The weekend of their date seemed also to signal the beginning of winter. The cold woke Arthur up earlier than he would ever want to on a Saturday, and he stomped down to breakfast in a foul mood made fouller by Francis, who greeted him with a grin and a bouquet of red roses.
"Bonjour, mon cher! You're up early - to excited to sleep?"
"Too cold," Arthur grumbled, scowling at the flowers in the hope they would spontaneously combust and force the tittering fifth years to shut up.
It didn't work.
Arthur gave one final glare and then gave up. "Besides, Francis, the only emotions I've had concerning this… thing are dread and horror and a curious mixture of the two."
Francis either didn't listen or didn't care. "Ah, oui? That's nice. I'm looking forward to this evening!"
"Um…" Arthur searched for some way to put the damn thing off, or better yet weasel out of it entirely. Oddly, he found himself spuriously rejecting the solutions that presented themselves. He successfully ignored the stupid little voice that said snidely, "Maybe that's because you've been looking forward to this."
Before he knew what was happening Arthur found himself saying, "Me too, I guess."
Francis beamed at him, and Arthur's heart inexplicably decided to beat out a little happy-dance in response.
"See you later, then?" He said hastily.
Francis nodded, still smiling. "A plus tard."
Once he returned from visiting Libby, Arthur spent most of the day reading in an unsuccessful attempt to quell the nerves that had nothing to do with Francis or the date. Two hours before Arthur was due to meet Francis, Elizabeta burst in, arms overflowing with a bewildering array of clothes.
"Afternoon, Artie!" She sang. "Looking forward to your date?"
Arthur yelped. "Holy shit! What? How did you even find out about the whole fiasco?"
Elizabeta laughed, eyes glinting maniacally. "Oh, I have my ways. Now, try this on! And then that, that, that, and that."
Arthur sniffed. "I am perfectly capable of choosing my own attire, thank you." And he turned back to his book.
The frying pan got involved, and suddenly Arthur felt a lot more willing to co-operate.
One and three quarter hours later, Elizabeta was still deliberating. With the combination of her indecision and his own lack of organisation, Arthur ended up being late and having to run to the designated meeting place.
Francis smiled in relief when Arthur turned up, ten minutes later than planned. "Ah, tu est enfin arrivé; I was starting to think you'd stood me up. Bien, on y va!" He reached for Arthur's hand.
"Don't even think about it," Arthur threatened, and they headed for Hogsmeade.
"…and it's a very long way, I really think we should have flooed or something rather than taking our brooms," Arthur ranted, pausing momentarily for breath and to try and think of something else to complain about.
Francis' grin was only growing wider the more Arthur grumbled. Eventually, Arthur decided that the best course of action was to temporarily make a dignified retreat into silence.
That is, to sulk silently.
Not even that could faze Francis. As soon as they had arrived and dismounted their brooms, he asked, "Have you ever heard of David Tyson Gentry?"
Arthur glanced at him sidelong. "No, and I'm not sure I want to."
Francis made a moue of disappointment.
"Fine. Who was he?"
Francis smiled, and Arthur got the feeling he was going to regret asking. "Well, I don't know who he was, really. I was just thinking of what he said about friendship, you know? How 'true friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable.' I wonder if it's the same when it comes to l'amour? Because to me -"
"I will hit you," Arthur threatened.
"Desolé, cheri," Francis said meekly. But his eyes danced with something entirely too upbeat to be remorse.
Arthur tried to stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He turned and said briskly, "So where are we headed? And if you dare say Madame Puddifoot's, I will personally -"
Wincing, Francis darted to cover Arthur's mouth with one gloved hand. "As creative as I'm sure that threat was to be, I don't particularly want to have nightmares for the rest of my life. But don't worry, we're going to the Three Broomsticks." He moved his hand away and winked. "I know how much you like Firewhisky."
Arthur flushed, thinking about what had happened the last time he'd got drunk. In that moment he vowed never again to drink.
(It was a vow that remained unbroken for all of fifteen minutes.)
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Arthur, he was able to quickly divert Francis' attention from memories of Arthur's inebriation with the distraction of a flake of snow that landed on the tip of his nose.
"Ah, it's starting to snow!" And with that, Francis kissed away the snowflake. "English weather is truly bizarre," he added, tilting his head back to look at the sky.
"Y-yes, it is," Arthur stammered.
Francis' gaze snapped straight back to Arthur, and he smirked. "I do believe you're blushing, mon cher."
"It's the cold, you twat!" Arthur snapped. Which, thanks to Elizabeta, was plausibly true - he hadn't been allowed to bring his trench coat on the grounds that it was 'too last year'.
Francis took in Arthur's clothes and for a moment actually looked quite guilty. "Let me give -"
"I swear to God, if you offer me your coat…" Arthur trailed off and let Francis use his imagination concerning the rest of the threat. "I'm not a girl, Francis. And if we were in a relationship - which we're not - I would top."
Arthur regretted the words as soon as he'd said them, quickly realising he'd basically asked for Francis to make a sleazy comment.
Surprisingly, Francis just smiled. "I wasn't going to. I knew you'd be too proud to accept. Besides," he grinned. "I don't want to get cold myself, do I?"
Arthur rolled his eyes, but before he could stop himself he was smiling back.
"Here. Take my gloves." Before Arthur could complain, Francis pushed the butter-soft leather gloves into his hands. "I've got deep pockets, I'll be fine."
God damn it.
"Francis…" Arthur said hesitantly.
"Oui?"
"We could…" He faltered. "Well, one glove each, andwecouldholdhands," he blurted.
Christ alive, Arthur's face felt like it was on fire.
Francis frowned delicately. "Qu'est-ce que tu as dit?"
Arthur raised his eyes to the heavens. "Shit, Francis, why are you such an idiot?" Trying to look unaffected, Arthur shoved one of the gloves at Francis. Then he grabbed Francis' hand and laced their fingers together.
Francis looked like someone had just told him he'd won the lottery.
"Shut up," Arthur snapped.
"But mon cher -"
"Shut up!"
Eyes dancing, Francis mimed zipping his lips closed and immediately ruined it by grinning hugely.
"And stop looking so damn… happy." Arthur added.
Francis chuckled and, by way of response, pulled Arthur into his arms.
Arthur debated whether or not to complain or struggle, but decided against it on the grounds that (Francis was warm and close and suddenly he'd forgotten how to breathe) it probably wouldn't have any effect. He leant into the hug, burying his face in the sweet curve of Francis' neck. Then he wrapped his arms around Francis' waist, just for good measure.
After all, it was important to stay warm.
Francis seemed to agree - he tightened his arms around Arthur and whispered something inaudible. Arthur sighed happily - though if Francis had asked, he would have protested it was in irritation.
Arthur was the one to pull back, worrying that someone would see. He'd never been one for PDA, especially not when it involved a boy with whom he'd been caught on camera in a number of compromising positions, a number of times.
(He still didn't let go of Francis' hand.)
Francis looked dangerously close to pouting, and Arthur knew he wouldn't be able to resist. He quickly offered Francis a small smile. "Shall we?"
Hand in hand, they headed for the Three Broomsticks.
Rather than sitting at the bar they took a small table by the window so as to look out at the snow.
Even though Arthur had pulled away as soon as they'd crossed the threshold, Francis' hand had snaked back into his own, and though it must have looked odd that both of them had one hand under the table (not to mention the awkwardness of drinking his Firewhisky with his left hand), Arthur didn't mind.
It was around that point when it suddenly hit Arthur. Not only was he on a date with Francis Bonnefoy, notorious philanderer, but he was enjoying it.
This called for another Firewhisky.
Francis raised one eyebrow. "Mon dieu, Arthur! We've been here all of ten minutes, and you're already onto your second?"
Arthur scowled at him. "Actually, I was ordering it for you," he lied. At once, he felt guilty at the expression of mingled surprise and happiness that crossed Francis' face.
"Merci, mon cher." Francis took a small sip, and then either smiled or grimaced.
Suddenly, Arthur vaguely remembered when he'd been drunk, and Francis mentioning that he didn't like Firewhisky. He winced, recalling something else as well. "Did I call you France?" He blurted.
"Oui, c'est exact - I had nearly forgotten, what with everything else that happened!" Francis leaned forwards and grinned. "Angleterre."
Arthur glared at him but refused to rise. "You don't have to drink that, you know. I'd forgotten you didn't like the stuff."
Francis sighed. "Thank god. Speaking of which…" He leaned forward. "How much of that evening do you remember?"
"Not much, really - my brain tends to go haywire when I'm drunk. I can remember a couple of flashes…" He coughed delicately. Several of those flashes had featured in more than one of his dreams. "But I mean, I can't really tell the difference between what's reality and what's me being drunk and getting shit mixed up. Why?"
"No reason," France said, and he couldn't have looked more shifty if he'd tried.
Feeling benevolent, Arthur changed the subject. "Do you miss France? I mean, the weather over here is pretty shitty most of the time…"
Francis laughed. "What is it with you English and obsessing over the weather? As to whether I miss France, yes and no. I miss my family, of course, and my home. Paris is très joli, non? And as I'm sure you're wondering, the weather is nicer. Not by much in the north of France, though."
Arthur blinked. "Why do you like England then?"
"Ah… Comment est-ce que je peux dire ça… I suppose, England has its own patchwork charm, tu sais? Besides," - underneath the table, Francis' hand squeezed Arthur's gently. His blue eyes softened as he said, "Si j'étais en France, je ne t'aurais pas rencontré. Ni Gil, ni Tonio; n'aucune personne."
If I were in France, I would not have met you. Nor Gil, nor Antonio; not anyone.
Arthur swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He took a gulp of Firewhisky and tried not to think about the words currently circling round his head. It was no good; he could feel himself falling for Francis, and Arthur knew exactly what that meant.
That he, Arthur Kirkland, was royally fucked.
Not long after that, everything began to go wrong.
They left the Three Broomsticks and headed for Honeydukes; the shop always stayed open late on the days when Hogwarts students were visiting. As they were paying, there was a squeal of "Francis!" as a girl ran up to Francis and kissed him once on each cheek. She looked cute in a short blue dress, red ribbons tying back chocolate brown hair.
Arthur felt his stomach churn with jealousy as Francis greeted her happily and started chattering away. With a nod he accepted his change and chocolate from Mrs Flume and left the shop.
How could he have been such an idiot? When it came to Francis, Arthur let his heart rule his head every time. And every time he ended up feeling the same way. Francis was a womaniser, and Arthur needed to stop thinking that there was anything between them but an extremely tenuous friendship.
"Arthur! Wait!" Francis called.
Increasing his strides, Arthur ignored him. Just like Marie.
"Arthur!"
Oh, fuck. He still had one of the damn gloves. Arthur stopped abruptly and waited for Francis to catch up to him. "Thanks for lending me your gloves," he said curtly, tearing the glove off his hand. "Here."
When he held it out, Francis gave a sharp gasp. Instead of taking the glove, he caught Arthur's wrist, flipping his hand over to show the fine scratches that Arthur hadn't even realised were there.
Apparently, Arthur was getting too used to Libby's sharp claws.
"What happened?" Francis asked, drawing out his wand to heal the cuts. "And don't try to lie or avoid the subject again. Whatever this is, it's hurting you -"
Arthur snatched his hand back and glared at Francis. "Firstly, a couple of scratches is nothing serious. And secondly, I really don't see why you care. Just go back to your girlfriend - you wouldn't want her to feel left out. And there's really no point you staying here because your presence is just pissing me off."
There was a tense moment, then Francis laughed. "Shelley? My girlfriend?"
Arthur glowered at him. Shelley? Francis had mentioned her before; he'd been looking for her scarf at the lake. Someone important, then. "As hilarious as it is, this really isn't helping my mood. I'm going; feel free to fuck off."
"No, wait. You misunderstand. Shelley is my cousin."
Francis smiled charmingly, and suddenly Arthur felt slightly stupid.
"Now that we've agreed that I care, will you please tell me what's going on?" Francis asked.
And Arthur really did consider it. After all, it'd be good to have someone else who knew - someone who could help, share the responsibility.
But if Arthur told him, it would force Francis into the situation without much of a choice. No matter what Francis thought he wanted right now, it wouldn't be fair to burden him with a dragonet.
He sighed. "No. But I promise, I'm only keeping it from you because it's better that way. And it's nothing that will hurt me - well, not any more seriously than a couple of scratches." And possible burns, if Libby gets overexcited.
Francis raised one eyebrow. "Bien. I suppose I can't force it out of you - not without Veritaserum. But if whatever this is spirals out of control, I'd better be the first to know, d'accord?"
Arthur smiled gratefully. "Thanks."
"De rien."
Speaking of Libby… "The snow's getting heavier, isn't it?" Arthur hoped she wouldn't be too cold.
Francis glanced up at the sky. "Ouais. I can't see the stars anymore. Oh, merde."
"What?"
"That astronomy essay, remember? We were supposed to choose a constellation to write twelve rolls of parchment about, and I haven't even started. It's due on Monday."
"Oh, you can copy mine." Arthur said dismissively.
"Ah, merci beaucoup! What constellation did you write about?"
"Draco."
Francis stopped abruptly.
"What?"
Francis stared at him in shocked horror.
"What's wrong, Francis?" Arthur asked.
"You've got a pet dragon?"
Fuck.
So one issue that has been cropping up a lot in the reviews is this: how did Francis figure out the pet dragon issue? Rather than individually replying each time, I thought I'd clear things up here, and apologise for the lack of clarity!
Basically, the constellation named Draco is thought to be a dragon, just as Leo is a lion (I like astronomy). From Arthur's behaviour, Francis had already realised two things: that whatever he was hiding was something that would get him into shit (for you non-HP lovers, keeping a dragon is not the done thing in the wizarding word, putting it mildly); and that, as evidenced from the scratches on his hands, the mysterious thing was some kind of clawed beast.
Add to this the fact that he'd seen Arthur's books on dragons previously, Arthur's choice of the constellation Draco - which revealed that he had dragons on the brain - was the last piece of the puzzle. Things slotted into place for Franny and voila! Artie's secret was no longer so secret.
If there are any more questions, feel free to PM me, or drop a review :)
Translations:
"A plus tard." - Until later.
"Ah, tu est enfin arrivé. Bien, on y va!" - Ah, you're here at last. So, let's go!
"Qu'est-ce que tu as dit?" - What did you say?
"Oui, c'est exact?" - Yes, that's right.
"Comment est-ce que je peux dire ça…" - How can I say this…
Feel free to review :)