What the Grandkids don't know won't hurt them!

The Winter of Their Lives, or, What the Grandkids Don't Know Won't Hurt Them.

AND I JUST LOOKED BACK AND REALISED THE WARNINGS WERE WRONG! NO BDSM IN THIS, TOO SQUICKY TO WRITE OAPs DOING SUCH THINGS. SORRY, DIDN'T MEAN TO CLICK ON THAT BIT!

A/N: The fics on here focus on the prime of Lucius and Hermione’s lives; in this I have explored a snip of their twilight years and how Hermione has grown old gracefully, while her husband has probably grown old rather DISgracefully.

A oneshot that picks on one afternoon at Malfoy Manor, where the Master and Mistress of the house are well into their second century.

A little experiment on my part into developing characters beyond the prime of their lives. Hermione and Lucius are based on my Grandma and late Granddad. The inspiration came from the fact that my Gran (love her to bits) phoned me up yesterday to invite me over for tea, where she told me that she'd just arranged and paid for her own funeral to take the pressure off my Mum when anything happens... scared the S**T out of me, it really did; but she said that everything was as fine as it could be for a lady who's almost 80, and carries half of Glaxo-SmithKline around in her handbag.

Dedicated to Grandma Amy, and the late Granddad George, miss you Granddad.

*****

Lucius Malfoy blinked as a blur of what appeared to be feet crossed the bottom panes of his study window; he removed his rather thick-lensed spectacles, wiped them on his robes and positioned them back upon his nose.

Yes, definitely feet, upside down and moving in an arc across his window. He pulled his long white hair back with a spelled velvet ribbon, his fingers didn’t move the way they used to and tying it was a major feat these days.

“What the devil?” he said aloud, moving to the sill to get a better look at this rather odd occurrence. Outside two of his Greatgranddaughters were happily turning cartwheels near the empty flowerbeds. He opened the window and slowly leaned out, his back protesting painfully with the motion.

“Girls, is there not a different patch of grass for you to do that near? I don’t want you coming through the window!” he said, not wanting to see the little ladies hurt.

“Grampie! We won’t get hurt! This is the best wall – look!” said Natalie, performing a handstand against the wall near the window, her feet resting on the ancient stonework. Lucius chuckled as he thought his ancestors, the Lords of all things proper, would turn in their graves to see the collection of small dirty footprints on the masonry. Not to mention the sight of a Malfoy lady with her dress over her head and a pair of red polkadot knickers on fine display for all to see! These two were no ladies.

“I can do them too! Watch Grampie!” called Jessica next to her elder sister, whilst upside down and her long blonde hair trailing in the empty soil of the currently unoccupied flowerbed. Both girls were happy, but filthy! Bathtime would require someone to tease the filth from their masses of golden curls. Like their Greatgrandmother, neither Natalie or Jessica could stand for their hair being tied up, letting it flow free about their heads.

“Get yourselves the right way up please; before your hands become your feet and you stick like that!” he chided gently, the girls did as they were told. In the Malfoy household, stop it meant stop it now, even when said gently.

“Sorry, Grampie.” They chorused, both blonde girls looking crestfallen as the spring sun caught their tresses.

“That’s alright, nobody was hurt, and you were a good distraction.” Lucius looked down at the empty beds, realising they looked rather sad without plants. “How about we go and find your Father, perhaps they’d like some help putting the beds in! They might even let you design them!”

“You’ll let us play in the muck?” Natalie said, her seven-year-old self already jumping with glee at being able to plant the spot under her Grampie’s window. Her Father was head gardener at Malfoy Manor, it was where he and their Mother had met. Daddy wouldn’t let them play in certain gardens, he (in his words) ‘worked too blooming hard to have two mischiefs run wild among his beds’.

“Dirt, Natalie, dirt is the proper word.” He corrected, wishing his gardener had a scrap of class and a better accent; but his eldest Granddaughter was blissfully in love with him, and Lucius could overlook a lot of faults for his family – they overlooked all of his.

Merlin knew he had a lot of faults to overlook.

“Daddy calls it muck, he also calls the pegasii poo he puts on the roses muck too, but it’s poo not muck.” Said five-year-old Jessica, nodding.

“Ladies don’t call it muck, it is dirt or soil. And poo is manure to a lady.” Lucius said, trying not to laugh. “Wait for me there, and we’ll go together to see about some plants.”

Lucius closed the window and took his time to straighten his back, his spine wasn’t what it used to be and he found himself not standing as tall as he had as a young man. His hand trembled as he accio’d his cane, he’d needed it for years to actually assist his motion (not because it looked good), and relied heavily on the stabilising charm on it, due to two knees that arthritis had attacked with gusto. He winced as gnarled knuckles grasped the snake-head before setting out with purpose; he had two Greatgranddaughters to keep the right way up.

The portraits of a seventeen-year-old Draco and a forty-year-old Narcissa laughed as he mumbled about feet and cartwheels, their spirits glad to see him happy and with a small army of a family to be proud of. His family numbers out-ranked Arthur Weasley, who’s portrait and spirit was quite happily hung in the Muggle-Magic liaison office at the Ministry… something about putting a man on Mars had him almost bursting from his frame, apparently. His former family watched him go before falling back into stillness.

*****

Hermione shuffled along the garden path, she clung tightly to her son’s arm as she used a crutch to support the other side. Saint Mungo’s alternative therapy ward had actually performed a muggle hip replacement when she was one-hundred-and-seventy, and after fifty years of use and repairo charms it needed replacing again – but the risks were too great.

Her white curls frothed about her head in the spring breeze, she stopped to pull her shawl closer as she pushed them out of her wrinkle-surrounded eyes with liver-spotted hands.

“Mother, you should tie this out of your way.” Said Scorpius, a family name Hermione had objected to, but the Malfoy heir had to have a Malfoy name, and thus her son had been lumbered with Scorpius. He didn’t mind, his great-great-great-great-great uncle Scorpius had been the wizard to invent the dreamless sleep potion, the name was something to be proud of.

“No, don’t be silly! I like it as it is!” she said, smiling up at him. Hermione Malfoy had always been petite, never bothering to wear heeled shoes except on very rare occasions, but in her age she’d shrunk, and wished silently her ankles and hip would cope with a pair of stilettos.

‘Better not attempt that one, I don’t want to send Lucius to an early grave when he sets eyes upon a pair of stilettos.’ She chuckled as she thought; she’d make the grandkids and greatgrandkids sick if they knew what Nana ‘Mione and Grampie Lucius got up to!

“What’s funny, Mother?” Scorpius asked, hoping his brilliant Mother hadn’t gone senile; her mind was still one of the most celebrated in magical history.

She took off her spectacles and wiped the tears of mirth from her slightly clouded eyes, “Oh, nothing dear, just thinking of things that would put the grandbabies off their dinner!” she gave her eldest a gleaming smile as his eyebrows met his hairline and he pulled a disgusted face.

“Mother! You two shouldn’t be doing that! I don’t want Father having a heart attack and having to actually stop being the heir and be the Master! Good grief!” he exclaimed.

“It will happen one day, Scorpie, one day you’ll have to take the Master suite.” Hermione said gently, using his baby nickname to sooth her words.

“Yes, and I’ll have to have the mattress and sheets destroyed because I won’t be able to sleep for visions of things I really don’t want to think about!” he laughed nervously, trying to cover up that he knew his parents were on borrowed time.

“We didn’t find you in the flowerbeds!” Hermione laughed, looking down at her nicely plump frame that gravity enjoyed dragging south. Corsets had become vital items in her wardrobe… and Scorpius would ban them and place his Father on stronger heart-potions if he knew how Lucius reacted to them! Arthritis didn’t stop them, it just made things a bit more difficult; and they had the assistance of an apothecary who prided themselves on their discresion, virility potion was marked with a label of ‘arthritis aid’ and sat looking quite innocent on the nightstand.

Scorpius would proberly confiscate that too, if he knew.

Hermione continued to chuckle to herself as Scorpius pretended he didn’t have a clue what was so funny. He also pretended he didn’t know about the virility potions too. His parents had to be too old for that sort of thing!

*****

Lucius looked up from the chair he’d had to occupy as he watched Natalie and Jessica turn the flowerbed under his window (with the assistance of their Father) into a sea of pink. Shocking pink.

Lucius really hated the colour, but it made the girls giggle, and the laugh was all Hermione. They’d inherited her curls and laugh from his wife, and that alone would forgive them their tastes in colour. The elves had been summoned to bring a blanket, even on a mild March day, the gentle breeze bit at Lucius like an Artic snowstorm.

“Daddy? Will pink butterflies come to the pink flowers?” Jessica asked, fingering a pink geranium carefully.

“I don’ think there are pin’ butterflies, but some nice brown uns ‘ll come aht of their chrysalises soon an’ visit.” He said, watering the new residents of the bed with his wand.

“Daddy, are the cry-cry-crysidelises where butterflies live?” Natalie asked.

“Chrysalises, they’re where th’ cat’uhpillers become butterflies.” The gardener nodded.

“How?” Jessica asked.

“N’body really knows, lass, tha jus’ do!” the gardener said, cuddling his two filthy angels.

“I know a story about how, let your Father carry on and I’ll tell you.” Lucius transfigured the chair into a comfortable sofa before accepting a child onto each mangled knee.

‘Oh, the things I do for my family.’ He thought as two bony bottoms dug into his lap and put pressure on his joints. “Once, in a land far away…”

*****
Family meals at Malfoy Manor were mandatory and missed only for dire emergencies; all twenty-nine-and-a-half members (one more on the way) had attended, and the large banquet table in the Grand Dining Hall was packed with smiling faces, most of them blonde.

Lucius sat at the head of his table and observed through his spectacles; he was lost in thought before Hermione, his wonderful Hermione who had saved him from falling into madness after the death of Narcissa and Draco, held his old hand in hers and her wrinkled face lit up with joy just for him.

He didn’t know it, but his damaged grey eyes sparkled just for her.

*****
That evening, snuggled in the Master Bed, the bed where all their five wonderful children had been conceived (well, all but one who’d been conceived in the greenhouse – but she didn’t know that); where fantasies had been played, and where pleasure (and before the arthritis, kink) had known no boundaries.

Where tears had been shed over the passing of friends; where arguments had been held and finished; where two people had gratefully fallen asleep night-after-night-after-night in each other’s arms.

“Hermione?” Lucius whispered, holding his wife’s hand as night time cuddles put pressure on his back these days. They always awoke still holding hands and the first job of the morning was convincing stiff joints to release the other person.

“Hmmm?” she moaned, turning to him.

“Have I told you I love you today?” he said, bringing her permanently cold fingers to his lips for a kiss.

“Yes, but tell me as often as you like!” she laughed, this was a nightly ritual, their reassurance of each other, “And I love you too.”

“Its pink.” He grumbled, for the umpteenth time that evening.

“Your own fault for letting them pick the plants to go in it! They were so happy, talking about the fairy queen and her butterfly friends.” She smiled, tracing the still vivid Dark Mark on his wrist, “Big bad Death Eater is scared of a few pink flowers!” she tormented.

“I’ll have you know I’m very brave! But we Slytherins have the sense not to show it unless called for!” he huffed.

“Frightened more like!” she challenged.

“Selective bravado.” He countered.

“Wimps.” She giggled.

“Headstrong Gryffindors!” he laughed back, coughing as he did so.

“Luuuuuucius?” she simpered.

“Whaaaaaaaaaat?” he mimicked.

“Have you taken your heart potion this evening?” she asked, conversationally.

“Yes, why?” he asked, as her hand wriggled free from his weakened grip.

“Did you drink your arthritis medicine and your other arthritis medicine?” she purred.

“Of course I did witch!” he said back with a Slytherin smile she couldn’t see in the darkness.

No more words were spoken, as Hermione snuck her cold hands down his pyjama bottoms. The Grandkiddies would have been horrified at what came next; but it was nothing to the husband and wife who had (literally) been doing this for centuries, and would cherish every day they could until death took them into the next existence.