They wouldn’t care about that as long as he’s still got his cherry.”

Draco Malfoy, unicorn bait?  How could such a thing even be possible?  He was gorgeous!  And smart and funny.  And rich, if you cared about that sort of thing.  She remembered the sight of his bare chest that morning and felt fluttery again.  Seriously, you could bounce a Galleon off his stomach and make change.  How could someone with a body like that be a virgin?

The bells on the shop door jingled cheerfully.

“Oh, gods, she’s here!” Lavender cried out. 

Parvati answered with a squeak. 

They both rushed toward the figure standing in the doorway, a stocky woman with caramel-colored skin, dark hair, and silver bangles.

None other than Madame Nickolia Centis.

Chapter Text

“Professor,” exclaimed Parvati and Lavender in unison.

Madame Nickolia Centis snorted, all the while swaying her hips in graceful circles as she approached the four girls. “I told you two to reserve that title for my untalented alter-ego.”

Then, her eyes alighted on Hermione. “How lovely it is to see you, my dear.”

Hermione didn’t have a chance to respond before the madame closed her eyes and started shaking, as if in a trance.

“Here she comes,” whispered Lavender.

“They really hate each other,” added Parvati, leaning in for maximum gossip-y effect.

“Both are true Seers, though,” said Lavender, and Hermione decided that she’d better inspect the happening for herself.

Quite disturbingly, Madame Nickolia Centis was shrinking. In a puff of smoke, before Hermione’s eyes, appeared Professor Sybill Trelawney, complete with the huge, thick glasses, dreamy eyes, trailing shawls, and everything.

After a moment’s disorientation, the professor pointed one skeletal finger at Hermione. “You. What are you doing here? You are an insult to the noble art of Divination. Full of disrespect for the Inner Eye ...”

As if on cue, Lavender began shooing Hermione out of the shop. “You’d better go,” she said under her breath. “She’s in one of her moods.”

Although slightly fazed by this bizarre turn of events, Hermione paid no heed to it. After all, Divination was all a load of dragon’s dung (or worse, since the latter could be very useful in certain potions, such as Vimore’s Multi-purpose Cleaning Brew, as absurd as it may sound).

She was only a bit dismayed that there was no chance to further discuss the pregnancy spell with Luna, who had stayed and studied Trelawney with interest, no doubt concluding that the condition of their ex-professor was caused by some imaginary creature.

In any case, real experiments were better than pure theory, so Hermione got home and cast the spell again on Draco. She didn’t tell him outright that she had pronounced it wrong the last time, but his hysterical chuckling clearly stated that he’d noticed.

Unfortunately, Draco’s abdomen did not glow at all, even after her fourth try. 

“I told you it wouldn’t work.”

Hermione chose not to dignify his statement or the accompanying smirk with an answer. Instead, she stormed into her room and set out to pen a letter to Narcissa, detailing the results and asking for her opinion on the experiments.

That being done, Hermione was determined to temporarily forget about the issue until the older witch replied. She failed spectacularly, though. To make things worse, ice-cream—her comfort food—had been repeatedly going missing from the fridge, no matter how many times she re-bought it. Especially the Rocky Road flavour, which she’d been a hundred per cent positive that her flatmate would never touch under normal circumstances. It had become somewhat a full circle of misery for Hermione: No ice-cream. Draco must be having his cravings. But the spell failed. It doesn’t make sense. Narcissa hasn’t answered. My head hurts so bad that I need ice-cream. Again, no ice-cream. And so on ...

Eventually, Hermione decided to confront the ice-cream thief, his sensitive pregnancy hormones be damned. She caught him pink-handed, licking at the last of her precious strawberry-vanilla delight.

He responded to her accusation and various death threats by calmly washing his hand at the kitchen sink. “You know what, I’m sick of this crappy ice-cream you buy from the supper-market,” he said, casually striding towards her and taking her hand. “We’re going out for some real ice-cream.”

Hermione was so flummoxed that she didn’t protest when he Apparated them both to the Leaky Cauldron.

“You will become very unfit if you continue with your gluttony, Malfoy,” she admonished as they walked into Diagon Alley.

“Not any more than you,” he retorted. “Want to bet on who can run to Fortescue's first?”

“Hey, that is unfair! You have longer legs!” Hermione yelled her objection to thin air. Draco’d already gotten a head start. On his long, graceful, attractive legs. A part of her brain was blaring with warnings of potential danger to their extremely platonic relationship, but she pushed them all to the back of her mind to concentrate on the race.

When she arrived at the ice-cream parlour, Draco was nowhere to be seen. Bracing herself with one hand on the shop counter and the other on her aching stomach, Hermione managed to gasp out her query. “Have ... have you seen ... a blond—”

“Oh, Draco Malfoy?”

She nodded, still short for breath. The waiter in front of her shuddered and promptly turned a rather fetching shade of green. “He ordered take-away.”

Of course, thought Hermione. Her own need for ice-cream forgotten, she hurriedly Apparated back to their shared flat to find him lounging on the couch, looking like a kid who’d just gotten his favourite treat. Well, judging by the contents of the bowl that currently occupied the coffee table, her analogy was only half-correct. No sane kid would go anywhere near a bowl of anchovy-topped sundae, whose colourful swirls suggested that Hermione might be sick just by deducing their flavours.

“Seriously, Draco, you should stop running around like that. You may miscarry the baby.”

“For the last time, I am not pregnant,” growled Draco.

“You are too.” She pointed accusingly at the sundae on the table. “You’re craving for things so weird you’re afraid of eating them in public.”

“What if I am?” he snapped back, much to Hermione’s surprise. “If that’s the case, I’ll gladly have a miscarriage, thank you.”

“You don’t mean that!” Hermione found herself suddenly on the verge of tears. Blast it! Mood swings were supposed to be his specialty. “That is ...” she forced down a hiccup, “so cruel.” Another hiccup. “What if the baby heard you?”

Before Hermione could stop herself, she dropped down on her knees and clambered to the spot next to Draco. She wiped away the errant tears, gently pressed one cheek against his still-very-well-defined abs (Focus, Hermione, focus!) and started murmuring soothingly. “There, there, baby. I’m so sorry that Daddy was being so mean. But don’t you worry. Mummy is here. Mummy loves you very, very much.”

When she finally looked up, Draco was staring at her strangely. Blood rushed to Hermione’s cheeks. Oh Merlin, I just called myself “Mummy” to ... to his ... his ...

Her brain decided that it was becoming too distressed to pursue the thought and instead directed her to flee from the mortifying scene. Hermione jumped back from Draco, this time managing to knock her knee on the corner of the coffee table and crashing to the floor with a thud.

Narcissa chose that precise moment to appear in the fireplace.

“Now, now, Draco, what have you done to the poor girl? Again.”

“She only hurt herself with her own clumsiness,” said Draco. Then, thinking better of it, he mimicked his mother’s tone. “Mother, what are you doing here? Again.”

“I was hoping to invite you over for dinner at the Manor tonight.”

“Today is not Sunday, Mother.”

“Of that I am well aware,” replied Narcissa indignantly. “However, your father and I have very important news to announce.”

Hermione, who had been blissfully forgotten during the whole exchange and had been trying mightily to remain so by suppressing her groans of pain, was being silently enlisted to help Draco. Ignoring his pleading look and concentrating on her I-need-to-avoid-Draco-Malfoy-until-this-embarrassment-wears-off goal, she said, “You’d better get going, then, Draco. Don’t worry about the laundry. I’ll stay at home and do it for you.”

“Oh, no, no, Hermione, you are very welcome to come,” said Narcissa. “In fact, I had meant to invite both of you.”

At this, Hermione did groan aloud. She blamed it on her bleeding knee. Surely, Narcissa would understand. So, after much fussing on the atrocious state of Hermione’s knee, which mainly meant procrastinating on Draco’s part, Narcissa and her none-too-eager dinner guests Floo’d to Malfoy Manor.

Lucius was already waiting when they arrived at the dining room. If Hermione hadn’t been so pre-occupied with her newly-healed but still-sore knee, she would have found herself viciously murdered by the look Lucius gave their whole party. Narcissa didn’t even flinch. She had apparently developed the perfect immunity over the years. Draco, whose attention was not quite so diverted and whose immunity was not quite so strong, suffered the full force of the “attack”. He cowered a little before regaining his composure, after which Lucius focussed his glare solely on Narcissa.

With a few graceful strides, the Malfoy matriarch came to stand next to her husband.  She tenderly put her hands on his shoulders and grinned. It was an expression Hermione had neither seen nor thought she would ever see on the regal woman, but as always, it only served to make her look more elegant, if that was even possible. Meanwhile, Lucius was still scowling at his wife.

“Draco,” began Narcissa, “you are going to have a little sister.”

Chapter Text

“Betelguese? Askella? Nunki? Girtab? Peacock?” Granger’s eyes were alight with unholy glee.

Draco reached over and pinched her thigh.

“Ow! Stop doing that! I’m going to get a bruise.”

“It’s a dream. It’s only a dream,” he murmured, clutching the sofa cushion tightly to his chest.

He couldn’t believe his parents still did that sort of thing. And why, oh why had they never told him he was part-Veela? Apparently, the Veela biological drive demanded multiple progeny, and so when his parents had reunited, post-war, that drive had kicked in. With a vengeance. A vivid visual of his parents, mid-coitus, slipped into Draco’s mind, and he recoiled in horror, whimpering. He wished he was blind.

“We’re still here, darling.” Narcissa said, ruffling Draco’s hair.

He squeezed the sofa cushion, which threatened to burst at its seams, and started rocking slightly.

Lucius frowned at his son. For Merlin’s sake, it was only a tiny baby. The boy need not make such a fuss. The world did not revolve around his highness, the drama princess, and it was high time Draco realised it and grew up. This juvenile display was clearly Narcissa’s fault. The entire Black line was too high-strung and self-involved, by half. “I think the boy might be in shock.”

Draco stopped rocking with a jerk. He thrust the cushion from his body with enough velocity that it landed on Crookshanks, lounging by the fireplace. He ignored the disgruntled half-Kneazle and glared at his father. “Man.”

“Boy.”

“Man.” Draco said through clenched teeth.

The ladies rolled their eyes at each other behind the wizards’ backs.

This again.

“Boy!” Lucius declared triumphantly. “Who bought a Muggle zoo last year, hmmm? Do you realise how many breadnut leaves a Guatemalan Black Howler monkey can consume in one day?”

“Concessions have a two thousand per cent mark up! What we charge for chips covers filet mignon for the lions twice over!”

Lucius patted his chest as if his heart just gave a twinge. “The lions eat filet mignon?”

Draco snorted. “It was a hyperbolic example given to illustrate how obscene our profit margin is.”

“Ah ha!” Lucius narrowed his eyes, abruptly changing tactics. “If Malfoy Industries is making so much money, why do you still live here?”

His dismissive glance swept the lounge of his son’s shared… abode. He couldn’t abide homey cheerfulness. Lucius eyed the abundance of framed photos, sentimental knick-knacks, the detritus of daily living in evidence—a bowl sticky with melted ice cream, a pair of dirty socks underneath the sofa table, a fuzzy, well-loved cat toy lying on the hearth rug—and shuddered in horror. Give him polished black granite floor to ceiling, so shiny one could see his reflection in it, any day.

“That is beside the point,” said Draco, refusing to answer.

Draco had moved in right after the completion of his Ministry-enforced “eighth” year at Hogwarts. He’d been assigned partnership with Granger in Arithmancy, and eventually she became one of the very few friends he could count on. With his family’s assets frozen and his parents in Azkaban for five years, he’d had no place to go, until Granger had offered her spare bedroom. A series of menial jobs had ensured his survival. When prodded by acquaintances, Draco claimed he was still sharing a flat with Granger out of sheer laziness. But the truth was, he didn’t think she could get by without his contribution. The woman thought three fuzzy Knuts constituted a week’s lunch money, for Merlin’s sake. His staying on had nothing to do with nightly glimpses of creamy, lick-able Granger skin either. Nothing whatsoever. Draco, by dint of willpower, did not think of the resultant permanent crick in his neck or the Magical chiropractic bills that totalled far more than his share of the rent.

Lucius opened his mouth to reply, but Narcissa laid her hand on his arm, quelling him with a light touch.

“Draco is of age and, therefore, a man.” said Narcissa, giving Lucius a pointed look at his muttered, “Boy.”

“And you’re going to be a big brother!” Hermione exclaimed, beaming at Draco.

His stomach lurched at the reminder. Draco breathed deeply, trying to stave off a panic attack. His father was pregnant. He couldn’t be. He could not be. It was not possible. It’s just a dream. It’s only a dream. As if it had a mind of its own, Draco’s hand moved to pinch Hermione’s thigh again.

“Oh, yes! Thank you for reminding me,” said Narcissa, pointing her wand at Draco’s stomach. “The sexing charm didn’t work for you, Hermione, because Miss Lovegood neglected to mention that you must be related to the charmee, either by blood or by marriage. It’s a common requirement of such intimate spells.”

“But,” Hermione bit her lip in thought, “what about mediwitches? They diagnose pregnancies all the time.”

“Diagnose, yes. Reveal the sex of the baby? Never. Unborn male infants were often used in rituals of Dark Magick long ago. The relationship requirement was a safeguard against such sensitive information falling into the wrong hands.” Lucius explained.

“Erm… ” Hermione bit her lip again.

Draco interceded, grateful for the distraction. “What if a family member is evil, or say, bat-shite insane?”

“Draco! Language!” Hermione said, blushing in discomfort.

He rolled his eyes at her admonishment. “You wouldn’t invite them round and hope for the best.”

“There was a reason why witches went into confinement.” added Narcissa. She raised her wand and executed a complex series of movement with an elegant flair.  “Gravidanza Uomo Rivelare.”

Draco’s abdomen glowed red.

Chapter Text

Draco sat on the exam table feeling petulant. MediWizard Simmons had been gone for far too long, and Hermione hadn’t said a word to him since then. He looked down at the bright pink exam gown, which did a very poor job of protecting what little dignity he had left.

“I don’t see why this is medically necessary,” he groused, picking at the hem of the gown. “I don’t believe for a moment that a BodScan Wand can’t go through one flimsy layer of cotton.”

Hermione sat opposite him on the visitor’s chair with her arms crossed. “I don’t see why they sent us to the first floor. Your ...” she stuttered on the word, “pregnancy is not a creature-induced injury.”

“Where would you have put me?” he shot back. “Spell damage?”

She frowned and, after a moment, said, with a decisive nod, “Second floor.”

“Magical bugs?”

Before she could explain her reasoning, there was a quick knock at the door. The MediWizard entered before either of them could say he could. He shut the door, dimmed the lights, then flicked his wand. The wall before them brightened, and Simmons hung three black-and-white scans of Draco’s innards for all to admire.

“If I wasn’t terrified of losing my medical license,” he began, “I would say that this is impossible.” He looked between Hermione and Draco, expecting agreement. All he received were two furious looks.

“But how is it possible?” asked Hermione. It was all fun and games when there wasn’t actually a chance that Draco could be pregnant, but now that it had actually happened, there were several biological inconsistencies that needed clarification.

“Magic?” he suggested.

Hermione launched herself from her seat, an action so violent that it made Draco jerk and expose more of himself than the exam gown should have allowed. She blushed but otherwise pretended not to notice as she advanced upon Simmons.

“This is serious!” she yelled. “There is a pregnant man sitting in this room right now, and from what I see on those scans,” it was Draco’s turn to blush now, for indeed, those scans showed everything, “he doesn’t have the necessary organs to develop or carry a foetus to term or, Merlin forbid, birth it!”

“Quite right!” Simmons said, nonchalance intact despite her outburst. “From what I can see, the embryo is currently residing in Mr Malfoy’s vermiform appendix.”

“My what?”

Simmons turned to Draco. “Your appendix, dear boy! Small vestigial organ hanging off your cecum? May play a small role in immunity? Sound familiar?”

So as to not look daft, Draco nodded along with Hermione. “Well, what is it doing there?”

“Waiting.”

Draco shot Hermione a confused look, which she did not catch as she was too busy glaring at Simmons.

“Waiting? What does that mean, waiting?”

“You said it yourself!” Simmons replied. “There’s no way a man can carry a foetus to term. He hasn’t the correct hormone levels to ensure safe development, a womb to house it, or – pardon my vulgarity – the hoo-ha to deliver it.” Hermione sneered; what was so vulgar about the word vagina? Simmons continued: “Mr Malfoy’s body is simply housing the embryo until those needs are met.”

“Until the needs are met ...” Draco ventured slowly. “You mean –”

“A womb for rent!” Simmons interrupted. “The next woman you have sex with will be the lucky recipient of your embryo. Perhaps this young lady would be willing to volunteer?”

It was Draco’s turn to launch from his seat, and the exam gown fluttered open once more. He was too indignant to care, however. “You, sir, are quite possibly the worst gynaecologist I have ever met! Hermione, we’re leaving!”

“Draco, your clo—”

But it was too late; Draco had already stormed from the exam room in a bright pink whirl of fury. Hermione gathered his clothes quickly, shot Simmons one more scathing look, and vowed to write St Mungo’s Human Resources department to lodge a complaint. She caught up to Draco as he was stepping into an elevator. He held the door for her and accepted the armful of clothes she offered as she stepped in.

When the elevator was between floors, Hermione pressed the emergency stop button. She glanced at Draco, who was more upset than she had ever seen him. He stared blankly at the steel before him, arms crossed, and looked to be vigorously chewing on the inside of his cheeks.

“You should put those on,” she suggested.

He continued glaring for a moment then sighed. “Turn around,” he ordered, and Hermione complied. The disposable gown fell to the floor with a light flutter. A moment later, Draco slid down with it. She ventured a glance and, verifying that he was again fully clothed, joined him on the floor. She took his hand.

“We’ll figure this out,” she said quietly.

Draco scoffed and brought one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from her. “And how we will do that?” he asked bitterly. “The only way to get this thing out of me is to put it into someone else.”

Hermione blushed and said, “You could try a condom.”

This earned her a short laugh. “Veela magic managed to override my biology and trick my cells into forming an egg when they should have produced only sperm. Somehow, I doubt a thin layer of latex is going to stop it.”

“There might be another option.”

“If you think that being a virgin for the rest of my life—”

“No.” Hermione cut him off quickly. That alternative would be unbearable. Sharing her idea was slightly less so, but not by much. “We could ... we could reconsider the prophecy.”

His reaction was as she suspected: overblown incredulity. “And let’s fly to Mars on matching broomsticks while we’re at it!”

“It’s no more insane than the idea of a pregnant non-transsexual male!” she snapped, effectively silencing his sarcasm. “There isn’t much to work with,” she continued after a moment. “‘Virgin Malfoy womb. Be filled that which is hollow. Unicorns guard thee.’”

They were both silent for a moment, then Draco asked: “Why would I need to be guarded?”

Chapter Text

“Darling,” Hermione said to Draco. 

They sat on a bench in the Malfoy’s zoo before the Guatemalan Howler Monkey habitat.   A black, baby monkey hung by its tail from a branch, nibbling a giant leaf and staring at Draco with bright eyes.  Another baby.  Even here, he couldn’t escape babies.

“Are you listening?” Hermione asked.  She resumed reading the parchment delivered by Narcissa’s owl just moments ago.  “‘Darling, we heard that you visited Medi Wizard Simmons yesterday.  I presume he gave you the same advice that he gave your father and me.  We are pleased to report that your precious, little seedling of a sibling has been transplanted into my womb...’”

“Eww!” Draco said.  The baby howler monkey cooed at him.

“‘...With impressive virility and style.’”

“Stop it!”

“I think that last bit was from your father.  The handwriting is different.  More... virile and stylish.”

“Granger!” Draco snapped.  “Please skip to anything not having to do with my parents’ disgusting sex life.”

After several long seconds of reading, Hermione said, “Oh, dear.”

Dread pooled in Draco’s stomach like acid.  “Tell me.”

“‘We have taken the liberty of apprising an elite selection of our dearest friends (all those who possess unmarried daughters of age) of your immediate need for a womb and a bride.’”

“What?!”

“'Yours affectionately and with child, Mother and Father.'”

“Noooo!!”

Draco’s frustrated cry set off the howler monkeys, whose howls actually sounded more like guttural, resonant growls.  Except for the baby’s.  It hooted, with an adorable, high-pitched, “Ooo  ooo  oooooo!” 

Hermione calmly folded the parchment and slipped it into her beaded bag.  Her fingers brushed against that bloody gift she kept forgetting to wrap.  As she watched Draco drop his head into his hands, she decided that he needed the gift more than Ron.  She was about to pull it out when two more owls swooped down and landed on the ground in front of them.

One was pretty with brown feathers and a mincing manner of walking, tossing its head about.  The other was smaller and more aggressive, hopping forward with a screech.  It had sleek, black feathers on the top of its head.

Certainly not, Hermione thought.  “Whose owls are those?”

“Astoria’s and Pansy’s.”

“Your first prospective wombs,” she said, taking the notes wrapped around each owl’s right leg.  “Shall I read their applications to see who has the wider hips for an optimum birth?  I believe that would be Pansy.  I suppose she assumes you won’t mind her preference for girls.”

“Just...”  Draco sighed and looked at Hermione.  “Just take me out of here.  Take me someplace no one would ever guess I’d be.”

Hermione’s heart clenched as Draco reached out his hand to her, palm up.  He looked so weary.  She would help him in any way she could.  She took his hand and led him toward the nearest Zoo Floo, which was hidden from Muggles in a dense grove of bamboo.

“Why don’t we just Apparate?” he asked.

“Apparition’s not good for the baby.”

“Oh,” he said quietly with a glance over his shoulder.  The baby howler monkey cooed again, then returned to nibbling on its leaf.

*****

After Flooing into Hagrid’s hut, finding it empty, and then walking six hundred steps into the Forbidden Forest, Hermione and Draco stood in a beautiful clearing beside a waterfall.  Surrounded by the soft rustle of green leaves, he felt at peace for the first time in days.

“This is nice,” he said.  His sense of peace deepened as he watched sunlight transform Hermione’s brown hair into gorgeous shades of gold, bronze, and caramel.  She walked the edge of the clearing, muttering and waving her wand with a practiced hand. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Setting up a barrier to keep out the owls.  They’re very clever.  It will probably only hold for an hour or so.  But that should be enough time.”

“For what?”

“For the unicorns to come.”

“‘Unicorns guard thee’?” he said skeptically, raising one pale eyebrow.

“I thought perhaps they could provide some answers,” Hermione said, finishing her wards and stopping before him.  “Of course...”—at this, he noticed a pretty blush colour her cheeks.—“Of course, I’ll have to hide, since they won’t want anything to do with me.”

“Why not?”

“Luna said they’re quite fastidious about... sexual purity.”

Draco felt his own cheeks heat up and cursed his fair complexion.  If he hadn’t been so upset at St. Mungo’s, he would never have admitted to being a twenty-year-old virgin.  It was embarrassing, especially since he’d used all his cunning to craft a reputation as the ultimate sex god.  He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, feeling vulnerable and unsure of what to say.

“It’s because of your Veela heritage, isn’t it?” Hermione said.  “Your need for a mate.”

He nodded.  “I am not going into more detail than this, Granger, but I can’t have sex with anyone but my mate, and I haven’t found her yet.”

“How can you find her?” 

“Through smell.  Father says Mother smells luscious, to use his completely inappropriate and ridiculous word.  To me, all women smell like rotten cabbage and armpits.”

“Oh, God!”  Hermione said, taking a step back.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Not you,” Draco said, laughing at the horrified look on her face.

“What do you mean, not me?” she said, suspicious.  “What do I smell like?”

“I don’t know.  I cast a spell on myself years ago to avoid smelling females.  They’re just too repellent.”

“For how many years?”

“Since about third-year, when puberty hit.”

“But then...” Hermione voice drifted off and her dark eyes grew wide.  She couldn’t believe this.  How could he be so stupid? 

“Draco!  Seven years?  My God, you could have found her by now.  Your mate!  There’s no way you ever will if you keep casting this spell!”

By the time she’d finished this impassioned speech, she’d walked up to him and gripped him by his biceps.  He stared down at her in shock, and she stared up at him, dazzled by the sunlight on his white-blond hair.  She was breathless.  From her impassioned speech, of course.  The clearing grew still and quiet except for the steady rush of the waterfall.

“Granger,” Draco said softly.  He picked up a long strand of her hair and held it between them, seeming to study it.  “I just couldn’t stand to know that you smelled like rotten cabbage and armpits, too.”

Funny, but as silly as Draco sounded, Hermione didn’t feel like laughing.  She opened her mouth to say something equally foolish about his hair when something dropped from the sky and bounced off her head.

“Ouch!“

She looked down and saw a round, green fargul nut.  They were often used in potions, to soak up impurities.  Two more fell onto her head in quick succession.

“Ow!!”  She put her hands over her head and peered up at Draco. 

“They’re not hitting me,” he said with a smirk.  “You appear to be their target.”

As if to prove this statement, five—FIVE—nuts bounced off the tops of Hermione’s hands, leaving Draco untouched.  He pulled her close and cast a Shield Charm.  They both gazed up into the tree above them. 

It was buzzing, the nuts practically vibrating to jump off the branches and pummel Hermione.

“What’s going on?” Draco whispered.

Above the sound of the angry tree and the waterfall, they heard what could only be described as a melodic and imperious whinny across the clearing.  A brilliant light shone from a break in the trees.  A moment later, as her eyes adjusted to the angelic brightness, Hermione saw the unicorn. 

“Oh,” she breathed in wonder.

It was the most exquisite creature she’d ever seen.  Whiter than snow, tall and majestic, with a silky mane and a horn that shimmered like diamonds.  The sight of it filled her with inexpressible feelings of hope and joy. 

Until she realized it was glaring at her.

The unicorn hated her.  She, Hermione Granger, was loathed by unicorns.  It was like being slapped by Santa Claus.  She felt a lump in her throat.  The creature stamped a front hoof and whinnied again, such a gorgeous sound.  But she knew what it was saying.

Get away from him, you dirty whore!

The tree above her was shuddering now, and Hermione knew she was seconds away from a full-on fargul nut attack.  Anger bubbled inside her.  What gave this unicorn the right to judge her?

“Fine!” she screamed, pushing away from Draco. “I guess slags aren’t welcome here. Too filthy for the virgin and his poncy-arse horse!”

“Hermione—” Draco sighed.

“No!”  She couldn’t bear for him to see her cry.  “I’ll just watch from a safe distance so you and your white git of a mythic equine won’t be corrupted by the dangerous, smelly slut!”

With that, Hermione stomped into the forest, out of sight.

After a moment, Draco turned his gaze to the unicorn.

 

Chapter Text

"Well?" Draco snarled at the beautiful creature. "She’s gone. Happy?"

Twitching its ears at Draco’s tone, the unicorn began to pick its way regally through the clearing. As it drew near, a wail of despair and anger filtered through the trees.

"Hear that?" Draco demanded. The magnificent animal stopped and seemed to listen. Draco gestured wildly. "You made her cry, you white-maned bully."

The unicorn turned toward the sound, shrugged, and returned its attention to Draco. "So?" it nickered in a smooth baritone. "She’s an impure strumpet beneath my notice."

Draco gaped, flummoxed that the unicorn could actually speak. He was also struck by how much its rich, silky voice resembled his father’s. His Magical Creatures education had never mentioned that unicorns were capable of speech. After a moment, his brain processed what the unicorn had said.

"Hold on, Hermione’s not impure! She’s only had sex once. One measly time with the Weasel, and it was for shite. I consoled her for hours afterward. I even let her use my pillowcase to blow her nose! She’s hardly a slag or a… a strumpet!" Draco felt the colour rising in his cheeks as indignation swept through him.

The unicorn stallion snorted dismissively, shaking its head and tossing its long white mane. "She is no longer a virgin and is therefore impure and unworthy of you."

"Circe’s chastity belt, you sound exactly as my father did when he spouted his pure-blood/Mudblood ravings! You're just as full of shite." Draco's voice quavered and he paused. Were those actual tears pricking his eyelids? What's wrong with me? He blinked rapidly before taking a deep steadying breath.

"I’ve never met a woman with a more pure and beautiful soul than Hermione. That, to me, is worth loads more than some stupid, arbitrary piece of membrane left over from the female fetus forming in the womb. It’s just skin! Hermione is pure goodness."

Draco paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists in agitation. "I mean, really, Father! Yes, she’s the daughter of Muggles. She’s also magically powerful and gifted, extremely intelligent, not to mention curvy and cute as hell, and she has the softest skin imaginable. She could do anything she wants in life. She’s always putting everyone else first and going to great lengths for them. She is kind, warm, and caring and the best friend I’ve ever had—not that I deserved it. But if she is still considered impure in your eyes, Father, then damn your pure-blood ideas all to Hell!"

 

*****

Partially hidden behind a large, gnarled oak tree, Hermione stopped crying as she witnessed Draco admonishing the unicorn. She listened incredulously. Hearing Draco defend her honour so vehemently was thrilling. Arousing even. It was better than chocolate. Better than sex! Well, at least sex with the Weasel... er, Ron. Yes, that was it.

 

*****

Panting, his hair in his face, Draco stared defiantly. He swiped some tears off his cheek. The beast flared its nostrils as it considered him.

"Well?" Draco snapped.

"Are you finished?" the creature asked, mildly. It stared imperiously down its nose at him.

"Why? Gonna poke me with your horn?"

"No. But I am going to correct you. Handsome and charming as I may be, I am not your father."

"What? I didn’t say you were!" Draco hesitated. "Oh. I guess sort of did. I got a bit carried away."

"Indeed."

"Well, excuse me for living," Draco fumed, arms crossed. The animal whinnied with laughter.

Draco scowled. "Shut up, Unicorn."

"Have you considered seeing a therapist?"

"I said, shut up, Unicorn," snarled Draco through clenched teeth. The braying laugh was getting on his nerves.

"Please, Draco, if you are going to be rude, at least use my proper name," the beast said, still shaking with mirth.

"You have a name?"

"Of course I do. All intelligent creatures have names." The unicorn looked thoughtful. "And some not so intelligent."

Draco was curious now. "So, what's your name? Silver? Trigger? Sparklebuns? Studly McBighorn? "

The unicorn snorted and pawed the ground. "No, none of those! Despite the fact that I am supposed to guard you, the idea of poking you with my horn is beginning to have real appeal."

"Then tell me already, before I make up one for you," huffed Draco, impatiently.

"My name," the unicorn paused for effect, "is Charlie."

*****

All crying had stopped. In fact, Hermione's cheeks were crimson from trying not to laugh aloud. Charlie the Unicorn?! I have got to write this down for the baby's scrapbook. She quickly stuck her arm into her beaded bag, drew out a pencil stub and the piece of horrid wrapping paper she'd been meaning to wrap that stupid gift with, and began to take notes.

*****

The birds sang, the waterfall fell, and the centaurs charted the skies. Draco waited, but the unicorn said nothing further.

He finally burst out, "That's it? Your name is Charlie?"

"That's what I said. I am the leader of the unicorns of the Forbidden Forest. Our two families have a long-standing relationship."

Draco could hear the distant, scratchy sounds of writing. That's my Hermione, scribbling away. He smirked. Making himself comfortable on a large rock, he drawled, "All right, then. Do tell: how are we connected, Charlie the Unicorn?"

Charlie harrumphed. "A little respect would not be amiss."

"Forgive me. Please enlighten me, Chief Charlie," Draco deadpanned.

The stallion scowled but otherwise ignored Draco's impudence. He wanted to get this over with; it was unicorn mating season, after all. His mares were waiting. Instead, he told of the female Veela who fell in love with and married the Malfoy heir centuries before. Thereafter, the Malfoys had had a pact with the unicorns of the Forbidden Forest wherein the creatures would act as guardians of their menfolk's Veela virtue. If an unmated Malfoy man became pregnant, the magic of the pact would draw him to the unicorns in subtle, secret ways. They would prevent his harming his soul and bloodline through the choosing of an unworthy woman as mate.

"But surely that's completely unnecessary!" protested Draco. "All Veela are biologically programmed for a specific mate. All girls smell like cabbages and armpits to us except for our soul-mate, so why the need for the pact?"

The unicorn rolled its eyes. "Because Malfoy men are dumb arses. If a Malfoy man is not yet mated, we are to determine why the bloody hell not and take steps to correct the problem. But should the woman be an unworthy strumpet—"

"You mean a non-virgin," Draco interrupted.

"Whatever. If she is in such a state, we give him the secret to increasing her worthiness."

" And what might that be?"

Shaking his mane, the unicorn said simply, "Fargul Nut Paste."

*****

Fargul Nut Paste? Hermione paused to glare at the tree that had recently pelted her with nuts. What the hell does that do?

 

*****

"What the hell does Fargul Nut Paste do?" sneered Draco.

"I will implant the paste recipe into your mind. Take some of the nuts from this tree. Your impure mate-to-be must eat it as well as spread it all over her body for it to work. It will restore her purity, allowing you to claim and impregnate her and be with her for the rest of your days."

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Draco declared.

"It most certainly is not! Now. Is the impure harlot who came here with you your mate?"

"What? My friend's name is Hermione! ...and I don't know."

 

*****

He didn't have to stress the word 'friend' quite so much, thought Hermione, grumpily. A sudden image of a half-naked Draco flashed through her mind. She smiled. Wouldn't it be a hoot if I was his mate? The semi-nude blond vision suddenly became fully naked and tied to her bed. Oh my. She fanned herself with the garish, scribbled-on wrapping paper. But we are friends. Yes. Friends.

 

*****

"You've lived with her for years, you are very good friends, yet you don't know if she's your mate?"

"No."

"Do you know why you don't know?"

"If I knew why I didn't know, I'd know, Charlie. Duh."

"It's because you've turned off your sense of smell since you were thirteen years old, you pillock!" With that, Charlie the Unicorn poked Draco hard with his horn. Twice.

"Hey! Mind the merchandise!"

"Now, you can smell once again—yes, even the cabbage-y, armpitty women—and find your mate."

"Blimey, everything smells so fresh! Like clean linen! I must go home and wash the sheets." Draco was inhaling great lungsful of air. "Thanks!"

"You are welcome, Draco. Now, the recipe is in your head. Grab your nuts, go home, and start sniffing. I have a feeling you'll find your mate sooner than you think." He turned to leave, but Draco held up a hand.

"One moment. What's to keep me from boinking my mate when I find her, no matter how impure she may be?"

"I strongly advise against it. If you were to do that, it is you who would need the nut paste—to paste your nuts back onto your body. Understand?" Draco nodded, reflexively shielding his nether regions with his hands.

The unicorn whinnied. "Follow the rules and do not tarry, Draco. Your erratic emotional state from earlier tells me you need to find your mate—and quickly. Malfoy men simply do not weep. Good day."

Charlie the Unicorn left. Draco waited until the animal was out of sight then conjured a sack, charmed it to stay open, and hurriedly scooped up handfuls of fargul nuts. He filled the bag, cinched it, and called for Hermione while hoisting his nut sack onto his shoulder.

As Hermione appeared through the trees, Draco noticed she was looking a bit flushed. He knew she'd been crying. He hoped she wasn't coming down with something. That's all he needed: a sick Hermione lying on the sofa, bossing him around. He sighed, already annoyed, but just then a light breeze sprang up. A wonderful fragrance permeated the air and intoxicated him, chasing all other thoughts from his mind.

When Hermione reached him, she faced an utterly blotto Draco Malfoy, swaying gently from side to side. She frowned. Draco smiled.

"Hi, 'Mione."

"Are you all right, Draco?" she asked, cautiously.

"Yesh, I shure am. You shmell that? 'S lovely. I likes it. I needs it. What ish it? Lesh go home."

He hefted the sack, leaning heavily on her shoulder and grinning like a loon.

"Wanna help me paste my nuts?"

 

*****

Chapter Text

Hermione led the way out of the forest, swatting at the branches that kept catching in her hair.

“You know, I never thought that unicorns were all that impressive,” she remarked with not a single hint of bitterness. Behind her, Draco slurped. “I mean, they’re so… shiny. Their horns sparkle. And so what if they talk? Obviously they don’t have much to say.”

She swatted near her left ear, brushing away a sun-warmed branch; Draco gasped loudly. She thought he heard him mumble, “Wants it…”

“Thestrals,” she continued, ignoring him. “Those are impressive! Black, skeletal, intelligent… Much more useful than a unicorn. I bet they can talk, and they simply choose not to.” Another swat. “And if they did, I bet they wouldn’t be nearly as inane or ponce-y as that bloody pack mule. Dear Merlin, what keeps catching in my hair!”

As she swatted once more, she felt her hand connect with Draco’s nose.

“Ouch!” Draco’s nut sack rattled as he stumbled backward a step.

“Draco!” She rushed forward to steady him just as he caught his balance. Their faces were suddenly just inches apart, and the wondering look in Draco’s grey eyes rooted Hermione to the spot. In the same instant, she became hyperaware of the nearness of his body, the softness of his skin, and the feel of his breath upon her lips. He smelled faintly like mown grass, new parchment, and cheese pizza. Like Amortentia. It made every bit of her tingle.

Then, she remembered. Her eyes widened and she launched herself backwards, nearly tripping over an upraised root. “Armpits!” she shouted.

Draco blinked twice at her and subtly wiped drool from the corner of his mouth. “Hm?”

“Bless it!” she recovered quickly. “What was your face doing so close to my neck?”

He stiffened, and a bit of his old self seemed to return. “Nothing!” he snapped. “It wasn’t close. I tripped, you shee, and I couldn’t… Couldn’t shelp it… You’re jusht sho… Shmelly.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as his loopy smile returned. Five seconds of sanity – a new record. He reached toward her hair. She batted his hand away and started forward once more.

“First smelling he’s done since puberty,” she muttered sourly. “I suppose even cabbage must smell good after that long.” Though there was nothing she could do about it, the thought that she reeked was not a pleasant one. The fact that he couldn’t keep his gob shut about it was much, much more grating.

“ ‘Mione, do you-”

“Call me 'Mione one more time, Draco, and more than just Fargul nuts will be mashed when we get home!”

Finally, he shut up.

*****

The fluorescent kitchen light caught the brown of her ringlets just so, giving them a radiance that Draco had never before noticed. The way the sweat dripped down her temples and beaded on her upper lip was at once erotic and awe-inspiring: the lengths her body would go to keep her cool! Draco only wished he could do half as much for her. Her arms as they pounded the Fargul nuts… So muscular, and yet so elegant and coordinated, how she both pounded and rotated!

“ ‘Mione…” Her shoulders tensed; he longed to massage them into relaxation, but sat on his hands, wary of another Stinging Jinx. “The way you use a mortar and pestle… It’s just so… Perfect.” He sighed, and as she readjusted her grip and her knuckles turned white, his hands snuck out from beneath his buttocks, reaching toward her, longing to touch, to hold…

“Draco, that is enough!” His eyes snapped to hers. Her voice… It was so beautiful when it screeched. Like an owl. No, better than an owl! Better than an entire parliament of owls!

“Do you understand?”

He realized then that he should have been listening. She must have read the guilt in his eyes, because she growled, dropped the pestle, and put her hands on his cheeks.

Every bit of him zinged into complete and utter focus. He had never felt so alive.

“Go. Away,” she said very slowly. “Okay, Draco? You have. To go. Away. These nuts are difficult enough to grind without having to worry about where your fingers are. So go, take a shower, and when you come out, I’ll have the paste ready and we can go out and try to find your mate. Okay?”

Draco nodded, eager to do whatever she asked. But when she let him go, he found that he had absolutely no motivation to leave her. He remained on the stool next to her, content to stare at her and her flaring nostrils for the rest of eternity.

“Outrageous,” she muttered. She pinched his chin between her finger and thumb and lifted his face upward. He was at attention again, and his body followed, lifting itself from the stool. She led him out of the kitchen and into his room, close to his bed, which felt all sorts of right.

When she let go of his chin, his knees went wobbly.

“ ‘Mione…”

“Stay,” she commanded, and backed out of his room with her wand raised. He got up to follow her, but she was too quick and closed the door before he was even within reach of it. He heard her mutter, “Colloportus,” and walk away.

The scent of her vanished, and Draco slowly recovered himself. He lowered himself onto his bed gently, feeling extraordinarily weak.

Fog lifting, the sun reappearing after a rain shower… No, not even close. Getting away from her was like being woken up by a troupe of Guatemalan black howler monkeys after having been in a five-year coma caused by being hit by a bus driven by an angry rhinoceros and loaded with well-fed elephants.

He lay down, put his hands on his head, and closed his eyes.

Hermione didn’t smell like armpits and overcooked cabbage. Not even close. She smelled like sautéing onions and garlic, hot-fudge covered ice cream, and autumn in turns. She smelled familiar and warm and comforting and everything else good and wonderful that Draco had ever encountered. And his reaction to her smell could only mean one thing.

Hermione was his mate.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Draco cursed his hormones, but did not bother wiping them away. The insanity of his situation finally hit him, and he wept not for himself, but for her.

He didn’t care if he stayed pregnant for the rest of his life or if he’d never have sex with anyone ever, though he certainly did not look forward to either outcome. He cared about her.

If Hermione found out the truth, she might feel obliged to help him. But he outright refused to force her into his bed (fleeting though the time may be) or into a relationship (for she would never consent to have his child and then not help raise it). Hermione was a strong, independent woman. She had to have a choice. He couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

Feeling much better now that he’d had a good cry, Draco made his way into the bathroom for a shower. He reveled in the spicy-minty smell of his shampoo and the lemony-citrus of body wash he’d stolen from Hermione. He dried himself the best he could with a towel about the width and breadth of his right arm, clothed, and stared at himself in the mirror. Then he took a deep breath and aimed his wand at his nose.

If she wanted him, she would have him, but on her own terms, Veela heritage be damned.

*****

Hermione added the last teaspoon of cinnamon to the Fargul nut paste, which bubbled thickly on the stove. It was a supremely unattractive beige and smelled like mothballs, even with the cinnamon. It matched the recipe she’d managed to pry out of Draco exactly.

She started as Draco rapped on the doorframe, then paused to look a little longer at his delectable wet hair and playful smirk.

“The towels seem to have shrunk again.”

He held out a rather damp rag, and Hermione bit her cheeks to keep from smiling. Oh, to think of where that towel had been!

“So they have,” she said with forced disinterest. She turned back to the stove and gave the paste a quick stir. “Feeling better?”

She saw Draco nod in her peripheral vision. “I’m sorry about my behavior earlier,” he said. “I didn’t realize how powerful smell could be.”

“A very important sense,” she concurred. They were silent for a moment.

“So, that’s it?” He moved close behind her – so close that she could once again feel the heat from his body and smell the body wash he constantly nicked from her. Even though she must have smelled like the underside of a men’s gym bag, she couldn’t help leaning closer. And even though Draco must’ve silently gagging over it, he didn’t move away.

“It is,” she confirmed quietly.

“Someone has to eat that?”

“Your mate has to eat that. And cover herself with it. To become pure.” She scowled, turning away from the pot and Draco, ashamed of the tears of frustration in her eyes. “I mean, what’s the big deal with having sex, anyway? Women are liberated! It’s nothing to be ashamed of! And it’s… The fact that I – I mean, your mate – has to be held to some standard… Some unattainable, hypocritical… That a normal woman isn’t – can’t be good enough for you on her own? It’s… Well, it’s absolute horse-shite.”

*****

Hermione stormed away before Draco could reply. He watched her go with a heavy heart, certain that she would never choose to be his.

Chapter Text

If Draco had been able to smell her again, he would have known that her scent had changed from freshly-laundered linen to one of salt-scented, bitter tears and misty-cold fog over the ocean. But he was trying to be unselfish by not revealing that he knew his mate’s identity and her proximity. All the same, she—his mate—was currently seven paces from his door, and if Pythagoras’ theorem was anything to go by, the quickest route to her was not via her heart but by bypassing the chest of drawers and following the narrow path to her bedroom door.

Still, he felt compelled to woo her and fall into her awaiting, jiggly arms. It would be a hard job—the wooing; the hugging would be easy—but he was willing to try, even if he failed at convincing her of his love. He was torn. It would be a life of Hell if he failed, but if he couldn’t win her and she would only ever look at him as a friend and nothing more, he would have to accept it. So long as she was happy, he would willingly suffer the consequences of a broken, lonely, and dejected heart.

Hermione, in her wish to escape as quickly as possible, didn’t notice the opaqueness in his eyes. She didn’t know what to think, how to act, or what to feel about the likelihood that she was not his mate. She hoped that it was her but couldn’t bring herself to voice her thoughts. The words “his friend, his friend” kept ringing ceaselessly in her ears like a torrential waterfall. She wanted to rage, to sling hot coals, or take up archery, anything to make the ache she was feeling go away. Why did it hurt—why should it hurt? It wasn’t fair. She always gave and gave, never really expecting anything in return, and now she felt empty.

She wanted to crawl under a rock or hide in a cave. Would it help? Would crawling into a cave and foraging for edible vegetation while wearing a poncho really help? She didn’t know. But for him, she would do anything. For him, she would duel all the Death Eaters as they stood to block their path. For him, she would enter a banana pie-eating contest, even though she had a mild allergy to bananas. For him, she would entertain the thought of a civil conversation with Charlie the Unicorn, despite knowing that it could happen over her dead body. She would do it all for him because she valued their friendship.

In her hasty retreat, she fled to the still-steamy shower and inhaled his scent.

She had a new purpose. She had helped Harry defeat the Dark Lord. Now, she would help Draco find his mate, even if deep down, her heart would be broken into a gazillion pieces never to be glued back again. How hard could it be? It couldn’t be any harder than the nuts she and Draco had cracked or turning into a hermit who lived in an outcropping of dank rocks. If it did prove more difficult than cracking nuts or turning hermit, than gee-by-golly she was Hermione Granger smartest witch of her age, brain extraordinaire, the smartiest pants that had ever walked the streets of Great Britain.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Draco had poured the Fargul Nut Paste into a jar, cleaned the cauldron, and set it to dry for future use. She approached him, and with as little trepidation in her voice as she could possibly managed asked, “Are you ready to go in search of your mate?... I am your friend and will help you find her... You can count on me,” she told him with a forced smile on her face that did nothing to transpose her stilted and alienated tone. Slowly, her tone took on an effortless quality, like a babbling brook shifting into a mellow stream, lulling Draco from listening attentively. “The first order of business is making sure you and the baby are healthy. We can’t put your bundle of joy into any type of situation that will endanger him or her. Second, we need to be absolutely certain that your soon-to-be-mate is someone of sterling character worthy of carrying the Malfoy heir. Third, she has to be a virgin like that awful Charlie has declared—bunch of rubbish, if you ask me. Now, to list the available candidates... Draco, Draco, DRACOOOOO!!!!!! Aren’t you even listening to me? I am trying to provide much-needed assistance here.”

Draco suddenly broke out into uncontrollable, gut wrenching tears, and loud sobbing punctuated every word. “Granger, I can’t focus. This is too much. Why has my life become so complicated? Why does my mate have to be a virgin? It’s not fair!” This rant was followed by more uncontrollable sobbing. It seemed like he would never stop or regain control of himself. If only he could let her know how unselfish he was trying to be, if only they weren’t merely friends... they were mates! He would shout it from the rooftop, if he could.

Hermione walked up to him. She had to do it. His emotions were too much. She slapped him. He was hysterical, and she missed the old days when she could not tell how he was feeling. She had always admired his self-control and she felt it her duty to return him to his pre-pregnancy state.

He stopped crying and rubbed his sore cheek, looking horror-struck. But he was also grateful. “Thanks, I needed that. You’re always so helpful.”

“I aim to please. Now, do I have you back with me or shall I slap you silly again so you can regain your lost sense of decency?” Hermione asked him most pleasantly, adding, “I do understand that your hormone levels are fluctuating wildly, how new this must be for you, and how scary it is to your manly sensibilities. I apologize for slapping you, but it was necessary.”

Silently, she steered him towards their apartment’s hearth. The work of finding his mate needed to get underway soon and there was no better place than a pub to find a bride ready to incubate. Draco, crestfallen, allowed himself to be led, mum about his true intentions. They travelled through the Floo to Hogsmeade. Maybe it was just a hunch, but she had a feeling that he would find his mate there. As soon as they stepped out of the Floo at the commune station, two elves dusted them clean of soot. They both thanked them and made their way to the Three Broomsticks.

Hermione hoped that the place would be jammed pack with eligible ladies so that the pain of suspense would go away and Draco would be happy again and implant his unborn child into the awaiting virgin womb. Draco was doing his best to keep a clear mind and not get emotionally distressed again. He really hated being pregnant and couldn’t believe that women continued to want and to produce the next generation. His inner Veela sulkily told him that he was wasting his time. What he needed was a way to let Hermione know that she was his mate and not just his friend.

Before opening the door to the local pub, he decided that he’d make Hermione jealous. Alternatively—who knows?—he might get so sloshed that he might spill that she is his one true mate.

Hermione was surprised when they walked into the pub and were greeting by cackling and high-pitched chatter. It seemed that The Three Broomsticks had a full house of a surprisingly all-female variety. From left to right, top to bottom, there were no Wizards in sight. Hermione resigned herself to a dull night while Draco delighted in the lack of competition for attention from all the witches.

Under close observation, Hermione noticed that the pub was full, hosting all the female professors from Hogwarts. Curiously, Hermione approached Rosmerta to find out the reason for the unusually high attendance of that particular population. Upon turning, however, she didn’t have to ask the proprietor, and her jaw dropped. On the farthest wall, a big banner with blinking lights in different colours announced in bold letters:

“VIRGINS OF THE WIZARDING WORLD UNITE”

Never in her wildest dreams or imagination had she thought that all of the female professors could be “unsullied,” as that bastard Charlie would say. She’d always assumed that most, if not all, were married or in a relationship. This was unreal.

Draco, for his part, was not at all surprised that they were virgins and was looking forward to using his Veela charm. He knew that none were his mate; this could be a spot fun and boost his ego. He would start with Professor McGonagall and go down the line to Irma Pince, the librarian. The last one on the list would be the one that was rumoured to have a “thing” going on with Filch.

Chapter Text

The volume of girlish squeals had not reached a decibel high enough to conceal Draco’s own peals of delight. Somewhere between going ‘down the line’ with flirtatious offers and Greek apologies, Draco had instigated an epic pas de deux with the ladies. The music, a fierce techno beat, staccato’d:

CUZ I GOT THAT BOOM BOOM POW, DEM LADIES JOCKING MY STYLE.

The lights once dim were subdued by a fog machine and simultaneously scattered into a dizzying array of colours, courtesy of a shiny disco ball. The drinks were poured freely. Not much was done to the tables, but they were clean and pushed against the wall. Because for one night only, which was all the ladies had asked for, The Three Broomsticks was transformed into a posh scene fit for shaking that groove thang.

Assembled by Malfoy, the professors done the Conga Line, the Macarena, the Bunny Hop, and half of the Cha Cha Slide. As Draco’s multiple non-sexual partners grew tired and pooped out, he became The Last Man Dancing.

“Hermione. I. Am. A. Robot.”

Hermione motioned the waiter for a non-virgin drink before reluctantly complying with his request. “Excellent mechanics.”

“The movements have to align with the music or a bloke will risk looking like a ponce-y idiot. See how my arm goes straight out on the down beat? And then how my opposite leg comes up?”

*****

“It must be all the smelling he’s doing. He’s gone completely mad. Completely, utterly, totally—” Hermione’s drunken rant was cut short by the entrance of an unwelcomed powder-noser.

“Are you quite through in there? That devilishly hot piece of—”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione queried nearly ripping the door from its hinges.

“That tall, blond gentleman? He’ll be putting on a show for ladies’ night at a quarter of. I just wanted to powder my nose and freshen up.”

Hermione pushed passed the virgin woman. “Over my dead body.”

“So, I shouldn’t powder my nose?”

The steam whistling out of her ears prevented Hermione from hearing the question. She was livid with impressive vivacity and style. This outing was meant to find Draco’s sexually inexperienced bed-mate.

She was not meant to hurl her insides out and wear them as ghastly couture fashion.

She was not meant to watch Draco do every line-dance invented since 1963 and partner with the likes of Madame Hooch.

All of this was not meant to be.

She would rage against. . .The Machine.

*****

HER LIPS ARE DEVIL RED AND HER SKIN’S THE COLOR OF MOCHA. SHE’S LIVING LA VIDA LOCA.

*****

“Identification, ma’am.”

“What? This is absurd. I’m already inside the building.” Hermione pushed against the bouncer. In the time she had taken to raif, the sequestered hallway had been cordoned off, fitted with a door for screening ‘prying eyes’, and stationed with a lanky gatekeeper.

“Back of the line,” the bouncer demanded.

“There is no line!”

“Can I see some I.D.?” he asked once more, none too gently.

“Are you serious, Harry? I’m older than you. What are you doing here anyway?” Harry’s tough guy façade dropped. Males these days, they just didn’t understand that girls just wanna have fun, responsibly.

“Blimey, Hermione, I’m on special assignment. What are you doing in a place like this? Are you on the guest list? The women in there are quite saucy. Gin says hello, by the way.”

“Really, Harry? It’s The Three Broomsticks, and I have a roommate to, to…”

“All right, All right—hold your imperious unicorns.” Harry lifted up the red velvet rope. “It’s only because I have a sincere affection for you.”

“And I for you. Now, bugger off.”

*****

Inside, Hermione was greeted with proof-positive that virgins were no nearer to purity than Lav Lav herself. As Harry had attested, the women were categorically debauched with their tiaras and giggling and contact lenses. Strumpets to the nth degree! And where had all the extra women come from? The sight of the bachelorette party made Hermione’s blood boil. Then…the music came on:

YOU DON’T WANT TO LOSE IT AGAIN. BUT I’M NOT LIKE THEM. BABY WHEN YOU FINALLY GET TO LOVE SOMEONE. GUESS WHAT? IT’S GONNA ME.

Like a purple dinosaur borne aloft on billowing clouds held up by a baby Guatemalan Howler Monkey, Draco Malfoy sailed onto the stage in eccentric Jurassic splendour. It was the most beautiful sight of Hermione Jane Granger’s whole life, though she was sure the costume was the results of drunken transfiguration.

When he did a twirl, several ladies of weak constitution fainted. When he rawr-ed, the melodious sound caressed her soul. When he gyrated his hips, she felt her body grow flush with hot pangs of romantic longings. And when he beckoned the crowd with his long, yellow claws, all Hades broke loose in an indecorous display of possession and unladylike behaviour.

“He’s mine!”

“You must be joking. We’re fated!” shouted Irma Pince.

“You’re not his type. He said as much in third-year, you hag.”

“Who asked for your five pound, minus three quid, £1,50 in fifty-pence, nine ten-pences, £0,30 five-pence, and three one cent pences? That’s £0,02 if you’re daft in the head.”

“Did it take you all day to figure those sums, McGonagall?” Hooch taunted.

Draco, undeterred, continued dancing upon the stage. He was heedless to the extent of the uproar he was causing with his lustrous virgin body. Although he wasn’t as young as he used to be and had the shape of a three-month pregnant woman, he still had all the moves like Jagger and the showmanship to carry on with the performance.

“Say it to my face!”

“I proclaimed it. I prophesied it. Thereby, he is rightfully mine. He belongs to me.” bellowed Madame Centis as Trewlaney shimmered in and out of focus.

“Shameful Cougars! The lot of you.”

I DON’T THINK YOU’RE READY FOR THIS JELLY. I DON’T THINK YOU’RE READY FOR THIS JELLY. I DON’T THINK YOU’RE READY FOR THIS. MY BODY’S TOO BOOTYLICIOUS FOR YOU BABY

Hermione stood stock-still as her eyes deceived her for the second time that evening. Surely, the vision that was ‘Draco the Neanderthal’ had to be a chimera if she was witnessing her old professors on the cusp of a fracas? These were honorable women, renowned in their respective fields, but here they were, fighting over a man as if he were chattel. It couldn’t be so.

Big, round tears trickled from her eyes. “I knew it. It’s just too good to be true. Purple dinosaur people! As though my deepest, darkest desire could be realized! Life is cruel.” Settling on her hands and knees, Hermione crawled over to the stage, out of the crossfire. This environment was completely unfit for a man with child. She would push aside her intoxication and rescue him.

Woe is me.

She flung a mild curse at an unstable witch blocking her path.

“Always a room-mate and never a Veela-mate,” she mumbled in her drunken haste.

Crawling the distance to him, she hoisted herself up onto the makeshift platform as Draco danced on a tier above her. Filthy with grime and grit, she begrudged having to pure being with sullied hands. Meanwhile, Draco was busy shaking his booty in sensual circles. From the look of his dashing smirk and the way the sweat tickled down his throat, he was having a grand ol’ time.

She wanted to be dazzled but fought to remain focus. “Psst! Draco!”

“Not now, Granger. I’m busy.” He did an eight-count move.

“No, Draco, it’s got to be this instant!”

“Well if you insist. Wait for the refrain.”

“Fine!” Crossing her arms, Hermione tapped her toes to the music as she waited. Her shoulders did a little bounce and her hips a slight dip.

“All right. What is it?”

“No! This is my part.” She swayed to the beat.

“Are you serious?! Do you know the counts I had to do to execute a premature ending? It’s bloody difficult, Hermione. Bloody difficult.”

“Well, you’re awfully cranky,” Hermione said while two-stepping. “We have to go. Everyone’s completely at their wits’ end. Look around you.”

Draco looked about at the chaos. Enthusiastically, Hermione swayed with her body.

“Ready to go then, Draco?”

“I was certainly looking forward to the next two tracks. It’s a pity ladies can’t control themselves around me.”

“Take my hand and I’ll Apparate us some place safe. We haven’t time to reach the Floo.”

“Not good, Hermione,” he chided as he reached for her, ready for a magnificent escape. “By the way, I’ve got something very important to share with you.”

Could it be? She played it cool. “Then, I look forward to hearing it.”

*****

“CIRCE’S HOLY BEARD. She’s kidnapping him!”

OOPS!... I DID IT AGAIN. I PLAYED WITH YOUR HEART. GOT LOST IN THE GAME. OH BABY BABY OOPS!

And before the crowd of frenzied ladies could converge on the duo, in burst Charlie the Unicorn.

Chapter Text

You could have heard a pin drop if not for the chorus of “Oops’” blaring from the Wiz-speakers, which apparently couldn’t help but stutterat the presence of the illustrious chief unicorn. The virgin ladies, however, had been stunned into silence—mid-run, mid-flight, mid-jump, or mid-whatever-threatening-pose-they-were-in—as Charlie tossed his silvery mane. Said mane was glistening, and in the light of the disco ball, Charlie’s horn no longer sparkled, it positively dazzled everyone in sight. They all swept to the sides and looked up with big, adoring eyes as the unicorn majestically trotted in.

Even Hermione, self-proclaimed hater of all things unicorn, took a moment to shake herself from the trance. To be fair, she only woke up fully when Charlie whinnied sultrily, “My ladies.”

Of course, such an endearing whinny is not directed at me, thought Hermione bitterly. It would be more like “bawd”, or “cocotte”, or “drab”, or “harlot” ...

Before she could lose herself in a game of listing insulting names for her own state of impurity (in alphabetical order), Hermione tightened her grip on Draco’s hand and murmured, “I think this is our chance.”

With that, she Apparated them both back to the flat. As swift as their journey was, Draco could have sworn that before they spun into the compressing sensation of Apparition, he heard a gleeful whinny echoing into his consciousness. “You owe me a colossal favour, boy. A colossal favour.”

It sent chills down Draco’s back. However, upon closer inspection of the pearly object right next to his head, which turned out to be the toilet bowl, he decided that the source of coldness was actually the bathroom floor.

“Oh my gosh,” a miserable wail came from the bathtub, followed by a wobbly Hermione climbing over the ledge. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Draco. I should have known better than to drunk-Apparate.” She was hovering above him now, her angelic face pale with worry. “Are you all right? Is the baby all right? Should we go check at St Mungo’s?”

Draco felt his heart swell. She must care for him. A lot. Perhaps... perhaps... as more than a friend. He beamed up at her. “Never been better.”

Still lying with his back on the floor, Draco took Hermione’s hands in his own, too caught up in his happiness to notice that her face had gone even paler after his assurance. “Hermione, you are my m—”

He was cut off as Hermione suddenly lunged for the toilet and proceeded to throw up. This instantly brought Draco to full alert. He deftly extricated himself from between Hermione and the toilet and sat up by her side. Thankful that Hermione had swept her hair up into a ponytail before they’d gone out, he gathered up a few stray curls and held them out of her face.

Hermione gave him a barely perceptible nod of thanks. She was still violently retching into the toilet, bracing herself over it with one arm, the other arm cradling her stomach.

“Draco,” she gasped, “my belly... hurts.” Hermione’s whole body was shaking like a leaf.

Draco’s own stomach was filled with dread. This was not simply the alcohol she’d consumed. It was something more serious.

“Draco... I... ”

He caught Hermione just in time to save her from collapsing onto the bathroom floor.

*****

Draco Malfoy ceased his pacing as soon as the door of room 2034, St Mungo’s Hospital, creaked open.

“You,” he growled at the man who had just come out. “Aren’t you supposed to be a gynaecologist? What are you doing here?”

MediWizard Simmons arched an eyebrow. “So, you haven’t transferred the embryo into her yet?”

“What is it with you freaking morons and transferring embryos? Of course I haven’t. She’s my—wait, you can’t even tell?”

One glance at the other man’s face and Simmons knew that his attempt at humour had been misplaced. He straightened his white coat and said seriously, “Of course I can tell. Merely wanted to lift the tension.” This earned the Healer another glare. “I am a Healer of many talents, and as it happens, the hospital is currently a bit short of staff. I can assure you that—”

“Fine, whatever.” Draco waved his hand dismissively. “How is Hermione?”

“She’s sleeping, recuperating, and she will most likely be released tomorrow morning.”

Draco breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Now, I am quite certain that our diagnosis is correct, but just to be a hundred percent sure, does your... friend have an allergy to bananas?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know if she happened to come into any kind of contact with bananas or Fargul Nuts earlier today?”

Oh, no, it can’t be. Draco forced himself not to panic. “She made a paste out of those nuts.”

“This means she probably touched the nuts and also inhaled some of its scent, then?”

Draco nodded.

“Just as we suspected,” said Simmons. “She’s lucky that she hasn’t consumed any of that paste. Otherwise, the reaction would have been much less delayed and much more severe. With Fargul Nuts allergy, the digestive system is the most vulnerable.”

“You mean to say that Hermione is allergic to Fargul Nuts?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Simmons, starting to stroll away.

Despite the brick that seemed to have lodged itself in Draco’s throat, he managed to ask the final question. He needed to get to the root of this. “And what do bananas have to do with anything?”

The MediWizard turned and smirked at him. “Oh, didn’t you know? Bananas and Fargul Nuts are distantly related.”

*****

The army of furious virgins was closing in on Hermione and Draco.

“Nooooo!” shouted Hermione, waving her arms around frantically in an attempt to ward them off. Instead of smacking into human obstacles, she was suddenly engulfed by cold air. Hermione shuddered and opened her eyes (Why hadn’t I realised that they were closed before?). After inspecting her surroundings (St Mungo’s, most likely.), she concluded that she was having a nightmare, and the gush of cold air was the result of her accidentally throwing off the blanket. Then, she dug up her recent memory to find that the last was of her emptying the contents of her stomach in the bathroom. So, Draco must have brought her here.

That was when Hermione noticed the voices outside her door. Her ear perked up at the word “daughter-in-law” coming from Lucius, but the rest was quite muffled. Draco has just told his father, then. With her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Hermione fished out an Extendable Ear from her beaded bag and crept towards the door.

*****

“Father, what are you doing here?” Draco barely kept himself from groaning. He was in absolutely no mood to deal with his parents’ theatrics right now.

“How is my daughter-in-law?”

“Your what?”

“My future daughter-in-law. You shouldn’t be so rigid about semantics, boy. Now, how is Hermione? I heard that she was here because of an emergency. Your mother wanted to come, but I insisted that she stay at home for the sake of the baby.”

Draco stood stock-still throughout his father’s whole tirade. “How... how did you know?” he asked finally.

His father smirked. “So, she isis your mate then.”

Draco mentally cursed himself for falling into his father’s trap. Then again, how could his father have such an accurate suspicion?

Oh... of course.

Damn you, you stupid unicorn, thought Draco.

Hey, hey, hey, show a little respect, young man, a voice emanated from inside Draco’s head. No doubt it was Charlie and his psychic superpower. I saved you from a throng of wanton virgins, Draco. The least you can do is to let me entertain myself with some meddling.

Great, now I hear voices in my head.

Didn’t I tell you to consider therapy?

Shut up.

Okay.

That easy?

Nah, just come back and deal with your father. This will be so much fun. Hee hee.

And with that, Draco was left to his own devices. He had intended to hide the truth from his parents, but now that they knew, they would never let it rest. Even if they knew that his mate was not a virgin and allergic to Fargul Nuts, they would do anything to prevent their only heir from remaining a virgin for the rest of his life.

Poor Hermione! She wouldn’t have a choice. She would even volunteer once the word got out, being the martyr that she was, even though Fargul Nuts could be the death of her.

Draco reached a decision then.

“She’s never going to be your daughter-in-law, Father,” he said.

“Why ever not?” asked his father with a raised eyebrow.

“I’d rather die a virgin than marry a filthy whore like her,” he spat. His father looked taken aback, but it was nothing compared to the angry cry coming from the direction of Hermione’s room.

“You lying bastard!”

Hermione stepped out into the corridor and fixed Draco with an icy stare. Draco felt his heart break into a million pieces. He had hoped to at least stay friends with her. He should have known, though. If he was to successfully lie to his parents, he would have to carry it all the way through.

“All this time, you said virginity was overrated, but this is what you really think!” She pointed her finger at him accusingly, but he just stood there with what he hoped was an unreadable expression. It was for the best.

“That’s why you haven’t told me, isn’t it?” continued Hermione. “Because I am so... so whorish that even Fargul Nut paste cannot erase your disgust.”

Hands still shaking with rage, Hermione took out her wand. At that moment, all he wanted to do was to rush to her, hold her in his arms, and tell her that he loved her. But instead, he closed his eyes and waited for her hexes. He would take anything she threw at him now. He deserved it.
The hexes never came, though. A faint pop resounded in the corridor, and when Draco opened his eyes, Hermione was gone.

Chapter Text

After ditching his father, Draco returned to an empty flat. Hermione was gone. Most of her clothes were gone. Crookshanks was gone.

She’d left.

He slumped into the kitchen to put on the kettle and found a note on the counter next to the tea.

D –
Am at H & G’s. Do not come.
Do not send owls. I------------
- H

The forlorn little scrap of paper was water-stained in spots and several words were scratched over to his utter relief. Words like hate and never and most chillingly, get out. At least she’d left a note. He had hope. He fell asleep on the sofa, clutching the note to his chest, the beginning of a smile quirking his lip upwards.

A week later, hope was on holiday in Ibiza and despair had come calling. He was abiding with her edicts: no owls, no haunting the Potters’ doorstep. Nonetheless, he had tried cornering Harry, Ginny and even the Weasel at work—none of them would have anything to do with him. A rabid Blast-Ended Skrewt would have received a warmer welcome.

How could he apologise—how could he explain—if he couldn’t even see her?

Despair settled into the comfy chair and invited depression round for tea.

*****

“And then what did he say?” Luna leaned over her bowl of pea soup, her slightly bulging eyes wide and unblinking.

Hermione sighed and crumbled the slice of crusty bread into crumbs onto her plate of ploughman’s lunch. She didn’t have much of an appetite these days. “He’d rather die a virgin than marry a filthy whore like me.”

Luna looked thoughtful rather than gasping in horror as Hermione expected. “How long have you and Draco been roommates?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

It was Luna’s turn to sigh. “You aren’t very fluent in Slytherin, are you? Despite living with one. I’d thought you were clever enough to be a Ravenclaw, but apparently you’re as observant as the average Gryffindor.” She nearly sneered.

Hermione’s jaw dropped and she regarded her friend in shocked offense. “My god, Snape has really rubbed off on you.”

Luna looked down at herself with mild curiosity. “We do rub against each other often, but usually we shower or Scourgify after. Can you smell him on me?”

“Eeeeewwwww, Luna. No.” Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I know he’s your husband, and you love him, but that’s a mental picture I do not need, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Luna, absently removing a strand of her hair from the pea soup’s hungry maw. “It’s obvious that Draco was lying to keep his father from interfering. How many times have his parents tried to fix him up in the last two years?”

Hermione wrinkled her brow in thought. “Um… six?” She nibbled her lip. “No. Nine.”

Luna arched an eyebrow at her and tugged the spoon out of her bowl. It had bite marks on the handle.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, finally taking a bite of the excellent Stilton on her plate. “And he’d want me to make my own choice, of course.”

Luna snorted. “Inexplicably, it seems so. Slytherins ordinarily couldn’t give a shite, as long they get what they want.”

“I must be rubbing off on him.”

“I thought you said Malfoy is a virgin?”

Hermione nearly choked on a bit of pickle.

*****

The fire flared bright green and Draco’s heart skipped a beat. It almost stopped completely as his godfather stepped on the hearth.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said glumly.

“Good evening, Draco.” Snape smirked at his forlorn charge. The whelp had it bad. Nearly as bad as he did, not too long ago. Not that a broken heart excused poor manners. Narcissa would be appalled if Draco neglected a guest—even if he just happened to be mauled by a herd of Hippogriffs. “I feel quite welcome. Shall I have a seat? Or some tea?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t want any more tea.” It was amazing how much pressure an embryo the size of a mushy pea could put on a delicate male bladder. The toilet was Draco’s best mate these days. “What’re you here for?”

Severus eyed Draco closely. The boy was unshaven and his clothes were more wrinkled than not. His eyes were bloodshot and his face bore creases from the sofa cushions. He had a crumpled piece of parchment sticking out of his shirt pocket. There was an empty bottle of Lucius’s premium reserve bubbly apple cider on the sofa table. At least the prat wasn’t drinking alcohol, for the baby’s sake.

“Medical emergency.”

Draco looked at Severus with bleary eyes. “Ish someone hurt?”

“I’m here to remove your head from your arse.”

*****

Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.

Hermione put Crookshanks’ carrier down and unpacked her beaded bag with a flick of her wand. Mr Peanut, her childhood confidant, tumbled out last. She scooped him up and hugged him close as she sat on the edge of her bed.

Are there Horcruxes for broken hearts?

Hermione knew all about worst case scenarios and planning accordingly. Love was a curveball she hadn’t expected. A big part of her never wanted to see him again. He’d said meaner things to her before, but somehow, this cut deeper. No. Not somehow. She knew exactly how: after two weeks at Harry and Ginny’s, she’d finally admitted to herself that she loved Draco. And now she understood his motivation better—at least she hoped she did—but she was still hurt, despite her talk with Luna.

“Is that a purple elephant?”

Hermione startled from her reverie and looked up. Draco was leaning on her doorframe, Crookshanks weaving figure eights around his bare feet. He looked good, damn him.

“His name is Mr Peanut,” she said frostily. “He’s my best friend.”

Draco flinched and Hermione’s eyes narrowed in bitter satisfaction.

Then, he took a deep breath and stepped forward into an elegant bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

When he looked up, a purple streak of glittering furriness was flying at his face. It bopped him square in the forehead, mussing his fringe. Draco clutched his head, dropping to his knees. “Ow.”

He fell onto his side as dramatically as possible.

Hermione stood over him, hands on her hips. “Are you dead?”

“Yes,” he said, closing his eyes with a rapid flutter of impossibly long eyelashes.

“Good.”

He heard her stomp out to the lounge and abruptly stop. He clambered to his feet to follow.

Hermione stared at the state of the lounge—the empty cider bottles (he was thinking of the baby!), the rumpled sofa cushions, the multitude of stained teacups. Her expression softened, and her eyes grew moist.

Draco owed his godfather a box of cigars and a bottle of hundred-year-old scotch, the beaky buzzard. Snape was always right, even about this.

But it was possible she’d teared up because she hadn’t blinked in a while.

He stopped behind her, mere centimetres away, and concentrated on keeping his hands by his side. “Is that all it would take?”

She turned to face him, clearly distracted. “What?”

He waited until her eyes met his. “I would die for you.”

Hermione froze, staring at him without breathing for several long minutes. He started to worry about her body’s lack of autonomy. Her knack for concentration was singular. Would she keel over if she forgot to breathe or blink? She shook her head in denial and Draco realised she was responding to what he’d said.

Things were not proceeding as Snape had predicted. Panic rang the doorbell.

Oh shite.

She backed away from him, with her hands out in the universal sign for stop, putting space between them. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond but Hermione cut him off.

“I can’t hear this right now. I can be roommates with you, but I can’t—well, it’s impossible, isn’t it?”

Draco edged closer to her in minute increments. Panic stopped ringing and eyed the flat across the hall. “What’s impossible, Hermione?”

He took a risk and dared switching on his Veela power, dribbling pheromones from every pore. Crookshanks purred, rubbing his arse on Draco’s trouser leg.

She refused to look at him. “I’m not your mate.”

“How do you know that?” His voice was soft and liquid; it flowed over her like warm honey. She looked up and was caught in the laser intensity of his gaze.

“You said I smelled,” she muttered in a dull monotone.

He pressed his wand against his nose. “ Finite Incantatem.” He leaned in close and inhaled deeply. “You do.”

She gasped in dismay, and his arms snaked around her waist, holding her—nearly crushing her—to his chest. “You smell divine. Like rainy days, chocolate frogs, and a new Quidditch broom all in one delectable package. I get drunk shmelling you.”

His voice was slurred. She put her hands on his chest and leaned back a little. His eyes were glassy at half-mast. His grip tightened on her waist and he groaned.

Lust yodelled a Victory cry and burst in through the window.

“What about the nut paste?” Hermione asked.

“Screw the nuts,” Draco whispered and slanted his lips over hers. He wanted to devour her, heart and soul. She completed him.

What the freaking hay, Malfoy?!

Bugger off, disco donkey.

Don’t make me come over there, you lily white prat. Back away from the hussy, this instant.

For the last time, you flea-bitten, judgemental nag, she’s NOT a hussy. She’s my mate. So suck it, my little pony. Draco’s inner child made an obscene gesture in emphasis.

Charlie’s tone became wheedling. You could roast the nuts before making the paste. That will nullify the allergic reaction.

Draco mentally rolled his eyes and ran his tongue along the seam of Hermione’s lips, seeking entrance. Her mouth opened with a squeak of happiness.

Now you tell me. Well, O Horny One—too little, too late. Ever heard of Free Will? Draco made another note to give Snape a case of hundred-year-old scotch. He really was the most brilliant godfather ever, despite his bedside manner needing improvement. Though that was Luna’s problem, wasn’t it? I’m exercising mine. You can take your bloody prophecy and shove it up your sparkly arse.

Charlie went all Darth Vader-y, breathing heavy with the Voice of Terror and Doom. You are breaking an ancient covenant with Unicorn Clan, young whelp.

Oh really? Why should I care?

Draco came up for air and nibbled Hermione’s ear, inducing panting breaths and little squeals of giggles.

Lust roared and pawed the flokati rug under the sofa table. MMMMMMMM, sooooooft. Lust likey.

You are leaving future generations of Malfoys unprotected! They’ll make bad choices! Ruin will rain down upon thee and thine!

Ruin will rain down upon thee and thine? Seriously? Where was the Unicorn Clan while the Dark Lord squatted in our house and made our lives a living hell? Sorry, Charlie. Hermione and I will teach our children to think for themselves.

*****

Charlie the Unicorn Chief had nothing to say to that. What could he say, really? Free Will trumps Destiny, every time.

Once a certain voyeuristic equine had departed telepathically for purer pastures, Draco’s Free Will got busy rubbing up against Hermione’s. The Flokati rug was very soft, indeed. It was also ever so slightly mortified. And incredibly envious.

Crookshanks didn’t get fed until midnight. He was disgruntled and put out, so he shat in Draco’s best Italian loafers. They always smelled of tinned tuna after that.

Poor Mr Peanut got caught up in the melee, when the action moved to Hermione’s bedroom, and had to be Scourgified. Twice. Still, better that than being a Horcrux, any day of the week.

Three days later, Snape was up to his oversized nostrils in hundred-year-old scotch and the best Cuban cigars money could buy. Luna made him smoke them on the back porch. She claimed they kept the Wankoninnydoodles out of the house. Whatever they were.

The Guatemalan Black Howler monkeys threw a party to celebrate Draco and Hermione’s engagement. Many breadnut leaves and a mountain of filet mignon were consumed. The Emperor penguins were still hungover a day later. The cost of the entire party was put on the company tab. Including the DJ—a certain Cupid Valentino. The Howlers figured it served the Malfoys right – everyone knew to roast the nuts first.

*****

Mr and Mrs Lucius Malfoy
joyfully announce
the birth of their daughter

Cassiopeia Malfoy

Saturday, December 7, 2002
at two o'clock in the afternoon

seven pounds, ten ounces
twenty inches

*****

We joyfully announce
the birth of our son
Scorpius Severus Malfoy
Friday, February 14, 2003
at 11:14 p.m.
8 lb., 14 oz.
23 inches
Proud parents
Hermione and Draco Malfoy

*****