Hi, guys.
This chapter features some new P.O.V.s: namely Blaise, Harry, and Viktor, with Draco for the concluding scene.
Next chapter will feature the girls' P.O.V.s.
Thank you very much for your support.
PS 'smaragdine' means 'emerald-like'.
Chapter 57
Friday 21 March 2003: PM
Blaise eyes the spare entrée plate of lemon butter scallops that Astoria Greengrass had haughtily rejected for being 'ridiculously garlicky'. I should take them over to Gussie and offer them to her as a peace offering… it's a bit rough, having to attend a three course Gala dinner and not being able to sample the delectable menu.
He palms Astoria's unused fork while her back is turned, deftly sliding it beneath the hem of his left sleeve as he gathers the scallop dish and nonchalantly rises.
"I may as well return these to the kitchen; seems a shame to let them go to waste," Blaise murmurs, already stepping from the table.
"I wouldn't mind eating them, actually– ouch! Mind your clodhoppers, Blaise – you just stepped on my foot!" grouses Theo.
"Save your appetite for the mains, Theo – I won't be but a minute. Excuse me," Blaise hustles from the group before Nott can again open his fat trap.
His pace slows as he nears Aurors Gilmont and Faulkner; Gussie has already noted his confident approach, and is watching him with a carefully blank expression. Her partner is overtly glaring, causing Blaise to recall his uncomfortable conversation with them, yesterday evening.
He'd visited the Auror division ostensibly seeking Harry (though one of his colleagues had mentioned seeing the bespectacled wizard leaving the Ministry in the company of Head Auror Pritchard Hawes, just before Blaise's mid-afternoon business meeting with Pansy and Krum).
Strolling into Harry's office, Blaise's eyes had immediately zeroed in on Gus Gilmont; she'd been leaning over the desk, rifling through a tall stack of evidentiary files, the tight dirty blonde bun at the nape of her neck slightly askew. He'd barely noticed her tall partner, kneeling beside a heavy cardboard box to her right.
"Hey, Gussie – how're things going? Any breakthroughs with Operation Acromantula I should know about?" Blaise had cheerily greeted, standing in front of the non-descript work table.
Straightening with a stiffened spine, Gus had stared at him incredulously. "Are you– are you addressing me as 'Gussie'? Seriously? That's 'Auror Gilmont' – or 'Gilmont' to you, Zabini," her ripe, top-heavy mouth had perked in a tiny sneer. "Auror Potter isn't here; you'd best owl him if you wish to know more about the case. We're not at liberty to discuss those details." She'd nodded coldly at the open door behind him.
Blaise had summoned his most winning, charming smile – the one he'd been told (by more than a few admiring witches) was an instant panty-dropper. "Actually… I'd like to have a word with you in private, Auror Gilmont. On a… personal matter." He'd ramped up his toothy grin another gear, hoping to overcome the blatant disdain upon her face.
"Anything you have to say to Gus – you can say in front of me," Auror Faulkner had intoned, rising to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the witch. "Or you can fuck off back to Level Five, where you belong."
"Kolton – it's OK," Gus had laid a conciliatory hand on Faulkner's broad shoulder, much to Blaise's annoyance. "Give us a minute? You know what these upper echelon types are like – he won't stop pestering until he's said his piece." She'd not bothered to moderate her voice overmuch, uncaring that Blaise had heard every word.
Scowling at Blaise, Faulkner had reluctantly allowed, "I'll be right outside the doorway. Remember – if he tries anything untoward– "
"– 'Hex first, ask questions later'. Yeah, yeah, I got it, Kolt," Gus had affectionately mocked. "I'll be fine."
Faulkner had deliberately bumped Blaise's shoulder on his way out of the room, rumbling, "Watch yourself," before stomping outside.
Casually crossing her arms, Gilmont had looked both bored and irritated, arching her eyebrow as she'd bluntly queried, "Well? Speak."
"Ah… I was wondering if you'd like to come have a drink with me tonight – there's a pub just down the road, they serve light meals too, if you're hungry – I mean, you have to eat sometime, yeah?" Blaise had flinched at his uncharacteristic gaucheness as the bumbling proposition had tripped off his tongue. A beat or six of uncomfortable silence had followed; Blaise had been on the verge of re-couching his offer (hopefully, in markedly more suave terms) when Gus had summarily smashed it to uncompromising pieces.
"Let me get this straight, Zabini: you're asking me out? On a date?" She'd unfolded her arms to prop her splayed fingers on the desk and leaned slightly forward.
"Eh – drinks. I was thinking drinks, with a possibility of dinner– "
"With a high probability of trying to get beneath my robes for a quickie, I'd warrant," Gus had ruthlessly cut off his qualified explanation. "Your 'invitation' is especially tacky, considering that you're squiring Daphne Greengrass to the Gala tomorrow night, yes?" she'd thrown at him, as he'd gaped stupidly at her accusations.
"What – do you believe your philandering reputation doesn't precede you? Or do you just not care, cushioned as you are by money and privilege and powerful connections?" she'd hissed, obviously warming to the topic.
Her eyes had flashed fire as she'd icily informed, "I suppose your tastes must be growing hopelessly jaded – but I assure you, I am nowhere near dumb enough to fall for your practised wiles, Zabini. So if you were entertaining any ideas about asking me out and seducing me for a bet – and you wouldn't be the first to try to sweet-talk your way into my bed with the intention of bragging about 'cracking the Arctic Amazon' – you can consider your plans irrevocably foiled."
"What?! No– I was being sincere, I would never– " Blaise had hotly protested, shocked by her disparaging assumptions.
"Whatever. This conversation is finished. If you repeat your 'offer' again, I will consider it harassment, and report you to HR. Go away." Gilmont had wiped her hands together in an exaggerated gesture, clearly intended to underline her contempt of him.
Blaise had struggled to not let his face reveal just how much her rejection (and low opinion) of him had wounded his feelings.
He'd finally quietly stated, "I apologize, Auror Gilmont; it was never my intention to offend you. My offer was genuine; I accept that it was unwelcome, and you have my word I won't pursue it any further. Thank you for your time." He'd formally bowed and departed, briefly wondering if her caramel-brown eyes had softened a little after his apology.
Kolton Faulkner had followed Blaise down the hallway and drilled a meaty finger into his shoulder as he'd demanded, "What are you about, Zabini? If you think you can treat Gus like some kind of floozy – just to add another notch to your soiled bedpost– "
"Get your hand off me, before I snap your fat finger clean in two." Blaise had reached breaking point, stung anew by the apparently pervasive opinion that he was nothing more than a predatory sleazeball. An emotion he'd never felt before had boiled his blood and made his hands cramp into furious fists as a highly unwelcome thought had lodged in his brain.
"What's it to you, anyway? Are you in love with her? Are you two… a couple?" Blaise had snarled, twitching with the sudden urge to thump Faulkner fair in his stupid face.
Faulkner's abrupt, barking laugh had done little to assuage his burning… jealousy? But I don't get jealous, Blaise had reminded himself. Nope, definitely not jealousy. Ha.
"What Gus and I are to each other is absolutely none of your business, Zabini: but if you hurt her, you'll answer to me. You don't know anything about her – she's already been through so much–" Kolton had stopped his ferocious diatribe with a visible effort.
"What does that mean? What's happened to Gussie?" Blaise had instantly demanded, his wrath morphing to worry.
Huffing out an angry exhale, Faulkner had spoken more slowly. "That's not my story to tell – and it's not your place to ask her. Just leave her alone – she's worth a thousand of you, Zabini. Piss off back to your fancy office."
Blaise had childishly yelled, "Fuck you, Faulkner!" as the Auror had curtly swivelled on his heel and left, giving no sign he'd heard the insult.
He'd trudged to the Floo exits with none of his usual jaunty swagger, as he'd brooded over Faulkner's cryptic warning… and Gussie's brusque rejection.
Flinging himself into his comfy leather armchair as soon as he'd reached his house, Blaise had latched onto that silly Muggle saying… 'plenty more jellyfish in the sea?'.
Just because Gus Gilmont thinks I'm pond scum isn't going to slow down Blaise Zabini! Witches are itching for the chance to hang off my arm and every word, right? Right.
He'd gone as far as thumbing through his little black book before hurling it at the wall in frustration; the soft thump had drawn his house elf Gelsomina's attention. She'd studied him shrewdly before offering a restorative elixir, which he'd quietly refused.
Left alone once more, Blaise had finally admitted that Gussie and Faulkner's scathing judgements about him had cut deep… deeper than he would have thought possible. Am I really viewed as a such a thoughtless, selfish lothario? As a user of women? A rich, arrogant… lecher? He'd shuddered in distress.
I like women – OK, I've been with quite a few – but I don't set out to use them, he'd argued with himself. I treat them all well… I just get… bored easily, that's all. And I've never made any witch a promise I didn't keep – they all know the score. It's not my fault other people misjudge the love I have for the fairer sex. Hell, it'd be a crime to not share the gloriousness of The Great Zabini with willing witches worldwide!
He'd repeated that mantra until he'd fallen into an uncomfortable slumber in the chair, waking with a stiff neck to lurch to his huge bed in the wee hours of the morning… only to dream of Gussie lying in it with him, her dark blonde hair swathed across his pillow, her tall, Rubenesque curves snuggled against him in the most intimate of ways…
Bringing himself back to the present moment with a jolt, Blaise carefully proffers the plate of seared scallops, whipping the entrée fork from his sleeve with a graceful flourish.
"We had an extra plate at our table: I thought perhaps you might like to try them – they're very tasty," Blaise addresses the pair together (though he only has eyes for Gussie).
To his great surprise, Gilmont comes forward to accept his offerings, while Faulkner mutters something unquestionably uncomplimentary under his breath.
"Thank you – I have been rather tempted by all the delicious smells," Gussie admits, her lips kicking up ever so slightly at the corners.
"I can get you another fork, if you'd like to share?" Blaise diffidently offers, his mood lifting instantly at her response.
"Nah – Kolt can watch and weep," Gussie winks mischievously. "He's forever pilfering half my packed lunches, anyway."
"You always make extra for me – that's not stealing," Kolton defends, smiling fondly at his partner. Blaise reminds himself to stay calm, though their easy camaraderie is triggering that odd feeling again. Might just be indigestion; I ate my salt and pepper prawns quite quickly.
"I should– I should get back to my table… Um, thanks – for looking after my friends, I mean. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I just want to say how grateful I am for your help – both your help – in clearing Theo's name, and keeping Hermione and Draco safe. So yeah – thank you," Blaise curses inwardly at yet another rushed, bumbling monologue. Such an eloquent diplomat, I'm not. Aargh.
"We're just doing our job," Faulkner gruffly replies. "Crooked wizards like Bones give all of us a bad name, unfortunately."
"What Kolton means to say is… you're welcome. I… ah… I might have been a little harsh, with what I said to you, yesterday– "
"No– as I said, I never meant to upset you– "
"Let me finish, please," Gussie says, gently but firmly. "I– we – appreciate your support. I'd like to keep our professional interactions harmonious and productive, if we can. For the sake of the case, of course."
"Of course," Blaise echoes, feeling stupidly disappointed by the 'professional' qualifier.
"Anyway, I had no right to cast aspersions on your character the way I did... I'm hot-headed sometimes: I'm working on it, but I still tend to shoot off my mouth when I should keep it shut. I'm sorry, Mr Zabini." The wide, guileless smile Gussie bequeaths him hits Blaise like a fist to the gut.
"Please – the name's Blaise," he entreats, his answering smile pleasantly stretching his cheeks.
"You'd best return to your party – I can see the elder Miss Greengrass waving at you," Faulkner kills Blaise's exultant buzz stone dead.
Smile fading, Gussie nods. "Thanks for the scallops." She walks to the side of the podium with the dish, as Faulkner jerks his head and mouths, 'Beat it'.
Arsehole. Blaise pivots and glumly resigns himself to being friend-zoned. This is a humiliating first. Hey, at least she doesn't actively hate me. I can work with that. A small spring returns to his steps as he weaves between the tables.
I can definitely work with that, he avows.
Harry wishes (for the hundredth time) that some fool hadn't swapped around the place cards before he sat down. Maybe then he wouldn't be bloody tormented by the delicate scent of strawberries and mint that wafts his way every time Pansy Parkinson turns her beautiful head.
I bet Malfoy meddled with the damn things – look at him, alternately frowning at Ron and Krum every time either of them so much as glance in Hermione's direction. He's utterly besotted with her. How did I not guess how he felt about her at Hogwarts? Slippery Snakes… it's a good thing I can plainly see how much he loves my best friend. Mind you, Hermione can't take her eyes off the blond git, either. And they must believe we're all blind to their incessant, sneaky touches… fondlings, really. Hopeless, the pair of them.
Feeling smug about his singlehood for once, Harry relaxes his tight grip on his cutlery and reaches for his linen napkin… only to gasp involuntarily as his hand inadvertently brushes Pansy's on the table, sending sparks along his skin.
"Oh – my bad, I didn't mean…" Pansy withdraws her hand as though he'd set it afire.
"Not your fault, I wasn't looking…" Harry is quick to beg pardon, unable to resist another peek at Pansy's stunning smaragdine eyes. She stares intently back at him for a heartbeat, before dropping her eyes to her lap in an atypically shy gesture. Harry's pulse careens as his eyes hungrily trace the sparkling cluster of crystals embellishing the narrow single strap and… decolletage of Pansy's magnificent iris purple ballgown.
"Sorry," they say together, as Hermione snickers on Harry's left.
"Hey, Harry. Psst. Harry!" Steadfastly refusing to turn in Hermione's direction, Harry finally gives in when she tugs urgently on his sleeve.
"What is it, Hermione?" Harry grumbles. "If you're intending to take me to task about crashing your table – can it wait until tomorrow? I've already explained my decision."
"When are you going to ask Pansy to dance? She's really looking forward to it," Hermione smugly announces, in a voice that is far too loud for Harry's liking.
"Shhh! Hold on – what? Did Pansy tell you that? What did she say, exactly?" Harry drops his napkin in his haste to scooch a bit closer to his informant; he knocks his knee into Hermione's as they both bend to collect the white square at the same time.
Draco beats them both to the punch, lazily floating the napkin upward with a quick 'Wingardium Leviosa' spell. He tucks his wand back up his sleeve as Harry disgruntledly snatches back the linen.
"Never difficult to remember you two were Muggle-raised," Malfoy chuckles. "Use your magic, Gryffies."
"Never mind Draco, Harry – the first morning in the townhouse, he washed the dirty dishes by hand," Hermione divulges. "In retrospect, I think he was trying to impress me," she naughtily pokes out her tongue at her boyfriend.
"It worked, didn't it?" Draco looks disgustingly pleased with himself. Harry waves impatiently.
"Forget your flagrant flirting for a moment: what did you mean, Hermione? About… about the dance?" Harry asks, sotto voice. A sidelong glance confirms that Pansy is conversing with Viktor… maybe she likes the strong, accented type? Dammit.
"Pansy's not interested in Viktor – she's only blushing over you tonight, Harry." As usual, Hermione's astute eyes miss nothing at the table. "And without breaking Pansy's confidences: I can tell you that she is keenly anticipating being held in your arms this evening… dancing, I mean," she winks wickedly.
"Malfoy's had a shocking influence on you, Hermione," Harry carps, his cheeks heating at Hermione's innuendo. "Please stop matchmaking – we're friends. And besides, I'm working tonight," he emphasizes.
"Gilmont and Faulkner can hold down the fort for one measly dance, can't they?" Hermione wheedles. "Friends who cuddle one another, huh? I know what happened in your office yesterday, Harry… there's no use denying that you want to be a lot more to Pansy Parkinson than her friend, amigo."
Startled, Harry's verdant eyes search Hermione's complacent face; he relaxes as he realizes she's fishing for information. Anyway, if Pansy had told her I'd… momentarily lost consciousness, Hermione would've been fussing over me like a mother hen immediately.
"Nice try, love… but you forget I know your tells. Your nostrils are flaring just the teeniest little bit: it's a sure sign you're lying," Harry cackles at her affronted expression. "Better ask your Slytherin sweetheart for some more Occlumency tips."
"Well, I know something happened… and if you don't whirl Pansy around the dance floor before the night is over, I'll hit you with a 'Tarantallegra' spell myself," Hermione references the Dancing jinx spell that Malfoy once used against him in the Duelling Club.
"You wouldn't dare," Harry breathes, mostly certain his best friend is joking.
Hermione merely rolls her eyes in Pansy's direction before cuddling up to Draco again, preening like a cat as Malfoy strokes her shoulder with one pale hand.
Looking around the table in a desperate attempt to avoid witnessing yet another manifestation of Horny Young Love, Harry is surprised to see Ron glaring suspiciously… at me? No… at Pansy? Both of us? What's gotten his goat? He said he was OK with sitting at the same table as Hermione and Draco.
Smiling tentatively, Harry is shocked when Ron's scowl deepens; the redhead drops his glower to his empty plate and hunches pensively into his chair.
Moody bugger, Harry thinks, vexed by Ron's wet blanket demeanour. He immediately feels ashamed of his censorious judgement. Can't be easy… seeing Hermione fall head over heels for a bloke who used to be our sworn enemy – well, adversary, I suppose. Mind you, I'm not sitting here fretting over Ginny's obvious flirtation with Krum, am I?
Should I be, though? Harry examines his reactions to watching his ex-girlfriend sparking with the big Bulgarian, striving for as much critical detachment as he can muster.
I really have moved on, he concludes, with no small wonderment. Even a few months ago, the sight of Ginny fluttering her pretty eyelashes at another bloke would have flooded me with jealous resentment, but now… I wish her well. She deserves to be happy.
Buoyed by the realization, Harry turns to Pansy, before he can change his mind. He leans in to speak softly into the pink shell of her ear.
"Pansy… remember how I said I wanted to dance with you, tonight? The first slow dance – it's mine," Harry cockily proclaims. He surreptitiously inhales her entrancing fruity scent. Merlin, I've become a creeper… Must. Not. Sniff.
"Oh!" Pansy shivers a little, but keeps her brunette head in place; Harry has to stop himself from succumbing to the impulse to nip her tender ear lobe. "Um… OK. That– that sounds nice. Good, I mean." Her nerves bolster Harry's confidence.
"Excellent. I can't wait," Harry asserts. Pulling back, he gently tucks a stray, silky black wisp behind the ear he still longs to nibble. "You look incredibly beautiful tonight, Pansy. Like an old-time movie star." He catches her eyes with his, close enough to see his own green orbs reflected in them. Her pupils are expanded as she silently returns his regard.
The tips of their pinkie fingers touch in the faintest of caresses, as they simultaneously break eye contact and turn to the dining companions on their other side. Harry keeps his digit in place, excitement whistling through his veins, reminding him of the thrill he always gets from flying his broom.
Hurry up and serve the other courses already – I'm aching to hold this gorgeous, sexy witch as close to me in public as propriety allows.
His anticipatory grin fades a little as considers his (at best) mediocre dancing abilities.
Bollocks.
Viktor chews his succulent pork chops with fig and grape agrodolce with extra care, conscious that Ginny-evra is sending occasional focused glances his way. The sweet and sour sauce created by the combination of balsamic vinegar and honey is indeed delicious, but Viktor's anxiety at wanting to create a good impression with the auburn-headed witch is causing the dish to lose some of its piquant flavour.
I do not vant to be looking like uncultured swine who knows not how to behave off the Quidditch pitch, Viktor tells himself. I vonder if perhaps Ginny-evra forgets our brief interlude last year? She says she does not haff too much to drink after tournament, or I would never haff kissed her.
"Viktor? Are you feeling anxious about your speech?" Miss Luna's calm question interrupts his minor reverie. He smiles benevolently at the petite blonde situated to his right.
"I vas not, until you reminded me I haff to make one soon," he jests. "No – I am used to it now. For years I feel like a dancing bear, but speaking a few well-rehearsed words does not trouble me, anymore," he confirms. "I am sorry, I must be staring into space like goose; I do not mean to ignore you, Miss Luna. How is your meal?" he enquires, gesturing at her plate of rich pasta.
"It's very good, though I do think my own recipe for cauliflower Bolognese is better," Luna nods decisively. "It loses something without the addition of a dash of Gurdyroot infusion, in my opinion."
Viktor is spared having to respond as Luna slyly prompts, "Ginny looks fetching tonight, doesn't she? Like a gold statuette brought to life… and her hair is such a glorious shade, against her dress."
"Miss Ginny-evra is stunning," Viktor fervently agrees, unable to stop his black eyes from admiring the comely Chaser once more. "She is not – with Harry Potter? They are broken down… for good, as you say?"
"Broken 'up'; but actually, broken 'down' makes more sense, Viktor," Luna muses. "Harry and Ginny are definitely done, though. They've both confirmed it."
Standing up suddenly, she picks up her mains plate and cutlery. "Come, Ginny, we need to swap places for a little while. I'd like to talk to Draco and Hermione, please," Luna nudges Ginny out of her chair with a firmness Viktor had not thought her capable of utilizing, given her customary dreamy air.
"Oh – well, alright," a flustered Ginny picks up her own meal and flatware and obeys Luna's directive. She looks at Viktor steadily; he wills himself not to gulp, or otherwise betray his thumping exhilaration at her nearness.
"May I try a taste of your meal, please? Here – I can trade you for a bite of my fish," Ginny loads her fork with a chunk of salmon, slow-roasted with olives, capers, lime juice and a splash of rum. She holds it to Viktor's parted lips, carefully popping the appetizing morsel into his mouth.
Once he has swallowed fully, Viktor diligently prepares a reciprocal taste of his pork, holding his breath as Ginny's coral-painted mouth closes around the fork. Long lashes sweep high cheekbones as her wheat-brown eyes close in sensual appreciation of the titbit.
"Scrumptious," she decrees, her small hand patting his as she lowers the fork back to his plate. "Thank you, Viktor."
"You are most velcome, Ginny-evra," Viktor husks, wiggling in his seat as his stupid body reacts to her proximity.
She laughs softly. "Just 'Ginny' is fine, you know. I told you that last year."
"It is not special… and you are special. I call you Ginny-evra, if you do not object," Viktor stubbornly insists.
He decides to broach his concerns about their… history. "May I ask, Ginny-evra: do you remember our – ahem… encounter, at Eastern European Challenge Cup? Your team loses, I take you to local pub in Vratsa… ve kiss, before I return you back to hotel?" he presses, determined to ascertain that he did not take advantage of a drunken witch. The thought alone makes him blench.
Ginny nods vigorously. "Of course I remember… I thought perhaps you'd forgotten, Viktor. I didn't like thinking I came on like a – like a groupie. A fan girl," she elucidates, as he frowns.
"I know of term – I do not use women in this fashion. It is abhorrent, to me. I am grieved you believe I perceived you this way," he austerely replies, his accent thickening as his agitation grows.
"No – you misunderstand! I meant… I thought I– threw myself at you. And you were too polite to tell me I was being unattractively forward." Ginny fidgets with the salt shaker by her right hand, keeping her gaze averted.
"Ginny-evra, I like your boldness: on and off the playing field," Viktor staunchly rebuts. "Also, I am hesitant… we haff Bulgarian saying, 'If you sit still, you won't witness a miracle' – but too often, I freeze in seat. I am lucky man that your miracle comes to me," he shyly confesses. "But then… I do not hear from you again, I think, Ah – the night was fun for her, no more," he shrugs.
Biting her lip, Ginny appears troubled. "I apologize, Viktor… I had a lovely time with you, but when I got home… Harry asked me to give our relationship one more try. We weren't together when I met you at the Cup," she hastens to advise.
"No matter. I am big boy, I understand," Viktor replies. "But now… you are single? Ready to mingle?" he chuckles as Ginny tips back her head and laughs unreservedly at his silly joke. The line of her pale throat is as pure as a Grecian sculpture, he reverently reflects.
"Yes. Yes, I am." Ginny's intelligent hickory-brown eyes gleam as she confirms her relationship status.
This is the best news I haff heard all week. Viktor's pleased grin plays faintly around his mouth as he attentively listens to Ginny's account of her team's chances in the local competition.
I vould like the chance to mingle with you, Ginny-evra… very much.
Merlin's nutsack – the Weasel looks like he'd rather be pushed face-first down a disused well than continue attending this ball. Suck it up, shithead. Draco doesn't bother wiping the maliciously gleeful smile off his face.
"Draco… please stop sneering at Ron. I think there's something else going on with him tonight – nothing to do with him struggling to accept our relationship," Hermione's sweet voice is worried as she expresses her concerns in a low tone. "Do you think he's had a row with Harry? He keeps scowling over at him and Pansy."
Hmmm. Hermione has a point. Draco observes Weasley's burning glower as Pansy exchanges another soft glance with Potter. An idea springs to mind.
"Did Ronniekins ever pursue Pansy? Since you dumped him?" Draco presses.
"Well, I wouldn't say I 'dumped' him; it was more of a mutual agreement that our relationship wasn't working– "
"So you dumped him, go on–"
" – But as far as I'm aware, Ron never dated Pansy? Have you asked her, though?" Hermione's curiosity is clearly piqued.
Shaking his head, Draco explains, "Pansy doesn't confide in me about her liaisons… though not from any squeamishness, I don't think. She's quite private, and she also has expressed her personal aversion to traditional romantic relationships, on numerous occasions. I hope Potter knows what he's about."
He makes a mental reminder to finally instruct Harry on the best way to handle Pansy's prickliness, before the notoriously artless Auror inevitably trips on one of Pansy's emotional triggers.
Pansy and Harry are somewhat charming together – but they're not as adorable as us, of course. Pfft.
Draco's self-satisfied rumination screeches to a halt as Hermione petitions, "Could you please ask Pansy if something happened between her and Ron? Discreetly, of course." She simpers at him as Draco stares back, aghast.
"What?! Ma petite – that really is not a good (or safe) idea… Pansy detests anyone meddling in her affairs. Business and personal," Draco stresses. "She truly would not countenance the query, let alone supply me with an answer that didn't start with 'Fuck' and end with 'you'. Please don't ask me to front her, darling: I believe both of us would prefer my testicles to remain intact."
Hermione slaps playfully at Draco's upper arm. "Oh, I know you're exaggerating, mon cœur – and you are one of her oldest friends. Pansy won't mind." She cocks her head to the side as she glibly suggests an alternative.
"Or… you could tackle Ron about it when we witches visit the bathroom en masse?".
I would rather beg the gingerbread prat for fashion tips, Draco sourly cogitates. "Fine. I'll ask Pansy as soon as I have a chance. It's a good thing I love you with all my heart and soul, Granger – or you'd have a hell of a huge debt to repay for this favour," he whines.
"Oh, really? Tell me, Malfoy… do you accept cash… or kind?" Hermione licks her lips excruciatingly slowly, taking care to seductively trace the outer borders of each vermilion-daubed labium. Draco watches raptly, entranced by the impromptu show.
"Hunnnhhh… what? Kind – I accept payment in kind," he gabbles, as Hermione leans close enough to kiss him… but doesn't.
"Did you enjoy the lamb?" she enquires coquettishly.
"The lamb?" Draco repeats insensibly.
"Your main – the slow-grilled leg of lamb with minty yoghurt and salsa verde," Hermione nods to the nearly empty plate before him.
"Yes, yes – the lamb was delectable… but I'd much prefer to be nibbling the leg of a certain two-legged curly-haired creature right now," Draco decides to fight fire with fire. Hermione's mouth gapes at his salacious intimation.
"Don't pretend you aren't wriggling helplessly in your chair every time you think about what I told you I intend to do to you tonight, Granger… I bet if I were to slide my fingers beneath that maddening slit in your superb dress, and run them up to the juncture of your thighs… slip my fingertips betwixt your smooth skin and hot little knickers… I'd find you wet and needy for me… wouldn't I, sweetheart? Would you like me to demonstrate?" Draco quickly arranges the draped edge of the thick white tablecloth to better cover both their laps, his breathing already shallow and irregular.
Hermione turns the tables on him before he can set his lascivious plan into motion; Draco freezes as her agile little fingers scurry beneath his black outer robes and unerringly locate the buttoned fall of his trousers. She rubs the hefty bulge beneath once, twice, before her hand scrabbles at the buttons and undoes the top two, slipping inside his pants and cupping him tightly through the last layer of his fitted cotton boxers.
Gripping the edge of the table for dear life, Draco can do naught but vaguely stare straight ahead; Hermione's incendiary words are a warm torment in his ear.
"Try to look natural – there you are, breathe, mon chéri," she murmurs huskily, her clever fingers finding and opening the single button on the boxers, until they are skin-to-skin. "You've been quite the tease tonight, Draco… whispering your filthy sweet somethings in my ear, riling me up until I am indeed antsy with the need to be with you… to claim you too, my handsome, sexy wizard.'
"Does this feel good? My fingers, stretched around your hardness, spreading your slick all over your length and girth? I want you so hard for me you can barely walk, Draco… I want your mind and body to be filled with nothing but a craving to have me, take me, possess me… I am yours, Draco… but remember – you are mine too," Hermione purrs, her initial exploratory strokes switching to a firm rhythm.
Ohhhhhh fuck. "Hermione – please, stop, I am in grave danger of– of exploding," Draco's groaned protestation is muffled as he bites the inside of his cheeks to keep his savage impending orgasm at bay. I never dreamed my little lioness was capable of such raunchy exploits… not that I'm complaining.
He is torn between quiet relief and colossal disappointment when Hermione tut-tuts and withdraws her nimble hand. Looking wonderfully proud of herself, she stands up to announce to the table at large, "I should go freshen up – shall we go together, ladies? Sanitary support team?".
Luna, Ginny, and Pansy are quick to agree; they depart for the facilities in a flurry of motion, swishing fabrics, and perfume. Draco manages to unclench his hands from the tablecloth and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead before he quickly rights his trousers – and his swollen flesh.
"You OK there, Malfoy? You look overheated – was the lamb too spicy for you?" Potter pushes the water carafe closer.
"No – I'm fine," Draco croaks, refilling his tumbler and swigging from it until the glass is drained. "It's hot in here, isn't it? I'm not used to being around so many other people in a public space."
"I would've thought you'd be used to big crowds – you know, from your AA meetings," Ron gibes. "Assuming that's not just another line of bullshit you're using to play on Hermione's weakness for saving crippled beasts."
"Bloody hell, Ron! You swore you wouldn't start any trouble!" Harry growls, as Draco slides his wand into his hand.
"I said I wouldn't upset Hermione – and she's not here, is she?" Ron argues his shaky logic as he rises to his feet; the other three wizards swiftly follow suit. "I've got every right to call out this dickhead, though."
"I think you haff said enough, Mr Weasley," Viktor looks troubled, but resolute. "Herm-own-ninny tells me yesterday that Draco Malfoy is everything to her – that he is her heart. You are saddened, but you must accept Herm-own-ninny's decision, and move on."
"So says the crafty codger sniffing around my baby sister," Ron whinges. "And you, Harry – you're gagging to be another of Pansy Parkinson's many conquests, huh? I wish you good luck, mate – you're going to bloody need it." He raises his glass in a mocking salute.
Definitely some history behind that statement, Draco decides.
"You watch your mouth about Pansy, Ronald Weasley," Harry snarls. "Or I'll fucking shut it for you."
"Ooooh, Mr Big Time Auror's gonna throw down, is he?" Ron taunts, waggling his fingers in an exaggerated display of mock fear. "If you laid down your wand and your badge and just came at me, Harry – you wouldn't stand a fucking chance."
"What the hell is your problem?! What's gotten into you, Ron? You're supposed to be my friend…" As angry as he is, Harry's sorrow at his long-time friend's attack is palpable.
"Who says I'm the one with the problem?" Ron snipes. His aquamarine eyes are feral as he lasers them around the table.
"That's enough. Both of you. Weasley – I couldn't give a Skrewt's arse what you think of me. You lost Hermione because you didn't treasure her, you dipshit. You can bet your last Knut I won't ever make that mistake. No – shut up, I'm not finished," Draco's coldly authoritative tones silence Ron's sullen rebuttal.
"I don't know exactly what's gone on between you and Pansy – but Pansy has also made a clear choice, and that's Potter. Grow up and accept it, and stop blaming your friend for your failures. As much as I'd love to knock you out cold and drag you outside to the gutter, I won't: but only because Hermione wouldn't like to see you hurt. You're not worthy of her loyalty, but I will not allow you to upset her tonight. You shan't insult or perturb any of our witches, understood?".
Pausing for added effect, Draco glares at the Weasel as he enunciates his final warning with crisp precision. "Either sit down, paste on some semblance of a happy face, and stay quiet for the rest of the evening – or Potter calls over Gilmont and Faulkner to escort you outside. Your call."
Ron's face curdles, bitterness sweeping across his features like thick smog. From the corner of his eye, Draco notes Potter stealthily beckoning his Auror team closer; but Weasley chooses that moment to visibly deflate.
"I'll settle down. I didn't mean to go off like that… sorry, Harry." Ron slumps back into his chair and scrubs at his face.
To his credit, Potter doesn't jump to reassure his friend that all is instantly forgiven. "We need to talk, Ron. Not now… but soon." Harry's face is inscrutable, his mouth grim.
"Yeah. I know," Weasley sighs unhappily. He opens his gloomy eyes and jerks his head to Viktor and Draco. "Don't expect me to apologize to either of you – but I'll keep my mouth shut."
"Auror Potter. Gilmont and I wish to speak with you for a moment, if you please." Faulkner eyes Ron with distaste; Draco assumes some of Ron's nastiness reached the pair's ears. Checking the room, he is gratified to note that the few curious gazes they recently attracted have returned to their own business, by and large.
Tossing down his napkin, Harry nods sharply at the other three mages. "Excuse me."
Viktor and Draco share a look of exasperated understanding after watching Ron moodily Transfigure his own linen serviette into a pack of cards, stacking them atop one another in a pyramid foundation… only to childishly crash them into a muddled mess.
What a wanker.
