Chapter Nine: To Want You

Kirkwall, Orkney Islands

Sunday, September 3, 2000

Charlie Weasley spent the entire morning with Malfoy, Snape, Pucey, Clearwater, Zabini and Krum in a huddled gathering in the main tent, working through contingency logistics. Granger had been gone for more than thirty-two hours, and it was time to start considering what they'd have to do if she was captured or killed, or - equally as bad – actually succeeded in bringing Astoria home, but somehow revealed the location of their camp unwittingly to the enemy.

They first considered their fall-back positions. Using Granger's map and detailed notes (which she had left behind for them), they had decided that none of the three options she had previously picked out would now work. When Snape's spy's Patronus had appeared last night (some sort of large herding dog that looked like it could take on wolves and bears – a Karakachan or something like that, according to Krum) with the news that the Death Eaters were going to make an aggressive, decisive move on the cities and towns throughout the U.K. in a couple of weeks to get rid of non-loyalists to Mort, they realized that they'd have to stick to the Commons for base camp potentials. There was no way they could risk staying in a safe house in some well-populated location, especially with Snatcher gangs set to roam the streets and spies everywhere. After much debate and checking the map, they decided upon three possibilities: Frensham Little Pond in Surrey, The Cairngorms National Park in northeast Scotland, and The Wicklow Mountains in southeastern Ireland. All were surrounded by woods, had a clean water source nearby, and had enough open space around them that searchers would be hard-pressed to locate them.

Next they discussed the potential supply problem in the future caused by the new Death Eater plan. They'd agreed that they would risk another supply raid tonight and fully stock up (the sooner the better, just in case they were forced to quickly jump), uncaring if the Council or the constabulary got involved. They decided to pick a location that was random and had no intention of returning to ever again for this excursion. Checking their notes, they decided they'd hit the Morrison's in Canterbury a place they hadn't been to in over a year (it had a fully-stocked grocery and a pharmacy). They'd port in someplace close enough not to get caught and port back out to two different locations before heading back to camp. Charlie volunteered to lead the supply raid and Blaise said he would pick two others to go with him. The others approved.

Finally, they discussed how long they planned to give Granger to complete her mission and bring Astoria home before someone else was sent in to find out what happened to the two women and Snape's spy (whom none of them knew the name of, since Severus was playing his cards close to his chest with the person's identity). Malfoy suggested a week, but Snape disagreed, stating that such operations were delicate in nature and could take several weeks to safely extract all three of them and to throw off potential tailgaters. He suggested a month. It was Viktor who threw out the compromise of two and a half weeks and they all reluctantly agreed.

After that, they separated and Charlie was left to wander the camp until lunch was ready around one - or so Pucey promised. His patrol had been cancelled because he was going on a mission tonight, so he made his way down to the beach, which he hadn't had much opportunity to visit since he'd arrived. Sitting himself down on his cloak on the edge of the sand line, he leaned his forearms on his knees and looked out over the waves, deep in thought.

Had Fay really been a spy? He just couldn't make himself believe it.

And yeah, that was his instincts talking, not his dick.

Somehow, deep inside, through the connection they'd made, he knew Fay Dunbar was no traitor. So, that meant she'd left because she'd had to. But the question was, why? And who was she running from – him? If so, why had Astoria gone with her?

Just thinking of Fay ripped his guts out.

They'd only just met for Merlin's sake! And she was a common slag. He'd been raised to believe people like her - both the women and the men afflicted with the ability to magically manipulate sexual auras - were immoral and low caste, and he'd been warned away from them from a very early age by his father and mother whenever he'd passed Knockturn Alley and seen one calling out to passers-by with offers for "a good time." And yet, here he was, totally torn up by a woman who unapologetically made the camp rounds.

The memory of Fay's scent rose in his nostrils – jasmine and vanilla. He recalled her soft skin, the taste of her lips and tongue, and the sounds of her tiny gasps of pleasure as he brought her with his hands and mouth... He closed his eyes, and the night they'd shared just hours before she'd disappeared from camp roared back through his mind. They'd made love, and it had been beautiful. After, he'd told her he'd fallen in love with her, and she'd countered by spitting back that she'd hated him. Then she'd cried and his heart had broken in two, and he'd understood that they were both devastated by their feelings for each other. Neither of them had expected this to ever happen for them, and especially not with the least likely person of all (she was a Sex-Witch who liked men, and he a man who wanted a pure woman for wife).

Could he accept that she'd been with dozens and dozens of men during her tenure in The Madam's House and here at camp, and that she'd done things that he might find repulsive? He sighed in frustration, running a hand through his long, red bangs. This burning jealousy deep inside ate at him, and yet there was this other side telling him to grow the hell up. He'd had his own share of women – maybe not that many, but still…

Bottom line: Fay was spectacular, and he knew he was a fool for resenting her past. She burned him up inside and made every nerve in his body feel alive. He'd never known this feeling before. It shouldn't matter what had come before him; the war had made them all a little off. What counted was their future - and he knew he wanted Fay in his.

He'd made the decision: as soon as he'd discharged his duties to this group, and Granger was back with Astoria safely (or dead, whichever the case may be), he intended on hunting down Fay and taking her with him to America, to where his family was safely hidden. She wasn't getting away from him again.

x~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~x

After lunch, Kenny Markham moved through the camp and swiftly out into the grass field, already five minutes late for his scheduled patrol swap-out. When he came upon the person he was to replace, standing on the perimeter edge engaged in his scheduled watch, he let his presence be known with a slight clearing of his throat. "Oliver, sorry I'm late."

Wood turned with his typical, rakish smile plastered to his boyish features. For a man of twenty-four, he looked more like he was Kenny's age – that of a seventeen year old. "It's fine," he easily absolved Kenny. "Although, I admit ta kinna gettin' a wee bit hungry waitin' on ya."

Oliver's easy going ways and Scottish brogue made him impossible to dislike. Apparently, that went double for the ladies. Kenny had seen the guy in action back in Romania, and he knew he'd tapped that Dunbar chick a couple of times before she'd done the disappearing act here in camp - and he'd only been around for a few hours at that point (secretly, Kenny was both awed and jealous of that fact, as he'd have liked to have fucked the Sex-Witch just once, himself).

"Thanks, man. Make it up to you," Kenny offered as Oliver moved past him. He blinked against the afternoon sun off to his left, shading his eyes from the glare and took up his post.

Behind him, he heard Oliver stop. "Actually, there is something ya can do fer me, if ya don't mind."

Kenny nonchalantly shrugged. "Sure."

"Swap bunks with me," Oliver requested. "I havenna been getting rest sharin' a tent with the like o' Krum snorin' away. I could use a good night just once. Would ya be willin' ta change out with me?"

Kenny considered it and nodded. "Yeah, okay." He didn't mind the move, actually, as it would mean he'd be in a less crowded tent now that Bradley had moved in with him and Swann this morning. Kenny slept like a rock, so snoring never bothered him. He'd rather have more space, honestly.

Oliver smiled. "Great. I'll just move my things after the supp. Thanks, mate."

Kenny turned back to the endless sea of grass in front of him with an easy wave over his shoulder. "No problem. See ya later." He heard Oliver's legs crunch through the grass as the older man headed back towards camp, and Kenny turned all his focus on his guard duty, keeping a wary eye out on the horizon for trouble.

x~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~x

Viktor made his way after the morning's meeting to his assigned patrol area after grabbing a quiet lunch in the main tent. He was finally no longer confused by the strange terminology this group used to distinguish where the different patrol points were located. The British group all spoke in some sort of strange Muggle code, calling the left side the "yellow shirts," the right side the "blue shirts," and the middle area the "red shirts." Frankly, he didn't understand what the color of one's clothing had anything to do with cardinal points on a map.

He traded places with Willem Bradley, who yawned. The tall, blond looked exhausted, as if he hadn't slept the night before, but it wasn't Viktor's place to comment on such things. His people did not ask personal questions, like many Westerners did, and they did not divulge information easily about themselves either. It was the way of things.

An hour into his three-hour shift, Sorin approached. They spoke in Russian, the language they'd both fluently learned under the Communist leadership of their countries as children (Sorin was Romanian and Viktor Bulgarian, and they did not share a similar language otherwise).

"Cigarette?" Sorin offered his pack of wizard smokes. Viktor shook his head. This was a habit his parents had never embraced (mostly because it was a disgusting Muggle habit that wizards had adopted as well), and although he had tried it a few times – what honest Bulgarian boy hadn't smoked, drank his first Rakia and had sex with a woman by the age of sixteen after all? – he hadn't much liked the habit. So, he'd stopped.

"No, thank you," he replied in Russian, keeping an eye out on the empty field before him. Viktor took his guard duty seriously. He knew Hermione would be cross with him if he didn't.

"So, what do you think?" Sorin asked, getting to the heart of the matter, using the tip of his wand to light up his tobacco stick. He took a deep drag and slowly blew it out. His right leg suddenly stopped jiggling, Viktor noted.

"Can you please blow out in the other direction?" he politely requested, not liking the smell wafting back at him.

"I apologize," Sorin automatically replied with a slight bow of his head, turning downwind for his second exhalation. "I ask again, what do you think?"

Viktor was silent for a bit, thinking of an appropriate reply. It was never good to reveal too much of one's thoughts. "I need more time to consider." That was a safe response, non-committal. He could feel Sorin's black eyes on him, however, clearly not happy with this answer. He, Sorin and Alin Istok had all gone to Durmstrang together, had even been in the same year, but none of them had not been sorted into the same House. He did not trust these men as a result, and was careful to control his face and demeanor to give nothing away now.

"Time is slipping by, my friend," Sorin finally replied after a minute of silence. "Perhaps it would be best to make up your mind soon."

Viktor said nothing, his hand gripping his wand a little tighter and his whole body preparing for a fight. But Sorin did not act; simply continued to puff away on his cigarette, and Viktor did not reiterate his sentiment. Finally, taking the silence as a dismissal, Sorin blew out another long breath of smoke. "I will ask you again tomorrow then," he promised, and turned away, heading back to the camp. Viktor did not look behind him, but somehow, he knew Alin was waiting for his friend, watching them from the edge of the encampment.

Only when he could no longer feel the eyes of his two schoolmates on him did Viktor relax, letting out a deep breath in relief. Tomorrow, he knew, he'd have to come up with a better answer for Sorin.

Mii-o-nee, he thought to the sky, please come back soon, milla, before it is too late.

x~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~x

Draco brushed a piece of horseweed off his pant leg as sat on the beach, looking out over the waves as the low tide cycle moved in. He rested his other forearm on his knee, twirling a piece of white clover between his fingers, remembering the afternoon of Sea's burial, how he'd similarly done. She'd approached him then…

He shut his eyes, trying in vain not to think of her again, but it was like asking the world to stop spinning or requiring his lungs not to reach for the next breath. Granger was in his blood. He'd never be able to stop thinking of her, waking or dreaming. It had been this way for too many years, even before the war.

He gave into the memory of her gentle touch that day in Ireland. How she had voluntarily reached out and stroked the hair right above his throat's pulse with soft fingers... It had shocked him - and in seconds had made his cock so hard that he'd physically ached. At that moment, all he'd wanted to do was lay Granger down in the soft, green Erin grass and kiss her hard. But he'd known even then that he could never do that with her, which was why he'd pulled away in anger. Hermione did not need his attentions. She needed him to be focused and committed to ending this war, to protecting them all – most especially her, after everything she'd been through. He couldn't do that if he took her to his bed, because he wouldn't want to stop at just having her once and he knew he'd get lost in her too easily. He'd make too many mistakes if his head was besotted.

He'd almost made the mistake of kissing her in the main tent that one evening, but Pucey had interrupted. And then again he'd almost repeated the misstep here on the beach the night she'd left, only she'd pulled away at the last second. Now he realized those had been close calls. If he gave in, if he made love to her, and slipped up and she got pregnant…

…like Greengrass.

He bitterly sighed. He'd had months to rationalize in his head why he'd had sex with Astoria, but he still felt the guilt gnaw away at his guts.

It came down to a simple question: how could he have been so bloody stupid? He knew he should have forced the girl to Apparate back to England as soon as he'd felt himself drawn to her sexually, and gone on alone to Romania. Instead, he'd arrogantly thought he could resist her because he had resisted greater temptations in his time… but then he'd utterly lost all self-control and taken her virginity rather brutally against the wall of a bathroom, compelled by the pull of pack to dominate his female, unable to stop himself, as if he'd been Imperius'd. It had been so wrong.

But his shame hadn't ended there. No, in the weeks after he'd assaulted her, he'd treated Astoria coldly, keeping her at arm's length for sanity's sake, hurting her with his silence and stand-offish attitude. He'd treated her like a one-off whore who just wouldn't take the hint and go away. But that was because his body, despite all his mental discipline, continued to react to her presence, and the residual link to the wolf compelled him night after night to seek her out and fuck her over and over. He didn't love the pixie blonde, and he didn't want to desire her, so he refused the urge to re-mark his territory. That had meant staying the hell away from her, as far as he could get without leaving her behind on her own. It had been the toughest fight of his life, taking everything he could muster to pull off, including bombarding himself with the worst of his memories (killing his father, watching his mother take her own life, and most painful of all, Hermione naked and lying bloodied on the ground as that fucking animal, McLaggen pulled his pants back into place, smirking at him across the distance).

And now everything had changed… and yet, he'd still go on hurting Astoria for the rest of her life. Not just from the regret and the nightmares they both shared from that one incident, but by the fact that she now had a child thrust upon her – one neither of them wanted, because it only served to keep the wound open, and because they weren't in love, and the child would someday know it and resent them both for it.

And it had happened all because he'd been overconfident in his ability to fight against nature.

Thank Salazar, the need to take Astoria again was fading the longer he stayed away from the form of the wolf, though. And now that Greengrass was gone from camp entirely, he was actually beginning to conquer his unwilling lust, reasserting his human self-discipline. Eventually, he knew this feeling would entirely disappear. It would take time – weeks or maybe months - but if he ever saw her again, he'd be sure to keep his distance no matter if it were years down the line. That meant he'd have limited-to-no contact with his child. Perhaps that was for the best, though. He didn't want to risk hurting either of them or be put back into a situation that would make everyone uncomfortable.

Most importantly, he vowed he'd nevertransfigure himself again into an animal.

But that small amount of good intention couldn't undo the rest, because even if everything was resolved somehow with Astoria in the future, the damage had already been done closer to home: he'd hurt Granger with the affair. True, they had no formal commitment to each other than that of compatriots sharing a common goal, but he'd seen the look of loathing and betrayal in her eyes when she'd confronted him about the incident. He'd felt her equating his actions with Greengrass to those of that bastard, McLaggen who had taken her own innocence in a similarly vicious way, and so he was sure this incident with Astoria was something that would always hang between them, no matter how many apologies he made, no matter the nature of their relationship. In her eyes, he'd crossed a line no man ever should – that of sexual violence.

He wearily ran a hand through his long, platinum bangs.

He failed her at each turn, it seemed. He hadn't been able to save her from being raped, nor exact justice on Cormac in the intervening time, and with every death or injury to their people – including those he inflicted himself - he disappointed her. Now she was out there in enemy territory, in the second worst possible place in the whole world that she could be, trying to fix his mistakes. Again.

He hated himself for all of it.

Granger, please be safe.

"She's coming back, you know."

Zabini was almost as silent as Clearwater and Stretton when he moved. Usually, he snuck up undetected. This time, though, Draco had heard the sand crunch under his friend's feet from two meters. Blaise sauntered up alongside, staring out into the darkness of the nighttime sea, his woolen cloak billowing behind him in the chilling Arctic winds. With his all black ensemble and ebony skin, he was a striking, shadowy figure against the pale gleam of the slivered moon.

They were silent for long minutes. It was something Draco was used to by now, having known the guy since childhood. But he also knew what this tense silence meant: Blaise was about to drop a bomb on him.

"Fay didn't kidnap Astoria."

Draco narrowed his eyes, carefully considering what had just been said. His best friend had never, in all the long years they'd known each other, made a mistake about people's intentions. The guy had strong intuition and a brain that could turn over scenarios and process the particulars from all angles with amazing speed. He knew people's hearts within twenty minutes of meeting them – better than they did, in fact - and that was without the use of Legilimency. It was one of his talents. So it was that Draco had come to trust Blaise's instincts over the years, relying upon it when his own foresight was a little muddled by circumstances or feeling. "A hunch?"

Zabini turned his head. "No, the facts don't add up. Logically, this is the only answer."

If Blaise said Fay was innocent, she most likely was - which meant something else had happened to make Fay and Astoria leave camp. His suspicions from the moment he'd met the Romanian group started to coalesce into a much firmer picture now. "And the other thing we talked about?"

Blaise looked up and down the beach, making sure there was no one about to hear them. As a precaution, the wand at his side jerked in a small movement and Draco felt the pressure of a non-verbal spell cast about them both. A privacy spell. "I think you're right. Not sure yet which one it is though. Would be easier if you'd let me use Legilimency."

Draco grabbed his left forearm and rubbed the throbbing sensation away again. His Dark Mark had been flaring since he'd met up with Snape back in Tulcea, but he'd been unable to pinpoint why exactly. That's when he'd started to suspect. "I'm staying away from it, too. I don't want to tip our hand this early. We need time for Granger to get back. Whichever one it is, they'll slip up." He turned cold eyes on his friend. "I want answers before I let Cadwallader go anywhere near The Fortress. I'm not sending him into a blatant trap. She'd never forgive me." He shook a wayward strand of hair out of his eyes. "Besides, I want to know how compromised we are exactly."

Blaise nodded. "No worries. We'll figure it out. I've narrowed it down to four possibilities." He coughed from deep in his chest and spit off to the side. "By the way, there's another poker game tonight. You in?"

Draco automatically shook his head. "Better not. Invite them all, though. See who shows up… and who doesn't." Zabini nodded and turned to go. Draco stopped him. "Take something for that cough. And call it a night early. And stop smoking. If you catch consumption, I'm leaving your arse behind."

Blaise chuckled. "Sure, dad." Draco turned his head and gave him a look that brooked no argument; he was serious this time. Zabini waved his hands in surrender and grinned. "Fine, I'll go see Snape for a potion." He took two steps away before stopping. "By the way, I'm pretty sure Stretton and Bradley fucked last night."

Draco rolled to his feet in one smooth gesture, tossing the clover away, and gave a small huff in amusement. "Didn't see that coming."

Blaise sighed. "I've watched them all day. It's ruined them. Will's asked not to be put on the same patrol rotation. And he's moved tents. I put him with Markham and Swann, but we might have a problem in the making."

Draco rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He was totally exhausted, having slept little over the past few months. Burning his candle at both ends was starting to finally catch up with him. "Fuck almighty, the last thing we need is more drama and even lower morale." He looked up at his best friend. "Fix it. I don't care how. I can't have them blowing up. Not now. I need them both for what's coming."

Blaise snorted. "What do I look like, Granger?"

Draco wickedly smirked. "You've just been promoted to Mother Hen. Congratulazioni! I could get Pucey to conjure you a nice apron with strings if you want."

Zabini exhaled through his teeth in annoyance. "Why do I always get the shittiest jobs?" he complained, then spun on his heel and continued grumbling to himself as he strode back to camp.

Draco waited to follow his friend for five or so minutes, giving it time to look like they hadn't been in a private meeting, and then he went directly to his tent, stripped down and got under the covers of his cot. He desperately needed to rest. Sleep, however, eluded him for another hour, and when he finally fell under the Sandman's spell, it was once more to dreams of Granger's soft, willing body under his as he whispered his love in her ear.

x~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~x

After last night's impromptu request to switch tents, and as he'd informed Draco earlier, Blaise had been watching Bradley's and Stretton's interaction carefully that afternoon and evening, cataloguing every nuance to form his conclusions of what might have happened to cause them to be at odds.

It was a puzzle easily solved the first time Will's face had reddened in Jeremy's presence (when he'd walked in at lunch to see the dark-haired man sitting and already eating). It was equally as obvious when Bradley quickly turned on his heel without a word and walked back out that he'd regretted having had sex with his friend. But then at dinnertime, Stretton entered the main pavilion and Bradley looked up and their gazes had caught, and without a word, Willem had gotten up and walked out, leaving his portions only half eaten. There had been a furious anger in the tall, blond's eyes directed at his one-time best friend, and Blaise revised his assumption, realizing that what had gone wrong between the two men went beyond just an embarrassing one-nighter. Willem apparently felt betrayed by something Jeremy had done. And just as clearly, Stretton was hurt by his lover's rejection. Blaise recognized the familiar frown, the tightening around the eyes that eloquently spoke of Jeremy being wounded. Obviously, his feelings for the big guy weren't just casual.

They needed a time-out.

That made Blaise's decision much easier.

He spied Jeremy crossing the small courtyard outside through the open flaps of the main pavilion's tent as he sat shuffling the cards for the first deal of the night. Around the table sat most of the camp, minus Malfoy (who was sleeping), Snape (who hated the cigar smoke and preferred to stay in his tent anyway, working on potions), Longbottom (who was out on patrol), Clearwater (who was also out on the perimeter), Weasley (who was in a last minute conference with Clearwater as she stood watch, getting information from her about their jump point from her memories of the location), and Rickett (who was in his tent collecting his things, as he'd been prepared by Blaise for his role in tonight's little operation in advance). This was perfect timing.

"Stretton, I need a word!" he loudly called. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Willem freeze up. Blaise stayed put, requiring Jeremy to come to him, wanting Bradley to hear the conversation.

The former Ravenclaw Chaser jogged up and through the entrance. His green-yellow eyes briefly looked to Willem, then back to Blaise. "Eh, what's up, Doc?"

Blaise grinned, recognizing the Muggle reference (Jeremy had explained it to him once before, and he still thought the idea of a cartoon, wise-cracking rabbit was brilliant). "Weasley's going on a supply run tonight. I want you and Rickett to go. I've already told him. Show the kid the ropes and keep an eye open for trouble."

Jeremy nodded without hesitation. "Where to, Kirkwall?"

Blaise shook his head. "Canterbury." He let that sink in, knowing the distance and the increased danger of Jeremy being caught in a big city now would loom over Bradley's head – and the knowledge might just get the alleged spy in their midst interested enough to make a mistake, too, as he and Draco were hoping. "Take as much as you can and don't worry about a cover up. We want the Death Eaters to know that we were there. Make them aware that we're on to their plans to block off the cities from us. Let them sweat over how we found out. Maybe they'll do us all a favor and kill each other off in suspicion."

He kept his gaze neutral, but his eyes marked everyone's reactions in a quick flash. Not a single crack from any of them except Bradley, but that was an understandable reaction in the guy's case.

"You leave as soon as Weasley's ready. Go find him."

Their best scout nodded again and turned to go without a word. Blaise stopped him with a purposefully mastered hard tone, sapping on the overly dramatic flair for this performance. "Stretton-" Jeremy hesitated and twisted back around to face him. "Make sure you reiterate to the kid what happens if any of you get caught out on mission. He needs to understand."

From the corner of his eye, Blaise caught Willem blanch, and the hand holding his cards trembled.

All of them knew their duty: if they were surrounded with no way out, they were to turn their wands on themselves. Absolutely no talking. It was the only way to guarantee the safety and survival of the others, and it beat being tortured to death, which was inevitable under the hands of their enemies. This was the one thing they'd all sworn to do when they joined the group (the Romanian cell having been informed of this the morning after their arrival and all taking the vow as well). It was also the clincher as to why Blaise believed Astoria not to have been taken by force by Fay, but to have willingly gone along. Greengrass may have just been a kid, but she'd had guts and she was loyal. There was no doubt in Blaise's mind that the girl would have killed herself before she'd allow Malfoy's baby get into the hands of the Death Eaters.

Jeremy glanced at Bradley, and Willem's concerned eyes raised to his. They connected. "I understand," the dark-haired man murmured, then looked back at Blaise and nodded. "If it comes that - I'll do us both. The kid won't be taken if I can help it." With that, he was gone.

The others at the table were silent in the wake of the seriousness of the issue. Blaise let it sink in, carefully watching them all. Not a single twitch out of place or a look that was unexpected. Whichever of the four in question was the traitor, they were good.

After a minute or so, it was Adrian who made the first move towards normalcy again. "Coffee anyone? I can roast a pot. Nice and fresh."

"Yeah, I'll take some," Swann replied, a little shaken up, looking slightly ill. Poor guy. He was still rather green around the gills, having actually never been in a fight for his life before, at least according to Snape. He, Rickett, Markham and the two Romanian girls were the "battle virgins" of the group. They'd learn though - sooner, probably, rather than later, if Draco's suspicions vetted out.

There were a few echoed "hear, hear" calls around the table, Blaise included, and Pucey got up to make up some coffee for them.

He looked around at the still concerned faces of the group, especially Willem, whose upper lip was beaded with sweat and whose eyes were a little glassy now, and he decided it best to get the party rolling at that point. He was eager to test his theories on people's loyalties, and nothing helped loosen tongues (and reactions) like Yank Kentucky Bourbon. He pulled two full, unopened bottles out of his Bag of Holding and put them on the table.

"Pucey, a glass for everyone while you're up, if you please," he requested and painted a false smirk on his face. "Now, let's get this game going." He turned to his left to address the person whose cards he could clearly see from his higher vantage point. Internally, he smirked, thinking he might call for a game of strip poker if things got a little more interesting later – and once at least one bottle of Bourbon was gone. Hey, he was Slytherin for life, after all…

"Megan, sweetheart, place your fucking bet already. The rest of us are waiting."

TO BE CONTINUED…

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Karakachan = A Shepherding dog that is a descendant of the dogs of the Thracians from the 3rd century B.C. Also known as the Bulgarian Shepherd. The Karakachan is a mountain sheep dog and is one of Europe's oldest breeds. Created for guarding its owner's flock and property, it does not hesitate to fight wolves or bears to defend its owner and its family in case of danger. Fiercely loyal, competent, sly, intelligent and intimidating when it needs to be, this is an excellent dog for guarding and protecting. I felt it was a good match to Theodore Nott's personality in this fanfic, so I made it his Patronus (JKR leaves Theo pretty much an unknown in her stories, so I had room to play here).

In case you don't know the reference to "blue shirts," "yellow shirts," or "red shirts," it is referring to the coloring schema of uniforms from "Star Trek." Jeremy Stretton loves Muggle pop culture references, and I would think he'd definitely know this show, given its worldwide popularity. This also happens to be one of my favorite television shows of all time, so I threw it in there as an homage. "Red shirts" are typically the characters in the "Star Trek" universe who die on missions (being placed in the dead middle of the patrol perimeter has traditionally been the point that gets it first in a fight). "Yellow shirts" tend to belong to those in command positions in "Star Trek," and "blue shirts" are the science and medicine types. In the British military, being placed on the left of a line-up typically is a more commanding position than on the right. The group uses these designations to know which type of person to send to which area (so, for instance, Viktor Krum and Willem Bradley are both large men, so they'd be in the "red shirt" position, whereas Neville is more of a "blue shirt" area type of guy and would be stationed on the right, and Penelope is more a "yellow shirt" girl, so she'd be on the left typically for patrol).

Rakia = A type of brandy; the national drink of Bulgaria.

Congratulazioni = Italian for 'Congratulations'; as his best friend, Draco knows that Blaise is half-Italian in heritage (his father's side, obviously, since the last name is 'Zabini').

The wise-cracking cartoon rabbit Blaise refers to is none other than Bugs Bunny (who's famous line is "Eh, what's up, Doc?"). Just in case you didn't get that reference by Jeremy either. He's beloved here in Britain, too, FYI (he's actually one of my favorite cartoon characters from my childhood; I made sure my daughter grew up on him, as well).

"If it comes to that… I'll do us both," is a line from the movie "ALIENS" (filmed right here in Pinewood Studios in Buckinghamshire). Remember, Jeremy loves quoting Muggle television and movies. My husband likes this film a lot, so I asked him for a line at the very beginning of writing this fanfic, thinking the dark, foreboding atmosphere I was writing was sure to accommodate something from this dark, foreboding movie, and he quoted this line for me. I FINALLY found a place to use it! Hooray!