So Lucky

PART SIX: THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

"Don't DO that!" I gasp. "You scared me half to death, Draco!" Despite the sharp words, my voice is nervous and ingratiating. I hate it.

Draco stares past me, at the table enclosed in its glowing bubble. "Hermione--what--"

"Oh, that." Blame Winky. Don't refer to her by name. "The elf left me a spell so everything would keep." Now I sound calm, confident. Much better.

"Oh." He's buying it. Good. It helps that he's half asleep. He blinks down at me vaguely. Eyes puffy, face creased from bedclothes, hair every which way, but still. Gods. It should be against the law for a man to be that good-looking.

Even if he is too thin. I want to feed him. "Are you hungry, dearest?"

"No, no," he mumbles. He looks back to the table, but no hunger is on his face. Just puzzlement. "Ate at work..." His voice trails off, as if trying to work out something.

Distract him. "Hungry for anything else?" I place my hands lightly on his hips. I can feel the bone there far too easily. I really do wish he would eat.

Remembering what I'm about, I deliver my best flirtatious smile. Then (like magic!) I see myself through his eyes.

Oh! Not bad. Not bad at all. Pregnancy becomes me; I've got the fabled glow. A true smile lights up my face. I look like a sweet, sturdy peasant lass.

(Just the thing for the inbred heir. For far too long had the Malfoys wed their first cousins and secret siblings.)

Draco's wide awake now. The look on his face would be a ridiculous smirk on any other man. On him, it's sweet. "Oh, Hermione," he growls in mock indignation. "You are feeling better."

"Never better, my lord." Don't overdo it. "Remember the prefect's bathroom?" The site of our unexpected first kiss. Draco had chased me in there, he thought I was frightened, wanted to frighten me even more. Me? Scared of a lousy Malfoy? Never! I'd show him! So I'd reached up and grabbed him and--

We kiss, and it's so sweet. It's so good. For the first time in too long, things feel just right.

Draco breaks the kiss and I whimper. But his arms are still around me, strong and comforting. He looks down at me as if memorizing my face.

(I first saw Lucius ... in a bookstore? ... yes, in a bookstore, and Mum and Dad were with me, and Lucius took that long hard look at them.

As if memorizing them for future reference.

Which is exactly what he was doing.

Not now. Not now!)

"I'm glad you're back, Hermione," Draco is saying. He holds me close. My head is tucked under his chin. I'm shivering a bit. "Oh Draco," I whisper. My stomach flutters as if a cold wind had blown through it. I'm not nauseous. Harry's not kicking. He's asleep, floating serenely upside-down.

No, I'm not sick, I'm... scared. Maybe it's because this situation makes no sense. I can tell it's been far too long since Draco's had sex. Why hasn't he turned elsewhere? The Malfoys were never ones for chastity. Such rules were for lesser beings.

Do I dare believe that Draco loves me? Can I risk trusting him? Where's that vaunted Gryffindor courage?

I'm not the only one at risk. I have children to think of. Can he possibly love us all-- including Florence--

("I always wanted a daughter."

I hear Lucius from far away and far above. His voice is tender. Truly, wondrously tender. He takes a seat beside the bed, settling himself with otherworldly grace. His fine robes settle about him in a whisper of silk and velvet. He places a gentle hand on the slight swelling of my belly, as if in benediction.

Dear Lucius. His hair fans loose about his broad shoulders, longer than usual, glinting gold in the sunlight slanting through the windows. He is unshaven. He raises his hand to my face. I turn my head into his palm, letting him cup my cheek, relishing the feel of his skin. I love him. I love him. I would do anything for him.

"My dear, my very dear, Hermione." Still speaking softly. "My poppet, my pigsnie."

"Lucius," I murmur. "Lucius." I don't have to tell him how very much I love him. It's in my voice.

A slow smile spreads across his weary face. He was beautiful before; jubilation makes him breathtaking. I cannot tear my eyes from him. He chucks my chin. "Poppet, as much as I would like to keep you, I must away-- no, I must," he adds indulgently at my sound of protest. "There is nothing for it. Would you do me a great favor whilst I am gone?"

"Anything," I breathe. "Anything."

"Would you," dropping a kiss to my forehead, "would you," barely brushing his lips to mine, "would you," a true kiss that leaves me gasping, begging him for more with my eyes, "look after my poor stick of a son?"

Anything, anything, I'll do anything. I press frantic kisses to his scratchy face.

He draws back, grinning. What torment! "I really must shave."

"No, please, not yet, don't go, please don't go, please--!"

The last rays of the setting sun light the room as I pull him to me. Laughing, triumphant, he takes me one last time.

But this time it's different. This time I want to. I want him. I give himself to him freely.

Mum and Dad lie dead in the dungeon, five floors below.

I don't care.)