The Owl and the Pussycat

One Year and One Day After Venice.

“Hermione, darling!” Narcissa said, moving to greet the young woman as she apparated into the entranceway of the manor, having just finished for the day at work. “May I make a request of you – for the party next week?” Narcissa couldn’t be happier at this young woman being Draco’s… well, girlfriend didn’t justify it; they couldn’t be referred to as lovers; friends was an understatement... Narcissa still didn’t know what to refer to their relationship as, but nevertheless, she couldn’t be happier. Hermione had dragged her baby out of his depression with alarming speed – all without spells or potions – just pleasant (intelligent) conversation and a shoulder to cry on.

She had been so proud on the day that a House Elf came and told her that the ever-present elastic band had been thrown into the rubbish bin.

“Would you sing at the ball next week? Please?” Narcissa asked, willing to beg if she had to, she’d never heard such a pure voice.

“How many people, Narcissa?” Hermione asked.

“About fifty, it is a rather small affair.” Narcissa shrugged, having once been used to planning and executing parties for over two hundred people.

Few people knew Hermione could sing; she had attended private singing lessons from the age of six until just before leaving for Hogwarts. As a youngster she’d had speech problems, the singing aimed to solve the issue, but it also gave her the self confidence to speak out, make herself heard, make her voice count.

“The last time I sang in front of so many people, I was ten and it was the school play! I’m not sure if I can do it; I don’t think even my Gryffindor courage will go that far.” Hermione’s face dropped, she was rather out of practice as far as singing went – especially in front of an audience of purebloods, politicians and Masters that didn’t necessarily like her. Many still saw her as a know it all, side research she was doing in her own time was revolutionising the wizarding world – she asked (and answered) the questions that nobody had bothered to ask previously.

In summary: Hermione, a twenty-year old muggleborn was showing up the more experienced witches and wizards – and doing a spectacular job of it; much to their embarrassment.

“But your voice is so beautiful, please.” Narcissa pleaded.

“I’m too far out of practice to sing for so many people, I’m sorry.” Hermione whispered, not liking to deny a woman whom was being so kind to her.

“If I had given you, say a month’s notice?” said the older woman, realising her mistake.

“I think I could have done it then, I could have arranged a few refresher lessons with my old singing teacher.” Hermione sighed.

A sudden crack announced Draco’s return from Saint Mungo’s – his bright green uniform and black chevron on his chest and back signifying that he was qualified at the first level of Master Healer – he had another five to gain before being fully qualified.

“Hey Kermit.” Hermione giggled, looking at him. “You didn’t scourgify those robes before you came home, you’re covered in… blue stuff.” She said, looking at the glistening royal blue liquid.

“I was on the spell damage ward – a child’s baby magic was causing problems, mainly this blue gelatinous substance coming out of his ears and bubbles coming out of his nose… it was an odd afternoon.” Draco said.

“How old is he?” Narcissa asked, “I remember you gave a new definition to ‘terrible twos’ with your baby magic – you were prone to setting things aflame!” Narcissa cringed, they’d had to replace several antique carpets and the ‘Matriarch’s’ frame. She hadn’t been insulted at the desecration of her gilt frame, she was glad
of such a powerful babe in the Malfoy line.

“I was about six months old when I made all my toys levitate and dance in mid air – my parents didn’t know what to make of it!” Hermione giggled. “What did you do for the little boy?”

“He’s five. The best I could do was stop the bubbles and change the colour of the goo – but then the bubbles started coming out of his… well, they weren’t coming out of his nose anymore, to say it nicely.” Draco said, he’d left a colleague trying to stop the problem.

“It will dissipate again soon, baby magic always does; you grow older and gain control of it… well mostly, adults can have their moments during extreme emotion and stresses.” Narcissa trailed of, smiling at a memory.

“What are you smiling about” Hermione asked before moving to the staircase to join Draco in the bath, she always gave him some time to get clean first before joining him. Both left the water smelling of Ylang-Ylang and Patchouli oils every evening.

“It is customary to confiscate a witch’s wand during childbirth, and to remove all men from the room. Husbands, and mediwizards have lost their male anatomy in the past… with my wand gone, and after forty-three hours in labour my magic was beyond control! Lucius came in once the midwife told him it was a boy – and promptly lost his ‘baby making bits and pieces’. But it was alright, the midwife was used to reattaching genatalia.” Narcissa’s smile dropped, how often had she teased him about that day? How many times had they both had fits of giggles remembering that? His laugh was as rich and smooth as the fine Firewiskeys he drank, utterly contagious and comforting. It had been three-and-a-half-years since he’d started his stay in Azkaban, and an uncountable time before when he-who-shall-not-be-named had consumed everything; and in that time the rich laugh was absent. “Hmm. How I miss him. But each day ending is another day closer to his release… I’ll see you two lovebirds for evening meal, at seven o’clock.” Narcissa sighed, shuffling into one of the smaller parlours; her shoulders low, eyes to the ground.

Hermione was used to Narcissa fluctuating between joy and melancholy; it was another two weeks before her visitor’s permit allowed her twenty minutes to visit her husband – Lucius was one of the few inmates to receive visitors. He never spoke of Draco and her relationship, neither Narcissa, Hermione or Draco could predict his thoughts on the matter – the only hardship facing Draco, whom still looked up to and respected the Head of the family.

“Do you want me to get you anything, Narcissa?” Hermione said, following the older woman into the snugly warm room, where she was pouring over the party’s seating arrangements. Felina hissed and struck out at Crookshanks as he tried to approach the plush rug by the fireside; Felina was easily twice his size, and was not going to relinquish her spot by the warmth.

“Oi! Leave him alone, your ladyship! He just wants to get warm!” Hermione scolded lightly.

“It is his fault she is cross – who’d want to be carrying six little ones? I thought you said he’d been castrated?” Narcissa said, putting down her parchments and moving to sit with her pet, gently scratching her ears and producing a small plate of poached salmon. Having kittens was requiring her food intake to increase dramatically. Felina chirruped in pleasure at the fish, nosing into Narcissa’s hand as a thank-you.

“The animal healer said he wouldn’t be able to sire any kittens after the spell, but I don’t think the spell took into account his kneazle genetics, just the domestic cat ones.” Hermione shrugged, grabbing the male moggy in question by the scruff of his neck and moving him away from the female before he was swiped again. Felina was just as protective over salmon as her spot by the fire.

“Indeed… what strange kittens they will be! Moon-Blue and orange! Goodness, this will be an amusing match!” Narcissa shook her head, continuing to fuss over the pedigree.

The kneazle knew her human wasn’t happy, but there wasn’t much she could do to bring the female human’s mate back. All the cat could offer was purrs, licks and chirps. The human female hadn’t found a better mate than the one she’d got – the human male hadn’t ever brought his mate headless mice or the occasional rat! What sort of male didn’t provide headless mice? He gave his female plants, and she obviously didn’t like them, all she did was put them in the long sparkly tube on the windowsill!

“Mrow rrreep” the tom cat chirped, head first into the empty bowl that she’d licked clean already.

“Reeep meeew.” She replied licking his face clean before turning her attention to her own face.

“Are you sure you are fine, Narcissa? I’m worried about you.” Hermione said, gently, laughing as Crookshanks was washed, he stalked out of the room, the fur on his face slicked back.

“Yes, yes; just happy memories reminding me he’s not here… I shall be alright momentarily, I have many things to do.” Hermione looked sceptical at the words. Narcissa wouldn’t be ‘fine’ for another eight-and-a-half-years, not until Lucius was free and home, but the party plans were keeping her mind off some of the pain.

“Don’t give me those eyes – shoo! Into that bath with you! The water shall be cold if not!” Narcissa scowled playfully, glad of the other woman’s support. Hermione didn’t need to be told twice, she joined her partner in his bath, almost tripping over Crookshanks as he stalked back into the room.

“Don’t you dare drop that… that… headless-whatever-it-was-with-a-long-tail on that rug!” Narcissa shouted just as Hermione began to climb the staircase.

…

The Malfoy Heir’s suite was almost as lavish as that of the Master suite – but easily half the size, and minus the two dressing rooms; balcony above the impressive flower beds; four-poster ‘super king size’ bed; the his-and-hers bathroom and the Jacuzzi. Even so, it was still the size of a Hogwarts girls’ dormitory room (that comfortably slept six pupils) alone and had a beautifully furnished en-suite bathroom – much to the couple’s delight.

Hermione stepped into the candlelit room, her eyes taking a little while to adjust to the dim light; she found Draco lounging in the softly scented water, a glass of red wine perched on a special glass and tile side table – Hermione hadn’t realised they made bathroom side tables! The candles caught the little specks of silver in the marble the bath was constructed from.

“It must have been a rough day if you’re on the wine already.” Hermione said softly, running her fingers through Draco’s short hair.

“Hmm? No, I just fancied a bevy – I’m not in tomorrow, so I don’t have to get up in the morning. It’s a nice vintage too.” He replied, reaching for the glass and taking the tiniest of sips; one glass of wine could easily last Draco for an entire evening, he on principle wasn’t a big drinker, if he was called into Saint Mungo’s in an emergency he wanted his wits about him; all Master Healers were permanently on call should there be an emergency a standard Healer couldn’t handle.

“Have we got that rosé I like?” she asked, slipping off her robe and climbing into the water, her back resting against his slick chest. Draco’s arms encircled her waist, the undersides of her breasts resting on them.

“Yimmi,” Draco said firmly, calling the House Elf.

“Yes young Master, yes young Mistress?” the little creature bowed.

“A glass of the rosé, please.” Draco said, calmly and gently – long ago having given up on tormenting the class of creatures happy to serve. They were the backbone that kept Saint Mungo’s running, cleaning sheets, wards and bedpans; he was ever grateful for them during busy days at the hospital.

“Is that being all, sir?” the Elf asked.

“Yes, thank-you.” Draco replied, replacing his glass on the little table.

A faint pop announced the Elf’s departure; another within a moment announced the arrival of the flute of Californian Zinfandel Rosé wine – a favourite of Hermione’s, and the only pink wine to grace the cellars.

“Thank-you, Yimmi.” Hermione said, taking a grateful sip and moaning as the liquid hit her palette of tastebuds.

“You is welcome, mistress.” Yimmi answered before popping away again.

“The wine gains more moans than me? Should I be insulted by this?” Draco teased, the only thing that Hermione disliked about her role as an Unspeakable, was that she couldn’t go home and moan about a crap day. Draco was in a similar boat, patient confidentiality being a must – what he’d told of the little boy was all he could say legally.

“No, just one of those days where it was one step forward, two steps backward.” She sighed, replacing the slightly depleted flute on the little table. “I’ve had headache all day!”

“You’re home now, you left your work at the door to your department… relax, love.” He whispered, his healing hands moving to massage the tension from her shoulders, his hands already slick with the oils in the bathwater.

“Mmmm, you’re good at this. So warm.” Hermione whispered, eyes closed to focus on the sensation.

“I should hope so. Shhh. Relax for me.” Draco said, running silent healing charms through her body, finding the source of the headache and expelling it from her. His hands always heated as the medicinal charms used his hands as an outlet to the patient.

“Will you teach me this – I want to return the favour, this feels wonderful!” Hermione said, turning around to face him – easily achieved in the large bath.

“Not this minute.” He mumbled before slowly leaning in to meet her half way in a scorching, but gentle kiss. Everything the couple did was on equal terms, both compromising in every intimate action, each revelling in the knowledge of the other’s pleasure. Their tongues duelled, creating a writhing bridge in the small gap between crimson-flushed lips. Hermione was first to move forward to close that minute chasm between panting mouths; gently brushing her lips against his, feather-light sensations creating a shuddering response in them both. At the invitation, Draco undulated the pointed tip of his tongue on the roof of her mouth behind her two top teeth – a highly sensitive spot he had been delighted to discover. In return, Hermione slowly slid her tongue beneath his, teasing the underside of the muscle.

They broke away slowly, both simultaneously reaching for the hand of the other, a silent act of reassurance that every passion, pleasure and delight they found was indeed real and happening to them. Fingertips brushed over palms as the tiny hand slipped from the larger one – honey skin skimming white, evening sun on crisp snow, melting with glowing ardour.

Hermione turned again, her back nestled into Draco’s carefully maintained physique. Physical fitness was a key factor in fighting stress, stress caused various body systems to find themselves with technical glitches – if the body was already in top condition, worries were less likely to cause bodily harm. Draco had reluctantly learnt this after his black-out a year ago.

He owed so much to his colleague finding him on his office floor; without Anthony Solon he would have just picked himself up and carried on working himself into an early grave; he wouldn’t have been sent home early; he wouldn’t have gone to Venice…

… He wouldn’t have met the woman whom allowed him to learn about himself…
… He wouldn’t have such a calm mind…
… He wouldn’t have the determination to even get out of bed on a morning without her.

Yes, Draco Orestes Malfoy, owed his colleague a great debt for simply being in the right place at the right time, and for being the catalyst that set him down a new timeline of discovery, peace and love.

“You’re prodding me a bit…” Hermione said, shuffling so his erect shaft wasn’t pressing uncomfortably into her spinal column.

“I know, I had hoped you would not notice, it felt quite nice.” Draco whispered, rocking against her gently; the bath water rippled, little waves breaking against their bodies and the marble.

Hermione turned once again, straddling his upper thighs and rising to her knees – another thing she loved was the padded bottom of the bath, whoever came up with that idea should be awarded a prize of some description!

“What…?” Draco began to ask, his words cut short as small, slim fingers gently grasped his length, the oils slicking their path as Hermione began to slowly stroke him.

“Shh… just let me, please.” Hermione whispered, leaning forward to kiss the side of his throat – a spot she had found by accident as they played earlier in their relationship. It made him gurgle softly (a sound reminiscent of a content Crookshanks), and never failed to increase his pleasure.

“Wings… please, don’t tease, I’m begging you – not tonight, I won’t last.” He breathed.

Hermione had been confused the first time he called her ‘Wings’; especially as they had previously spent the night finding pleasure with fingers and tongues roaming over new territory for them both – they were drifting to sleep when he had said ‘Goodnight, Wings.’ Hermione pondered for a split second weather he referred to another woman… but her fast mind quickly worked out his meaning: Hermione, the feminine equivalent of Hermes – the winged messenger of the ancient Greek Gods and Goddesses.

He had never managed to tell her that her presumed reason wasn’t what he originally thought, far too an intelligent nickname for a man who had lost his I.Q. in the direction of her mouth as she drank his seed… she was his owl – and he would forever be thankful for that.

Draco’s hand slipped down her oil-slicked back, over one shapely hip to gently touch her intimate folds.

“Not tonight Dray, I’m still sore after… well… after…” Hermione trailed off.

“Your menstrual flow – I’m a healer; these terms aren’t taboo for me. I’m not ashamed of bodily functions.” He gasped as she tightened her grip.

“You may be comfortable with them – but I’m not, it isn’t something anyone I knew used to talk about.” Hermione replied, moving to kiss firmly him before he could retort that Ron and Harry hadn’t realised she was actually female and therefore went through such a process… if he could still form coherent sentences then she obviously wasn’t doing it right.

Altering her grip she began to gradually increase her pace, nuzzling her nose into the ‘gurgle point’ on his throat, his rippling moan was gratification that his incoherence was insured and his climax close.

“Let go, Dray…” she whispered into his ear, nibbling the arc of the shell, another point that was incredibly sensitive for him.

“Wings…” he hissed, his fluid mingling with the bathing water as she grasped him firmly to the last contraction. “Always yours, Hermione, always and forever.”

“Forever and always.” Hermione replied, smiling as he buried his nose into the crook of her neck. “We have about an hour before we need to get dressed for dinner – nap time?”

“With you. I can’t sleep without you now.” Draco murmured, wrung out and incredibly vulnerable in his serene state. His deepest secrets normally surfaced at such points, his emotional walls disrupted and permeable.

“I wouldn’t even consider a different arrangement.” Hermione said softly, stroking his back as he continued to calm. It often took Draco a while to recover from his post-pleasure emotional whiplash, but her comforting arms made anything possible.


… … … … …

A/N: Oh, and I actually managed to find Hermionie’s frock from chapter one, obviously this is lacking in the sleeves and mask… but it’s a general idea! : http://www.lionelanthony.co.uk/tosca.html

My Real Life basis of my Felina is the Silver Egyptian Mau. There are a few sites below if you were curious about the breed:
http://www.egyptianmaus.co.uk
http://www.petplanet.co.uk/petplanet/breeds/Egyptian_Mau.htm
And as far as the colours go, there are also bronze Maus – so Crooks’ colouring shouldn’t throw out anything too strange… but they are magical mogs, so I can do what I like and ignore my genetics textbooks (*la la la la not listening to outrage of lecturers*).

I would like to take the opportunity to show gratitude to each and every single person whom has read this, and to everyone whom has graced it with a review. Many thanks from the bottom of my heart!