Page Turner

Chapter Two
In Which We Come to Know Our Hero
(Though Not in the Biblical Sense, as Hermione Does)

“I suppose I have to ask you to marry me.”

Hermione blinked, once. “I beg your pardon?”

Malfoy grimaced. “Well, we can’t really have little Malfoys running around with some other name now, can we? And I’ll have to arrange for a savings plan at Gringott’s . . .”

“You’re taking this all rather well, Ferret,” Hermione said irritably. No matter how much she researched and planned, there was still a deep well of terror threatening to drown her whenever she really thought about what her future would look like, and damn it, he should be freaking out too. She could barely hold her tea cup steady in its saucer, and set both down before she spilled on the plush white carpet of Narcissa’s parlor.

“Eh, not like there’s not precedence for this kind of mishap with a family whose history is as long as mine.” He inspected his fingernails. Hermione refrained from jabbing her own into his eyeballs. “So?”

“So what?”

“Do you want to marry me, or not, Granger?”

It was Hermione’s turn to study her manicure. Or, what was her manicure before she chewed all her fingernails off. “Not particularly.”

Malfoy nodded. “Good. I think I’d rather a bastard than . . . In any case, send the bills along with Toddles and he’ll ensure I get them.”

“Toddles?”

A house-elf in a particularly wretched uniform stepped from his silent post at the door to the foyer and bowed. After the War, the Ministry had enacted the House-Elf Liberation Act, but most of the freed elves had chosen to stay with their families, wearing shabby uniforms as a badge of honor and loyalty. So much for all of those hats Hermione had knitted for S.P.E.W.

“I am Toddles, Madame Granger, Miss. I shall be serving you at Master Malfoy’s behest.” Even at his diminutive height, he managed to look down his massive Roman nose at her. Did everyone in this house have to look so patrician?

“Um, no you won’t.” Hermione looked to Malfoy. “No, he won’t. There’s hardly room for Crookshanks’ in my flat. There certainly isn’t room for a house-elf, even if I wanted one, which I don’t.”

“Hmm. Perhaps I should move you somewhere more suitable.” Malfoy tapped his pointy little ferret chin. Honestly. What had she been thinking, having sex with him? Or more accurately, what had she been thinking with?

She had been—not upset—but disconcerted that day, because Ron and Luna had announced that they were going to get married, though Luna insisted that meant they didn’t have to be engaged at the present, which would be a bad idea when Saturn’s seventh moon’s nonexistent atmosphere didn’t have the right ratio of rayon in it, or some such nonsense. Anyway, Hermione had realized that she was a quarter of a century old, and all of her friends were paired off, and she hadn’t had sex since a brief attempt at a farce of a relationship with Dean just after the War ended. Mostly they had just been horny eighteen-year-olds looking for an excuse. Seven years was long, even for an admitted dry spell.

And then Malfoy had sauntered into The Page Turner just a few weeks after it had opened, declaring to be intrigued by the concept of a store filled with muggle-written books targeting wizards for customers. (The “For Dummies” series was really catching on, as well as anything by Dr. Phil.) Draco had told her he wondered if there were any notable and worthy muggle writers. She’d sold him the collected works of Shakespeare.

He had come back the next day to inform her that A Midsummer Night’s Dream had it all wrong, and was, in general, crap. A few days later, he had floo’d over just as she was closing for the night to tell her the witches in MacBeth must have been squibs, or they wouldn’t need rhymes, potions, familiars, and compatriots to pull off one measly spell. Hermione pointed out that it was Divination they were talking about, a division of magic which, in her opinion, needed all the help it could get. Malfoy maintained that was no excuse. Clearly, she couldn’t allow him to leave for sustenance in the middle of the argument, and so Chinese had been ordered. And somehow, she’d woken up stiff-jointed from sleeping on the floor under the central table in her shop. Naked. Half on top of Draco Malfoy. Who was also naked.

And, well, it would have been a waste not to take advantage of all that mutual nakedness, so they might have had one more go before the ferret left and Hermione hurried to get cleaned up before opening the shop for the day and prayed no one had bothered looking past her rather charming window display to see the more lurid display that had occurred beyond.

He had come in once more for John Donne, but they both agreed he was brilliant, and that was the last she had heard from Malfoy until now. It was nice and all, but it was only one rather quick roll and a lazy morning wake-up call with morning breath. It certainly didn’t qualify as either “epic” or a “sexathon” in her book.

“I’ll be buggered if you move me somewhere else,” Hermione growled. She wanted coffee. Caffeinated. Highly caffeinated. But she was stuck with yet another cup of decaf Earl Grey, which was just wrong and also bad. She had a headache, and she really wanted a chocolate chip muffin.

He lifted one corner of his mouth. “That could be arranged, too.”

“Piss off.”

“Now, now. Is that any way to speak to the father of your child?” He sighed and dropped the act. “Look, Granger, I’m sure you don’t like this situation. I sure as hell don’t. But we may as well try to keep our heads about us, since there aren’t really any other options. If your flat is really going to be a problem, it’s one that we should address.”

If they were going to address problems, and if Draco were the least inclined to be honest, he probably ought to mention that he couldn’t stop being amazed that Hermione Granger had rather nice boobs. Every time he noticed how awful her hair was (which was often), he also noticed that one frizzy poof that on someone else might have been called a lock of hair clung to the outside of her left breast, almost exactly where she had three tiny, fascinating freckles in a line.

“Well, in a couple of months, I expect the shop will be bringing in more money. I recommend we reevaluate the living situation later,” her lips formed as Draco watched.

“Fine,” Draco capitulated, just so she wouldn’t keep talking. Didn’t she see he couldn’t concentrate when she did that?

“I think a bigger problem is going to be parentage.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Draco demanded. “You’re her mother, I’m her father, end of discussion. Unless it’s not that certain . . .”

“Her? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ferret. And don’t be a prat. I meant my parentage. Are you willing to help support a half-blood child?”

Malfoy’s eyelids drooped, as if he were suddenly bored. For the first time, Hermione wondered if Malfoy could cause her even bigger problems that getting her pregnant. The amazing bouncing ferret could be a tad intimidating when he chose to be, even to Hermione, who knew he was all talk. Not that he didn’t know how to act, because his hands were simply—

Hermione Granger decided she wasn’t going to finish that thought.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s expression changed, and he once again wore his customary smirk.

“Don’t worry. My excellent pedigree will guarantee her acceptance into all the significant circles.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“How will you tell Potty and Weasel?”

Was it just her, or did that question actually sound like Malfoy might just give half a damn about the consequences she would experience? Probably just her.

“Oh, they already know. Harry came with me to St. Mungo’s. The medi-wizard thought we were married. It was really funny.” Draco didn’t really think so. “Anyway, they’re all being really good about it. Luna knows it’s you, and she’s going to help me do damage control when I tell the others.”

“And what were their reactions when you told them they were pregnant?”

Okay, definitely not just her. She looked quickly Toddles, to see if he too noticed his master’s strange behavior, but the house-elf was too busy sniffing with disapprobation to pay attention.

“Ron asked where it came from, which was rather amusing. Then Luna dragged him off for baby-free sex, and Ginny told Harry again that she still won’t marry him.”

“You have the weirdest fucking friends.” Hermione smiled at his unintentional pun, but quickly sobered.

“Malfoy. Draco. This—are you actually going to stick around for all of this? Because, you know, to me it’s a pretty big deal. You might have a dozen illegitimate children running around for all I know, but I’m finding this a bit . . . hard. So, if I’ve got to tell my parents that I got myself knocked up in a one-night stand, it would good to at least be able to say you’re not a baby bum.”

Malfoy eyes hooded again, then he smiled almost politely and stood. “Do floo me with the bills,” he said, a clear dismissal.

As she stepped out of the fireplace in The Page Turner, dusting off floo powder she promised herself she’d sweep up later, she wondered whether or not that had gone poorly. She should grab some parchment and a quill and prepare a spiel to give Harry, Ron, and Ginny about Malfoy that wouldn’t piss them off unduly. This wasn’t some silly novel where she could just refuse to tell them. What if the baby looked like him? And why did he keep calling it a she? No, real life had no room for melodrama past your teenage years, perhaps. So she would be practical, and create a lucid, compelling argument for why her best friends shouldn’t throttle the man she’d gotten pregnant with. Perhaps she ought to write something up for Luna too, so she wouldn’t spout off something about horned lumpywigs, or whatever, again.

Instead, she dragged a hissing and struggling Crookshanks out from behind the register. Ah, dear, sweet, predictable Crookshanks. He would only yowl harder at the dampening of the mats of fur on his back with her tears, dear thing.