A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Dramione5263.

Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, and for the excellent prompt about Hermione and Draco accidentally teaching sex ed (it was too good not to 'borrow'!).

***Trigger warnings: nightmare, past trauma, violence, angst, drama, two cliffhangers for the price of one***

Chapter 87

Tuesday 31 March 2003: PM

Fresh from her shower, Gus checks the hotel room clock. It's just gone eight o'clock here in Belgium – we're an hour ahead of the UK, so Tavi should still be up. I hope the connection is better tonight… it was weird how last night's call cut out after only a few minutes… maybe I should have spent more time teaching Blaise how to use the phone? Shrugging, she sits cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her mobile and dialling Mrs Green's number. Her excitement at speaking with Blaise again heightens as the outgoing rings begin.

"Blaise? It's Gussie– Gus, I mean." She lightly slaps her cheek, unconsciously smiling as she contemplates how quickly she's adapted to Blaise's sweet, silly nickname.

He truly is irresistible… if anyone had told me a month ago I'd be happily (ok, delightedly) dating Blaise Zabini and entrusting him to watch over my little family, I would have hotly called them a big, fat, pants-on-fire liar… but he's just so adorable, and genuine, underneath all that flamboyant exuberance. My dear, pure-hearted boyfriend…

"Gussie! How are you, my beautiful warrior? Are you safe and well, tesoro? Still kicking some dastardly Euro-butt?" Blaise demands, not giving her a chance to actually answer as he continues, "I miss you so much, Gussie. We all do."

"Blaise, I've only been gone a night and a day," Gus laughingly rejoins. "I'm fine, just tired. Rounding up all these ratbags is hard, but really satisfying. We're heading to The Netherlands in the morning, then France, on Thursday. I– I miss you too, orsacchiotto."

"Gussie… la mia bellissima ragazza… I can't wait to hold you in my arms again," Blaise whispers in reply, his words a little muffled. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" his husky voice is barely audible now.

"Blaise? Are you at Mrs Green's apartment?" Gus figures that explains why he's suddenly being so uncharacteristically quiet. Her face colours as she thinks of Nella and Tavi unashamedly straining their gossipy ears to listen in to their rather private conversation.

"Ah – Tavi and Mrs Green are with me, yes!" Blaise cheerily answers, his pitch going from low and raspy to high and squealy in one suspiciously swift beat. "Shall I put them on? Guys, come say howdy to Gussie–"

"Hold up; I smell a rather whiffy rat here, Blaise Nario Zabini," Gus speaks slowly and sternly. "Interesting how you didn't answer my question: are you at Mrs Green's apartment?"

Tavi chatters excitedly in the background, though Gus can still hear Blaise's guilty gulp.

"We're… now, please don't get fired up, darling Gussie, it's a funny story… the thing is – well, the pipes at Mrs Green's place suddenly burst, you see – and there was no running water, potentially for days – the country's gone to rack and ruin, when the earliest the council claims they can send an emergency plumber is four days away – why, it's a screaming disgrace, that's what…!" Blaise blusters, Gus's stony silence spurring him to greater heights of farcical fabrications.

"And?"

"And– and, of course, I insisted that my favourite girls accompany me back to Villa Zabini while you're away– I couldn't just leave them there, could I, Gussie?" he wheedles. "It's really been more to our benefit; Gelsy and Nella get along like a house on fire, and Tavi's been invaluable in helping me source some more modern books, and toys… uh-oh," he gasps, as his brain evidently catches up with his runaway mouth. "Gussie? Mia bella– "

"Allow me to recap, Blaise – you deliberately broke the pipes; you coaxed Nella and Tavi to accompany you back to your mansion; and you have been blithely spoiling them ever since, is that correct?" she sharply remonstrates. All her old abhorrence of accepting cold charity (and her loathing of being dependent) rushes angrily to the fore. "We don't need – or want – your pity, Zabini."

"I'm sorry, Gussie… I never meant to upset you. I just – I wanted to look after them properly," Blaise anxiously apologizes. "It's not pity – I envy you all, Gus! I'd give everything I have to be part of a real family… your family." The deep sadness inherent in his words is almost enough to overcome her simmering ire.

Maybe– maybe I shouldn't be so upset about this… it is possible I'm letting my old hurts stampede over what could be construed as a harmless, loving action on his part… albeit a definitely underhanded strategy, but still… Gus presses her free hand to her forehead to rub at her aggravated frown.

"Blaise, would you please put Nella or Tavi on the line? I'm not dismissing what you just said… I'd prefer to discuss it with you a little later, once I've spoken with them," Gus quietly requests.

"Yes, of course – Tavi's been bouncing up and down waiting to speak with you," Blaise injects some forced cheer into his voice. "Here she is."

"Gus Gus! You'll never guess where I went today!" her sister burbles down the line.

"School, I hope," Gus's ironic response is lost to Tavi's irrepressible chatter.

"Mr Blaise took us to Waterstone's – and he told us to pick out anything we liked, because he said the Villa's library is 'deplorably understocked'," Tavi breathes in awe. "We got all the Roald Dahl stories, and the Anne of Green Gables series, and Mr Blaise picked out the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy, he reckons it's got all sorts of cool creatures like dragons and elves and wizards and– and hobbits, he said hobbits are kind of like small humans with big hairy feet and constantly empty bellies, can you imagine?! And tonight we're going to start reading the first book together – oh, and he bought Mrs Green the whole set of P.D. James's works, and a bunch of Italian history books for Gelsy, but I'm not allowed to read them until I'm older because there's a lot of stabbings and plotting and adult stuff," she finally pauses to suck in a much-needed breath.

"Tavi, I hope you're not expecting Blaise to buy you things– " Gus tries to interject.

"No! I even said I didn't need anything, but Mr Blaise insisted, Gus!" an aggrieved Tavi protests. "When we went to Hamley's Toy Store, I put back the Lego 'Dinosaur Fossils' set and everything, but Mr Blaise snuck back and added it to the cart… and we got a new Monopoly game, and Scrabble, and Pictionary – Mr Blaise said we're going to host a Games Night here, and our team's gonna reign supreme and make all our opponents cry 'hot tears of bitter loss'! I guess you can be in our team too, Gus," she adds as an afterthought.

"Gee, thanks, Kiddo," Gus dryly remarks. "Are you getting all your homework done, and doing your daily exercises?" she references Tavi's physical therapy regime.

"Yep – and it's heaps more fun doing my stretches and exercises in the Villa's indoor pool, Gus," Tavi crows. "Did you know the spa jets have six different settings? And you can set the hot tub's temperature separately to the main pool, so I did hot/cold therapy, too! Oh! OH!" Her shrill exclamations cause Gus to wince and hold out the phone a little further from her abused eardrum.

"I didn't even tell you the best bit, Gus! I'm sleeping in the Princess Room – a real Italian princess once stayed in there, her name was Anna Margherita Carlotta Teresa Canalis de Tingoli, Gelsy said she was engaged to one of the Zabini ancestors but it didn't work out because she fell desperately in love with a poor Muggle-born wizard and they ran away together to live happily ever after as a successful pirate couple off the coast of Wales," Tavi finishes with a flourish.

"Wow, that sounds… wildly adventurous," Gus faintly comments. "Please listen to everything Mrs Green asks you to do – and Gelsy and Blaise, too. I love you, Kiddo."

"Love you too, Gus! Here's Mr Blaise, Mrs Green just said to tell you she's having a champion time and 'dinna fash aboot ye impish lad's clivvor connivings'," Tavi parrots. "I gotta go, my gelato's melting!"

By Rowena – Tavi won't ever want to return to our cramped little council apartment, at this rate. Ice cream, toys, books, princess rooms… an indoor pool and spa! Just breathe, Gus. At least Nella's there to balance the wild extravagance… right? She knuckles a little harder at her creased brow.

"Gussie? It's me again – Blaise. I'm alone now, if– if you want to talk." His nervous, rumbling voice further melts away her annoyance with his sneaky machinations.

"Relax: I'm not going to bite off your head, you crafty Snake," Gus sighs. "I accept that you care about us; and that your intentions are kind and generous – though I fear you're well on the way to turning my little sister into a first-class snob, Blaisey. What's next – silk sheets and a pet pony? Private flying lessons? Bespoke ballgowns and caviar for breakfast?" she razzes.

He chuckles a trifle uncomfortably. "Heh – of course Tavi would never become a snob, Gussie! You've done far too good a job raising her for that," he praises. "Er… as it happens, we did have just a dash of caviar on our scrambled eggs and buttered black bread toast this morning – that was solely Gelsy's culinary idea, I assure you… and it's Zabini custom that the bedding in the guest rooms is French linen, not silk… Also, I'm taking Tavi and Mrs Green to buy new swimming costumes tomorrow – but honestly, that's a basic necessity, darling. And I'd never, ever buy a pet without your say-so, of course," he earnestly avers. "Though, it wouldn't be any trouble at all to keep a little horsey here, you know– "

"No! Blaise – stop! You're out of control, you crazy fairy godmother. No more shopping sprees, or 'little luxuries', or anything else that costs a bomb and is outside the realm of our regular lifestyle, OK?" Gus beseeches, suddenly picturing their tiny flat crammed to bursting with all manner of high-end fribbles and fancies… and a menagerie of exotic pets. "Promise me you'll run everything else by me beforehand, please."

"I promise," Blaise instantly vows. "Are you still mad with me, tesoro? I'm really sorry, Gussie." His wistful sincerity makes her heart squeeze.

"I'm not angry with you… but how about instead of resorting to breaking the plumbing, you just talk to me, please? I've never had a boyfriend before, but I'm pretty sure that communicating what we both want and expect is a good place to start," Gus suggests. "Also, I'm going to insist that you and I enjoy a little hot tub session when I come home… a private spa, Blaise. Very private," she emphasizes.

"YES! Uh– I mean– why, I'd be perfectly amenable to that suggestion," Blaise husks. "In the spirit of full disclosure, I intend to buy you a new swimsuit tomorrow too, Gussie. And this is one purchase I won't be talked out of, do you understand?".

"So noted. Go have some gelato, my devious teddy bear. Thank you for looking after everyone. Goodnight, Blaise."

"It's my pleasure. Sogni d'oro, mia cara. Goodnight, Gussie."

Setting down the black phone, Gus slumps onto the banked pillows, lips curving in a goofy smile as she plays back their telephone conversations in her head, her thoughts circling back to her ultimate proposition of an intimate hot tub… together.

Am I ready for… more? OK, sex. With one Blaise Nario Zabini… who just happens to be the sweetest, sexiest damn man I've ever met. No point being coy about it – I can't stop thinking about making love with him – no, having sex with him – no, making love with him…

Puffing out an exasperated breath, Gus decides to leave that confused, messy, complicated subject well alone. But – if I do happen to experience some rather carnally explicit dreams about my Blaisey tonight… well, that's never any hardship.

Not. At. All.

Wednesday 01 April 2003: AM

Jack-knifing upright in Harry's bed, Pansy screams silently, clawing at her throat as she desperately struggles to breathe. Terrible, familiar hands feel as though they yet encircle her neck, their phantom vice-like grip melding with the fragments of her ghastly nightmare. The dark room does little to calm her terror or alleviate her disorientation, as she writhes helplessly on the bed, arms flailing. A lamp loudly crashes to the floor, along with the novel she'd read a few chapters of before retiring for the night. The heavy thump and the tinkle of smashed glass barely impinge on her distressed consciousness.

I can't – I can't breathe – help me…! Please… Tears stream down her face, flooding her gaping mouth before she finally heaves a shuddering inhale, blessed oxygen finally rushing into her deprived lungs. Oh, thank Merlin… Tangled in the sweaty bedding, Pansy hunches over her folded knees, sobbing from relief and fright. Her eyes stay wide open, craving any speck of light to chase away the forbidding darkness.

The bedroom door flies open, a swinging lantern backlighting Kreacher's small form. He urgently hurries inside, placing the lamp on the now-cleared bedside chest of drawers.

"Mistress Pansy! Kreacher begs pardon for entering the bedchamber– he hears a disturbance–" he clears his hoarse throat, continuing more quietly, "May Kreacher turn on the light?".

"Yes– yes, please," Pansy croaks, quickly wiping at her overflowing eyes with the backs of her hands, hoping she doesn't look as disgusting as she feels. "I'm sorry, Kreacher… I– I had a bad dream."

"Poor child," she thinks she hears him mutter. "Close your eyes please, Mistress."

Pansy dutifully squeezes shut her spiky lashes; the sudden (welcome) brightness helps to chase away some more fragments of her dreadful nightmare… or memory. She shivers as the adrenaline of the past fraught minutes begins to ebb. From the small sounds that filter through, she guesses Kreacher is magically repairing the mess she made with the crashed lamp and book.

"Mistress Pansy dresses warmly and joins Kreacher in Master Potter's Parlour; Kreacher builds up the fire and prepares hot toddies," the elf authoritatively announces, once he's set the room to rights.

Cautiously opening her eyes, Pansy shakes her head in polite demurral. "Thank you, but I'll be fine, really–"

"Kreacher prepares the hot toddies and respectfully asks Mistress Pansy to join him in the Potter Parlour," he stubbornly repeats. "He provides the rest of the strawberry custard tartlets from dinner." The fey butler raises an imperious eyebrow. "Five minutes, Mistress Pansy."

Well, I've been told… and bribed. Pansy cracks a tiny smile at his bossiness. "Alright... I won't be long."

Nodding curtly, Kreacher picks up his lantern and Disapparates.

Stiffly uncurling her tensed legs, Pansy slides her cold feet into her slippers. She hobbles over to the wardrobe, automatically bypassing her silk kimono in favour of Harry's faded red Gryffindor dressing gown. For a few moments, she holds the soft wool to her face, simply breathing in his comforting scent and steadying her galloping heartbeat.

I wish you were here, Harry. I miss you so much, Duckie. Shrugging into the robe, she catches sight of her distraught face in the old mirror. Fuck! I look like an utter wraith! Her eyes are huge, the green irises nearly black against the bloodshot whites; her eyelids are puffy and shadowed. Tightly tying up the gown's belt, Pansy detours to the bathroom to wash her face and comb her dishevelled dark hair before she slowly heads downstairs.

Kreacher is putting the finishing touches to the small tray of drinks and snacks on the coffee table when Pansy enters 'The Potter Parlour'. The fire is merrily crackling, its welcoming warmth and cosy ambience immediately easing her despondent spirits.

"Come, be seated, Mistress Pansy," Kreacher fusses, extending and withdrawing his knotty fingers before he actually makes contact with her hand.

Impulsively, Pansy gently pats his digits; he emits a tiny, ruffled squawk, though he keeps his hand under hers a moment more. "Thank you, Kreacher… for taking care of me. I'm sorry I woke you." She settles in 'her' armchair, plopping her legs on the ottoman and keeping her eyes trained on the lambent flames in the hearth.

"Mistress did not wake Kreacher; Kreacher often reads late into the night," the elderly manservant points to the face-down paperback on the side table by the other armchair. Boadie pops up her teeny black head, yawning hugely before stretching and prowling across the furniture to launch herself into Pansy's lap. The kitten circles her own tail a few times, settling into a furry ball and drowsily purring.

"Kreacher is honoured to be of assistance to Mistress Pansy… always," he mutters, bending to pick up the tray and bring it over to Pansy's chair. "The hot toddies contain milk, malt powder, honey, vanilla, and Firewhiskey," he gruffly explains.

"Lovely… and I hope you added plenty of grog," Pansy sighs, already half-resigned to not getting any more sleep tonight. "Ooh, there are those sinfully delicious little tarts – and are those Chocolate Wands from Honeydukes? You spoil me, Kreacher." She selects a few of each sweet, piling them onto a pretty little china plate, before accepting a hot toddy.

"Kreacher does indeed generously infuse the booze," he slyly rhymes, startling Pansy into a chuckle. "As per his special recipe, Mistress." He returns the tray to the table, choosing his own treats and a hot, milky beverage. Sitting in the opposite armchair, he too stares pensively at the glimmering flames. They nibble and sip, content to sit in peaceful, oddly companionable silence.

He's quite a dear, really… I would never have thought Harry's reluctantly-inherited house elf would ever offer me such genuine concern, but I'm awfully comforted that he has, Pansy meditates. She tries to suppress a quiver as thoughts of her nightmare return. Those hated hands on my throat – over my mouth… is it any wonder I woke up in the horrors? I should have taken some Dreamless Sleep before bed last night, after my evening therapy session with Dr Rica... Stupid – I was stupid.

"Master Potter sometimes has the night terrors," Kreacher shrewdly interrupts her dismal self-flagellation. "Many times, Kreacher makes the hot toddy and strenuously encourages Master to drink it."

"He – he does?" Pansy hesitantly asks. My poor Harry… though I can't say I'm surprised, given everything he's suffered through. Perhaps I shouldn't be quizzing Kreacher like this… but I'm so eager for any and every scrap of information about my boyfriend… well, my lover, now. A burst of joy breaks through her melancholy as she considers how wonderfully their relationship has progressed.

"Many times," Kreacher grimly confirms. "Kreacher offers Master Potter stronger potions to ensure a restful night's slumber – but Master refuses, Master does not like to be insensate, vulnerable… Master says he must always be alert, and prepared."

Bloody hell, Harry. Pansy's mouth droops pondering how deeply Harry is weighed down by his overarching sense of responsibility. I refuse to be another burden for him to carry – I'm going to be as strong for him, as he is for me.

"Kreacher? Please don't mention my– my nightmare to Harry, OK?" Pansy firmly requests. "He has enough on his plate at present. Don't give me that look, I'll tell him when the time is right," she temporizes.

The elf sniffs a trifle contemptuously but stays mute. Pansy's eye catches the title of his book: 'Dumb Witness'. She cranes her head a little further to spy the author.

"Agatha Christie! I had no idea you read Muggle murder mysteries, Kreacher?" she exclaims in amazement.

"Kreacher belongs to the Elven Lending Library, Mistress Pansy." He fastidiously inserts a bookmark. "Though the highly estimable Miss Christie is considered primarily a realist, this particular novel is one of her few stories that concerns the occult."

They desultorily chat about books for a while. Kreacher reveals another surprising literary preference for Westerns, bemoaning the lack of same in Grimmauld Place's library. Pansy makes a mental note to tell Harry before Christmas rolls around. She realizes the Firewhiskey is starting to have the desired soporific effect when she blinks a few times to keep her eyes from drifting closed.

"I might try for a little more sleep, Kreacher. No – please stay down here, I've disturbed you enough for one night." She carefully lifts Boadie to shift her into Kreacher's lap, her action stymied by the elderly elf holding up his knotty hand.

"If Mistress Pansy has no objection, Little Boadie may stay in Master Reg– in Master Potter's bedroom tonight," he quickly corrects.

"Regulus Black? I didn't realize it was once his room?" Pansy curiously asks, securing the cranky kitten against her shoulder.

"Master Potter moves into Master Regulus's old chambers when–" Kreacher falls silent, his brows beetling and mouth pursed tight.

"When Ginny left? Oh." Pansy can't help but feel relieved at the news, though it is clear the mention of Kreacher's old master has upset him, judging by his flattened ears and downcast mouth. "Kreacher, perhaps... perhaps you could tell me more about Regulus, one day?" She holds her breath, unsure if she has pushed too hard.

A long pause, before Kreacher softly replies, "Master Regulus rarely is remembered... the world has moved on... but if Mistress Pansy wishes to hear more, Kreacher would– would be honoured." He bows deeply.

"Thank you, Kreacher. For everything." Pansy impishly waves Boadie's little paw. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mistress Pansy. Kreacher keeps watch, should the bad dreams return." The determined glint in his black eyes brooks no refusal.

Offering a small smile, Pansy makes her way back upstairs, her bruised heart full of gratitude for the elf's genuine solicitousness. It feels like more than duty… I'm still puzzled as to why, but I know Kreacher cares for me – as I care about him. She trembles as she considers how much worse waking from the nightmare would have been, had she been alone in her apartment…

Best not to dwell on that… it's a moot point right now, anyway. Pansy slips back into bed, deciding to keep the mended side lamp lit for the remainder of the night. She sets down Boadie upon Harry's pillow; the little black kitten rouses to headbutt Pansy's stroking fingers, naughtily sinking her claws into the pillow before deigning to lie atop it.

"You rule us all now, don't you, you cute little minx?" Pansy murmurs, tugging up the bedding and turning onto her side to keep her hand in contact with Boadie's soft sable fur. Her eyes waver closed as she drops back to sleep, thinking about how nice it is… to be part of… to have… a family.

Wednesday 01 April 2003: AM

Not usually one to fidget, Gus has to stop herself from scratching at her nose again. She instead rolls her shoulders and neck in a choppy motion. I don't like this. Something feels… hinky. Gus's inner voice is stridently clanging alarms like an overzealous kindergartner entrusted with the big school bell.

Long-suppressed memories (of her time on the run with her baby sister) inveigle her mind. Scurrying from one dodgy hiding spot to the next, barely sleeping… scrounging for food and borrowed (well, stolen) clothing wherever we could… I guess those hinky feelings that warned me to keep running helped us stay alive.

This is what those hunches felt like… Mum used to joke about Great Aunt Ethelinda having the Sight, but maybe there was something to it. Am I simply nervous now, though? She forces out a controlled exhale, assessing their surroundings for the twelfth time in as many minutes.

Gus, Harry, and Sol are carefully positioned in the decidedly well-to-do living room of the wizard Harry believes served as Flint and McLaggen's primary European contact for their distribution of iniquitous pornography and roofie potion investments: an expatriate Irishman named Amon Ainbertach. The trio of Aurors infiltrated the expensive Amsterdam canal house just over an hour ago, Harry having decided that lying in wait to effect the arrest would be simpler (and risk less collateral damage) than confronting Ainbertach at the large central business park where he works.

"Pritchard-Hawes has had eyes on this creep for the past few days – we're confident that he lives alone and rarely deviates from his regular office hours," Harry had briefed the team. "It'll be much easier to grab him as soon as he comes home from work, rather confronting him at the business complex and risking any innocent bystanders."

It's a solid plan – but Gus cannot shake the 'spidey sense' warning her that not all is what it seems. They'd made a quick sweep of the building upon arrival and not found anything blatantly amiss… so why do I feel like we're walking into a trap? Screw it, I'm going to have to say something–

"He's here," Harry hisses, his beryl eyes focused on the turning doorknob. "Wands at the ready!".

Her maple wood wand is already tensely gripped in her right hand; Gus trains it at the door as it opens to reveal an average-looking wizard in his late thirties, with mid-brown hair and light blue eyes, dressed in a natty navy three-piece suit. He freezes at the sight of them, his mouth drawing into a thin line as Harry launches into action from beside the doorframe, holding out his badge.

"Amon Ainbertach, you are under arrest for your alleged involvement in an international plot to drug, abduct, imprison, and sexually assault women and witches; with the additional charges of circulating child pornography, investing in the development of illegal substances, distributing experimental illegal substances…" Harry rattles off a long string of offences and mandatory legal rights, the tip of his wand pressed unwaveringly to Ainbertach's chest.

The wizard glares at the three Aurors, his burning cyan eyes the only outward sign of emotion. His unexpected composure does nothing to ease Gus's uneasy intuition that they are missing something important in this scenario. She and Sol move closer in unison, flanking Harry by the door.

"Gus, Sol – the manacles, please," Harry prompts, having finished his formal spiel. "Hands behind your back, Ainbertach."

Soledad swiftly moves behind him – pocketing her wand as she prepares to snap on the enspelled handcuffs – when Amon speaks for the first time, presenting his hands in the classic palm-out, 'no threat' gesture.

His clear, self-possessed tone holds little trace of his Irish roots. "I'm afraid you've made a terrible mistake, Auror Potter."

"We've plenty of evidence linking you to these crimes, Ainbertach," Harry curls his lip. "Marcus Flint and Cormac McLaggen have both named you as being integral to their sordid, despicable schemes. Place your hands behind your back – now."

Amon shakes his head pityingly, baring his teeth in a fierce grin as he clarifies, "Oh, you misunderstand me – your error was in assuming I live alone. POSCO!" His thunderous command reverberates around the elegantly-appointed salon, the air rippling and reforming before their stunned eyes.

"GUS – BEHIND YOU!" Harry shouts, even as her head begins to swivel.

Apparation – that's definitely the sound of Apparation – which means – oh, shit.

A rough hand grasps her long blonde plait at the nape of her neck, brutally forcing her to a stop.

Gus tentatively tests the grip he has on her hair; her minute struggle results in a sharp, vicious yank. She bites her lip to withhold her pained yowl.

"Easy there, colleen," a lilting male voice speaks directly into her left ear as the pointy end of his wand digs into her side. "Drop your wands," the unknown man addresses the room at large. "Go on – or Mammy Long Legs here will regret it."

Dammit – I knew we'd missed something! This feels like Cormac holding Pansy hostage at the Ministry Floos, all over again… I won't be anyone's pawn. She looks to Harry and Sol, trying to convey a message with her eyes: blast this bastard! They stare back at her in mounting horror and fury, neither moving a muscle.

Gus shuts her eyes for a millisecond, summoning up every last scrap of her courage and strength as a harebrained idea pops into her desperate brain.

Screw it – I'm doing this...

NOW!

Wednesday 01 April 2003: AM

Standing in the shadows at the entryway to the Great Hall, Draco spontaneously takes a moment to simply look out at the noisy, bustling breakfast crowd. He'd doubled back to their suite to grab a party invitation for Neville, at Hermione's suggestion.

Well, at her insistence… this shindig for Macdolas is already out of control, and it's still days away. Thank Salazar I'm not part of the 'Party Planning Committee'. I'm amazed Macdolas hasn't gotten wind of it yet, given how enthusiastically (indiscriminately) Ruibby and Hermione have been handing out invites. Even McGonagall found it hard to outright decline when the pair of them ganged up on her last night.

His cheery laughter (at the memory of Minerva reluctantly agreeing to 'spare an hour or so' of her Saturday to attend the party) makes a few little First Years give him a wide berth. Right – cackling to oneself in dark nooks isn't quite the thing for professors, is it? He scans the teachers' tables, pleased to see Neville sitting by Hermione already.

"Draco! I was just telling Neville that he has to attend; the more the merrier, right?" Hermione says, kissing him all-too-briefly on the mouth before guiding him to sit on her other side. "Did you find a spare invitation, mon coeur?" she whispers into his ear.

He slides it along to Neville with a smirk; the poor bloke is the very picture of a 'deer in the headlights'. Good luck trying to say no to Hermione, Professor Longbottom.

"Ah– um– Hermione, I really don't know Macdolas or Ruibby too well… they seem very nice, and helpful, of course– but I truly do have a lot of marking to plough through… perhaps another time…?" Neville quails.

"Nonsense: MacRu have already mentioned how kind you've been, and how you warned off Mac from heading into the Forbidden Forest on his own, Neville. They're counting on your attendance; surely you can postpone your marking until Sunday? Please?" Hermione coaxes, her beautiful brown eyes widening in supplication.

"But– uh– I thought it was a surprise party– how can they both be expecting me to come? Never– never mind," Neville slouches as Hermione glares at his logic. "I'll be there, Hermione. It'll be… fun. Yeah. Sure."

He looks as though he'd rather spend the day unclogging the castle's toilets. Draco leans forward to sympathetically address the beleaguered Gryffindor.

"Neville – I'll be setting up a 'Time Out' zone in a corner of the library, if it all gets too much; you're welcome to take as many breathers as you need."

"Great! Thanks, Draco." Neville straightens, beaming a smile. "It's not that I don't enjoy socializing, but sometimes – the noise…"

"You're fine, Neville. I don't care for a lot of loud racket, either… and if the elves get stuck into too much sugary junk…" Draco shudders. "I've tried to stipulate a sugar-free menu, but my ideas have largely been ignored."

"Malfoy, you said you were too busy to be involved in the nitty-gritty details, remember? I'm sure Mother and Narcissa will ensure there isn't too much sucrose available." Hermione smiles a bit weakly.

"You're welcome to join us in the Time Out Zone too, Granger." Draco slides his arm around her back, thrilled (as ever) when she trustingly lays her head on his shoulder, her chocolate eyes shining up at him with unmistakeable, deep affection.

Gods, I love her. If I had to live a thousand dreary lifetimes to experience this one – this singular, amazing reality, where Hermione Jean Granger incredibly sees me, knows me, loves me – well, I would gladly exist throughout those other lives, and count myself utterly blessed for the chance.

He dips his head to kiss her soundly, his mobile lips expressing the strength of his adoration; to his joy, Hermione returns his smooch with equal intensity, her tongue brazenly sweeping in and around the contours of his mouth, her hands gripping his arms and neck. Their heated cuddle continues until a balled-up napkin flies at Draco's ear.

"Hey!" he scowls down the table, gaping as he realizes Headmistress McGonagall threw the soft missile to break them apart. "Professor– Headmistress– sorry, we were– we were just– " he stammers stupidly.

"I believe we are all thoroughly aware of which activity you and Professor Granger were indulging in – yet again," Minerva rolls her eyes as the rest of the seated teachers snicker and clap. "However, your apparent inability to speak competently and succinctly on the subject leads me to believe that you are in dire need of some educational guidance."

"What– no– I mean, of course we understand the– uh– the nature of our activity," Draco's face is on fire. He belatedly realizes the trap has been set and sprung when Minerva grins triumphantly.

"Excellent! Then you'll have no trouble expounding your knowledge to our elven community, Professors. We've had a few… contraceptive bungles in recent months, shall we say; in light of the glaring lack of formal health and sexuality education for them – and of course, taking into account your exciting foray into textbook authorship – I'm proud to appoint you co-Convenors for the first Elfish Sex Education Seminar."

Headmistress McGonagall has never appeared more smug, as she produces her leather-bound daily compendium with a flick of her wand and starts scribing down particulars. She continues speaking, riding roughshod over Draco's frantic, bumbling attempts to object.

"Shall we say – a fortnight, to get the classes up and running? If you require more time to prepare and present preliminary lesson plans, I'm willing to grant it. It would be best to schedule four sessions, to begin with; that should give you plenty of leeway in terms of adaptation, as you go along. Let's see: Wednesday nights would be best, as they are traditionally quite slow… the lessons will certainly liven up 'Hump Day', as they say." Minerva sniggers at her own joke. "Yes, Professor Granger? You've no need to raise your hand anymore," she gently chides.

Hermione shamefacedly lowers her arm. "Headmistress – if we make more of a– strenuous effort to– er– curtail our… our amativeness, perhaps you could reconsider the seminar appointment…? We're rather busy already, you see…" she lamely concludes.

I believe she's blushing more over admitting to not wanting to undertake extra scholastic responsibilities than she is embarrassed we've been blatantly humiliated into teaching sex ed to elves! Draco mock-groans beneath his breath. My darling, book-mad little lioness.

"Oh, this is not a punishment, my dears! Although you have repeatedly assured me you'll 'dial down' your public passions…and failed to comply; I simply thought you'd jump at the chance to fill a glaringly inequitable educational hole, as it were. Never mind," McGonagall sadly sighs. "I'll shelve the project for now… it's just as well we're building on a large nursery section to the elves' quarters."

Checkmate. Remind me not to challenge Minerva to any chess matches, Wizardly or otherwise. Draco concedes defeat at the same time Hermione does, judging by her drooping shoulders.

"We'll do it, Headmistress," they dolefully reply.

"Wonderful! Now, I understand it may not be enough time to distribute published copies of your textbook, Professor Malfoy; just do your best for now, though I would be interested in placing a large order with the manufacturer, as soon as possible." The Headmistress stands to wave goodbye. "May you all have a pleasant and productive day. Cheerio."

Hermione drops her head back onto Draco's shoulder; they reluctantly chuckle together at their unqualified routing. "Draco, we just got soooo played," she grumbles. "I can't imagine you told Minerva about your book – and it wasn't me or Luna, she vowed to keep it to herself, so that leaves…"

"Mac-ruddy-dolas," Draco moans. "Yes – you know as well as I do that he must have just about tripped over himself to show his copy to McGonagall, the indiscreet little toad. I should have sent him back to work at the Manor when I had the chance… What are you giggling about, Neville?" he snaps.

Neville shovels more grilled sausage into his mouth, pointing apologetically to his over-stuffed cheeks by way of a non-response, though his shoulders continue to shake with silent mirth. Gazing around the table, Draco becomes crankier as he sees most of their colleagues chortling as well. Twerps.

Hermione rises when he does, enveloping him in a tender hug. "I bet Mac just wanted to brag about your manual because he's so proud of you, Draco," she diplomatically claims. "And don't worry about this lot – we'll run the best damned Elvish Sex Ed Seminar ever, and show them all how awesome we are!".

"Darling, they're just thrilled none of them have to undertake the dratted lessons… OK, yes, we'll do that," he changes his tune when her mouth turns down at his cynicism. "Walk me out, please, ma petite? I want to get to the Potions lab early to check the supplies cupboard."

"Of course – but you've hardly eaten anything, sweetheart; here, I'll make you a bacon and egg muffin to go," Hermione rapidly assembles one, wrapping it in a napkin and pushing it into his left hand. "Don't forget your coffee!". She holds up his engraved go-cup, smiling proudly.

"Thank you," Draco kisses the tip of her nose before he snaps open the lid and takes a hearty swig. He carefully sets down the stainless steel mug upon the table, rigidly gripping the back of his chair.

"Hermione? Did you… pour me this coffee?" His suddenly pounding heartbeat nearly blocks his own words, saliva pooling in his mouth as he strives to stay upright. Hermione's pretty face wavers in his doubled vision.

"No; one of your Seventh Years offered to fill it when I arrived, she said the carafe at the end of their table was fresher than ours– Draco? Your pupils look huge– Draco! What's wrong?!" Hermione wraps both arms about him as he sways from side-to-side.

"I don't feel… right," he croaks, sweat dampening the back of his shirt and seeping through to his outer robes. "My heart's jumping– my stomach–" he sags in her tight hold, fighting to stay conscious.

"DRACO! NEVILLE, HELP ME!" Hermione's panicked scream is as soft as a whisper to his dulled ears. Draco doesn't hear the urgent scraping of chairs and the frightened clamour as he pitches forward onto the long wooden table, his ghost-white face narrowly missing a spoon. Good thing that wasn't a fork… Merlin, I'm in a bit of a pickle here, methinks…

He calls on his final reserve of strength to mind-link with his beloved. Hermione – I've been poisoned – that coffee –

Draco – hang on! Focus on me, focus on my voice, on our bond – you're going to be OK – DRACO!

Don't shout in my head, darling… I'm not deaf… I love you, Hermione… I love you so much… I'm really tired…

Please – stay awake, Draco! DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, DON'T YOU DARE PUNK OUT ON ME!

… no… just a little… nap… I love you…

Wheezing harshly, his head lolls to the side as Hermione's terrified voice is lost to the darkness.

Italian translations:

tesoro – honey

orsacchiotto – teddy bear

la mia bellissima ragazza – my beautiful girlfriend

Sogni d'oro, mia cara – Sweet dreams, my darling

Geordie translation:

dinna fash aboot ye impish lad's clivvor connivings – don't worry about your cheeky man's clever scheming.