"So, Leary, enlighten me, what's it like to be a child of a Quidditch celebrity?" Wren gritted her teeth. After she choked on her laughter, she kept her head low and stared under her feet. She noticed that although before he kept on pulling her after him, now that they were alone and away from the castle, he was as slow as a Streeler. He was quite obviously stretching it, and she wondered at what point she'd bloody snap and propel into Hogsmeade leaving him behind.

"What's it like to be a child of the Hogwarts Headmaster and a grandson of the best Auror in the history of the Department?" She bit back, but instead of shutting his gob and getting cheesed off he lifted one brow. Bloody fuck. That was a smooth move. She could bet her best cauldron he had trained before a mirror.

"It's shite," he smiled to her widely, and she blinked. Wow, that was honest. "And I have to tell you there is an ongoing debate between Durinson and Mirkwood families who is the best, so I would be careful with such statements around our little Thrandy if I were you. We have been at each other throats for centuries by now," he smirked, "No one even remembers how it all started, apparently there was some cursed necklace or something..." He nonchalantly waved his hand in the air.

Her left hand was still intertwined with his, in the pocket of his coat, and she suddenly wanted to pull it away. He had some barmy core temperature, he was hot, in all possible senses, and it felt… intrusive. Wren wasn't good with physical contact in general, and he was very, very… disturbing. She chewed at her bottom lip, he was slowly walking, and blimey, it was a good stride. The wide shoulders, the swing on the narrow hips, there was assurance and confidence in his movements, but bloody hell, he deserved to be smug. Damn his wide muscular torso. Damn the long legs. Damn the…

"Leary, have I lost you?" He purred into her ear, and she jumped up. He chuckled and gave her a look over. "Seriously, looks like you are having kittens," she didn't appreciate this idiom, but he couldn't know that, "Are you worried you'll enjoy today?" She sneered at him.

"Oh I'm in no danger of that." Damn his white toothed grin.

"Are you feeling like Lady Godiva being dragged through the streets of a village in ill repute and contumely?"

What now?! Now he was also educated and used bookish words? She looked at him askew and clenched her jaw. No answering him, Leary, just pretending you were deaf and mute, sitting through today, drinking one butterbeer, and imagining that no one was speculating exactly in what multiple positions he shagged you. That helped, Wren thought, as soon as she imagined the askew looks and gossip, he became twice less charming. She once overheard two chicks discussing in the library how his cock was curved, apparently slightly to his left shoulder. One of them giggled, and another sighed wistfully. Yep, not charming at all anymore. She straightened up and started marching faster.

"Hey, Leary, what's the rush? I still didn't go into the spiel of how your glorious hair is sufficiently protracted, sumptuous, and flocculent to indeed cover your enticing bareness." He was taking the mickey, but she had already snapped out of her soppy wondering whether maybe he wasn't a complete tosser.

"I just want to get it over with faster. So chivvy up!" She jerked her hand out of his pocket and his fingers and rushed ahead. Brill or not, that was the pocket and the hand of a wanker and a manwhore. Just think what he had touched with this very hand, Leary. Yep, that helped. She cringed and rubbed her palm on the side of her jacket. He noticed, but she didn't care.

They entered the Three Broomsticks, and she tucked herself behind the most secluded table. Everyone would still see, but at least she wouldn't feel like the aforementioned Lady Godiva. And seriously, shouldn't he know some witch that went through the same? She had to read about Godiva in the septic high school, when did he learn about it?

He was standing at the counter, chatting with Madame Rosmeta. She was famous for her participation in the Second Wizarding War, she was an older woman now, her daughter taking over the inn, but she was gorgeous, her grey hair in fit waves, and Wren shortly wondered if she'd ever be able to make her curls look so lush, sexy and put together. Probably not. Whatever Durinson was just rambling about her hair, it was a mop, put plainly. She had braided it as tightly as possible in the morning, but half of it had already escaped the plait. She jerked the hair band off and tied a ponytail in annoyance. Durinson was still taking his sweet time, and she sat back on the bench and pulled the collar of her jacket up, over her mouth and nose. It was a nervous habit of hers, it probably looked daft, but at least it gave her a wee bit of a shelter.

"Leary," Rivendell's calm voice shook her out of her musings on whether it was even possible to feel more uncomfortable.

"Hey," her voice was small, and she looked up at him. He was only maybe two inches shorter than Durinson, leaner, but no less imposing. But again she was only slightly bigger than a pixie, no bloody presence in this world whatsoever.

"Mind if I join you? And a butterbeer perhaps?" She was ready to cry. He was smiling to her warmly, obviously trying to make her comfortable. She wanted to go back, to hide in her books. People had already started losing interest in her, chicks would milk her for details of her life less and less with each day, and blokes had already realised she was adamant to not discuss her Da and his teammates. She just wanted to be left alone to study and ace her N.E.W.T.s! Was that too much to ask?

"Sorry… I'm sort of with someone here..." Rivendel lifted one brow. Hm, that was just slightly less awesome than Durinson's. "Thorin Durinson..." Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. Common, think of something! Panic, panic, panic! "He is helping me with homework… for Potions… I'm stumped… The whole Advanced Moon chart building for brewing Moon Potions… I'm at loss..." Rivendell's face was unreadable, but there was something sparkling in his eyes. Bugger.

"It is indeed tricky. Moon runes can only be read by the light of the moon of the same shape and season as the day on which they were written," Elrond Rivendell was studying her and it felt very, very uncomfortable, "Have you already figured out the instructions on the parchment? Those runes were written on a mid-summer's eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago." She had no bloody idea what he was talking about, she still hadn't even looked into the homework.

"And luckily enough by one of my ancestors," Durinson's merry voice came from behind Rivendell, "It was the start of the ancient year, when the last moon of Autumn and the first sun of Winter appear in the sky together. But Leary has already deciphered it, I just helped with the final translation." He was standing completely relaxed, a mug of butterbeer in each hand, and she exhaled discreetly.

"Indeed," Rivendell was luckily looking at Durinson and didn't notice the bloody forest fire flaming on her cheekbones. "Well, I'll leave you two to your academic endeavours." He gave Wren his customary small bow and left the inn. She dropped her head on the table with an audible thud.

She peeked and saw Durinson drinking his butterbeer nonchalantly. There was a bit of foam on his upper lip, and she deftly ignored it.

"Thank you," she whispered, and his eyebrows jumped up a bit.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said thank you," she straightened up on the bench, "For going with my story." He shrugged and pushed the mug towards her. She wrapped her fingers around it, warming them, and stared at the white foam. He wasn't making a small talk, and she felt increasingly annoyed. She reminded herself that he just brought her here to show her to other students, and he was succeeding. A few walked by, there were whispers and askew looks, and he was just bloody drinking his butterbeer! She threw him a derisive look, he looked so chuffed! McGonagall's classes, she needed to concentrate on those, on their way back he'd help her and she could keep her classes. It's all that mattered!

It still hurt, being treated like a trophy, or a sodding piece of meat. And again, for a second there, away from the others he reminded her of the person she met at the King's Cross. The same smile, the light playful tude, the… She firmly reminded herself, that person didn't exist. She made him up, and he later turned out to be a wanker, that's all. Happened to chicks all the time. She pulled down the sleeves of her sweater and sighed.

"Finish your butterbeer, Leary," his tone was lazy, "We still have Honeydukes and a stroll by the Shrieking Shack to go to." And that's when she snapped.

"Why are you doing this?" She sat up straighter and stared into his eyes. He still had his now empty mug pressed to his lips, and one of his eyebrows jumped up again. "I mean half of the school has seen us already, the rest will hear about it in their common rooms. You won." Her voice was gaining volume, but fuck it! Fuck it! She was getting bloody furious and was welcoming it. Sod it all! "You wanted to show them none escapes your charms, and you did. Everyone will be now discussing how you knobbed the new girl." She was almost loud, and some people in the inn were probably already staring. "I did what you wanted, can I please go now?" Her polite words probably didn't quite match the snarl she was currently wearing.

"The deal was you are going on a date with me, Leary," he carefully put the mug down and wiped the foam from his upper lip with his thumb, "The classical Hogsmeade date involves Honeydukes and an excursion to the famous Shrieking Shack, the hiding place of the war hero Sirius Black, the godfather of the very Harry Potter, and one of the members of the Marauders, as well the place of heroic death of Severus Snape, one of the most tragic figures of the era. So pick up your adorable little bum and march to the sweet shop. I have a list of things to buy, I don't have all day."

He swiftly got up, grabbed his coat and quickly walked out of the inn, without looking back to check if she was going. Of course she was. By Merlin's beard, she hated the wanker.

He was shopping, amicably chatting with the shop girl, who was shamelessly flirting with him, daft cow. Would she like to take him? Wren would gladly exchange places with her. At some point the chick leaned in and as if by accident brushed her hand to his, stretched towards some pink sugary monstrosities on the shelf, and Wren wondered whether they would even notice if she left.

She gritted her teeth and continued standing in the corner ignoring the sweets and staring at the toes of her Timberlands. And then because it was getting bloody unbearable, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was in some other, much better place. There was an abandoned baseball field behind that septic school she spent a term in, she would sit on the stands, and no one would bother her. She could read her book, eat her favourite raspberries and pretend she was free, that it was her home, that she belonged. She suddenly felt a tear running down her cheek, and she hurriedly wiped it. The last thing she needed was to give him the satisfaction of seeing he managed to arse her up.

"A candy, Leary?" Durinson's voice made her quickly open her eyes. He was standing in front of her, with a bag of his purchases, and holding some sort of a sweet in front of her nose.

"I don't like chocolate," she sounded like a stroppy child. Whatever.

"It's a toffee, Wren," he smirked to her and gently tapped the candy to her nose, and since she was staring at him without as much as blinking, he pushed the candy into the pocket of her jacket and headed out. "Keep up, Leary, we still need to stand in front of the Shack for obligatory ten minutes discussing how ace Harry Potter was and you need to tell me he was nothing without Hermione Granger." The bell above the door chimed, and it closed behind him.

She pushed her hand into the pocket and pulled out the candy. Madam Borboleta Candies Ltd. Toffee and Raspberry Swirl. Two of her favourite flavours. What the bloody fuck?