Draco's Other Delicate Condition

Chapter 03 - Hermione's Children

The bachelor's bedroom was classic; unwashed laundry was strewn hither and yon. Empty boxes that once held chocolate frogs, fags and Droobles Best Blowing Gum littered the floor. Newspaper greasy with the remains of half eaten fish and chips were as prevalent as the thick dust on the bed set, wardrobe and side table. Ron Weasley was rather sloppy but that was not surprising. When he was young his mother picked up after him and when he attended Hogwarts the House Elves did the dirty work. The good news was only Ron's bedroom was in shambles; the rest of the flat was kept in spiffing shape by Ron's long time flat mate, Hermione Granger-Longbottom.

It was early evening and Ron stood between piles of dirty laundry, posed in tan formal dress robes. He peered into a wardrobe mirror. The image Ron faced in the mirror was a frowning, tall, rusty-haired man with a tidy moustache and a beard that covered a strong chin. Ron stared at his reflection critically, but not nearly as critically as the mirror stared back at him.

'Those robes, do well enough for formal occasions Ron,' volunteered the mirror. 'But surely you can see for yourself, in those pale robes with your height and that flaming hair of yours you resemble a lighted Christmas candle. You might want to slip into Muggle clothing.'

The mirror was the same one Ron had in his dorm room at Hogwarts. He could not bear leaving behind the mirror or secrets within the mirror's gilded frame. So Ron nicked it at the end of his seventh year. The theft was nearly twenty years ago and Ron still felt guilty about it.

'Muggle clothes?' Ron asked, already pulling off the formal robes. After some fussing Ron chose a white linen shirt and a jet black, pinstriped jacket and trousers - as he saw it, a bland but safe choice. 'I hope you know what you are talking about mirror.'

'Of course I know what I am talking about,' said the mirror rather petulant for an inanimate being. 'I always see things as they are. Pinstripes elongate you; you look like one of the stone pillars outside of Gringotts bank.'

'Shut up,' said Ron. The mirror seldom had anything good to say, but then it only reflected Ron's innermost thoughts on most but not all matters.

'Why are you going to ask for Mrs Longbottom's hand now?' asked the mirror. 'You have shared this flat with her for years, why propose tonight? Surely you must realize... she does not love you - not the way you imagine you love her.'

Ron would have done well to put some thought into the last of the mirror's comments.

'Nonsense. Hermione and I love each other well enough.' Ron pulled on black trousers. 'Perhaps, not romantically but we are long time mates and there are the children to take into consideration. Romance isn't as important as providing those children with stability. I did not agree with her taking on the children in the first place but they are here now.'

'You know,' Ron addressed the mirror, 'last week Hermione seemed to cheer up a great deal. Singing around the flat and being very sweet. I think the old girl has come to realize how good she has it with me here. I think she is beginning to see I would be a wonderful father for Ella and Albus. Yes. I think the time is right. I am going to ask for her hand.'

'Are you very sure?' the mirror asked.

'I am going to ask her. We have lived in this flat together for ages and it is about time I make an honest witch of the old girl.'

'Mercy,' quipped the mirror. 'You do not plan to call her "old girl" - to her face - do you?'

'Shush!' Ron turned the mirror over. Walking for the doorway he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket reassured by the feel of the small velvet box tucked there that held a ring.

Unfortunately for Ron, the truth was 'the time' that would have been ripe for his asking Hermione for her hand was in the past - the far distant past.

Ron walked down the hall toward the front door and turned up the stairs towards Hermione's room. He practiced his lines. 'Would you do me the honour of becoming Hermione Granger-Longbottom-Weasley... blast, I sound like a right git.' A loud rap at the front door stopped him.

'Bloody neighbours,' Ron fussed. He pulled his wand from his trousers waistband, turned and pointed it down the stairs at the front door. 'ALOHOMORA LATUS!' The front door clicked, and opened wide. Ron stared; thrown for a loop at the sight of the last human being he expected or wanted to see on his doorstep. It seemed fortuitous to Ron that his wand was at the ready. 'Lucius Mal... Draco Malfoy?' Ron squealed in a voice two octaves higher than his normal voice.

'Vacant face, red hair, a face so freckled it resembles a child's "join the dots" picture - you must be Weasley,' Draco said smoothly.

Between Ron and Draco it was Draco who was by far the most put out to find himself facing a foe from the past. He had spent the previous week perfecting his appearance for his second visit with Hermione. He took great pains assuring himself there were no politically incorrect fabrics in his outfit; no wool of endangered Yeti, or Opaleye Dragon scales decorating his buttons. The fabric of his lightweight summer robe to highlighted the colour of his eyes. He took equal pains with his gifts for Hermione; a simply immense bouquet of moonflowers and orchids picked by his own hand, from his own greenhouses and a box of Honeydukes' best. The sweets were in a golden box - real gold, not foil paper - held shut by a shimmering rope of black pearls. Draco had not taken such pains to find himself facing sodding Ron Weasley.

Draco looked at Ron up and down, eyeing the black suit. 'So, Mrs Longbottom's S.P.E.W. enterprises allots her a salary that allows for a butler?' he drawled. 'Excellent. Jeeves, please announce to the lady of the house she has a visitor.' It felt marvellous to drawl once again - it had been simply ages. He shifted the flowers and held the exquisite box of sweets up a little higher. Draco found it was strangely satisfying to once again aggravate the piss out of Ron.

At the sight of Draco's elegant clothing, Ron suddenly felt more appropriately dressed to take out the rubbish than to propose marriage to Hermione. It occurred to Ron he had neglected to put on shoes or socks. He twitched his long knobby toes against the stairwell carpet.

'You are not welcome here Malfoy,' Ron descended the stairs, his wand pointed threateningly at Draco's head. 'You had better turn around and leave.'

'Oh I am most welcome here,' countered Draco. 'Do not make me put down these extravagantly expensive gifts and draw my wand. I do not want Mrs Longbottom to associate my first visit to her abode with a wand blast that will leave her foyer coated with ginger coloured fluff, a greasy spot on her carpet and the odd freckle dotting her wallpaper.'

Draco was not as cool as he seemed; although thrilled to the teeth to see Weasley looking so comparatively shabby, Ron's presence was a bother. There was no overlooking that Weasley had turned into quite a handsome fellow. And worse, Draco noted - Ron was tall, quite tall. Draco fumed; he himself was six feet one inch, but what was the advantage if some indigent, ginger-knackered giraffe could spring up to six foot six or eight, like some mushroom over fertilized in horse shite?

Slowly Ron stalked down the stairs. His face held a hint of self-doubt but his job working for his twin brothers at the family business, Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes, testing fireworks has given Ron nerves of steel. 'You heard me Malfoy, march back down the steps, climb into your fancy carriage and take your meddlesome arse away from here. "We" did not put in an order to take delivery of an overdressed albino git.'

Draco had quite enough. 'I have called here as an invited guest of this household. You will announce to the lady of the house that her "date" has arrived.

'Right,' said Ron in a sarcastic tone. 'I will just nick up and tell Hermione her fucking date is here.'

'Yes, that is correct,' Draco nodded, his eyes boring into Ron's. 'I am the lady's "fucking" date. Feel free to interpret that however you please.'

Ron bristled. The furious wizards stared at each other like two cats with only one dead Knarl between them. Just as Draco decided it would be worth Hermione's wrath to see how a bloody splash of freckles might suit the wallpaper, he heard his name called.

'Draco? I thought I heard someone at the door.'

Ron and Draco each span about to see the vision of Hermione, lightly trotting down the steps from the upper bedrooms. Her long hair bounced lightly on her shoulders and her little household dressing gown enticingly showed a bit of long leg. Her bemused surprise added a warm glow to her cheeks.

Ron suddenly realized his wand was still up and pointed at Hermione. He was startled and his wand made a loud popping sound; harmless glittering red sparks shot out the end of his wand and raining down on the carpet.

In a voice too low for Hermione to hear Draco sniggered derisively 'How typical; premature wand emission. And at your age Weasley, pitiful.'

'You bloody -!' Ron started a rant but Hermione interrupted.

'Draco, am I mistaken... is today Friday? Surely our date is for Friday. Today is Thursday?'

Ron shot a look at Draco that meant, 'Aha! Explain that!'

Stepping past Ron Draco politely took up Hermione's hand and he spoke in silky tones. 'Today is Thursday and I damn myself for my impatience. I could not wait one more day to see you Mrs Longbottom.' He took Hermione's hand and kissed it in the manner of old school wizards. For a millisecond Draco's eyes flicked over to Ron for the sheer joy of seeing the man's face go positively beetroot red with rage.

Draco had showed up more than 24 hours early for his date with Hermione and it was no accident. He was apt to use his time selfishly and for his own purposes. He only randomly kept to schedules, even those he set for himself. He was near dangerously wealthy and powerful, who was going to argue with him?

'Hermione, you knew Malfoy was going to drop by?'

'Well yes, Ron,' said Hermione somewhat sheepishly. She began to flush because of the manner in which Draco's eyes eagerly scanned her figure. 'He is a day early, but-'

'So Hermione!' Ron accused. 'This is the reason you searched all over creation for someone to mind the children tomorrow night? You planned to desert your children - the poor mites who never see enough of you as it is - and all for a date with Malfoy?'

'Ron,' Hermione gently admonished. 'You know I have not had an evening out for pleasure in months.'

'Yes, "Pleasure". You recall the concept Weasley?' asked Draco calmly.

Ron continued to bark at Hermione. 'This arrogant arse left you miserable and unhappy all those years ago but still you invited him into our... into your... you invited him here?'

'Hello,' sang out Draco impatiently. 'I believe there is a noteworthy guest waiting patiently on the doormat who is awaiting permission to enter.'

'Pardon us Draco,' Hermione called past Ron. 'Ron and I need a word. I will only be a minute or two.'

Holding out his arm for Hermione to take, Ron shot Draco a nasty glance. Unfortunately for Ron, when he looked round Hermione had already disappeared up the hall. Draco snickered rudely as Ron darted after Hermione.

Normally Hermione would have headed for the kitchen at the opposite end of the hall for a word with Ron, but she was so flustered at Draco's unexpected appearance, she had headed off in the wrong direction. So when she arrived at the end of the hall she had no choice but to break one of her most clung to household taboos - entering Ron's bedroom. Once inside she looked about with a thinly veiled dread and a wrinkled nose - the room reeked of musky odours she preferred to remain unidentified. Finally, not without some fear that something unpleasant might jump out at her from one of the piles of clothing or dirty dishes, she settled for standing where she was. She was genuinely puzzled by the horrible scowl on Ron's face. Ought he not be used to his own messy room by now?

'What has gotten into you Ron? There is nothing new about my entertaining a guest. I have had gentlemen take me out for dinner many, many times.'

'Yes, you have had gentlemen over,' Ron sputtered, 'but not the likes of, of, that bastard Malfoy.'

'Why are you being so unreasonable?' Hermione implored. 'I have always disliked Mundungus Fletcher. But whenever you invite him round for tea I always manage to be respectful and polite to Mr Fletcher. He gives me the willies but I always treat him as a guest.'

'Mundungus Fletcher!' Ron gasped at Hermione's outrageous comparison. 'Have you lost your mind? Do you imagine there might be a difference between me having Mundungus over and you entertaining Malfoy?' Ron shook with exasperation as he fumbled to make his point valid. 'Yes, you dislike Mundungus Fletcher, but have I ever SHAGGED Mundungus?'

Hermione stared at Ron and she felt nearly at a near loss for words. 'I suppose not,' she said in a tiny voice. How every strange that Ron would mention something as disagreeable as shagging Mundungus. After so many years, might Ron be one of those closet homosexuals in the manner she had heard befit their old Potions Professor - Severus Snape? The unexpected topic was clearly in need of discussion at a later time. No wonder dear poor Ron was so miserable, lonely and had gone so horribly long without a love life, and no wonder Hannah Abbot had abandoned Ron so abruptly.

To set the picture straight, and for a jot of amusement, let us pause here and consider the question of Ron's sexual orientation as viewed by others - in this case, his own family. Interestingly on the issue of Ron's sexuality the Weasley family was largely of two camps. There were those who thought because Ron was an unmarried man he was therefore a wicked scallywag who shagged Hermione raw on a regular basis. The Weasleys of the opposing viewpoint thought Ron was an unmarried man and therefore he was as gay as a basket of Easter Ribbons. There were no Weasleys over the age of seventeen undecided on the issue of Ron's sexuality. Strangely enough, not one of them had taken the bother to ask Ron to confirm their suspensions one-way or the other. In that way the Weasley family was just like mine but that is a disagreeable subject for discussion over intoxicating liquids.

While we are discussing Ron it might be good to include more background here.

Years ago Ron had shared the flat - and his bed - with his Hufflepuff sweetheart Hannah Abbott. But sadly a year or so later, no reason given to anyone, least of all Ron, Hannah left her red-haired lover. Finding himself miserable and abandoned, Ron threw himself into his Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes work. Disheartened Ron even gave up his goals for his true vocation - flying Keeper for a professional Quidditch team.

Poor Ron was not gay - not that there is anything wrong with that - but he did suffer from a chronic condition that is a terrible malady in humans - straight or gay - wizard and Muggle alike - self doubt. And you might try explaining that to my family but sorry, I digress again - I now return you to your regularly scheduled Ron/Hermione spat.

Ron laid into Hermione. 'You deliberately kept me in the dark. You have been seeing Malfoy.'

Such was Ron's stubborn nature that he required all pertinent issues to be brought to a head. So, with his usual inept sense of timing, Ron dropped to one knee and reached upward to take Hermione's hand, the better to ask her to marry him. To Ron's mortification, Hermione did not offer her hand to him. Hermione only looked at his hand as if expecting Ron to signal or gesture with it, you know - in that annoying way dogs and cats have when you point to their food dish but the irritating creatures do not look to their dish, but instead, stupidly stare at your fingers. Of course animals do that not out of stupidity really, but because they have no clue as to what humans imply with a pointed finger. Likewise, Hermione was clueless in the manner of a household pet. In all the years she and Ron had shared the flat, under no circumstances had Ron ever made a move, under any circumstances, to take Hermione's hand. In the years they shared the flat there passed at least one hundred nights when Ron and Hermione put on their cloaks and sallied out to walk under beautiful moon after beautiful moon and never once did Ron take Hermione's hand in his.

Ron was disappointed that Hermione did not place her hand in his and as he was still too shy to grab for her hand, he dropped his own and spoke. 'Hermione! I had a long think over the past week and tonight - before Malfoy showed up - I was on my way upstairs, to see you. There is something I must ask you; something which I have given a great deal of thought to. Something that-'

'Please lower your voice,' said Hermione in an undertone. She thought Ron was on one knee because he wanted to speak with her, eye to eye instead of towering over her. She had no clue Ron planned to propose marriage; as Ron was barefoot she thought perhaps he was about pull on one of the smelly socks on the floor. 'It would be awkward if the children were to hear us quarreling.'

'We are not quarreling,' started Ron. 'I am trying to-'

'Well I am glad of that,' said Hermione with relief. 'I ought have told you that Draco would be dropping by. I know how you feel about him and this is your home too after all.'

'Hermione,' said Ron upset that his big moment was becoming a muddle. 'You do not understand. I do not want that pompous prat to come between us.'

'No one will ever come between us,' cooed Hermione reassuringly. She placed one hand on Ron's head, much as if stroking a ginger cat. 'Now. You said you have something to tell me. What is it Dear?'

Alas - unbeknownst to Hermione, she had dropped the equivalent to a lapful of fireworks on Ron's resolve. You understand, Hermione was the sort who called all and sundry "Dear" - her children, her parents, her close friends, her S.P.E.W. staff, the grocer, the sweet old man at the corner pharmacy and come to that, the children's pet goldfish. However Hermione had always intuitively suspected Ron would be unable to handle such an endearment without misunderstanding the intent. The sweetest endearments Ron had ever heard from Hermione's lips were "you silly bugger" and occasionally "you great pudding". Therefore never in all the years she knew Ron had Hermione ever used the 'D' word when addressing Ron. So in this instance hearing Hermione call him 'Dear' the poor man lost all of his thoughts and intentions in an instant.

'I - I - I' Ron stuttered, his cheeks reddened and his arms gesticulated wildly. 'Uh... I, I thought, I imagined, I wondered, no I wanted to tell you, no ask you... '

'Yes Dear?' asked Hermione again, willing Ron to say his piece while innocently ensuring he could not. She patted Ron's cheek the way she patted her children's faces, but the effect was to cause Ron cheeks to astoundingly grow more scarlet and his arms to wave weakly about.

From across the bedroom Ron's little wardrobe mirror jiggled on its hook, shouting, 'Damn it! Say something Weasley!' The agitated looking glass fell to the floor landing on a pile of Ron's dirty laundry its voice muffled by Ron's boxers and vests. 'Spit it out man! Ask her!'

After a patient wait of several minutes, during which time Ron's vocalizations grew weaker and less coherent and his arms grew tired, he stuttered, 'I', and 'you', and 'the children', over and over again, and in no particular order until Hermione gave up on him.

'I am sorry Ron. I have an untended guest at the front door.' She smiled encouragingly. 'We can talk later.' With that, Hermione left Ron kneeling, and need I tell you Ron was nearly as frustrated as the little wardrobe mirror that lay face down on a pair of unclean tighty whities?

'There you are,' said Draco looking slightly put out as Hermione made her way up the hallway. 'I must ask you, am I correct, does that, "wizard" actually live here? In this flat here with you?'

Hermione nodded and began a flustered answer. 'Yes. I lived here for a time with Ron and Harry. Then I moved out and married Neville. But later, when my Neville... when Neville passed... I was quite depressed.'

Draco would have forgiven the whole discussion of Ron's living quarters to hear the answer to the more perplexing question of why Hermione ever thought to marry Longbottom in the first place, but he kept that to himself. He bowed his head respectfully, 'My overdue sympathies to you on your loss Mrs Longbottom.'

Hermione nodded. 'Ron and Harry were concerned for my welfare. They convinced me to move back in - really it was the best thing for me.' Hermione disliked thinking about the dark times at the end of the war and she cut the discussion short. 'Eventually Harry moved out - Harry married Ginny Weasley and moved into "the Burrow" - you have heard of the Burrow, the Weasley family home?'

So... the Weasels live in a "burrow". Why am I not surprised?

'I had planned to move out when Harry left but never got round to it. Much time passed and a year or so ago I heard of some children who lost their family and decided to take them in. I soon realized having a second adult around was helpful when the children are ill or...'

'Yes, yes, terribly interesting,' said Draco cutting to the quick. 'Sorry, but although I cannot imagine why you would want to in the first place, I must ask you - do you ever indulge that ging-er pated human step-ladder in any... activities... that render him... "happy" or heavens forbid - "satisfied"?'

'Well, yes,' said Hermione, wickedly grinning the look on Draco's appalled face, 'but only if one takes into consideration the baking of biscuits. As I have told you over and over again, Ron and I are only platonic mates. I have never been "intimate" with Ron.'

Right my pet, once you've had The Fireball there is no other game in town.

'Really Draco, you have no idea how much Ron's friendship has meant to me over the years. He is a loyal mate and the children adore him. Together - Ron the children and I - have made up an unorthodox, but happy little family. And, speaking of family, I cannot go out with you tonight Draco. I have no one to mind the children.'

'If the children love your bloody Weasley so much, he can mind them,' Draco snapped.

'No, not possible,' explained Hermione. 'I always give Ron at least a few days notice before I ask him such a favour - that is only fair. But perhaps you and I might stay here - enjoy a lovely tea in the sitting room?'

'I reckon that would be lovely,' said Draco who was still standing on the doormat. 'That is if you ever actually get round to asking me into your flat.'

Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. 'Oh, how rude of me, I am sorry! Please, come in.' she accepted Draco's extravagant gifts with an uneasy look, placing them on a small foyer table.

Hermione reached up to grasp the platinum serpent clasp at Draco's neck. As her hands touched the metal she hesitated, suddenly feeling quite shy. She looked into Draco's eyes. He seemed a benevolent Dementor, not seeking to suck out her soul, but contrarily he seemed to be doing the opposite, investing her with a piece of his own soul, beseeching her to drop her defenses.

Draco took one of Hermione's soft hands and squeezing gently he guided her nervous fingers to open the clasp, a simple movement that at once seemed so subtly intimate, Hermione blushed. As the buckle unfastened Hermione forgot to breath; the rich, supple material slipped from Draco's broad shoulders to puddle softly at their feet on the entryway carpet.

'Hermione,' Draco whispered, 'I had forgotten you give good cloak.'

'You are wicked Draco,' said Hermione and she quickly turned from Draco's steely eyes and stooping for his cloak hanging the garment on the cloak hook.

Stepped forward Draco placed his hand on Hermione's shoulders pulling her close. Gently he took her lower lip in his teeth - squeezing it softly - savouring the plump promise. His tongue eased tentatively onto Hermione's mouth and shut his eyes as he considered his tongue in her warm, moist mouth and thought of interesting comparisons to other portions of their anatomies. Hermione relaxed, sighing and realizing she was asking for trouble she allowed Draco's warm hands to glide slowly down her back, there to take up a handful of soft buttocks.

The two may have stayed that way for quite a while but ever untimely, Ron burst out of his bedroom. He blanched to see Hermione and the unwanted Slytherin engaged in a tonsil-to-tonsil snog.

'I am going out,' Ron raged. He stomped briskly towards the pair.

Hermione jumped, and pushed Draco back but of course the devilish wizard only tightened his grip for the pleasure of rankling Ron. Entangled in Draco's octopus arms, Hermione tried not to sound as embarrassed as she felt. 'Did you say something Ron?'

'I am going OUT,' Ron barked. 'Obviously I am only getting in the way around here -in my own home.'

'Stop that,' Hermione hissed at Draco as she attempted to pry his happy hand from her bottom. 'When will you be back Ron?'

'When I bloody well feel like it.' Ron snatched his cloak from a hook.

'Ron, oh, really...! Do not leave on our, my account! I do not want to make you feel uncomfortable -'

'I'm not leaving on "your" account Hermione, or his,' Ron lied. 'Slipped my mind, bit of... of important business. Meeting some... blokes... yes, meeting some chaps tonight at the pub, the Supple Wand. Some important - stuff - to discuss.'

'Ah meeting chaps,' said Draco most unhelpfully while rudely fondling Hermione's left breast - which was his long time favourite of the pair - and receiving a shin kick for his efforts. 'I have heard this neighbourhood has those kind of pubs.'

Ron ignored the comment. 'Hermione, you know where I will be if you require assistance.' He flung open the door and bolted down the flat steps and up the street.

Released by Draco, Hermione faced him with unconcealed temper. 'Draco you must get it into your head that our relationship is not improved by your alienating my loved ones - family or friends. ' She made to slam the front door but Draco slipped his foot into the doorframe and kicked the door gently back at her.

'Right. Just a tick Hermione, my House Elf... I mean my servant... my "employee" is out there.' Draco shouted down the front steps where his elegant barouche carriage was parked. At the front of the carriage a brace of matched jet-black hippogriffs in shiny red harness stood jigging in place as though unaccustomed and ill at ease in a low rent district of Diagon Alley

'Hock! Bring up the packages.' Although Draco knew Hermione was bound to disapprove of his use of House Elves he was startled by the degree of disapproval on her face.

People walking by on the street stopped to watch. It was rare enough to see a House Elf in public but under any circumstances Hock was a sight. He was garishly dressed in the old fashioned coachman's livery topped by an ornate ostrich plumed tri-corner hat. The steps leading up to the door of the flat were steep so he elf-apparated himself to the top. There in obeisance he tipped his oversized hat to Draco and Hermione, and stepping inside laid two colourful beribboned packages on the foyer floor.

'This is Hock,' Draco explained with pride, 'the great grandson of my old House Elf 'Gannet'. You will have noticed Hock wears clothing of the finest quality, which I gave to him.' With a prod of his boot he urged the elf. 'Tell the lady how I freed you. Go on. Tell her.'

The hunched elf timidly squeaked, 'Y-y-yes, most generous is my master... Mr Malfoy. He is gave me "freedom". I is getting two Galleons every week and paid 'holidays' whatever them is.' As the elf spoke he daubed at his massive eyes with a corner of his gold-buttoned jacket sleeve. 'I is a free elf. I is always been a good House Elf. I am not knowing why I is made free - I is always been a good House Elf Miss.' A large tear rolled down the stricken elf's parsnip shaped nose.

'Poor little Hock,' said Draco in treacle sweet tones. He gently placed a boot behind the elf and shoved it back out the door and slammed it shut. 'The little fellow is incapable of understanding the concept of freedom. In Hock's minute mind my actions shamed him. I trust the poor mite eventually comes to grip with his unwanted and unasked for "freedom".'

Stunned Hermione stared at Draco; she marvelled that any agenda, including impressing her, could have lead Draco to free one of his hundreds of elves.

'You released that little gentleman from his life long servitude?'

'What, the House Elf? Yes I freed him, and please, no gloating.' Draco added seriously. 'I did not do the thing lightly. My other elves are near hysterical. In their tiny minds they believe Hock must have angered me. Most cry their fat little eyes out each and every day - tearstains all over the mansion carpets. Perhaps you will come round sometime Mrs Longbottom. Reason with the creatures? Explain to them the logic that destroys the system that over the millenniums kept their ikle elven arses dwelling in adequate safety, some happiness and very nearly in comfort.'

Hermione stared open mouthed at Draco unsure of just what to answer to his astounding pronouncement. She opened her mouth but someone else in the household spoke up just then.

'Mmmuuummmmmy!' squealed a tiny but forceful voice out from one of the upstairs rooms. 'Mummy, we want our bedtime story!'

Although Hermione's heart rose at the sound of the childish voice, contrariwise Draco felt his stomach sink. He reached down and took up the packages. 'I think it is high time I make the acquaintance of - the children.'

Hermione laughed at Draco's stricken face. 'They don't bite, at least not until they get to know you.' She placed a soothing hand on Draco's shoulder. 'I am willing to give this a go if you are. I am not altogether certain introducing you to Ella and Albus is not a dreadful mistake. For one thing, they so quickly grow fond of people and if we saw little of each other... Oh, and honestly - gifts are hardly necessary.'

Draco looked surprised. 'We shall see plenty of each other, I can promise you that. But what is this, gifts not necessary? What rude sort of guest does not bring presents for the children?'

When I was a lad I received presents each time a guest set foot in our home. She probably learned her manners from the likes of Muggles. Muggles probably greet their host's children with 'Wotcher kiddies!' and bite them on their ikle arses.

'I want to get this over with... I mean, I am anxious to meet your delightful children. I ask only for a few minutes alone with the tykes before you come up.' With that, Draco limped up the stairs and as he hit the landing the wee voices were heard from behind one of the hall doors. With the dread of a guilty wizard facing the Wizengamot, Draco slowly moved along the narrow hall towards the high-pitched squeals of happy children at play.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Things were not quite right in the Burrow kitchen. Ginny Weasley stood over the hob, her wand flayed about as if she was ridding the air of the annoying summer billiwigs. The breakfast fixings - the eggs, rashers, bangers and bread and even the butter, refused to cooperate with Ginny. The freshly gathered eggs would not crack but when they finally did they exploded like dung bombs, splattering yolk like so many off-coloured Weasely freckles all over the cooker, the walls and even Ginny. The rashers and bangers did not move or explode, but rested idle in the skillet. Ginny was forced to turn the meats by quick pokes with her fingers - a painfully task. The morning bread did not rise in the cooker and the resulting pale, flat bread slices flung themselves with suicidal abandon onto the hob flames, burning themselves into charcoal. Worst of all, after sitting for more than an hour on the hob flames the teakettle was still cool to the touch - there would be no morning tea.

'Oooo, Mum has hexed this kitchen to only do her bidding, I know she has!' Ginny fussed to herself. 'OUCH!' She gave a little hop as she burned her fingers pulling a bit of blackened toast from the flames.

'What's wrong?' asked Harry, innocently sauntering in from his morning broom flight. 'Breakfast ready?'

'Breakfast? You march in and out of this kitchen like your hands are tied behind your back. If you are hungry fix your own breakfast!' snapped Ginny.

'What did I do Pet?' asked Harry, sounding hurt.

'I am sorry Harry,' said Ginny, sucking on her scalded fingers. 'Mum has charmed the kitchen to...'

Her words were lost to the noise of the kitchen rafters shaking as a pack of boys descended the stairwell at a dead run that was close to free fall. . 'MORNING UNCLE HARRY, MORNING AUNTIE GIN!' The boys hungrily demanded, 'WHAT IS THAT SMELL?' The boys raced to settle themselves around the table.

'That "smell" is your burnt breakfast,' explained Ginny. 'Keep the noise down boys, your Gran is having a lie in.'

A new round of 'good morning' shouts began as Fred and Angelina entered the kitchen and joined the morning hubbub. Their small daughter Beth, in her nightdress, clung sleepily to Fred's neck.

'Where is Mum then?' asked Fred absently as he nabbed a piece of piece of toast from the hob, sinking his teeth into the black crumbly surface as though it was perfection. Having lived for a couple of years on his twin George's culinary skills, Fred had low expectations for food. He lifted Beth onto a chair near her noisy brothers who looked at the child as if they were considering slathering the girl with marmalade for their meal.

'Mum, is having a lie in,' explained Ginny. 'OH BLOODY HELL! There they go again; the bangers are deliberately burning themselves! This is really too much!'

'Why would they burn themselves?' asked Angelina, pulling on an apron and approaching Ginny and the cooker. A close look at the chaos convinced Angelina she ought not have talked Fred into leaving their bed for breakfast.

'Because Mum wants us to think twice before taking over her kitchen, that is why,' said Ginny. 'I will bet Mum is upstairs laughing herself silly right now while we starve to death.'

'Ginny,' said Angelina reproachfully. 'Mum Weasley would do no such thing. You are only trying too hard. Here, let me set this to rights.' Angelina pulled out her wand. 'NUTRIMENS LEVIOSA!'

The pile of uncooked rashers and a flat burnt loaf of bread flew up from the counter only the plunge themselves into the sink - a sink filled to the brim with scummy soapy water.

'BLAST!' swore Angelina. 'Oooo Mum Weasley has charmed this kitchen and not for the better! That old witch is asking for -'

'Calm down Angie,' said Fred, unaware of the danger he was putting himself into. 'You haven't worked kitchen magic in ages, you're just a bit rusty.' He managed to duck in time to avoid the flying loaf of flat soggy bread his beloved wife hurled at him with another quick leviosa spell.

'WHERE IS GRAN?' shouted the hungry gang of boys. 'WHERE IS OUR BREAKFAST? WE ARE STARVING!'

'Your Gran is having a lie in now stop your shouting!' shouted Harry. 'I ought to take a page from your Grandfather Arthur and install Muggle on/off shunts on you boys. Then we would be able to flick a knob and shut you lot up in an instant.'

'A lie in? But Mum has not had a lie in since... well,' Fred shut his eyes to block out the turmoil while he thought for a bit. 'Come to think on it, Mum's never had a lie in that I can recall. Not in my lifetime anyway.'

All the adults were instantaneously silent. They imagined dreadful things all of which involved black robes, wooden caskets and a vicar reciting sad words from a small black book while mourners drenched sanctified ground with their copious tears.

'Go on up Ginny,' said Fred in a voice rich with dread. 'Um... go on up and tell Mum... um, that her tea is ready.'

'How brave of you Fred,' chided Angelina. 'You and Harry are the men of the house. Do your manly duties.' But she and Ginny exchanged frightened looks. 'Fred, go tell Mum Weasley her kitchen is misbehaving and her grandchildren want feeding.'

Neither Fred nor Harry moved. They had a bad feeling and were seldom keen on any manly duties that could be accomplished in the vertical with their pants on.

'Blast!' Ginny swore. Flinging down her wand she lobed her apron at Harry and headed for the stairs with Angelina close behind. No doubt about it, all the real work at the Burrow was performed by the Burrow women folk. As the witches arrived at an upper storey landing near Molly's bedroom they spotted Lily heading towards them from the opposite direction. Lily was tying on her dressing gown - over her jumper and skirt actually, for she had only just arrived home from a Friday night pub crawl. She wanted to put in an appearance before retiring to her room for a good day's sleep.

'Morning Mum, Auntie Angelina,' said Lily as brightly as she could manage considering she was hung over. 'Have I missed Breakfast?'

'No dear, your Gran is um... having a lie in, yes, a lie in, and your Aunt and I are... here dear, you go downstairs...'

'No, I want to talk to Gran first,' said Lily. 'There is an awful racket coming from Gran's room. I wager that boggart is back. Gran must have run out of humorous ways to flummox the nasty thing.' Lily looked puzzled. 'Crikey, Mum. A lie in. Honestly, ever known Gran to stay in bed this late? It is nearly 6 am, she's usually off making up all the beds by now.'

Not great fans of funerals, and not a black frock between them, Ginny and Angelina were immensely relieved to hear there was any noise at all in Molly's room. They darted after Lily who was boldly marching to her Gran's bedroom door. Sure enough, just as Lily said, there was a great deal of noise coming from within; strange shouts and the sound of some piece of furniture beating rhythmically against the wall.

'Blast, sounds like a boggart all right,' said Lily in exasperation. 'Bet the thing is under Gran's bed. You can help her.' Lily took the doorknob but it would not turn. Ginny pulled her wand and called out, 'ALOHOMORA EXPOSITUS!' The bedroom door swung open. The three women had no qualms about entering Molly's room unannounced or startling the old witch. It never occurred to any of them that they might be the ones who were in for a surprise.

If there was a boggart in Molly Weasley's bedroom, then the boggart must have assumed that Molly's greatest fear was that a vigorous, dark haired, naked wizard would make such vigorous, energetic love to her that her old wrought iron bed would rattle like enchanted skeletons performing a hornpipe jig.

Ginny, Angelina and Lily stood gobsmacked. Molly's legs were wrapped around a tall, thin naked man and they were both as naked as phoenix chicks. The wizard's face was not visible because he was occupied making lewd noises to the far side of Molly's neck. The carnal pair were so engaged in their activity that the man performed a clean dozen strokes before the pair realized, with a non-carnal jerk - they had an audience.

Molly whooped, 'MY STARS! GET OUT ME DARLING!'

Lily took her grandmother's order to mean herself, but in the next instant the room echoed as the nude wizard apparated to placed unknown with a thunderous loud bang - undoubtedly only his second bang of the day. Molly quickly covered herself.

'Can't an old witch seek a bit of comfort in the privacy of her own bedroom? Did I not teach you lot to knock before you bang on in? Get out of here!' yelled Molly furiously. She chucked a carpet slipper at her intrusive relatives.

There was no need for Molly to ask twice. Ginny, Angelina and Lily, brought to their senses, ducked the slipper, and backed out slamming the door. Stunned, they stumbled backwards on the corridor, nearly collided with Harry and Fred. The men had run upstairs with the pack of boys close on their heels at the first shout. Lily turned and raced for her bedroom.

'What is going on?' Fred demanded. 'Mum all right?'

'Fine, Mum Weasley is fine,' said Angelina her face hot with embarrassment.

'Oh, I would say is Mum is fine all right,' said Ginny, pale and shaking but at the same time on the verge of hysterical giggles; a common response to a primal moment.

'Ginny, why are you looking so peaky?' asked Harry. He went on to ask a far more important question, 'Is Mum Weasley coming down to fry up our breakfast or not?'

'Harry get away before I do something I will be sorry for,' snapped Ginny. 'Nothing happened. All of you downstairs! I will do the fry up and you Harry, are going to help.'

The men of the house, young and old, trudged back downstairs, seriously sober at the thought of eating the disagreeable food that waited in the kitchen.

As they started back down the stairs, Angelina placed a hand on Ginny's shoulder. The two looked at each other in a quick and silent pledge that what they just saw in Molly's bedroom was to remain a mutual secret that would accompany them to their graves. But precisely where Lily stood on the issue was going to be anybody's guess.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Draco pushed open the nursery door, his immediate impression was of light, cleanliness and order. The small room was bright with vivid blue and yellows, with large decorative butterflies and flowers adorning one wall. There were two beds. One bed was made to resemble a sailboat with a cotton duck sail and yellow and black flags. On the opposite wall a bed suitable for a young princess was draped with sheer purple tulle with golden sparkles. At the foot of each of the beds small toys were neatly stacked in hampers. Draco was immediately struck by the room's stark contrast to his own childhood bedroom that had been decorated in a black and grey motif with a row of paintings featuring dour faced ancestors framed on the walls. Draco's childhood bedroom had all the whimsy of a mausoleum.

Draco looked about for the children. 'Hello little ones!' he called in a twee voice. 'Come out. Meet your Mummy's old mate!'

There was a giggle at Draco's side. He looked down to saw a small, bug eyed House Elf staring up at him. Judging by the vivid pink, doll sized pyjamas the bald elf wore, the creature was female and she strongly resembled a kewpie doll

A freed girl elf; how frugal of Longbottom, a young elf requires no more than a Knut or two per week for salary as a nursemaid or child's companion. How I do admire thrift - an admirable and scarce quality in witches.

'Here,' Draco ordered the tiny creature. 'Hold these.' He dropped the packages onto the elf's spindly arms and rolled his eyes in annoyance because her knees buckled under the weight of the packages. After a truly heroic effort to keep both packages aloft the elf fell onto her tiny bum with a loud squeal.

'Hold your noise,' Draco ordered. Stooping he peered under the sailboat bed. 'Come on, where are you children? Come on out and meet the wizard who is come to shag... uh... visit with your dear Mamá!' he coaxed.

'Sir,' asked the girl elf curiously and politely. She came to stand by Draco, who squatted by the sailboat bed. 'What are you looking for?'

Draco held up an admonishing finger to the elf. ''Freedom is one thing but silence is the mark of any "good" elf. Now shush or I shall be within my rights to demand your mistress beat you.'

'Do you mean my Mummy? She doesn't believe in beating us,' the elf, folded her arms. 'You are a bad man. I do not like you. I am going to tell Mummy to send you away.'

'What do you mean...?' Draco made to stand so quickly his head hit the cross bar on the bed's little sailing mast. 'OW! Your "mummy"? Oh, I understand. The whole of your family works for Mrs Longbottom then? Good show. Even as generous as I have no doubt Mrs Longbottom is, I doubt a family of freed elves require much salary.'

'Mummy is Mrs Longbottom,' explained the girl elf, impatiently tapping her toe.

The resemblance of the tiny elf to a diminutive disapproving, toe-tapping Hermione was immediately obvious to Draco. He shot to his feet, his grey eyes now every bit as wide and round as that of the elf at his feet.

So that is what Longbottom rabbited on about at her office last week. I thought she was discussing some damned S.P.E.W. project for orphaned House Elves!

Draco was so thunderstruck he could only gape with amazement at the girl elf until he felt a tugging at the back of his robes. Turning he looked down and was again stunned; a second elf, tinier than the first, not much larger than a kitten, grinned up at him. This second elf too was clad in pyjamas only his were pale blue and decorated with sailboats and anchors. The boy elf was bald but for a little tuft of auburn hair at the very top of his wrinkled head. The elfin tot was so incredibly ugly, that he was cute in the manner of a bulldog puppy.

'Are you my Mummy's old boyfwend?' lisped the little boy.

Stooping, Draco picked up the elven pair by their pyjama collars and held them at arm's length.

'You little... please, I beg you. Tell me you were hired by Mrs Longbottom to assist her with her children - her human, daughter and son! Tell me you... you... tell me you are playmates hired to entertain Mrs Longbottom's brats. Go on, tell me!'

The elf children hung limply. The girl glared boldy and angrily at Draco while the tiny boy smiled shyly and finally spoke up hopefully. 'You going to wead us our bedtime stowy?'

'Read your? Why you little...' Draco whispered to himself under his breath. 'House Elves - Longbottom is gone barmy. What is next - Flobberworms in trousers and waistcoats?'

'Draco?'

Draco quickly swung the elves behind his back. 'Uh... yes, uh, I uh...'

Hermione peeked though the doorway, her face bright with expectation. 'Have you all introduced yourselves?'

'Mummmmmmmy!' shouted Ella. 'I do not like - '

'Presents!' shouted Draco merrily, dropping the children to the ground behind his back. 'Did I tell these little angels I have brought them some lovely, lovely presents?'

He quickly scooped up the longer of the two packages and handed it to Ella.

'Longbottom, you did not tell me how "interesting" your children are.' Draco eyed Hermione with a look that made the witch's stomach turn.

'Where are your manners Ella?' said Hermione stiffly. 'Do thank Mr Malfoy for his generosity.'

'Thank you,' said the girl elf equally stiffly. With one hand she pulled at the rear of her pyjama bottoms to maintain coverage of her wee bum then lost no time dropping onto her bony knees to unwrap her gift. She stared silently as the wrapping fell from a broomstick. Her tiny face was screwed up with ill-disguised annoyance as she looked up at Draco and demanded, 'What is that?'

'Yes,' said Hermione, her arms crossed, her face equally screwed up with annoyance, staring at the broomstick. 'What is that?'

'For Salazar's sake!' said Draco defensively. 'I didn't know your children were sodding House... you know. That is the finest children's racing broomstick Galleons can buy.'

'A broomstick?' said Ella in disgust. She indignantly rolled her large eyes.

'Damn me, what the fu... I would like to know what is wrong with a racing broomstick? Every normal child wants a genuine Junior Wizard Racing Broomstick!' Draco was completely baffled by the child's attitude. 'Longbottom what else could this elf possibly want?'

Ella huffily volunteered her opinion, 'I like books.'

'Oh gods, I am too late Longbottom,' said Draco feigning dismay. 'You have already warped this poor creature with your penchant for knowledge.

Hermione ignored Draco's comment and prompted her diminutive daughter. 'Ella...?'

Ella dipped a curtsy but continued glaring maliciously at Draco. 'Thank you for the lovely gift Mr Malfoy.'

Draco bowed back quite low and whispered condescendingly into Ella's ear. 'Tough luck elf; no book for you, but if you do not care to fly on this broomstick you can always use the thing to tidy up this nursery - give it a sweep.'

'I don't know how to sweep,' Ella shot back.

'Take my word for it about sweeping up,' Draco whispered nastily, 'you will be a natural at it.'

Ignored quite long enough, little Albus set up a high-pitched mewling whinge.

'Now I didn't forget you,' said Draco straightening and placing the second package before the tiny boy. 'Here. For you Bulbous.'

'His name is Albus,' corrected Hermione.

'Whatever,' said Draco squatting by the tot.

Albus, whose patience was as short as his stature, immediately pitched a new fit because he could make no headway in his efforts to remove the wrapping from his gift. His fingers were so tiny he might just as well have attempted removing the hide from a live troll.

'Let me,' offered Draco, and he pulled open the wrapping, handing a large shining black ball to Albus.

Albus stood stock still, staring at ball, which was as larger than he was.

'Oh no. Don't tell me the boy wants a book too?' said Draco. 'Longbottom, you have turned this fatherless boy into a poofter. Or perhaps that is the result of his exposure to Weasley.'

'Draco! How dare you come into my home with your blinkered, bigoted...' Hermione was interrupted by Albus' further whinging.

'What is thisp?' the boy fussed and pushed his toe against the ball but was unable to make the thing budge.

'Why Bulbous,' explained Draco patiently, 'this is your very own, genuine, Junior Wizard regulation Bludger.'

'His name is Albus,' Hermione repeated testily.

'Whatever. Go on boy, don't just stand there staring at the thing.' Draco removed a large Quidditch bat from the box. He mimed swinging the bat then handed it to the boy. 'Have a go. Give it a wack.'

As Draco neglected to specify just what it was Albus was 'have a wack' at, the boy took a courageous swing for a direct hit to Draco's kneecap.

'FUUUCCCCKKKKK!' Draco bellowed, hopping up and down energetically on one foot, blaspheming with heedless abandon.

At last Draco was making an impression on the children. They stared at him enthralled by his extensive vocabulary of interesting new words and phrases.

'Your language Draco,' Hermione scolded. 'There are 'little' ears present!'

'Of course their ears are little damn me, they are elves,' grunted Draco, while he vigorously rubbed his knee. As Draco swore, the Bludger suddenly lifted from the carpet, flying around the room, with intent to strike.

'Mummmmmmy!' yowled Albus. The clever tot showed a remarkable quickness for picking up new vocabulary. 'My fucking, cock-sucking, piece of shite budgie id fwying away!'

Shooting Draco a dangerous look, Hermione ducked narrowly avoiding the loose Bludger. 'Albus dear, that is a "Bludger", not a "budgie" and we do not use any of the new grown up words that Mr Malfoy used.' She clapped her hands together loudly. 'That is quite enough! Ella, put your lovely new broomstick away. Albus put down that bat this instant! Not another word, into your beds.' Hermione glowered at Draco, who was still bent over rubbing his knee. 'Please Draco, wait outside, I need to settle the children down for their bedtime.'

What you need is to settle the "children's" little heads on plaques to decorate the walls.

Draco caught the Bludger and with a curt nod handed it to Hermione. Limping into the hallway he shut the nursery door.

It seemed a good time for Draco to lament his horrendously bad luck for falling in love with such a difficult unreasonable and thoroughly mental witch. Draco leaned up against the wall by the nursery door and listened. There were loud squeals and protests as Hermione coaxed her overexcited brood into their beds. Then, to Draco's complete disapproval, instead of leaving the diminutive heathens to fall asleep, Hermione read her tiny brood a bedtime story.

Any bedtime tales Draco heard in his childhood nearly all concerned the unfortunate circumstances concerning Draco's birth. As a child Draco was often scared into fitful sleep by his father who spoke of a horrendous magical ceremony in disturbing detail - ghastly information that gave Draco his life long tendency towards terrorizing dreams and night sweats.

Hermione told no horrifying tale to her sleepy tots; she told a sweet story, one entirely new to Draco. And because he was unaware the story was from a Muggle source, Draco settled by the door to listen. Hermione told her children the story of a disobedient bunny by the name of Peter Rabbit.

From the off, Draco sided with Peter, the hero of the story. The rabbit was obviously hell bent to his own bunny goals and it was easy to deduce that Peter was a cottontail of Slytherin persuasion. Despite stern warning by Peter Rabbit's mother, the clever Peter visited a farmer's garden in quest of vegetative treasure where he was very nearly made into a rabbit pie by an evil dark wizard by the name of Farmer McGregor. Draco thought the tale set an excellent example for children of all sorts.

That's the stuff! Peter went after what he wanted. So he lost some clothing, what of it? Why the blazes would a rabbit require a jacket or shoes anyway? And Peter's stupid brother and sister bunnies - obviously that lot was Hufflepuff. If it were up to me, by Merlyn, after his brave little adventure there would have been no punishment for Peter. I would have fed him a hardy meal of blackberries with cream AND put the rascal to bed with a half dozen lovely fluffy girl bunnies to fuck.

~*~*~*~*~*~

'Beth, go outside and play with your cousin,' Angelina told her little daughter. The amiable child skipped out into the rear garden. At last the cramped Burrow kitchen was empty of children for the first time since Angelina and Ginny had returned from a day spent in Ottery St. Catchpole. They had set out on their shopping expedition to avoid Molly and to give them some time to ruminate over the astounding discovery about Molly's love life. They were gone for half the day and spent not one Knut between them.

'What is wrong with Mum?' asked Ginny of Angelina Her tea had gone stone cold but she had yet to notice.

'We can pretend what we saw this morning did not happen, but the truth is that it did. Not that it is any of our business,' said Angelina. 'This is your mother's house and she is after all, well past the age of consent.'

'I know,' said Ginny nodding her head with amazement. 'But my mother just does not do things like that.'

'Your mother doesn't do things like what?' asked Molly stepping into the kitchen from the garden. She shut the door behind her. It was Saturday and the men of the house were off on errands and it was time for a serious chat.

'Ah... nothing Mum, Angelina and I are just chatting, about nothing really,' said Ginny uncomfortably in a would-be singsong voice.

'Listen up my girls,' said Molly. Although her face was sallow, her cheeks had picked up the pink flush of embarrassment as she faced Ginny and her daughter-in-law. 'I confess I made a grave error of judgment this morning - well, last night actually. Made rather merry at a pub and, well - that led to what you got a glimpse of this morning. I am not proud of my indiscretion, I can tell you that.'

'Made merry? You mean you were drinking?' said Angelina in amazement. Her mother-in-law never drank anything stronger than partially evaporated Butterbeer.

'You know I do not drink. I just got into the spirit of things at the pub is all. It was wet t-shirt night.' Molly dropped her eyes. 'I won.'

'Mum,' began Ginny uneasily. 'You have not been yourself since spring. You are tired much of the time; pale. And your behaviour is - is "off". Let us invite the doctor round. If we knew what was on with your health - perhaps you only need vitamins. You are at an age when-'

'Vitamins,' scoffed Molly. 'I know what I need and by Godric's good braces, I have him. I will not bring him round to call on me here at the Burrow again. I must have been daft bringing him round last night. What was I thinking?'

'But that is the point Mum Weasley,' persuaded Angelina. 'What were you thinking? You admit yourself you were not thinking straight. And you have been contentious and you do look peaky. Why, even Beth has noticed her Gran looks a bit ill.'

'Oh no, my poor little darling,' said Molly. She treasured the youngest of her three granddaughters, and hated to think she might be a cause of worry for the little girl.

Ginny jumped in while her mother was somewhat vulnerable. 'Yes, and when George visited last week he though you looked worn. Mum, all of us are of us concerned for you. Are you feeling blue?'

Molly snorted. 'What, were your eyes shut when you stood at my door this morning? Nothing blue about me. I am a bleeding rainbow!' Based on the morning's observations it was no wonder Molly had cause for happiness; a rousing great tupping is apt to put the pink back in anybody's cheeks. 'I have not been so happy since before my darling Arthur passed away, rest his soul.' Molly took a seat. Despite her words, thoughts of her late husband put a gloomy cast to her tired old face.

'Mum,' Ginny took a deep breath. 'You must know you cannot just bring a strange wizard into the Burrow, willy-nilly, and expect us not to have a say on the matter. There are children in this household. What if...?'

'That was not a "strange wizard",' said Molly tersely. 'I have known the man for years, and what is more, the whole of this household know him; well except for the little ones. He is a lovely fellow and I am not ashamed of my association with the gentleman. I am only sorry we apparated into the Burrow. He often walks me home from the village but bringing him to my room last night was a serious lapse of my judgment and that will not happen again. End of story.'

The new bit of the puzzle concerning Molly's secret romance astonished Angelina and Ginny. Although Ottery St. Catchpole was largely a Muggle town, a number of magical folk called the town their home. Ginny and Angelina racked their brains to think who Molly might fancy that fit the known criteria. All the Burrow residents knew the dark haired wizard who ran the local pharmacy. No, the pharmacist did not appear vigorous enough to cause a jelly to shake, much less a wrought iron bed. Perhaps the butcher? Seemed unlikely, the butcher was far too young and besides, it was a fact there was no love lost between Molly and the butcher. They often quibbled over the weight and quality of Burrow meat purchases. Following the nastier battles between Molly and the local butcher there were whole months when Burrow occupants wisely turned temporarily vegetarian. The town tailor? No, the tailor was the right age but had greying sandy hair, not the black hair of Molly's mysterious lover.

'Great Godric's gob Mum,' burst out Ginny, exasperated that it was even necessary to ask. 'Just tell us. Who is your wizard mate?'

'None of your concern,' Molly answered firmly. 'What is more, if the pair of you say anything at all to the rest of the family even hinting that I have a beau, you will answer to me. I will not have Fred, George, or the others putting their noses in my business. I am an adult and will not be treated like a naughty schoolgirl. I am the matriarch of this household even if you lot think I am ready for the Witch's Rest Home. I am only seventy eight years old, and that is witch years, not Muggle years.'

Molly had a point. A normal witch or wizard pushing eighty or even ninety was only equivalent to a Muggle fifty years along.

'Be reasonable Mum. You say we have all made the wizard's acquaintance. So then why must his identity be some flaming great secret? Come along Mum. Is this mysterious wizard one of Dad's old mates from the Ministry? We all love you and we are only concerned for your welfare.'

'That,' blurted Molly, startling both women by angrily blinking back tears, 'is just the trouble.'

Ginny and Angelina had seen Molly through the many overwhelming bad times at the end of the war when family members and close friends were laid to rest. They never had known the stalwart Molly to cry under any circumstances. Their hearts froze to see her suddenly in tears.

'My welfare indeed! You all think because I am a widow I am some helpless tragic figure, unable to care for myself. Do you lot even live here at the Burrow because you wish to, or do you all think I want watching? If it were only myself with the livestock in the old barn and that dratted ghoul in the attic for my only company I would do well enough on my own. I am sure the ghoul would not give me half the grief my own family does. If I tell you who my... lover is, next you will all be finding fault with my choice. Well, this is my life and I will bloody well live it as I please.' Molly's face now streamed with tears. With great dignity, Molly headed up to her room.

'Now what do we do?' asked Ginny, snivelling as tears dribbled down her own face.

'I have no clue,' said Angelina, as many tears gliding over her brown cheeks. 'Perhaps there is more to this than she is telling us. What if she has some illness, some...'

The depressing thought kept both witches in tears. The whole situation with Molly was not discussed when the Burrow men, the whole clueless lot of them, returned home.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"You find yourself the witch who once managed to stir up that shrivelled raisin you call a heart."

For the first time since Perdita hissed those words to him, Draco questioned why he was waiting in a dark hall for an ex-girlfriend to emerge from a sodding nursery. Attempting to raise House Elves as "children" was utterly daft. Were the situation not so tragic, Draco would have found it laughable.

The nursery door opened and for a brief moment candles within the nursery, enchanted to burn until dawn, cast a faint light into the hall. Hermione slipped out and shut the nursery door returning the hall to darkness.

'They are asleep at last.' Hermione tightened her dressing gown on her waist, and although she and Draco could not see each other, she modestly raised her gown collar to shelter what portion of her breasts met the still air. Hermione held her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. 'Do you know Draco, Albus asked me to tell you he would like it if you moved in and shared his Uncle Ron's bedroom.'

'As if,' said Draco and his weak laugh gave away his location by the hall railing.

'But do not think you have conquered those two just yet,' warned Hermione. 'Ella said, and I quote, "Send that wizard away Mummy!" I asked Ella what complaints she might hold against you. She told me you have eyes like the goat at the zoo - the old goat that nipped her finger.'

'But goats - they have slitty eyes, like a devil's, do they not?' Draco listened to the faint scuff of Hermione approaching him in her carpet slippers.

'Yes, ' Hermione laughed softly. 'Ella's point exactly.'

'For a House Elf the girl is quite disrespectful,' Draco scoffed.

'Be that as it may, you did not make a good impression on Ella,' Hermione said softly. She was close enough to feel Draco's warm breath. His aura threw the faintest green light, like the soft glow of a Muggle watch dial. 'And do not call my children "creatures", they are sentient, young people.

'Of course they are aware, have I said otherwise? It occurred to Draco he had never before viewed Hermione's soft blue and red aura; it was violet in spots. 'I do not wish to speak of your so-called children just now. I came here to take you to dinner. Out for a ride in my carriage.'

'Draco, it is far too late for dinner and I told you already. The children, "so-called" or otherwise are far to young to be left alone. Anyway, why would you wish to dine with someone thick enough to love little House Elves, which is I am sure how you now see me?'

'Do not put words in my mouth. I never said you are thick. You are barking perhaps, but there is nothing dense about you.' Draco was startled to feel Hermione's hands take up his own since a slap was closer to what he expected. 'Are you keeping track of where I place my hands?'

'I must always keep the whereabouts of your hands under control when I'm near you,' said Hermione.

'So you must,' said Draco. 'What do you think now you have my hands under your careful control?'

'I was thinking how I used to vex you,' said Hermione thoughtfully, 'because I used to tell you how girly white and soft your hands were when we were students.'

'They are still rather white,' said Draco honestly.

'Your hands are much larger now you have grown. As manicured as always but the skin is so different, almost rough. The softness I enjoyed - knew, is gone.'

'You must remember I was imprisoned in New Azkaban; that terrible place changed more than just my hands,' Draco leaned forward carefully, and touching his nose to Hermione's bushy hair he treated himself to a soft moan. He marvelled that he used to mock the very same bushy hair he longed for over the years. When he was young he had developed quite a fetish for the chestnut tangle.

'I read about your imprisonment in New Azkaban.' Hermione could feel Draco shudder as she voiced the name of the terrible prison. 'You owe Albus Dumbledore a debt of gratitude that he pushed for the elimination of the Dementors at the old Azkaban. At the very least you didn't have to serve your imprisonment under the watch of those monstrous Dementors. '

'Easy enough to say, you were not in prison,' said Draco.

'I wonder,' said Hermione. She decided to risk voicing a question that plagued her over the years. 'When your father was released from the old Azkaban, just as the war started, I heard he turned over all of your inheritance to you - every mansion, all the Malfoy lands, every last Galleon, Sickle and Knut. That is what I read. I recall it was a fortnight later you were arrested and imprisoned.'

Draco affirmed Hermione's comment with a squeeze of her hands.

'I have long reckoned your arrest and imprisonment were devised by your father to keep you and the Malfoy fortunes safe for the duration of the war. I mean, I am no barrister, but when I read the actual case against you it all seemed dodgy to me. Am I right? Was your imprisonment one of your father's clever little plans?'

'Father was bang on brilliant,' Draco murmured. 'Who cares why I was in-'

Hermione was not to be distracted. 'I reckoned as much! So, as the Malfoy fortunes were in your name, you, and the fortunes were untouchable while you were in prison. Then, when the war ended the Malfoy fortunes were entirely safe from confiscation by the Reparation to War Victims Acts because you committed no war crimes. How could you have commited any war crimes? You were in the hands of the Ministry for the whole of the war. And no doubt your imprisonment had the added benefit of keeping you from taking up the Dark Mark without any risk of angering Death Eaters or Lord Voldemort.' Hermione could feel Draco cringe.

'Do not say that name, ever. And save your breath - I do not want your lecture on "fear of the name". And if you believe my years in that insufferable gaol is something my father did to preserve my family's fortunes, then think what you like.' He took Hermione's right hand and placed it over the sleeve of his left arm. 'I will show you by light of day that my sleeve hides no Dark Mark. I am clean of that influence. I would let you apply any charm you wish to prove my word.'

'I do not have to test you Draco; your words to me are good. Do you recall there was no end date to your pledge to never lie to me? '

'Yes I remember Longbottom. Damn you and the promise you forced me into.' Draco stood silent for a while, and then volunteered some of his tale. 'I suffered in New Azkaban. I was changed there. Behind those cold stone walls I learned depravation and the true meaning freedom - or rather, the lack thereof.'

'Draco, I can't bear to think of you having suffered in that horrid place for seven years.'

'No not seven - I was given three years off for good behaviour.' Draco sighed heavily, determined to maintain control on himself while discussing the touchy topic. 'Yes, I, Draco Malfoy, spent four long fucking... no - four long fuckless, years imprisoned like some common criminal.

'Oh Draco,' Hermione murmured sympathetically she placed her warm hand on Draco's cold cheek.

This is not the most opportune time to interject some light on the matter of Draco's imprisonment. However, I can think of no other segment of this story when the matter might come up again. It was true, Draco had suffered immensely during his imprisonment; through bribery of the Ministry Prison Board his mother had only been able to achieve minor boons for her son. It was therefore that Narcissa's unfortunate son Draco was confined to a tiny suite of only three sparsely furnished rooms in New Azkaban on a promontory overlooking the sea.

The guards at New Azkaban were no Dementors but they were brutal. The prison routine at New Azkaban was beyond boring; the exercise periods did not include Quidditch. The only sport allowed was a cruelly boring Muggle game called 'baseball'. The prison food was a travesty. The island prison's sole bill of fare was a boring repetition of seafood; lobster, crab, plaice, sole, and cod, day after boring day with never any tartar or HP sauce to relieve the tedium. The jacket potatoes were small, the vegetables underdone, the wine domestic, the ale cold and there was never - no, not ever - any pudding.

Of the numerous mental cruelties exacted on the unfortunate prisoners of New Azkaban, the worst by far were the small, cleverly devised torments; each and every last novel in the prison library had the last chapter ripped out. The library contained out-of-date periodicals: Today's Cauldron, Leisure Wizard, Collectable Doorknobs, Broomstick Maintenance Monthly, Reader's Digest, Modern Sheep Farmer, and The Journal of Witch Gynaecological Health. All right, all right, some of the magazines weren't too horrid but the pages of those rare issues were dreadfully sticky. Consequently it can be clearly understand why Draco would forever battle the ghosts of his unhappy imprisonment.

'Prison was vile, unbearable, unspeakably cruel.' Draco returned Hermione's caresses by kissing her fingertips gently. 'I beg you. Never again speak about that dark time.'

'I will promise if you make a promise to me about my children.' Hermione held Draco's hands to her face and gave them a sympathetic kiss. 'Try to understand my point of view, and try to understand how I love my children. And promise you will keep your bigoted, bullshite concerning my children being House Elves to yourself.'

'I love it when you talk dirty,' said Draco. He leaned forward pressing a kiss on Hermione. 'Fine. You cannot stop my thoughts but I can promise to try to stop voicing them and to make a play at understanding your pig ignorant views and listen to your thin arguments on the subject. After all, I have nothing to lose. You are intelligent. Eventually you will open your eyes and see the truth you blinkered nutter.'

'You mean that Draco?' said Hermione, knowing Draco offered about the best anyone could hope for - from him.

'Count on it,' Draco took Hermione's shoulders and favoured her with a chaste kiss. There would be plenty of time to go farther in his randy attentions to Hermione as the evening progressed. 'Listen. Get dressed. Come with me for a lovely late night drive though Diagon Alley by the river-'

'I have told you Draco, there is a problem, I cannot leave the children-'

'I have given the matter some thought,' said Draco with great confidence, 'and there no problem.'

Several minutes later, while Hermione dressed herself for an unexpected evening carriage ride, Draco limped into the nursery. With a flick of his wand the nursery candles glowed. He smiled. The room was filled with the loud sound of childish, phoney snores. Draco loudly cleared his voice then spoke as sternly as he could and managed to reframe from chuckling.

'Save your breath, you little liars. I know you are awake I used to pull that trick too.' As Draco expected, Ella and Albus each sat up in their bed, ignoring him and staring at the overdressed House Elf that stood at Draco's feet.

'Here, this is your temporary "nanny",' said Draco, pushing the elf forward with a shove of his boot. 'His name is "Hock" and he will watch over you tonight while I take your dear owner, I mean your dear "Mamá", out for the evening.' Draco lowered his voice threateningly. 'You two will mind Hock or there will be a great deal of trouble.'

'I do not like him,' Ella gave Draco her nastiest look. 'Why can't Nanny stay with us? Where is Uncle Ron?' she demanded.

'Your "mother" tells me your Nanny has the Muggle flu and your 'Uncle' Ron is out pretending he has a life,' Draco explained patiently.

'I wand more bedtime sto-wee,' squeaked Albus hopefully.

'Albus wants a Peter Rabbit story,' announced Ella, her tiny arms crossed.

'Fine,' said Draco. 'Once upon a time, Peter Rabbit went hippity hoppity into Farmer McGregor's garden one time too many. Farmer McGregor enjoyed a lovely piping hot rabbit pie for his supper. The end. Now both of you dry up. Go to sleep.' Draco turned smartly, pulling the nursery door shut behind him.

For several minutes Hock and the two children stared at each other.

'You is heard my Master,' said Hock sensibly. 'You two is to sleep.'

'Why you talk qweer?' asked Albus. 'Why you ware-wing funny clothes?'

'Albus!' Ella chastised he brother. 'Be quiet! He is one of those poor House Elves Mummy told us about. That is why he has such a stupid name. Go to sleep or Mr Malfoy will make Hock punish himself.'

Poor little Albus shook with fear for Hock. With a frightened little howl of dismay he burrowed under his duvet, determined to sleep and thereby save poor Hock the House Elf the trouble of ironing his fingers or flushing himself down a toilet.

Although racked with curiosity herself, Ella pulled her own duvet over her heads and closed her eyes.

Unsure of what exactly he needed to do, Hock thought back to his own elf infancy. A pleasant thought came to mind and he lifted the tails of his livery coat and sat on the floor. He recalled a song his great grandfather Gannet used to sing to him in the depths of the Malfoy Mansion dungeons. His great grandfather could not often get away from tasks so when he was available to his tiny great grandson Hock it was always a great treat. Hock began to sing the ancient House Elf lullaby

'Rocks on thy House Elves

Kicked on their tops

When elf heads break

The House Elves do balk

When the elves balk

The Malfoys will fall

And down will come Malfoys

Master and all'

It was a rather sweet little lullaby of hope passed down for generation upon generation of House Elves from a time eons ago when their wizard masters first enslaved them.

Hock's gruff tones had a soothing effect on Hermione's children and they were soon fast asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The crowd at the Supple Wand Pub was in high spirits. It was Thursday night and darts whizzed through the air as brawny wizards cheered or booed, depending on their champion. Pub snacks disappeared as rapidly as the buxom barmaids could magic the trays of chip barmcakes, crisps and hot chicken wings out from the kitchen. Bitters, stout and lager sloshed with abandon as drunken wizards and many a tipsy witch swigged, sang or snogged in poorly lit corner booths. In the whole of the joyful company there was but one wizard who was not in the least cheerful.

'SSShe'll be sorry,' whinged Ron, slamming his mug down on the bar. 'You wait. Ssssee, sssshe'll find out wha' she could have had... and bloody threw away.'

'Right, threw away,' said the barkeeper, eyeing Ron wearily. He served a pint to a brawny wizard with an eye patch who sat to Ron's left.

'Sssshe, ssshee only thinks she wants that fucking pillock - the bollocks on that albino prat coming round uninvited. Sure the manky minger has more gold at hand than Gringotts on payday, so what? What's he got compared to the likes of me? Mark my word, what she wants is a real man! Know what I mean?' Ron reached over and gave the bartender a nudge. 'A wizard what knows how to handle his wand, know what I mean?'

'Right. Handle his wand,' said the bartender. 'Another round mate?'

'Yesssh,' sputtered Ron, 'hit me again.' He stared stupidly for a second as he tried to focus his brain on his response. 'Yesssh, another Black and... uh... Blue.'

'Right. Black and Tan,' said the bartender in a derisive tone Ron was too far gone to appreciate. The bartender took Ron's mug, holding it under the free floating tap that gushed forth the dark frothy brew.

'It is the kiddies what suffer you know. Have a picture, here.' Ron fished a small, tattered photo from his dressing gown pocket. 'She was going to throw thish picture away but I saved it. Me,' and Ron tapped his chest to indicate he had been the savoir of the titbit of history.

With a look of bored resignation the bartender leaned forward to see Ron's photo. 'What the... Those your kids?' The Bartender looked gobsmacked.

The wizard with the eye patch also leaned over for a look at Ron's picture. 'What the fuck... them is House Elves, what?' the wizard laughed scornfully.

'Yes, they are elves,' Ron growled. 'Whuz tha' to you?'

'When I was a lad my Dad worked at a hotel in Manchester. The hotel owner inherited a load of fucking House Elves. Put me Dad out of work them little shites did. Them elves licked boots and worked themselves half to death and all for no pay,' said the wizard. 'Stinking House Elves. Thanks to House Elves my Dad worried himself to death looking for work. My family near starved to death.'

'Oh, thatz is too bad,' slurred Ron, sympathizing with the wizard's plight but not the source of the difficulties. 'But the elvezes had no hand in who owned them, did they? They have to do what their minging enchantment makes them do, right?'

'Those "kids" of yours.' The wizard's large dirty thumb covered much of the surface of Ron's photo. 'They are right ugly little buggers ain't they?'

An instant later a cloud of sawdust rose from the pub floor as Ron's fist smashed into the wizard's good eye knocking the brute to the floor.

As pub brawls go, Ron's tussle was brief. Inside of five minutes his arms were pinned behind his back by the pub bouncer. Ron was tossed arse over tits into the street.

'And we better not ever see you in here again,' warned the bouncer. He threw Ron's cloak and the photo after him into the gutter.

Slowly Ron rolled over and giddily stood up. His pinstriped jacket was ripped across the back and the white shirt was speckled with blood from his own cheek.

'Bigoted Arses!' Ron muttered. He put his hand into his cloak pocket and realized he hadn't brought his wand with him and no surprise his pouch of coins was gone also.

Gloomier than ever, he stumbled over and sit on the steps of a small brownstone building. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned miserably.

'Tsk, tsk, tsk,' murmured the soft voice of someone standing over Ron.

'Get the fuck away from me,' growled Ron. He jumped to his feet, his fists at the ready, game for another row. To his embarrassment he found himself looking down at a young woman with a sympathetic face and two long blonde plaits.

At first Ron mistook the woman for a streetwalker. Like many young people, her clothing mimicked the current retro, belly-baring style of Muggle girls - a midriff baring top and low cut trousers. Ron he quickly realized this was no streetwalker. The young lady's clothing was expensive, fashionable. What appeared to be a large diamond glinted from her navel. Ron's eyes travelled downward noting that even the girl's toes were a sight, snug in a pair of smart looking high-heeled slippers.

'Is this yours?' The woman held up a ragged photograph. 'Someone threw it into the street after you. Although she offered the photo, she seemed reluctant to give it up, she stared with great interest at the images of little Ella and Albus merrily waving at her from the wizard photo.

'Mine, yes. Thanks,' said Ron, staring rudely at the girl, partially because he was wankered, but mostly because he thought the young woman was quite the prettiest he had seen in a long time. Even by the light of the street lantern her bright eyes sparkled engagingly.

'Do you know the children in the photograph?' asked the girl curiously.

'I'm their uncle. Well, anyway they call me uncle.'

'I do love children,' the girl sighed. 'Some day I hope to have a great many. Tell me, these children in the photo, they are House Elves, are they not?'

'You got a problem with thatz?' Ron slurred belligerently.

'No, no, not at all,' said the girl flashing a brilliant smile. 'Children are children. They are all precious to me.'

'I am sorry,' Ron apologized. He winced and pressed his palm to a throbbing wound on his brow.

'You have some nasty cuts,' said the girl, 'might I have a go at healing you? I had a class in medi-magic - that was several years ago - but I ought to remember enough to help you.' She pulled out a short rosewood wand and held it up.

Still staring at the girl, Ron nodded and sank back down on the flat steps. Looking thoroughly business-like the girl took a firm grip of Ron's chin, tilting his face so it was illuminated by the streetlight. Ron winced. Quietly the girl muttered her charms and plied her wandwork to staunch gashes on Ron's aching face and ease the pain of his soon-to-be-blackened eye. Ron shut his eyes and for a moment he felt transported, remembering another girl who once nursed his wounds by the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.

'There, how is that?' The girl settled herself down on the step by Ron. Although Ron was obviously under the influence of a great deal of drink, the girl sensed a gentleness in him and was utterly unafraid of him, pissed or not.

'The pain is gone,' said Ron staring stupidly at the girl. 'You are a clever um... girl, um, woman.' Although Ron didn't understand why as he looked at the girl he immediately felt both elated and almost as dirty as a child molester. He was strongly aware that he was near old enough to be the girl's father. 'Thank you,' he murmured.

'You are lucky to have such a lovely family. I wish your little niece and nephew were here with you so I could meet them.'

'I live with the children and their mother in an flat,' said Ron. He instantly noted the hint of disappointment in the girl's eyes. He shook his head. 'You see, their mother and I used to be mates at school, long, long time ago. Just mates. I mean we each have our own room. We do not... uh... we are not shagging. I mean we are not a fucking... I mean, we are not a couple or anything, all right?'

'Oh,' said the girl, now embarrassed because Ron had been so quick to notice her disappointment.

Ron took the girl's warm little hand - an action he was only able to accomplish because he was hammered. 'Pleased to meet you... Miss... Mrs?'

The girl did not pull her hand back. 'I am Perdita. I am afraid I have no true last name, at least that I know of,' she said in a sad and apologetic voice.

'No last name?' said Ron. Certainly such a lovely young person deserved a host of attractive surnames, if not a title - 'Princess' was one that readily came to Ron's mind.

Perdita shrugged and one of her blonde plaits fell forward, hanging to just short of her waist. 'I am just another war orphan. One of the luckier ones anyway.'

On the spot Ron vowed to himself to spend the rest of his life, if necessary, righting the terrible wrong done to the young lady. He would search until he puzzled out the lady's origins. 'Perdita - what a perfucktly, predickly, what a lovely... thing you call yourself... name. Right a purdifly lovely name,' said Ron. He did not blink least he miss a second or two of staring at the vision before him. 'If I am not being too fucking old...cold, I mean bold. Have we met before?'

'No, I am afraid not,' said Perdita with an embarrassed giggle. 'Perhaps you saw the horrid photo of me in yesterday's Daily Prophet - in the sports section, all the way in the back. I was at a Quidditch match and I met the team owner. I am afraid I was an easy mark. I mean, before I knew it I had purchased a Quidditch Team! Can you imagine? An investment for my old age - I hope. Only time will tell if I have been very foolish. You fancy Quidditch?' Perdita asked, her face adorably quizzical. She flipped her blonde plaits behind her back.

'Bought a team? You must be stinking. I mean, got Galleons, not that you are smelly or anything.' Ron sat straighter on the step. 'Yeah, I fancy Quiffitch, Quiffidge all right. I played Keeper at Hogparts didn't I? You must have gone to Hog... Hog... warts? I captained the Grinfindor team my last year. Bet that was born before you were even ages,' Ron finished sadly.

'Yes, Hogwarts. I have... I had a close... mate... who attended Hogwarts. Myself, I played Seeker at my school, Beauxbaton,' said Pedita, pronounced Beauxbaton in a perfectly charming French accent.

Ron thought he had never heard anything more beautiful than the young woman's voice pronouncing that foreign name in a delightfully foreign accent. 'I am a fair judge of 'Quiffich flesh'. I think you look light, quick. I would take you for a brilliant seeker. Tell me though, what team?'

'Team? You mean at Beauxbaton?'

'No, sorry, sorry... I mean, I meant, what Quipitch team did you buy?'

'Oh that,' said the girl shyly, her eyes lowered with embarrassment. 'A very small team,' she said apologetically. 'I am afraid they only rank tenth in their league. I am sure you have never heard of them - The Chuddley Cannons.'

Perhaps it was the drink that made Ron hurriedly blink back tears of sheer joy. Yet he managed to rally enough to instantaneously shake off the effects of the drink. He stood and taking up Perdita's hand, assisted her onto her feet.

'Say, I know I am not exactly dressed to escort a young lady, my jacket is torn and all, but I wonder - may I walk you home?' Ron gently patted the young lady's hand. It seemed such a natural thing to do.

'How very kind of you,' said Perdita and she smiled warmly up at Ron's face. 'I have a room over at the Leaky Cauldron.'

For once Ron's timing spot on.