A/N: This story sets a new record for me - 200+ reviews without any flames or comments from trolls cleverly disguised as guests! (Yeah, I'm tempting fate to put that out there.) As S&A draws to a close, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been so positive in their reaction to this story. I was worried that HP and GO are like bacon and chocolate - indisputably delicious on their own, but an odd combination that might not be to everyone's taste. And for those of you who liked this story despite never having read GO, I can't recommend it enough for your future reading pleasure.
June 21, 2009 - Evening
Upon arriving at the Ritz, Hermione dragged Draco past the Palm Court and main restaurant entrance.
"I thought you wanted dessert?" he questioned, with one eyebrow raised, gently trying to tug her back to the maître d'. Now that he had overcome the nausea brought on by his bonding moment with Potter, Draco felt a bit peckish after fighting all those Death Eaters in a pitched battle.
"We can order room service," she said impatiently.
"But you always get the apricot soufflé," he protested. "It will collapse!"
"Draco, did you hit your head during the fighting? Or inhale some of that noxious purple gas George invented?" Hermione asked, waving a hand in front of his face. "You're normally quicker on the uptake than this."
"I'm just hungry," he whinged.
"Now you sound like Ronald," she huffed.
As offended as he was at the comparison to the gormless orangutan she used to date, Draco still thought Hermione looked extremely sexy in her Scourgified green dress, with her hands on her hips. He told her so, and the irritated expression on her face morphed into a look that could only be described as lascivious.
"I am not hungry for food," Hermione explained in a husky voice, licking her lips.
Suddenly, it clicked in Draco's mind that she was offering a repeat of The-Night-Not-To-Be-Mentioned. He only wished he could Apparate the short distance remaining to the reception desk, but his long-legged strides got them there reasonably quickly.
"I'd like to book the Royal Suite for the next two nights," Draco informed the clerk working behind the desk.
"I'm sorry, sir," the Muggle said in a snooty voice that made it clear that he was not the slightest bit sorry. "The Royal Suite is reserved starting this evening for the Emir of Dubai."
"Are you quite certain?" Draco asked, casually fingering the hawthorne wand in his pocket.
The Muggle's eyes crossed from the force of Draco's Confundus spell. "Actually, his Excellency the Emir will be able to make do with one of our standard rooms. Here is your key."
Room key in one hand and Hermione in the other, Draco smirked as he led her towards the sumptuous suite overlooking Green Park. For Malfoys, reservations were things that happened to other people.
(x) (x) (x)
Eventually, once an indecent interval had passed, Draco used the felly-tone next to the bed to order champagne, oysters, and Hermione's favorite soufflé from room service. After two orgasms for him and three for her - a tally he was quite pleased to be behind in - they needed a break from shagging and food to keep their strength up. Perusing the menu, he tacked on an order of dark chocolate fondue. They could share it if the soufflé collapsed, per his pessimistic predication; otherwise, they could reserve the liquid chocolate for later use. After all, he had booked the suite for two days.
They left the bedroom, with no little reluctance, to partake in their snack. They sat on the settee in the main room, Draco lounging in one of the robes thoughtfully provided by the Ritz. Hermione snuggled up against him, wearing nothing but his shirt, which came fetchingly to mid-thigh. Between that and the three top buttons she had left undone, he couldn't decide where to look.
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away to pour out two flutes of champagne. He handed one to Hermione, wondering vaguely who Moet and Chandon were. Draco supposed they must be wizards, to produce something so magical from mere grapes.
"To The Arrangement," he toasted, not brave enough to say what he really meant. To us.
Hermione pensively examined the bubbles in her glass. "I don't know, Draco. I think The Arrangement has served its purpose. Good defeated evil, quite decisively, and now we can all go and live happily ever after."
For some reason, she sounded disappointed. It was nothing, however, compared to how Draco felt. Did eleven years, not to mention the way he had just made her scream his name, mean so little to her?
"Why are we talking about good and evil?" he asked sulkily. "They're just names for sides. You know that."
"I agree," she said, surprisingly nuanced for a Gryffindor. "Take Phil, for instance. He's potentially evil. Potentially good, too. He was just this huge potentiality waiting to be shaped, but Luna and Neville raised him to do the Right thing."
"I don't want to talk about the Longbottom brat," he said with a scowl to hide the hurt he was feeling. Deep down, Draco worried that he was still the boy who had made all the Wrong choices and was stuck with a Dark Mark on his arm to prove it. "I just thought our Arrangement meant more to you than that."
She placed a hand on his left arm, pushing up the the thick terrycloth sleeve of the hotel robe so that her palm partially covered his Dark Mark. "Our relationship is much more than The Arrangement, Draco."
She knew he was a Legilemens - he had told her so. With her golden-brown eyes staring into his, so close that he could see the individual flecks of color in her irises, there was no possibility that she was anything but sincere. He caught his breath at the promise he saw in her eyes.
"Besides, our Arrangement was platonic, and I thought it was about time we changed that," Hermione purred, moving even closer until she was seated on his lap.
"It wasn't purely platonic," he objected automatically. "There was that night in Bangkok - remember? I had to ask you who God was, and why you kept me calling me by his name. You were spread out on the bed and I was - "
She cut off his reminiscing about The-Night-Not-To-Be-Mentioned by the simple expedient of snogging him.
"You're incorrigible, Malfoy," Hermione scolded, laughing, when she finally broke off the kiss. She shifted deliciously atop him, reaching down to undo the sash of his robe.
"And you're insufferable, Granger," he rejoined, nipping her neck. He ran his hands along the smooth expanse of her back and cupped her deliciously rounded bum, drawing her closer.
"That's me, the insufferable know-it-all," Hermione cheerfully admitted, even as she undid the few remaining buttons of his purloined shirt and shrugged it off her shoulders.
After a brief pause to admire the view, Draco interlaced his fingers in hers and pressed her down into the sofa. Hermione's eyes were dark with lust and her lips were reddened from their kisses. She looked nothing like an angel as she writhed underneath him, thighs parted in wanton invitation.
Draco smirked and murmured softly in her ear, just before he thrust into her. "Together, though . . . we're ineffable."
. . . And so they lived happily ever after and named their firstborn daughter Augusta.
~ fin ~