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Rating: NC-17

Summary: Mix together a sly Slytherin and a Gryffindor who's a stickler for rules, with an unspoken mutual attraction and a hexed wizarding romance novel, and suddenly Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are trapped by the written word. Will they find their own happy ending?

Warning(s): Explicit sexual situations, some dub-con kissing

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this fiction except the plot idea, and make no money from it. JK Rowling's characters and locations are all hers.

Author's Note: This story was written for the final round of the dmhgficexchange.  Unfortunately, Real Life caused the original recipient for this story to have to drop out of the exchange, so I dedicated this fic to all the wonderful Pinch Hitters. Without them, many of the participants would not have received gifts. Pinch Hitters are fantastic people. :)

The request I received for this fic had a somewhat Scottish bent, and a sudden image of Draco in a kilt flashed through my head. He would not go away, not that I minded! I think I was able to throw a little bit of everything in here, including humor. Please enjoy. Thank you to my DH and to rzzmg for being supportive betas. You folks rock!


Diagon Alley, London

Monday afternoon, April 30, 2001

Narcissa Malfoy was frustrated. Spring was in the air, and she felt … restless. 

After the Second Wizarding War, her husband, Lucius, had been sent to Azkaban for three years for his Death Eater activities. As his wife and son would remain free, he had gone willingly. Dementors were no longer guarding the prison, and it would allow him time to come to grips with the new order of things in the wizarding world in his own way. His term would be finished on October 31. He and Narcissa had been allowed monthly conjugal visits, but the closer his release date approached, the more unsatisfactory those visits became. Worse, they'd had to forgo their last interlude, which should have taken place just this weekend, because her poor, wretched husband had come into contact with something that didn't agree with him and he'd ended up spending the entire duration of their time together befouling himself instead of debauching her.

By Salazar, how was it that a man who had once cavorted with Death Eaters, had been one of that snake Voldemort's closest advisers, and who had been sorted into Slytherin House himself, could be so violently allergic to her new snake-based sexual lubricant, guaranteed to add “slither to her quiver”?

She sighed forlornly. If that new magical consignment bookshop, Granger's Grimoires, hadn't opened in Diagon Alley two years ago, complete with a juicy selection of wizarding romance novels, Narcissa Malfoy might just have begun plotting to become the next Dark Lord. Well, Dark Lady.


Yes. A good wizarding romance was what she needed. One she could sink her teeth into and take her mind off her unfulfilled urges. 

Narcissa began to collect some of her already-read novels together to take along to the bookshop, to trade in for others. She would need someone to carry them for her – she couldn't do it herself, obviously, that would be too common. Once, she'd had her house-elf, Pinky, carry the basket of books to and from the shop for her, but Miss Granger had slipped a small, horribly knitted hat into the basket along with Narcissa's new purchases. Pinky had gone into hysterics when she'd decanted the novels onto Narcissa's bedside table back in her bedroom at Malfoy Manor and found it. It had taken Narcissa the better part of an hour to convince the house-elf that since her mistress was not the one who had given the hat to her, she, Pinky, had not been set free. The relief on the poor creature's face had been immense. 

The incident had rather annoyed Narcissa, but she had developed quite a fondness and a deep respect for Miss Granger by the time the upsetting event occurred. In addition, Draco had further explained the young Muggle-born witch's odd predilection for freeing house-elves during their school years. Hearing that, Narcissa had decided it would be best simply to stop taking Pinky along on her Granger's Grimoires shopping excursions. Since then, she'd made use of another captive, able-bodied person instead. 

Now, where might I find that son of mine, this time of day? she mused. I wonder if Miss Granger might consider him as a romantic interest, by any chance...

Draco Malfoy was sweaty and agitated. The afternoon spring breeze was blowing through his balcony's open French doors, and the fresh scent stirred his hormones into a frenzy. He hadn't had a good shag in months; consequently, he was randy as hell. He was currently in his suite of rooms, physically punishing his body on his all-in-one combination running/cardio and strength-training machine, the WandFlex 3000. He did this on a daily basis in an attempt to distract himself.

Today he'd been working on the family finances all morning, balancing accounts, preparing monetary transfers, and generally exercising his prodigious Arithmancy skill. He had stacked his paperwork neatly, ready to take to Gringotts to enact the necessary transactions, and then proceeded to hide his various frustrations behind physical activity.

Draco had been a good student, coming in second only to Hermione Granger in most subjects, but he had excelled in Arithmancy, besting even the bushy-haired bookworm in their N.E.W.Ts. After he and his mother had been pardoned while his father ended up with his arse in Azkaban for three years, Draco had wanted to show the wizarding world just how sincere he was about switching his allegiances. He'd offered his number-crunching skills to the Ministry to aid in straightening out the mess the Death Eaters had made of various Departmental accounts. In the past three years, he had recovered a million galleons in secreted funds hidden by Dark Lord supporters, thus proving his worth and sincerity to the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Besides helping the Ministry for Magic get back on its feet, he had started his own business as a bookkeeper for various wizarding shops in Diagon Alley. Twilfit and Tattings, the Leaky Cauldron, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and Flourish and Blotts all used him as their accountant. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was profitable, and the hours were good. As his trustworthiness and reputation spread, so did the interest in hiring him.

He'd particularly like one of the newer Alley businesses, owned by an attractive, shapely, bushy-haired brunette, to let him handle her figures, numerical and otherwise...

Draco swallowed hard, shook his shaggy bangs out of his eyes, and adjusted the resistance on the exercise equipment.

His deepest secret, which he kept from everyone, including – nay, especially - his mother, was that he was quite infatuated with his old classmate Hermione Granger: war heroine (Order of Merlin, First Class), top of their class at Hogwarts (she had gone back to the restored castle and finished her seventh year of academics, as he had), incredibly intelligent, innocently beautiful, and, yes, damn it all, a Muggle-born. What of it? Now that the 'pure-blooded elitist' mindset was finally coming to an end in the wizarding world at large, the younger generation, at least, was finding it not too onerous a task to intermingle: pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns alike. The society pages of The Daily Prophet were full of wedding and birth announcements, none of them strictly pure-blood. 

It didn't matter to him anymore, either, especially since he'd realized what a catch Hermione was and what a git he'd truly been in school. But his family? He had no real idea what his parents truly thought about Muggle-borns mixing with pure-bloods, and he did not yet dare broach the subject directly. Instead, in addition to his trips to Granger's Grimoires as his mother's long-suffering house-elf substitute (he rolled his eyes at this), he'd been stopping in at the bookshop weekly on his own for months now. He’d fabricated an interest in the magical history of stone circles in Britain as a reason for his visits, as well as attempting to become her official financial adviser. In truth, he just wanted to spend time with her. 

Over the weeks, he and Hermione had argued, bantered, and shared conversations, and he'd found they had much more in common than he'd ever allowed himself to discover while in school. They shared a mutual love of reading and liked things organized in particular ways. More than once, she caught him re-shelving books left in a jumble by earlier customers. His trips to her bookshop had soon become the highlights of his week. Through careful questioning, he'd learned that she and Ronald Weasley had broken off their romance over a year ago, going back to being “just friends”, though she hadn't given him any details as to why. Since then Hermione hadn't been seeing anyone – not publicly, at any rate. 

He needed to make a move.

All right. Today, I will time my arrival for just before closing time, and take Granger to dinner. If I don't do it now, someone else is going to swoop in and stake a claim. I've noticed Zabini hanging around, and Nott, and even that Hufflepuff Ernie Macmillan, and...

Actually liking a girl was stressful work, he was realizing. He wasn't interested in anyone else. He wanted Granger. What was more, he wanted her to want him.

He scowled, and pushed himself even more determinedly through his exercises.

With all of this healthy self-abuse over the last couple of years, he had filled out quite nicely. Gone was the gawky teenager look; it had been replaced by a man's build, with sleek, smooth muscles to rival those of the long-haired heroes pictured on the covers of his mother's romance novels. He knew this on some vague level, but he'd never really bothered to read one of her books. He'd seen the covers and laughed over them in the privacy of his own mind. What absolute rubbish, he thought. 

It didn't matter that he was largely clueless about his likeness to the stereotypical romance novel hero, however. 

Others had noticed.

Hermione Granger, balanced precariously as she was, was happy. She sighed contentedly, enjoying the slight spring zephyrs that wafted through the open door of her bookshop. At this particular moment, she was halfway up a rolling ladder, stretching to reach a book on the history of the Quidditch World Cup. She had dust on her forehead, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her white cotton shirt was beginning to stick uncomfortably to her sweaty skin. Nevertheless, she loved what she was doing – helping her customers find good reading material. 
At this particular moment, those customers were Delilah Zabini and her handsome son, Blaise.

Hermione's bookshop, Granger's Grimoires, specialized in buying and selling used magical books of all sorts. She had opened for business two years ago, soon after finishing her N.E.W.T.s, using money from her Order of Merlin First Class. Much of her initial inventory had come from the homes of war victims. Their family members, knowing her bookish reputation, had approached her about taking on their collections, which she was more than willing to do. She'd sorted everything, asking her friend Bill Weasley, in his role as a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts, to check volumes that seemed suspicious for hidden curses or jinxes. She'd given any especially appropriate items to the Hogwarts library for use by the students. The rest she had put up for sale or trade in her new shop. 

Granger's Grimoires was strategically located next to Gringotts Wizarding Bank in Diagon Alley, so that people emerging from the bank with their money pouches full of galleons would be tempted to stop and see what treasures she had in her window. She changed her displays often and lured people inside with promises of warm biscuits, coffee, and other edibles while they browsed the shelves. It worked marvelously. For the past few years, wizards and witches, giddy with the defeat of Voldemort, had flocked to her shop as Diagon Alley was rebuilt and the wizarding world shook off the oppressive weight it had borne under the Dark Lord and his tyranny. People wanted to enjoy life again, and she was showing them a way to do it, thriftily.

Her academic offerings ranged from simple textbooks to other more intricate tomes for advanced scholars. In addition, she had sections of books on the domestic arts, animal husbandry, gardening, history, and even a small selection of Muggle classics were available. She had a good variety of magical children's books too, but to her great surprise (and private amusement), the lurid wizarding romances were her most steady sale items. The smuttier the better, it seemed. As long as the books were good and steamy, witches wanted them, none more so than former Death Eaters' wives and their friends. 

Narcissa Malfoy and Delilah Zabini were her most regular customers, visiting once a week at least, and they never left without half a dozen new “robe rippers” in their possession. Hermione was rather nonplussed. She enjoyed reading about a bawdy romp in the magical haystack as much as anyone, but these wizarding romances were so ridiculous! She couldn't even look at the covers without bursting into giggles: always a muscle-bound wizard with an extremely large wand (longer and thicker than she'd ever seen in real life, she noted with a smirk) and a scantily-clad witch (who seemed quite willing to wear gauzy, easily-torn robes no matter the depicted weather). 

I've never seen real wizards with muscles like that. She sighed, thoughtfully. Ron was always too gangly, and other wizards are too skinny or flabby. Well, there is Charlie Weasley, who wrestles dragons for a living. And Blaise there is looking awfully fit. She looked down at Blaise, who was grinning up at her, enjoying the view as she groped around high over her head to reach the book he wanted to buy. He was wearing only a short-sleeved polo shirt and jeans and was holding the ladder steady for her. She admired his toned arms for a moment, and then turned back to her task. Just then, the image of another young wizard swam into her mind's eye, this one causing her breath to catch. You know, Hermione, Draco Malfoy's been cutting a mighty fine figure in his robes lately, too. Hermione blushed and shook her head, not wanting to travel too far down that trail of thought. Draco? She wouldn't, couldn't dare think about him in a romantic way. They had become friends, she felt, but, come on now, he'd never spare her a second glance.

Stretching too far, she fumbled the book, over-reached as she grabbed for it, and fell off the ladder.

Draco strode along a half step ahead of his mother, carrying the infernal basket full of her damned trashy novels and cursing to himself. Why did the bad luck always follow him? His plans for the day had been shot to hell. 

He'd just finished his workout when his mother had barged into his suite and announced that he'd be accompanying her to Diagon Alley. He'd spluttered at her about needing a shower first and his pressing need to go to Gringotts. Her answer had been to pronounce him smelling “virile and manly,” then she'd cast a Scourgify charm. She had marched him at wand-point to his bedroom, where she had overseen his dressing in a short-sleeved fitted shirt, Muggle jeans, and loafers (coupled with a light cloak, a perfectly acceptable ensemble for bank business). She'd then made him Side-Along-Apparate with her directly to Diagon Alley and Gringotts, where he finished his transactions with the goblins in record time and was now acting as his mother’s personal assistant.

So much for his smooth plan to invite Hermione to a private dinner after her shop closed.

Why couldn't Mum have gotten laid? Draco sighed heavily, knowing that if his mother had had a successful “conjugal visit” with her husband over the weekend, he wouldn't be doing this chore now, as her carnal desires would have been sated. He shuddered at the mental images that thought conjured. Thanks, Father. You and your blasted snake allergy. If you weren't so damned secretive and had just told Mother about it...

Just then, a short scream, issuing from Granger's Grimoires, shook him from his private musings. Shoving the basket into his mother's arms, he ran forward the last few steps to the open door of the shop. Blinking in the sudden dimness of the shop's interior, his wand drawn, Draco called out, “Granger! Are you all right?”

The mingled sounds of feminine giggles and deeper, distinctly masculine chuckles met his ears, and his adjusted eyes finally saw his friend Blaise Zabini carrying Hermione down one of the aisles of books, ignoring the good-natured protests of the laughing witch. 

“What in the hell happened?” he demanded of the pair. Hermione looked over at him, a big grin on her face.

“Oh, hi, Draco, I fell off the ladder getting this book for Blaise, but fortunately he was quick enough to catch me. I'm not hurt,” answered Hermione. “Put me down, Blaise! I said I'm fine!” she demanded. She struggled to be free of his embrace.

Draco felt his hackles rise in anger as he watched Zabini set Hermione down with exaggerated care, letting his hands linger over-long on her hips as he steadied her. His eyes caught Draco's in a challenge and he smirked at his blond rival over the top of Hermione's pony-tailed head. Draco sneered back. Oblivious to the testosterone-charged air around her, or perhaps just choosing to ignore it, Hermione stepped behind the counter and rang up Blaise's purchase. 

Narcissa, meanwhile, quickly made note of the three young people as she entered the shop and then found her friend Delilah Zabini, Blaise's mother, perusing the shelves in the romance section. Delilah had ignored the exchange between her son and the others completely, intent as she was on selecting new reading material, but she seemed delighted to see Narcissa. Kissing both of Narcissa's cheeks, she greeted her friend warmly and commiserated with her over the ill-fated visit with Lucius. After mentioning to Narcissa that she'd also brought in a box of her own novels for trading, Delilah stepped up to the counter to pay for her new selections. Narcissa turned to the romances and began her own browsing, concentrating on searching for heavy smut content.

Blaise leaned on the counter, watching Hermione counting out his change. “So, Hermione, Wednesday is the third anniversary of Voldemort's Defeat. Are there big doings in the offing at the Ministry? Or are you planning something romantic with Weasley?” Draco moved closer, pretending to browse some second-hand transfiguration books as he listened.

Hermione shook her head, wrapping his book, her face a careful mask. “No to both questions. The Ministry doesn't have a big gala event planned this year – for which I am very thankful – and Ron and I broke up a year and a half ago.” She glanced over at Draco as she spoke. “As it happens, I walked in on him shagging George's shop clerk, Verity, in their storeroom.” 

“You're kidding!” Blaise was incredulous.

Hermione shook her head. “No. He'd been panting around after her for weeks. I knew something was up. As soon as I confronted him, he left me high and dry.” She sniffed dismissively and handed Blaise his package. “I decided I could do better.” 

Blaise flashed a winning smile at Hermione. “You most certainly can, gorgeous. You are welcome to come to my place Wednesday night for a small celebratory party; folks from all Houses will be there. There’s no need to answer now. Just send me an owl, yeah? Bring your pretty self on over, I'll show you a good time.” He took Hermione's hand and kissed the back of it. She shook her head, laughing lightly.

Draco wanted to vomit as he leaned against the display of transfiguration texts, half-hidden in shadow, and watched the Zabinis finally take their leave. He scowled as Blaise winked at Hermione, promising to “...see you later.” She simply smiled and waved at him and his mother, and then sighed and turned to a box labeled “D. Zabini” resting on the counter. She began sorting through its contents. Glancing over and noting that his mother was still preoccupied with the wizarding romances, he seized his chance to speak to Granger privately.

Hermione looked up as he approached, raising a questioning eyebrow and smiling. “Hello, Draco. It's nice to see you again so soon, but I'm afraid I've had nothing new come in on stone circles or other Neolithic structures since you were here last week...” 

Mesmerized by her lips as she spoke, Draco barely comprehended her words. Gods, she is eminently shaggable, he thought to himself, taking in her damp white shirt and messy ponytail, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. Obviously Weasley never realized what a wonder she is. She deserves proper love and attention. 

“Granger!” he exclaimed suddenly. She stopped mid-sentence, startled, eyes wide. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, nerves threatening his cool. He thought wildly for a connection to what she'd been talking about… stone circles, ancient Celtic rituals, old traditions... ah.

“Forget all the 'Dark Lord is Defeated' anniversary stuff. Why don’t we celebrate the ancient ways of the old ones together? Spring is here: today is April 30, the Eve of Beltane. Have dinner with me,” he said in a disjointed rush.

Hermione's face could not have shown more surprise. “But, Draco... Beltane's a fertility celebration, isn't it?”

Draco's face flushed pink. “Well, on the basic level, yes, but in the broader spectrum it is meant to be a celebration of winter's end, and a time to reconnect with friends and loved ones.” He glanced slyly at her from beneath lowered lashes as he lowered his voice. “I'd like the chance to get to know you better... Hermione.”

Hermione's breath caught. She had never heard him say her given name in all their years of acquaintance, even as their friendship had grown, and for him to say it now, in such a sultry manner... her heart skipped a beat.

To gain a few moments and gather her courage, she looked down at the box, withdrawing the last book as she did so. It appeared to be a Scottish-themed wizarding romance, like most of the others. Delilah Zabini must have a huge collection of them at home, she thought, not for the first time. This one was quite a bit thinner than the other novels, however. It was titled Sighs and Sacrifice. The moving wizarding figures on the cover held Hermione's gaze because the well-muscled, large-wanded hero was blond, contrary to the dark or redheaded men that generally populated such stories. Looking closer, she saw that this one's windblown hair was actually blond-white. It's quite similar to Draco and his father's hair. The artist must have a Malfoy family fetish. She grinned to herself.

Her eyes traveled over the hero's physique, and she tried surreptitiously to check out Draco's in comparison. Though Malfoy was clothed, he did look surprisingly similar to the bare-chested, kilt-clad young wizard on the cover. In all the right places, she could not help thinking. Hermione gulped back her sudden naughty thoughts, and her brown eyes met Malfoy's gray ones, noting with dismay his crinkling laugh lines. He'd seen her eyeballing him and was smirking, hugely.

“So. Dinner tonight, Granger?” he drawled, smugly.

Hermione blushed. Still holding the book, she opened her mouth to speak, but just at that moment, Narcissa appeared at Draco's elbow.

“Oh, is that a new acquisition, Miss Granger?” she chirped. She set down her basket of trade-ins on the counter. “I've been looking for a good Scottish romance. May I see it, please?” She smiled brightly at Hermione, holding out one beautifully-manicured hand for the thin volume. Hermione passed it to her, grateful for the slight distraction from Draco's handsome grin.

Narcissa took the novel from her and examined the moving figures on the cover. “Oh my, doesn't the hero look like my Lucius! You don't see many blond heroes on romances. It’s a pity. The girl, now, she's quite a fetching brunette. Beautifully long, curly hair – like yours, Miss Granger, is it not? Not much clothing otherwise, I see. They seem quite taken with each other, don't they?” Her commentary faded as the scantily-clad couple on the dust jacket of the romance obligingly fell into an enthusiastic embrace, one of his hands on her barely-covered breast, tweaking a nipple as he nibbled her throat. Draco caught Hermione's eye with a heated glance and a wink. She ducked away, flushed. After a moment, Narcissa cleared her throat daintily.

“I'll take it.”

An uncomfortable silence fell as Hermione reached out and drew the novella back towards her. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy, but I don't sell or trade any books until I've checked them over for hexes or curses. It's a Granger's Grimoires standing policy.” 

Draco shifted uneasily as Narcissa laughed. “Oh my dear, don't be silly! Of course you'd want to check other people's books, but that novel belonged to my good friend Delilah Zabini! Her books are always immaculately kept, as are all her possessions. There is no need to fear, it is in impeccable condition I can assure you.”

Hermione remained firm. “I'm afraid it doesn't matter who brought it in, I check them all. It's standard procedure. I'm sorry.” Her hand remained firmly on the book.

Narcissa's delicate nostrils were now flaring, as she was quite offended on her friend's behalf. How dare this chit of a girl imply that...? But, since she really wanted the novel, instead of snapping she took a deep breath and said, calmly, “All right, I understand. Rules are rules. Well then, just do your examination now, and then you can ring up my purchases along with that book and all will be fine. I don't mind waiting.”

Hermione was biting her lip. “But you see, Mrs. Malfoy, I use a Curse-Breaker to scan the books for curses. I always have Bill Weasley do it, but it is just past five o'clock now and Gringotts is closed. I'll have to have him take care of it in the morning.” Hermione looked anguished, not wishing to offend Narcissa, her best customer, but also not willing to bend on this necessary safety precaution.

Narcissa let go of the novel, a sour taste in her mouth. She really did like Hermione, but she was very used to getting her own way in shops, and honestly, this was ludicrous. She knew the book's former owner, for Slytherin's sake! 

Her disappointment must have shown on her face, because Draco spoke up with a suggestion of compromise. “Mother, let's try this. My old Quidditch teammate, Marcus Flint, is also a Curse-Breaker. He owes me a few favors. Granger's coming to dinner with me tonight-” he shot Hermione another wink and a look that said I have you now! “-so she and I will stop by his place to have the book examined before we go to dinner, and I'll bring it home later this evening, safe and sound. That should work nicely, don't you think?”

Hermione sighed and nodded with grateful relief as Narcissa clapped her hands together, kissing her son on the cheek. “Draco, what a lovely solution. How wonderful! You know how upset I was when my visit with your father had to be canceled-”

Draco patted his mother's arm and broke in smoothly. “Oh yes, I do, I know it was vexing for you, Mother. Perhaps reading this book tonight will lessen your loneliness, hmm? Granger, why don't I hold this while you take care of Mother's other purchases, and we can all get on with our evenings?” As he spoke, he reached for the book, which Hermione still held in her hands.

As he grasped it, there was a sudden, silent flash of pink light, with purple sparkles swirling around him and Hermione. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, their hands both clutching the novel, and Draco just had time to think I'll be damned, the bloody book IS cursed... before the shop winked out of existence around them.

Narcissa stared speechlessly at the empty spots where her son and Miss Granger had stood not a moment ago. The only sounds in the shop were the slap of the book, Sighs and Sacrifice, as it hit the floor, and Hermione's wand, as it rolled slowly across the counter and bumped to a stop against the empty box.

“Oh, dear.”

After another moment, she hurried to the door and flipped over the “CLOSED” sign in the window. Drawing her wand and casting a quick Hominem revelio to determine there were no other patrons in the shop, she magically locked the door and drew the window shades. She then dropped a small purse full of galleons into the till, which she also locked for good measure.

Picking up Sighs and Sacrifice and her basket of other newly-chosen novels, she called out, “Pinky!”

As she waited for her house-elf to appear, she examined the figures on the cover of the book more closely. The young woman was now scowling and pushing vigorously against the shoulders of the dashing Scotsman, quite ineffectually, as he attempted to drag her closer to his smirking lips. Her nose practically touching the book, Narcissa's eyes widened with recognition, she gasped, and flipped the book open to the title page. Reading it quickly, she closed the book, held it against her bosom, and began to chuckle in a most delighted way. A loud POP interrupted her.

“Ah, there you are, Pinky. Take the basket, please. No, there is nothing remotely resembling clothing in it, I swear to you! We are going home right now. I will have an early dinner, and then you will draw me a bath and I will retire for the evening to my bedroom. Tonight, I have some serious reading to do.”

“And... and young Master Draco, Mistress?” quavered Pinky.

“I am quite certain that he soon will be entertaining Miss Granger tonight, Pinky. I cannot begin to guess when he might return to the Manor, so let us not worry about him. Come along now.”

With that, Narcissa extinguished all the lights in the shop, and she and Pinky Disapparated back to Malfoy Manor to set Narcissa's plans in motion.

By sundown, a well-fed and bathed Narcissa Malfoy was reclining amongst the pillows in her huge four-poster bed, hungrily devouring the pages of Sighs and Sacrifice with her eyes.