November was relatively quiet except for a Howler Professor Granger received one morning.
“THIS IS CRUEL! WE CAN BARELY PAY ATTENTION TO OUR PLANS FOR PRANKING PERCY AND PENNY ON THEIR ANNIVERSARY. WE’RE SCARED. SHAKING IN OUR DRAGON-HIDE! WE DIDN’T MEAN FOR YOU AND FERRET TO NEARLY DIE. WE ARE SORRY AND PLEASE TELL US ALREADY THE WHAT, WHEN, HOW AND WHERE OF OUR PUNISHMENT SO WE CAN PLOT IN PEACE. ALSO TELL MCGONAGALL THANKS FOR SICCING MUM ON US.
SINCERELY AND LOVINGLY,
GRED AND FORGE.
PS: IF YOU DON’T REPLY AS REQUESTED, WE’RE REVOKING YOUR DAUGHTER’S NINETY-EIGHT PERCENT DISCOUNT ON ALL WWW MERCHANDISE
PPS: THAT’S NOT TRUE. SHE DOES NOT HAVE SUCH DISCOUNT AT ALL. NO. NEVER.”
When the red letter had crumpled to ash, another flash of crimson appeared. Another rose. By this time, the whole school was so used to it barely anyone still paid notice. Except for Professor Malfoy, that was. When a rose appeared, heads would swivel like searchlights and beam on the blond professor. One would think he’d learn to school his reactions, but he didn’t and it was always entertaining to see his face turn sour.
What happened for the rest of the month wouldn’t constitute as noise, compared to the absolute uproar before. No, things were executed efficiently and silently.
Following the complete drain of house points, all the Houses went on a fearless campaign of coordinated creativity. Every club couldn’t do without Professor Malfoy and Professor Granger. These two became the most sought-after pair of advisers. The most-imprisoned, too. The tardiest or the stupidest, as well, judging by how often they ended up arriving on an empty clubroom or a wrong room altogether, only to be locked in there for hours. The students would glibly say it was Peeves’ doing, and the poltergeist, upon questioning, would only nod and cackle and sing rude rhymes.
Club-abductions didn’t last long, of course.
But the students made do.
Trick stairs and trick flagstones sprouted along the entrance hall, the Great Hall, the Charms corridor and the dungeons, and preternaturally trapped Professor Malfoy and Professor Granger if they stepped on it together, which they did often enough, even during days when they weren’t speaking to each other.
One intrepid Ravenclaw fashioned an invisible lasso. The sight of Professor Malfoy and Professor Granger suddenly tripping and tumbling on the floor together, rolling around until they hit the wall and stayed there unmoving, one on top of the other, would be immortalised in the annals of Hogwarts-- and the pages of the school paper, because cameras flashed.
Amazingly, in all this, neither of the two beleaguered professors bled or bruised. Even first-years had mastered Cushioning Charms.
“Ms August, Mr Ellington-Shaw, I need you to be honest with me. What is going on with your peers? Are you going to feed Professors Granger and Malfoy love potions next?”
“No, of course not!”
“We’ll be expelled if we do that, right?”
Behind Minerva, there was a telltale cough.
Callie didn’t stay in a funk for long. The very next morning, she was fine. While Lia was contemplating whether it was her turn to kick and sulk, Hogwarts took matters out of her hands. The twins couldn’t really be anything but smug as they watched their school mates so relentlessly trap their parents. The two professors often came to class catching their breaths. The best part was neither of them thought to accuse Callie and Lia of anything. Probably out of guilt. Instead, they seemed to be under a campaign themselves.
In Charms, Callie could do no wrong, but Professor Granger often corrected her wrist movements.
Meanwhile, even though Thalia had the acumen of a budding expert potioneer, Professor Malfoy couldn’t seem to trust her to pour or chop or stir without help.
There were other nice things, too that brought the girls giggling together.
Narcissa sent a box of games and a hamper of treats. There was also a doll for Lia, a doll with grey eyes made of glass and yellow hair even softer than their own. A doll that made anyone who saw it swallow the words ‘I’m too old for dolls.’ Lia named the doll after Kia. Flibby for short. Flibby came with her own trunk of clothes. Callie looked scandalised when Lia emptied the trunk of lace and frills, but helped in dressing Flibby in jeans, boots and a t-shirt that said, ‘I’M AN IDOLATER. I WORSHIP MY SISTER.’
The promised flowers arrived every week. Lia decided she had no favourites. A flower was a flower. What wasn’t to like? She also decided it was too much bother learning their names.
Callie got her ninety-eight percent discount (not applicable to products Not for Under-Sixteens and Not for Minors) from WWW. Not to be outdone by Narcissa, Molly Weasley sent a crate of goodies, with the requisite hand-knit jumper, red with a gold pattern of C’s looping in a long line along the collar. It matched Lia’s. Green with silver T’s marching across it. A set of two-way mirrors were from Uncle Harry, Aunt Ginny and Uncle Ron. The twins squealed over that, although they were too attached at the hip just then to find much use for the mirrors. Also included in the Weasley crate was a toy tea service from the grandparents Granger. Too pretty to disdain, made of real bone china. Lia said she’d wrecked hers ages ago and wrote a rather belated scathing letter of complaint about being given too dainty toys too early.
December 1st
“I hope they show restraint on Yule. I even wonder if they’ve left anything for Yule. This avalanche of presents is ridiculous.”
“So you’ve thought about Yule?”
“I suppose Callie goes with you?”
“No question.”
“Well, Lia goes with me.”
They both stared at each other, unyielding. And pleading.
“What does your mother say?”
“Nothing. I’m probably dead to her. No letters at all. That’s how you know she’s incensed.”
“You’re lucky. My mother and Molly wrote in no uncertain terms that if I don’t bring home two girls for Christmas, I might as well not go home at all.” She looked at him through her eyelashes. “I told them they can meet Lia’s friend in June.”
“Of course.”
“Really?”
“Why? What did you just ask me? I wasn’t paying attention. You were using wiles on me, you sly thing.”
“What on earth are you babbling about?”
“If you don’t know, I shouldn’t tell you, or you’d be asking me to jump into fires next. Not that I could, seeing as we’re currently stuck here. A bit early, wouldn’t you say?”
They both looked up at the mistletoe gently swinging and swirling over their heads.
“A lot early.”
“I’m not wearing my warmest socks at the moment, Granger. I’d appreciate it if we--”
There was a soft chime of bells as the mistletoe withdrew and moved on.
“Good night, Malfoy.”
December 2nd
“So. June?”
“You agreed last night. We didn’t sign anything, of course, but don’t renege on it, please? I already have plans. I even dreamed about it.”
“All right. Who gets them first?”
“Well--”
Ting-a-ling!
“I’m first.”
December 2nd, afternoon
“This is ridiculous!”
“I think certain people are determined to stop us avoiding each other.”
“We don’t avoid each other! We talk when we meet.”
“Which is rarely. Before the mistletoe madness, that is. You don’t stalk me back. The dungeons are a lot warmer now, you know.”
“Perhaps I’m considerate of other people’s time.”
“Are you? Then why are you just standing there?”
Ting-ling!
December 2nd, still
“If you would just stop hovering or popping in my way like a demented ghost” well, I hope you’re wearing your warmest socks this time. What are you doing?”
“I’m not wearing my warmest cloak, you see.”
Ting-a-ling!
December 3rd
“No. They’ve had their voyeuristic fun and I’ve had it up to here with mistletoe.”
Fizz-flop!
“And if I’m caught again under that miserable weed before December twenty-fourth, by which time I will certainly not be here for anyone’s entertainment, I have a memorable detention in store for everyone within ten yards of me.”
December 3rd, after supper
“For Merlin’s sake.”
Fizzzz!
“Wow. They reinforced it. No one within a hundred yards of us either. You’ve got to hand it to these little--”
“We might as well make these... meetings profitable.”
“Terrific idea. Have you found a solution to our dilemma yet? That is, a solution different from mine?”
“No. Does Callie hate any sort of food?”
“Hmm? Well, if it still looks like the animal it came from, she won’t eat it. Threw up once when my father’s friend brought a whole roast pig. We’ve also learned to immediately dispose of fish heads, prawn heads-- can’t use the heads of birds either for food presentation. We’ve never seen a whole turkey or duck since Callie was two. It always arrives at the table in slices. Her fish or steak or chicken or whatever also has to be absolutely boneless.”
“What about eggs?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Have I got food on my neck? How does she like her eggs? Does she even eat eggs?”
“Of course she does. Your turn to tell me something about Lia.”
“She nursed until she was five. For heaven’s sake, my eyes are up here.”
“Nursed ‘til she was five? Is that all right?”
“Of course. She did it for comfort, mostly in the afternoons when we napped together, when it’s just the two of us. I couldn’t say no, for some reason. I told you she was a happy child, but she was also rather clingy. I--”
“But you went to work, didn’t you say?”
“When Lia was five, yes. It’s why I went back to work. To wean her from her clinginess. I’ve been working at home and I could easily have continued but Lia had to learn to--”
“I understand. Still, that was amazing. And you don’t look it.”
“I don’t look what?”
“Like you nursed for five years straight.”
Ting-a-ling!
To the Master of the Vaults of Gringotts:
Sir:
I have already sent you an Accounting of Funds just this October last. I have not since had accounting to do. The whole year’s budget has already been sealed. We are endowed by patronages before the beginning of each year only. If we have need during term, which is a very rare happenstance, the school governors will provide the monies from Hogwarts’ internal funds. Again and again, I will reiterate that Hogwarts never solicits alms.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
“Professor, it’s way past our bedtime.”
“And yet I entered not a minute ago, and none of you were in bed at all. If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Not to mention that some of you--” Draco eyed the red, blue and yellow badges among the green, “--are out of bounds if you attempt to traverse the considerable distance to your proper beds. Don’t think it’s only Professor Granger who can threaten you with memorable detentions. Get comfortable.”
There was a mad scramble for the armchairs. Draco frowned. Had no one taught this new generation of Slytherins about poise? He rolled his eyes at the elbowing and kicking and Transfigured the sofas and ottomans into armchairs. A moment later, Draco smiled. Yes, they did teach poise to this lot.
“Now that we’re all enthroned, tell me about this mistletoe business.”
No one spoke. A Slytherin never volunteered information without due cajoling. Of course, not all in this bunch were Slytherins, but they were in Slytherin territory and Slytherin traits are the most catching.
“Ten points for each answer I like. You’ll catch up on the Ravenclaws in no time, I’ll wager.”
“The Ravenclaws resent their points, Professor,” said a girl wearing a blue and bronze tie. “It limits them. The urge to keep those points is instinctual. As such, they haven’t been having as much fun as when they had zero.”
“You Slytherins and Gryffindors are having the most fun then, I presume?”
Silence.
“All right. Suppose you make the deal this time. Short of anything illegal, I think I can do much for you lot.”
The students communicated with glances. Admirable and enviable. He and his cohorts hadn’t been able to do that. He and Hermione, on the other hand--
“Quid pro quo,” said Miss August. Priscilla. Draco couldn’t help being pleased that one of his own was presiding. “You ask us a question, we answer. We ask you a question in return and you answer it candidly.”
“How candidly? Not all of you have reached majority.”
The students laughed. And Merlin’s balls, there was something disturbing about the smiles with which they ended their laughter. Were they leering? Draco squirmed in his seat. What had he unleashed here?
“Do we have an accord, Professor?”
“No personal questions and we are in accord. Now then, do you intend to use the mistletoe on us until we leave for the holidays?”
“Yes. Do you love Professor Granger?”
“Personal. Have you been watching us kiss?”
“Personal. What’s stopping you from getting married?”
“Whether you watch us kiss is personal?”
“What we watch in private is private. Besides, you hedged first.”
“You were asking a personal question.” Draco was beginning to feel stupid and was confused at why he was feeling stupid.
“It wasn’t personal. Hey, Liam, do you love the Wimbourne Wasps?”
“Merlin, I do.”
“Cass, you love Liam, don’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“See, professor?”
Teenagers. And this was in store for him, the storage clock already counting down from five years. Oh, joy. “Shouldn’t you ask Liam if he loves Cass?”
“I love Cass,” declared Liam, a little belligerently.
“Good for you. As for your question, I don’t know what’s stopping us from getting married. Not that I asked yet. Not really. How are you manipulating the mistletoe?”
“Peeves does the manipulating, and he got the directions from an undisclosed source. Do you want us to help you?”
Draco, still startled at that bit about Peeves--of all creatures, he owed that blithering poltergeist for all the kisses he’d gotten lately-- blinked at the question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you want us to help you to ask Professor Granger to marry you?”
“Er, thank you, but perhaps not. How pathetic of me would that be?”
“Very.”
It was the first time since his rapid-fire questioning that his questioners spoke in chorus. Uncanny. Probably time for him to retreat. He hadn’t expected such a united front. He was outnumbered and thoroughly outwitted and outplayed. Not fair. Maybe he should have sent away everyone and only bullied the Hufflepuffs. But then again, Liam was a Hufflepuff, and so was that quiet girl, June Finch-Fletchley-- probably a cousin or a sister to Justin-- whose eyes glittered the most and who was the one who called him out for hedging.
By Circe, they were breeding very different and very scary children these days.
“Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Professor.”
“No, I rarely have a good night these days.”
Several sniggers. And then a very brave someone said, “Why, what’s your definition of good night, sir?”
“A good night is when you’re peaceful and content, not annoyed or tired or frustrated,” replied another brave one.
Draco laughed long and mirthlessly, pirouetting at the door to face the sudden silence in the common room. “Detention, Fitzpatrick. I hope you didn’t make plans for this weekend.”
Outside in the corridor, Draco was struck with a thought. Were those impertinent brats sending the roses in his behalf? Not naming him as the sender to prolong the suspense, perhaps? Draco grinned. Well, he could thank them later. Meanwhile, Fitzpatrick deserved a detention.
“He’s not allowed in here!”
“Why not, you little snot?”
“Peeves! Be polite... But thanks for getting rid of her. She was getting whiny and we’re in a tricky part of stirring.”
Quillian immediately regretted saying that. Myrtle got on your nerves, but at least she didn’t poke you under the arms or try to poke at the bubbles bubbling in your cauldron. The poltergeist zipped from stall to stall, and growls and shrieks emerged from stall to stall. Thank Merlin the potion was just about done.
Five kisses so far. Six if you counted the one in Hogsmeade. And that one in his room in his cottage in Hogsmeade, compared to the ones in the corridors of Hogwarts, should definitely be counted.
Not that Hermione was counting. Thank goodness for the weekend. No one would see hide or hair of her. She would clean her house and rake the garden. Read and correct homework. But all that could come later. For now, she was in her bathtub lost in a fog of perfume, willing her mind to rest along with her body.
It was something her mother had taught her, which was why Hermione never wore perfume on a day to day basis. No, heavenly scents were reserved to incite tranquillity, for languid days and special evenings of recalling kisses--
Dammit. She was almost thirty, for goodness’ sake. Shouldn’t there be more dignity and less hormone-driven battiness? Hormone-driven battiness being what landed her in a veritable cauldron of unperfumed hot water in the first place. She was probably in need of those new novels crowding the shelves in the Muggle bookstores. Chick-lit. Rather degrading a name, Hermione thought, but it might give her insight. None of the women her age acted matronly. If anything, they seemed to be having the most outrageous fun. One cousin of hers had even run off from Calais with a complete stranger. And Hermione wasn’t old, was she? She only preferred to think so to stave off her desires, which she staved off because she didn’t feel like she deserved satisfying them, because there was the matter of her having failed not one, but two children. Hers.
For the first time and very disconcertingly, Hermione imagined what things would have been like if she didn’t have them. They were Beltane babies. If it hadn’t been Beltane, Hermione doubted she’d have conceived so easily, from one lovemaking so spur-of-the-moment and frantic they’d done it against the wall with all their clothes on.
Hermione could have sworn the water fizzed from the heat of her flush.
She winced, sent water sloshing over the rim of the tub in her mad scramble to her feet, and turned on the shower. The cold drizzle did her a world of good although the embarrassment wasn’t as easy to wash off. She wondered how she’d ever get around to having the talk with the girls. She doubted she could sprout hypocrisy about self-control and restraint. The only thing she’d be able to advise would be the truth about the pain.
That’s right, Granger, think about the pain. First, down there, and then the impressive thunk of skull against stone when the pain down below made you arch your head and create a new pain and a burst of stars behind your eyelids.
Feeling less hot and bothered, Hermione sat back down in the tub. If she hadn’t conceived, what then? Would things have been different? She didn’t think so. She and Draco would still have attracted attention from his connections, her heart would still have been clawed open in consequence and she’d still have banished him from her life, or gone away herself. And without their twins going to Hogwarts, Professor Flitwick wouldn’t have been forced into retirement and Hermione wouldn’t be here at all. Nor would Draco. They’d have remained apart.
The recent six kisses wouldn’t have happened at all.
Hermione slapped the water with her palms, closed her eyes at the splash and slumped deeper into the bath. She fought a losing battle against a smile underwater.
Despite the muddle they were in, Hermione decided she was really so very glad she had the twins.
“Where were you all weekend? Were you on a date again?”
“Well, yes.”
Draco tried not to glare and failed.
“No, I was at my house. Cleaned up the yard. And then Julius sent me an owl asking to see me. That’s the last time. If he’s so incompetent he has to pull me away from the comfort of my home just to have me explain litigation documents, he should retire.”
At ‘Julius’, Draco sneered. At ‘retire’, he smirked.
“Are you still getting roses?”
“Yes. I bin them, though. I always end up with Lia’s bouquets anyway. Thank your mother for me, by the way.”
“She can send you posies for the rest of your life and you still won’t need to thank her. There’s an idea.”
“Oh, don’t.” But she smiled.
He kissed that smile.
Tling-ling!
Minerva halted mid-step and arrested her hand on the door latch. She also fidgeted a little. Did she just lean in? Or should she Disillusion herself first? While she was still contemplating her rusted (and nonexistent) eavesdropping skills, the voices inside her office rose. So she stood outside the door ramrod straight, maintaining her dignity.
“Temperance! Ha! You can’t ask a poltergeist to practice temperance!”
“I’ve told you again and again to get rid of that menace, Dumbledore!”
“You ingrates. You should be thanking that creature, not ridiculing him.”
“Gentlemen, ladies! All right, so we are agreed that there should be less--”
“Less what?” Minerva gritted her teeth, regretting her entrance. What made her enter? Were they simply arguing about Peeves again? But then, you could never tell with these madmen and women... To think she’d be one of them someday.
“Less farting for Peeves,” said Albus, nodding sagely. “We think it’s not healthy for him, expelling too much air like that.”
Minerva raised an eyebrow sceptically.
“Our mistletoe this year is early and rather centred on two particular people,” she said, casually pacing around the room, keeping them all in sight to gouge their reactions. “Have you lot heard about that?”
“Oh, yes, we’ve heard. Funny, funny thing. Perhaps the school just knows, Minerva, eh?”
Dilys Derwent snorted in her feigned sleep. And for all her initial bravado, Minerva was suddenly reluctant to prod into the matter further. Better to remain ignorant and therefore innocent. In this situation, at least.
So it was that Peeves’s workload was considerably lessened. As the temperature dropped and snow began to fall, as girls and boys stopped being able to walk around alone without a friend or a sweetheart in arm, as the Great Hall became redolent of peppermint, hot cocoa and hearty soup, and as a separation after a reunion drew near, certain two people began to look for the mistletoe.
“Where do you usually spend Christmas?”
Draco looks up from stomping his boots, suddenly glad the train seemed held up somewhere. In contrast to him, she just sits there on the tree stump worn smooth by generations of students, seemingly unaffected by the cold, even though her coat looked diaphanous, hugging her figure in places it shouldn’t. And what is he doing slandering a perfectly wonderful coat anyway?
“Depends on my mother’s whims. Sometimes, she wants a mountain of snow. Sometimes, she wants to escape the winter altogether. And sometimes, we just hole up in her favourite sitting room. We sleep there on the hearth rug and all. Makes the trip to the tree shorter.”
She smiles, nods and begins to toy with the ends of her hair. He stares at her for a moment, noticing the slenderness of her fingers and the very dark eyelashes curling on her pink cheeks, and then he goes back to stomping his boots. She has something to say and she’ll say it when she’s ready. He isn’t one to prod. Not now when they understand each other a little better than they used to.
He’s only stomped three times when he hears her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry you lost your home. They shouldn’t have--”
“It’s fine. We have houses elsewhere.”
“Of course.”
“And Mother has favourite sitting rooms in all of them.”
That finally coaxes another smile from her and he returns it.
The Hogwarts Express thunders through the trees just then, whistling madly. The shrillness is like a slap on the shoulder to Draco and a goading in his ear. She stands up and he heeds the slap and the goading. He bends and his lips sink in the fullness of her cheek.
“Why do you smell like champagne?”
Her peers emerge from the station’s waiting rooms and Hermione blinks as much from confusion at the sudden crowd as from discombobulation from his kiss. She pretends the falling snow has tickled her face because she can’t stop patting her cheeks to make sure they haven’t caught fire.
“Champagne?”
He nods at her, securing a hand on the lapel of her coat at her waist to keep her from being propelled hither and thither by the rush to the train. What is all the hurry? She certainly doesn’t want to board yet. The snow is clinging to his eyelashes, making him blink his grey eyes, which looked rather remarkable against the green and white landscape.
“You smell like champagne. I’ve noticed it since last year.”
“Last year?”
“Stop repeating me.” He chuckles. “Yes, last year. When you were in my clutches like now.”
Hermione laughs in spite of herself and in spite of ‘last year’ being not entirely laughable. She swats his hand away from her coat and raises its collar under her loose scarf to sniff at herself. “It’s not champagne. It’s...” She sniffs some more and detects the scent beneath the crisp smell of cleanliness in her clothes. “It’s ink.”
“Ink?” He kisses her again, this time on the other cheek. “Ink. Have a happy Yule, Granger.”
“You, too, Malfoy.”
The holidays arrived with a very appropriate and very blustery snowfall. Students and trunks were rapidly piling into the horseless carriages waiting in a long line at the great oak doors. Two girls stood to the side, waiting and holding hands. They wore exactly the same pink cloaks with matching muffs and hats.
“Oh my, you two look very pretty.”
They looked up at their mother blankly.
“You can take them off as soon as I take a photo for your grandmother Narcissa, don’t worry,” said their father, and as if on cue, there was a flash of light and a puff of smoke from a box camera. “There you go.” He smiled at them and exchanged a grin with their mother. “You have to admit she has exquisite taste, though.”
“I’ve never really spared pink a thought myself, but I see what the fuss is all about now,” said their mother with a rather soppy look on her face.
The last of the school carriages rattled forward for them. The inane discussion of matching winter clothes had come to a stop.
“Have a happy Yule, Miss Malfoy.” A hug. A kiss on the cheek.
“Enjoy your holidays, Miss Granger.” Another hug. Another kiss.
Neither of the girls replied to that. They just pointed as one toward the door’s lintel. “Mistletoe,” they said in unison.
“Oh, final-- I mean, fine. Come here, Hermione.”
“Don’t ever ‘Come here’ me again.” And yet she came to him.
For the first time since they arrived to wait for their separation at the entrance hall, the girls smiled.
Their parents kissed. The box camera exploded again, seemingly by itself, but no one took notice.
“See you.”
“See you.”
The girls kept hold of each other’s hand until the last moment. And then, mother and one daughter were on the school carriage on the way to the station, and father and one daughter began to walk on the magically snowploughed path to the gates to Disapparate to a cottage in Hogsmeade.