A/N:

Hallo guys

Just wanted to let you know that this is a long chapter; and that the final two scenes portray Blaise and Gus's erotic spa shenanigans (for those of you who may wish to skip the sexual content).

And many thanks to you all for your continued readership and support.

Hope you have a marvellous week.

xoxo VJ

P.S. Little avocado, your lovely review made my day. Thank you so much.

Chapter 90

Thursday 02 April 2003: AM

Hermione stirs as Draco carefully adjusts the covers around her sleepy form; he gently runs his hand over her shoulder and hip, dropping the lightest of kisses on her temple. Crookshanks opens one baleful yellow eye, immediately taking advantage of Draco's absence to stretch his orange bulk across the abandoned pillow. Steady rain patters against the curtained windows.

"Draco? Is everything OK? Do you feel sick?" Hermione worriedly murmurs, preparing to sit up. His hand stays her in place, his outline just visible in the pre-dawn darkness of their tower bedroom.

"Everything's fine, sweetheart. I just need the toilet. Go back to sleep, you have some time before you need to get ready for classes."

"I'm not going – I'm staying here with you. Don't quibble, I made my position perfectly clear last night," she mulishly states, risking the half-Kneazle's ire by propping herself against the wooden headboard. His swishing tail settles as she sinks her hand into his thick fur.

"I'll be back to argue the point… again… in a couple of minutes," Draco exhales a long-suffering sigh as he disappears into their bathroom suite.

"The man was almost fatally poisoned yesterday, Crooky: am I the one being unreasonable here? No, that's what I thought," she vents to the feline, deciding that his deepening purrs indicate his agreement. Crookshanks arches his spine and rubs his squashy face into the pillow, appearing to sport a catty smirk during his scent-marking endeavour.

She continues to rant aloud, warming to her topic. "I seem to recall a certain blond wizard being wildly overprotective when I was recently hospitalized; he even wanted to import 'better quality' bedding during my brief sojourn at St Mungo's, if you can believe it... Yet here he is, negating my right (as his life partner) to take care of him… it's grossly unfair, isn't it? What if he has a relapse, huh? What if he suddenly feels dizzy– and– and he faints, or bangs his head on a table, or–"

"I don't think we've been properly introduced; nice to meet you, Little Miss Panic Merchant," Draco slides back into the bed, grinning as she crossly resists his attempts to gather her close. "Easy, Granger…come, you know you cannot resist my manly charms – oh, that was nasty," he scolds, as she snaps her teeth at his stroking hand.

"I'll sic my cat onto you," she growls, before melting against his pale, muscular chest. "Dammit, Draco… it wasn't even twenty-four hours ago that you were unconscious and struggling to breathe, right in front of me– and you expect me to just go off to teach Arithmancy and not fret over you all day?!" She buries her head against his warm neck, mad with herself for dissolving into angry tears.

"Hush, ma petite… I'm sorry. I love you so much; and I do understand your viewpoint," he kisses the top of her head, wrapping the quilted counterpane around them. "You successfully petitioned Madam Pomfrey for my release into your care last night: do you really think she would have conceded, if there were truly any danger of a relapse? I've drunk enough restorative potions in the past day to last me a lifetime, and I slept like a top… I really am alright, Hermione."

He tilts her chin until her tempestuous cocoa eyes meet his solemn slate ones. "I love that you love me enough to worry; but I detest seeing my beautiful witch sad and blue. I promise you I'll be fine – and Crookshanks will keep watch, won't you, mate?".

The disinterested moggy's only reaction is a wide yawn; a rope of silvery drool drops onto the pillowcase. Hermione laughs at Draco's revolted expression.

"Disgusting…! Never mind, I already have a host of visiting guardians lined up today: Macdolas and Ruibby are bringing my meals, plus Hagrid, Luna, Neville, Cecily, and Kvothe, and Minerva, at some point. And I have to Floo-call my parents… thank you for keeping them calm when you spoke with them yesterday afternoon, ma chérie."

"No need to thank me, Draco… I didn't tell you last night, but Lucy nearly collapsed when he heard. Your mother actually instructed Mizrabel to bring the smelling salts, but he quickly rallied," Hermione quietly replies. "He went on an apparently unironic rant about Hogwarts' security measures being 'grossly inadequate'."

"He didn't… he did," Draco groans, slapping a palm to his face. "Sorry you had to deal with his dramatics, darling."

"I expected no less, having regularly witnessed your impressive tantrums and flair for theatrics," Hermione teases. Her hands restively caress his bare back, occasionally tapping up and down his vertebrae. "Good thing I'm crazy about you, mon coeur. I am, you know," her voice strengthens.

"Draco… even though you recognized – and accepted – your feelings for me years ago, my sentiments are equally as powerful, and profound," she earnestly speaks. "I'm ashamed that my own stupid prejudice stopped me from acknowledging how I felt about you… you are the love of my life, Draco Lucius Malfoy… you are my soul mate, and I'll never stop loving you. Never." She circles her arms around his neck, feeling unaccountably nervous as her lips press gently onto his.

To her vast relief, he returns her embrace with undisguised fervour. A deep primitive tug builds between their straining bodies, Draco intermittently breaking their torrid lip-lock to mutter ardent professions of his own devotion.

"Gods, Hermione– hearing you say that– knowing in my heart that you mean every sweet, impassioned word– I love you– I adore you– I treasure every wondrous part of you–" they accidentally bump noses, their breathless little hums turning to giggles.

Resting her forehead against Draco's, Hermione revels in how happy and content he looks, despite some lingering sallowness and lines of tiredness around his beautiful grey eyes. Thank Godric he's safe… my darling Draco… I came far too close to losing him…

"Hey – I'm not going anywhere, Hermione Jean Granger… the world would have to spin off its axis before I ever left your side," he vows, softly wiping beneath her weepy eyes. "Even then, I would hold you tightly to my side as we slid off the edge together. No one – especially not some gutless, jumped-up little shit who preys on vulnerable schoolgirls – is going to tear us apart."

"Mulciber had better hope the Aurors find him before I do," Hermione seethes. "I'll make mincemeat of him, before I feed him to the Thestrals, the sly, conniving, despicable fu–"

"Alright, alright, I hear you, Tiger," Draco cuts off her vicious oath. "Let's leave the righteous revenge for the authorities, Granger. Listen, if I swear to you that I'll summon Macdolas if I need anything, or start to feel ill, will you go to work today? Please? You've already missed a full day due to my dramas, and I really am OK."

"Well… as long as you're certain… and I'm coming back to have lunch with you, of course," Hermione gives in with bad grace. "Crooky would come get me if you needed help though – he's a very smart boy… and so handsome,' she coos, as the marmalade cat's fluffy ears twitch.

"He's certainly an expert in how to lie heavily on my person to extract maximum warmth," Draco carps, in a low whisper. "He hasn't shown any symptoms of the 'Kneazlish loneliness' Hagrid claimed was the reason for bringing him to us yesterday, though?".

"Oh, Draco – Hagrid only said that because he was worried about you lacking for company during your convalescence," Hermione chuckles. "Just be glad he didn't bring you an illegal baby dragon with a deceptively innocuous name, mon amour."

"I'll stick with Crookshanks, thanks," Draco firmly nods. "So you'll stop fretting, darling? I'm going to be as fit as a fiddle in no time; I'll be turning cartwheels at Macdolas's party, you just wait and see."

"Ha – I'd pay good money to see that! I promise to try to stop worrying, how's that for a compromise?" Hermione temporizes. "Ooh! That reminds me: how is the Big Surprise Gift coming along?"

"I'll check with Mother today, she said she has one last ace up her sleeve… I hope it works out," Draco looks pensive.

"It will. Narcissa is a silk-sheathed powerhouse, and she is well-nigh unstoppable when she has her heart and mind set on something," Hermione reassures. "Our costumes should be waiting for us at the townhouse, if everything goes to plan. Ooh, the party's going to be so much fun!" she excitedly claps her hands, before wiggling to lie down beside Draco, her head resting on his shoulder. "Move over please, Crooky," she ineffectually orders the grooming feline.

"I wouldn't interrupt him, if I were you – his claws are razor sharp," Draco trails his hand up and down her arm, sending tingles throughout her body. "Did you train him to attack anything coloured green, by the way? He shredded my old Slytherin scarf into ribbons overnight." He points to the tattered garment lying forlornly beneath the armchair.

"No! He simply has impeccable taste," Hermione giggles. "I'll buy you another, darling." Closing her eyes, she succumbs to the contented bliss of Draco's tender touch, sniffing surreptitiously at his clean, warm scent as he mutters something uncomplimentary about 'destructive ginger furbags'.

These 'little' moments are truly a gift… each one a small pearl to add to life's string, worn against my heart to keep their lustre, Hermione meditates.

She purses her lips to sprinkle soft kisses against Draco's marble skin. I would die for this wonderful wizard… my extraordinary man. Anyone who ever tries to hurt him will deeply regret it. She forces her fingers to relax before they dig tiny half-crescents into his taut shoulder, instead focusing on enjoying this sweet interlude before she must rise to face the day.

Fate wouldn't dare to tear us apart – or I'll come for that bitch, too. Smiling at her own ferocity, she listens to Draco's even breathing and tries to ignore the sound of her pet's rough tongue as Crooky assiduously licks himself clean.

"Cats," Draco pronounces, the single word conveying resignation, repulsion, and grudging admiration.

Snugly cuddled in each other's arms, they snicker softly together before drifting back to sleep.

Thursday 02 April 2003: PM

Harry pauses in the open parlour doorway, fumbling not to drop his travel bag as he absorbs the charmingly domestic scene before him. Kreacher glares from his armchair, laying down his paperback to press a crooked finger to his thin lips.

Sliding noiselessly from the chair, the elf plucks the bag from Harry's arm. "Master Potter takes care when interrupting Mistress Pansy's slumber; Mistress sleeps poorly in Master's absence." Kreacher holds Harry's troubled gaze, his brows staying knotted until Harry perceives the subtext of his announcement.

"Pansy suffered nightmares?" Harry whispers back, heart clenching.

"Kreacher cannot say." He trots past Harry, turning to utter a last peremptory directive before exiting the room. "Gently wake Mistress Pansy before carrying her upstairs, Master Potter. Little Boadie, too."

Harry checks his instinctive, cranky retort, noting how Kreacher's eyes soften as he casts a final glance at the sleeping witch and kitten curled up together on the comfortable old couch. He truly cares for her… I can't take him to task for that, even if he is bossing me about something fierce.

Taking care to step lightly, Harry moves to crouch before the sofa, the shimmering, crackling fire warm at his back.

Pansy is enveloped by a thick quilted blanket Harry has never before seen in Grimmauld Place; he wonders if Kreacher procured it especially for her, given that it is her favourite colour (black). It is embroidered with hundreds of tiny stars and other celestial objects, in varying shades of gold. The flickering firelight makes the heavenly bodies appear to be in motion. Pansy's head is supported by a plump velveteen cushion, her lustrous black hair framing her beautiful face. Her curled hand rests on Boadie's dozing form.

My utterly lovely, tired little witch… Harry fights the urge to trace his finger along her cheek, mindful of Kreacher's sage advice. He settles for whispering her name, adding heartfelt endearments without realizing it.

"Pansy… wake up, love… It's just me, Harry… let's go upstairs and sleep in our own bed, darling. Pansy… my sweet Pansy…"

Her dark lashes sweep upwards, her hand briefly tightening on the kitten's fur. Disorientation is replaced by joy as Pansy's curving lips shape his name.

"Harry… my Harry… you're home!" She struggles to extricate herself from the burrito-like wrap Kreacher must have craftily effected when she fell asleep. Boadie crankily rowls as a corner of the blanket covers her wee head.

"Oof– sorry, Boadie– dammit – I'm stuck," she laughs. "Harry, help me, please?".

Chuckling, Harry peels back the quilt, scooping up the disgruntled cat and setting her on the arm of the couch. He grabs the blanket's outer hem, quickly unravelling his girlfriend from its benevolent imprisonment. "Hold onto my neck, love – it's off to bed we go," he slides his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, hoisting her clear of the sofa. She leans her head against his chest, holding on as instructed. Her light, simple touch and obvious trust gladdens him immeasurably.

"I missed you so, Harry," Pansy drowsily confesses, her fingers stroking the back of his sensitive neck as he walks upstairs. "Have you heard about poor Draco being poisoned?! He's OK, thank Salazar! Hermione saved him with a bezoar; she's such a legend."

"Yes: Pritchard-Hawes filled us in, and Hermione owled me this afternoon. She's spitting chips, and rightly so. Mulciber's in the wind, but Leo's confident they'll run him to ground soon," Harry says with a frown. "He'd want to hope the Ministry finds him before Hermione does."

"Mmm… she was busy listing all the most brutal non-Unforgivable Curses she knew, when she Floo-called me yesterday. I don't blame her, I'd be absolutely wild if someone tried to hurt you like that, Harry."

Pansy nervously coughs as Harry keenly stares down at her, quickly switching topics. "Oh– did you have a good trip? Is everyone OK?".

"Well, we had a spot of bother in Amsterdam, but Gus saved the day," Harry downplays the fraught incident with Ainbertach and Loughty. "I'll tell you all about it over breakfast, hmm? I'm sorry for disturbing you this late, I had to file roughly a thousand ruddy reports before I could leave the Ministry, love."

"You didn't disturb me, Harry; I was determined to stay awake until you got home, but I guess I was more tired than I realized. I'm awake now, though – I'd love to hear all about it," she rapidly blinks up at him, her sluggish tone belying her claim.

"In the morning, sweetheart," Harry repeats, indulgently shaking his head at her petulant mien. "You're exhausted, Pansy." He wandlessly opens their bedroom door and turns on the bedside lamp, depositing her onto the bed with infinite care. Her hands refuse to unwind from his neck as he makes to stand up.

"No– I want you to stay, and talk to me, Harry. Please."

"Tomorrow, Pansy; don't club me with those sad jade eyes, you're not playing fair," Harry groans. "Look, I really do need to have a quick shower, I'm a bit whiffy, love. I'll be back in bed before you know it," he kisses each pouting corner of her mouth as her hands slowly fall away. He flips back the bedding, his gaze lingering on how adorable (and innocently sexy) she looks in his borrowed sleepwear.

"Are those my old flannel pyjamas, sweetheart? How did you manage to keep up the pants…?" his voice fades out as she whips off the patterned trousers to display a newly-installed drawstring.

"I can sew, you know," a big yawn interrupts her insouciant wink. "Comes in handy… when you're running a boutique…"

"Of course it does," Harry pacifies, coaxing her slender legs beneath the covers. The temptation to reacquaint himself with her soft skin and shapely limbs is nearly overpowering. She bestows a sleepy little grin, chortling as he blushes at how obvious is his incessant attraction to her.

"You can touch me all you like, Harry James Potter," she invites, rolling onto her back and offering her naturally red mouth in an alluring moue. "Kisses are free of charge, too… but only for you, Duckie."

As if I can resist her now. Puffing out a deep exhale, Harry bends over her once more, smiling as he replies, "I'd sign over all the gold in my Gringotts vault for a single touch of your sweet lips, Pansy Mallory Parkinson."

Her viridian pupils enlarge at his earnest declaration; Harry waits for her tiny nod of assent before he brings together their mouths, keeping his eyes open for a moment as the thrill of their connection sweeps through him.

The gentle persuasion of her soft lips swiftly overrides his intent to keep their kiss tame. His mouth slants for deeper access, her sweet little moan inflaming him in a heartbeat. The sensation of her fingers brushing through his thick hair raises tingling goosebumps down the length of his spine.

"Are you growing a beard, my romantic Lion?" Pansy breaks their hungry kiss to murmur the query against his unshaven jaw, her right hand coming up to delicately trace his dark stubble.

Harry moves his cheek into her palm, loving her shiver at the light tickle he creates. "No, love… I've just been too busy to bother shaving. Here, I'd best go take care of it; I don't want to mark your lovely skin." He moves to stand upright.

"No, please keep it! I love– I love the feel of your little bristles, Harry. Just until after Mac's party?" Pansy wheedles. "I can build a whole costume around it…"

"Well, if you're sure… if you're not too shamed to be seen with such a slovenly wizard," Harry replies, mugging a disreputable leer.

"You're the handsomest man in the world, Harry… and so sexy. I'm… I'm proud as punch to be seen with you," Pansy shyly says. She turns her pinkening face into the pillow and bats her hand at his expression of astonished delight. "Go on– go have your shower! I've embarrassed myself enough for one night."

"You perfect, adorable little darling," Harry ignores her breathless squeals as he 'machine-gun' kisses her flushing cheeks and forehead. "I missed you like crazy, Pansy. You've no idea–" he stops himself from imparting the entirety of his profound emotion with an effort. Slow down, Potter. Plenty of time… We've only just begun, as The Carpenters sang.

One final kiss to the pretty bow of her top lip, before he steps from the bed. "I'll be right back, love."

"OK, Harry." Pansy turns on her side, her eyelids drooping as she watches him gather fresh clothing and walk towards the bathroom. "Hurry back, Duckie."

When he returns, she is dormant in the middle of their bed, the charcoal duvet slipping off her shoulder. Harry slides in beside her, lying flat on his back and carefully draping her arm and leg over him, before he rearranges the bedding.

"Not asleep… I wanna talk," Pansy mumbles. "Wanna talk with you… you smell good, Harry…"

"We can talk in the morning, love. I have the whole day off, Leo said we all deserved a long weekend. Go to sleep, Pansy. I know you've been having bad dreams; I'll be right here to help chase them away, OK?".

"But I asked Kreacher not to tell you–" she begins to grouse, slitting her eyes to half-open.

"He'd never break your confidence, he merely mentioned you hadn't been sleeping well. You have to be very specific when wording instructions to an elf," Harry grins at her cranky grimace. "Kreacher wouldn't have said anything if he weren't worried about you, darling. He thinks you're the cat's whiskers, you know."

"Kreacher's an absolute doll… don't scoff, he is," Pansy grumbles, her eyes flitting closed again. "He insisted on Boadie sleeping in here, with me… he even let me beat him at checkers… twice…" her final word is barely audible.

"Alright, alright, he's a real peach. Goodnight, love." Harry clicks off the bedside lamp, listening to Pansy's regular respirations. Within a few minutes, she is fast asleep.

I wish she were always here when I come home. The intense yen jumps unbidden into his relaxed consciousness, his eyes popping open in the dark. He forces himself to relax, not wanting his agitation to wake Pansy.

It's far too soon – I made that mistake with Ginny. I won't do it again. But… I have learned from my foolishness… Godric knows, I was selfish and stupid, and far too focused on proving that my difficult childhood and adolescence didn't define me. Harry suppresses a sigh as he remembers how quickly everything went to shit. It seems redundant that you need to be mature in order to recognize your own prior immaturity, doesn't it?

Eh, enough deep and meaningful contemplation for one night. Harry twines a strand of Pansy's silky hair around his index finger before snuggling down a little more comfortably into the mattress.

His last thoughts bring a small, contented smile to his mouth.

Pansy thinks I'm sexy… and handsome… and she's proud to be with me… she even likes my scruffy beard…

Well, perhaps I'll get my wish a bit sooner than I thought.

Thursday 02 April 2003: PM

Gus steps out of the unfamiliar Floo fireplace with a big grin wreathed across her weary face. She mentally shrugs aside her irksome reservations about not sending word ahead of her arrival at Villa Zabini.

Blaise did tell me he opened up the Floo for my unconditional use; and he's been consistently insistent on seeing me the moment I returned. She blinks as the unprecedented opulence of her new environment becomes dazzlingly apparent.

Well, 'I'll go to the foot of our stairs', as Dad used to say! I thought Tavi was hyperbolizing when she described this residence as a 'palace'… By Morgana, is that an original Gainsborough nonchalantly hanging above the settee…?

"Mistress Augusta! Gelsomina is most decidedly pleased by your appearance!". The elegant little elf bustles into the room to relieve Gus of her battered knapsack, disregarding Gus's protestations that she can carry it herself. The compact bag disappears to parts unknown with a deft snap of Gelsy's fingers.

"Since supper, Master Blaise checks the Floo over a dozen times in heightened anticipation of Mistress Augusta's return," Gelsy tosses her honey-brown head in fond exasperation. "Come, come, he reads upstairs with Little Miss Tavi and Mrs Nella."

Even with her long stride, Gus has to quicken her pace to keep up with the energetic elvish housekeeper/dynamo. Gelsy zooms up the huge central staircase before leading Gus through a baffling number of twists and turns.

Hell – I'm the shabbiest thing in this palazzo. Gus's confidence slips a few notches with every glimpse of lavish rooms, expensive furnishings, and priceless antiques. Her shoulders slump before her hard-won confidence kicks back in.

It's just fancy trappings. Blaise doesn't care that we're only a few years past penniless… I'm the one who's been overly concerned with the marked differences in our wealth and social status. He wants me – me – out of all the high society witches and rich bitches he could doubtlessly choose from. The only person making me feel inferior is yours truly. Buck up, woman.

She tunes back in to Gelsy's lightly accented chatter.

"…Gelsomina hopes Master Blaise will now ease his incessant demands for opinions on his clothing selection, olfactory projection, complexion, hairstyle, and the innumerable dithering considerations over how best to decorate and outfit Mistress Augusta's room," she points to a closed door at the opposite end of the corridor. "Mrs Nella says she's 'nowt known a lad thus deeply smitten with his lass'; she and Gelsomina lay a substantial wager as to when– ah, here we are."

Gelsy sweeps through the open double doorway with her standard grace, not giving Gus a chance to question the mention of her own room, or the parameters of the wily bet between the two older females. I'm not sure I even want to know, at this point. Her shrewd Auror's eyes rapidly absorb the pertinent details of her surrounds.

Princess What's-Her-Name's chamber is enormous, with a massive antique Italian walnut sleigh bed positioned at its centre, matched with a five drawer carved chest, a pair of nightstands, and an immense two door wardrobe, all bearing bronze knobs and handles. Artwork, tapestries and gilded mirrors adorn the silk-papered walls, thick Turkish rugs covering the floors. The dominant colours range from pale pinks to a deep damask, with leaf green accents here and there. There is even a small lit fireplace and reading nook, where Mrs Green is ensconced in a comfortable armchair, humming as she crochets.

Tavi is propped up on an embarrassment of luxurious cushions against the tall wooden headboard, looking like a Principessina herself in a (brand-new) fancy long-sleeved white cotton nightgown, stitched all over with dozens of colourful, tiny butterflies. Tricky the triceratops is leaning against her leg as she raptly listens to Blaise's deep, chocolatey voice reading from 'The Fellowship of the Ring'.

"'His speech and clear ringing voice left no doubt in their hearts: the rider was of the Elven-folk. No others that dwelt in the wide world had voices so fair to hear. But there seemed to be a note of haste or fear in his call, and they saw that he was now speaking quickly and urgently to Strider'– Gussie!" Blaise eagerly leaps from his chair, slapping closed the heavy leather-bound volume and carelessly dropping it onto the nightstand before he dashes toward her.

"Gus Gus!" Tavi scrambles to follow the tall brunet wizard, sending Tricky flying and nearly knocking over her orthotics. "Mrs Green, Gus is home– and she's cut her hair!" the child screeches, cannoning into Gus's braced legs as Blaise hugs her from the other side.

"Lads-alive, bairn! Ye'll copple your creels, dashing aboot! Aa've eyes, I see yon lassie. Dinna be moongin aboot it, tis nobbut hair," Nella lays down her crocheting, smiling fondly at Gussie and her two enthusiastic hangers-on. "Hullo, lass. How there, hinny?".

"Hi, Nella. The trip was great, but it's really good to be home," Gus replies. "Blaise, Tavi: you can loosen your holds, I'm starting to get pins and needles." She laughs as they adopt identical mulish expressions.

"But we've missed you, Gus Gus!" Tavi lets go, unsteadily spinning in a joyous circle. Gelsy judiciously grabs the little girl's waist before she falls over.

"I've missed you too – but how about we all go sit on that gigantic crib to catch up, yeah?" Gus prompts, shooting Gelsomina a grateful smile as the elf helps Tavi to 'dance' back to the bed, picking up the fallen Tricky along the way. Nella moves to occupy the side chair Blaise recently vacated.

"Gus, poor Mr Draco got poisoned! Isn't it lucky Miss Hermione is so smart and knows about bezoars? Miss Hermione sent Mr Blaise an owl yesterday, her name is Thalassa and she allowed me to pet her feathers, she's really soft and clever! I'm going to get an owl, and a goat… maybe two goats, because goats are social creatures, and I'd be lonely if I were a goat," Tavi babbles.

"No goats, and you'll have to wait and see about that owl, Kiddo." Gus rapidly changes topics before Tavi can initiate an animated rebuttal. "Did someone rob a castle, or what? Bit 'Renaissance chic' in here, isn't it?" she jokes. Blaise is still wrapped around her like a vine, slyly nuzzling at her newly-exposed neck while she struggles not to shiver in pure pleasure.

"You look utterly amazing, tesoro… I admit to harbouring some… carnal fantasies about your long hair spread out across my pillow, but they've been swiftly replaced – and upgraded – with wanting to suckle love bites along every glorious inch of your beautiful neck," he naughtily whispers. His warm breath on her ear is yet another arousing sensation that sends her pulse sky-high.

"Everyone is watching us, Blaise," Gus warns, speaking out the side of her mouth. Her forward momentum is (deliciously) hampered by his just-shy-of-lewd handhold on her ribcage and lower back. "St-Stop that," she weakly admonishes. He obeys instantly, his wicked little smile communicating his understanding of her insincerity.

Collapsing at the end of the colossal bed, Gus doesn't bother to gripe when Blaise plonks down next to her, effortlessly shifting her to perch in his lap. "Alright, cara?".

Nodding, Gus notes the moment his thickly-lashed dark eyes spot the fading scratch on her left cheekbone. His expression hardens and his gentle hold around her midriff tightens for a fleeting moment.

"Quel bastardo pagherà," the words are snarled beneath his breath. He tenderly touches his fingertip to the faint mark before bequeathing it a single, weightless kiss. "I really missed you, Gussie."

"I missed you too, Blaisey." Gus twists to kiss him properly, laying her palms against his smooth cheeks. His luscious mouth is warm and inviting, momentarily making her forget their agog spectators. Her brain refuses to focus on anything but the torrent of desire surging through her entire body as she amplifies the caress.

"Is that French or Italian kissing?" Tavi's curious high voice finally impinges on her bubble of needy bliss. "What's 'English' kissing, anyway? Do you know, Mrs Green?".

Oh… f-fiddlesticks. Burning with mortification at her unbridled, steamy display, Gus tries and fails to slide off Blaise's lap. She is eternally grateful to Nella as the older woman dryly responds to Tavi's quizzing.

"Aye, kidda; tis aal much of a muchness wiv thine lollies, ye ken. Mevvies worrit aboot hit when ye're owlder, lass."

"Much older," Gus emphasizes, relieved that she doesn't sound overly husky. Her foggy head clears enough for her to take another (more comprehensive) look around the salon. Egregious Eagles… the room is lousy with toys, books, and clothes. Maybe I didn't notice it before because someone seems to have taken pains to hide as much of the new purchases as possible. Gus's gaping mouth closes and prims as she spots the tell-tale dents in the rugs, indicating heavy furniture has been recently moved.

Tavi gleefully natters on, her excitable words further confirming Blaise's unrestrained penchant for spoiling the child rotten.

"Mr Blaise said that I had to have some new 'princessy' clothes, otherwise the genial spirit of Principessa Anna-Maria – that's our nickname for her, Gussie – might be annoyed about my presence here. And also Anna-Maria was sick of reading the old, dull books in here, so we had to buy her new, modern ones. Oh! Can I get my ears pierced, Gus? Please? There's a whole curio cabinet in the corner full of pretty earrings, and all proper Principessas have pierced ears," Tavi pauses for a gulped breath.

"Good thing you're not a proper Principessa, then," Gus clips. "Absolutely not. And you can leave your 'princessy' clothes here when you pack up, we're returning home tonight."

Her younger sister's instantaneous bawl of outrage is seconded by Blaise, Gelsy, and even Mrs Green; their strident objections are clamorous enough to make Gus clap her hands over her wincing ears. "Enough!".

"You'll all stay the night, and that's final." Blaise's tone of uncompromising authority is far hotter than it bloody well should be, Gus crossly decides. His grip on her tightens while his back-up gang put in their respective two-bit's worth.

"Aye, tis a proper dirty night, us'll all be droonded oot bye," Nella points to the rivulets running down the big windows.

"What tripe, you can Side-Apparate straight back to your flat–"

"But Mrs Nella promises to teach Gelsomina the star and puff stitches tonight," a plaintive Gelsy magicks a new bundle of yarn and a crochet needle into her nimble hands.

"We're not going home," Tavi dramatically pronounces, squirming herself and Tricky beneath the thick pink satin duvet until they are just a couple of rounded lumps. "Anna-Maria will be angry if we reject her hospitality, Gus!" her punchline is muffled but intelligible.

Before she can argue further, Blaise smoothly hoicks her over his shoulder and rises from the bed, his big hands holding her securely despite her upside-down contortions. "Hey!"

"We're going to have a spa together – do not interrupt us, please." He sprints for the door, chortling as he concludes, "Say goodnight, everyone!".

"Goodnight!" the troop of traitors choruses behind them.

"Blaise Nario Zabini, I am going to hex you six ways to Sunday! Release me, you shifty Snake!" Gus lets fly with a steady stream of hissed, profane invective as soon as she hears the bedroom door close.

"Why, Augusta Meredith Gilmont! I am aghast and appalled by your blue language! Where in the world did you learn such downright filth?!" Blaise's raucous guffaws bely his prudish remark. His mirth merely increases as she pummels his taut buttocks with her fists. Her disoriented viewpoint allows brief glimpses of her 'abductor' opening a door and entering another ornate bedroom.

"Blaise! Put! Me! Down– oi!" He expertly flips her to land on the softest, most comfortable bed Gus has ever known.

He cheekily grins as he crawls over her, caging her beneath him without actually touching her. Despite her annoyance, Gus can't withstand her urge to grip his hips and pull him atop her. Her avid fingers greedily move up his back and along his broad shoulders.

"You're not really mad at me, are you, Gussie? I just want to make you happy, dolcezza."

"Yeah… I know. Thank you, Blaise." Why do I feel like crying? Gus shakes her head to stave off the silly bout of happy tears, her shortened hair rubbing against some kind of nubbly fabric. "What am I lying on?".

"Ah… that's one of your new swimming costumes," Blaise edges it out from under her head, sitting back on his haunches to proudly display the item.

Gus rises onto her elbows for a better look. "This is a joke, right?" she disbelievingly asks. "What, were they out of fur bikinis?"

"Fur bikinis… is that a real thing?" Blaise's astonishment swiftly morphs to exhilaration. "Wow."

Men. Gus sharpens her attention back onto the 'swimsuit' dangling from his lean fingers. "You seriously bought me a white, crocheted bikini, Blaise? It's nothing more than four tiny triangles and some flimsy string."

"No, look: the top has decorative scalloping; and the bottom is actually joined together, and lined, of course," Blaise announces, as though those qualities negate her dissent. "Isn't it stunning? I just knew I had to get it for you, Gussie. Nella said she could make one herself, but I thought that might weird you out."

"Where's the other costume? It's not just the same one in black, is it?" Gus groans.

"You– you really don't like it?" her crestfallen boyfriend quietly comments. "I'm sorry. No, Nella chose a navy one-piece – it's by the pillow."

Sweet Morgana, he looks like a kicked puppy. Gus's heart misses a beat or two; she tugs the white two-piece from his slackened grasp. "I do like it, Blaise. It's, uh… certainly not my regular choice, but it's past time I started branching out a little. Thank you."

His relieved, joyous smile could power a small city. "YES!" he pumps both fists in triumph. "The Great Zabini triumphs yet again! Granted, not at Quidditch – I'll leave that to you, you're the best – but still…!" His gaiety is infectious.

Gus giggles as Blaise frenziedly jumps on and off the bed.

"I'll meet you downstairs; that's where the pool is, right?" she queries.

"Yep – straight down the central staircase and to your right, you can't miss it. I'll go get changed, too– oh, Gussie! This is your bedroom, by the way. Dark blue for Ravenclaw, see?" He leans over to plant a hearty, far-too-brief smooch on her laughing mouth before rushing to the door.

It has almost completely closed when Blaise turns back with a wink. "Mia bella ragazza… please make sure you close and lock the doors after you enter the pool room… I have some very private plans for you, my gorgeous girl."

Hot diggetty damn. Crumpling the skimpy bikini in a ball, Gus lets her imagination wildly roam as she thinks of what is likely – hopefully – going to eventuate in a few minutes' time.

And all I have to do is summon the courage to wear this poor excuse for a bathing suit… in front of the sexiest man I've ever met… in the indoor spa of his over-the-top, sumptuous mansion.

I can do this. Yeah. Sure...

Bugger.

Blaise pithily swears as his sweaty hands once again fail to effectively tie the lace of his azure swimming trunks. Gussie'll be down any minute – I need to stay calm, and remember that this is all about her… not you, Excalibur. Managing at last to fashion a sloppy knot, he hastily adjusts his already tumescent member to rest a little less conspicuously in his swim shorts. Salazar's Horned pipe, this is ridiculous! Settle down, fellas!

"Blaisey…?" Gus's throaty voice sounds outside the changeroom door. OK, OK, this is happening. This is happening. Get out there, champ. He nervily checks his appearance in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Should I have worn the black trunks? No, no– they're tighter, and less forgiving of my– excitability.

A rap on the door. "Blaise? Are you alright in there?".

"Yes! Be right out!" he cringes at the croakiness of his reply, snatching a nearby towel to dab away the beads of flop sweat on his brow. So much for being an experienced 'libertine' – bloody Theo would have a field day if he saw me freaking out like this. Take it slow. It's fine. I'm fine.

Strategically draping the fluffy white towel around his hips, Blaise blots his hands on the soft cotton before depressing the door handle and stepping confidently outside.

"Sorry, Gussie, I was just–" He staggers to a clumsy halt as his incredulous eyes soak up the amazing sight ahead. The towel puddles at his feet while he wobbles.

Gus has her back to him as she stands on the wide tiled strip that separates the spa from the pool, dipping a cautious toe into each body of water. She wears nothing but the white bikini; his gobsmacked gaze gloms onto the slightly uneven bows tied at the nape of her neck and in the middle of her lithe back.

Sweet baby Cupid… I'd gladly crawl through a thousand fiery crucibles to be granted permission to unknot those bows. Blaise crimps his trembling hands into hard fists lest they reach out of their own accord. Slow. Down.

His desire-glazed eyes drop to her curvaceous bum; the sight of her muscular buttocks barely covered by the skimpy crocheted bikini bottoms has him squeaking a tiny whimper. And her legs… dear Merlin, her long, luscious legs…

"Oh! I didn't hear you come out… Hi, Blaise." Gus pivots to face him, shyness battling with determination for the dominant bearing on her beautiful face. Her hands twitch at her sides before she pulls herself up to her full height and deeply exhales.

"Do you like my new swimming costume, Blaisey?".

"Yes! I– you– bikini– me– like– YES!" A small part of Blaise's brain is appropriately humiliated by his show of sheer idiocy in the face of Gus's gloriousness; but most of his mind is too busy trying to keep his knees from buckling beneath him.

Gus's hesitant smile becomes a fully-fledged grin of elation as she realizes she's literally struck him dumb. "I like yours too, orsacchiotto… very much," she prowls forward, drawing his gawking stare to the way her generous breasts enticingly bounce with each step.

The bikini top isn't lined… I can see her parfait-pink nipples through those tiny holes… Blaise's epiphany hits around the same time Gus grazes her short nails just above the waistband of his swimming trunks, moving slightly lower to snag in the looped lacing.

"What's the matter, Blaisey? Feeling… tongue-tied?" she salaciously enquires. The tips of her fingers dip once in a teasing flutter against his hardness, before she crowds between his thighs, sliding her arms around his neck. "Don't you want to show me how the spa works…?".

"Jets… jets," is all Blaise can gabble, euphoria singing a wild ballad along his every nerve. His quivery hands settle at her waist, moving inward to her spine as he revels in the velvet texture of her skin and splendid, powerful build. She's so strong… and so satiny-soft… my gorgeous Gussie… No, no, I'm losing all control here… he bites hard at his lower lip.

"Look at me, Blaise. I trust you, OK? Let's relax together, tesoro." Gus feathers her fingers along his hairline, gently smiling as he releases a ragged breath. "Spa time, hmm?". He dazedly follows as she takes his hand and leads him to the spa.

"Hop in, I can figure out the jets." She bends over the control panel, needing only a scant half minute to select a medium heat and swirling bubbles.

Blaise sinks onto the built-in bench, grateful for the turbulence to hide his raging erection. Don't know why I'm worried about being seen; Gussie felt every stiff inch when she nudged up against me. I should be driving her mad with desire, not the other way around. His strengthening resolve takes a hard hit when he fervidly watches her immersion into the warm water.

Gus drops into the spa's centre to dunk her head, grinning as she re-emerges and smooths back her hair. "It's amazing how much lighter my head feels, Blaise!". She swims over to settle sideways on his lap, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and positioning her lovely breasts just below his chin.

Time to wrest back some command. Blaise silently repeats his mantra du jour. Tonight is all about her. Talk to Gussie, ask her what she wants… give her anything and everything she wants. Always.

He finds his voice again as he intently stares into her topaz eyes. "Gussie… my warrior queen… you make me so happy; I want to show you how much I want you, and need you. I'm yours, Augusta. I want to touch you and kiss you and– and I want to get to know you, but only at a pace you're completely comfortable with, amore.'

"You say stop, and I stop – you say go, and I go, OK? No pressure… just pleasure, and sharing, and real, trusting intimacy," he concludes his quiet, impassioned little speech. "I'm so proud to be your boyfriend, Gussie."

The noise of the burbling jets and his jumpy heartbeat thrumming through his head makes him fret that he won't hear her response. Blaise keeps his eyes locked on Gussie as he blindly gropes to turn down the powerful streams, anxiously awaiting her response…

Oh, Blaise… if I couldn't feel just how incontrovertibly real you are right now (there's an especially tangible part of you wedged directly under my thighs, if I'm not horribly mistaken), I'd think I'd dreamed you into existence, somehow. How can you be so sexy, yet so sincerely sweet? My poor, nervous darling.

Wriggling off his lap to stand before him, Gus matches his forthrightness. "Blaise, I want you to know how much I appreciate your honesty. And everything you just said – I want that, too." She pauses as she considers how best to word the next bit.

"You're obviously worried about our respective sexual experiences not 'lining up', so to speak. Yes, I'm technically a virgin, I suppose… I haven't had sexual intercourse with another person, but that doesn't mean I haven't learned my own body, or that I don't know what I find arousing… it's true I don't often have a lot of personal privacy at home, but when I do, I make the most of it. Do you understand what I'm saying, Blaisey?". Gus fiercely wills away her blush.

"Y-Yes. Self– self-love – no need to draw me a picture… unless you want to draw me a picture… I wouldn't ever say no to that… blimey, Gussie," Blaise briefly clenches shut his eyes and fists his hands. "Sweet Aprodite's tempting ta-tas – sorry, sorry!"

He sheepishly cracks open an eye, face screwed up as though anticipating a slap. "Eh… you were saying?".

"I was talking about masturbation, leading up to my lack of any physical barrier to penetrative sex; not that I intend to insert your penis into my vagina tonight – not with my family upstairs! – but to ease your qualms about potentially hurting or frightening me, Zabini." Gus crosses her arms, delighted by his bamboozled mien. "Well? Don't you have a bawdy saying to blurt out about that, too?".

"Say 'penis in vagina' again, please: I've never been so incredibly turned on by a clinical explanation," Blaise gasps. "No, I'm being serious, cara." He licks his lips and eyes her with enough heat to set the water on fire.

"You're a goose, Blaise," she chuckles.

"Honk, honk," he cheerily agrees. Sliding off the bench, he cups her cheeks, slowly stroking at the curling ends of her hair. "I'm your goose, Gussie... You're my strong, smart, splendid witch. Wanna fool around for a while?".

"I thought you'd never ask." Smirking at him, Gus reaches up to untie the halter-neck strings; to his credit, Blaise's carob-brown eyes stay latched on hers. "You can look now, tesoro… and touch… and kiss…"

His hands curve around her bared breasts before she finishes her sentence, his lips sucking open-mouthed kisses up and down the long line of her throat. She cries out as he daintily bites at the sensitive hollow between her neck and collarbone.

The steamy heat of the spa is nothing compared to the temperature we're generating, Gus muzzily muses. She grabs his buff shoulders, loving the silkiness of his rich umber skin and the dense musculature beneath.

The crocheted top falls off altogether as Blaise expertly tugs at the remaining bow. His thumbs hook beneath her bikini bottoms, moving no further until she takes matters into her own hands and helps to yank them down to her ankles.

"You, too," she claws at the front of his sky blue swimming trunks, impatient to undo the lacing.

"Wait – not yet, Gussie. I want to make you feel good," Blaise lightly manacles her wrists, bringing them up to his sculpted pectorals. He lowers his sensuous lips to her parted mouth, quelling her objection in a most pleasurable manner.

I'm being seduced by a master… more, please, more… Gus keens unintelligibly in between his deep, driving kisses. Thinking – and breathing – are coming in a poor second and third as Blaise takes her on a long, maddeningly slow ride of pure delight. His rugged chest heaves as her fingers unconsciously flex and scratch. Gus's mewls magnify as he gently fondles her left breast, plucking at the nipple; his right hand moves to tease at the trimmed honey-coloured curls at the apex of her thighs.

"Is this OK, dolcezza?" he murmurs, waiting for her eager nod before his middle and index fingers delve into her warm cleft, rubbing and tapping. The pressure is too light; Gus adds her hand atop his to show him how she likes to be stroked.

"Harder, there– ooh, yes, Blaisey– and up a little– m-mercy!" she shouts, as he presses on exactly the right spot.

"Hold onto me, il mia guerriera sexy." He bends his mouth to her wet breast, laving around her swollen pink nub while his fingers continue to work their assured sorcery on her inner folds and clitoris. Gus clings to his shoulders again and widens her stance. Her every nerve stretches tighter and tighter. The added elements of the water's warm caress on her nude body and the simmering jets amplify her ecstasy.

I want more… "Blaise, I need you inside me, I want you to finger me," she moans, repeating her desire when his hand abruptly stills. Disappointment clouds her eyes. Was I too full-on, too blunt? Her confidence plummets, only to be quickly reinstated by Blaise's vigorous rejoinder.

"Oh, Gussie… I'm going to pleasure you until your hot, sweet pussy spasms around my fingers, again and again – but not in the water, darling. I've got you," he urges her legs to wrap around his waist, supporting her naked bum with one strong hand before grabbing the steel railing to pull them out of the spa.

Blaise sure-footedly races them into the changeroom. Gus feels like a true queen as he reverently lays her down onto a double-wide padded lounger; his hands tremor slightly as he maps her shape from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. He's not just exploring me… he's cherishing me.

"Gussie… my Gussie…" he lies down beside her, shifting onto his side, using his fingertips to trace circles around her plump breasts. Lightly rolling and pinching her nipples, he wears a satisfied smile as she moans her encouragement.

"Blaise…" She guides his right hand back to her damp core. "I ache for you, amore. I'm ready."

"Io ti adoro," he murmurs, watching her face as he slides one finger, then two, inside her slick channel. His thumb strokes at her clit as her hips tilt up to allow him better access.

Gus uninhibitedly mewls and purrs beneath his tender touch, her feet kicking out as her body closes tightly around his plunging digits. Her head frantically twists on the cushioned head rest. "M-more…" She offers her lips in a wordless plea.

Their mouths fuse in a delightful dance of give-and-take, neither gaining nor seeking the upper hand. Gus shudders as Blaise's fingers unerringly apply just the right rhythm to bring her ever nearer to completion.

Sensing her pinnacle approaching, Blaise croons between passionate kisses. "Let me hear you come, Gussie… you're so wet, my beautiful, powerful witch… I burn for you. Vieni per mi ora, dolcezza."

Squeezing his hand between her threshing thighs, Gus screams and fastens her hands into his short dark hair as she orgasms, blinded by the intensity of her rapture. Their mouths fuse again, teeth clacking together and lips sealing tightly. She is vaguely aware of Blaise shuddering and moulding her closer to his hard body as a passionate tide of desire, sensation, and emotion sweeps her away.

Blaise prolongs her pleasure with sure, slow shuttles and strokes, quietly uttering praise and assurance in a charming mix of English and Italian. He eases his fingers from her body after her last rhapsodic contractions fade.

"Sei bellissima… Potrei accarezzarti per sempre. You're glorious… I loved watching you fall apart in my arms, Gussie." He tenderly brushes damp strands of blonde hair from her perspiring forehead. "Are you alright, cara? Did I hurt you?".

"Hurt me?! Blaise, you just shot me up to the heavens in a rocket," Gus grins at him. She slides a languid hand to the trunks he's still wearing. "It's your turn, now."

"No– er, there's no need," he hunches his shoulders as she frowns. "I– ah– let's just say, that the payload has already been delivered. Very much so," he mutters to himself.

"Oh! You came in your shorts?" Gus blinks, trying not to laugh at his bashful countenance.

"You didn't have to say it!" he whines, hiding his face in the crook of her sweaty neck. "You're the reason I was wound up to such an extent, you know. You drive me wild, carissima," he professes against her heated skin.

"Well… you did mention something about multiple orgasms, Blaisey. Think you might make good on that promise, after a quick shower?". Gus ruffles her fingers through his close-cropped locks, relishing her delicious post-coital lassitude.

Raising his head, Blaise bares his gleaming white teeth in a wide, lascivious smile. All trace of his discomfiture vanishes as he boasts, "My darling Gussie – not only will I supply you with climaxes a-plenty – you're about to find out just how well I can perform under water… and hands-free."

He growls like a wolf, gathering her into his arms to pad towards the showers.

Gus squeals and wriggles purely for show, thrilled by Blaise's confident bragging.

I'm glad I waited… this feels special. He makes me feel special, she amends. He's such a sexy, funny, mercurial, big-hearted teddy bear… and he's my boyfriend…!

My darling Blaisey.

Italian translations:

Principessina – Little Princess

Quel bastardo pagherà – That bastard will pay.

il mia guerriera sexy – my sexy warrior.

amore – lover

Io ti adoro – I adore you.

Vieni per mi ora, dolcezza – Come for me now, sweetheart.

Sei bellissima… Potrei accarezzarti per sempre – You look so beautiful… I could caress you forever.

carissima – darling

Geordie translations:

Lads-alive, bairn! – Goodness gracious, child!

Ye'll copple your creels, dashing aboot! – You'll turn a somersault, dashing about!

Aa've eyes, I see yon lassie. Dinna be moongin aboot it, tis nobbut hair – I've eyes, I see her. Don't be moaning about it, it's only hair.

How there, hinny? – How are you, honey?

Aye, kidda; tis aal much of a muchness wiv thine lollies, ye ken – Yes, child; it's all much the same with the tongues, you understand.

Mevvies worrit aboot hit when ye're owlder, lass – Maybe worry about it when you're older, girl.

Aye, tis a proper dirty night, us'll all be droonded oot bye – Yes, it's a very wet night, we'll all be drowned outside.

The quoted excerpt is from 'The Fellowship of the Rings' by J.R.R. Tolkien.