Draco Malfoy and the Face of Death

“I’ve still got to deliver this,” says Draco, pulling his father’s letter from his breast pocket.

He’s taken Granger to the ice cream parlour, because—having discovered, whilst altering his will in her favour, that she already possesses a large fortune (awarded by the Ministry of Magic for outstanding bravery during the war), which she intends to leave to him—he’s decided that the only thing that can possibly console him is some Christmas pudding ice cream.

Granger sets down her spoon, and takes the letter from him. It’s a large piece of high quality vellum, folded, and sealed with a blob of scarlet wax impressed with the Malfoy crest. She turns it over. “There’s no name on it.”

“I know. And I had to memorise the address.”

“Draco!”

“Don’t say it, Granger.”

But she does: “No name, and a secret address in Knockturn Alley. Merlin, Draco, you should have said no.”

“How could I?”

“You could have shouted for me, and I’d have said it for you.”

She’s priceless—he has to grin. “Your ice cream’s melting.”

She pushes her bowl across the table.

He picks up his spoon and tucks in. “Look,” he says, “I’ll be five minutes—that’s all. You go straight to Flourish and Blotts and I’ll meet you there.” He knows he’s stroking her Achilles heel. “All right?”

She sighs. “All right. But be careful. If you’re kidnapped and miss the wedding, your mother will never forgive you.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll just marry the second most eligible bachelor in Wizarding Britain.”

“Gold digger!”

He puts a few sickles on the table, and they leave the shop.

“I won’t be long.” He leans in, and kisses her, and a sudden flash of light tells him that they’ve been photographed by some bastard from Witch Weekly. “Bugger,” he grumbles. “I’ll have to give them the slip.”

“I’ll see you in the book shop, then,” says Granger. “Please don’t get into any trouble, Draco.”

...

He hasn’t been down Knockturn Alley since Granger accepted his proposal.

It’s darker and dirtier than he’d remembered, and parts of it are wet, and he’s wondering where the water’s coming from when it occurs to him that it might be something other than water, and he starts paying more attention to where he’s stepping.

He passes the filthy courtyards, and the suspiciously blank walls (no doubt hiding disillusioned doorways), and the empty shell of Borgin and Burkes, avoiding waifs, and strays, and gibbering idiots driven mad by potion abuse, until he finds himself at the address his father had given him the night before.

He knocks at the door, waits a few moments, begins to get impatient, raises his hand again, and the door opens before he can knock a second time.

“Hello, Draco...”

He can’t say she’s the last person he expected to see—that would probably have been the Dark Lord himself—but he’s certainly surprised. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Her professional name’s Delilah Caine. She’s a Muggle, the best bit of pussy at Madam Mafalda’s, a Knockturn Alley brothel catering for punters with a wide range of unusual tastes, including—in the past—a certain young pure-blood with an unrequited passion for a Muggle-born.

There’d been a time when Draco had known Delilah very well—known her in what Muggles, according to Granger, term ‘the Biblical sense’.

Twice a night.

Several nights a week.

But that was before.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” she asks, pouting.

Her hair is loose about her shoulders—just how he used to like it—and he’s appalled, now, to see how much it looks like Granger’s. She’s wearing a slightly ratty pink silk negligee, which is hanging open to reveal a black corset trimmed with pink ribbons, black stockings, and no briefs—and he notices that her bush needs trimming.

“We were never friends,” he says, with a sneer. “Here’s your letter.”

“It’s not for me, lover,” she replies, laughing. “It’s for him!” She steps closer, and squashes her big tits against his chest. “He wants you to give it to him personally, Draco. And when you’ve done that, you can give me one, personally.” She winks, and her hand slips between his legs.

Draco jumps back, yelping like a girl. “No way!”

He shoves the letter at her, and it falls to the floor.

“Oh, Draco! You’ve got it all dirty.” She tilts her head, and smiles up at him through her too-black eyelashes, and he’s ashamed to remember just how seductive he used to find her. “Pick it up for me, there’s a good boy.”

“Fuck off.” He turns to leave, and—

Suddenly, he can’t move.

Someone’s caught him with a freezing charm.

And Delilah’s all over him—her mouth, her hands, her tits—kissing and groping and grinding, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He feels her unbutton his fly—“Please, Draco,” she begs, “I’ve missed your big dick so much,”—and she reaches inside, and—Fucking hell!—there’s one bit of him that can still move but, thank Merlin, it doesn’t!

Instead, something much worse happens.

“Draco?”

It’s Granger!

The freezing charm immediately dissolves, and he’s facing his future wife, his hair tousled, his cheeks flushed, and his trousers gaping...

“Oh, Draco!” She turns and runs.

“No! Granger!” He follows her, shouting like a madman: “Don’t try to Apparate! For Merlin’s sake, don’t,”—he catches up with her and throws his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest—“please, Granger; please don’t Apparate in this state!”

“I’m not stupid,” she says, trying to break free. Then she adds, bitterly, “Except, obviously, where you’re concerned, Draco, because I actually thought I could trust you.”

They’ve emerged into Diagon Alley and their raised voices are drawing attention. Draco’s sure the photographer’s still lurking nearby, just waiting for a chance to snap a noisy spat between the Malfoy heir and his bride-to-be. He needs to get Granger off the street, and quickly.

He risks letting go of her, and attempts to bribe her: “Let’s have some lunch,” he says, “and I’ll explain everything.”

“No.” She folds her arms across her chest.

He tries threatening her: “I swear to you, Granger, if you don’t come quietly, I’ll throw you over my shoulder, and carry you—knickers showing, and big bushy head hitting everything we pass.”

She scowls.

He loses his nerve: “Oh, Granger, please.”

“Fuck,” she says, and he’s taken aback, because she hardly ever swears. “What is it about a whining, pure-blood ferret-bastard I just can’t resist?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “but let’s hope I never lose it.”

...

Ten minutes later, they’re holed up in a room in The Leaky Cauldron. He’s ordered a bottle of wine, some pumpkin pasties, and a fashionable Muggle delicacy, called ‘chips’, but Granger’s refusing to eat. He pours himself a glass of wine and tells her exactly what happened.

“It’s a well-known BDSM charm,” he says.

Her eyes widen. “Well known?”

“Amongst punters. It freezes the body, but not the cock and balls.”

“And do men like that—being helpless?”

“Some do. It’s supposed to make the orgasm more intense.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

She looks up at him, suspiciously.

“I haven’t, Granger.”

“I don’t want us to use it. Not ever.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I like touching you.”

“Your father’s behind this,” she says. “He set you up, thinking that it would drive us apart.” She grabs the bowl of chips and starts wolfing them down, and Draco recognises the signs—she’s preparing for a fight.

“It... It does look that way,” he admits.

“Can you think of another explanation? Unless... You don’t owe this Madam Mafalda any money, do you?”

“I don’t think there really is a Madam Mafalda, Granger... But, no. In fact, I always paid extra. They made a lot of galleons out of me.”

“Why, Draco?” She wipes her fingers on a napkin. “I just don’t understand it. You could have had any woman you wanted—and if even a tenth of what Witch Weekly said was true, you did have lots of women—so why go to a prostitute as well? What did she have—”

“Bushy hair,” he says, softly, “like yours.” And he knows it’s time to tell her everything. “It happened after the Battle of Hogwarts,” he begins, taking hold of her hand. “I’d always fancied you, Granger—you know how I was always trying to get your attention,”—she squeezes his fingers—“but that night, when I saw how kind you were to my mother, it became something more...”

He raises her hand to his lips, and kisses it. “Did you know they cast charms on us, in Azkaban, to stop us wanting sex?”

“No, I didn’t...”

“They’re not being humane, they just don’t want any trouble. But it didn’t work—not on me, at any rate—it just stopped me coming when—well, you know. I was going crazy—punching the bloody walls—until I started thinking of you.” He kisses her hand again. “Once I had you—well—it worked again. It was you who got me through it, Granger. You kept me sane. And, when I came out, I... Well, let’s just say I needed to find someone who reminded me of you.”

“Oh, Draco...” She lays her head on his shoulder, and he gathers her into his arms. “Why didn’t you come to me—and—and—”

“Ask you out?”

“Yes.”

“What would you have said?”

“I’d have said yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I accepted your proposal, didn’t I,” she says, “and I seduced you in your mother’s carriage on the way home from the Ministry. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

“It tells me,” he says, “that I was stupid.”

“With that woman.”

“Delilah.”

“The temptress.”

“Temptress?”

“The Delilah. She defeated the strongest man in the world,” she explains, “by—you know—wearing him out.”

“Oh.”

“Was she—was she good, Draco?”

“I thought so at the time. But there’s no one like you, Granger. Not for me, now. You’re the only woman I want. If you ever left me, I’d be completely fucked.”

...

Her brassiere’s white.

He picks up his wand and runs its tip down one of her straps.

“Go on,” she says.

He murmurs the words and the cotton becomes green lace, the full cups shrink to half cups, the simple stitching becomes under-wiring.

“Green?” she says.

“Do you want red?”

“No, you can have your green. But...” She vanishes her skirt. “I want these to match.”

He grins, and casts the spell, and her sensible white knickers become a tiny, green lace thong.

He sets down his wand, and coaxes her onto her stomach, and spends a moment or two just admiring his handiwork, and the way the thong outlines the curves of her delicious little arse.

...

Despite their earlier quarrel, their lovemaking’s tender.

Afterwards, they lie together, sharing the last of the wine. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever known,” he says, “who’s as up for it as I am.”

She turns onto her side and, leaning on her elbow, she looks at him, thoughtfully. She’s still flushed from the sex—and also, he thinks, from embarrassment. “When I accepted you,” she says, “I’d no idea it would turn out like this. I knew it’d be easier to have sex with you than with Nott or Zabini,”—the suitors she’d rejected—“and I hoped it’d be reasonably pleasant. But I never thought I’d actually want you.” She blushes. “Not the way I do...”

Draco reaches out and tucks a clump of bushy hair behind her ear. “I always knew we’d be at it like bunnies. I suppose it’s the real reason I couldn’t risk seeing you when I came out of Azkaban. I knew that, once I’d had you, I’d never be able to give you up. And that,”—he turns onto his back, and folds his arms behind his head—“that would have wrecked my father’s plans for me.”

“An arranged marriage?”

He nods.

“Did he have someone lined up?”

“Astoria Greengrass.”

“Daphne’s sister? Did you meet with her?”

“A couple of times.”

“What was she like?”

He shrugs. “She seemed all right—better than Daphne, at any rate. We talked about our family histories, and swapped potion recipes…”

“You didn’t make love to her?”

“No.”

“What went wrong?”

“I told you—we only met twice.”

“But you’re a fast worker.” He can tell she’s grinning. “I’ll bet you were just oozing the old Malfoy charm. But maybe she thought it best to keep you waiting until your wedding night.”

“Not a philosophy you subscribed to, thank Merlin.”

“Well, I’d read that the secret of married love was good, regular sex,” she says, leaning over him, “so I thought, The sooner the better.” She kisses his nose.

Draco pulls her into his arms, laughing.

She snuggles against his chest and, within moments, they’re both fast asleep.

...

Terrified, Draco scans the Room of Requirement.

The fire’s mutating, forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts: flaming serpents, Chimeras and dragons rise and fall and rise again, and the detritus of centuries on which they’re feeding is thrown up in the air into their fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before being consumed by the inferno...

Draco has his arms around the unconscious Goyle, and the pair of them are perching on a fragile tower of charred desks. Potter dives; Draco sees him coming, and raises one arm ... but Goyle’s too heavy and Draco’s hand, covered in sweat, slips—

“Crabbe,” he cries, sitting bolt upright, “Crabbe! CRAABBE!”

“Draco—Draco—it’s all right,” says Granger, wrapping her arms around him. “It was just a dream—Draco—it was a dream, sweetheart. Shh, shhhhh...”

She hugs him until he’s stopped shaking, and then—because he’s too exhausted to know what he’s doing—she gently encourages him to lie down, and she holds him, and—just as she’s had to do every few nights since they first started living together—she soothes him back to sleep.

...

“What time is it?” he sighs.

“A little after seven.”

“Seven? You should have woken me.”

“You looked so comfortable,” she says.

(They never mention his nightmares once things are back to normal).

He gives her a quick peck on the cheek, then climbs out of bed and hunts for his wand. “Come on, Granger,” he says, “I want to speak to my father before dinner.”

“What about?”

“What do you think?” He casts a quick cleaning charm on himself. “Delilah and the letter.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,”—she charms the creases from her clothes—“if you ask him, he’ll simply deny everything. But if you say nothing, his curiosity will eventually get the better of him, and he’ll give himself away.”

“When it comes to sneakiness, Granger, you sometimes make me look like an amateur.”

She grins. “What I really need now,” she says, “is a shower.”

“Of rain?”

She laughs. “Are you saying you’ve never heard of a shower, Malfoy?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh, are you in for a treat!” She slides her arms around his neck. “It’s a brilliant Muggle invention.”

“As good as the cinema?”

“In its own way.” She stretches up, and kisses him. “Sometime soon,” she murmurs, “I’m going to take you to a Muggle hotel, and I’m going to have you, in the shower...”