Chapter 81
Saturday 28 March 2003: PM
Clattering up the townhouse stairs, Hermione berates herself for not simply Apparating straight into their bedroom and thus saving herself a few minutes. I blame Draco for messing with my logical brain… swooping around the field – sorry, pitch – showing off his hard muscles and athletic prowess… giving me those hot silver eyes… goddamn winking at me every chance he got… he knew exactly what seeing him in his Seeker outfit was doing to my skipping heartbeat and racing pulse… the smug, sexy git.
Her mildly aggrieved scowl morphs to a saucy grin as she considers her Plan of Attack for this afternoon's activities. First things first: get changed into my old Gryffindor uniform. Rounding the open doorway, she grabs for the neat pile of clothing she'd arranged before they'd left for the Quidditch game this morning.
Once she has exchanged her jeans, jumper, and long-sleeved polo for the familiar grey pleated skirt, white shirt, and red and gold tie, Hermione adjusts her knee-high grey socks and shrugs into the caped outer robes. Just as she's debating doing something more stylish with her high ponytail, the Floo sounds.
Clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles, Hermione shuffles behind the bedroom door. She emits the tiniest of breathless squeaks as Draco's voice booms from the floor below.
"Granger, where are you? Show yourself, ma petite!". Something heavy (his broomstick?) thuds to the floor, before his rapid footsteps sound on the staircase. A pause; Hermione can hear his erratic breathing as he lurks in the doorway.
"Last chance, my wicked little lioness. Not sticking around to offer your lover proper congratulations for catching the Snitch and winning the match… rudeness personified," Draco grumbles, yet to advance further into their bedroom. He must notice her hastily-shed pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, given his next imperious announcement. "Ah – I assume you're waiting to devotedly wash clean your Triumphant Warrior in the shower. Very good." Another couple of thumps reverberate (his boots being discarded?).
Come on, come on… just a few more paces, big boy… Hermione tenses her muscles. Finally, his shadow advances as he progresses toward the bed.
"A-HA!" Hermione pounces, charging out from behind the ajar door to energetically (albeit clumsily) tackle Draco onto the wide bed… perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, given his pained gasp as he lands face-first into the pillows.
"Oh no – Malfoy, I'm so sorry, I was just trying to be playful…!" Hermione runs her frantic hands over his jodhpur-clad legs, moving up to his rippling back and arms as he chuckle-groans.
"I'm fine – actually, I'm impressed with your hitherto-unsuspected sporting abilities, darling," Draco twists his head to look at her, a wry smile on his lips. "We didn't cover tackling in our self-defence sessions… in hindsight, that was probably for the best."
"I didn't hit you that hard, Oh Triumphant Warrior," Hermione indignantly refutes. "Fine – I'll take my vicious self downstairs, if you're going to be like that– hey!" she squawks, as he yanks her down to lie beside him, his arms hard bands around her torso. She wriggles simply for form's sake, her breathing hitching as the effect of his nearness inevitably plays havoc with her already overstimulated senses.
"Don't you bloody dare, Granger – let me take in the full effect of my feral, violent girlfriend dressed in her old school uniform," Draco growls, his still-gloved hands roving over her shoulders and arms. He gently pushes her onto her back before bracing himself on his elbows to loom above her, damp blond hair flopping into his eyes. "Sweet Salazar, Hermione – I've dreamed of this moment for decades… you've no idea." His mouth snaps shut, his gunmetal-grey eyes glistening as they flick between her flushed face and heaving chest.
Hermione tenderly smooths the strands off his brow before she remembers her Plan. "No – wait, this isn't right – I had this all thought out– " she smacks at his strong forearms in a useless attempt to clear her way. "You need to lie back down and let me fulfil my – ugh, I can't believe I'm saying this – Quidditch fantasies," she mumbles.
"Your what fantasies?" Draco teases. "Sorry, I can't hear you…"
Hooking a leg around his waist, Hermione flips the cheeky wretch with a effortful grunt, swapping their positions. She clamps her knees around his waist, jack-knifing to sit astride him. "Bullshit – and stop saying it, I'm going to have to pick a new safe word." Deliberately bumping her bum backward a few inches, Hermione stops when she nudges up against a certain stiff part of Draco's anatomy.
"Ohhh… hello," she purrs. "Draco Lucius Malfoy… is that a Snitch in your pants? Or something a bit longer… and harder?".
"Something much longer and harder, my dirty little Gryff," Draco snickers, frowning as she slaps away his fingers from their creep toward her breasts.
"Uh-uh – you just lie back and enjoy the ride," Hermione instructs, wagging her finger as pompously as it's ever been wagged. "I'm going to tell you – in comprehensive, filthy detail – how I felt, watching you zipping around the pitch in your gloriously well-fitted uniform… thank you for Transfiguring it back to Slytherin green and silver, by the way– "
"Orange makes me appear bilious," Draco murmurs, laughing as she tickles his armpits.
"Quiet! Yes, you're going to lie back and enjoy the spoils of victory, mon amour," Hermione speaks in her bossiest tones. "I intend to ride you like the fastest broomstick ever built, Seeker o' mine. What do you say to that, huh?".
In response, Draco nods so hard he sends one of the spare pillows falling to the floor. "Have at me, Hermione Jean Granger. With two conditions: don't skip a single word of your prurient fantasy; and be aware I shall be enacting a fantasy or two of my own, when you're done."
Hermione plunges her mouth onto his, kissing him rather brutally. Dear Venus, my scheme to torment Draco with a carefully controlled seduction is going to need a serious revamp… I'm already wet enough for my knickers to require a flood warning.
Panting in some much-needed oxygen, she pushes up his jersey to greedily run her hands over his damp pectorals and abs. Cripes, he's so hot… like a classical Greek statue, every muscle painstakingly etched, his skin cool velvet over steel. Same colour as those marble masterpieces, too. She grins at the thought.
"Where's– where's my narrative? I was promised a spoken fantasy," Draco whinges. "You're objectifying me, aren't you, witch? Bloody marvellous. Keep going."
"I certainly am… you're so sexy, Draco. Do you remember one night, towards the end of Fifth Year, when I was on Prefect patrol and came upon you and Pansy in an alcove near the History of Magic classroom? You were still wearing your Seeker kit, you'd had a game that afternoon?" she prompts, her fingertips tracing slow circles just shy of his pale brown areolae.
"Maybe," Draco hedges, shifting uncomfortably. "It's so long ago…"
"Hmm. Liar. You were putting on quite a show, with Pansy; I now know it was staged for my benefit, Pansy told me how pissed off she was when she realized the same. No, it's OK," Hermione soothes, as Draco flinches. "I'm not judging you… well, I did at the time, but mostly… I wished that were me, sighing as you kissed your way up and down my neck… your fingers stroking my waist, and the underside of my breasts… plucking at my nipples."
Staying silent, Draco doesn't break their intense eye contact as he tugs off his leather gloves.
"Don't toss them too far away – I want you to touch me while you're wearing them, later," Hermione orders.
"You have a glove kink?! Merlin, Granger," Draco's voice is hoarse, his pupils blown. "You can't just throw that out there like that."
"Hush! Do you want me to keep speaking?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Trailing her hands across Draco's smooth chest once more, Hermione pinches his small, budded nipples. Hard. He bucks beneath her, eyes squeezing closed as his now-bare hands fist the white coverlet.
"As I was saying – before I was so impolitely interrupted – when I saw you horning up to Pansy that night, I did briefly wonder why you'd chosen the best-lit alcove in the entire corridor for your heavy petting session." Hermione picks up her tale. "But I soon forgot that puzzling fact in favour of hiding around the corner. I watched you for a long while, Malfoy… and when I finally scurried away, and went back to my dorm, I drew the curtains of my bed tightly closed… I imagined it was me instead, writhing in your arms."
She pauses, nerves temporarily overcoming her resolve.
"Go– go on. Please," he croaks, bucking up against her in arrhythmic jerks. His hands sneak onto her thighs, snaking beneath the folds of her grey skirt to lightly squeeze upward.
"You can act out this next part, if you like," Hermione grandly offers, lifting the skirt the rest of the way herself, until it is bunched at her waist.. She properly unties her robe, loosening her tie and undoing the buttons of her uniform shirt. His eyes near bug out of his head as she brazenly holds it open, showing him her nude, unfettered breasts. "Sit up a little, OK?"
Draco immediately complies. His fingers sidle up her legs, stopping at the elastic side seams.
"I put one hand on my breast while I slipped the other into my panties… yes, like that, harder–" Hermione nearly loses the thread of her monologue as his right hand eagerly cups her breast, while the fingers of his left hand dive beneath her undies, unerringly locating her pink pearl. Heavens above, he plays me like a fiddler with a Stradivarius – every single time. Hermione shudders a deep exhale in an effort to stay on track.
"I was wearing a basic white cotton pair, much like what I have on now… with a little ribbon bow on the front, but otherwise very plain… anyway, I remember I used my left hand – gods, I was already so slick, from spying on you – I rubbed my clit furiously, pretending they were your fingers, finding my little swollen nubbin and manipulating it just so– "
She pauses, succumbing to the rapture of his skilled touch for a few delirious minutes, finally dislodging his deliciously exploring digits as she swings her legs to one side and scooches down to Draco's mid thighs.
"Yes, yes – I'm listening, Granger!" Draco moans as she pushes away his grabby hands, preferring to torture him by ever-so-slowly unfastening the buttons of his fly herself. "Je ne supporte plus tes taquineries, ma petite sorcière sexy."
"Yes, you can take more of my teasing – and you will," Hermione firmly decrees, scrabbling to pull down his dark breeches and briefs. Draco helpfully cants his hips to assist, gritting his teeth when her hands 'accidentally' graze his throbbing hardness.
"Je crois que tu l'as fait exprès." His whisper is barely audible.
"Of course I did that on purpose – right, that's it, you're on your last warning," she grizzles.
Draco mimes zipping his lips; he holds out the imaginary key on his palm. Cocking her head, Hermione pretends to slip it into her skirt pocket, before turning her avid attention to his exposed groin. The turgid head of his reddened cock bobs twice under her regard, a fat teardrop of pre-come leaking from the tip. Swiping her index finger through it, Hermione sucks her finger clean, loving Draco's reactive gasp and hitching hip thrust.
"Do you want to know what happened next? I bit my lip so hard – trying to stay quiet – that I had to heal the cut before I went down to breakfast the next morning, Malfoy." Breath rasping, she inelegantly tips over as she wiggles out of the white cotton knickers, discarding them at the end of the bed. Swiftly righting herself, she plants her knees either side of Draco's narrow hips, her bare bum brushing his sex.
"Hell's bells – the contraception charms! Hurry–" they both chant the necessary spells. It's fine, I remembered in time. Nothing to worry about. Pfft. Hermione dismisses any lingering doubts about timing and efficacy.
Draco whimpers as she uses her hand to guide his girthy length to her slick entrance, stopping just short of penetration. Their soul-bonded magic suddenly appears, bathing them in a deluge of shimmering light and power, instead of its usual slow manifestation.
"Our magic is impatient, too," Draco risks muttering, lips quirking once before he prims them closed again. "You bit your lip…?".
"Mmm – I closed my eyes, all I could see was your hands… your face… your dark, silvery eyes. You looked over once, when I was hiding around the corner, I could have sworn you spotted me – but you seemed impervious, I thought I must have been mistaken," Hermione muses, all the while swinging her hips in slow, tormenting circles. "You did see me, didn't you? Bad boy."
"I refuse to answer on the grounds I may incriminate myself," Draco raggedly bleats. "Please, Granger…" he lifts her skirt, groaning as he watches her slowly impaling herself on his thick, rigid staff.
"I was so excited – in a heady, guilty way – you'd been my adversary for years, but seeing you in your uniform, recklessly snogging in the corridor – well, I couldn't be blamed for picturing you ravishing me after a hard Quidditch match, could I?! No, of course not." Sliding down, she exhales until Draco is entirely buried in her sweet heat, his fine blond hairs tickling her sensitive skin.
"Ohmigod… Don't move, I want to set the pace," Hermione commands, using her inner muscles to experimentally squeeze and release. Sorcerous sparks zing to and fro… much like the players in the air this morning, Hermione thinks, before all her attention re-centres on driving her boyfriend (and herself) mad with rampaging desire.
"Tu me tues, chérie," Draco growls, thumping his head against the pillow in flagrant frustration. His pale hands grip her hips, keeping her grey skirt gathered high. "Tell me– tell me more. Please."
"Oh, do you want to hear me say I fingered myself to the best orgasm of my life, that night? Well… I did… I came so hard, I was worried I was having a heart attack, Malfoy. It took me a good ten minutes before I ceased twitching, and I had to eventually get up and change my nightie – and my ruined knickers, of course." She leans down, pressing her hands onto his damp chest as she increases her tempo. The sound of their slippery bodies merging is loud in the quiet room.
Hermione abandons the power of speech as she gives in to her savage need to ride Draco, hard. She grinds up and down, grunting lewdly as he babbles incoherently and meets her thrust for thrust. She digs her nails into his marble skin, clawing as she finds exactly the right rhythm and position to hurtle her closer to peak.
Their magic particles crash into each other, copying their volatile movements… spinning out of control. Hermione moans as she slams down even harder, her world narrowed down to the bliss of shamelessly taking her pleasure from the writhing wizard beneath her.
Slap. Slap. Slap. She pushes up and down, a tiny part of her dazed brain worried by the red marks she is leaving on Draco's skin. "Draco – is this OK? Don't– don't want to hurt you," she gasps, relieved when he vigorously shakes his head.
"This is incredible– you're incredible – J'expirerai si tu arrêtes maintenant," he pants. "Harder."
You heard the man. Hermione all but body-slams into him, clenching her inner muscles as her climax screams down every nerve ending. Her vision whites out, her head lolling as she slumps onto Draco, every limb shaking and convulsing. He keeps shuttling in and out of her pleasure-addled body, his hands supporting her sprawled form as she mumbles his name in a prayer-like chant.
"Hermione. Look at me, ma petite," he softly asks, stroking her perspiration-wet hair away from her face, gentling his thrusts. "Can you go again?".
"Mmmhmm… yes… you feel so wonderful, Draco…" She opens her joy-blinded whiskey eyes as he carefully reverses their positions, before sliding his heavy manhood back inside her.
Mellowed and dazed, Hermione watches Draco watch her. He is far gentler than she was, slowly tunnelling into her hot, wet core. Every tender plunge bestows a small aftershock, making her languidly squirm.
She fumbles at his jersey, eventually managing to drag it over his head. He chuckles as it inevitably gets stuck at his elbows.
"Here – I'll just–" Draco switches his weight from one hand to the other to free himself of the thick garment. "Better?"
Draping her arms around his neck, Hermione nods drowsily. "Much. Think you can make me come again?" she challenges, leaving one hand pressed to his shoulder, while the other seeks out her clit. "This was how I touched myself, that night," she slyly winks.
"Minx. Of course you'll come again," Draco arrogantly declares. "Show me, Hermione."
Taking him at his word, she delves two fingers inside her throbbing channel, diligently coating them in her liquid heat. "You mean… show you this?" she holds up the dripping digits, her naughty giggle cut short as he bends down to suck them clean.
"Delicious," he breathes. His hips snap a little faster. "Frotte ta douce chaton, c'est ma bonne fille. I dreamed of you like this, Hermione – beautifully exhausted, all fucked out, your big brown eyes almost black as you lie beneath me. I'll never have enough of you, do you understand?".
I'll never have enough of you, either... never.
I love you so… my precious Hermione.
I love you too, my darling Draco.
Gathering together her final reserves of strength, Hermione winds her trembling, sock-clad legs around his flexing buttocks, smiling as she feels him shudder and tense. Her fingertips continue their steady manipulation of her little button.
"Come for me, Malfoy," she huskily encourages. "I'm close."
Picking up his pace, Draco lowers his head to kiss her deeply, his impassioned groans muffled into her mouth. Feeling his paroxysmal release, Hermione arches her back as his wild orgasm triggers her second, her legs vise-like around his waist. Their metaphysical sorcery rains down on their quivering bodies, tiny pinpricks of warmth that add a special layer to the amazing experience.
Moments pass, each coming down from their rapturous highs. Hugging Draco tightly, Hermione lazily rolls them to the side, their bodies yet intimately joined.
"Ma petite?"
"Yes, mon amour?"
"I've decided it's just as well that we weren't together, at Hogwarts."
"Really? Whyever not?"
"Well… given how you've just completely annihilated me, body and soul – in a purely heavenly, insanely euphoric way, of course! – I wouldn't have been able to think or do anything unrelated to making love with you, twenty-four/seven."
"No doubt you would have tried to use that as an excuse for your inability to best me scholastically, I suppose."
"You wound me with your cynical perspicacity, Hermione."
Snuggling her head into the crook of Draco's neck, Hermione nuzzles his jaw.
"Never repeat this, Draco – but I think I'm beginning to quite enjoy Quidditch, as it turns out."
Laughing together, they swap soft, affectionate smooches, occasionally trailing their fingers through their bonded magical spots and whorls, to make pretty new patterns.
Draco might be right about us not surviving each other at school… anyway, I won't ever regret our different paths. They led us here, to each other… which is EXACTLY where I want to be.
Threading her hand through Draco's silky argentine hair, Hermione nods contentedly to herself.
Buggeration – we've missed the game. Theo scowls as he looks up into the stands. Only a dozen or so spectators remain. I place the blame for our tardiness squarely on Wirey's stiff shoulders. Squabbling, persnickety little nitwit. He's really tried my patience, this week past. It's just as well I love him dearly.
Oh, well. I hope Blaise won't be too aggrieved. He beckons Wireceaster to accompany him, swivelling on his heel to depart.
"Theo! I wondered when you'd show up!" Zabini bundles him into a lung-constricting hug before Theo can dodge out of his way. "What did you think of the match, buddy?".
Theo weakly smiles, evading the question to acknowledge the woman standing beside his old friend. "Hello, Gus."
"Hi, Theo."
His eyes widen as Blaise proudly weaves their fingers together. "Gussie is my girlfriend now, Theo. It's true, she said it out loud not five minutes ago," he stresses, wrapping the Auror in a loose hug. "And no, she wasn't under duress," he pre-empts Theo's next teasing query.
"Cut it out, Blaise," Gus mutters, though her blithe grin shows she is just as happy about the new proclaimed relationship as the effervescent Slytherin.
"Congratulations, guys," Theo sincerely responds. "I'm thrilled for you both."
"Not as thrilled as I am, mate! Hullo, Wirey," Blaise waves at the cranky elf. "So – did you enjoy the game? Gussie whipped me six ways to Sunday, of course," he laughs, not seeming at all bothered. "She's a killer Beater, yeah?".
"Uh – I'm sorry, Blaise; I just got here. We were delayed… a domestic issue, nothing serious," Theo confesses to his tardiness.
"A domestic issue? Are you and Wirey alright?" Blaise shifts from boisterous to concerned in a split second. "More booby traps in Nott Manor? I thought you rid yourself of the last of them a while back?".
"No, we're fine, Blaise. Actually, I'm going to sell the place, as soon as I can: lock, stock, and stinking barrel. I've… hired an assistant, to sort and inventory the entire contents of the house," Theo reluctantly explains. "I should have gotten rid of the fell heap years ago."
"An assistant? Pray tell, amico mio." Of course Blaise homes in on the one point Theo doesn't wish to elaborate. He's more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for.
"It's unimportant – anyway, I do apologize for being so late. Who won? Did you enjoy yourselves?".
"No worries – Draco snatched the Snitch – or should that be, snitched the Snitch? Won us the game and saved me from having rotten tomatoes pelted at my head, I played like a busted arsehole," Blaise cheerily admits. He raises Gus's hand to his lips. "Doesn't matter – the only prize I'm truly interested in is standing right here."
"Do you practise these lines in your decadent bubble baths, or memorize them off Christmas crackers?" Gus scoffs, blushing a little. "Leave it out, Zabini."
"Gussie, how did you know I take long bubble baths?" Blaise is genuinely astonished. "I speak from my heart, mia bella guerriera." His mercurial personality jumps again. "Theo, Wirey – come join us for a picnic lunch, the ladies are setting it up on the green," he waves to the picturesque expanse of field behind the stadium. "No backing out, you owe me for missing my less-than-spectacular sporting display. Hurry up," he herds Theo and Wirey like recalcitrant sheep.
"Is Signorina Gelsomina present?" Wirey pipes up, tugging at his starched black waistcoat as he tries to hightail it. "Herr Wireceaster has duties awaiting him back at Nott Manor–"
"She sure is – now's the perfect opportunity for you to offer your apologies for that nutty stunt you pulled with the Monopoly board at the bruncheon, Wirey," Blaise prods him forward. "Gird your loins – no, wait, I'm not one hundred percent sure that doesn't mean something gross – um, find your Teutonic fortitude and swagger forth, cap in hand and humility at the ready, Wireman. Come on, I'm starving!".
Swept along by the Zabini juggernaut, Theo catches Gus's eye; they smirk in unison as a clearly unhappy Wirey stomps in front.
At least we're out of the house, and away from the Battle Royale that's been raging there since Tuesday, Theo shrugs, capitulating gracefully. But damn it, if Wirey begins bickering with Gelsy – I swear I'm going to start copying Harry and pulling out my hair.
"Begox, young Blaise – let the lass be, our Gus disn't hev a chance of a bite of belly-timmer, if ye keep bussing her!" Mrs Green scolds, clipping away Blaise from his girlfriend with a firm, knobby hand.
From the context, Theo assumes Blaise's constant kisses to Gus's face, hands, neck – even her elbow, at one point – have caused Mrs Green's outburst. He hides his grin at Blaise's crestfallen expression by chomping into another sandwich triangle.
"These are delicious, Gelsy. Wouldn't you agree, Wirey?" he unsubtly exhorts his sullen house elf. The stubborn imp's weak idea of an apology left much to be desired, when they'd initially sat down on the conjured picnic blankets and soft cushions (Wirey had mumbled a sole insincere "Sorry" before scuttling away) . Mrs Green is the only member of the party not seated on the blanket; the older woman is comfortably perched in a collapsible Muggle camping chair that Gus had carried over and set up.
"Wireceaster agrees that Signorina Gelsomina's culinary skills are a credit to her, indeed," he gruffly parrots. "Master Zabini is a lucky wizard…"
Uh-oh, I don't care for that pause, Theo worries.
"…to have survived her sharp tongue," the foolish elf finishes, twirling his waxed moustache as he puffs out his scraggy chest and picks up another mini pork and chorizo pie, clearly proud of his withering remark.
Gelsy stares coldly at him, flicking her fingers to zoom the pie back into the hamper. The wicker lid snaps closed with a forceful whump.
"Signorina Gelsomina refuses to feed ingrates; let Herr Wireceaster's waspish tongue be fortified with his own bile," she replies. "Though acidic, tis yet sweeter than anything he has ever spoken aloud. Cazzone."
"What does that mean, Gelsy?" Tavi shuffles forward, carefully wrapping her in a hug and pressing together their cheeks. The little girl frowns at Wirey. "You're being awfully mean to my friend, Mr Wirey – you should say sorry properly. Bullies aren't welcome at our table."
"Aye, the kidda hez the right of it, ye weeny goniel. Divvent be glowering and starting a fratch wiv our Gelsy. Sorry ye'll say, or off ye'll go," Mrs Green lambastes.
Wirey turns his bemused face to Theo, evidently unable to decipher Nella's Geordie-isms.
Blaise jumps in to translate. "Mrs Green just told you to apologize or leave, Wirey. I won't stand for you insulting my family, either – think carefully, before you wholly ostracize yourself," he sternly warns.
Everyone glares at the disconsolate sprite. Theo breathes easier when Wirey finally bows his head to quietly say, "Herr Wireceaster begs Signorina Gelsomina's gracious pardon; for his rash, unkind words today… and his historical owed apology for dishonouring his invitation for the Signorina to join him for a dinner date, some years past. Ich bin nicht zuversichtlich – Wirey is… not confident, und cowardly. He is deeply sorry."
Black eyes moist, Wirey avoids looking at anyone as he starts to back away.
"Gelsy accepts Wirey's apologies. Perhaps… perhaps Gelsy's injured pride overly directed her previously uncharitable behaviours," she allows. "Il perdono è una benedizione: forgiveness is a blessing."
Tavi delightedly claps together her hands as Gelsy rummages through the wicker basket, selecting a beautifully iced chocolate cupcake; she holds it out to an astounded Wirey. "Peace offering?".
"Signorina Gelsomina is most kind – most kind," he mops at his brow with a comically large black handkerchief, before reverently accepting the dessert. "An undeserving Wirey gives his humbled and spirited thanks. Vielen Dank!" He precariously holds his sweeping bow for at least half a minute, until Theo grabs the duffer and plonks him down beside him again.
"Eat your cupcake and settle down, please." Never a dull moment with this lot. A small smile twists his lips as he watches Tavi turning her own cupcake upside down to demonstrate "how to save the best bit for last".
Mrs Green's voice at his ear startles him from his brief reverie. "Ye wee man's got a thumpin' tash, aye?" she points to Wirey's (now chocolate-smeared) moustache. "He's far ower much te say for hissell, Aa think at first – and nobbut dour gab, te beyut… but he's aal reet. Sweet on yon lass, aye?".
"Gelsy?" Theo whispers. "Wirey's been gone on her for years – but he tripped himself up quite badly there, I'm afraid."
"Aye. Still, nowt so queer as folk… little folk, included," Mrs Green pronounces. "That's a Yorkie saying, ye ken. Aa do like to learn new languages. How do ye say, 'a cup of tea'd be lovely', in German, young Theo?".
"Eine Tasse Tee wäre schön," he automatically replies, before realizing it is a hint for a fresh mug.
Smiling, Theo magicks the large thermos and fixings over to Nella's chair. He sets about preparing her cuppa as she affectionately pats his hand.
Wirey has wriggled closer to Tavi and Gelsy; he diffidently asks about the Quidditch game, eyes goggling as Tavi re-enacts the moment Draco "snitched the Snitch" and won the match.
"It was so exciting – I mean, I'm sorry for Gus because her team lost in the end – they were the Enforcers, because they're all Aurors, do you get it, Mr Wirey? – but I knew Gus wouldn't mind, because she played so well, much better than Mr Blaise," Tavi candidly burbles.
She rises up on her knees, pretending to hunker down on a broomstick. "So Mr Harry saw the Snitch first, but Mr Draco was shadowing him the whole time, and they both dived for it – Tricky was a bit scared, because the ground was coming up fast, really fast – but Mrs Green said they knew what they were about and not to worry – anyway, Mr Harry's glasses fell off and we all screamed, Miss Pansy screamed the loudest and she pulled out her wand, I guess she was going to use the 'Arresto Momentum' spell to stop Harry from falling – oh, and Miss Hermione had her wand out, too – but Mr Harry was fine, he scooped up his glasses and went to grab for the Snitch but Mr Draco already had it and that was it, game over, you snooze – you lose. Gus says that a lot," Tavi importantly informs. "So the Renegades won! I think they should have stuck to wearing proper red and green team colours, though. Mac and Ruibby were disappointed because they wore scarlet and emerald robes especially, to show their 'bipartisan' support. Mrs Green said that means they were too chicken to pick a side, but I think she was joking."
"The Macdolas was here?" Wirey stiffens.
"Yep – he and Ruibby went under the stands at half-time, I asked Miss Hermione why and she looked surprised because I don't think she'd noticed – but then she quickly told me they had something important to discuss. They might still be there, Miss Hermione took off like an Olympic sprinter as soon as Mr Draco held up the Snitch – he gave her a very strange look, actually," Tavi nods. "Do you want to go find them, Mr Wirey? We've plenty of food left over."
"Nein! Eh – Herr Wireceaster has reached his limit of pax – peace – for one day," he grimaces. "Signorina Gelsomina… did you enjoy the match?" he shyly addresses his honey-eyed counterpart.
Satisfied that his companions are now getting along famously, Theo relaxes back against the fattened cushions. Expecting to feel a little saddened at the sight of Blaise sneaking in to kiss Gus at every opportunity, he is pleased to realize he is no longer envious of his friends' abject joy.
Is it because I've finally decided to move on from my toxic environs, and in doing so, my poisoned past? Or it is being mature enough to realize that I don't need a partner, to be worthy, and complete? Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad I decided to come out, today.
Pouring himself his own mug of fragrant tea, he clinks it against Mrs Green's.
"Here's to friends."
"Aye… and family, lad."
French translations:
Je ne supporte plus tes taquineries, ma petite sorcière sexy – I can't take much more of your teasing, my sexy little witch.
Je crois que tu l'as fait exprès– I believe you did that on purpose.
Tu me tues, chérie – You're killing me, honey.
J'expirerai si tu arrêtes maintenant – I'll expire if you stop now.
Frotte ta douce chaton, c'est ma bonne fille – Rub your sweet pussy, that's my good girl.
Italian translations:
Amico mio – my friend.
Cazzone – prick.
Geordie translations:
Begox, young Blaise – let the lass be, our Gus disn't hev a chance of a bite of belly-timmer, if ye keep bussing her! – By God, young Blaise – leave the woman alone, Gus doesn't have a chance to eat any food if you keep kissing her!
Aye, the kidda hez the right of it, ye weeny goniel. Divvent be glowering and starting a fratch wiv our Gelsy – Yes, the child is right, you little chump. Don't be frowning and starting a row with Gelsy.
Ye wee man's got a thumpin' tash, aye? – Your little man has a big, impressive moustache, hasn't he?
He's far ower much te say for hissell, Aa think at first – and nobbut dour gab, te beyut… but he's aal reet. Sweet on yon lass, aye? – He has far too much to say for himself, I think at first – and nothing but sour, empty talk, to boot… but he's all right. He's keen on the girl, hmm?
