Hi there. I'm not really sure if anyone will read this. God knows I've been away so long, I wouldn't expect anyone to. Sorry guys, really. I can't…I can't go in to why or how or details about my absence. I can't even truthfully say everything's better kow and updates will be regular once more etc… So…lets just say, I'm going to try my best not to let any readers still out there down.
Ahhhhhhh! SOrry I almost forgot! This chapter is dedicated to Bronn 15, who beta'ed the main part of it for me, a very long time ago. Thank you, and I hope he'll forgive me for my late reply.
Lili
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First Steps: 8-point-Seven-Five
The sunshine was celebrating its victory over the unsurprisingly dull English morning, in fine style. The sky was a flawless blue, decorated with the smallest, fluffiest little puffs of sparklingly bright cumulus, that the faint breeze kludged playfully back and forth according to its whims. The air was warm, the birds were doing their own part to transform the day into a picture-perfect cliché, and had been singing with sweet and rather sickly determination since dawn. And high up in that vast expanse of blue, the little golden ball floated happily with not a care in the world.
Until its tormentor shot out from beneath it like a bullet from a gun with a fierce, falcon-like battle-cry.
"A MOA!"
The Snitch had not even an instant to turn, a moment in which to make a hopeless attempt at escape before the brown hand snatched it brutally out of its daydream and pushed it unceremoniously above her head.
The small white wings beat hopelessly against her fingers, but for once Moniqua Monroe did not feel the silly impulse to let the poor thing go. Instead her fist clenched tighter around the cool metal, imitating the grind of her teeth before grabbing the handle of her Nimbus with both hands once more and diving almost vertically towards the pitch, ignoring the whoops and appreciative yells of her Team.
The skill displayed as she pulled out of that impossible descent should have easily been enough to bring the typical cocky smile to her mouth but today she dismounted and dropped her most precious belonging carelessly to the ground, her face set in stone. With a toss of her hair she marched across the pitch towards the stands reserved for VIP usage and, having mounted the steps, turned sharply round towards the arena once more and folded her arms tempestuously.
"How long?" she demanded, her voice husky and biting with temper still.
The man she addressed lounged very much at his ease, his incredibly long, limber body stretched out across three front row seats. It took him a moment to withdraw his decidedly abstract gaze from the other members of the Team, still working their buts off in the midday sun but finally he blinked, raised his brows at her and replied with a careless shrug.
"One minute, four seconds. You lost a good ten from that Bludger."
The young French woman bared her teeth in a ferocious grimace and glared at the Head Coach of the Montrose Magpies. Even devoid of make-up and taut with suppressed rage, she was undeniably sexy and Miguel Philippe Jordon took a moment to admire the way his star-seeker's eyes flashed when her temper was provoked. His grin was slow, lazy, and very white against the dark, almost treacle colour of his skin. He leaned back on the bench with his hands comfortably settled behind his head, to better appreciate the view.
"You gonna crack and tell me what he's done now to get you this hot and bothered. And sadly, me thinks, not in a good way?"
Moniqua huffed and turned sharply on her heel, raising her still flaming gaze to the other six players on her team. At this distance, most would see only six undefined blobs; to both Captain and Coach, the Chaser's attack formation was off by a fraction and Sloan, their World-Class, prize Keeper, pouncing on their hesitation with the skill of a true profession, picked the Quaffle of the air like plucking a grape from the vine.
"Cylus' balance is off." She stated, ignoring his question. "It must be made better before Saturday; he mistimed that shot, mais completement. And Sanders is still more concerned with scoring more than Tate."
"Tate snagged his girl," Miguel shrugged, "If they weren't both of them so damn good, one of them would have gone weeks ago. But it was just before the League and there was no one even close to either of them."
"Men are STUPID!" It was a fierce, frustrated snarl, and made Jordon's eyes open in lazy amusement.
"Oh?"
"Stupid and selfish and delusional and RIDICULE!" She rounded on Miguel, her expression like thunder.
"Still he t'inks that I sleep with another man! No, z'at I 'AVE slept with anozer man! Z'at I WANT to sleep with z'is OZER man and hold him and marry him or maybe just SEX him because I am a French SALOPE!"
Miguel raised an eyebrow at that last one.
"He called you a whore?" He gave a low whistle, "DAMN! But I'm not following babe, he thinks you ARE sleeping with someone else, or you WERE sleeping with someone else? Don't tell he's one of those old-fashioned prigs who still think girls should be untouched and untainted on their wedding night? Poor guy could get a shock coming…"
The mockery was friendly, and reluctantly Moniqua found herself almost smiling. Miguel was the Heir to the old and respected Jordon line but no one would ever think it to listen to him. He was the most easy-going and laid-back man she'd ever met and the only time he ever raised his voice was when he was yelling his lungs out at his precious League-winning Team. Tall as a giant and built like a bear, his smile alone had the power to calm her down just as his silent, ominous glare was enough to shame her into redness. When it came to Quidditch, Jordon was a perfectionist and worked the Magpies harder than any Team in the League. As his Captain and, secretly, his favourite, it was Moniqua who invariably received the brunt of this but she took every criticism and every insult he threw at her because however much it might wound her pride, it had transformed her game into arguably the best in the world.
"NO! He is not THAT stupid at least, but still he…" she trailed off with a huge huff, before admitting reluctantly,
"And he would not call me a whore…"
"Ah-huh…"
"But he is a FOOL! He does not see what is OBVIOUS!" she whirled on him again, startling Miguel out of his close observation of the other Magpies.
"Doesn't he?"
"NO! HOW? HOW can he not see my….?" a faint flush tinged her cheeks, rare as a blue diamond on Moniqua Monroe's face. Miguel eyed the redness with evident enjoyment, earning him a glare that promised dire retribution if he so much as smiled.
"…Fidelity?" he offered, his face rigid from the effort of trying to suppress the treacherous grin.
For his pains, he received a snort before Moniqua suddenly slumped, as though all the fight had gone from her body.
The act shocked him, not that he would ever show it. All laughter aside, he scrutinized her minutely through half-closed lids, as she leaned against the wooden column, her dark eyes staring tiredly into the distance, inwardly worried by this sudden surrender. His Seeker was not a Quitter. The Monroe he knew, had known for two years since she had turned pro, would not give in, not while there was breath still in her body. This courtship, budding though it still was, was eating away at her like a parasite, and deep down he felt a sudden cold dislike for the man who was putting her through this.
"Why are you doing this Moniqua?" the question was blurted out before he could shut his damned mouth.
Mentally he cursed, knowing how much she hated this subject, knowing from past experience how she would shut down immediately if the question was posed. Last time she had locked him out for a month, refusing even to mention her personnel life.
She was trying so damn hard to keep everyone in the dark about the reality of this Fairy-Tale love story. And the rest of the world was fooled. The pair were the golden couple, the public's darlings, their favourite gossip of the moment. Only those who saw the society princess wheezing and sweating in the dust and dirt after hours of long, gruelling exertion, both mental and physical, could even begin to wonder if perhaps everything was not quite as rose-tinted as it seemed. For when exhaustion brought her to her knees, so that she had to be helped to the benches after a seven-hour practice session, then and only then would a few, thoughtless comments would slip bitterly out.
But those few in question would never talk, not even if Grindlewart himself turned his wand upon them. Not one among the six macho, self-obsessed young men would admit it, but however much each among them had at first downright refused to be led by a mere female, and barely more than a kid at that, those same prigs would now willing walk through live coals to see their Captain smile. It had taken years, and many hard-won battles to conquer each in their turn but, every time Moniqua Monroe had pounded her opponent into the dust. Sometimes literally. Today, they wore the nickname Monroe's Magpies like a badge of honour, and trusted both her leadership and her tactical mind implicitly. But their respect in her judgment too was absolute, so although each secretly damned Henry Potter to hell, not one comment, one question was ever raised in regards to the courtship.
The far-off toning of a muggle church clock pulled Jordon out of his thoughts, his mouth automatically pulling down at the corners in an expression of distaste. Noon, the bell intoned, heavy and dull and slow, somehow puncturing the cheery morning air. And long before the last gong sounded, those familiar strutting footsteps could be heard moving sharply down the stands.
"Mister Jordon." came that smooth, silken voice, soft enough to line a pillow, damn him.
Miguel didn't bother to move from his sprawling position, instead nodding with the barest minimum of civility to young man, barely more than a youth, who glided to a halt beside the pair with no expression on his admittedly attractive face other than boredom.
"Enriqué." Moniqua interjected with cold distain.
Henry's eyes flickered lazily over her clenched fists, her flushed cheeks but the only indication that he had even noticed his fiancé's steaming temper was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He made no reply, merely bowing gracefully to the man still watching them with a sour expression and saying smoothly,
"My apologies again for stealing Moniqua away so close to the League Final, but this luncheon would not wait. I will return her to you once more as soon as humanly possible, I assure you."
Moniqua's eyes flashed. He was unbearable! Treating her like a burden, to weigh him down and therefore to be got rid of as soon as he may! A week had passed since their disagreement, a full week MERDE! Yet still he sulked! Stupid, stubborn fool!
Jordon merely grunted, repressing the urge to break the boy in two and waving the pair away with a massive hand. At this, Henry bowed once more and held out his arm to the furious woman beside him.
"Shall we!"
Her hands were not quite steady as she placed them on the folds of his cloak, clenching sporadically around the fine material. Just before they apparated away, she forced her lips to curve and sent one last smile towards her Coach, accompanied by a small wave. The look in his eyes said it all. Luckily, the world began to spin, her stomach lurched and suddenly they were standing on the terrace of Merlin's Obelisk, with the sun blazing down above them.
The moment their feet touched the floor Moniqua moved to yank her arm away but he was already disengaging her, stepping smartly out of reach as though her merest touch disgusted him. Rage boiled once more to the surface, threatening to overflow her already weak self-control. Only the mental reminder that they had barely an hour before finding themselves under the most minute scrutiny of all England kept her from throwing a stinging hex at his retreating back.
He had reached the door, and it opened with a flick of his wand, the glass panel sliding smoothly and soundlessly to the right to allow them to pass. Henry paused at the opening, as though sensing her resentful gaze and looked back, the blandly raised eyebrow an insult.
"Do you mean to attend luncheon with the Minister smelling of sweat and mud?"
Moniqua snarled, and marched into the apartment without sparing him a glance, hating the way he simply bowed and followed silently in her wake. Keeping her smouldering gaze fixed on the door to her bedroom she stomped across the room, ready to slam it hard enough behind her to make the windows shatter. He was impossible, insufferable, INSUPORTABLE!
"I assure you, the sentiment is entirely mutual."
A gasp escaped Moniqua's lips, she spun on her heels with a look of outrage.
"You swore you would never NEVER NEVER use that on me!"
Henry curled his lips, shrugging insolently,
"The way you are currently screaming your thoughts, not even T…not even Dumbledore himself could block them out. But fear not, your obliging portrayal of my character does not interest me in the slightest. It is merely your caterwauling that I admit is giving me a migraine."
"Va au diable!" she hissed, her eyes shooting sparks at him. The faint twitch of his lips only exasperated her temper all the more. It was so slight no else would even remark it but she knew its signification; the stupid, self-centred, arrogant arsehole was laughing at her!
There was not a quiver in his voice when he said smoothly,
"One day, I am sure I will oblige you. You will most likely be the one who sends me there."
His words, so casually and callously uttered, brought Moniqua up short, her mouth falling open in an expression of something like hurt.
"You think…I would kill you?" She asked slowly, her eyes suddenly staring into the distance, the dark irises unusually bright.
"Either that or you will drive me to the desperate act myself." He drawled without even a blink.
To his surprise, his tormentor made no reply, and after a moment of heavy silence he finally gave in to curiosity and turned away from the mirror in which he had been adjusting his necktie, one brow raised in irony.
The expression on Monroe's face was one of such weariness that the cruel taunt died on his lips. In one blinding instant, everything seemed to jump out at him at once; the dark, bruise-like shadows under her eyes; how many days hadn't she been sleeping? The tightness in her shoulders, bowed with fatigue rather than squared in challenge. Her cheeks were hollowed, and with his eyesight he could pick out the bones in her wrists; she must have lost two, maybe three pounds. How had he not seen this before? Panic suddenly spilled through him! He noticed everything, even that which he had no wish to see; it has always been so. So where had his wits been this past week? That he hadn't noticed his roommate's appearance? Had he truly been so angry with her? Angry enough to refuse even to acknowledge her presence? Furious enough to even not look at her, look and truly see?
His face was blank, portraying not even a hint to the rampage of emotions surging through him. But in the time it took for all those thoughts and more to process, Moniqua lifted her chin in one last burst of courage, glaring at him with eyes that were just a shade too bright.
"We…must…truly….be mad." she finally uttered softly, before turning on her heel and walking to her room.
Two hours and forty-five minutes later precisely she emerged, clean, fresh and ravishing in an elegant day-gown of dark blue muslin, trimmed with silver lacing and tiny military-style buttons. She had brushed her hair until it glowed and then pinned it up in a knot on the top of her head, allowing a few thick black curls to fall down her back and over her shoulders. A natural shade of lipstick and lashings of mascara brought out the dark liquidness of her eyes and much time and careful make-up had successfully disguised the shadows beneath them. She looked, even in Henry's disinterested opinion, very becoming, but also reflected with a certain annoyance that every man in the Ministry would be under her spell before she even opened that alarmingly loud mouth of hers.
Still something in her face earlier had disquieted him so, as he finished the last few folds to his neck cloth, he watched her from the mirror with a piercing concentration. Deep down a nagging voice whispered that he had taken his anger from the discovery of her lover, rather to extremes. Far too extreme really. Monroe had never lacked admirers and nor was he in any doubt that she had had several, if not many relationships both during their years at Hogwarts and after. But to be thinking of him in that moment, when they had…
Mentally he recoiled, shutting off the voice before it could whisper any further nonsense. What had happened between them was…merely the result of repressed frustration. A natural human reaction though admittedly one he had never expected to experience. With an intellect as acute and logical as his, anger was an emotion very rarely even felt. Other people's stupidity he felt contempt for, nothing more. He was so used to it, that it typically failed to do more that make him roll his eyes. Only the hornet he was about to marry had ever managed, with alarming regularity, to provoke such raw, irrational fury in him. Even the furious glare she was throwing at him in the mirror stirred an answering feeling of resentment.
Biting back the unworthy emotion he turned gracefully around to face her, bowing slightly as he picked up his hat and cloak and held out his arm for her to take.
Unsurprisingly she took it with a sharp toss of her head, her teeth grinding loud enough for his sensitive hearing to pick up. Through them she bit out tightly
"We are ready? Bien, let us go."
He inclined his head and flicked his wand, his eyes rolling upwards of their own accord.
The world spun for the second time that day, and to Moniqua's annoyance she found herself clinging to his arm to steady her swimming head. It took longer than usual, until she could actually feel the beginnings of nausea churning in her stomach. Then a voice echoed eerily in her head, oddly nasal and monotonous,
"Name and Password."
Moniqua tried to concentrate on their meaning but a voice she recognised as Henry's was already answering in that cool, annoyingly calm voice of his.
"Henry Charlus Potter, Lerna."
A moment later the world came right and their feet hit the polished marble floor of the Ministry of Magic.
Moniqua blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden chaos surrounding them. A hundred men and regrettably fewer women marched and stumbled and pushed and apogized at an alarming rate, moving so fast the world seemed almost a blur. Over the hullabaloo of idle conversations, a magical megaphone boomed out reports, instructions from higher authorities and the odd trivia fact when boredom seemed to set in. Moniqua vaguely registered bemusement at the knowledge that manticore's enjoyed Worchester Sauce with their favourite dish of human flesh, before she was suddenly knocked backwards by a heavy body moving at the most frantic pace.
She let out a small cry of surprise. The ceiling flew away from her and in that instant she mentally braced herself for the inevitable pain when suddenly a pair of strong arms wrenched her up and away from the approaching floor.
The culprit threw a warbled apology over his shoulder without looking back. Moniqua didn't notice. Henry's golden eyes seared through her like lighting, and she swallowed, suddenly aware of the loud thumping of her heart in her chest.
Slowly, carefully, he set her on her feet without a word. Immediately he moved a respectful distance away, and Moniqua found herself missing the warm strength of his arms around her. Of course he wouldn't hold her more than common courtesy dictated, she thought bitterly.
It was therefore a shock to her when instead of indicating in which direction they were supposed to head, he moved back to her side and wrapped his left arm securely round her waist. She stared up at him nonplussed but all he did was nod in the general direction of the huge golden fountain gleaming brightly over the heads of the crowd.
"Come."
With less difficulty than to be expected he steered them through the heaving masses towards the nearest elevator. Moniqua looked up at him a little resentfully. A word in someone's ear, a small cough and the Ministry officials parted before them with respectful nods and hurried apologies. In few very shorts minutes their way was cleared and Moniqua removed herself from his loose hold with a petulant toss of her curls. Henry did not give any indication that he had even noticed merely nodding to the three other occupants of the elevator before exchanging a brief word with one of them, a woman Moniqua noticed with a grind of her teeth.
The young woman could only be a few years older than them and the flush of her already pink cheeks, coupled with an expression of obvious admiration left no one in any doubt of her attraction towards the Potter Heir. She was dressed in extremely fitted robes that set off what Moniqua supposed was a reasonably attractive figure, and carrying a large stack of parchment. Her lips were painted a dark pink, and she pouted at what seemed like every available opportunity.
Moniqua barely repressed a snort. Didn't the girl know Henry was bloody ENGAGED?! Just MAYBE to the witch accompanying him?! A small "Tch" escaped under her breath but her apparently blind fiancé evidently heard it. He looked up, brows quizzically raised and his admirer followed his gaze, a rather sulky pout suddenly dampening her previously bright smile.
"Michelle Ellemenstra Parkinson, daughter of Germanicus," he supplied , "Secretary to the Head of the Auror Department."
"Enchanté." Moniqua flashed a blinding smile, to which the dark-haired woman merely sniffed, releasing one hand clasping the documents to smooth down the rather low neckline of her robes.
Immediately she turned back to Henry, saying with another inviting flutter of her lashes.
"Mr Crouch is waiting for you Auror Potter. I was just up to inquire if he would have any need of my presence at this meeting."
"It is a luncheon, is it not?" Moniqua inquired innocently. "Does Mister Crouch often invite his secretary to lunch?"
The double meaning of the words was lost on neither of its auditors. Miss Parkinson flashed her a look of loathing, but Henry merely replied smoothly,
"Miss Parkinson is his personnel aide. He relies heavily upon her."
It earned him a warm smile from Michelle and a not-so-warm one from his fiancé.
"Tiens! Comme c'est charmant." she said brightly with just a hint of teeth.
It was at this moment that the elevator came to a halt, saving the moment and Moniqua immediately held out her arm, indicating for Henry to take it. He complied without a word, not even a typical eye-roll and bowed them out of the elevator onto the main floor of the Auror Department.
It was quieter here, the low rustling sort of quiet that gave the impression of far more important, even secret work. Desks were set up in smart, stiff lines each one occupied by a man or a woman working with rapid intensity over piles of paperwork. Along the far wall were small alcoves, private areas for Aurors of higher rank, mainly squad-leaders. In every alcove photos and documents lined the walls, each describing the case the auror in question was currently working on. The room was brightly lit, the decorations sparse and business-like.
Moniqua stared about her with wide-eyed curiosity. Here it was, the place she dreamed of finally working. The people whose ranks she had yearned to join since the age of fifteen. She drank in every detail, barely even aware that Henry was leading them across the floor towards the far end of the Department, Michelle's seven-inch high heels snapping tartly in their wake.
Only when they reached the door marked "Head of the Auror Department" did Moniqua snap out of her abstraction, startled slightly by the sharp knock of Henry's knuckles on wood.
A voice invited them to enter, and Michelle opened the door for them, gesturing them to go through with another of her wide smiles. Moniqua's teeth ground audibly.
Three men occupied the room causing both Moniqua and Henry to halt in surprise. Sylvester stood to the right, a huge and imposing figure beside the small squat form of the Head of the Auror department, whose flabby face looked decidedly put out.
The reason for his discontent was apparent to all save Moniqua, the only one possessing no prior knowledge of Crouch's jealous peevish nature. His small, squinty eyes kept darting sulkily towards the man currently occupying his usual place behind the oak desk and then away again, as though physically pained by the intrusion. The culprit however ignored him completely, instead eyeing the visitors from his comfortable place in the leather chair. After a moments pause he rose, slowly but majestically to his feet, until he stood at his full, impressive height, surveying them all with the faintest of smirks on his lined face.
Tyrannius Octavian Malfoy, Minister for Magic, Order of Merlin First Class and arguably the most powerful man in Britain, reached for his famous snake-topped cane and for a moment paused, watching with a cynical eye as his guests sank into a bow and curtsey.
He was still an incredibly fine figure of a man despite his years that numbered more than fifty. A giant in both height and breadth, topping even Sylvester by a full two inches and a flawless posture that made him seem taller still. A full head of platinum blond hair head fell to his shoulders, brushed away from a wide, aristocratic brow. A roman nose, cheekbones sharp enough to cut marble and a strong chin all still proclaimed him as handsome despite the ravages the years had left upon him, and his hands, one of which rested lightly on the viper's silver head, were most beautifully formed. An emerald signet ring set off the pure whiteness of his skin, lined and weathered as they were, but his eyes, set under weary lids still seared like white-hot steel.
His presence dominated the room and the silence was long and heavy until finally he waved one languid hand and indicated for them to rise.
"Mister Potter, Miss Monroe." was all he said, his voice low and oddly musical, but above all dangerously compelling.
"Minister." Henry replied, with the cool composure of the Heir to the Potter line and fortune. "It was not necessary for you to receive us here. We would have come to your office at your convenience."
"It does me good to bestir myself." he drawled back, "Indeed it affords me the occasion to observe my Heads of Department in their designated roles. An…illuminating experience."
Moniqua watched Mister Crouch's cheeks flush uncomfortably at the thinly veiled satire before returned her slightly unsure gaze to the Minister once more. His silver eyes flashed to hers as she did so, such a sharp, piercing look that she felt almost chilled. The hairs pricked up on the back of her neck, but in a burst of courage she tilted her chin up at him defiantly, recollecting suddenly that this man was the reason for the miserable situation they found themselves in. This cold, sneering man and his limitless greed for power was the one dooming her hopes and dreams of love forever.
In response to the thought her eyes ignited into flames, she glared fiercely back, anger momentarily overcoming her good sense. A cool smirk just tilted the corner of his mouth and she felt a surge of hatred. His indifference, the indulgent mockery with which he observed her burst of temper, it reminded her why she had taken him in such aversion at every one of their previous meetings. However gracious and courteous his words might be, the sneer was ever present behind the silver-tongue.
He regarded her a moment longer, that enigmatic gleam still in his eye. Then he turned, picked up the hat he had discarded carelessly on Crouch's desk and gestured towards the door with a bland,
"And now, to lunch."
The meal had come to an end, the sparkling silver platters disappeared by magic leaving the assembled to company to sip a twenty year old port through glasses of the finest crystal. As the only female present, Moniqua had been offered a sweet liquor instead but she had declined with a deceptively friendly smile. Her father was a connoisseur of all alcoholic beverages, red wine in particular and had initiated her as according to French custom early on in her life into a more masculine drinking style. She savoured the port with pleasure, enjoying the contrast of the rich, sweet velvet against the salty cheese that accompanied it.
Sylvester watched her with a fatherly indulgence; he knew well his old friend's contradicting views on the deportment of the women in his household. Only Cicero could nod in approval at his daughter's strong head for alcohol, whilst in the same discussion condemn her for the hoyden, un-ladylike presumption to participate in what he vehemently declared "A man's game."
The talk had danced back and forth from light and witty conversation to important Ministry affairs and Moniqua determinedly held her own in both.
Inwardly she was exhausted. On one hand they had been discreetly informed at the start that everyone present was an accomplice to the charade marriage and so although the knowledge that so many people were aware of the corrupt dealing incensed her, at least neither she and Henry had any need to embarrass themselves by playing the devoted lovers. On the other, the party was a ill-matched group, Sylvester biting back his contempt for his superior through his teeth, while Crouch, oblivious to his deputy's dislike spent the entire time attempting to ingratiate himself with the Minister, his cloying, toady-ing manners grating to the extreme.
Tyrannius received the constant flattery with all his customary boredom, more interested in gently drawing out Henry on most political and financial discussions. Crouch's elder and far more capable brother Bartimeus Crouch, Head of Magical Law Enforcement was stern and precise rather than diverting as a companion and the Minister's nephew, she quite frankly detested. She bore with his sly attempts at flirtation with good-humour though, even encouraging him just a little. The secretary's shameless ogling of her affianced husband still rankled. But Henry did not seem even to hear the lively banter between the pair.
The names of the other three men around the table had already slipped her mind; they were all cast in the same mould. High up Ministry officials, all grey-haired with steel-rimmed glasses, who said little save when the talk turned to political affairs. Yes, the luncheon had been strained; still she had risen to the occasion and by using all her skill and charm, she had, she thought, just about rendered the past two hours bearable. Even the unknown officials had reluctantly given in to her quick repartee and vivacious humour. Basilius she had already counted among her slaves even before this meeting had taken place and Tyrannius himself had from time to time allowed a brief flicker of admiration to slip through his careful façade. Only Henry had remained completely unmoved.
She eyed him over her port with a huff of frustration. Seated almost directly opposite, he had barely looked her way during the entire meal. The rudeness was studied, almost she suspected him of ignoring her deliberately, as though to make a point of his silent anger at their being blackmailed into matrimony. Perhaps he was right to do so? Only Tyrannius Malfoy could invite as his guests the two people whose lives he had upturned simply for his own gain. She even partly longed to do the same, but still it stung to have him demonstrate so publicly that she was in fact less than nothing to him.
They were seated in the Ambassador's Dining Room, a spectacular and ostentatious affair with high-sculpted ceilings and lavish artwork. Paintings worth a thousand galleons each lined the cream panelled walls, closing in what should have been such a large and airy space, and beautiful statues and vases ornamented the walnut furnishings. The finishing effect was actually rather claustrophobic.
The grand master table was in polished walnut also, a beautiful piece and the sole thing in the room she had fallen in love with on sight. It was contrastingly simple, its beauty more in the elegant lines and first-class workmanship than in any intricate detailing. It brought to mind forcibly Old Guy's work, classic yet flawless elegance.
A little way down from the dining table was an antique marble fireplace, exquisitely carved and polished to a deep black. Around it, some smaller upholstered lounge chairs were scattered allowing visitors to rise from the table after the meal to sit more cosily near to the warmth. It was to these that Moniqua went, slipping up from her chair, glass in hand, her mind no longer bothering to follow the quick-fire debate taking place.
She was lost in her thoughts and not particularly pleasant ones when a voice called her from them, soft and close enough to make her start.
"I hope the meal was to your satisfaction Miss Monroe. The chef, incidentally is from your own land."
Moniqua smiled politely up at the Minister for Magic, inwardly wondering why he had followed her apart from the others. Not a hint of her curiosity showed on her face but Tyrannius Malfoy disconcerted her by continuing in that sardonic way of his,
"No doubt you are wondering why I desire to speak with you alone. Fear not, I have every intention of explaining myself."
His smirk was cruel, mocking, just like the gleam in those silver eyes that watched nothing but saw all. Moniqua looked back at him warily.
"Tiens? Then assuredly I am indeed curious Ministre."
The man sighed pensively, running a single long white finger about the snake-head top of his cane, as though to polish the shining metal. He took a sip of port, before abruptly bringing his gaze once more to hers; his were truly the coldest eyes she had ever seen.
"What are your views on the Pure-blood extremists currently rallying for support in the dark corners of the Magical world?"
The question was so unexpected, it made her blink and she took a moment to gather her thoughts.
"You must know I am opposed to them in every idea!" she proclaimed fiercely, challenging him to take offence. Malfoy was of one of the oldest Pureblood lines in England, though not one of the Seven. Still, she had always imagined him to support the Pureblood movement, it was in his blood and his arrogant nature to think him and his like better than anyone else.
To her surprise he merely nodded, a faint smirk curling his lips.
"I do know. I seek merely to confirm."
"I do not understand why Monsieur? What relevance do my political views have?"
He raised his brows at her, the expression both politely incredulous and deeply mocking.
"I beg of you Miss Monroe," he chided softly, "Please do not play the dunce. Do you truly have no suspicion? I confess myself disappointed. Mistress Dreamer expresses her highest approval of you, and she does not suffer fools."
Moniqua set her teeth, bristling but an inner voice counselled her to be cautious until she knew what he was getting at.
"Perhaps it is your honest nature that blinds you to the ways an ambitious politician's mind may work." he conceded, the slow curl of his mouth an insult, "Let me explain then why your views are…of utmost importance."
"The Pureblood Supremist Faction is growing, slowly to be sure but steadily. For the moment they are content to wait and whisper in the shadows but as their numbers grow so will their daring. Their attempt on your life is an example of this."
He paused taking in her reaction to his words minutely. Up close the lines on his face were far more noticeable, he seemed to have aged ten years despite that incredible magnetism that somehow still managed to dominate a room.
"How much, I wonder, has Dumbledore told you?"
Moniqua started, her eyes widening in shock before she could stifle the involuntary reaction. She looked up into his pale face, her teeth peeking out to chew on her lower lip in nervousness. It was futile to deny understanding of his meaning but she attempted innocence anyway.
"Professor Dumbledore Minister?", bright, innocent, almost simpering, "He is my former Headmaster and a man I count very much a trusted friend."
Malfoy's thin lips curled derisively.
"I'm sure."
All at once, something in that thin, lined face seemed to harden into solid steel. Those hawk-like eyes seared her where she stood and his voice, always smooth and pleasant, suddenly lowered into a biting razor-sharp blade that sliced into her conciousness and left her reeling as though he had physically struck her.
"Do not play games with me Miss Monroe. You will lose. We will do far better if we are frank with one another, as I am attempting to be. Do me the same courtesy, if you please."
Moniqua jutted her chin at him, a militant sparkle in her eye but she said nothing. The Minister for Magic sighed as one would at a child's tantrums before continuing far more softly, but with an insultingly exaggerated patience.
"I am aware of Dumbledore's interest in this matter, as he is aware of mine. We both have the same goal in mind; to learn all that we can of the group's plans, members and affiliations. To use this knowledge to frustrate them in any way possible. Dumbledore has recruited a certain number of his former students in whom he trusts implicitly to aide him in this task, and we both know none is better placed that the society toast, the famous Moniqua Monroe."
The irony was heavy. Moniqua glared at him with dislike, irritated by the implication that her fame and socialite lifestyle was all that made her useful. She drew herself up, chest heaving in a deep breath of repressed annoyance and replied tightly
"I am aware that the Faction is growing largely due to the support both moral and financial from the newest generation of many old and respected pureblood families. Families such as yours, Ministre."
It was a daring step but she had nothing to loose, she reminded herself. He still had not revealed what he wanted from her, unless it was to try to turn her allegiance from Professor Dumbledore to his own. If that was so it was a doomed attempt. Respect and trust were the reasons she had accepted her old Headmaster's request. She felt none for Tyrannius Malfoy.
Something dark and undoubtedly dangerous flashed in those mercurial eyes but the cynical smile lingered. He inclined his white-blond head slightly, acknowledging the thrust but pointed out gently
"True. But tell me, how would it serve me to have a Pureblood Supremist group revolting against the Ministry and howling for Muggle and Muggle-born blood?" , a gleam of unholy amusement flashed across his face, "My own personnel views aside, I already posses supreme power Miss Monroe. And I fear I like it far too much to simply gift it away."
Moniqua swallowed, trying to ignore the chill his words gave her but she could not but see a certain logic to what he said. Tyrannius had worked for over thirty years to finally attain the position of Minister of Magic. He would do all in his power not to see that position wrested from him. He must have sensed the reluctant acceptance in her face for he nodded, saying with a noticeable drawl,
"We are, therefore on the same side which is indeed the reason for my seeking you out. I would request your aide, Miss Monroe. In a matter of the utmost importance."
Moniqua set her jaw mulishly, resisting the urge to throw him a downright "No!" She had no wish to help scheming, greedy politicians who probably agreed whole-heartedly with the vile trash being spouted by these bigots. But he would sacrifice such personnel feelings without a blink in order to keep his iron hold over the magical community. The resistance in her expression made him smirk, a gleam of malice dancing in the firelight.
"My request of you is therefore a simple one, and beg that you will consider it carefully. Use whatever means are in your power to prevent Henry Charlus Potter from joining this Faction."
There was a stunned silence. Moniqua's mouth fell open in pure shock; she stared at him as though he had gone quite mad. Then the words sank in; realisation and ….FURYerupted like Vesuvius; spewing white-hot indignation and blistering rage!
"Henry would NEVER…he has no belief in these ludicrous ideas! He has no hatred towards muggles or muggle-borns! How dare you accuse him so?! How dare you say he would do this! How dare you to THINK it?!"
Malfoy cut off her outburst with an apologetic hand.
"Forgive me Miss Monroe. I did not mean to imply that exactly. To be frank I believe Henry is uninterested either way."
She would have broken in again, hotly denying it, but once more he silenced her with a gesture.
"I have gathered no intelligence leading me to suspect Henry of partaking in these supremist views. My concern however is his…connection to a certain young person who may possibly be of this faction."
Moniqua stared at him blankly, her anger slowly ebbing away, leaving only simple bemusement.
"Enrique? But he has no friends, he does not…" she trailed off, her expression of complete disbelief slowly fading into a dull comprehension. Malfoy acted as though he had not noticed her pause.
"I must ask you to believe that he possesses at least one person for whom he would perhaps lend his support unconditionally. The identity of this person I cannot…» He did not finish, for the first time looking just a little uncomfortable since the interview had begun but Moniqua shook her head expressionlessly .
"No need. It is the same. It must be. The one whose life he protects in alliancing himself with me." she said in a small, hard voice, before flashing her suddenly fulminous glare at the man.
"It is she, is it not?! The one he cares for! The one you 'ave torn him from forever!"
Had her wits been quicker rather than rattled by anger, she would have perhaps just caught a glimpse of the flicker of surprise in the Minister's face as threw the question at him furiously. A moment later however Malfoy's expression was a blank mask, impenetrable before finally, after an infinitesimal hesitation, he nodded.
"So!" Moniqua raged, "It is not enough then that you separate them! You also accuse her of taking part in Pureblood Supremist demonstrations! It is of an arrogance…!"
Malfoy cut her tirade off yet again with an elegantly raised hand, causing the emerald that adorned it to flash distractingly in the firelight.
"You may have my word on this Miss Monroe, the person of whom I spoke has had some dealing with these factions. Whether they still do, I do not know. All I ask of you is your sworn oath that neither before nor after you marriage will you permit Henry Potter to align himself to their cause, either passively via financial aid or, Merlin help us, aggressively. I'm sure I have no need to explain how disastrous the consequences would be in either eventuality."
Moniqua was silenced. She could imagine all too well what such wealth as the Potter fortune could do for the rebels, or even worse, his fighting…fighting on their side…
She shuddered, clasping her arms about her for strength before saying far more quietly,
"And if he joined them….he would NEVER….but if…if he did… How do you propose I prevent him?" she said with a faint hint of sarcasm, looking up into his face with a raised brow.
"You 'ave seen 'im in my company Monsieur, you have observed 'is indifference." the words, even forced out as they were from her own lips, stung; she ignored the pain and carried on, her voice gaining strength, "Why would you then imagine that I could stop him from doing exactly as he chooses?"
Again he eyed her with that curiously enigmatic look, silver head tilted slightly to the side as she seemed to sense a hundred thoughts flying through his mind, all carefully hidden behind that flawless mask of unconcern.
"Perhaps you could not. Which brings us in timely fashion to my second request." he smirked slightly as she bristled, a suspicious look coming once more in her pretty face.
"All I ask is that, IF you should suspect for whatever reason that either one of these possibilities has come to pass, you will inform me…immediately…and keep me informed until for whatever reason the need for such information ceases."
Moniqua stared at him in growing horror, as the implication of his words slowly sunk in. It was unthinkable, a betrayal!
"You would have me spy…on my own fiancé?" she whispered.
Malfoy's raptor gaze did not waver even for a second.
"I would have you protect the way of life of Muggles and Magical folk alike as we know it." he countered softly.
He waited for her reply but Moniqua found herself curiously unable to speak. Her eyes were dull, as though all the spark had been drained out of them and her face was noticeably pale under her Mediterranean tan. The Minister for Magic observed her in silence for a moment before finally breaking the leaden atmosphere with a once more low and smoothly casual tone.
"Think on it at least Miss Monroe. I do not forget those to whom I am indebted and although our motives at least may not be the same, the ultimate goal I believe is one we share. Now I believe we should return to our desperately curious companions before our absence raises any more stir."
The day half the country had been waiting for finally dawned, an unusually bright morning for Britannia, as though the skies had for once heard the population's prayers and crossed fingers. The sunlight came streaming in through the walls of Merlin's Obelisk around five thirty, warming Moniqua's face through the gauzy drapes and causing her to sigh.
A full week and a half had passed since that oh-so-enjoyable luncheon at the Ministry and although she had so many other more important things that should be occupying her, her discussion with the Minister never seemed to stray far from her thoughts.
Today however, she pushed the niggling worry to the very back of her mind and threw back the covers with a look of determination on her face. Today she would make history, at least so she hoped, as the first female Captain to win the Quidditch League Cup. The thought lightened her brow, her old smirk breaking loose as she marched across the room to grab her bathrobe with a new buoyant spring in her step. Yes! Today was the day!
Her entire body tingled with both the typical nerves and an overwhelming excitement. She threw the scarlet robe over her shoulders, not bothering to tie it, grabbing her wand from the bedside table and skipped to the door.
Only to pull up short when confronted with her bodyguard's marble-carved features, watching her expressionlessly from the living room couch.
There was an uncomfortable silence as they stared at each other. For the past week the only words they had exchanged had been brief, clipped businesslike questions and equally distant answers. Neither had mentioned the luncheon, nor the way that Malfoy had taken her apart and talked to her for almost ten minutes. Moniqua didn't bother wondering if he had noticed; Henry noticed everything. What did puzzle and indeed irritate her was his complete disinterest. As though her affairs had nothing to do with him and were therefore unworthy of even comment.
It brought a martial light back into her eye, she lifted her chin defiantly at him and turned away with a toss of her hair, her previous good mood vanishing without a trace. Was it really so much to ask, she thought bitterly, that her fiancé sacrifice one afternoon, just a few short hours, to come and support her at one of the most important games she would probably ever play?! Could he not, just for ONCE make SOME effort to make their relationship seem real?! Why was it for her each time to play the role for both of them?! To compensate for his complete lack of interest by showing herself up as a fawning bimbo who was so blinded by love that she did not even notice his reticence!
By the time she reached the bathroom door her temper was already smouldering and unconsciously, she looked back to throw him a resentful glare. She expected him to have already turned away, back to the Daily Prophet he had obviously been up reading since Merlin knew when. Instead she found him staring right back at her.
Something caught in her throat as she met his gaze and encountered there not the bored expression he invariably wore, but a molten heat that seemed to sear straight through her. Her hand stayed, frozen on the door handle, inexplicably paralyzed. All at once she was aware that the silken negligee clearly visible under her open robe was the one she had been wearing that time. THE time. The time he'd pinned her down and ravaged her mouth like a man dying of thirst.
The seconds ticked by endlessly. Inwardly Moniqua screamed, ordering herself to move, yelling at him to do something, anything. Heat flared to life throughout her entire body, a deep, almost painful yearning that had her hands trembling and her knees almost giving way beneath her. Unconsciously she licked her lips, and she thought that for a moment his gaze flickered, following the movement with darkening eyes.
Then, slowly as though fighting with himself for the control to do so, he finally looked away. The moment passed. His gaze dropped to the newspaper once more, perusing it with an almost fierce concentration.
All at once the strength seemed to drain out of her limbs. Then a huge surge of disappointment welled inside her, followed almost immediately by frustration. How dare he make her want him! How dare he not want her too! With something between a laugh and a snarl Moniqua spun on her heel and entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
At twelve thirty the Montrose Magpies were assembled in the changing rooms of the League Stadium; Team, Captain and Coach suited up in their leather gear and white robes with the Magpie emblem blazoned on the their backs.
The atmosphere was electric. Although they lounged seemingly without a care in the world, every pulse was beating at a hundred a minute, every breath just a little uneven.
Jordon stood before his Team, arms folded lazily across his muscular chest, an easy smile glinting very white against the darkness of his skin. Only his eyes glowed with fierce determination, a fanatical gleam lurking in the very depths. This moment was the one they had waited for so many long months; the moment they had trained for, bled and bruised for. Every drop of sweat, blood and tears had been for this one day, this defining moment in history. There was no going back, no second chance. Triumph or disaster; one or other would be their lot before the day was out.
"Magpies," he said finally, "Today we fly…as we have never flown before."
As one the seven players raised their fists and let a cheer. Miguel nodded, the players rose, free to spend the last twenty minutes before the Game, psyching themselves up, laughing, joking and discussing final tactics. Tate caught his Captain's eye and sighed. However, he obediently got up and pulled Cylus Sanders aside, holding out his hand as he offered the apology he had sworn on his mother's grave he would never give. Moniqua hid a grin as Sanders let him stew for a few moments before finally grasping his arm tightly and declaring that they would eat the Wasps alive. The other players cheered and catcalled, in approval and secret relief, as the one element that could have been their downfall was resolved. Tate slapped his fellow chaser on the back and immediately called for bets to be made. Men, thought Moniqua, watching them affectionately as they boasted and crowed over who would score the first goal.
A knock on the door made her lift her gaze from their antics. Nicole, one of the Magpie aides stood there and beckoned her over, an apology on her pretty face.
"Sorry for disturbing you Moniqua, but there's a young man here who is…determined to be allowed to see you." she said, a little flustered.
Hope leapt irrationally in Moniqua's chest.
"A man? Who? It is not…?"
But Nicole was shaking her head sympathetically.
"I'm sorry, it's not him."
The light died slowly out her dark eyes, she fought back the surge of disappointment bitterly. Fool! Of course her was not coming! He had told her as much even that very morning when she had shelved her pride in one final plea before leaving to meet her team.
"It is a very very young man. He says…" she bit back a sudden smile, "He informs me you will probably fire me if I prevent him from seeing you before the match begins. Apparently he is your personnel guest."
Understanding dawned and Moniqua let out a bubble of laughter.
"Ahhhh Parbleu, but I am not awake this morning!" she jumped to her feet at once, marching swiftly to the door with a husky chuckle, "Come! We must hurry before I fear he charms his way onto the pitch itself!"
Nicole allowed the grin to escape, and followed, her slim, scrupulously neat person trotting daintily in her heels to catch up with the Magpie Captain's brisk strides. They quickly mounted the steps that led to the Players' Lounge and entered the brightly lit room just in time to hear a young, haughtily determined voice saying loudly,
"…And if THAT is not enough, I should inform you that I am the Personnel Guest of Moniqua Monroe and soon to be her BROTHER-IN-LAW!"
Nicole turned her head to stare at Moniqua, her blue-green eyes wide in surprise but the Quidditch Star only screwed up her face in barely repressed mirth. Frightening to control her features she stepped into the room with an appreciative,
"Indeed he is!"
She nodded unsteadily to the three top-notch Aurors who, upon her arrival had thrown her such glances that could only really be called pitiful. Immediately, the Squad-leader opened his lips in a helpless plea to be saved from this tiny youth who had spent the last ten or so minutes describing quite cheerfully and in painfully minute detail the numerous Ministry officials he (or more accurately his brother) was personally acquainted with and how each and every one of them would be delighted to terminate the budding career of any Auror foolish enough to persist in the attempt to bar his passage. He had crowned off this recital with a disastrously sunny grin and a bright disclosure that his mother would probably mention the matter to the Minister of Magic himself, when next he came round for tea and her special ginger and honey-suckle biscuits.
It was therefore not completely incomprehensible that the three young aurors were looking decidedly green about the gills, when faced with this boy who barely topped each of their waist-bands. Repressing again the urge to break out into hopeless giggles, Moniqua took pity on them and stepped forward, hand outstretched, eyes dancing as she said
"I am glad you came, Master Dreamer! But you must pardon them, indeed the fault it is mine, I did not think to inform that I had a particular guest who was to come this time."
Ethan grabbed her hand in both of his and pumped it up and down enthusiastically.
"Well, I do pardon them." he said handsomely, "But you didn't…you didn't FORGET inviting me did you?"
That impish little face was suddenly, horrifyingly, a picture of utmost woe! The expression of such forlornness in those huge eyes raised so soulfully to hers made Moniqua immediately disclaim.
"Mais NON! But never!" she exclaimed in dismay, her heartstrings being pulled out of their sockets with all the skill of an expert. The small smile of hope on the boy's face, free of reproach or even disappointment nevertheless succeeded in making her feel like she had committed nothing short of treachery.
Ethan held the heartbreaking expression a moment longer before suddenly, a peel of glorious laughter exploded from his crooked grin. His hazel eyes danced in pure wicked mischief and he sang with unmistakable cheekiness,
"THAT'S alright then! I've go to go, Kit's waiting for me with his Mum in the top-box but I KNEW you'd want to see me before the match!" He ran to the door, only pausing to flash a grin at her over his shoulder, "You've GOT to win now, since I've wished you luck!" he declared blithely. And he was gone.
Moniqua blinked in a daze, before the stunned expressions on faces of the Ministry's Best and Brightest suddenly had her struggling with laughter once more.
"There you go!" she choked out between chuckles, "The match is won."
An hour later and it seemed the Montrose Magpie's unexpected luck-charm would almost certainly do the trick. The Magpies flew like they'd never flown before, their chasers doing the moment justice in a blaze of glory. Goal after goal they'd scored; the points stood at 130/40. The Quaffle zipped from one player to another, so that to the thousands of fans screaming in the stadium, it seemed to appear in their gloved hands as if by magic. The atmosphere was electric; a constant roar that lifted into a howling cacophony with each new goal.
The seven players draped in black, nevertheless seemed to glow with determination and brilliance. The beaters smashed bludger after bludger at their adversaries, pounding their opponents into submission with merciless skill. For the umpteenth time Tate snatched the Quaffle around of the Wasp's reach, fast as a striking snake before passing it so quickly if you blinked you'd miss it. The red ball seemed to fall into nothing, only suddenly Sanders was there, out of nowhere before the opposing chaser could even turn his broom. They zoomed down the pitch, the ball flashing so fast between them as though they were merely batting it with a racquet. The screams rose to a crescendo yet again, as they neared gleaming goalposts! A wink, a feint, and the whistle blew, a high peeling screech that barely cut through the sudden roar of sound.
With a fierce cry of triumph, the Magpie seeker punched the air with her fist and zoomed of once more in search of the elusive little ball that would make her name in history.
The sides of the stadium reached so high that the top stands rose higher even than the match and it was only in these very last two tiers that some seats had remained empty. A few bursts of people were dotted here and there but in the stand directly above the converted top-box, there was nobody in sight. So it was to this spot that a lone, dark figure soared out of the skies to land with impressive adroitness on the metal railing that protected over-enthusiastic fans from the drop. A rapid, piercing glance around assured the visitor that every person's attention was focused on the match and his arrival had gone unremarked.
Another sudden swell of noise meant the addition of another ten points to the Magpies' score and with the precise timing of a hunter, he took advantage of the distraction of both the crowds and those responsible for security.
The wind alone had noticed his presence, and tore towards him, dragging back the sleek, chestnut strands away from his white brow as thoughy in silent demand as to his identity. Henry flicked them out of his eyes and lowered his hard gaze once more to the swirl of twisting figures below, picking out the only one that held his interest with an inhuman ease.
Having focused on her small, far-away figure, some of the tension seemed to leave his body. He leant against the railing, allowing his mouth to curl into that familiar sneer of derision that the so-called sport invariably provoked. Still as pathetically crude as ever, he snorted inwardly, watching with deepest contempt as one of the Magpies dealt a powerful blow to the enchanted cannonball, sending it screaming into the path of an opposing player. This was the twentieth century and wizarding-kind had still not progressed past beating balls with sticks.
The heavy disdain came and went in a fraction of a second; the glance had been so quick that an onlooker would never have even noticed the lightening change of focus. It was as though his searing gaze hadn't even left that one particular black figure, soaring high above the others, seemingly not even part of the play.
Of course to Henry Potter, the figure was far more than that; even at this distance he could pick out the expressions on Monroe's face; her grin of triumph at each new goal; her frown of concentration, lip held securely between even white teeth, as she raked the pitch for the little gold ball he understood it was her duty to seek out.
The minutes passed with almost unbearable slowness, but never once did that cold hazel gaze waver from its object. He tracked Monroe's movements like a raptor, completely uninterested in the such mundane things as the scoreboard or time. The boredom was no surprise; it was an annoyance but he had known it would be so ever since she had announced the date that the match would take place, and he in that same instant, had known and resigned himself to the impossibility of his escape.
As to why he had not simply informed his intended of this fact all those weeks ago, well those were reasons best known only to Henry Potter himself.
A sudden lull in the noise, a thousand breaths being held in anticipation, brought the man's concentration sharply focused once more, beautifully shaped brows narrowed dangerously over those harsh pools of gold.
Monroe was flying, and all at once even Henry, uninterested and uninformed about the sport as he was, could hardly fail to realize that what she had been doing up to that moment was quite simply unimportant. This, right now, was what she had been waiting for. This was why she earnt mutiple thousands of galleons a week, these last, heart-stopping moments during which she flew as no human being could possibly fly.
Faster than a speeding bullet, she twisted and turned with reflexes almost the equal of his own! With his enhanced eyesight he alone in the entire stadium could pick out the prey she was hunting. The tiny, walnut-sized golden ball zoomed back and forth, up and down, left, right, across the pitch, desperately trying to shake off both Seekers. It was a folorn hope. Monroe followed its every twist, every turn with a determination only matched by her inhuman skill. The Wasp Seeker could not but realise he was out matched, though he tried desperately to keep pace with both ball and opponent, but Henry could see the expression of defeat already creasing his brow.
Then the…snitch? Yes that was it, the snitch suddenly dived into an almost vertical downward descent. The crowd gasped in fear and excitement. The Wasp Seeker's eyes widened as he inwardly battled with his fear, but in the end it was too much; he skewed off to the side at the last moment.
Monroe did not.
The angle was a clear ninety-degrees; Henry knew all too well how almost impossible such a feat was whilst keeping such an incredible speed. His eyes could have burned a hole in Monroe's forhead; he watched her brows descend in total concentration, a hint of a pink tongue slipping out, the clench of her jaw as her neck muscles fought the wind resistence… That wide, wicked smile as controlled the momentum and hammered towards the hard earth at eighty-miles-an-hour.
The flash of gold was inches from her fingers, centimeters when two sudden movements brought Henry's focus snapping round from his mark to the pair of yellow-clad figures pelting towards her.
In those brief instants, Henry's brain seemed to ignite into a cataclysmic incendio.
He could see every tiny detail, different parts of his mind already analysing the information and putting it, puzzle-like, into place and order.
He saw the blank expressions on the two Wimbeldon Wasp Beaters, their clouded, milky white eyes; imperius curse, a planned attack, someone in the crowd, arrogant, enjoys admiring his own skill…
He saw the point of collision, calculated its distance from the ground; ninty-three feet, tarmac surface, liklihood of survival…thirteen percent….
He saw her fingers scraping the shining metal…
He saw her expression completely focused on that stupid metal ball…
He saw the thugs raise their bats, only feet away from her…
He saw her death.
And Moniqua Monroe's death was NOT acceptable!
The movement came from no conscious thought; it was pure instinct, and so fast he would have only been a blur to any on looking eyes. In a sixteenth of a second, henry's hand, white and elegant even in such force of motion, flashed through the air and seemed to barely touch his other wrist. The same movement continued into a descent towards his right-hand pocket that, having obtained its object, drew back once more; the entire action consumed only another eigth of a second.
Those beautiful tapered fingers flashed together in the air before him, his sleeves falling back to reveal two hard, bare wrists and one twisted olive-wood wand.
The man's white brow creased just a fraction, the only visible sign of the greatest effort of concetration Henry Charlus Potter had ever and would ever need to apply. His fingers formed a rigid cage about the wooden strands, entwined like lovers, joined forever at the base and tip, never to be broken. Save by the one man on earth who could both tear them apart and reunite them once more.
A rush of breath, a flicker of pale lids and then….
White…
Only white.
At over one hundred miles per hour Moniqua's scream of triumph was lost in the howl of the wind. Pulsing like a tiny living thing, the snitch fluttered helplessly as her fingers closed about it. Just another moment and the game would be won… She would have won it, and in doing so would make her name last throughout the centuries!
It was all but over, she could almost see the referee lifting the tiny silver whistle to his lips, waiting for the little golden ball to flash as her grip secured about it and signled the end of the game. The barest fraction more…
The blow to her head was strong enough to send stars spining before her eyes.
Blackness was creeping into her gaze. Vaguely she knew she was falling. Falling hard and fast. The words that would safeguard her body were somewhere in her mind but the pain was unbearable! Her tongue whispered garbled nonsense and as her eyes gave up the fight against the darkness, the last thought in her mind was the silent order not to let go!
The snitch, as though sensing her defeat beat against her slackening grip all the harder.
The wards placed of the Quidditch Stadium had been orchestred by the very best of the charms specialists that worked for the Ministry. No one could break through them; no one could apparate onto the pitch or even the stands, not even the Minister himself. Only Tyrannius' bodyguards possessed the password that would temporarily disable the wards; in case of an albeit unlikely assasination attempt on the Minister's life.
The information ran through Henry's mind and was simultaneously acknowledged and ignored.
The two halves of the hydra wand trembled in his hands, as even his great mind fought to bend them to his will. With all his strength he forced them into sink and lifted them, as at the same time, his feet began to move.
Henry rotated on the spot faster than the eye could see, imagined the space fifty feet below Moniqua's tumbling form and let the magic go!
The force of the resistance encountered sent a shockwave through his entire frame, and he felt the wands hesistate. They were considering rebellion; he could sense their longing to be free, but he had held the Hydra wand for over fifteen years now and as he tightened his grip, he felt both halves finally bow in compliance. Gratitude for their cooperation and reluctant loyalty passed through him and he focused his entire being on forcing his way through the invisible shield that refused to let him pass.
The moments felt like hours, but in reality only one second had passed when finally, with one last surge of pure unbridled power, the ward shattered into a thousand broken words and floating tendrils of magic. And in that same instant Henry Potter appeared with a deafening crack on the center of the pitch with just enough time to lift his head and the two halves of the hydra wand.
A wordless spell and Moniqua' plummeting body slowed, until it finally floated gently into his waiting arms.
Henry fell to his knees as the magic faded, and gravity grabbed Monroe's body once more in a vice-like grip. She was no feather-weight, but not a hint of strain crossed his deathly pale features. His gaze fixed on her face, so fierce, so intense, the brown skin seemed at risk of spontaneous combustion. Shouts, screams, terror and pandemonium assaulted Henry's ears but he tuned them out with no conscious thought. Every particle of his being was focused only on Monroe; her galloping heartbeat, each throbbing pulse pushing more and more blood through her battered cranium; her short, shallow breaths; the flutter of those long dark lashes….
And as she slipped into complete unciousness, the merest whisper escaped her dry lips, so faint, Henry himself barely caught the words
"Musn't…let…go…"
In rush of sudden, irrational frustration Henry understood immediately, and in brows descended into an almost murderous glare. The tiny golden ball was barely restrained by the tips of Monroe's fingers; the charm declaring the Magpies the victors had not quite been activated. Monroe had not closed her grip; another moment and the snitch would be gone, soaring away to freedom. The match would be declared invalid.
Irritation more intense than Henry had ever experienced flooded his entire being. Only Monroe would worry about such a pointless detail on the verge of death; only Monroe could be so unbelievably, frustratingly pig-headed. Damn her! Damn her stubborness! Damn her pride! Her relentless determination! Her blind, reckless, and altogether selfish disregard for her safety!
With something between a snarl and a snort, Henry cupped her hand in his, rolled his eyes to the heavens and pressed the fingers tightly shut.
The Snitch glowed gold.
I don't deserve any reviews frankly. But any I do get will be answered, my solemn word on it.
All the best
Lili
xxxxxxx