Chapter 82
Saturday 28 March 2003: PM
"Are you comfortable back there, love?" Harry slows his broomstick a little, risking a quick shoulder-check on the brunette witch snugged in behind him. Pansy temporarily loosens her strong grip around his midriff to make a thumbs-up gesture with her right hand.
"Absolutely, Duckie. This is so much fun!" she yells into his ear. "Faster, please?".
Sighing his pleasure into the wind buffeting his face, Harry readily accedes to his girlfriend's enthusiastic request. Taking her home on my broom after the Quidditch match was a sudden impulse – but certainly the best idea I've had all day. Keeping his strict control on the concentrated magic needed to fly, Harry takes a few moments to simply appreciate the joy of having Pansy wrapped around him, her cheek pressed to his upper back, arms bracketing his torso, and her legs tightly pressed to the outside of his thighs.
I guess this was what Sirius was talking about, when he was fondly reminiscing about the thrill of 'doubling birds' on the back of his flying motorcycle, Harry grins to himself. Not that I'd ever describe Pansy as a 'bird' – nope, no sexist 70s slang from me. Pansy makes a slight adjustment, her body warmth seeping deliciously through his cape and jersey. Harry's breath hitches, his ever-present arousal kicking up another notch or four.
"We're almost at your apartment – I'll start the descent in a few minutes, OK? We'll land on the roof, the Disillusionment Charm is still good," Harry shouts. Her small nod against his spine indicates she's heard him.
Though he's reluctant to bring their joyride to an end, Harry is at least partially glad when his feet hit the ground – well, the roof – to dismount. Having Pansy nestled so close has left him aching… slightly painfully, and rather obviously. He swiftly rearranges his cape to cover his codpiece area before he checks on Pansy. Her long, straight ebony hair has partially escaped the confines of the patterned grey and white silk scarf she'd re-purposed as a head covering, and her cheeks are flushed and smiling. The blotchy cloud cover shifts to allow a thin beam of radiant sunlight to illuminate her from her head to her toes, as though paying homage to her vitality and effervescent charm.
Gods, she's gorgeous. Harry's answering grin falters a little as his heart clutches like a missed gear change. He is relieved when Pansy doesn't immediately pick up on his sobered mood; she flings herself at him, hugging him affectionately.
"Harry, that was marvellous, I've never flown like that before," she gushes, pulling back to look in his eyes. "I guess it's not new to you, though; you and Ginny must have zipped around together quite a bit." She bites her lip, face flushing, as he blinks in surprise.
"Oh, shit– I mean, sorry, it's poor form to reference one's exes, isn't it?" Pansy flaps a hand in frustration, looking down at her booted feet and fiddling with the zipper of her short black leather jacket. "Ignore me. I blame the wind whizzing through my ears and leaking into the sensitivity sector of my brain," she sighs.
"Hey," Harry gathers her bare hands in his gloved ones, carefully enclosing them within the brown leather. "I was just surprised, that's all. Of course you can ask me about Ginny. If I don't feel comfortable answering, I'll simply say as much… alright, love?". He ducks his head a little, chucking her downcast chin with a careful fingertip. "Really."
Pansy stares at him as the silence stretches. A tremulous smile reforms on her glossy pink lips as she accepts his sincerity. "OK."
"I've never doubled on a broom before – not with a girlfriend, anyway," Harry coughs as he remembers those terrifying moments in the Room of Requirement, when he snatched up Draco from certain, fiery death. Don't think about that right now – focus on Pansy. He clears his throat.
"Ginny and I could never agree as to who would take point on a broomstick… and in our relationship, too," Harry quietly continues. "We bickered a lot… we made each other unhappy, without ever meaning to."
"Did you love her?" Pansy slaps a hand over her mouth, clearly horrified at her blunt query.
Harry pauses. "I did love Ginny. She was my first love… but we didn't fit well together, Pansy. Sometimes, I think that the War – all that we went through, it forced a lot of relationships too far, too quickly. I know I felt a sense of urgency, a blinding desire to immediately squeeze everything into my life, even though I knew Voldemort was gone for good. Ginny and I moved in together practically straightaway… in hindsight, we weren't ready."
"Oh. That… makes sense," Pansy slowly replies. In an uncharacteristically timorous voice, she asks, "Do you think that maybe, in the future, you might… reconnect?".
The nerves and doubt in her tone are impossible to miss. Harry vigorously shakes his head. "No. Look at me, love. Ginny is my past. I hope she'll always be in my life – as a dear friend, now that we're over our break-up… it got a bit hairy there for a while, but we're good, now. I'm not holding out hope we'll find our way to each other, in the years to come; the reasons why we parted were valid, and they aren't surmountable. I don't love her like that, not anymore."
Voice cracking a little, Harry doggedly finishes. "The only witch I want in my future is you, Pansy Parkinson."
Her only reaction to his emphatic avowal is a flurry of agitated blinks. Oh, fantastic – I've well and truly rushed her. Harry considers whether leaping off the side of the roof on his broom to extricate himself from his raging embarrassment is an actual option. I could always send an owl once I get home, by way of apology–
"Mallory."
"I beg your pardon?" His puzzlement is sincere, though his spirits markedly rise as he sees the shy smile accompanying her pronouncement.
"My full name is Pansy Mallory Parkinson," she states. "I thought you should know that… seeing as how you're seemingly intent on hanging around."
Thank fudgesicles. Harry wastes no time building on Pansy's acceptance of his bumbling little speech. Sliding his hands around her small waist, he bends to capture her pliant mouth with his own, the blood singing in his veins. Elation infuses extra spice into his impassioned kiss. I'd hang from the ruddy ceiling by my toes if it means spending more time with her.
She breaks away to fervently assert, "Harry – you're the only wizard I want in my future, too… you wonderful, romantic twerp."
"Twerp?" Harry nips kisses to her earlobes, loving the sound of her high-pitched giggles as he licks near her ear canal. "How unkind of you, Pansy Mallory Parkinson." He easily holds her wriggly body in place as she huffs out more laughter.
"Stop! You're much naughtier than I would have believed, you know." She retaliates by playfully biting at his lower lip. "I like it."
"Do you know what I like? You… and I especially like you in those tight black jeans," Harry confesses. "You've quite the sexy little arse on you, Pansy. Sorry – I've said too much again, haven't I?" he frowns, doubt creeping back.
"Pfft – you've not said enough, you mean! So, you like my outfit?" Pansy boldly grabs his bum, chortling as he gasps. "I hoped you'd find it… titillating."
"Too bloody right I do," Harry mutters, his passion-fuzzed brain finally clearing long enough to aggravatingly recall his grand plans for the evening. Unwilling to let go of Pansy just yet, he shuffles back half a foot.
"Love, I brought us back to your place because I wanted to ask if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight, at that new gastro pub that's just opened up, in Diagon Alley – The Startled Sasquatch? And, um, it's not super fancy or anything – what you're wearing now is lovely, of course – but I thought you might like to dress up, for a proper date. With me. Dressed up. I mean, I'll dress up. For dinner. At the pub." Harry cringes at how gauche he sounds. Real smooth, Potter. Hopeless.
"The Startled Sasquatch?" Pansy's brow briefly furrows, before she slips him a pert wink. "I'd love that, Harry." She swings their joined hands by their sides in delight. "I've the perfect dress – it came into the boutique just yesterday, and I set it aside for myself immediately – don't tell my manager Mayumi though, she's forever scolding me for hogging up the best stock," she confesses.
"Brilliant. Come on, I'll see you downstairs, then I'll Floo back home and get myself prettied up," Harry grins, leaving his hand on the small of her back as he guides her to the exit door. Pansy stops just as he begins to turn the handle.
"Harry? I just realized – I never properly congratulated you, for how well you played today," she beams. "I was too busy giving you a tongue-lashing for that stunt you pulled, diving for the Snitch and scaring me witless! But you were great – you were extraordinary out there."
"Thank you, love," he lightly bops her nose, laughing as she wrinkles it. "That reminds me… did I happen to hear a certain witch bellowing out 'DUCKIE' at the top of her lungs, and belting out some rather rabid cheers? Something along the lines of, 'Show no mercy', and 'Harry Potter eats Bludgers for breakfast'? Hmm?".
"Oh, that – Hermione has a really strong set of lungs on her, doesn't she?" Pansy shamelessly fibs. "A disgraceful performance by her, really."
Harry tips back his head to laugh, relishing their cheerful banter, before he opens the door and gestures for Pansy to precede him down the narrow stairwell. "After you, sweetheart."
He ensures she is holding securely to the metal railing before he permits himself a single brazen pinch of her delightful rump, snorting his merriment as she immediately waggles her butt to 'turn the other cheek'.
Such a sassy, funny, beautiful woman… I can't wait to take her on our first proper date.
Harry cheerily clunks down the staircase behind her, grinning like a leprechaun.
"Not the grey, Master Potter; Kreacher advises that jacket is most certainly not fit for dining out with one's pretty paramour." Kreacher rolls his eyes as though Harry has just turned up to attend a royal banquet, sans trousers. Boadie yawns from her perch atop the table, seeming to nod in agreement as she rests her little jet head back upon her fluffy paws.
"What's wrong with it? I like this jacket," Harry pouts. "It's comfortable, and it's clean."
"It be hideous," Kreacher sternly decrees. "Master Potter does not wish to appear scruffy tonight, surely? Kreacher recommends the crisp blue knitted herringbone two-button sports coat." With a rapid sequence of pops, he Disapparates and re-Apparates back into the kitchen, the coat now in his hands. He snaps his fingers impatiently.
"Alright, hold your Hippogriffs," Harry grumbles, shrugging out of the 'scruffy' grey jacket. He folds it onto the back of the nearest chair. Kreacher hands him the coat, a smirk playing around his gnomish mouth.
"Master Potter does not wish to present Mistress Pansy with flowers, for their first official public date?" he hints.
"Oh, sh– sugar plum fairies, I clean forgot!" Harry thumps his thigh with a closed fist, glancing wildly at the old clock on the wall. I'm due at Pansy's in five minutes – there's no way I can make a quick detour to a florist in time. I wonder if she'll mind if I Transfigure her a bunch, instead? He eyes the small stack of newspapers on the far end of the table. That'll do, in a pinch… Cripes, I really should have paid more attention in Charms class…
Kreacher snaps his fingers; a stunning bouquet of bluish-purple irises levitate before him. "Irises symbolize hope, Master Potter. Kreacher believes Mistress Parkinson will understand the significance." He looks almost jolly as strokes Boadie's arched spine with a long, gnarled finger.
For a crazy moment, Harry contemplates folding Kreacher into a grateful hug, before his common sense activates. He'd likely faint from the shock, I reckon. He settles for a huge grin and a gentle pat on Kreacher's bony shoulder.
"Thank you, Kreacher – you've outdone yourself, once again. Erm… buy yourself a treat, whatever you like," Harry waffles.
Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, Kreacher looks pointedly at the wall clock.
"Right, I'm off."
"Give Mistress Pansy my regards, Master Potter. Kreacher counsels to not order anything you cannot pronounce."
Advice to live by, indeed. Harry races for the Floo, taking care to not bruise the sweet-smelling blossoms in his hand.
"Have I told you how absolutely stunning you look in that dress, love?" Harry whispers in her ear as they walk to their reserved table up the back of the restaurant (sorry, gastro pub). "I'm very pleased you hid it from Mayumi's judgey eyes, ma belle petite amie."
"Harry James Potter – you speak French?!" Her astonished hiss attracts the attention of a portly older couple in the corner. Pansy decides against blowing them a raspberry. Let them stare, they look like excitement hasn't knocked on their front door for decades. She bares her teeth in an alarming smile, putting on an extra hip sway, her midi-length floral jersey wrap dress (in pinks, blues, and purples) swishing a little.
"Oh, I'm picking up a few choice phrases," Harry confidently responds. "How's my accent?" he preens.
"Appalling – but I appreciate the sentiment very much," she giggles. "If I'm your 'beautiful girlfriend', you're definitely 'mon beau petit ami'… my handsome boyfriend," she repeats for his benefit. "Your gorgeous jacket matches some of the flowers on my dress, you realize. Are we going to be one of those cutesy couples that dress alike, Harry?" she simpers.
She manages to keep a straight face as he covers his instinctive baulk with a weak smile.
"Uh… sure? No, look, Kreacher actually picked out this coat, my own choice was apparently unacceptably shabby," Harry admits, making them both laugh. Having reached their table, Harry solicitously pulls out her chair.
Pansy resists the urge to rub her cheek against Harry's hand, as his fingers tuck a tumbled dark lock back behind her ear. I haven't been on a date like this in years – is it any wonder I'm feeling a bit gooey and goofy? Stuff it, Harry doesn't care how silly I am.
She covertly watches as he sits down and does his best to politely deter their star-struck waiter. Poor Harry… he's clearly uncomfortable with the excessive attention, but he's too nice to shut it down. Good thing I don't share his reservations.
"May I bring you anything else, Mr Potter? Some aperitifs, perhaps? Complimentary, of course… I know you must be tired of people asking for your autograph, but I really would love it if you'd sign a menu for me–"
"Thank you, we'll let you know when we're ready to order. Perhaps you could revisit your autograph request, after we've enjoyed our meal. In private. Without interruptions. I'll take a Campari cocktail, please. Harry?" Pansy smiles beatifically at the sheepish young man.
"Just a Butterbeer, thanks."
Bowing low, their chastened waiter flees the scene.
Harry immediately reaches for her hand across the table, stroking his thumb across her palm as he stares admiringly at her. "I really need to start taking lessons in firm diplomacy from you, Pansy; you handled that guy masterfully. Thank you."
Pansy feels like purring beneath his affectionate caress. She adopts an air of casual insouciance to mask her vulnerability. "First, second, and third lesson: learn to say 'No'. Fourth lesson: don't give any excuses. Fifth lesson: brook no opposition."
Harry chuckles. "Are you a life coach, too? I doubt there's little you couldn't do, once you decided you were going to do it. That's a sincere compliment," he assures.
"Not a life coach, just a Determined Bitch," she grins back. "It's usually a slur aimed at strong women, but I'm owning it, now."
Harry sends her a look she can't quite define. Admiration… awe… pride… and something else; something passionate and profound that has her pulling away her hand to fumble at her water glass, such is his intensity. It takes her a few moments to speak over the emotional lump in her throat, as she blindly traces her finger down the bill of fare.
"What looks good, do you think? Have you been here before?".
"No, Ron recommended– sorry," Harry gulps at his own tumbler. "The steaks are supposed to be excellent."
Looking up from beneath her lashes, Pansy slowly replies, "You can talk about Ronald, Harry. I'm not upset, truly. You must miss him… he's your best friend."
Smoothing out his linen napkin onto his lap, Harry mumbles, "Yeah… I miss the big lug. I meant what I said – we need time apart – but I worry about him. He and Ginny moved into Hermione's old flat today, Hermione told me about it when we had morning tea together yesterday." He sighs, sadness darkening his bright emerald eyes.
"Mmm, I know. He'll be alright, Duckie. This will be good for him, and I have every confidence Ron is on the right path to sorting out his issues. And Ginny will be a great source of support for him. How will they fit in Hermione's one-bedroom apartment, though?" Pansy curiously enquires.
"There's a tiny boxroom beside the bathroom, it will just about fit a single bed and a hanging rack for Ron's clothes. Fortunately, he doesn't have a lot of stuff," Harry divulges. "The bigger question is, where will Hermione store all the crap she had in there? Don't tell her I said this… but she's something of a pack rat, Pansy. She's never met a book she didn't hoard."
"Ha – and Draco verges on obsessive-compulsive minimalism… they're going to have some interesting bumps trying to align those particular core values," Pansy sniggers.
Their waiter returns with their drinks, shooting Pansy a scared look before setting down her vodka-and-bitters cocktail. He flees as soon as Harry's Butterbeer is on the table.
"Here's to Hermione and Draco, and their new careers," Pansy proposes a toast.
"May I never walk in on their blatant bawdiness ever again!" Harry feelingly adds, clinking their goblets. "Ditto for not witnessing their randy elves' shenanigans. My poor, shocked eyes…"
"Oh, 'MacRu' snuck beneath the bleachers at your match – Hermione didn't even notice until Tavi pointed it out," Pansy guffaws. "They're adorable, but I agree, it's a tad confronting."
"Damned right it is," Harry gruffly agrees. "I only want to think about you in my bed, not be besieged with proof of every other horny bastard getting it on– oh, hell," he gasps. "I mean – I'm not thinking about you in my bed – OK, I am – but you know, respectfully, no expectations, definitely no pressure… forget it, I'll be under the table for the rest of the night–" he actually slithers out of his seat and down onto his knees, his mortification evident from his flaming face and ears.
"Get up, you sweet goose – I think about you in my bed all the time, so consider us even, Harry." She relishes his shocked mien as he clambers back into his chair. 'I was going to wait until we'd finished dinner to tell you I'd like us to spend tomorrow night together… in bed, Harry. M-Making love," Pansy curses herself for the tiny stumble. So much for Determined Bitch. "If you want to… if you're ready."
"Unhhh… eeeeeeeee… urghhh…" Harry makes a series of odd vocalizations, his eyes bugging out behind his spectacles. He desperately coughs into his napkin.
Not really the response I was hoping for, having my boyfriend choke at the table. Pansy pushes his water glass closer. "Sip slowly and breathe, please."
"Sorry– I'm so sorry – what time? Should I bring anything? Nothing weird, I mean– eh, Merlin…!" Harry firmly slaps his own cheek. "I'm absolutely honoured and ecstatic to accept your invitation, Pansy. I beg you to please ignore my idiotic reaction – I can't bloody wait to make love with you." He doesn't moderate his volume, his vehemence carrying to the nosy couple at the nearby table (if their dramatic, shocked wheezes are any indication).
Pansy keeps her voice at a similar level. Give them a thrill, the sad old things.
"I can't wait to make love with you too, Harry."
Faces glowing with unfettered delight, they stare raptly at one another until their nervy waiter begins to peripherally hover.
We'd best order before he starts crying. He means well. And honestly, I can't blame him for his idolization of Harry… turns out I've got it awfully bad for this wonderful wizard, myself.
Pansy slyly winks at her boyfriend, jubilation bubbling as she peruses the menu once more.
Sunday 29 March 2003: PM
"Right, I think that's the last of it," Draco lugs the final crate of books into their new lounge room. Hands on hips, he dubiously eyes the already-bulging bookcase. "Ma petite, I believe you're going to have to rethink whether you really need all of these here… doesn't the library already stock identical titles?". He picks up a random tome, his slate eyes comically widening at the colourful, raunchy cover.
"Well, perhaps not – I doubt Madam Pince has many copies of 'Stolen Dreams'… By Merlin, I can see why they're called 'bodice-rippers'! Frankly, It's a wonder this lewd image got past the censorship board– "
"Don't be ridiculous – and put that down," Hermione unsuccessfully tries to snatch back the novel. Taking refuge behind their small two seater sofa, Draco easily evades her while he reads snippets of the blurb and adds his own cheeky commentary.
"'Raised in a perilous world of thieves and rogues, Gillie lived by her wiles and fiercely guarded her virtue. Then the delicate beauty encountered the handsome and gallant Baron Kinsale'… She sure did – look at him, the dirty bugger is flagrantly staring down her corset, Granger – pure filth – ugh, and he's got red hair!…"
"Malfoy!" He sniggers as she chases him around the furniture, continuing to read aloud.
"'Yet this wild sweet waif, this unpolished pearl, was still a lass...and Kinsale dared not yield to his desire.' Didn't stop him from splaying her onto a bed for his merry oglings, though, did it? Tut-tut… you're a smutty witch, my dear."
Hermione finally wrenches the paperback from his grasp. "That's not the tune you were singing yesterday, my dirty dragon." She casually shrugs as she carefully returns her book to its fellows. "But that's fine – no one's forcing you to explore my lascivious leanings."
Her pretended air of injured pride vanishes as Draco hurdles the couch to back her against the stone wall. His hard body is pressed flush to her front as he emphatically asserts, "I can't get enough of your 'lascivious leanings', as you well know, my raunchy little lioness." He stares down at her, his smile fading. Have I pushed the joke too far? It is a sensitive subject for her – I should have known better than to make fun. Fool that I am!
"Hermione? You know I was merely teasing, right? I absolutely adore making love with you – I don't want to sound like a degenerate perv, but it's by far my favourite pastime, sweetheart. You're the sexiest witch in the world, and I'm honoured (and exceedingly grateful) to participate in any 'licentious behaviours' you ever wish to explore." He kisses her softly. "You do believe me, don't you?".
"Oh, of course; I was being playful, too. It's alright, Draco – sometimes I think you worry more than me, and that's quite a feat," she sighs against his mouth, caressing the back of his down bent neck. "Much as I'd love to put you through your paces again – so to speak – we'd better leave the rest of this mess for later, we're due at Hagrid's hut in half an hour. We're both covered in goodness-know-what from the move, and I refuse to dine whilst covered in muck."
Hello, shared shower. Draco grins. "I happen to know an excellent witch-washer: and best of all, he doesn't apply a call-out charge," he herds her toward their private bathroom, stopping dead when a thought strikes.
"Hagrid's not cooking, is he?".
"No, Mac and Ruibby are bringing down dinner from the castle's kitchens. Did you just say, 'call-out charge'? Careful, mon amour, you're sounding more Muggle by the day," Hermione ribs.
"I think you mean 'Muggalicious', darling."
Hermione's incredulous groan at his silliness only mutes when he turns on the shower and applies himself to the indisputably joyous task of diligently (and rapidly) stripping her bare.
Who cares if we're a little late to dinner?
"Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger are eleven and three-quarter minutes late to our repast!" Macdolas cries, after laboriously dragging open the heavy door of Hagrid's hut to grant them admittance. A merrily panting Fang backs out of the way before his tail gets squashed, lumbering his impressive boarhound bulk to hide beneath the dining table, a bedraggled lace edge of tablecloth drooping over the big dog's eyes like an incongruous bridal veil.
"Why, you fault-finding little tu–"
"Hallo! Thank you, Mac – we had a little trouble with the workings of our new shower," Hermione glibly interrupts, raising her voice to drown out Draco's snarled interjection. "Don't you look smart? Let me guess – Swedish chef from The Muppets?" she refers to his pouffy white chef's hat and snowy buttoned overcoat.
She prudently doesn't glance Draco's way, thus missing his self-satisfied expression as he thinks of the exact 'problem' with their new shower… i.e., the logistics involved in us having enough space for my broader frame to wedge between Hermione's spread thighs – I'll ask permission for an Expansion Charm at the earliest opportunity. His sneer softens to a smirk as flashes of their tryst whip through his mind, Macdolas's irksomeness mostly forgotten.
"Righ' yeh are, Hermione love," Hagrid fondly hugs the witch. "Yeh're still glowin' – reckon yeh're as happy as a clam ter be back at Hogwarts, eh? We've been countin' the days, haven't we, Luna love?". He effortlessly reels the petite blonde into the embrace, his shaggy beard obscuring the tops of the women's heads. A bushy marmalade tail switches as Crookshanks peers from his roost on the back of Hagrid's thick neck, wasp-yellow eyes gleaming in apparent feline amusement.
"Young Draco, yeh've been takin' proper care of our girl?" Hagrid turns, seeming not to register the Kneazle-cat sinking his talons into the half-giant's shoulders for extra support.
Draco squeaks as Hagrid somehow manages to reef him into the impromptu group hug, too. The man's huge enough to have a planet named for him, by Zeus. His useless struggles subside as his face is inexorably pressed into Hagrid's massive chest. I can't breathe – no wait, my nose is still working – now I wish it weren't – he feebly sputters as the pungent smell of woodsmoke, earth, grass, sweat, and strong cologne pervades his flaring nostrils.
Help me, Hermione – I'm being lovingly smothered to death.
"Hagrid, I think Draco's having a little trouble drawing breath," Hermione tactfully points out, effecting a loosening of Hagrid's arms.
"Eh, he'll be righ' as rain in a moment or two," Hagrid mercifully releases the trio to shuffle over to the dinner table. "Come on, me stomach's grumblin' tha' me throat's been cut – the wee ones've laid on a firs'-rate spread."
"Hi, Luna," Draco greets, once he's able to speak. He gathers her in a very light hug, mindful of Hagrid's recent suffocation. "How are you? Today's been such a blur – I'm glad we can finally catch up."
"Hullo, Draco, I'm well. Have you found everything to your liking? Minerva went to some pains to ensure your joint living quarters were as comfortable as possible. She asked me to tell you to please let her know if you need anything she hasn't already supplied," Luna informs.
"Everything's wonderful, Luna," Hermione assures. "Is there anything we should know about, before we start in the morning? Luna?".
Draco begins to feel uneasy as Luna's gentle smile slightly wobbles. "Luna, please: if there's a problem, we need to know about it as soon as possible."
"Well… it's more of a tiny pushback," Luna quietly replies. "You've probably been too busy to read the papers today; there's a small article on page three, about how a few parents are not pleased with Draco's appointment to the teaching staff. I'm sure it's just a flash in the pan, all will be forgotten in a few days."
Macdolas bounces over, clutching a broadsheet. "Master Malfoy should sue for defenestration! The House of Granger-Malfoy shall not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune!" he bristles, stabbing his finger at the offending passage.
"'Defenestration' is the act of throwing someone out a window, Macdolas," Draco half-heartedly chips, his attention captured by the old photograph of his younger, surlier self. "I think you mean 'defamation', scamp."
"Technically, defenestration can also mean 'the action or process of dismissing someone from a position of power or authority'," Hermione adds, brows knitting as she reads over his shoulder. "The ruddy Prophet again! I'm going to have to fit in another visit to Skeeter this week, somehow."
"No, it's not her by-line; and technically they haven't printed anything libellous, it's all 'alleged Dark Wizard' and 'unsubstantiated rumours yet abound," Draco flatly remarks. He doesn't realize his shoulders are tensed and hunched until Hermione runs a caring hand along his upper spine and neck. He claws for his cool control, forces his cramped muscles to relax, and casually rakes back his flopped blond fringe.
"Luna's right, we shouldn't pay it much heed. Headmistress McGonagall will let us know if parental concerns become a problem. Let's sit down and enjoy this delicious feast, guys." Draco arranges his teeth in what he hopes passes for a smile. Ruibby's little hand patting his as her head leans against his leg causes him to freeze.
"Master Malfoy is a good man, a Light Wizard, and the best employer MacRu will ever be lucky enough to serve," she staunchly proclaims. "Ruibby trusts Master Malfoy with her life, and thanks him deeply for his many kindnesses and unconditional care. Though MacRu are now proud employees of Castle Hogwarts, always will their primary allegiance rest with the House of Granger-Malfoy." She concludes her stirring speech with a stylish curtsey.
"Hear, hear!" Macdolas loudly chimes in, while Hagrid claps, winking away a few tears. Luna bobs her head approvingly. Hermione slips her hand into Draco's, squeezing firmly.
"See? You are beloved, Draco. Please don't let the petty opinions of a few ruin your joy at realizing your dreams," she softly entreats.
"Folk're jes' frightened, lad – the War's long been over, but fully believin' it, well, tha's easier said than done, yeh know. Yeh'll be a splendid professor, an' yeh'll have the tykes an' parents comin' round in no time a'tall, yeh'll see," Hagrid's booming voice prophesies.
"Hagrid's right, Draco. Minerva had to address some complaints when I was first appointed as a Magizoology professor, you know." Luna splays her hands wide as they all stare at her in disbelief. "It's true. Some people thought I was 'too flighty and crazy' to be an effective teacher. It was a trifle upsetting, but Minerva assured me she had the utmost faith in my abilities and commitment. She also publicly stated that any parent who challenged my right to the position was welcome to enrol their child at another institution. She even had that printed in the newsletter, in bold type."
Arseholes. Draco's teeth grind as he considers what kind of bottom-feeder could ever sink so low as to wilfully attack their dearest Ravenclaw angel.
"Not a single child was withdrawn from my classes, and Minerva made it very clear to the Board that she will never tolerate unreasonable interference to her right to run Hogwarts as she sees fit," Luna smiles, her pale blue eyes twinkling. "Sometimes it's hard to not take this kind of rejection personally, but you must understand that everyone who knows you… everyone who really knows you… loves you, Draco."
I won't cry. Draco chews on the inside of his cheeks, burying his face in Hermione's silky mahogany curls. As always, her touch grounds him. He fiercely clings to his treasured sweetheart, overwhelmed by her, and his friends' support.
"Thanks, everyone," he eventually finds the fortitude to croak. "I appreciate your support very much."
Hermione steers them to sit on the oversized wooden structures Hagrid calls chairs, her own eyes moist and blinking.
"Macdolas asks if the weeping wizards are finally ready to consume the delicious banquet that Macdolas and Ruibby toil over for hours to prepare, working their tired fingers to the bone, jostling for the tiniest portion of space in the crowded castle kitchen, stoically bearing the strict disapprobation of their colleagues as they doggedly bustle to and fro– "
"Macdolas! Our fellow house elves have been nothing but helpful, and produced most of this feast for our party without even being asked!" a scandalized Ruibby scolds her beau. "Ruibby will not stand by and listen to such wickedly heinous falsehoods – apologize at once, please!" She imperiously stamps her tiny foot.
"Darlingest Ruibby, Macdolas merely employs his renowned improvisational theatrical abilities to entertain his appreciative public, and to lighten the emotionally-charged mood that hangs over our cherished company like the Sword of Damocles!" he stridently avers.
He certainly is a constant source of amusement… 'the Sword of Damocles', indeed. Dramatic, much? Draco disguises his chuffed laugh behind his cupped palm.
Ruibby's cutting glare could strip the varnish from the well-worn wooden table… assuming any yet remained, Draco wryly muses. The humans hold their breath as Macdolas wilts under her surveillance like a hothouse flower in full sunshine.
"Macdolas is reasonably sorry for his harmless misdirection," he rumbles, addressing his boots. "Macdolas did bake the shortbread biscuits, though."
"Ruibby is rightly proud of her brilliant biscuit-baking boyfriend; she occasionally berates his behaviours from a place of true love, and minor judgement." The teeny elf zealously sprinkles ardent kisses all over Mac's grinning face.
"Pass the butter, would yeh please, Luna love?" Hagrid shifts his mass to point to the butter dish, presumably in a hasty effort to block out the elfish love fest taking place beside him. Fang quickly retracts his slobbering head back under the table when MacRu's groping hands get a little too close to his velvety muzzle.
Hermione faintly asks, "Ruibby, Mac – while we're all glad you're getting along so… sweetly, perhaps you could postpone your amorous celebrations until you return to your own quarters?". Her words have zero effect on the snogging sprites.
Draco reaches over to flick the back of Macdolas's head. "Knock it off, or go outside, Don Juan." He can't help but break into laughter as Mac recoils, crabbily flipping Draco his nubby middle finger, behind Ruibby's narrow back. Hermione, Hagrid, and Luna join in; even Fang barks in solidarity a few times. Crookshanks jumps off Hagrid's back to sniff curiously at the fey lovers.
Once their chuckles have died down to titters, Luna turns to Draco to whisper, "Do you think MacRu would consent to being interviewed as to their developing sexuality, both singular and plural, Draco? I think a study of elfin intercourse rituals would make a fascinating subject for my follow-up treatise."
"Uh – I suppose it doesn't hurt to ask," Draco mumbles. "Ask them, I mean – not me."
Luna cocks her head. "Oh, but I'm counting on your involvement, Draco; Hermione's passed along a copy of 'Your Guide to Elven Sexuality', and it's a perfectly wonderful manual. She also said it will be released in hardback form by the end of the year, just in time for Christmas. Well done, Mr Sex Ed Author!". She smiles blithely as she picks up the bowl of colourful food in front of her. "Moroccan roasted veggie salad?".
Nodding dumbly – with his face aflame – Draco glances at Hermione, unsurprised to see her broad, smug smile.
Oh, Granger… you'll pay for your meddling, ma petite.
Oh, Malfoy… you know I'll always come out ahead, mon amour.
Raising her glass of blackcurrant cordial in a cheeky salute, she smiles even wider.
The quoted excerpt is from the novel 'Stolen Dreams' by Catherine Lyndell.
