Page Turner
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Draco/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
13,699
Reviews:
46
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Draco/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
13,699
Reviews:
46
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Prologue: In Which the Writer Gives the Reader Some Necessary Information
A/N: Hiya! I've read a number of fics where Hermione gets pregnant and of course has to keep it, or the fact that Draco's the daddy, from her friends. A lot of these are really good. But I thought I'd play around with the idea of Hermione relying on her friends as she learns to cope with Draco DaddyPrat. Please let me know what you think; I'll be v. grateful and probably be inspired to write more about sex. ;)
ddf
Page Turner
Prologue
In Which the Writer Gives the Reader Some Necessary Information
There were books, and there were books. Hermione loved real books, books that informed and enlightened and broadened. The novels one saw while waiting in line at the supermarket, the ones with florid covers depicting men of unlikely proportions and women half-naked were something else entirely. Romance novels were the opiate of bored housewives, who traded intellectual stimulation for domestic comforts and daytime television, who needed some condescendingly inane drivel to experience some small amount of excitement and passion, albeit vicariously.
The utter worthlessness of trashy romance novels were something of a soapbox to Hermione.
She read them by the truckload, and kept them in cardboard boxes in the back of her closet. They weren’t even organized alphabetically by author.
Real books were canvas- or leather-bound tomes, heavy in weight and meaning. Those others were simply amusing, not to be taken seriously. And they certainly didn’t offer realistic representations of human life and interpersonal relationships.
Those sorts of things just didn’t happen in real life. Look at Harry and Ginny: they were so in love with each other that it just about made observers gag, but Harry had thrown Ginny over for a year so he could chase Horcruxes and nearly get himself killed, and no matter what anyone may have heard, Ginny didn’t simply welcome him back with open arms and a “Hey, good to see you again, Harry; let’s snog and get married, eh?” Poor Harry had had to grovel for months before Ginny would even let him buy her a coffee.
And then there was Ron and Luna. That wasn’t a match made in heaven so much as a match made on some other planet. Ron would bitch for hours about Looney’s habit of interrupting coitus because she claimed some invisible creature whose name no one could ever remember was watching them. Harry would distract him by talking Quidditch. Meanwhile, Luna would amuse herself by braiding extra shoelaces into her hair so she had some on hand the next time hers disappeared. Then she would catch Ron’s eye, and everyone would abruptly be kicked out of her flat so they could shag on whatever flat surface happened to be closest.
And Hermione herself had, in her profession as owner of the uncommon book shop The Page Turner, met countless arrogant bastards, none of whom had made her tear her clothes off in abandon to have reckless monkey sex. If there had been any reckless monkey sex, or even any garden-variety sex, Hermione might not have had so many free evenings to read the romances. No, real life was most certainly not like a dime novel.
Pig-headed heroes impregnated short-sighted heroines in novels all the time. With all the epic sexathons that happened in those books, it was no wonder. Invariably the “unlikely” duo decided to keep the baby, raise it together, fall in love, and live happily ever after.
Hermione wondered wryly where her epic sexathon had been as she dutifully took notes on the recommendations of her medi-wizard for maintaining a healthy lifestyle during pregnancy.
ddf
Page Turner
Prologue
In Which the Writer Gives the Reader Some Necessary Information
There were books, and there were books. Hermione loved real books, books that informed and enlightened and broadened. The novels one saw while waiting in line at the supermarket, the ones with florid covers depicting men of unlikely proportions and women half-naked were something else entirely. Romance novels were the opiate of bored housewives, who traded intellectual stimulation for domestic comforts and daytime television, who needed some condescendingly inane drivel to experience some small amount of excitement and passion, albeit vicariously.
The utter worthlessness of trashy romance novels were something of a soapbox to Hermione.
She read them by the truckload, and kept them in cardboard boxes in the back of her closet. They weren’t even organized alphabetically by author.
Real books were canvas- or leather-bound tomes, heavy in weight and meaning. Those others were simply amusing, not to be taken seriously. And they certainly didn’t offer realistic representations of human life and interpersonal relationships.
Those sorts of things just didn’t happen in real life. Look at Harry and Ginny: they were so in love with each other that it just about made observers gag, but Harry had thrown Ginny over for a year so he could chase Horcruxes and nearly get himself killed, and no matter what anyone may have heard, Ginny didn’t simply welcome him back with open arms and a “Hey, good to see you again, Harry; let’s snog and get married, eh?” Poor Harry had had to grovel for months before Ginny would even let him buy her a coffee.
And then there was Ron and Luna. That wasn’t a match made in heaven so much as a match made on some other planet. Ron would bitch for hours about Looney’s habit of interrupting coitus because she claimed some invisible creature whose name no one could ever remember was watching them. Harry would distract him by talking Quidditch. Meanwhile, Luna would amuse herself by braiding extra shoelaces into her hair so she had some on hand the next time hers disappeared. Then she would catch Ron’s eye, and everyone would abruptly be kicked out of her flat so they could shag on whatever flat surface happened to be closest.
And Hermione herself had, in her profession as owner of the uncommon book shop The Page Turner, met countless arrogant bastards, none of whom had made her tear her clothes off in abandon to have reckless monkey sex. If there had been any reckless monkey sex, or even any garden-variety sex, Hermione might not have had so many free evenings to read the romances. No, real life was most certainly not like a dime novel.
Pig-headed heroes impregnated short-sighted heroines in novels all the time. With all the epic sexathons that happened in those books, it was no wonder. Invariably the “unlikely” duo decided to keep the baby, raise it together, fall in love, and live happily ever after.
Hermione wondered wryly where her epic sexathon had been as she dutifully took notes on the recommendations of her medi-wizard for maintaining a healthy lifestyle during pregnancy.