Chapter 75
Tuesday 25 March 2003: AM
Retracting her head from her cautious peep around the corner of the open kitchen door, Hermione puts her finger to her lips as Draco descends the stairs.
"Shhh – Malfoy, Mac and Ruibby are canoodling in there; they've clearly patched up their differences. Ruibby must have stayed the night. I didn't hear them get in, did you?" she whispers, meeting her boyfriend at the bottom of the steps.
How has he managed to upstage his debonair ensemble of the day before?! Draco Malfoy wearing an all-black three piece suit with a matching shirt and dark grey silk tie (patterned with tiny silver dragons, no less) should come with a warning label. Hermione roughly exhales at the utterly delectable image he presents. This gorgeous creature loves me… ME! She exults in her incredible new reality.
He curls his arms around her, looking down into her eyes with both amusement and exasperation. "I woke in the night to grab some water and heard his bedsprings creaking again, yes. Don't make that squinchy little face, Granger; you were vociferous in your support of Macdolas's (and Ruibby's) sexual empowerment. Be careful what you wish for, ma petite," he grins.
Her conversation with Pansy yesterday evening still fresh on her mind, Hermione ventures, "Do you… do you think they're being responsible? With contraception, I mean." She thinks she has staved off her blush until Draco affectionately chucks her chin, his grey eyes dancing with merriment.
"Well, my love – it is definitely your turn to ask the hard questions. I've written a sex ed manual for the species; it's past time I was cut some slack. Besides, they wouldn't appreciate me querying their prophylactic choices, Mac becomes uncommonly defensive whenever I speak with him," he claims.
"That's because you love to stir him up – no, don't deny it, the look on your face says it all," Hermione indulgently scolds. "Oh, very well… I suppose I'll have a quick word with them both, before you leave for your Hogwarts appointment." Her capitulation deepens Draco's smirk.
"Excellent – I do hope I'm close enough to eavesdrop. We'd best interrupt the twittering little lovebirds to grab some breakfast; Harry will be here any moment to escort you to the Ministry." Draco energetically kisses her willing mouth, his thumbs gliding up to rest just beneath her breasts. Little zaps shiver along Hermione's spine and limbs at the light, stirring touches.
"Mmmm… we have a few more minutes, surely?" Hermione cajoles, winding her eager arms around Draco's neck and surging forward until they are chest-to-chest. He responds by boldly shaping her breasts with his lean fingers, plucking at her nipples through her unfussy cobalt cotton work shirt and lacy bra.
"Oh! Do that again, please," she throatily demands. "I'll miss you today, Draco… we've yet to christen my desk, you know…" Hermione twists her head to suckle at the sensitive corded muscles at the lateral base of Draco's neck.
"Fait chier – you tempt me to sweep you upstairs and have many of my wicked ways with you… you drive me wild, Hermione," Draco groans.
Her titillating response is left unsaid as Harry's clear voice rings from the lounge room. "Hi – it's me, Harry – I'm calling out to ensure I don't interrupt anything, alright? I've been burned too many times before. I'm walking into the kitchen in exactly ten seconds; I can smell coffee, and I badly need one," he grumbles.
Draco keeps kissing Hermione throughout Harry's audible countdown, only stopping when Harry loudly clomps through the lounge and into the hallway.
"Pansy keeping you up late, eh, Harry?" he teases, dextrously rotating Hermione to face to her old friend whilst keeping her encircled in his arms. "My beloved tells me you two are sleeping together, now; in the truest sense of the word."
Such a blabbermouth. Hermione reaches back her hand to pinch Draco's right hip. "Sorry, Harry – we weren't gossiping… well, just a bit," she hedges.
Harry's grumpy mien clears instantly at the mention of Pansy's name. "She's amazing – I mean, I already knew that, but she's just– I really– it's great," he waffles. "Pansy said you dropped by last night, and she told me what she warned you about, Hermione; so I guess I can forgive your overshare to Malfoy," he concludes, grinning widely.
"Warned you about what?" Draco challenges. "Hermione?".
"I'll tell you later," she hastily assures. "Come on, we all have a busy morning," Hermione drags Draco by the hand as they follow Harry into the kitchen/dining space.
"Oh, hell– " Harry mutters, being the first to spy a giggling Ruibby being flirtatiously bounced on Macdolas's lap as the redheaded elf tickles some very sensitive spots on her petite anatomy. "Bloody spring fever! Forget the coffee, I need a memory wipe." He tries to pivot to bolt back to the Floo, but Draco is too quick.
Clamping his hands on Harry's shoulders, Draco propels the disgruntled Auror toward the steaming coffee plunger. "Ignore them; and have some pity for me, I'm taking them to meet Headmistress McGonagall today to discuss our professional futures," he reveals. "Elfish Jane and Bingley are going to induce a savage headache by the end of the morning – I just know it."
"Macdolas informs Master Malfoy his loud insults fail to upset the joy of our true, profound, unique and inviolable love; once again, Master Malfoy grossly overestimates his talent for jocosity!" Mac pipes from his chair, zealously (albeit somewhat awkwardly) standing and gathering up Ruibby as she nervously clutches at his neck for support.
"Macdolas bids good morning and happy tidings to The Most Revered Master Harry James Potter, Sorcerer Extraordinaire and Blessed Co-Saviour of the Wizarding World! Does our Most Cherished Master Harry James Potter require assistance in any way? Macdolas and Ruibby would be honoured to provide such aid." He almost topples the two of them as he begins a predictably deep, elaborate bow.
"Easy there, Mac – it's rather bad form to drop your girlfriend on the floor," Harry steps in to steady the pair. "Thank you, but I'll just grab a coffee before Hermione and I go on our way. Best of luck with your interviews for Hogwarts; I have complete faith in you both. I'm happy to put in a good word with Headmistress McGonagall, if you like?"
Mac's eyes magnify as he gazes raptly at his idol. "The Venerable Master Potter would… would be so kind?" he chokes, as Ruibby slips her scrawny arm around his waist, soothingly petting his back. "Macdolas is most unworthy, but infinitely humbled and ever so grateful… so undeserving…"
"Leave it out – Harry still puts on his trousers one leg at a time and bleeds red, just like the rest of us, Macdolas," Draco acerbically remarks. "Hurry up; we need to walk in from Hogsmeade, and Minerva appreciates timeliness."
Shooting him a snaky glare, Ruibby pertly rebuts, "Ruibby and Macdolas await Master Malfoy as he puts the final preening touches on his presentation."
"I like her," Harry quietly chuckles to Hermione. "Is Draco aware your elves are leading him by the nose?". He quickly pours a coffee into a white mug, doctoring it with a few sugars and stirring briskly.
"He is; he pretends petulance, but he's told me before that he'd sign over the Manor and all its gold and chattels to Mac, if he ever wanted it," Hermione covertly replies. "Draco meant it, too."
"Huh. How the worm has turned," Harry comments, sipping happily at his java.
"I can hear you," Draco grumbles. "Granger, your chat will have to wait. Finish your coffee, Harry, we'll Floo first." He plants a final kiss on her lip-glossed mouth, adding, "Have a good day, ma petite. I should be back for lunch," he waggles his brows suggestively; Harry groans, shielding his eyes with his free hand.
"Bye, mon coeur. Good luck for your interview, though you won't need it… Minerva's just a big old pussycat, you know." She snickers at her own poor joke, as Mac and Ruibby babble their goodbyes and skitter through the doorway, arm-in-arm. "I love you, Draco."
"I love you, Hermione. See you soon, sweetheart. Harry, take the best care of my witch, please."
"Yeah, yeah – Gilmont and Faulkner are shadowing her until you return. Goodbye, good luck, etcetera." Harry waves genially, appearing more alive as the caffeine hits his system.
Once the trio have departed, Hermione asks Harry, "Are you sure you can spare Gus and Kolt? I'll be fine in my office, I plan to stay put to complete my paperwork backlog."
"I'm positive I can do without them for a few hours – I'm due to meet with Pritchard-Hawes and his team. We're pushing for the Veritaserum (or at least, the preliminary interviews) to take place this afternoon," Harry's jade eyes darken and narrow behind his glasses. "Hermione, I promise you that I will do everything I can to ensure everyone involved in this sick scheme receives their just desserts. What they did– what they planned to do, to you, and Pansy, and countless other women–" his jaw clenches as his words abruptly break off.
Poor Harry. It's unsurprising that he always assumes the staggering weight of our burdens; but it pains me so, to see him constantly worn down by the responsibility of carrying the world on his shoulders.
Rubbing his forearm consolingly, Hermione replies, "I know you will, Harry. Thank you. We're OK, you don't have to worry so much, hmmm? You're a brilliant Auror, but you can trust us to take care of ourselves, too. Did Pansy tell you we're attending therapy, tonight?".
"Yes, she mentioned it." Harry's brow unwrinkles as he properly turns to face her. "Hermione… it's hard to describe, but when I'm with Pansy, I feel like– like I can be the true version of myself… like I don't have to try to be what everyone expects of me, you know? Merlin, I sound like a callow schoolboy carving our initials into a tree," he laughs at himself.
Hermione bumps his half-full mug a little as she impulsively bestows a tight, emotional hug on her dear friend. "I'm so happy for you, Harry – and yes, I absolutely get it. That's how I feel, with Draco… he gets me, and he loves every part of me, even the dark, iffy shadows," she smiles. "Though I don't know how long either of you are going to hold out on your tortoise-slow romantic pace," she teases. "Pansy had a certain… salacious look in her eye, when she was describing how much she appreciated your strength and protectiveness. 'Salacious' means 'lustful', by the way."
"It may surprise you to learn I've read a few more books since we left school, Hermione," Harry defends, gulping down the rest of his hot beverage in one hit. "Please don't remind me of my foolish public declaration to woo Pansy unhurriedly… I stand by my decision, but all the ruddy 'salaciousness' bubbling around me is making things pretty hard– oh, shite – forget it, and stop laughing at me," he places his mug in the sink and keeps his embarrassed face averted.
"Hey – you said it, Harry, not me," Hermione chortles. " And you did razz me and Draco constantly, if you recall."
"No – come on, I was simply trying to help you two idiots realize you were mad for each other – that's entirely different," Harry argues. "You have to admit, your mutual delusion was painful to watch."
"Oh, phooey," Hermione bats her hand irritably. "We weren't quite ready yet, that's all."
Harry stares at her, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Sure, love," he patronizes. "Whatever you say. No, don't bite, we should get going," he offers her his arm.
Cheeky wretch. Let's see if you're still grinning slyly after a whole week spent snuggling with Pansy Parkinson at night. That'll cook your smug goose, my friend.
Pinning together her lips, Hermione nods, accepting Harry's escort to the fireplace.
"Let's go, Harry."
"Miss Ruibby, Mister Macdolas; it is a great pleasure to meet you both," Headmistress McGonagall greets, as the elves in question bow and scrape their way across her office. "Do be seated, please; I'll conduct your interviews first, if you don't mind? Mr Malfoy, there is a seat for you in the corridor; we shan't be overlong," Minerva ushers him outside before he can gather his wits to properly protest.
"But I– " the door firmly closes in his face. Draco slinks off to the aforementioned chair, casting a few peevish glowers behind him. Salazar only knows what tall tales Mac is likely to spin in there. Forget his middle name being 'Indignation' – ''Hyperbolic' fits better. Well, I suppose I should be grateful for a few moments of peace, after shepherding the crazy couple through the castle.
Draco wryly laughs to himself as he relives Mac's fraught encounter (confrontation, rather) with Argus Filch and Mrs Norris. The gaunt caretaker and his beloved dust-coloured moggy had approached them in one of the busy corridors, the sea of curious school children parting and flowing around the odd little group.
Mac had chivalrously pushed Ruibby behind him and drawn a small dagger from the pocket of his bespangled wizardly robes (a deep purple, apparently in honour of Professor Dumbledore, Draco had learned during the interminable walk in from Hogsmeade), as Mrs Norris had first sniffed, then hissed menacingly at the elves.
"Stay back, darlingest Ruibby; Macdolas shall subdue the vicious beastie," he'd stridently announced, causing the crowd of rubbernecking students to pause and thicken. "Never fear, my dearest love."
"Oi! What's this then?! House elves out of bounds, threatening Mrs Norris?" an outraged Filch had squalled, before he'd noticed Draco rolling his eyes and rubbing at his temples. "What're you about, young Malfoy? Sedition, I reckon!".
Honestly surprised that Filch knew the meaning of 'sedition' – and was able to use it in a sentence – a few moments had elapsed before Draco had confiscated the wavering blade from Mac's possession. "Give me that – and you lot, you'd best get to class before you're penalized for your tardiness," he'd addressed the milling mob. "Go learn something useful – go on!".
Once the last nosy child had scampered, Draco had turned to Filch. "Good day to you, too, Argus," he'd dryly voiced. "I'm at a complete loss to understand how escorting my two house elves to a pre-arranged appointment with Headmistress McGonagall could possibly be construed as treasonous. Move aside, please; we've a better place to be."
A seething Filch had carefully picked up a hunch-backed Mrs Norris, lovingly patting her striped fur. His bitter eyes hadn't ceased their scowling regard as Draco had urged forward Macdolas and Ruibby.
"Always up to no good… know that I'm keeping my eyes on you," Filch had sniped, following from a goodly distance until they'd reached McGonagall's office door. Draco had ignored the gibe, dousing Ruibby's attempt to return verbal fire.
"Ruibby asks who is that sour, smelly, wheezy old man, Master Malfoy? Is he half-goblin?" she'd loudly enquired.
"That's unkind to goblins, Ruibby. Don't worry about Caretaker Filch, he'll not hurt you. I know he doesn't look it, but he's one of the good guys… sort of," Draco had counselled, remembering Argus evacuating students from the castle, before joining in the Battle of Hogwarts. "He's mostly harmless, provided you don't menace his precious Mrs Norris – yes, I'm talking to you, Macdolas."
Grouching something unintelligible, Macdolas had stuck his sharp proboscis high in the air, shooting cross looks at Draco's leather art portfolio (where he'd safely housed the banned dagger). It had been a definite relief to make it to the appointment without further incident, he reflects.
Closing his eyes, Draco works to control his breathing. Being back at Hogwarts always evokes a mixed bag of feelings… though certainly, there are fewer negative emotions for him, these days. There yet remains a dissonance between his pristine memories of Hogwarts from his earlier years of schooling, and the smoking, scarred ruins of the castle, straight after the War. It reminds him of the architectural changes he'd commissioned for the townhouse, to adapt the third floor into his studio; the original blueprints overlaid with the new designs, on semi-transparent paper.
He peers intently at the dimly-lit wall opposite, striving to decode the where the old brick ends and the new, repaired material begins. Perhaps that line, just beside the mullioned window… Draco shakes his head, giving up the silly pastime. Does it matter? The castle survived, just as we did; and it was eventually patched up, as were we… Most of us, anyway.
His glum ruminations are curtailed by the door re-opening, and McGonagall briskly beckoning him back inside. "Come, Mr Malfoy. Thank you for your patience."
Flashing Minerva a tight smile, Draco rises to follow her inside.
"Would you care for some tea, Mr Malfoy? We'll begin the interview proper once Head Boy McGrath arrives; he'll take Macdolas and Ruibby down to the kitchens to introduce them to their new colleagues," Minerva smiles benevolently at the ecstatic elven couple, as they bounce in their seats, retaining hold of each other's twiggy hands even as they jiggle with exhilaration. "Congratulations; I have every confidence you will be sterling additions to the Hogwarts staff, my dears."
Two down, one to go, Draco muses. Wouldn't it be mortifying if my house elves gained employment at my alma mater, while I was rejected? He ousts the unwelcome thought from his mind, concentrating on instilling his Occlumency calm into his edgy mind.
"Tea would be lovely; thank you, Headmistress McGonagall," he quietly replies. "Please call me Draco, if you don't mind."
"Indeed. And in turn, you may address me as Minerva,' she readily accedes, her clever eyes twinkling, though her expression remains characteristically impassive. "It's past time we dismissed the formalities, considering all you've done to help rehabilitate Hogwarts, Draco."
She nonchalantly waves her wand; behind her, a kettle begins to burble, while tea cups, saucers, teaspoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a jug of milk busily arrange themselves onto a copper tray. A knock at the door sounds, just before the muffled phrase 'Panthera uncia' is heard. A lanky youth with grey-blue eyes and a carefully brushed crop of wavy, sandy-brown hair pops his head around the door.
"Good morning, Professor– I mean, Headmistress– McGonagall. You sent for me?". The boy's eyes blink as he takes in the sight of Macdolas and Ruibby twisting in their small chairs, warmly pecking lips.
Dragon balls – these two are hellbent on embarrassing me at every turn. Draco jabs a warning finger into Macdolas's exposed ribs. "Behave with decorum, pipsqueak! You've not signed any employment contracts yet," he hisses. "Cut it out."
The elves reluctantly break apart, not appearing chastened in the least as McGonagall introduces the lad. "Joseph, this is Mr Malfoy, Macdolas, and Ruibby; would you be so kind as to escort Ruibby and Macdolas to meet our other elvish staff? They will both soon be joining our employ; I shall make the necessary arrangements regarding their duties and accommodations once I've completed my interview with Mr Malfoy."
"Of course, Headmistress. Hello," he nods around the room, smiling quietly. Ruibby trots over to him, slipping her little fingers into Joseph's dangling hand, much to Macdolas's evident disgust; the cranky elf grabs for her other small paw, glaring up at the tall stripling.
"You're the Head Boy?" Draco brusquely asks. "I believe you've met Ms Hermione Granger – my girlfriend," he emphasizes, meanly relishing the lad's heightened colour and nervously darting eyes. "She's a brilliant, talented, beautiful witch; I'm a very lucky man." Piss off, Joseph.
"Y-Yes? I mean, Hermione– Ms Granger, that is– she's lovely. Uhhh…" Joseph gulps, his startled eyes beseeching Minerva for rescue.
"Thank you, Joseph; I'll send Mr Malfoy down to the kitchens to collect Macdolas and Ruibby, and then you may return to your classes," McGonagall instructs.
Once the three have departed (Macdolas seemingly doing his level best to trip Joseph as he barges through the door before the student), Minerva tsks at Draco. "If you truly intend to work here, you'll need to shelve your jealousy over Ms Granger, Draco; it's a natural occurrence for the students to harbour innocent crushes on their teachers," she rebukes.
"Provided their affections remain innocuous, they've nothing to fear from me," Draco replies, with a tight smile. "I don't care for the cut of that boy's jib, that's all."
"Ach – men!" Minerva's lips thin. "Do get over yourself, Draco."
That's telling me. Draco forces himself not to defensively crouch in his seat. I feel as though I'm a jejune teenager again. This interview is swiftly going to hell in a handbasket, isn't it? Great. The tip of his ears begin to scorch.
"Now: tell me why you wish to teach at Hogwarts?" Minerva sternly questions. "Is it simply to be near Ms Granger, or do you possess actual academic ambition, Draco? Forgive my bluntness; your green-eyed display just now was not entirely prepossessing, shall we say."
"I do want to be with Hermione – there's no point denying it," Draco blurts. "But I've always wanted to teach here, though I never thought I would ever be able to; initially, due to my father's expectations of my future, and then–" he swallows stiffly. "Later, I knew I would never be accepted because of my reprehensible actions, before – and during – the War. Having a known Death Eater on staff isn't tenable, I realize that. I apologize for wasting your time, Headmistress McGonagall."
Miserably rising, Draco is stunned when Minerva uses wandless magic to press him back into his chair.
"You ever did have a flair for melodrama, Draco. Cease spouting your self-pitying nonsense, and hand over that portfolio," she curtly orders. "I must also highlight that Severus Snape was a 'known Death Eater'; and his actions were integral to bringing down that grotesque, vicious, nose-less abomination."
She curls her fingers impatiently. "Come, come – the portfolio, please."
Feeling decidedly dazed, Draco silently obeys. He watches with growing trepidation as Minerva critically shuffles through the photographs of his paintings and sketches. As she reaches the last one, he nearly reaches to snatch it back; only her rapt gaze stays his jittery hand.
Her hand fumbles at her throat, her pale green eyes growing moist as her regard never wanders from the picture.
Finally, Minerva speaks. "This is… extraordinary, Draco. Excuse me," she dabs at her welling tears with an immaculate handkerchief. "It's quite evocative, isn't it? The memories…"
Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have included it. "I'm sorry– here, let me put it away–" Draco recoils as his grabbing hand is slapped down.
"I'll return it when I'm good and ready, lad. Grant a sentimental old woman a moment to wallow," she ripostes, with a watery smile.
Shifting, Draco thinks on the original painting. He'd completed it during rehab, after having discovered the power of art therapy in helping him to process past trauma. Judging it too rough and raw (and slightly too abstract) to include in his gallery showings, he'd brought along the photo today on a whim.
The landscape depicts one of the latter scenes during the Battle of Hogwarts, just before Draco had heeded his parents' pleas to join them in their dubious neutral territory. The painting shows the centuries-old castle, battered and smoking, yet still standing upright behind the fierce group of loyal warriors (determined to fight to the death for all that is good and pure and right in the world); the dismal black of the jeering Death Eaters as they'd bayed along with their deranged leader; the limp form of Harry Potter, lovingly cradled in Hagrid's huge, grieving arms.
Draco hadn't consciously intended to render the scenario in a palette consisting primarily of dreary greys and blacks; his mind had supplied the muted colours, along with the pervasive sense of grief, terror… and improbable, inextinguishable hope. Though the faces are small and mostly blurred, his eye always seeks out the frazzled russet curls of a figure on the steps, her arms defiantly propped on her hips. My Hermione… my darling, fierce, magnificent lioness. My one true love.
The sound of Minerva carefully sliding the pictures back into his portfolio snaps Draco from his wool-gathering. She sniffles a final time before once again affixing her canny stare onto his apprehensive self.
"Draco, my question to you is this: would you prefer to jointly teach Art with Professor Cecily Benson, or become the back-up Potions teacher for Mr Kvothe Flagg? I offer the latter option as I took the liberty of pulling your scholastic records, which clearly indicated your unique aptitude for the subject. Hermione also told me in great detail of your ingenuity in developing original menstrual-based potions, and their proven efficacy." Minerva's searching gaze does not falter.
"In addition, Professor Flagg has lately been expressing his desire to travel to exotic lands… and to bungee-jump, of all things." She wrinkles her nose in obvious distaste. "I have offered to push him off our highest tower myself, but he's thus far declined the suggestion."
"Might I be so bold as to suggest I split my time between both positions? And I would very much like to create and implement an all-inclusive program of adapted art therapy, for any student wishing to participate," the words flow from Draco's mouth before he has a chance to censor himself. "I'd insist upon it, in fact."
"Aye – there's the arrogance I knew of old," Minerva bitingly observes, lifting one imperious eyebrow. "Much preferred to cringing diffidence, I must say. Very well, Draco; let us parley."
Straightening his spine and summoning all of his Slytherin charm (and self-serving ambition, of course), Draco leans forward to begin arguing his case.
Tuesday 25 March 2003: PM
Blaise bursts through Harry's office door after two rapid, perfunctory knocks. "Harry – I need to borrow your invisibility cloak for a couple of hours. Please," he tacks on, as Harry's frown intensifies.
"Come in, Blaise," Harry redundantly quips. "Who says I have an invisibility cloak?". He lays down his quill to rub at his cramping hand.
"Hermione," Blaise drops her in it without a second's hesitation. "I saw her first, explained my plans, and she suggested I ask you nicely for the loan." He plasters a winsome, toothy smile to his face. Few can resist the power of the Great Zabini when I really put my charm into play. Blaise pushes a tad harder.
"Pretty, pretty please, with a cherry on top? I know my good friend – the inestimable, remarkable, talented and lion-hearted Harry Potter would never deny a buddy in need…" Blaise drops to his knees before the cluttered desk, as Harry remains stoically unmoved.
"Look, I'd best not tell you the entirety of my scheme – but I assure you, no one will get hurt. Not permanently, anyway," Blaise wheedles, clasping together his large hands in fervent petition. "I promise. And I'd never grass on you, you can take that to the bank," he nods.
"'Grass on me' – you sound like a character from a bad Muggle cop drama," Harry signs resignedly. "Which I greatly doubt you've ever seen, you berk."
"Hey – I'm an educated man of the world, Harry, and my cultural knowledge is remarkable." The boast easily falls from Blaise's grinning lips. "I've thought of another great reason to lend me your cloak; the sooner I have it, the quicker I'll leave you in peace."
"Huh – you speak some sense, at long last. Get off my floor, you're making the place look untidy," Harry carps. "You can borrow the cloak – temporarily, I stress – provided you never say a word of its existence to anyone else, and you don't use it to do anything skeezy, or illegal."
Cogitating quickly, Blaise decides his plot falls outside those parameters. More or less, anyway. Jumping upright, he sticks out his hand, conscience assuaged. "Deal."
"Don't make me regret this, Blaise," Harry warns, shaking hands before he rummages through his work bag. "And be careful with it, please; it was my dad's, and it's older than… yeah, it's old," he abridges, handing Blaise a small, faded red cloth bag with a knotted drawstring.
"I'll be gentle – I always am," Blaise winks, as Harry groans and makes shooing gestures.
I wonder if I can ask Harry for some advice about how best to proceed with Gus, now that I know she's… a virgin...? Blaise loses all traces of merriment as he soberly ponders the issue. I'm freaking out a bit – what if I make her feel rushed, or pressured, without ever meaning to? What if I screw up her delicate trust by being too aggressive? I'm swimming in uncharted waters, and I can't touch the bottom with my toes.
"Blaise? You have an odd look on your face," Harry queries. "Why are you still here, anyway? You got what you came for," he irritably points to the cotton pouch.
"Harry– do you– what would you– have you any– shit, forget it," Blaise turns for the door. I don't think Gus would appreciate me discussing this issue with her boss – see, this is exactly what I mean! You're a dickhead, Blaise Nario Zabini. Keep walking.
"Thanks, Harry. I'll return the cloak by nightfall." He closes the door on Harry's bemused mien.
Leaning against the sturdy old elm tree beside the swings, Blaise settles into position. His back is already mildly aching from having to awkwardly waddle from the shadows, given his lofty height and the coverage limitations of the borrowed invisibility cloak. He hunkers down another inch as the bottom hem reveals his gleaming brown leather shoes.
This must be an antique – it was clearly fashioned when the average human height was four feet nothing, he grouses. Can't fault the workmanship, though – I've never felt, nor seen, the like. Heh – shouldn't say seen, the whole point is you can't see it… I wonder how many similar devices have been lost because of that contradictory feature…
Hold up. Here's trouble. Blaise shuffles forward a few steps as two schoolboys rush through the playground, making a beeline for the semi-occupied double swing set.
"Geroff – this is our territory, fatty," the young thugs waste no time tipping the fearful occupant of the left-hand swing into the dirt. "Sod off, ya chubby tosser."
Blaise raises his wand, teeth gritting in wrath as he waits until the terrorized child has fled to the comparative safety of the metal slippery dip. Once both bullyboys have inserted themselves into the rubber seats and begun kicking their legs to set the swings in motion, Blaise whispers a Sticking Charm, followed by an acceleration spell.
He stifles his grim amusement as the boys start to understand that they are no longer in control of the swing set, each upward curve and reverse arc gathering alarming speed and momentum. Blaise casts a contained Atmospheric Charm, causing steady rain to fall (with the dual benefits of soaking both boys to the skin, and scattering the gathering interested crowd to seek shelter). Finally, he Muffliato's their immediate surrounds.
"Wha-what's happening, Mal?!" shrieks the smaller boy, his wheat-coloured hair flattened to his skull as the steady drizzle drips into his staring, scared eyes. "Make it stop!".
"I can't move me bloody hands – someone's superglued 'em to the chains!" Mal bellows, thrashing futilely against the magical entrapment. "Crap on a cracker, Luke– this ain't funny! I think– I think I'm gonna – blarghhhhhh –".
Blaise retreats just before the lad upchucks the (extremely orange) contents of his stomach; about half of the vivid vomit falls back on the boy's brown hair, since the regurgitation began midway through a forward swing. A nasty lesson in physics, that. I suppose I shouldn't force them to achieve every kid's dream of achieving a true loop-de-loop, though I'm terribly tempted. Little arseholes.
The wild swinging finally slows, as the boys' panicked tears meld with the raindrops pattering onto their fright-whitened faces. Once they've come to a wobbly stop and placed their feet back on the ground, Blaise directs his wand to his throat to disguise his voice.
"Malcolm and Luke! Listen up, you snivelling worms! This is the Mighty Prepotente, Vengeful Deity of Anti-Bullies and Protector of Playgrounds! I have witnessed your unkind, mean treatment of other children and can stay silent no longer!" Blaise thunders, in a severe, gravelly voice.
"Who's there?! Preppy Tenty? Ain't that the posh camping place where yer dad bought his fishing rod last year, Mal?" Luke squeaks.
"Shuddup, Luke!" Mal hollers. "This is bullshite, this is! Lemme go, ya bastid!".
"Do you dare challenge Prepotente?! Do you wish for another example of my infinite power, fool?!" Blaise nudges Mal's swing forward; the boy whips his head from side-to-side in sudden capitulation. Luke keeps up a garbled stream of apologies and servile whimpers.
"Nuh– sorry, mister– I mean, Mr Prep– Prepo– mister," Mal begs. "Whaddya want with us? We done nuthing wrong, we're just kids!".
"You have been mercilessly bullying other children for years, and getting away with it," Blaise intones, disgust infused into every word. "You abuse them physically and verbally, and it stops right here. Today. I've given you a small taste of your own foul medicine, and you've literally choked on it.'
"I am granting you one chance to redeem your cruel, wicked ways; from this day forward, you will be responsible for ensuring that each child using this playground does not suffer a single insult or blow. It will be your job to protect them from the slurs and violence of other bullies. If you fail to change your horrid ways, or if you stray from your duties – know that I am watching, and I will not hesitate to return to wreak appropriate punishments. Do you accept my offer?" Blaise concludes.
"Yeah – but we can't be here all the time, we've gotta go to school, ya know," Mal sullenly points out. "An' I hafta look after me little brother and sister, when me mum goes to work."
"If I'm not home by quarter to five to let our dog Bruiser out, me dad gets wild," Luke contributes. "Bruiser'll pee in his boots – he's done it afore."
"Fine, fine– I mean, Prepotente is not without mercy," Blaise gruffly amends. "Keep to your usual schedule of visiting the playground – but your bullying days are over, regardless of your location. You will be kind, respectful, and think before you speak or act; and remember to consider what other kids – well, other people – are going through, before you rush to judge them for being different, or unfamiliar. Agreed?".
"Agreed," the subdued lads together chorus. "Can we start tomorrow, mister? Please?".
"Alright. Go home, think on your offences, and resolve to change for the better. Here – I will cleanse and dry you, as a gesture of good faith." Blaise swiftly enacts the Scourgify and Hot Air incantations, before removing the Sticking Charm. "Begone."
The bewildered schoolboys waste no time scarpering away, once they realize they've been freed. Blaise watches as they take pains not to knock into the other frolicking children; his admonition to cause no further harm seems to have taken root.
Did I go too far? I hope not. Ah, stuff it – they were well overdue a lesson in empathy and humility, and I've not seriously injured either of them. Didn't even give either boy a solid kick up the bum, much as I wanted to.
I probably should have thought of a better name, however – 'Preppy Tenty' stopped me in my tracks, he chuckles, making his stooped way to the exit. It was darkly funny when Mal's puke landed in his own hair – he might now rethink his choice of cheese puffs for afternoon tea.
At the very least, my dear little Tavi won't be bothered by them again. I'd move the moon for that kid if I could – the darling deserves every happiness. And more space to live in; they all do.
Worrying at his full lower lip, Blaise turns over the problem in his mind, as he makes his way to his chosen Disapparation spot.
I'll figure out a compromise… it's what they pay me for, yeah? Diplomacy, unmatched charisma, and making miracles happen.
The Mighty Prepotente can attest to that.
French translation:
Fait chier – Damn it
Italian translation:
Prepotente – Bully.
