The Taming of the Shrewd

Title: The Taming of the Shrewd

On her eighteenth birthday, Hermione Granger, spinster, realised that the reason she was still a virgin was neither simpering coyness on her part, nor bashfulness on the part of her beau. It was, rather, the gayness of said beau.

Ronald Weasley was gay, and did not know it, or if he did, hid it rather well amongst the ginger hair and freckles on his long pale body. This Hermione Granger, spinster, thought and through a night fuelled chiefly by butterbeer and red wine, came to the conclusion that the logical course of action was to show the youngest Weasley the truth of her prognosis. Cast a mirror before his unseeing eyes; show him why his long ago wrestling in common room chairs with Lavender Brown had proved to be the farthest he has ever got with a girl in terms of sexual release.

There had been instances in the past year, where despite the horror of the situation, (the unspeakable calamity of hearing Harry Potter making gruesome noises in the company of Ron's sister was enough to make Casanova consider the merits of celibacy) she had tried to go, to use base colloquialism, to third, the whole hog, the complete whoopee with Ronald Weasley, and failed miserably.

She remembered that time with the leopard-print negligee ordered by owl post that had been intercepted by Mrs Weasley and blushed with mortification, despite the passage of a whole year through the calendar and a bottle of wine down her gullet.

Yes, there had been missteps and misadventures: that one promising time in the Grimmauld Place library, in fact, almost exactly where she now sat... In front of the fire, and surrounded by books, she had felt definite signs, promising signs, which she had encouraged by behaving in a way that part of her brain recognised as pure Lavender-Brown-in-sixth-year behaviour. And, predictably, Ronald Weasley had spurted all over her new cashmere sweater in no time at all, while she still felt that warm moistness in her groin, the one that wanted a lay, and wanted it rather soon.

Now she looked back on the scene, after she had had this epiphany--and weren't birthdays alone great for those--and recalled as clearly as if she were viewing it inside a pensieve, that the library window, now closed against the storm outside, had then been open to blue sky, One could see onto the raggedy square, and there was Kingsley Shacklebolt, ostensibly digging up the pavement, but actually extending and strengthening the house's wards. She could even now see the muscles of his back and shoulders undulating in the morning light, as he shovelled up debris onto a wheelbarrow.

And wasn't it Dean Thomas who had been displaying his new Quidditch robes in the common room when most of Ron's desperate attempts to swallow Lavender occurred? Did Ron know he was attracted to tall black men? Or was it a subconscious volition that just made him incredibly aroused, to launch himself at the nearest female body? Take away the black man, and there was Ron Weasley--limp, pale and decidedly uninterested.

Hermione quaffed her latest goblet of wine and threw it into the fire, another coming of age rite she had normally been too sensible to perform. She made up her mind then, as the flames fed on the dregs of the wine and Dobby apparated in, waving long-fingered hands around in alarm. She heard herself giggling, and Dobby whimpered. She could not figure out whether it was at the smashed glass in the grate or her unaccustomed drunkenness.

'Does Miss want Dobby to call Harry Potter? Is Miss needing her Wheezy?' the elf asked, large eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

'No, Dobby, I am pertef-- prefec-- ferpectly fine, thank you. Let the boys enjoy their quitchid-- their match. I have reached a decision, Dobby.' She nodded sagely at the elf before her, who obviously had very little clue as to how to react to this alarmingly drunk, bushy-haired, elf-activist.

'I have had an epi-- epi-- phany- phany. Do you know what an e-pi-phany is Dobby?' she asked, as she leaned forward precariously on the deep armchair she currently occupied.

The elf shook his head wildly, eager to escape from this version of his Miss Herminny.

'Pray tell us what this epiphany is, Granger. I am sure the nation is agog.'

Hermione turned her head to face the library door from whence the drawling voice had issued.

'Malfoy!' she exclaimed, and promptly lost her balance and slipped onto the floor. The turning while leaning forward had been too much for her befuddled balance centre.

'Master Draco!' cried the elf, relieved that someone else could take the drunk girl's attentions away from him. 'Does Master wants a drink? Miss Herminny is drinking lots. Lots and lots!' he whispered, looking mournfully at the butterbeer and wine bottles that lay scattered on the table.

Malfoy handed the elf his sumptuous cloak, on which raindrops glittered like jewels, and made his way to the fire.

'Tea!' he said over his shoulder. 'You know how I like it.'

'Dobby does. He will get the tea!' And with that Dobby ran out of the room, casting one worried glance at the girl who seemed to have decided that too much credit had been given to this business of standing up, and was happily looking at the fire from her vantage point on the rug.

Malfoy sauntered over to the chair Hermione had recently occupied, and sat down on it, looking down at the sprawled figure before him.

'Rather niffy in here, Granger. You've really been drawing the bustle, haven't you?

'What, now you're going to use regency cant at me?' she said, not moving her eyes from the fire.

'It's the new thing. All the rage. And move your face away from my feet, Granger. Don't want you throwing up over my new shoes.'

Hermione shook her head and struggled to sit with her back to the table. She found her wand which had rolled away under Malfoy's chair and conjured a bolster to rest behind her back. Satisfied with her position, she raised an admonitory finger at the boy above her. She looked confusedly at her raised hand, wondering why she had raised two fingers, which was really very rude, and she would never ever do it to anyone, only this was Malfoy so maybe she would flip him the bird and not care.

So she left her finger/s in the air and glared at the offending boy.

'You know the trouble with you, Malfoy? You're too vain. That and you're an evil, prejudiced twit.'

Malfoy just calmly sat there and watched Dobby pour his tea.

'Dobby has brewed the Darling just as Master Draco likes it. But all the porcelain cups is chipped from the Tonks.' The house-elf pulled at the buttons of his sailor suit in an agony of nervousness.

Draco waved him away with: 'I expect nothing better from Potter's house. You may go.'

With another look at Hermione who was still trying to raise just one finger at Draco, Dobby vanished.

Hermione was of the opinion that had Malfoy been anything decent, there should have been at least some tears, some form of horrified, piteous protest at her comment, rather than this sitting around looking pretty.

It was only when the last syllable of the last word had formed in her brain that she realised that her mouth had been uttering her thoughts aloud. Was it wrong to have called Malfoy pretty?

But she realised that this, rather than her scathing attacks on his morality, had penetrated his façade of cool nonchalance.

'I am not pretty,' he said imperiously, looking down his nose at her. 'Handsome, yes, devastatingly attractive, certainly. Even beautiful, in a manly sort of way. But not pretty. I am not a chintz. Or a poofter.'

'Hee hee! Malfoy pretty boy, Malfoy pretty boy!' Hermione sang, but at Malfoy's last word, she stopped, her eyes growing huge and she leaned forward conspiratorially.

' Ron is, y'know!' and she nodded meaningfully.

'A poofter you mean? Yes, I know.'

'Wait! How do YOU know? I only just had my effipunny!' she exclaimed.

'Pfft! Only an idiot or a Gryffindor would have missed the signs.'

'There were signs?' Hermione asked.

'Yes, you oblivious little--thing. Now, of course, there is proof.' And he smiled beatifically at the imminent prospect of causing heartache and despair.

'Proof? Did he spoil your blue cashmere while looking at Shacklebolt? Or was he looking at you? Or were you two--ew!' Hermione's eyes were as large as Dobby's in the firelight.

'My cashmere? Shacklebolt? Me... Weasel and I. Urgh!' Malfoy looked decidedly queasy.

'Granger, you have called me many names, but that is the absolute--I am tempted to partake of your expressive vocabulary and say "ew!"'

'And I would leave you to your sorry drunkenness, were it not for the fact that I thought I would enjoy telling you of your dear boyfriend's affairs. I brought chocolate.'

Hermione promptly Accioed the box from his hands. 'This is nice. I like chocolate. Mmm! Cherry liqueur!' she said, licking her lips.

She leaned back with her mouth full of chocolate and sighed philosophically. 'I guess I should have seen the signs...'

Malfoy smirked, 'Plus, even if he didn't seek for the other side, it would never have been you. He seems to favour big bosoms, which should have given you a clue. You really didn't stand a chance, Granger.'

Hermione looked highly offended. 'I do too have big bosoms. Just because I don't flaunt them in people's faces-'

'Tchah!,' said Malfoy.

'Don't 'tchah!' me! Look!' and she promptly pulled off her Mrs Weasley jumper to reveal black lace clad breasts.

'Now I know Lavender doesn't have better tits, Malfoy, 'cause I've seen them,' she said, pointing at her breasts. 'This Malfoy, is intonc- intoncrovertible evidence--empirical proof!'

Malfoy seemed to be having a severe coughing fit with his cup rattling in the saucer as Hermione swayed in her bra and pyjamas before him. 'I -- well, that is to say, Granger, I can safely attest, what I mean to say is, I can indeed confirm. Should proof be needed--'he wheezed, desperate to gain back control of this ill-advised sortie.

'And right you are!' said Hermione, hands on hips. 'Hold on, you can attest ? Have you? You have!' She peered up at him. 'Did she hold you captive in an armchair too?'

'Er--'said the hapless boy, all red and shaken, putting his teacup down.

'Not so much an armchair as the potting shed behind greenhouse three. And she didn't hold me captive! I had her on her b--' Malfoy shook his blond head and seemed to be reviewing the conversation he was having. He looked down at Granger who was holding up her breasts, forming a ridiculous amount of cleavage and muttering things about big boobs.

He came to a seemingly painful decision. 'You are quite ridiculously drunk, Granger. There is no point in telling you of Weasel's tryst with Zabini in the Puddlemere pavilion. You won't cry, or look heart-broken.' He looked wistful and then said brightly, 'Go back to your room and down a sobering potion or something. I can wait. I'll tell you then. How Weasley was getting the pounding of his life... I have pictures!' He waved a sheaf of photos at her.

Hermione let go of her breasts and settled back against her bolster. 'Don't you be telling me what to do, young Malfoy! Just because you have wheedled your way back to the side of law doesn't give you the right to boss me around! And I would not have cried. I knew Ron wanted Shacklebolt long before you sauntered in with your silly chocolates.'

Malfoy let the photos fall from his hand on to the carpet before the girl, who barely gave them a glance. On the floor, in full Magicolour detail, Ronald Weasley screwed up his face in concentration as Blaise rode him like a bronco, again and again, and Hermione Granger did not care. Really, what did a Malfoy have to do to stir up trouble around here?

He sighed in frustration. 'I did not wheedle , Granger. I bargained: a Horcrux each for my father and I, and our full cooperation. It is due to us that Voldemort is hiding in Pakistan rather than holding court in Piccadilly. Also, my chocolates are not silly, as you should know, having eaten half of them already. I warn you Granger, if you are sick over my shoes I shall be extremely angry.'

Hermione paused with a truffle in the air and squinted at it. 'You got chocolates to console me when you broke the news of Ron's gayness?' she looked and sounded genuinely perplexed.

Malfoy looked aghast at having been accused of a non-ulterior motive. 'No, I brought them so I had something to eat while you bawled your heart out. Sobbed into the fur of your cat, the only companion of your old age, tore up the names of your future children, threw away the first leaf he gave you which you've kept pressed in your copy of Hogwarts : A History, you know, the usual entertaining stuff. Would have been better than Quidditch!' He sounded very disappointed.

'But you had to ruin it all by being completely piefaced, totally blotto!' Now he only sounded disgusted.

Hermione giggled, while she attempted to pick a chocolate from the box beside her up without using her hands. This brought her face to face with a picture of Ron's blissful face, which giggled while Blaise Zabini did unspeakable things to his body. She should have been angry, but somehow,she merely felt aroused.

Malfoy, meanwhile, had been afforded a very good view of her back and breasts, and was finding it increasing difficult to concentrate on the main purpose of his visit.

Then Hermione popped another cherry liqueur filled chocolate decisively in her mouth and looked at him with such a look on his face that he shrank back in his chair in alarm before he was able to recover himself.

'The match looks to be long drawn. The Puddlemere seeker is injured and Turnbull Tossers can't afford to catch the snitch before they score the 600 points they need to qualify-'he babbled. Still she advanced on him on her knees, her wand held firmly in one hand.

'It seems everyone's going to be there for hours.' As soon as he said this, he realised his mistake, and panic-stricken, groped for his wand on the side table.

'Molto Inertiae!' cried Hermione, and Draco felt an immense lassitude steal over him, leaving his senses buzzing with awareness, but his limbs curiously lazy.

'Where is Crookshanks?' he squeaked, 'deserted you, has he?' Draco Malfoy: plucky to the last.

And then she was upon him. She pulled down her pyjama bottoms to reveal long silky legs and more black lace and pushed him back into the arm chair as she straddled him.

'A pretty boy like you shouldn't be out on a dark night like this,' she breathed, drawing one finger under his chin and tilting his head up. 'There are monsters afoot, and oh, horny girls who have just found out that their boyfriends are completely and irrevo- iverrocably gay.'

'Uhm, Granger!' whimpered Malfoy, and then cleared his throat. 'Unhand me, Granger! You are quite drunk-- you will regret this in the morning! '

She was busy unbuttoning his shirt and imparting small bites on his neck. At this, she sat back on his lap and said 'Scared, Malfoy? Or wait, you aren't gay too, are you?'

'What? No, I just don't want to be on the receiving end of your wrath in the morn--' His protests were shut off by a blazing, wet, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of chocolate and wine and whining eagerness. He must have moaned his approval of her methods, for she was soon busy lathing her tongue over his, hungrily, wildly. All the while her hands tried to pull off his clothing , until panting in desperation, she picked up her wand and vanished all his clothes

He tried to protest, saying something about gryphon scale boots, but was pushed firmly back while she ground herself once on his erection, before pulling back and laying both hands on his proud cock.

'Hmm,' she said, stroking him with one hand, 'no wonder you crow around like the rooster in the barn, Malfoy.' She looked into his grey eyes, now dark with lust, and enunciated clearly: 'Be prepared for some Mudblood love.'

He wanted to say something clever and witty, but all that came out was a strangled moan, as she got down between his knees and he forgot everything--the gryphon scale boots, the thing with Mudbloods, the annoyingness of Gryffindor know-it-alls, even his name.

She swallowed.

His head was still buzzing with the strength of his release, his bones had turned to jelly, his breath came fast and his heart thudded inside his ears, while Granger sat between his legs and regarded him like a cat as she licked her lips: ostentatiously, deliberately. As if she had observed closely the behaviour of her orange cat after it had just fed on a saucer of cream.

She settled on his lap once more. 'I really hope you have a short recovery period, Malfoy.'

He was seventeen, with a rabid panting witch on his lap, so, of course, already his blood had abandoned his brain and was flowing southward again.

When Dobby came back to check on Hermione an hour later, he found her with her limbs intertwined with Draco on the hearth rug before the dying fire, naked and with one possessive hand around the sleeping boy's hair. The house-elf wrung his hands in desperation, and running up to Harry's room, came back with the Invisibility cloak and covered them both with it.

And that was how Crookshanks found them too, when he came back after his encounter with the next door tabby. Philosophically blasé as most cats are, undeterred neither by the nudity or the Invisibility cloak, he settled on their combined legs and went to sleep. What happened when they woke up is a story for another day...

FIN