CHAPTER FOUR: "SI TU SAVAIS COMMENT JE T'AIME, TOI AUSSI TU DOIS M'AIMER…"
Diagon Alley - London, England
June 19, 1815 (Monday afternoon & evening)
Hermione awoke sometime after the noontime hour, having gone to bed around two the evening before. Last week's rounds had worn her out, but thankfully, she'd been able to eliminate even more prospects (Irish, Maxsee, Four, Loc, Chef, and Brun, leaving just thirteen men remaining), so that her schedule this week wouldn't be quite so hectic. She had two days off until the Wednesday appointments started up - two blissful days! – and she intended on enjoying them fully.
Since she could not leave the confines of the grounds until after the auction had ended, per the contract she'd signed with the House, she decided to use today to relax, catch up on correspondence, perhaps spend some time with her new friend, Le Renard Rouge, and do some private reading. She hadn't written to Harry or her parents in two weeks because of the grueling schedule she'd been keeping, and she'd only had time to skim her book on Puffskein caretaking briefly.
Just thinking of her little familiar made a smile creep along her cheeks unwittingly. Reaching over onto the soft, down pillow she'd set-up next to hers on the bed, Hermione found Pyg still sawing logs (she now knew the difference between his snoring, his snorting, and his trilling by the pitch – a low sound meant he was asleep, medium meant he was upset for some reason, and high meant he was happy). Tickling his fur with a fingertip, she leaned her head over and blew hot air on him, speaking gently. "Pyg, my sweet, time to wake up!"
Almost immediately, the sensitive, little ball of fluff began trilling and he changed color – a light purple, indicating he was feeling both serene and loved at the same time. Over the past five days, she'd had time to suss out his moods, and determined what she thought was the correct color coding for his feelings at any given time. "Good morning! May I pick you up now?" she asked her new friend. Crookshanks had disabused Hermione of her penchant to lift him whenever the fancy struck by simply sticking one filthy paw on her chin and pushing every time she hauled him into her arms. She stopped taking for granted that caring for a pet meant its custodian had any rights to assault its person anytime she wished relatively quickly the first few weeks after obtaining him as a result, and so now asked Pyg before assuming anything. Additionally, because he was so small, she didn't want to hurt him; she wasn't sure exactly how fragile he might be, honestly, so it was better to prepare the itty bitty thing for being touched rather than take it unawares.
Changing color to pink – meaning he was amenable to her desires – Hermione tenderly took Pyg up into her hands and rubbed her cheek against him in their regular morning greet. "I have so much to do today around here. Will you be fine on your own? Are you hungry?" This was becoming a regular conversation with them. The one fact she'd learned from the book The Dragon had gifted her was that Puffskeins could eat just about anything small enough that their long, whiplash tongue could wrap about and pull into their mouths (wherever that was - Hermione still couldn't find the opening, nor any eyes, ears or nose, for that matter), so she wasn't concerned that she'd have to dish up food for him. Instead, she was asking him if he wanted to be placed out on the balcony so he'd have access to the garden insects flying by. With another trill, Pyg informed her that he was, in fact, hungry for flies and gnats (yuck!), and so they followed the same routine they had for the past few days: she set him out on the back balcony's small tea table until his trilling became loud to tell her to bring him back in. That could be anywhere from an hour to several hours, depending upon how hot he got in the sun. She gave him a last, very gentle pet and then returned inside, closing the French doors behind.
The next thing she did was to take care of her own needs. She ordered up some light fare from the resident house elf assigned to her, a rather exuberant thing named Dobby. She'd befriended the extremely helpful (if not slightly emotionally unbalanced) creature soon after coming to the house by offering him pretty items that he could then gift to the little, female house elf, Winky (whom he was currently wooing). In return, he slipped her sinfully decadent caramels on occasion. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, although her conscience chastised her to start watching her waistline better and cut back on the sweets some.
After taking her fast of an apple muffin, a small bowl of fresh berries in cream and a cup of very dark, spicy tea from the Orient, she hopped into a warm bubble bath, scenting the water with jasmine and orange blossom oils, and scrubbed up with a very special, limited edition citrus glycerin soap handcrafted by the famous Andrew Pears himself (a set of six such uniquely scented soaps was York's gift to her this last round; he claimed to know the soap miller personally and boasted that he'd helped the man derive the formula for these six specific scents)! She washed her hair last, and then lay back in the tub to enjoy the moment.
An hour later, pruned and wrinkled, Hermione finally hopped out. Tossing on a lounging robe over her frilly undergarments, she used a metal file to gentle shape her fingernails, then decided to try out a fashion the Abbess had sworn up and down was nouveau chic: lacquering her nails with a scented oil that was made from a combination of mashed Rose, Orchid and Impatiens petals combined with Alum. With the bottle (a gift from Aurora this last weekend), she now sat on her settee, with a towel supporting her feet, and tinted her toe nails first, then her fingernails, buffing them with a chamois cloth to a healthy, light pink shine and blowing on them until dry. The result was quite stunning, adding just a bit of color and luminescence to her nails, and she decided to re-apply this special formula the night of the auction.
By then, it was close to two o'clock, so Hermione sat down at her Tambour Writing Table and began her letter to Harry first. She explained in great detail the goings-on for the last few weeks, and although she knew he was forbidden from coming to the house until after the auction had completed (per the contract, as The Madam did not want her fiancée tainting the process in any way), she admitted her wish for his continued moral support in the form of more frequent letters, if possible. Having an old, trusted friend nearby would have been nice, as she really only knew a few of the women in the house in passing (she and Le Renard Rouge – a slightly younger lady named Ginevra – had, just this weekend, begun an acquaintance when the pretty redhead approached her door with an offer of friendship and a gift of a gorgeous, Italian-styled hand-held fan), but also knowing that their friendship wouldn't change as a result of this awkward situation between them was equally as important.
Her parents were a bit more difficult to reach out to in the next letter, as she was still quite vexed with them for getting her into this disaster to begin with. She kept her letter cordial and polite, but did not divulge details (her parents knew of her plans, but she had bade them to mind their business in the affair, using their guilt in their part of this fiasco against them to wring a promise from them both to keep away). She inquired as to their health and the health of her grandmother, and let them know that she was well cared for, pampered in fact. There didn't seem to be much more to say after that, so she closed the letter with hopes for their continued happiness, ignoring the pang of sadness that gripped her as she signed the correspondence, her quill scratching sharply across the parchment.
Finally, she penned a note to her former House Soeur from her school days, Fleur Delacoeur, who had moved to London as a result of the political upheavals in the Muggle world in her homeland of France. The woman had secured a fitting position at Gringotts Bank just prior to Hermione's self-imposed seclusion at La Cerise, and she inquired as to her enjoyment of the work, and whether there was, as of yet, any potential suitors for her friend's hand (she was sure there would be, as her lovely friend was a quarter Veela, and possessed not only beauty, but magical charms in which to capture a man). She closed the letter with sincere invocations for luck and much love.
Dobby kindly took her three secured epistles and assured they would be owl'd within the hour to their destinations. By then, it was going on four o'clock. The day was practically gone, she realized with some dismay. But then, her regularly enjoyed schedule (Hermione had always been an early riser and an early to bed type) had been turned on its ear when she'd begun this scheme, so now she was forced to keep strange hours, waking late in the afternoon and staying up until the early hours of the morning. It was disconcerting to think that at this time of the day, she was just coming up on her luncheon, not high tea.
Throwing on a plain muslin Morning Dress, a pair of silken, flat ballet slippers, her mask (which was required in the house, even behind closed doors) and waving her wand over her hair to tame the curls (but leaving it down and uncovered), she went to collect Pyg from off the balcony (to assure no predatory birds carried him off in her absence) and made her way to Le Renard Rouge's room. She knocked lightly, not seeing the sign of engagement on the door to indicate she had a client, and waited. The redhead answered wearing a plain black leather mask, and a lounging dress and robe, her long, straight hair unbound as well.
"I wondered," Hermione began, a little shy, petting Pyg with nervous hands, "If you would like to take lunch?"
The woman's smile was meltingly sincere in its enthusiasm. "Of course! Come in, come in!" She grabbed Hermione's arm and jerked her into her bedroom with an impish grin, moving quickly enough to cause her to yelp in surprise. The door shut behind with a loud click and she was ushered towards the Grecian-styled, small settee in front of the bed to sit. "I'll call up Dobby to bring us some victuals."
The familiar pop of an elf Apparating in cracked through the small room, causing Hermione's ears to burst from the changing pressure. While Ginevra began ordering up their fare, Hermione set Pyg on her lap gently (he'd morphed three times in as many minutes, alternating between various shades of yellow and orange), and took the opportunity to again view this room, this time up close and personal.
The subtle chaotic nature of the decoration was intriguing to her well-ordered mind; no two pieces of furniture were alike or came from a matched set, and yet, it all meshed so appealingly together. In a way, the enclosed space gave her a rather intimate look into her new friend's personality, as one's "house" always reflected their true inner self, or so it was said.
The room was designed in the Georgian style, with elegant rectangular wall and ceiling paneling, but the embellishments were a mish-mosh of European flavor: an Italian, dark wooden bed frame was draped by velvet and silk curtains in a bold, bright gold and a rich chocolate brown color; a creamy French satin duvet with metallic, flaxen embroidery and rope hem lay neatly across the bed, which was lined by Sicilian silk screened scarlet, gold and cream pillows; Turkish brass candlestick lamps of varying design (all magically lit) sat on imported side tables made of stained cherry and walnut wood from America; the large area rug was Persian, thick and luxurious; the Russian-styled armoire stood in the opposite corner of the room, away from the bed, next to a wood carved, Chinese dressing screen and on the wall next to it, was the two-way mirror, affording an unimpeded view of the bed, in particular.
In a flash of memory, Hermione recalled the lovemaking session her new friend and her beau had engaged in just last week on that very bed and blushed profusely. Would her first time be so beautifully sensual? Or would it be closer to sinfully naughty and playful, as the twins and Angel had demonstrated? Her body hoped for the former, although her heart thought it wiser to keep things cooler than both expositions, fearing a painful, unintentional entanglement with the winning bidder of this auction.
As she stared at the wide, soft bed, lost in contemplation, sparkling, silver-grey eyes and a wicked smirk alighting full, kissable lips sprang into her thoughts without conscious summoning, and Hermione felt her temperature rise by several degrees as one particular fantasy that had been plaguing her lately haunted her once more… Wide, strong shoulders and a smooth chest, bared and pale and roped with gleaming, tense muscle, move over her, bunching under her fingertips in a gentle rhythm matching his thrusting hips. Sliding her hands up around his neck, she grips his soft, platinum hair in her hands and holds on tightly, crying out for him to kiss her, touch her, never to stop, even as his body joins hers, retreats, and returns to fill her back up again and again…
Ginevra's knowing snicker broke into Hermione's thoughts, instantly recalling her to the present, making her embarrassment soar to new heights.
"Which one?" her new, animated friend snooped playfully. "I know that look, so it's no use denying it. You were thinking of one of the suitors. Which one of those gorgeous men has your heart racing so honestly?"
Hermione bit her lip and absently, distractedly petted Pyg (who was glowing pink and vibrating with what seemed like amused laughter, although he made no chuckling noises or trilled). She was unsure of how much she could divulge. There wasn't any clause in her contract that prevented her from telling this woman anything about her past or her feelings towards the auction and its participants; only between she and the suitors was such knowledge forbidden to share. And, after all, Ginevra had been forthright in giving up her true name – given and surname, both - to Hermione the first time they'd properly chatted (although Hermione had not returned the act of goodwill yet, afraid that it might get her into trouble with Madam Sinistra – who informed her later that she was free to speak of such things to Ginevra, as every woman there was held to a strict confidentiality agreement with not only clients, but each other). Still, though, she hesitated.
As if they were tied to the same thought, the lovely redhead gasped, losing her teasing expression all together, putting a hand on Hermione's knee familiarly. "I apologize. Perhaps you can't talk about such things because of the particulars of your contract? I hadn't considered that and I spoke out of turn. Forgive me?"
Making a decision then and there to trust this woman, Hermione shook her head. "Not at all. My contract does not stipulate silence towards any woman here, only the men." She held her hand out in a formal, cordial greeting. "My name is Hermione Jean Granger, but please call me Hermione. I apologize for my earlier hesitance on a proper introduction, Ginevra, but I was required to receive the Abbess' blessing of our friendship before I could approach anyone witin these walls and reveal my true name and nature."
Ginevra beamed and shook her hand favorably. "No need to stand on formality then. Call me Ginny. And I understand the restraints that living within this house can place upon a person, so really, there is no need for apologies."
At that moment, Dobby appeared with a tray of tasty-looking morsels, placing it on the sideboard nearest the door. He then asked if he would be needed for further assistance, and when thanked for his service, he bowed and left with a snap of his fingers. "Let's eat, shall we?" Ginny grinned and hopped to her feet, hurrying to the service of food. "I'm practically starving to death!"
Her friend's casual, comfortable way soon had Hermione totally disarmed and enchanted, and the two began clucking like old, long-acquaintance hens in no time whatsoever, sharing secrets as if they had been soul-sisters. Not even with Fleur had Hermione felt so easy and relaxed. Consequently, the evening seemed to drift by on swift wings, their conversation flowing easily (Pyg's long, pink tongue occasionally crept up towards her plate and fished smaller morsels or crumbs away, whipping away the stolen goods quickly; he attempted to be sneaky in the theft, and in those hours, Hermione realized her little familiar was an extremely intelligent, crafty creature whom she'd been horribly underestimating... and she loved him all the more for such cleverness).
"Thank goodness you dropped Irish," her redheaded friend revealed, taking a bite of a buttered croissant. "The man is too enamored of the sauce, in my opinion. And The Prince," she jokingly shuddered. "I can understand wanting to keep him for the bidding, but the man is simply ghastly." She collected Hermione's empty plate, like a good hostess, and poured her a cup of tea, bringing it and the matching saucer to her hand. "So, who's the favorite, so far? If you could control the auction's outcome, who would you want to win?"
Hermione bit her lip and blushed, looking into her cup of herbal, watching her reflection for a few seconds before blurting out her answer. "Monsieur Dragon."
Le Renard Rouge sat up to full attention slowly, a smile donning her features. "Really? How fascinating."
The woman's tone spoke of some secret knowledge on the subject. Unable to help herself, Hermione pried. "In what way? Have you heard something?" She tried for calm and poised, but inside her breast, her heart began skipping about madly.
Her friend clucked her tongue, her grin growing. "He is my lover's Rum Colonel. And from what my beautiful man says, your Dragon is quite smitten with you. I have once been privy to their private discussion as he awaited a turn for one of your appointments, and I gathered the impression… I believe he will do whatever it takes to win you, Hermione."
Unable to contain her enthusiasm, Hermione felt her jaw ache from smiling so wide. She was impolitely showing too many teeth, but seemed unable to prevent her reaction. "I pray it be so," she confessed. "I admit, the idea of him claiming me…" She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, random images of her recent fantasies flowing through her once again. She bit her lip, and considered seriously whether to say more. Would it be safe to reveal herself so openly to such a new friend? Weighing the detriments versus the benefits, she concluded that she liked Ginny sincerely, and believed they had formed a solid basis for trust today. Perhaps it would be harmless to reveal a little more of her true feelings. Blinking open her lids, she sipped at her tea to whet her palette. "If he would be inclined, I would want him to court me after this contest is over. I fancy him dearly - more than any man I have ever known."
Her friend was quiet in contemplation, obviously, but Hermione could feel the woman's brilliant cerulean gaze measuring her carefully. "Do you know of his interests here while at the House before you?" she asked carefully. "It's something I think you should know the truth of before committing your heart."
Hermione tensed, feeling her chest clutch and took another sip from her Limoges porcelain cup, steadying the saucer in her other hand, trying to keep the tremble from her fingers from showing. "You speak of Aster," she stated as composedly as possible, but feeling slightly green around the edges at just thinking of the other woman, whom she'd only seen once. The pureblood witch was a gorgeous, snow-white goddess with pastel green-blue eyes; she moved as gracefully, confidently and sensually as finely woven silk through water. She was the complete opposite of Hermione - which only served to shake up her confidence, making her wonder again why The Dragon would seek her out when he had someone as stunningly beauteous as Aster willingly waiting for him. She looked once more into her cup, wondering if she really could divine her future there (distractedly disgusted at such thoughts, as she'd always felt Divination was pure gammon), and frowned slightly. "Madame and I discussed all of the suitors' relationships with the other ladies of this House by the end of the second week, so I would better understand the agreements already in place. It was an educational exchange, meant to remind me to guard my heart."
Ginevra was silent once more, weighing the unspoken words between them. "You more than fancy The Dragon. You have deep feelings for him already." There was no question to her tone. Hermione did not respond; found she couldn't quite voice her thoughts, as some nameless emotion gripped her throat and squeezed. More hush filled the space instead. After long minutes of awkward positioning, Ginny sighed aloud. "I suppose, if you're inclined to know and wouldn't mind the guile of such a plan, I could pry details of your wizard's long-term interests from my Italian. Discreetly, of course."
There was no controlling the shaking of her hand then, and tea sloshed into Hermione's saucer, nearly tipping onto her white muslin dress. "You… you would do that for me? But would it not jeopardize your relationship with your Italian?"
That mysterious beaming once more graced The Red Fox's pretty lips. "I would do it for both our edifications, as I find myself strangely interested in the man's ambitions as they concern you. And to be true, I think my amante would be pleased to help in the attempt towards a match for his friend. He and The Dragon are as brothers, and it's clear my clever, rakish patron doesn't care a trifle for Aster's charms. The woman is a viper to her very soul, and all know it. Personally, I don't understand what anyone would see in her." Fluffing long, crimson strands off her shoulder with a casual brush of a hand, Ginny sniffed in amusement. "Even though I've very little personal knowledge of your blond god, I don't think he would be happy with the likes of her. You are infinitely more beautiful, kind hearted, well-mannered and interesting." She grinned wickedly, but her playful expression changed in a heartbeat, dropping into a sort of wistful smile and sigh. "If we discovered Monsieur Dragon wanted more from this business when it concludes… well, it would be nice for one of us to achieve a happy ending with the man of our dreams, at the very least."
In a moment of enlightenment, Hermione realized her new friend's bedroom cries of love for The Italian were not just said in the heat of passion; the sultry redhead truly did harbor such depth of feelings for her dark-skinned lover. It was equally apparent that the woman feared he did not share the sentiment. She wanted to reassure her friend, but there would be a poignant awkwardness in reviewing how Hermione knew that The Italian seemed as taken with Le Renard Rouge as she was with him; discussing what she'd seen of the man's enraptured and awed expression as he watched her friend while making love to her would be embarrassing and uncomfortable, most likely for both of them. Even though Ginevra knew she'd been observed behind the mirror last week, she didn't know by whom, and for discretions's sake, Hermione knew it would be best for her to never speak of her part in that act.
Placing her cup carefully into the grooves of her saucer, she reached out her freed hand and patted Ginny's arm gently. "I will hope for a satisfying life for both of us with men who will love and adore us." It wasn't what she wanted to say, but it was an honest sentiment.
As if snapping out of her growing melancholia, her friend's mood changed again (her negative emotions appeared short-lived, it seemed), and the smile was back on her face. "Then it's agreed I'm to spy for you," Ginny conspired in a low murmur. Her hand reached out and gripped Hermione's fingers. "And if you want advice on how to win the heart of your Dragon, perhaps I can answer any questions? Nothing is taboo to discuss between friends."
With an internal wince, Hermione knew that wasn't true, but she nodded nonetheless, excited for this opportunity to become closer to Ginevra. She'd never had a younger sister of her own while at school (being too busy with her Prefect and Head Girl duties while at Beauxbatons), and even though she clearly was the less mature of the two of them (Le Renard Rouge had a greater amount of life experience, obviously), this felt like the beginning of a new kinship between the women that she hoped would last a lifetime.
They sat together all the rest of the evening gossiping and forming a plan of action (Ginevra on uncovering information on The Dragon from her lover, Hermione on how to coax a true kiss from the man the next chance she had). She finally returned to her rooms around eleven in the evening, and then changed and settled in for bed, reading for another hour her Puffskein caretaking book. Finishing the last page, she put the instructional tome on her side table and turned to Pyg, whom she had settled on his favorite pillow earlier.
"And what do you think, Pyg? Should I allow myself to fall for the man who gave you to me?"
Her little familiar morphed a brilliant sapphire blue, then flashed snow white, then settled on scarlet red. He trilled incessantly and rolled himself closer to her, pressing his soft, fluffy body against her forehead. If the colorful message had been made with flowers, it would have been clear: a mysterious, true, forever love – with the Dragon, it seemed - was her destiny. That according to Pyg anyway.
She rubbed her fingers lightly over her familiar's fur and smiled. "You know, I am a little scared to admit it, but a part of me really hopes you are right," she whispered the secret. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. "Sweet dreams, Pyg." She fell asleep minutes later to her familiar's soft purring, taking comfort in his endorsement, and hoping that her little Puffskein's prediction came true.
X~~~~~X
Malfoy Manor - Wiltshire, England
June 21, 1815 (Wednesday afternoon)
Draco received the owl'd note from J.S. Fry & Sons that confirmed he had finally procured his Princess' gift for this next round of interviews. He and Blaise had poured over ideas last weekend, and decided upon a culinary invention - specifically, confections - to win the affections of his lovely. After all, what female didn't like sweets? However, what he had in mind to present the woman who had so utterly stolen his fancy was several steps above the typical, mundane dessert indulgence. Sweetmeats, pastries, tea cakes, biscuits, marzipan, puddings and pies were all passé. No, what he would give his heart's desire was the gift of ambrosial novelty.
As luck would have it, Blaise's mother actually knew (read, "once took to her bed") one of Europe's foremost chocolatiers, one Mr. Joseph Storrs Fry of Bristol. The man in question had a singularly brilliant idea for the rich, addictive, hot cocoa beverage that had fashionably become a regular fixture throughout the palaces of Europe over the last century: he had solidified the chocolate into round, hollowed-out bonbons that could be eaten for pleasure with the fingers, rather than consumed as a liquid in a cup. By squeezing out the cocoa butter and pulverizing it into a thick paste, adding alkali, sugar and milk to remove the bitterness, and heating and grinding the solid nibs that remained very finely to ensure an even blending, the maestro cuisinier had made chocolate a bonne bouche all on its own. He'd even taken things one step further by injecting into the empty center of each perfectly rolled ball either a dark chocolate cream, strawberry cream, vanilla cream, peppermint cream, or orange cream fondant filling. For the final touch, he striped the chocolate spheres with lighter or darker colored chocolate, and even rolled some of them in nuts, ground up coffee beans or powdered sugar. The end result was a decadent extravagance that sinfully softened and dispersed upon one's tongue slowly, combining flavors that stimulated the oral cavity and made one's brain heady with pleasure. It initiated, Draco was convinced after sampling some of the treats this last Monday, a food-induced orgasm of the senses.
Simply put, his lovely would practically come when she tasted his offering.
Just the imagining of the rapturous glint of discovery and momentary abandonment to the flavor that was sure to light up her warm, brandy-colored eyes, and plump her lips into a smile, and heat her cheeks with desiring fire made him brick hard in his trousers. He couldn't wait to view the moment.
He'd commissioned Fry to create the finest batch of his chocolate elegance – two dozen of the sweets, so she could enjoy them even when he was not present - to be ready by Saturday afternoon at the latest. He then contracted the best woodcarver craftsman in the city to create from rosewood (and to hand paint and inlay with polished shell and pearl with romantic flair) a special heart-shaped box to house the treats within (that way, she could keep the box ever after to store away her precious trinkets), and to deliver that box to Mr. Fry by Saturday morning, so the total package could be assembled and delivered to the Manor House by that afternoon in one fell swoop.
The note he firmly held in his hand now confirmed all of those instructions and the order, assuring his gift would be ready on schedule. Sitting back in his chair in his study, he let out an immense sigh of relief, and quickly penned a confirmation, sending along a promissory note for payment later that afternoon, after he visited his vault at Gringotts. This gift was not inexpensive by any means - 20 galleons for the chocolates, 10 for the box - but to see the rapture on his lovely's face would be worth every knut.
In his painstaking quest to give her the best and most unique items in the world, Draco was praying to endear The Princess to him, so that after this inciting, disturbing auction business had finished, she might consider his courtship for her hand seriously. He knew, however, that many of her other suitors also had this intention, and that worried him, honestly. His instincts told him he fired his lovely's blood as thoroughly as she did to his, but he couldn't help the nagging voice of doubt that constantly reminded him of the sheer number of men who were just as determined as he to have her - most of whom were serious competition, both in the kind of security and comfort they could offer her, and in their physical and mental attributes. Given that, how could he distinguish whether he was special to her or not when Sinistra's damnable rules prevented him from snooping on the other candidates?
The depth of his own feelings for his lovely was now acutely transparent to him. He'd spent Monday night being interrogated on the subject by his closest friends – Zabini, Crabb and Goyle - in the privacy afforded by a secluded corner of The Rook's Club, as the men smoked and shared a bottle of Firewhiskey. Gregory had asked him his long-term intentions regarding the woman, and Draco had made his feelings perfectly clear for the first time (both to himself and others): he intended on seeking her hand in marriage when all was said and done in a few weeks. He'd unconsciously come to that determination soon after leaving her last Wednesday night, but it had taken several more days (and an overwhelming obsession over finding the perfect gift for her, just so he could make her smile in that same beauteous way as she had when she'd first touched Pyg or when she'd held the Encantado's shell up to her ear) for that fact to sink in and take a firm root. It was no surprise that all three men, bachelors the lot, were taken aback by his candid, staid pronouncement, and yet of the three, it was Zabini who nodded finally in harmonious understanding and approval of his plans.
If only there was a way to discover his Princess' feelings for him in such an open manner, then perhaps he could grind his internal trepidations and doubts under his boot heel once and for all!
Regrettably, Draco had never excelled at the art of Divination as his mother had, and any form of trickery to discern the truth of this disconcerting matter would not be tolerated in this game, according to the House Madam, so he was reduced to waiting on the edge of a sharp pin for any opportunity to spend time with her instead, hoping to glean a hint to her true affections and continually bribing her with rare bobbles and tantalizing conversation for just one more chance to do so every week.
Thank the gods there was only ten more days until the auction, when this matter would finally be settled! Then he could woo his lovely properly - within the sanctuary of his own bedroom, if he had his druthers.
X~~~~~X
Diagon Alley - London, England
June 22, 1815 (Thursday evening)
Astoria sat in her private bedroom in La Cerise, waiting, sprawled rather melodramatically across the French settee in front of her bed. Rearranging the lap blanket over her, she adjusted her position again, wanting to get it "just so" for the performance to come. She worked on perfecting the act of the pathetically exhausted woman in distress, slumping back against the raised cushion on the one end, maintaining a frown. Thank goodness her mask hid most of her upper face away, though, as the lack of dark circles and the missing lines of exhaustion rimming one's eyes when one was suffering from insomnia might have given her act away to her anticipated guest. 'York,' was nothing if not exceptionally observant and deductive – a trait all Potions Masters shared (that according to the House 'Whore Mother' who had supplied her with all sorts of juicy information about this particular Joey, in anticipation of their plan to knock her former love-interest out of that cock-sucking virgin auction).
What Astoria knew of this particular client, having been his lover on and off for the last three years (despite her promises of fidelity to any number of clients), was that he had a somewhat gullible nature, as long as suspicion was not provoked. If she could pull off tonight's performance well enough, he'd give her what she asked for, and that, in turn, would assure her ultimate victory in this ploy to win back her Dragon's attentions.
A soft knock at the door signaled the appearance of York. "Come," she weakly projected, and put on the most pathetic face she could muster.
As soon as her beau de nuit opened the door and took one look at her, concern flashing in the man's eyes and a heavy frown tugging his lips downward, Aster knew the game had been set well. This poor sod was all hers now.
And soon, Draco Malfoy would be, too.
TO BE CONTINUED…
AUTHOR'S EXTENDED NOTES:
"Si tu savais comment je t'aime, toi aussi tu dois m'aimer" = French lyrics, translated directly as: "If you knew how much I love you, you would have to love me too…" Song name: "Kar Kar." Artist: Boubacar Traore. Genre Music: Jazz guitar.
Sawing Logs = 17th Century slang meaning "to snore," as the sound mimicked that of a beaver sawing through logs with his teeth.
Andrew Pears = A famous soap miller who owned a world-renowned retail soap shop on Oxford Street in London, where he made and retailed his product to the public. Most of his soaps were horribly expensive and appealed to a wealthier clientele. Information can be read here (remove all spaces to load URL correctly): http: / en . wikipedia . org / wiki / Pears_soap
Nouveau chic = A French meaning something is "new & in an elegant style."
The practice of adding color to fingernails and toenails appears to have begun with the Egyptians around 3000 B.C. The formula for the temporary lacquer Hermione used on her nails in this chapter is actually an ancient Chinese recipe hailing back at least to 600 B.C. (it lasts only overnight, however, and with frequently hand washing, must be reapplied; the Alum – which contains Aluminum - is actually toxic to humans if a person is continually exposed to it, FYI). Socially, the color and condition of a person's nails has long been an indication of social status. Nail condition also separated common laborers (who worked with their hands and could not often afford nail care) from aristocrats and high-class merchants (who indulged in the fashion). Cleaner, well groomed, and tinted nails indicated wealth.
Soeur = French for "sister." In many boarding schools in the U.K., an older or more experienced student is often paired with a younger or new student (or two or three) in an administrative mentorship program. For women, the relationship is "Big Sister" to "Little Sister," and for men, it's "Big Brother" to "Little Brother." The job of the "Big Sister/Brother" is to show the "Little Sister/Brother" around the campus and dormitories, help them with their studies, encourage them throughout their school life in their academic and recreational pursuits (i.e. sports programs, debate clubs, choir, etc.), and to generally be a moral guide.
Hand-held fans as Ladies Fashion in Regency Era = A great website dedicated to the issue of how hand-held fans were extremely important to ladies' fashion during this time period, and thus made wonderful gifts (remove all spaces to load the URL properly): www . antiquesjournal . com / Pages04 / Monthly_pages / march09 /
The Sauce = Term coined by Shakespeare, referring to "alcohol."
Limoges = A very famous, exclusive porcelain maker (dishware, jewelry and make-up boxes, perfume bottles) from the 17th century.
Gammon = Old British slang meaning, "deceptive/to deceive, false, undependable."
Rum Colonel = Old British slang meaning, "best (male) friend" (said only between men). The earliest origin trace for this phrase comes from the British merchant sailors who moved between the Caribbean Islands and Britain in the 18th Century. If a crew was particularly well thought of, and a haul into port made without problems, sometimes the Crew Master would petition the Captain or his Second to supply a cup of rum per crewmember. In thanks, the crew would refer to the Crew Master as their "Rum Colonel" or supplier of good spirits.
Amante = Italian for "lover."
Reference to the meanings of flowers and color = People in the Regency and Victorian eras took the language of flowers very seriously. Flowers became the means by which women communicated with their suitors and vice versa; it was considered too bold to speak overtly of emotions of a romantic nature towards a potential admirer during the time. The distinct scent of a particular flower or the grouping of flowers in a bouquet conveyed unique messages. Often, these botanical gifts demonstrated feelings and emotions a person dared not to say out loud in public. Even the way flowers were given to someone had its own hidden message. For instance, if a man handed a woman an upright bouquet of flowers, he had something happy and positive to tell her. An upside-down bouquet, on the other hand, meant he was bringing her some dark news. Handing a man a flower with the right hand indicates that she is agreeable to his proposal, while presenting the flower with the left hand often means that she is declining his offer. It was important for those in the Regency and Victorian age to know what each flower meant so that they would send the right message to their lovers or anyone else. Entire dictionaries were written and published to explain this mysterious language to everyone. This point will come up again in future chapters, so remember it!
Maestro = Italian for "Master."
Cuisinier = French for "a male expert chef."
Bonne bouche = French (literally) for "good mouth." It is used to refer to something that is an elegant treat or tidbit.
Chocolate in early 19th century Britain: Chocolate had been, until the late 1840's, strictly a drinking or baking delight (in powdered or liqueur paste format mostly, and very rarely as bricks to be melted). The invention of a chocolate bar as we know them today – one that was consumed by itself for pleasure - didn't come until it's invention by J.S. Fry & Sons (a company owned by Joseph Storrs Fry). The first chocolate bar was produced in 1847. Therefore, Draco getting his hands on such an item during the 1815's, when Fry was still experimenting with the concept of creating edible chocolates, would be as rare as owning a cordless, push-button phone during the 1950's, when everyone else was stuck with rotary dial phones that had a cord connected to the wall and they couldn't be moved more than a few feet from the cradle and you had to ask the operator to connect you to a specific number. Needless to say, you would be in awe of such an inconceivable wonder, naturally, and probably fall all over yourself to try to obtain one (despite how prohibitively expensive it would be). And it would be as rare as the crown jewels until it hit the mass market – an item worth major bragging rights for the owner.
1 galleon = approximately 5 British Pounds in the modern currency rate exchange according to JKR's calculations. However, if you convert the currency of today to that during the Regency Era (1815-1820, specifically), 1 British Pound now would have corresponded to 85 British Pounds back then, so 1 galleon = 425 British Pounds. Using that calculation, the box of chocolates (at 30 galleons) would have cost 12,750 British Pounds or 15,472 Euros or US$19,335 in today's economy. Given that this box of chocolates that Draco is going to present to Hermione weighs about 24 ounces (1.5 pounds converted) that's still US$15,435 more than the world's most expensive chocolate currently (Knipschildt from Connecticut costs US$2,600 per pound).
Joey = British slang meaning "young person." Still in use today in Australia to refer to the dependent offspring of kangaroos.
Aster's use of nasty language = Snopes . com has a great explanation on the etymology of the term 'fuck' (its history and usage since the 16th century). As for the word 'cock,' it was quite common as well from around the same time period. For this story, Aster would certainly know and use these terms, as she is bawdy, slaggy and quite 'common' (as Sinistra already pointed out).
Beau de nuit = French for "man of the night."