Chapter 89

Wednesday 01 April 2003: AM

Watery spring sunlight tiptoes into the spartan infirmary room… even the sun isn't game to test Madam Pomfrey's 'do not disturb' edict, Draco tiredly muses, as the kind but stern Healer busies herself measuring out another dose of foul-smelling curative on the corner table.

It's probably sheer idiocy to hold out hope this this next medicine tastes any better than its predecessors… the poison in my coffee was slightly more palatable, to be honest.

He closes his eyes, striving to hold off the residual terrors about his recent brush with mortality. It's not the first time I thought I was about to die – but I've never before had so much to live for… His restless fingers indent the crisp white hospital bedding. Thank Merlin they didn't succeed… I have an entire glorious life with Hermione ahead of me...

Another thought strikes, his emotions fluctuating between fear and fury. What if they try again – and Hermione is the target?! No…! The nausea induced by the deadly nightshade threatens to return as the sinister scenario plays out in his troubled mind. Maybe I shouldn't be here… if anyone else were to suffer as a consequence of my mere presence, I'd never forgive myself.

Rapidly slapping footsteps catch his attention, as Madam Pomfrey snaps up her head in a frown.

"What on earth…? Who dares gallivant about my infirmary in such a foolhardy fashion?" she shrills, as the ajar door to his room springs fully open. Hermione skids inside, closely followed by Luna; the two young witches hurriedly stifle their breathless giggles as Madam Pomfrey flies to the foot of Draco's bed. She angrily crosses her arms as she blocks their advancement.

"Hermione – Luna! Ladies, this is a hospital, not a racetrack! I've a mind to ban the pair of you from visiting, truly! I'll thank you to find some dignity and composure at once."

"Sorry! Sorry, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione's contrition is undermined by her curly head fruitlessly bobbing from side-to-side as she tries to see past the Healer. "Is Draco awake? Professor McGonagall said he's going to make a full recovery– I have to see him– please, Madam Pomfrey!". The urgency in her voice makes Draco's lips gladly tilt upwards.

"I'm sorry we were running; it was my idea to race here," Luna gallantly declares. "I'm very sorry, Madam – sometimes my naughtiness gets the better of my good sense, you know." She shifts to the left, screwing up her face in what Draco assumes is a charming Luna-esque attempt at a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh, indeed?" Poppy sniffs. "Don't bother pulling my leg, dear, we both know you're being silly. Now, Miss– er, Professor Granger," she stays Hermione's bouncing form with a firm hand to her shoulder. "Draco will be perfectly fine in a day or two: but I must insist that you settle down. He needs rest, and quiet."

"Of course, of course," Hermione impatiently agrees. "Please– I need to see him– I need to make sure he's OK – please…" her clear voice quavers, as Poppy's pertinacious face softens infinitesimally.

"May I fetch Macdolas and Ruibby, Madam Pomfrey? They would dearly love to visit and see for themselves how well Draco is recuperating." Luna smiles guilelessly. "They've been awfully worried, you see."

"Very well," Poppy sighs, as Hermione barrels past. "Peace and quiet, remember, Hermione. I'm going to prepare another sedative potion, but I shall return directly," she states. "And I will allow the elves to briefly visit – only on the proviso they too maintain some decorum and corral their agitation, Luna."

Nodding energetically, Luna walks out with Madam Pomfrey; Draco hears rather than sees the door gently close as Hermione rushes to his side and carefully envelops him in a tender hug. Her glossy brown ringlets tickle his nose as he squeezes her tightly, burying his face in her neck. My beautiful, courageous, clever woman… my precious Hermione.

"Draco – oh, I love you so! How are you?! I was so worried– I thought– I thought I was going to lose you– I c-can't –" Hermione shudders in his hold.

"Hush, sweetheart, it's alright – I'm feeling much better, and I'm going to be fine," Draco wills away his trembles as he strokes her heaving back. "Takes more than a sip of dodgy coffee to kill a Snake, you know. I love you so, Hermione – and you saved me – YOU SAVED ME, my gorgeous, brilliant witch. You're utterly amazing, do you realize that? Thank you– thank you, my darling Hermione." He awkwardly tries to rock her in his hug, wincing as she accidentally bumps his chin with her brow.

"Sorry! Stupid skinny hospital bed – give me a second, I'm climbing in," Hermione's tear-wet eyes take on a familiar stubborn glint. She pulls back to yank at the adjustable railing fitments.

"Hermione, remember what Madam Pomfrey said–"

"Pfft – this is part and parcel of the healing process, she won't mind," Hermione blithely dismisses the warning, grinning in triumph as the railing clanks down. "Here, there's plenty of room; I need to be close to you, Draco. Please," she implores.

As if I could ever say no to her… especially not when I so desperately need to touch her, too. Wordlessly, Draco flips back the bedding, scooching across until there is just enough space for the two of them in the narrow cot.

"I'll tell Poppy that you were suffering sudden chills, and I had to rapidly warm you," Hermione snickers, tugging off her shoes before she joins him, gingerly wriggling until she is lying on her side, flush against him from chest to calf. "Am I squashing you, Draco?" she worriedly asks.

"Never – come a little closer," he encourages her right leg to rest across him, turning her until their faces are merely an inch apart. "I've been informed the poison has left my system, including my mouth; may I kiss you, ma petite?"

"I'll be royally pissed off if you don't, mon coeur." Leaning across, Hermione keeps her expressive eyes locked with his as her soft mouth settles upon his parted lips. She keeps the kiss tantalisingly chaste as he presses closer.

Draco groans as the tip of her tongue boldly darts into his mouth, briefly twisting with his before withdrawing. Irresistible little minx… so much for my resolve to take things slowly and gently. She brings up her right hand from his chest to cup his cheek, holding his head in place as her plump lips leisurely explore his sensitive skin.

Draco snaps his teeth in mock-frustration as she lips along his jawline and cheekbones. "Hermione, you are purposefully driving this poor patient wild, aren't you?". He runs his hand to the base of her spine, pinching each curvy buttock as she squeals and chuckles, abandoning her titillating kisses to snuggle against him.

"I'm sorry – I'm a terrible girlfriend, I know… you need to rest, Draco." She raises her head again, appearing decidedly impish. "I'll ask Poppy how soon before we can safely 'resume our relations', hmm?" she cackles at his scandalized mien.

"Hermione – don't you dare! I'll never be able to look her in the eyes again… you really do have a cheeky sense of humour," Draco bops her freckled nose with his index finger, kissing each of her eyelids as she sighs in pleasure. "I'm almost tempted to dare you to ask… but I'm well aware your Gryffindor heart cannot resist a challenge."

"That sounds like an insult wrapped in a compliment, my love; it's a good thing you're absolutely correct about my inability to turn down a dare," she giggles, before her expression sobers. "Draco? Are you– are you really OK? You looked so ill– I was beyond terrified, downstairs…" Tears swell and roll down her cheeks as her voice fades away.

My poor, frightened girl… unpleasant memories of his confusion and panic make his own eyes glisten. Draco attempts to speak past the huge lump in his throat.

"Darling, I'm going to make a complete recovery, I promise. Poppy told me you took charge like the splendid goddess you are, and that I'm likely still breathing because of it… I can even forgive you sticking a revolting pellet from the stomach of a goat down my throat," he huskily jests. "And you used our soul bond to keep me alive until Kvothe returned with the bezoar, didn't you? I sensed the aftermath of your magic, when I came round."

Scattering tender kisses across her face, he blots her salty tears with his lips. "Please don't cry, sweetheart. No sneaky prick with a vial of belladonna is going to get the better of us," he stresses, his half-laugh dying off as her expression shifts. "What is it, Hermione?".

Biting her lip, she slowly says, "Draco… we know who poisoned you… it was one of your Seventh Year Potions students – Selina Throndson?".

"Selina? Brown hair, green eyes… just a little slip of a thing? No – I don't believe it," his bewilderment increases as Hermione solemnly nods. "She never said or did anything untoward, Hermione; well, she did seem a little nervy, but not half as shy as Julianna Campbell, for example… really?".

"Yes, really – but she was being blackmailed by her dreadful cousin, Stuart Mulciber the Third–" Hermione quickly fills him in on the interview with the weeping schoolgirl in Minerva's office, her fingers ceaselessly flitting over his skin and tunnelling through his hair.

"Oh, Draco – I was so angry when I realized she'd poisoned you, I had to clench my hands into fists to stop myself reaching out to shake her until her teeth rattled; but then the whole story came out, and she told us how Stuart had threatened her baby brother… well, pity smothered my rage almost instantly. Selina was so upset – and she didn't know it was belladonna, she thought it was a mild laxative." Hermione pensively smooths down the collar of his borrowed hospital pyjamas. "Minerva is going to make sure her story checks out, of course… but I believe her. She was shaking like a leaf throughout… it was ghastly, and so tragic."

Draco abruptly closes his eyes, overcome by long-buried memories of his own terrible actions at Voldemort's evil command; the parallels with Selina Throndson's quandary are not lost on his clever brain. That poor girl… and that bastard Mulciber. Damned Death Eaters are like cockroaches, thriving in the dark and contaminating everything they touch. No more.

"I won't let Selina be vilified for this debacle; it's not her fault, Hermione. She's a victim in all of this – you see that, don't you, darling? I have to make this right," he tries to sit up, stymied by Hermione's squawk of protest and surprisingly strong push on his rising chest.

"Hey – you're not going anywhere, Malfoy! Are you seriously trying to leave your sick bed to rush to the defence of the girl who slipped you deadly poison not two hours ago?! No bloody way, my dear, silly wizard," she carps, positioning herself like a splayed starfish to pin him to the bed. "Minerva has it all under her extremely competent control; and Madam Pomfrey would have a conniption at the very thought – you know that as well as I do."

They both startle as a dry female voice sounds from the doorway. "I prefer 'tizzy', actually: pray tell exactly why I'm due to suffer one, Hermione?" Poppy Pomfrey enquires. "While you're at it, I'd be fascinated to learn the reasoning behind your current unique positioning, dear."

"Draco's suffering from mild delirium, Madam! He was trying to get up, and I had to throw myself on top of him to stop him," Hermione brazenly lies, disregarding his snort of disbelief.

"And yet you managed to pull down the bed rail – and discard your footwear – before performing this remarkable feat of selfless heroism?" Madam Pomfrey derides, a small smile quirking the corners of her mouth. "Impressive."

Realizing his inevitable defeat, Draco flumps his head back against the soft pillows. "Relax, Granger… I'm staying put," he whispers into her little pink ear. "You'd best get off the bed before we're bullied into overseeing detention – or teaching house elves how to dance the flamenco." He grimaces as he remembers McGonagall's cunning entrapment regarding the elfish sex ed lessons. We were thoroughly routed by a master manipulator, that's undeniable.

"I'm not getting down – and I shall strongly resist any attempts to make me," Hermione rebelliously mutters, sliding to sit beside him and placing her left arm around his neck and shoulder, her right hand resting lightly on his abdomen. "I'm going to stick to you like glue until you're released into my care, Malfoy." She directs the last in Madam Pomfrey's general direction, pooching her lower lip in a cranky pout.

Poppy rolls her eyes to the ceiling, opening her mouth to begin a likely rebuke; her words are lost as MacRu burst through the open doorway, followed by a beaming Luna. Two large wicker baskets levitate beside them as they charge for the hospital cot.

"Master Malfoy lives! Macdolas is greatly gladdened to witness his beloved employer looking only a shade or two paler than his usual anaemic complexion!". Having reached the foot of the bed, the elf enthusiastically grabs at Draco's foot through the counterpane, giving his big toe a little twist.

"Oww! What on earth did you do that for, Macdolas?!" Draco yowls, kicking out. "I was poisoned, not bludgeoned!".

"Macdolas is now reassured that Master Malfoy is whole and hearty – and that his vocal chords were unaffected by the fell toxin," he ignores Madam Pomfrey's added remonstrations, hopping up to stand on the visitor's chair and beckoning Ruibby to join him. Draco shrinks back as the fey pair loom over him, tears dribbling from their exophthalmic eyes.

"Poor, dearest Master! Lady Luna tells MacRu that Master Malfoy shall soon be recovered from his horrendous ordeal, but Ruibby frets until she sees for herself," the teeny blonde tentatively picks up Draco's hand, patting his palm as her sniffles turn into squeaky sobs.

Macdolas joins in, clumsily petting at the top of Draco's platinum head as the wizard's grey eyes wheel in desperate supplication toward Hermione… who appears simultaneously touched and amused. Even Madam Pomfrey is pinning back a smile at the doubtlessly ridiculous tableau they present.

"They love you very much, Draco – we all do," Luna steps behind the elves, gathering them into a light hug that effectively ends their emotional display. Bless you, 'Lady' Luna Lovegood. Draco gratefully smiles at his friend, mouthing 'Thank you'.

"Now, don't you have some delicious appley treats for Draco?" Luna prompts, pointing to the hovering baskets.

"Oh! MacRu bake Master Malfoy's favourites," Ruibby whips back the green and white checked tea towels covering the little cakes and pastries, happily naming and explaining each as Macdolas rummages through his basket to produce dessert plates, forks, and napkins, handing them around the room. Draco masks his surprise as Madam Pomfrey deigns to accept the crockery and flatware.

"It is well past morning tea; and Draco should try to eat something… though the healthiness of these offerings are a little on the dubious side," the Healer comments to no one in particular, selecting an apple fritter breakfast cake.

Ruibby piles one of each item onto both Draco and Hermione's plates, twitching at their napkins until she is satisfied they are perfectly positioned.

"Thank you, this looks wonderful," Draco sincerely tells her, his appetite reviving a little at the scrumptious smell and sight of the carefully prepared food. "Which should I try fir–" he breaks off in amazement as Macdolas leans over to rapidly take a bite out of each dainty offering on Draco's plate. The elf chews furiously as everyone pauses.

Should I bother to ask what the screwball shrimpet is up to now? Draco shakes his muzzy head and closes his gaping mouth. He moves to the beat of his own (noisy) drum, that's for certain.

Swallowing the last bite, Macdolas lays one hand to his forehead, the other pressing at his stomach. "Tis safe to consume, Master Malfoy! So sayeth the Official Granger-Malfoy Taste-Tester, Free Elf Macdolas–" a belch ruins the pronunciation of his name.

Oh, for the love of serpents! Draco's fork tinkles on the plain china as he lays down the elf-sampled treats onto his lap.

"Macdolas, much as I appreciate the sentiment – and the fact you've… altruistically appointed yourself this role – I cannot allow you to risk your own health and safety," he begins. "This was an isolated incident, apparently engendered by Stuart Mulciber the Turd– "

"Ooh, that's clever, Draco," Luna claps her appreciation for the weak joke.

" –and it's highly unlikely I will ever again be poisoned, little mate. Aside from the impracticality of having you test everything I ever again eat or drink, I would never endanger you like that, alright? It's non-negotiable. Come, don't look so crestfallen; even your prodigious appetite has its limits, I'm sure," he quips. Another thought comes to him.

"Also: didn't you personally make and bake these pastries, therefore ensuring they were safe from any noxious substances? Chomping them out of my hand was a trifle unnecessary, wasn't it?" Draco chides.

"'Twas a demonstrative and symbolic gesture, Master Malfoy," Macdolas grumbles. "Macdolas is capable of consuming an extraordinary quantity of comestibles afore he gains weight," he slaps proudly at his incurvate tummy.

"I don't doubt it," Draco ripostes, pushing his plate of pre-nibbled nibblies back to the elf. "Let's not put it to the test, however. May I have some fresh pastries, please?".

Ruibby rushes to assist. Soon, the only sound in the room is quiet munching and appreciative hums. The elves good-naturedly bicker about whose apple-based creations are tastier; Macdolas ends their mock-argument by settling his girlfriend in his lap and lovingly feeding her delicate bites of apple oatmeal whoopie pies.

"Aww – they're as cute as a kitten, aren't they?" Hermione whispers, as she lays her head against Draco's shoulder. "You should have seen how distraught they both were, before Luna stepped in and worked her calming magic… so to speak," she smiles.

"Well… I have to admit, I'm getting a little more accustomed to their flagrant amorousness," he replies. "And I'm convinced that Luna is actually a higher being of some sort, you know."

Draco tucks Hermione a little closer to his side, glorying in her warmth (both physical and emotional). His latent worries and unease dissipate for the moment. Discovering that a vindictive third party – and fanatical Death Eater spawn – was behind this vicious campaign is a relief… though I know I will be more vigilant than ever, in the wake of this near-catastrophe. He relaxes his frown as he notices Madam Pomfrey's keen scrutiny.

He swears a silent, emphatic oath as he gazes about the small room.

We'll be alright… all of us… and I'll do whatever it takes to ensure that remains true.

Wednesday 01 April 2003: PM

Speaking a quiet final 'thanks', Gus snicks closed the hotel room door behind Soledad; she allows herself another glance at her newly-altered reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe before she sits down on the simple bed. Her fingers compulsively fluff at the ends of her short, choppy bob, marvelling at how much lighter her head feels without the weight of her dark blonde plait.

Was my neck always this… long? Gus laughs self-deprecatingly, crossing her legs before reaching for her mobile phone from the side table. It's just hair – and it's going to be so much easier to style and maintain. She quashes the timorous inner voice that speculates whether Blaise will like it.

I've never given two hoots for the opinion of men before – I'm not about to start now. This is much more practical, and less dangerous, in my line of work. She shivers as she belatedly considers how badly this morning's altercation could have gone. Even unconscious and bloodied, Seth Loughty had exuded a strong aura of pure evil and callousness. As for Amon Ainbertach – well, his seething malignancy had stayed with all three Aurors long after they'd turned over the pair of sleazeballs to the Magische Politiemacht.

Even the pragmatic Sol had commented on Ainbertach's pervasive, rancorous effect. "His eyes hold no soul – and he's proud of it," she'd asserted, as they'd grabbed a quick luncheon of savoury pannenkoeken at the Dutch Ministrie's cafeteria. "He's only passing for human, I reckon."

Which is something most of these sick pervs have in common, Gus reflects, forcing her hands to unclench and her neck to relax as she prepares to call home… call Blaise, I mean. Pfft. Don't jump ahead of yourself, Augusta Meredith Gilmont.

The jangle of the outgoing telephone call only lasts two and a half rings before Blaise's deep tones excitedly answer, "Gussie? Hallo! How are you, tesoro? Did you have a productive day? Will you be coming home tomorrow? Are you getting enough rest? What about your accommodations? I can recommend–"

"Blaise, Blaise– hold up, I can't answer if you don't stop for a breath," Gus chuckles, secretly delighted by his joyous interrogation. "Hello to you, too; I'm well; we had an eventful, successful day; we're on track to return tomorrow; and the hotel is clean and comfortable, OK? You fuss more than Mrs Green," she jokes.

"'Eventful'? What exactly does that mean, Gussie?" Blaise sharply asks, ignoring her teasing. "Tell me, please." His atypical asperity both dismays and thrills her.

"In a minute; how are Tavi and Nella doing?" she stalls. "Did you have fun on your swimming costume expedition today? Is that splashing I hear in the background?" she wonders.

"We're having a pool party – Theo and Wirey are here too, it was Tavi's idea," Blaise clips, as happy squeals echo behind him. "The shopping excursion was fine, I didn't go overboard… much. Now, la mia bellissima ragazza – what happened? I can tell you're hiding something from me – I need the truth, please." His dizzying shift from happy-go-lucky to uncompromisingly stern throws Gus for a loop.

Damn… just when I thought he couldn't get any hotter… Gus hears her breathing shortening as her arousal heightens. What did he say, again? Oh, right…

She tries to ease her way in. "Listen, I really am fine, alright? We encountered a bit of a… situation, when we were effecting an important arrest this morning. Everything pointed to this guy living alone, but he'd disguised a small secondary cottage in the back garden of his canal house, behind an enspelled high wall…" Gus hesitates, groping to find the best way to reveal the rest of the story.

"And? Continue, please," Blaise grimly urges. "I'm moving to the changeroom for some privacy."

Another deep breath. "When we closed in on him in his living room, he summoned the accomplice and– and the man Apparated behind me to hold me hostage. Extremely briefly! I employed a taekwondo move and quickly turned the tables on the arsehole: I broke his nose in two places, and knocked him into next week," Gus concludes. "He and his slimy friend are safely incarcerated in a Dutch prison now, Blaise."

Her grip on the little black phone tightens as the loaded silence lengthens. "Blaisey? Are you still there?".

"He held you hostage, Augusta? He dared– he dared to touch you? To menace you? Did he hurt you?" he demands, his usually smooth tones rough and harsh. "I need his name – now."

"He slashed my cheek with his wand, just before I beat the stuffing out of him," Gus reluctantly confesses. "It's barely a scratch now, Sol fixed it when she cut my hair."

"He's a dead man. I'll rip off his filthy fingers one by one," Blaise growls. "What's his name?!".

Her temper (and hurt) bypasses her thrill at his overprotectiveness. "Zabini, I'm not telling you that – and you seem to be forgetting I'm a trained Auror. This is my job, and I'm bloody good at it, despite your obvious doubts as to my capability," Gus snaps. "I handled it, OK?".

"You misunderstand me, Gussie. I am in complete awe of your ability, strength, and brains – but no one touches my woman and gets away with it. No one," he snarls. "Wait – you cut your hair!?".

"Yep. He held me immobile by yanking at my plait, it had to go," Gus catches herself ruffling at the new style again. "Sol has hidden hairdressing talents, she did a great job… it still feels a little strange, but I'll– I'll get used to it." She is horrified when her sentence ends on a tiny sob.

"Gussie? Dolcezza – what's wrong?" Blaise instantly picks up on her dejection. "Please, darling. I'm sorry I was cross – not at you, never at you. I'm listening, sweetheart."

"I'm just being silly – it's silly," Gus initially downplays her sadness. You can trust Blaise… he'll understand. Go on, you big fraidy cat…

"My hair… I kept it long, because that's… how my mum wore hers," she haltingly tells him. "Me and Tavi both inherited Mum's hair, Dad used to call us his 'trio of blonde bombshells," she smiles at the bittersweet memory.

"I don't have a single photograph to remember her by, Blaise… I'm being stupidly sentimental, I know," she stoically wipes away her tears. "Really, I should have lopped off my hair years ago, it's a total pain in the bum in summer, and I'm going to save so much time – and money – on not having to wash and dry it–"

"Gussie… mia cara, ragazza triste. I'm so sorry," Blaise gently interrupts her babbling justification. "I understand, I do." His earlier aggression has vanished entirely in the face of her sorrow. "I bet you look absolutely stunning with your new haircut; I can't wait to see it for myself."

He clears his throat. "You are the most amazing, capable, beautiful woman I've ever met, Gussie… and if you find you truly miss your old hair, it'll grow back at the rate of half an inch per month," he consoles. "Tavi's been reading out interesting factoids from the new set of encyclopedias we procured yesterday."

"Ah, that explains your oddly specific knowledge of human hair growth rates," Gus chortles, content to go along with the lightened mood of their conversation. "Please don't let her bring the volumes to the dinner table – Mrs Green still hasn't recovered from the time Tavi insisted on reading aloud the fascinating properties of the digestive system, while we were eating chilli con carne."

"Don't worry, Nella and Gelsy have been quite strict about mealtime etiquette – and Tavi finished her homework tonight in record time," Blaise proudly informs. "She's so smart, Gussie – I sat down to help her with her maths book, but she had to correct me about the algebraic variables. And wait until you read her short story about Princess Anna Margherita Carlotta Teresa Canalis de Tingoli! Oops– that was meant to be a surprise – bugger! Please forget I said anything, cara."

"Consider it forgotten," Gus cheerfully concurs. "I thought Tavi had embellished that insanely elaborate name! Is everything going OK, Blaise? Having them at the Villa isn't cramping your style, or anything…?" she checks.

"No way– I love having them here! I wish– never mind, everything is going great guns," Blaise responds. "The only thing we're missing is you, Gussie," he mumbles something very softly in Italian.

"What's that?"

"Uh– I'd better turn over the phone to Tavi, before she starts to scold me," he sidesteps her query. "Promise me you won't take any crazy risks, darling? Please, mia stella splendente." The genuine worry and affection in his petition makes her heart skitter for a few beats.

"I'll be careful, orsacchiotto," she quietly assures. "I miss you too, Blaise." More than I can say.

"See you tomorrow, cara. And no trying to wheedle out of Tavi which swimsuit I bought for you today, she's already been sworn to secrecy," he gleefully warns. "Well, swimsuits, I should say; Nella insisted on a back-up."

"You're not exactly reassuring me here, Blaisey," Gus groans. "See you tomorrow, caro."

He makes a kissy noise into the receiver; Gus copies it before she has time to rethink the mushy little gesture.

"I'm going to claim that kiss for real tomorrow night, you know," he whispers, before handing off the phone to her sibling.

Oh, Blaise Nario Zabini… so am I. Gus wickedly grins to herself before she switches into Big Sister mode.

Blaise pads back to the deep end of the pool, deciding at the last moment to bomb-dive his friend by way of re-entry into the heated water.

Coming up for air, he is surprised to find a drenched Theo merely grinning at him from the inflatable lounger.

"Feel better, doofus? At least you've cleared that feral expression off your face," Theo observes, languidly using his foot to push off the tiled edge. "What's up? Trouble in Loverland? Go on, spill the beans, I've got nothing better to do than hear your woes."

"You're weirdly laidback and chipper all of a sudden, Theo – I'll circle back to that, but we'll talk about me, first," Blaise shrugs. "I need to find out the name of a couple of prisoners recently arrested in Amsterdam: do you have any decent connections in the Dutch Ministry of Magic?".

Theo ceases spinning in lazy circles. "In the Ministerie van Toverkunst? I do know someone; but I insist upon learning what's spurred your sudden interest, pal. Well?" he twirls his forefinger impatiently.

"Keep your voice down – I don't wish to worry Tavi or Nella," Blaise hisses. "Alright, if you must know – one of those evil arseholes held Gussie hostage this morning – she said she's fine, she turned the tables on him and thrashed the bastard – but he laid hands on her, Theo. He cut her cheek!".

The rage he'd forced himself to curb during his telephone conversation with Gus rushes to the fore. Blaise vents his ire by throttling an innocent foam pool noodle.

"Give me that before you snap it," Theo commands, sitting up to take custody of the maligned flotation aid. "Wow – you honestly are cuckoo for Gus already, huh? I knew this day would someday arrive… but never this soon," he razzes. Closing his bright green eyes, he gravely intones, "The Ancient Libertine Prophecies did predict a time when even the most Debauched, Profligate, Rakehell Specimen would fall to the Eternal, Unstoppable Power of True Love– ouch!" he yelps as Blaise thumps his leg.

"The next jab is to your fat mouth, smartarse; and I've never been debauched, profligate, or a–a libertine," Blaise wrathfully objects. "Are you going to help out a mate, or not?!".

"Absolutely not – and if you can correctly define 'libertine', I'll give you fifty Galleons," Theo smirks, as Blaise mutely sulks. "Yeah, didn't think so. Be reasonable, Zabini: you couldn't get to them anyway – and do you really want to jeopardize your very new relationship with an Auror by meddling in her work? Not to mention, Gus can take care of herself."

"Of course Gussie can take care of herself – but she's my girlfriend, and I am always going to protect her and our family, Theo!". He plays back his angry avowal as Theo goggles at him. Oh… cazzo, I didn't mean to say that…

"Quit guffawing like the village idiot, it was a slip of the tongue – 'her' family, I meant to say," Blaise tries to dunk the cackling brunette, but Theo thwarts the move with a swift kick. "You're a slippery little sucker, Nott."

"Yes – and you're practically engaged to Gus Gilmont; in your boyish dreams, anyway," Theo sniggers. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it; but your no-nonsense policewoman is going to need a bit more time before you spring all your overflowing love and commitment on her, Blaise. Just take it easy, OK? Have faith, she'll get there – I've seen the way she looks at you."

"Like what? How does Gussie look at me?" the eager question bursts from Blaise's lips. "I mean, would you primarily describe it as tender? Sweet? Loving? Impassioned? Lustful? Is she– does she– do you think she sees me solely as a sex object…? Damn you, Theo! I'm being serious here!"

"Why do you think I'm gasping for air?" Theo does fall off the lounger this time, such is the force of his helpless mirth.

It is heartening to see him laugh like this, even if my romantic dramas are the reason for it, Blaise decides, unable to repress his own smile. Theo needn't think he's going to escape unscathed, though.

Blaise is waiting for him when does eventually resurface. "Fun's over, my friend – I'm firmly turning back the spotlight onto you – let's see how you like it." He effortlessly treads water as Theo seeks refuge by climbing back onto his inflatable seat, still emitting an occasional giggle.

"I really am happy for you, Blaise. Gus is wonderful, as is her– sorry, your– family," Theo sincerely says, jade eyes twinkling. "You're an odd match, but a great one."

"Thanks, Theo. I wholly agree with your assessment, as you've clearly noted. Now… why have you been looking so… energized, of late? And why were you so quick to accept Tavi's pool party invite?" Blaise presses, intrigued anew by Theo's rapidly shuttering expression. "Generally I have to twist your arm just to join me down the pub for a few ales."

"I'm not acting any differently than usual," Theo claims, keeping his poker face steady. "I thought it would be nice to get out of the Manor for a bit, and spend time with my friends."

"Pah– there's something else going on, I can tell. I'll ask Wirey – he couldn't keep a secret if he tried." Blaise makes to move to the shallow end, where the hairy little elf is vainly trying to keep his waxed moustache out of the water, much to the females' amusement.

"Don't! Alright, I'll tell you – but this stays between us, agreed?" Theo grabs for Blaise's arm.

"Of course," he readily accedes. "Your secrets are safe with me, buddy." He furtively crosses his fingers beneath the water.

"Do you recall that I mentioned hiring an assistant? Well, she and Wirey have been constantly butting heads since day one, and I've had more than a few run-ins with her, myself – don't read anything into it, Blaise, there's nothing like that going on, I assure you," Theo grouses. "If I apprised you of her identity, you'd realize I'm speaking the absolute truth… No, I won't tell you who she is, and neither will Wirey. Just believe me when I say she's the last witch on Earth I'd ever fall for, OK?".

"Sure, sure… whatever you say, Theo," Blaise pays lip service, stifling his grin. Poor, deluded bloke… he doesn't have a clue how animated he looks, simply describing this mystery woman in the vaguest of terms. Hate is often the flip side of love, isn't that what they say? My, it's nice to be the wise best friend, for a change. Pat yourself on the back for being so sage and supportive, Blaise the Praised.

"Why haven't you simply sacked her, if you're having such a dreadful time of it?" he queries. "Does she have some kind of shady hold over you? I can help send her packing, if you like."

"No– no, it's nothing like that. She asked me to give her the job as a repaid favour, and she's actually doing exceptional work in cataloguing and clearing all the generations of crap in the place," Theo sighs. "It's just– she just– she seems to take perverse delight in riling me up, Blaise. And I can't seem to stop myself from baiting her back."

"Everyone has a nemesis, Theo – even quiet introverts such as yourself. I mean, I'm the exception to the rule, everyone loves me – what can I say, the Good Fairies evidently visited my bassinet en masse – but it's natural to rub up against certain people the wrong way," Blaise nods. "Is the situation becoming toxic, though? That's my concern."

"No… if anything, it's helped liven up our dull little lives – and that worries me, Blaise. Am I so starved for human connection that I'm subconsciously seeking out drama? That's not healthy, is it?". Theo moodily gazes down into the water.

"You're too hard on yourself, Theo. You've never 'sought out drama'; engaging in some spirited interactions with your assistant just means you're human, OK? It's not like you're flirting with her or anything," Blaise slyly states.

"What?! No way – I don't even like her, though I suppose she has grown less… intolerable, since she first started," Theo concedes. "She's repeatedly told me she doesn't like me, either, so you can wipe that drippy look off your face, Blaise."

"Of course, of course," Blaise tries to look less smug. "How much longer will she be in your employ, do you estimate?".

"Merlin only knows; I forgot how huge the Manor is, and how much sodding stuff is crammed in it. Most of the rooms have been shut up for years, ever since I went to live with Grandmother in Germany. I can tell you this, though: I'm going to throw a huge celebratory party once I'm finally free of the wretched place," Theo's thin face flushes. "I can't wait, in truth."

"Me too, mate. Come on, let's join the girls and take another gander at your wacky elf's idea of swimwear," Blaise references Wirey's old-fashioned, striped 'jumpsuit' bathing costume. "Was it his idea to leave the front buttons undone? He's rather proud of his thick pelt, isn't he?"

"Shhh– he'll hear you," Theo grins, as they make their way down the pool. "Just be glad I talked him out of the very brief trunks he first selected, alright?".

"Thank Salazar! Wirey exposing all that hair would have sent us all half-blind, and likely clogged the pool filter for days," Blaise wisecracks. "I need it fully functional, for when Gussie gets home– ah, never mind."

"Planning a more private pool party, hey? Good for you, Blaise."

Yeah… good for us, Blaise amends in his head, his sensuous mouth curling in pure joy.

Just one more night…

Italian translations:

la mia bellissima ragazza – my beautiful girlfriend

Dolcezza – Darling

mia cara, ragazza triste – my dear, sad girl

mia stella splendente – my shining star

cara/caro – honey