Hi guys

This chapter features a lot of Geordie slang; I've included the translations at the end. If I've gotten any of it wrong, please let me know.

Also, apparently rissoles aren't a common meal outside of Britain and Australia: for the record, they're mince patties (not unlike hamburger, but often also containing diced onion, vegies, breadcrumbs and beaten egg to bind them), and are usually pan-fried. I highly recommend them as a quick and delicious comfort food.

Thank you all for reading!
Much love from VJ xoxo.


Chapter 74

Monday 24 March 2003: PM

Tucking the bouquet of daisies and sweet peas behind his back, Blaise knocks twice on Mrs Green's apartment door, a smile already wreathing his handsome face. His grin fades as his polite raps go unanswered.

Nella did say I was welcome to drop by… perhaps they've been held up at the school? He wills himself not to fret as the seconds tick past. I've not much understanding of how Muggle schooling works – it's entirely possible that Tavi has some sort of extra classes or whatnot. No need to assume she's been injured… or that Mrs Green's in trouble, for that matter. Be cool, Blaise.

His next knock is more forceful. Bending his ear to the door, Blaise is alarmed as he catches the distinct sound of soft sobs.

"Mrs Green? Tavi? It's me, Blaise," he calls, pushing back panic. "Hello?!".

The door abruptly opens a few moments later; the relief he feels upon seeing Nella's drawn features is near palpable.

"Ach, Blaise pet – wor bairn is up a height, we dinna hear the door," her accent is as strong as her distress. "The lass won't calm doon, ye ken – ye'd best come back when she's not in a right fettle," Nella sighs, her thin hand trembling on the door knob.

"Please, I'd like to help," Blaise quietly entreats. The broken sounds of the little girl crying aren't loud, but they are piteous, nonetheless. "What's happened, Mrs Green? Is she hurt?". He gently pushes past her, his eyes tracking down the narrow hallway. The flat is mirror-identical to Gus and Tavi's; he deduces that the living room is to the right.

"Aye – we stopped by the playground, as is our wont; two young laddies did push her off the swings… I've patched her scrapes, but the lass is bubblin' worse on account of what they called her, the wretched wazzocks," Nella growls. "'Spastic', and 'orphan' – the proper wee bastards."

Blaise grips the blameless posy so hard, a few of the weaker stems scatter on the floor. "These boys – where are they now?!" he demands, as Nella crosses her arms and shakes her head wearily.

"Divvent be worrit wiv that – had ya watta, pet. Yon kidda needs a friend. Go on wiv ye," she jerks her head toward the lounge.

Bolting down the corridor, Blaise's heart cracks as he glimpses Tavi curled up on the old (though well-maintained) green velvet recliner, clutching a… crocheted toy dinosaur? He drops to his knees before the armchair.

"Hallo, Miss Octavia. It's just Blaise, Kiddo," he softly speaks. "Who's your dinosaur buddy? He's a triceratops, right?".

Tavi's sniffles pause upon hearing his voice; slowly, she raises her wet, woebegone face. Behind her thick glasses, her little eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with misery.

"Mr Blaise? Gus isn't home from work yet," the child croaks. "This is Tricky – she's a triceratops, Mrs Green made her for me," she hugs the grey-green toy closer to her hunched chest.

"I know, poppet – I've come to see you, and Mrs Green, if that's alright?" Blaise awkwardly proffers the slightly limp floral posy. "These are for you… I saw that little daisy you put in Gus's hair on Gala night, and I thought you might like them. The sweet peas are for fragrance; the lady at the shop said a whole bunch of daisies can smell a bit like cow– never mind," he hastily abbreviates.

"Manure?" Tavi's tiny giggle is music to Blaise's ears. She unfurls herself from the tight posture she's adopted, stretching out her skinny arm to stroke the petals of the flowers. "Thank you, Mr Blaise… they're lovely."

Gulping, she wistfully adds, "Mrs Green keeps potted flowers on the kitchen windowsill – she gave me that one for Gus's hair. Gus says that our mum loved daisies… I don't remember much about her." Her lower lip tremors.

Oh fu-fu-funambulists! Blaise internally kicks himself for not checking before bringing the bouquet. "I'm sorry– I can easily Transfigure them–" he fumbles for his beech wood wand, before Tavi stays his hand.

"No, please leave them – I love them," she earnestly informs. "And the sweet peas."

"Here, lassie, I'll ferret out a vase," Nella takes the bunch, carrying them into the small kitchen. "Now, ye must be clamming for scran; nowt fancy, young Blaise, but ye're welcome to join us. Rissoles and mash, and I'm a dab hand wiv the gravy," she nods.

"I'd love to stay for dinner," Blaise mentally crosses his fingers, hoping he has correctly interpreted the no-nonsense invitation. "What can I do?".

"Ye can keep Tavi company, and vice versa. Games in the box," Nella points to a small plastic crate beside the green velvet sofa. "Go easy on him, lass – ye might be dunching his colossal ego if ye beat him oft enough," she cackles.

Thanks, Nella. Blaise doesn't protest the mild chivvying, as it's brought a wan smile to Tavi's sad face. He undoes his tie and wriggles out of his navy suit jacket, folding both onto the back of the couch.

"Come on, Tavi – let's see if you're as competitive as your big sister, hmmm?".


Well, damn. Gus is a rank amateur compared to this little shyster. Blaise concedes defeat (yet again) as the rickety wooden tower topples with his last ill-considered move.

"Jenga!" Tavi carols, snickering at Blaise's disgruntled expression. "That's three games to zero, Mr Blaise – I'm the champion!" she crows delightedly.

"Listen, Kiddo – my fingers are much bigger than yours… and also, I suck," Blaise grins. "Well played, Miss Octavia."

"Thanks… do you want to play again?" Tavi begins gathering the small beams and reshaping them into a brick shape.

"Yes: but what if this time, we used our magic to withdraw each piece, instead of our hands?" Blaise prompts, ensuring he couches the idea as casually as he can.

"Oh – but I don't have a wand yet…" Tavi appears uncertain, her eyes flicking to the game blocks. "My… my magic isn't very good," she whispers. "Maybe those mean boys were right…"

The poor little darling – those puerile shitheads will rue this day, Blaise vows.

Plastering an encouraging smile to his face, he staunchly replies, "Rubbish – you're a brilliant, brave, amazing witch. Don't worry about those fools, Kiddo. Ignorant and weak people – bullies – always attack anyone or anything they don't understand, especially when they see how much better and brighter those people are in comparison to their own mean, joyless little lives. You're an extraordinary person, and I'm lucky to be your friend," he emphatically declares.

Tavi knocks over the recently re-constructed Jenga tower as she hurtles herself at him, hugging him as tightly as her juvenile strength allows. He pats her back gently, surreptitiously sniffing away his tears. He catches Mrs Green's approving eye; she winks once, before returning her attention to the burbling pots and pans on the compact stove top.

"Mr Blaise… did you get bullied, too? Gus doesn't talk about it much, but sometimes I overhear her talking to Mrs Green about the nasty things she gets called at work," Tavi quietly confesses, pulling back to look searchingly at his face. "Gus always tells me that deep down, bullies are insecure, and I should feel sorry for them – but mostly I just want to throw dirt at their stupid poopy-heads."

I hear ya, kid. Blaise chuckles to himself at Tavi's aggrieved pout, doing his level best to tamp down his heightened degree of fury at the mention of Gus's snide detractors. I'm going to need a whole new notebook for my Shit List, it seems.

"Yeah… kids are cruel, Tavi. They sniff out your fears and weaknesses quicker than a Thestral can smell blood – erm, sorry, you know what I mean," he hedges, as Mrs Green harrumphs at his macabre example.

"I wasn't always this tall and handsome," Blaise makes a big production of flexing his biceps, as Tavi snickers. "I was a bit of a pipsqueak until I had a late growth spurt, and the bigger kids liked to push me around. Plus… they said a lot of horrid things about my mother, and her many husbands," he sighs. "Anyway, to answer your question: I think everyone gets bullied at some point, Kiddo. I'll show you a few self-defence moves before I go, but the best strategy is to stay clear of bad people, if you can."

He waves his hand to seamlessly reassemble the game. "Come on, I reckon we can play one last match before dinner's ready."

"But what about the ban on underage magic?" Tavi points out, worming back to her side of the stack and sitting up raptly.

"Eh – as if any overworked Ministry minion is going to know the exact dimensions of your council flat? As long as we stay on this floor, we'll be right as rain," Blaise confidently announces. "Now, take a long hard look at the tower, pick out the beam you want to move, and close your eyes, Miss Octavia. Imagine your magic is an extra, agile hand; open your eyes and reach out with that magical hand, very gently."

He holds his breath as Tavi scrunches up her face in profound concentration, poking out her actual finger before hastily withdrawing it; they share a tiny chortle, before she tries the metaphysical approach.

Her chosen block has almost exited its niche when the slight wobble turns into a full-blown quake, toppling the stack.

"It's no good! I'm hopeless!" Tavi shrieks, covering her reddened face with her hands.

"What – you're going to give up because you didn't get it exactly right on the first go?" Blaise injects pragmatic astonishment into his tone. "Buck up – I fell off my broom and landed in a cluster of nettles – repeatedly – the first time I tried to fly! Gelsy had to tweezer thorns out of my bum, legs, and back for over two hours… not my finest moment," he divulges.

"That was a practice run, it doesn't even count for points," Blaise magically re-establishes the wooden pillar. "Have another go, and skip the tantrum – I'm due one, and it'll be a doozy," he winks slyly. "Although… if you're too scared to try… I guess I can live with being crowned The Winner by Default," he shrugs carelessly.

A long pause, before Tavi grumbles, "I know what you're doing, Mr Blaise: you're using reverse psycho-psycholo– psychology on me. That word's hard, it's got a lot of syllables," she puffs a stray honey blonde strand out of her eyes. "I guess I can try again – but only because I want to," she concedes.

Blaise feigns disinterest as Tavi attempts to move a new piece, though his smile is irrepressible when she uses her sorcery to successfully tug it free, laying it gingerly atop the column. "Your turn!"

They trade go for go, Tavi gaining surety with each laid block. The game is at a critical point when Blaise pulls at a risky centrepiece, comically sticking out his tongue as he focuses on withdrawing it safely.

The manoeuvre fails spectacularly. Tavi screams "Jenga!" in excitable triumph, as from behind them, Gus's attractive voice laughs, "Are you getting old and rusty, Blaise? Your mind-eye coordination clearly needs some work, huh?". She lifts her plain canvas work bag off her shoulder, slinging it onto the sofa.

His obsidian eyes meet her sardonyx ones; they exchange a brief look of mutual understanding.

I know you just threw that game – I approve, hers say.

I know you know I might have fudged the odds in Tavi's favour – it's for a good reason, his reply.

"This Kiddo's just too good – I accept I have been routed by a far worthier opponent," Blaise rises to his feet, bowing low to Tavi.

The little girl claps her hands, picking up a single block before airily instructing, "Do stand, Sir Blaise; you have battled valiantly, but none shall best Queen Octavia Felice Gilmont." She taps each of his shoulders with the wooden cuboid.

"Did you see that, Gus Gus?! I was using magic, not my hands!" Tavi babbles. "And I won! I mean, I beat Mr Blaise in the first three regular matches, but he was hopeless," she flaps her hand as she blithely dismisses Blaise's prior efforts.

"Such grace in victory," Gus murmurs, gathering Tavi in a side hug and dropping a kiss on her fair head. "Have you had a good day, Queen Octavia? Hold up – why do you look like you've been crying?" Gus's easy smile darkens to a frown.

Nella bustles about, balancing two loaded plates. "Gus, be a good lassie and extend the bench? There's nowt to fash about, we've got it sorted."

"Here – allow me," Blaise nimbly nabs the crockery from Nella, dipping his head towards the as yet unlengthened kitchen bar. "You're up, Gussie."

After she rolls her eyes, Gus flicks her wand, muttering the enchantment. As the bench grows to accommodate another placing, she moves to replicate one of the three sturdy wooden stools. It births into existence with a loud pop and rattle.

The kitchen/dining is now at full capacity; Blaise uncomfortably wonders at how small the apartment feels, compared to his mansion. He unobtrusively takes a quick look around; the flat is stringently clean and neat, but it's clear that Mrs Green (like the Gilmonts) has had to make do with limited funds and minimal space. I have to find a way to make their lives better and brighter – they deserve much more than this, he silently pledges.

"Smart work, lassie," Nella remarks. "We've quite the crood tonight – a fowersome, for the first time in my wee flat. Tavi, I'll ask ye to seek the cutlery, after ye've packed away every stick." The child nods, little hands busy with the Jenga box.

Blaise sniffs heartily at the delicious aromas of fried beef mince, onions, and buttery mashed potatoes. Nella hands him the other two plates.

"Ye'll note I've given ye and Gus bigger lashins of food; ye're of a decent size, and need plenty of bait to keep going," Nella firmly asserts. "I'm not on the hard card, so eat up."

I'm positive Nella is playing up the Geordie lingo to keep me on my toes, Blaise muses. Best to nod and smile, methinks.

"Thank you, Mrs Green. This looks and smells absolutely wonderful," Blaise sincerely praises. Gus and Tavi add their thanks, as Nella smooths her paper napkin over her lap.

"Aye, well, it's nobbut but taties and mince patties – we're not paaky, mind." Though her countenance stays dour, Nella's thin lips tilt up as she picks up her knife and fork. "Have a hunk of breed, pet."

Dutifully offering around the basket of bread, Blaise then applies himself to his mountain of mash and rissoles, liberally doused in rich brown onion gravy. His doubts that he may not be able to consume the entire heaped plate vanish as soon as he tastes the first heavily-laden forkful.

"Mrs Green, you are a domestic goddess," he commends, speaking rather inelegantly around his mouthful of delectable 'scran'. "Marry me? Please? Some may caustically judge our May/December romance, but I care not for their disapprobation," he solemnly avers.

"Whisht! 'December' – what neck! That's more like 'November', ye workyticket gadgie," Nella grouches. "Supposing I'd have ye, mind," she sniffs, as Gus and Tavi laugh and high-five each other.

"I'm crushed – yet my appetite is blessedly unaffected," Blaise happily shovels more food into his gob. The amiable conversation turns to Mrs Green telling an amusing anecdote of how her late husband Roger once mistakenly ate strips of dog treats instead of beef jerky, having come home 'mortal' drunk from the pub.

"What happened, Mrs Green?" asks an agog Tavi. "Did Mr Roger get sick?"

"Sick? Not him, bairn. Nowt happened, but in the morn I gave the dog Roger's jerky – nobbut fair, ye ken." Nella delivers the punchline with precise timing and inflection; Blaise nearly slides off his stool from the strength of his guffaws.

Across the narrow table, his gaze collides with Gus's. Blaise momentarily ceases feeding his face as the force of her wide, uninhibited grin hits him hard. The memory of her mouth fervidly moving on his (as they'd 'said' goodbye on Saturday night) rockets through his brain.

After Side-Apparating back to the Gilmonts' apartment, Blaise had laid down a still-sleeping Tavi onto her bed, waiting in the lounge as Gus had changed her sister and tucked her into bed. He'd declined the offer of a hot beverage, noting her stifled yawn and tired eyes.

Leaving the poky little apartment, Blaise had opened his mouth to say goodnight; the words had blissfully died on his lips as Gus had pushed forward and kissed him silly. As in, actually speechless – her eager lips and seeking tongue had decimated his reason and inflamed every one of his senses, turning his mind into a primitive looping chant of Yes and Ooh yes and More please.

It had taken every last scrap of his fluctuating self-control to not surrender to his urge to slide his hands over each inch of her luscious body; instead, he'd kept his hands fisted at his sides, moaning (probably pathetically, not that he could have cared less) as Gus had spent a magnificent few minutes exploring his mouth and nipping at his neck and jaw.

He'd swayed as she'd finally stepped back into the flat, staring at him with an inscrutable expression, passion-dilated eyes, and a kiss-swollen mouth.

"Goodnight, Blaise… thank you for a wonderful day," Gus had softly husked.

"'N-Night, Gussie – you're welcome," Blaise's voice had creaked like a rusty gate. He remembers nothing of the trip home, his head somewhere off on Cloud Nine as he'd relived every moment of their torrid trysts. Gelsy's return to the mansion had caught him mooning into the Floo fireplace, sporting an asinine simper as he'd built castles in the air.

"Is Signor Blaise sick? Gelsy prepares the cod liver oil," she'd sharply insisted; her implication that he'd looked constipated hadn't dented his effusive gaiety one whit.

Blaise had popped off the incommodious armchair he'd drifted into and merrily danced his disconcerted house elf across the floor, twirling her diminutive form with ease as he'd gushed, "The world's a truly wonderful place, isn't it, Gels? How lucky are we, to be inhabiting this fantastic lump of rock at this particular moment in time and space?".

"Gelsy advises Signor Blaise to run a cool bath and ingest a fever potion," she'd squawked, smacking away his light hold on her tiny hands. "Sciocco innamorato! Buona notte, cucciolo."

Absentmindedly murmuring his own goodnight, Blaise had dreamily gazed into the hearth a tad longer, before partly taking Gelsy's advice. He'd run his shower cold, rather than cool… yet it hadn't succeeded in abating his blazing desire for the tall, strong, incredibly sexy blonde Auror with the wicked smile and dark caramel eyes.

Blaze – Blaise – Blaising desire – heh, I just invented a new word, he'd pondered, as he'd luxuriously stretched out on his massive, silk-sheeted bed… eventually falling asleep to experience a series of fabulously carnal dreams, all starring Gussie.

Now, Gus's fork clatters onto the bench, snapping their intense, wordless connection. "Sorry," she mutters, turning her head to address Nella. "I apologize for being late; I had to finish up the paperwork for our arrest today."

Gus's teeth bare in a triumphant grin as she announces, "Harry trusted my hunch about Barry Bones – we caught the bas– we caught him lurking in his aunt's attic. He's enjoying the dubious hospitality of a cell in Azkaban right about now."

"Well done, lass!" Nella had led the chorus of congratulations. "Ye'll be Minister of Magic afore ye're thirty, at this rate," she'd nodded decisively.

"Your ambition is to be the Minister, Gussie? You'll be the best damn– darned Minister in the history of the institution," Blaise had warmly lauded. "If you ever need an introduction to any influential bigwigs, just let me know."

Uh-oh. I really should have reworded that sentence. Or just never said it. Blaise wishes his enthusiastic (rash) words unspoken as Gus slowly swallows, laying down her cutlery and dabbing her lips with her serviette.

She glares right through him as she replies, "If I can't make it to the top on my own merits, I'd rather not make it at all, Zabini. I take particular pains to avoid the dubious nepotism of the 'old boys network', and all the unscrupulous backscratching, and under-the-table wheeling and dealing it entails. Excuse me a moment." Back rigid, she takes her plate to the small sink to rinse, before stalking off to the bathroom.

Nella and Tavi regard Blaise with exasperated, sympathetic expressions, as he returns his dejected attention to the dining table.

"Howay, man! Ye dafty! The lass is proper crabby, an ye've nobbut ye feul gob to blame," Nella wags her bony forefinger. "A byeut in the hint-end, that's what ye be needing."

A kick up the bum? Agreed. Blaise hangs his head, unable to defend his moronic self.

"Mr Blaise, Gus hates unfairness; and she detests being reliant on charity. I know you didn't mean it like that, but the chip on her shoulder took it that way," Tavi chimes in. "Once she started working nights at the supermarket, she set aside a portion of her salary to donate back all the money she estimated we'd received, up until we got the flat. She still saves that percentage, only now she gives it to a wide range of charities."

Swallowing hard, Blaise realizes he hasn't a clue as to where his charitable donations go – or how much he annually contributes. My accountant just tells me he adjusts the amount according to how much tax I'm paying… I could be funding a scheme to build a replica of Noah's Ark, for all I know. He sinks lower on the stool.

Walking back into the room, Gus begins gathering their empty plates.

"Leave it, lass – change the bench back, and take young Blaise next door. He's wanting to cadge your pardon, and I'll see to the bairn's homework." Nella prods Gus out of her way, blatantly ignoring Gus's grumbling objections. "Gan, Gus."

Tavi flashes Blaise a cheeky smile, her splinted legs moving a little wonkily as she walks to help Nella at the sink.

Gus refuses to look at him; she whips out her wand to return the kitchen bar to its original dimensions, and disappears the extra stool, before she loudly huffs and makes for the front door. Scrambling behind her, Blaise rapidly fashions and rehearses a decent apology in his head.

'I've a terrible case of Foot in Mouth disease – '. No, I sound like a stricken sheep.

'I never meant to sound condescending; I apologize if I offended you'. Hell, no! Total 'man-apology' – strike that.

'I'm sorry, Gussie. I'm an idiot. I never meant to imply you need any unfair advantage to achieve your goal; you're going to make it on your merits and achievements, and I'll be at the very front of the assembly when you're appointed the Minister of Magic, clapping and cheering until my hands fall off and my voice box disintegrates'. OK, I'll lead with that.

Following Gus into the Gilmont's cramped apartment, Blaise wipes his sweating palms on his trousers.

I've got this. Yep. Sure.


Monday 24 March 2003: PM

"Pansy? It's Hermione," she calls out, admiring anew the skilful décor of her friend's lounge room. She really has such a superb eye for colours and styles. "Hello?".

"Pollyanna? What's wrong?!" Pansy rushes out from the kitchen, wearing a frilly white apron over her sherbet pink linen pants suit. "Is Harry OK? Is Draco alright?".

"Oh, they're fine – I didn't mean to worry you. Sorry for dropping in like this, I'll be quick; it looks like you're expecting company… maybe a certain brunet Auror, I'm guessing?" Hermione can't resist razzing, as she gives Pansy a fond hug.

"Look, Harry's just coming over for a bite of supper – I'm not sure when he'll arrive, he's had a very busy day…" Pansy folds in her lips, biting back her smile. "Oh, fuck it– Hermione, he said he wants to spend as much time with me as I'm willing to 'tolerate'! He punched the living daylights out of Barry Bones today! And– and– we slept together last night!" Pansy's high-pitched confession leaves Hermione gobsmacked.

"Oh, we didn't have sex – I mean, we truly slept together – I asked if I could stay the night at Grimmauld Place, and I slept in his arms – he was so sweet and caring, I felt protected and safe and special… Hermione, Harry arranged for our dinner of macaroni and cheese, and strawberry ice cream, and Kreacher was really nice to me, and he even asked me to look after Boadie while I was there – and Harry played me his favourite records, and we talked and snuggled on the couch in his den… eeeeeeeee!" Grabbing Hermione's hands, Pansy knocks them both onto the blue chintz sofa, still gleefully squealing.

My ears are ringing – ah, what the hell, it's time to squall for joy! Hermione mimics Pansy's shrill ululation. The pair collapse breathlessly against the back of the couch, daffy giggles bursting from their mouths from time to time.

Hermione sits up, determined to know more. "Pansy, I'm so thrilled for you! Is Harry going to stay with you tonight, too?".

"Well… I hope so. I'm going to ask him, anyway." Pansy clasps together her hands as she candidly elaborates, "Hermione, it was the most intimate experience of my life… I made Harry take off his shirt, and he's such an amazing cuddler– "

"No– I get it– not too much detail, please, Harry's basically my brother," Hermione interjects, wincing a little.

"Pfft – get over yourself, Pollyanna. From the look of you, I'd say you've been on the receiving end of orgasms a-plenty from Lord Malfoy," Pansy gibes, chortling as Hermione turns beet-red. "Ha! I knew it! You look totally 'freshly-plucked', my friend."

Gosh, I really thought she was going to choose a different verb. Chuffing an amused sigh, Hermione fakes disdain.

"Just because Draco is accompanying me to work this week in lieu of Mac, it doesn't mean I don't take my professional responsibilities seriously," Hermione austerely responds. She ruins her severe aspect as she drolly includes, "We shagged in a broom closet in my lunch hour, and I made up the extra five minutes by skipping my afternoon break."

Pansy slaps her legs and laughs so hard, Hermione is worried she's about to suffer an asthma attack. She joins in the hilarity once she's certain her friend can actually still breathe unimpeded.

"Shush up– it's not– not that funny– it was sexy and hot as hell – but then Blaise busted us and warned that Marilda was about to walk in! He called us 'filthy fornicators', Pansy!" Hermione wheezes. "Stop it, stop it – I came here to ask you something, and I can't remember it for all our silliness!"

"You two are such hypocrites: after Draco barged in on us this afternoon, Harry listed the multiple times he's accidentally walked in on you pair getting down and dirty – and you're squeamish about some innocent snuggling?! Shame on you!" Pansy castigates. Her indulgent grin softens her remonstration.

It's such a relief to see her laughing, Hermione reflects. I know she's hurting – obviously – but the fact that she's taking delight in her developing relationship with Harry… it's so heartening.

"Why do you have that little thinking wrinkle between your brows?" Pansy queries, finally settling down long enough to speak (mostly) normally. "Do you… do you think I'm going too fast? With Harry, I mean." Her mouth droops as she voices her concern.

"No! Definitely not; and if anything, you'll be shouting 'Full steam ahead!' at the driver of your Slow Courtship Train sooner than you think, Pansy," Hermione hastens to assure. "I came by to ask if you might be amenable to the idea of attending therapy, tomorrow evening? I phoned my counsellor, Dr Rica McCarthy – I didn't go into any specifics, just kept my enquiry general – and she's holding open a five PM timeslot for you. Dependent upon whether that's OK with you, of course – I don't wish to pressure you– " Hermione blathers.

"Hermione, it's fine," Pansy quietly interrupts. "I think… it's a good idea. I was putting off seeking more counselling; but I know I have to just stump up and get going. Thank you."

"Oh, it's nothing… I'm sorry if I overstepped, I just want to support you, whatever form that takes," Hermione leans forward to affectionately bump her forehead against Pansy's.

"Will you be there? I should be fine to see this Dr Rica alone… but I would appreciate you going with me, please – if you have the time, I mean," Pansy softly petitions.

"You bet I'll be there; I'm scheduled to see Dr Rica myself straight after, but I'll reschedule that for later in the week," Hermione promises.

"No – it's fine, please keep your original appointment. I'll bring a book, or some paperwork, to bide my time until you finish. Look at us: being all grown-up, getting counselling, enjoying healthy relationships with our boyfriends… anyone would think we're adults or something. Pfft." The light mockery in Pansy's statement sets them off giggling again.

"Pansy – do you know that every time you say 'boyfriend', or 'Harry', you get an adorably goofy look on your face? It's so sweet," Hermione twits. "Have you written a list of baby names yet? I highly recommend no middle names starting with vowels; not a great idea, whether you decide on being Parkinsons, Potters, Parkinson-Potters or Potter-Parkinsons," she titters.

Oof! Pansy smartly thwacks her with a plump blue sofa cushion. "You cheeky witch – as if! Harry and I have just started dating, you maniac. We're not recklessly copulating in workplace cupboards." Pausing in her pillow-based assault, Pansy eyes Hermione critically.

"Speaking of weird expressions on one's face… what does yours currently indicate? Ah-ah-ah – you and Draco have had the 'Children Talk', huh? Let me guess: Draco wants one for every day of the week?" she crows, as Hermione pinkens.

"Pansy – he said he wanted ten – TEN! I think he was joking – by Aphrodite, I hope he was joking," Hermione mumbles, pleating the ruffle on the fluffy cushion's border. "I talked him down to two… well, he said three, I said two… you don't think he was being serious, do you? Pansy?!" she keens, as her friend pityingly shakes her head.

"Darling, hie thee to the library and dig out that baby name book; I have a very strong feeling that you're going to need to consult it – repeatedly – in the coming months… no, years," Pansy amends. "Listen – you're nothing if not logical, so let me present the facts."

Ticking off points on her fingers, Pansy begins, "One: you and Draco Malfoy are now irrevocably soul-bonded, with your magical cores regularly mating (correct me if I'm wrong) when you make love; does that happen with your conscious control? No? I thought not.'

"Two: you're having sex with the aforementioned young wizard at every opportunity… and you both likely intend to keep to your busy libidinous schedule? Yes.'

"Three: are you one hundred percent diligent – both of you – about casting the contraceptive charm? Are you also taking Muggle contraceptives, or using condoms? Hermione, your poker face is pathetic, I'm afraid." Pansy clucks sympathetically. "Here, I'll grab you a bottle of water," she Accio's one from the kitchen, plonking it between Hermione's numb hands.

No – we have cast the contraception charms… OK, occasionally we've cut it a little fine, but it's definitely been spoken – effectively spoken… and I doubt our soul-bonded magic would deliberately betray us by ignoring our conscious wishes… Pansy's just painting a worst-case scenario. It's fine; really. It's good to have a wake-up call. Hermione nods to herself and inhales deeply.

"It's fine… totally fine…" she repeats aloud. "I'm definitely not pregnant, nor am I planning on becoming enceinte in the near future. I mean, we've only been together for a month – we're not even engaged! There's no need to worry. Don't look at me like that, Pansy."

"If you say so," Pansy soothes. A mite condescendingly, Hermione notes, as she steadfastly squashes her mild panic back into its box.

"Come to the kitchen for a moment before you get going, please," Pansy requests. "I want to ask you what Harry's favourite foods are, and his dislikes – oh, and if he has any allergies?". She helps Hermione to her feet, wrapping a compassionate arm around her waist.

"It's alright, Pollyanna – I was mostly teasing. Just keep it in mind, hmmm?"

"I'm supposed to be comforting you, Pansy – not the other way around," a subdued Hermione remarks.

"Why don't we agree to take it in turns? I've heard that's what best friends do, you know," Pansy grins. "You'll be alright, Golden Girl… as will I."

Returning her friend's supportive smile, Hermione begins to recite Harry's food preferences.

Monday 24 March 2003: PM


"I accept your apology, Blaise – but what happened to Tavi today?" Gus whirls on Blaise the moment he finishes his sincere (albeit somewhat grandiose) apology for his earlier Minister of Magic gaffe.

He gestures toward the floral settee. "Let's sit down, Gussie. Please."

Temper rising, Gus prowls to the tired old brown couch, positioning herself at the far end. Let Blaise find out for himself that the middle spot is a sagging trap, if he should try to sit closer to me. To her disappointment, he gracefully perches at the opposite end of the ancient sofa.

"Two horrid boys called Tavi names and pushed her off the swings at the park this afternoon; I wasn't there, but it won't happen again," Blaise informs with savage finality. "Poor Tavi was beside herself when I arrived at Mrs Green's apartment, so I spent some time with her, and we played Jenga, until dinner was ready."

He keeps his beautiful dark eyes trained on the bedraggled carpet as he says, "She's such an amazing kid, Gus. I know you've had a hard time of it, and I wish I'd known you earlier – I wish I'd been able to help you through the rough patches… anyway, I just want to tell you that you're doing a fantastic job of raising her. Tavi's a credit to you, Mrs Green, and your late parents."

Shit – there he goes again, disarming my annoyance and ire with his sweet, ingenuous heart. I know that he means every word; I can see his sincerity shining from him. Can I really trust him, though? Gus asks herself. I loathe feeling vulnerable… or being dependent on anyone bar myself.

"You can trust me, Gus. I won't let you down," Blaise uncannily echoes her recent thought processes.

"Did I say something aloud?". The query spills from her surprised lips before she can censor it.

"No – are you alright, Gussie?" Blaise shuffles closer; before she can change her mind and warn him of the centre sag, he falls right into it – like a man sinking into quicksand, Gus observes. She is unable to quell her helpless laughter as he flails in astonishment, his long legs humorously concertinaing underneath him.

"Help! It's got me!" Blaise bellows, his thrashing arms managing to snaffle her hands; he tugs her on top of him, continuing to writhe beneath her as he fights to get clear of the structural weakness. "What's happening, woman?! Get me out of this brown monster, I beg you, Gussie!".

"Stop fighting it! It's like a riptide at the beach, Blaise – the more you struggle against it, the deeper it takes you," Gus gasps. Even through her robes and underclothes, she is intensely aware of his hard male body rubbing and threshing against hers… making her breasts ache, and her sex throb. She tries to roll off him onto the floor, but his grip doesn't ease as he holds her semi-flush against him.

"The trick is to wiggle your bum free, and the rest follows," Gus imparts, her hands reaching beneath them for Blaise's buttocks and grasping firmly. "Oh! Sorry – I wasn't thinking – " She snatches away her hands, her cheeks flame as she recognizes her overstep (and the singular sensation of his powerful musculature beneath her tingling fingers).

"Keep 'not thinking', Gussie… let's try that again… relax, mia bella guerriera," he whispers, keeping his eyes open as he strains upward, gently hovering just under her parted mouth. Blaise's breath puffs against her lips, as she jettisons her last fetters of restraint.

Cupping her hands around his tight rump again, Gus manages to pull him up and out of the cavity, rolling them toward the lip of the couch. They lie facing each other, both panting shallow breaths, imbued with arousal and anticipation. Her red work robes are hopelessly tangled between his long legs, though she knows Blaise would release her immediately if she asked.

Eager to sample his beautiful mouth, Gus foregoes subtlety, sealing their mouths with a long, fierce, molten kiss that sends lust rushing headlong through her sparking nervous system. By Rowena, the man tastes like pure temptation – and I'm dying to take another bite. Changing the angle of her vigorous kiss, Gus revels in Blaise's arms tightening around her, clamping her nearer to his powerful physique.

We're almost of a height… everything fits, Gus wonders, appreciating that actuality even more as Blaise's bulging manhood abrades her aching core in precisely the right spot. She zealously grinds back, loving his deep groan into her mouth almost as much as she enjoys the spectacular friction as they shamelessly slide together.

"Gussie… my Gussie," Blaise croons, moving his lips down to her neck and nibbling from left to right as she tips back her head to allow him greater access. "I want to taste all of you… I want to lap at every inch of your magnificent body – I want to watch you come apart over and over, from the touch of my lips, and hands, and cock, cara," he applies himself to backtracking over the path his lips have taken along her throat, until he is once more kissing her greedily.

A warning bell chimes in Gus's fevered consciousness, though it takes a few seconds for her desire-maddened body to catch up. "Wait– wait– " she mumbles, her hands slackening as he immediately pulls away.

"Gussie? Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry," Blaise's handsome face is creased with anxiety; he scoots further back, clearly worried he has insulted her.

"Careful – you'll collapse back down The Hole," Gus warns, tentatively snaking her left arm back around his waist to keep him from falling. Dammit, why did I have to freak out like that?! He'd never do anything with me I'm not comfortable with – he's an honourable, decent person.

Angry tears prick her eyes as Gus resolves to just tell him the truth of the matter. If he runs, he runs – he has to know, sooner or later (especially considering my obvious addiction to his smooches and caresses).

"Blaise, you didn't do anything wrong. I was– I am– really into you– I mean, I was enjoying that– " Gus waves a frustrated hand to encompass their fervent clinch – "very much."

"OK…" he slowly answers, puzzlement drawing down his jet brows. "I came on too strong, didn't I? What I said, about– about tasting you," he clears his throat, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks in a jittery blink.

"No. Look at me, Blaise. The thing is… um, what I'm trying to say is… I'm a virgin. Technically. As in, I have not had sex before. With anyone but– but myself. That's why I panicked a bit. I'm nervous, Blaise." Gus studies him like a hawk, despite her expanding embarrassment.

Is he having a stroke? She briefly contemplates the possibility, as Blaise does a stand-up impression of a man stunned into unconsciousness. Only his wide-open, stupefied eyes and the weird whining noise emitting from his gaping mouth indicate he is still sentient.

Shaking his broad torso with her bracing arm, Gus enquires, "Zabini? Are you still with me? Give me something, big guy."

"You… Gussie… virgin… how… why… sex…" the disjointed words tumble from his mouth like rough boulders down white water rapids.

"Why don't you try that in English? If you're asking why I haven't had sex before, I'll give you a quick mathematics lesson, Blaise. I was fifteen when I became the sole parent to my five year old sister; I spent the next five years immersed in working, studying, and child-rearing. I sleep on a dilapidated, problematic old couch in my lounge room, and I take as many overtime shifts as I can to ensure my family never goes without.'

"The one luxury I truly don't possess is time – and being that I was already a head taller than most of my Hogwarts classmates, I wasn't exactly Miss Popularity there. You want to know something pathetic? When I kissed you the other day, on the stoop? That was my first proper kiss. Oh, Kolt kissed me under that wretched bloody mistletoe the Ministry hangs up everywhere, last Christmas, but that didn't count," Gus shrugs.

"Faulkner kissed you? That sly fucker," Blaise snarls, finally breaking free of his odd inertia.

"Hang on – that's what you take from my most intimate confession?! Let me up," Gus removes her arm, crossly pushing at his chest. "You utter arse."

"Gussie, wait – please. I'm sorry – I'm a bit bamboozled… please, just give me a minute. Thank you, for telling me – for trusting me. This is… it's a first for me," he admits, his ink-black eyes gleaming with candour.

Ceasing her efforts to withdraw, Gus quietly asks, "Does knowing this change how you feel? In terms of our… friendship?".

Blaise frowns. "Never. I'd never take anything from you that you're not willing – or ready – to freely give. I'll endeavour to repay your honesty with my own… I want you, Gussie. Any way you'll take me. Friend, lover, couch victim in dire need of rescue – I'm yours, to do with as you please."

Ohhh. Wow. It is Gus's turn to freeze, as she battles to fully process Blaise's meaningful proclamation. Jubilation wars with trepidation, as the ramifications of his avowal zip through her astute mind.

"Yep – let that sink in, cara," Blaise grins. "While you're mulling it over… want to snog some more? You're in full control – always," he affirms. "Please remember that I'm coming off a highly traumatic experience with a killer sofa – I'm desperately in need of some more of your special brand of sweet lovin', Gussie."

Making smacking sounds with his lips, he nuzzles at her jawline as she curves her arm around his neck.

"Why not? I'm wholly confident that when it comes to carnal research, I couldn't ask for a better teacher," Gus jests.

"True – but I'm delighted to report that you're the only student in my classroom, Gussie. Only you, do you understand?" All traces of his clownish demeanour vanish as his serious gaze bores into hers.

"I do. Kiss me, Blaise… but I'll warn you now, if you roll into The Hole again – I may have to sacrifice you to the void."

"Understood; same goes for you, Auror Gilmont. Now, I need your pretty lips back on mine, please." Blaise exaggeratedly puckers up, the heat from his big hands pleasantly steeping into her back as he gently hauls her closer.

Chuckling at his affable antics, Gus eagerly leans forward to obey.


Geordie translations:

wor bairn is up a height – our child is very upset.

dinna – didn't

doon – down

Ye ken – you see

fettle – upset

bubblin' – crying

wazzocks – imbeciles, buffoons

Divvent be worrit wiv that – had ya watta, pet. – Don't be worried about that – leave it [hold your water], love.

clamming for scran – hungry for dinner

dunching – beating, hitting

nowt to fash about – nothing to worry about

crood – crowd

fowersome – foursome

lashins – lashings, lots

bait – food

it's nobbut but taties and mince – we're not paaky – it's only potatoes and mince, we're not fussy [picky].

Whisht! – Hush!

ye workyticket gadgie – you cheeky man

Howay, man! Ye dafty! The lass is proper crabby, an ye've nobbut ye feul gob to blame – Hey! You idiot! The woman is quite angry, and you've only your fool mouth to blame.

Gan – Go.

Italian translation:

Sciocco innamorato! Buona notte, cucciolo – Lovestruck fool! Goodnight, little puppy.

cara – darling.