Chapter 91
Friday 03 April 2003: AM
Gus wakes from a very pleasant dream when a little blonde tornado flops onto the pillow beside her.
"Psst… Gus Gus, are you awake?" her younger sister shout-whispers into her ear. "Good! Mrs Green and Gelsy are about to take me to school, but I wanted to show you something first," Tavi slings her backpack onto the bed, rummaging through it as Gus squints in the dim light.
Her mild disorientation clears as she glimpses the heavy navy silk drapes enclosing the huge four poster bed. This is definitely not our apartment… and Rowena knows, the saggy brown couch has never felt like sleeping on a thick, fluffy cloud. Tavi's words finally filter to her brain as Gus yawns and slouches half-upright.
"How can Gelsy be taking you to school, Kiddo? I know she's very talented, but I think even her gifts don't extend to disguising herself as a primary schooler," Gus grins.
Tavi has finally unearthed a single sheet of paper; she clucks her tongue in exasperation as she thrusts the sheaf in front of Gus's face. "Well, duh, Gus – Gelsy Side-Apparates us back to Mrs Green's flat, then she waits there until Mrs Green comes back, and they crochet and knit and talk together, I overheard Mrs Green telling Mr Blaise it's their 'Stitches and Bitches' club, but I'm not supposed to say that word so you didn't hear it from me."
"Quite– hold on, you'll roll me right off the bed, the way you're bouncing about," Gus warns, reaching over to switch on a heavy bronze floor lamp. "What did you eat for breakfast? Worms?".
"Nope, Gelsy made an Italian breakfast frittata with bacon and eggs and cheese and veggies, it was so yummy – but Gus, you're not looking at my certificate!" Tavi grouches.
"Alright, imp," Gus peers down at the paper, reading it aloud. "'Achievement Certificate: Miss Octavia Gilmont is presented with the Outstanding Spelling Award On the Second Day of March in the Year 2003, winning by successfully spelling the word 'acknowledgement'. Congratulations.' Oh, Tavi– I'm so proud of you!". Gus takes care not to crumple the award as she squashes her little sister into a tight, tickly hug.
"Eeeeee– thanks, Gus! Cameron Smith bragged to everyone that he was going to win, and it got down to me and him in the last round and he got 'independence' but he spelled the second last 'e' as an 'a' and I knew he was a goner," Tavi squeals. "He made a bad face at me halfway through my spelling, but I figured he was trying to pyscho me out so I ignored him and I was ever-so-gracious in my victory speech, Gus Gus."
"'Psych' out, not 'pyscho' out; and you didn't really give a victory speech, did you?" Gus groans, relaxing their hug to palm her face. "I think Blaise's cockiness is rubbing off on you, Kiddo."
"Nuh-uh – Mr Blaise says if you've got it, flaunt it… but Mrs Green also reckons no one likes a gobby brat, so I just said, 'Better luck next time, Cameron Smith', and then I thanked my family and friends for their support, I was about to name you all but Mrs Albiez said she heard the bell for lunch and everyone ran outside, even though I didn't hear anything," Tavi divulges, blinking solemnly. "Mr Blaise has been helping me with my homework, he's quite a good speller and he reads stories almost as well as you do, Gus."
"High praise, thanks." Deep pride suffuses Gus's face as she re-pins a wayward tress of Tavi's fine blonde hair, tugging on a pigtail to make the child giggle. "I missed you, Octavia Felice."
"I missed you too, Augusta Meredith… even though it's so much fun here, it would have been better if you'd been with us," Tavi earnestly replies. Her sweet face takes on a cunning cast. "Gus, Mr Blaise said it makes sense for us to stay here tonight, because our costumes for Mac's party are here, and it's going to take ages to get ready. And I know you said I can't pierce my ears but that's OK, because Gelsy knows how to Transfigure pronged earrings into clip-ons, and she's promised to fix my hair into a special Italian braid… We can stay a bit longer, right?".
Oh, bugger– I have to nip this in the bud, and quickly. Gus sucks in a deep breath, choosing her words with care. "Tavi, I know you like it here, but we have our own home, and we need to go back there, Kiddo. Blaise and Gelsy have been very generous, but it's best if we don't test the limits of their hospitality."
"But why do we have to go back to the apartment?! It's tiny and crowded and noisy and when it rains all week everything gets smelly and damp – and half the time the elevators break down and Mrs Green has to walk up all those steps and you don't even have your own bedroom, Gus!" Tavi jerks off the bed, her little hands balled into fists and her eyes glassy with anger and mutinous resentment.
"You're just being mean, Gus – Mr Blaise said we can stay as long as we like – and I love it here! I don't want to go back!" she turns tail, clumsily snatching up her backpack and hurtling out the door before Gus has a chance to do more than gape. She flips back the warm bedclothes to follow, before a slight figure enters the lavish bedroom.
"Give the bairn a few minutes, hinny. She dinna mean to fash ye," Mrs Green kindly pats Gus's tensed hand, steering her to sit at the foot of the bed. "The weeny crabby lass craves more family, ye ken; now, divvent be thinking ye're not enough – ye've been mother and father both to the kidda, and a fine job ye've made of it, Gussie." She reaches up to gently turn Gus's troubled face to hers. "Your sonsy chep yearns for grayne, too – a pair of peas in a pod, they be."
"But Nella – we have our own place – I've scrimped and saved and sacrificed to make it our own… I know it's poor – especially compared to this outrageous splendour – and we don't have a lot, but we have enough– or so I thought–" Gus shuts her eyes as her voice fails, battling against the tears blurring her vision.
"Aye, lassie, tis more than enough, dinna fret. Nobbut a child yeself, ye were, and yet ye acted with the head and heart of most thrice ye age. If me and our Roger had ever been blessed with a daughter, I'd hev been mighty proud if she'd had a mere ounce of your gumption, hinny. Young Tavi'll come round, ye'll see." Despite their marked height difference, Nella deftly manages to coax Gus's head to lean against her bony shoulder. "Hev ye a good bubble, pet."
Gus allows herself a few minutes of unrestrained bawling before she sits up, grateful for Nella's proffered pristine handkerchief to dry her eyes and wipe her cheeks.
"Better, lassie? Now, afore I collect the bairn, answer me this: do it be pride, or prejudice that stops ye thinking ye belong heor? Aye, tis early days ganning straights with your bobby dazzla lad… but young Blaise is proper rowly-powly gone on ye. Mind ye dinna teuk the gee too far and dunch his geet big heart." Nella raises one grey brow and sagely nods.
Flabbergasted, Gus blathers, "Mrs Green, are you– are you advocating that we just move in here? Seriously? But you've always preached the benefits of being strong, and independent – and I thought you were happy enough, at the apartment…"
"Haad on a min't, lassie. Aa dorsn't be telling ye half-nowt, lest ye be huffed. Tis your life, and your choices. Mevvies not right hence, but I'll not be fratching aboot settling here, not one whit. Aa've lived in many the abode, and I'll teuk our Villa over all any day, Gussie. Your man-to-be already axed, ye ken." Nella stands, smiling mischievously. "Aa told young Blaise he should sweet-talk ye, first – we're a package deal, and aal. I'd best away and click up the wee bairn. Ye've the morn to ye selves, ye should make the most of it."
By Morgana… there are so many things to take her to task about that impromptu sermon…! Gus counts to five, then ten, her temper warring with her astonished heart. Nella simply chuckles while she nimbly trots to the door.
"Nella, wait – he's not my 'man-to-be' – and what do you mean, he's already asked you to move in? Mrs Green?!" Gus hollers as the spry older woman disappears down the corridor. Dammit, I'd best get dressed before I take off after her.
Turning back, Gus gasps as Blaise materializes around the ajar door, carrying a massive breakfast tray/table and wearing a rather smug smile. He briefly bobbles his burden before setting it down on the hallway floor.
"Gussie– is everything alright?" he urgently asks, his large hands resting at her left hip and the nape of her neck as his dark eyes peer intently into her vexed face. "You've been crying… what's wrong, mio triste tesoro?".
"Oh, nothing much: my little sister hates me, and my dear 'ganny' has all but married us off to live happily ever after in your fairy tale castle, that's all," Gus groans. She is unable to sustain her irritation as her boyfriend gathers her close and carefully rubs her back, as though he's gentling a wild pony.
I've every right to be cross with him, he's obviously been colluding with Nella, Tavi, and Gelsy to indefinitely prolong our stay… but it's hard to maintain my righteous indignation when I'm wrapped up in his arms like this. Gods, it's been so long since I've felt so cherished, and safe… well, not since Mum and Dad died. Maybe Nella's right about my pride blocking my happiness…?
"This is my fault, isn't it? I'm sorry, dolcezza – I never meant to cause friction between you and Tavi, and I tried not to spoil her too much, truly. Nella must be teasing you, she told me yesterday not to place undue pressure on you, and reminded me that we've not been dating long." Blaise's sad velvet-black eyes glisten. "I'll fix this, I promise. Here, I can still catch them before they leave the apartment–"
Her firm handhold on his sinewy bicep stops his precipitate dash down the corridor. "No, orsacchiotto – let them go. Tavi needs time to cool down; she's a great kid, but we've both inherited the Gilmont temper, I'm afraid. The good thing is, we settle down quickly once we've blown a gasket. I'll talk with Tavi when she gets back from school."
Her fingers trail down to his hand, squeezing affectionately. "Did you bring me breakfast in bed, Blaisey?" Gus nods to the tray piled high with food and drink… and a single, perfect blush-pink camellia in a slim crystal vase. Ohhh… my thoughtful, sentimental wizard…
Stooping to regather the heavily-laden tray, Blaise beams at her. "I did indeed; and I've taken the day off work, to maximize our time together. Hop back into bed, please, cara. I'm going to make sure you start the morning right – go on, get comfy," he ushers her backward, until she folds her long legs under the heavy indigo bed covers. His wide grin falters a little as she deliberately yawns and stretches her arms high, knowing the gesture draws attention to her unfettered breasts beneath the fine ivory cotton lawn of her new nightdress.
He swallows roughly. "How – how did you sleep? Is everything to your liking, Gussie?" his uneven voice thrills her inner coquette.
Who knew I even had an inner coquette… but here she is, relishing the way Blaise's eyes seem glued to my chest. I wonder if the fabric is transparent enough for him to glimpse the multiple tiny love bites he left, last night… Gus blushes as she remembers the spectacular experience they shared in the pool change rooms… then the showers, and when he carried her upstairs and insisted upon 'tucking her into bed'.
And all the while, he'd focused solely on bringing her pleasure… again and again, using his clever hands and mouth, not allowing her more than a unsatisfactory, brief fumble at his extremely impressive hardness (despite Gus's strident arguments and winsome pouts). "One step at a time, mia splendida aquila," he'd repetitively chanted.
"Yes, it's lovely," she belatedly thinks to respond, her flush rising as she sees her quickfire arousal reflected in Blaise's dilated pupils. He slides the tray into her lap, kicking his loafers into a corner before slipping in beside her. His forearm brushes against her pert nipple as he reaches down for napkins.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "Which dish would you like to try first, Gussie? I asked Gelsy to make a little bit of everything: we have frittata, ricotta pancakes, zeppole doughnuts, fresh fruit salad, brioche, fette biscottate, butter, jams, cappuccinos, juices–"
"Blaise, I hope you're going to help me eat all this – you've gone way overboard as usual, amore. I'm really not used to breakfast in bed – well, 'breakfast in couch', would be more accurate," Gus jokes. She drops her eyes to the tray, clamming up as she realizes Blaise has likely broken his fast with many witches, over the years. Ugh, I probably come across like a gauche little brown country mouse, by comparison.
"Gussie, I– I've never done this, before– with another woman, is what I mean. I've not brought back any other witches to Villa Zabini… just you, mia bella ragazza. I don't want you to think this is some kind of practised schtick, on my part– it's not, you can ask Gelsy, ask her anything you like, I don't mind… I know my past is… problematic, but I wasn't the indiscriminate womanizer that a lot of people seem to think I am… I'm making a right muddle of this, aren't I? Maybe I should go," a pensive Blaise mutters.
"No! I mean – please stay, Blaise." Gus shucks off the vestiges of her apprehension and self-doubt, deeply touched by his candid confession. "Your reputation bothers you more than you let on, doesn't it?" She threads their fingers together, shuffling as close as she can to press against his side.
"I'm sorry for unjustly judging you, before… and what's past is past, tesoro. You've promised to be honest with me; may I assume that means faithful, too?" Gus quietly asks for clarification.
"Yes, absolutely! Of course, Gussie. I'd never, ever cheat on you – I swear it," Blaise nearly upsets one of the tumblers of juice as he vehemently nods, his whole body thrumming with unfeigned frankness. "I'm not wholly proud of my former behaviours, but I've not been deceitful, or unfaithful."
"I pledge to be honest, faithful and open to you too, Blaise Nario Zabini." Wow – that sounded a lot more formal than I'd intended! You idiot, Gus. Fortunately, her boyfriend's huge, bright grin assures her that she's said the right thing.
"Well, then, Augusta Meredith Gilmont… why are we letting this delectable breakfast feast grow cold? Now, I'm going to feed you by hand, but you must promise not to nip, OK?". Blaise pops a glistening raspberry into her mouth, followed by a thin slice of apple, and a forkful of savoury frittata. "In the spirit of our mutual candour, I have a teensy little admission to make, Gussie…"
"Mmmphff – I'm listening," Gus mumbles around the delicious food. "What have you done, Blaisey?".
"I took the liberty of replacing that downright malignant brown monstrosity of a couch in your lounge room with a very reasonably-priced new sofa bed, darling. It's stylish without being ostentatious, with classic lines, a removable back pillow and T-shaped seat cushions, welt detailing, and gently flared arms, giving it a subtly tailored appearance; and the 'Devon Pewter' fabric goes well with every home décor," Blaise proudly recites. "Best of all, it doesn't try to maliciously drag you to the depths of Hell when you sit down on the middle of it. And no, you are not paying me back. It's a gift, and I've gained valuable points on my store loyalty card; if I spend another hundred pounds, I get a free tasselled cushion."
"Have you applied for a position as a furniture salesman there, too?" Gus dryly questions. "You really didn't have to buy me a new sofa, Blaise – the brown couch still had a few good years left in it–"
"It was an utter abomination, and dangerous to the health and well-being of my family," he stresses, feeding her a piece of buttery biscotti. "Just say 'thank you, Blaisey, il mio brillante, affascinante uomo'."
"Thank you, Blaisey," Gus winks as he pooches his lower lip in disappointment. "Though I'll ask Gelsy for a reliable translation before I repeat whatever you just bragged about, Zabini."
"My clever, ever-suspicious copper," Blaise chuckles, leaning in to daintily nibble at her left earlobe. He happily hums as she immediately tips back her head to allow him access to the rest of her neck.
"Hey: once we've finished breakfasting, we've a good couple of hours before Gelsy and Nella return to the Villa… How do you think we could best employ our free time this morning, Gussie?". He industriously applies his deft tongue to trailing up and down every inch of bared skin on her sensitive throat.
Seizing her maple wood wand from edge of the bedframe, Gus points it at the door as she chants, "Colloportus!". It shuts and locks with a distinct click.
"Does that satisfactorily answer your question, Blaisey?".
Friday 03 April 2003: PM
"Sweet wonderful you… You make me happy with the things you do," Pansy softly sings as she pushes the returns rack to the front of the boutique, her heart full as she replays the wonderful, lazy morning she spent with Harry. The next line from the Fleetwood Mac song she's grown to love runs through her mind: 'Oh, can it be so… This feeling follows me wherever I go…' It sure does… Salazar knows, I can't seem to stop thinking about a certain sexy, bearded Auror, regardless of the environment…
Her hand pauses on the next clothes hanger as she remembers Harry's sweet, sleepy smile this morning, after they'd woken late and made love side-by-side, facing one another. The dim, cool bedroom had been a haven of quiet bliss as they'd spent unmeasured, languid minutes in unhurried exploration of their sensuality.
He never broke eye contact, not even when we kissed, Pansy wonders. Ordinarily that kind of undivided attention would have me breaking out in hives – well, I used to actively avoid kissing, it was all too intimate, and scary… but I'd kiss Harry all day, if I could. Not that our actual lovemaking isn't singularly phenomenal – it is – but he imbued so much emotion into every caress, every look… and then afterward, when he lightly stroked his fingertips up and down every part of my body he could reach, so slowly and carefully… and he listened to me rambling on about the businesses, and my plans for progressive expansion, and how therapy was a bit tough, this week… he's simply the best boyfriend I never knew I wanted, or needed…!
Pansy emits a squeal of pure joy as she spins around, her glee dying a rapid death as she recognizes the witch standing a few feet away.
"Hello, Miss Parkinson. You look well," Molly Weasley says, her brown eyes slightly narrowed.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Weasley. How are you?" Pansy summons a professional smile. This is unlikely to be an ordinary transaction of goods and services; to the best of my knowledge, Molly Weasley hasn't darkened my door before.
"Is there something I can help you with?".
"I'm fine, dear. I'm just browsing," Molly replies. "This is a lovely salon you've created, isn't it? Must take a lot of hard work, to keep it turning a profit. I've heard you work long hours."
There's a subtext here I haven't quite grasped… OK, I'll play along. Pansy warily eyes the older witch.
"Every successful endeavour requires discipline, and commitment. Luckily, I have excellent staff, whom I trust implicitly." And if only Bianca hadn't come down with a bad cold, I could have stayed home and avoided this uncomfortable little chat. Pansy braces herself for the blow she senses is approaching.
"Well, I wouldn't know: I suppose you could say, my 'business' has been raising seven children, and keeping our household ticking along," Molly allows. "Still, it must be difficult to juggle a strenuous career and one's personal life, I imagine. Usually one or the other is unfortunately sacrificed somewhere along the way, from what I've seen of the modern world."
Ah – there's the sting in the tail. Pansy keeps the innocuous smile pinned to her face. Let her say her piece, then; she's come a long way to do so.
"How is Harry, dear? He's always so busy, our darling boy… he deserves a partner who understands the demands of his taxing career, and supports him, first and foremost. And of course, he's had enough fame and attention to last him three lifetimes; more scandal is the last thing he needs." Molly critically examines a strapless Vivienne Westwood leopard print mid-length gown. "My, this is eye-catching, isn't it?".
"Very," Pansy colourlessly agrees. "Harry's well, Mrs Weasley. Are you certain there isn't anything you're interested in trying on?".
"Bless you, dear – I doubt you stock anything that would fit, or suit me," Molly smoothly answers. "Or something I could afford, for that matter. Well, it's nice to see how the other half lives, isn't it?".
"We carry a wide range of styles and sizes, and pride ourselves on providing a piece to suit every budget." Moving and speaking as stiffly as an old-fashioned wooden mannequin, Pansy suppresses her overwhelming relief when Molly shakes her head and begins walking toward the doors.
"I'm sure you do, Miss Parkinson, but I've tarried too long as it is. Arthur will be wondering where I've gotten to. Good day." Molly hurries onto the street as Pansy echoes the salutation.
Sagging against the wall, Pansy knuckles at her burning eyes. Well, that was awkward as fuck – and absolutely awful.
Doubts crowd her as Molly's words seem to echo in the hushed ambience of the boutique. 'More scandal is the last thing he needs'… she's right. Does she somehow already know about my abusive past – and judge me for it? Or is she referring to my 'loose' reputation? Maybe I'm taking more from Harry than he can afford to give… maybe I'm just not yet mentally healthy enough to even try for a 'normal' relationship. I care too much about Harry to be another burden in his life – to be another wretched soul in need of saving.
Abandoning the returns rack, Pansy ducks her head inside the back room, where her manager is industriously sorting and pricing new stock. "Mayumi? Would you mind covering my break, please?". She tries to keep her tone even and untroubled.
"Of course– Pansy, is something the matter? You look upset."
"Oh, a little dust blew into my eyes when a customer entered, that's all. Thanks, I'll be back in a two shakes of a lamb's tail." Where the hell did that saying come from?! I must be more agitated than I thought. Pansy jerkily waves at Mayumi's concerned visage, bolting for her office.
Sinking onto her office chair, she folds her forearms onto the polished wood, pressing down her hot face against the cool surface in a useless effort to stem her blinding tears.
Maybe… maybe we need some space.
Friday 03 April 2003: PM
Hermione trudges back up the staircase to the townhouse's third floor, slowing her steps as she nears the open door of Draco's studio. Pausing at the entrance, she absentmindedly rubs at her belly, wincing as it spasms again. Must be my period properly starting… it is a few days overdue… not surprising, given the stressful goings-on of the past week. She stifles a yawn, wrinkling her nose at the pungent aroma of Draco's primers, paints, varnishes and inks.
Heavens, it really stinks in here. Ugh. I wonder if Draco's recently spilled something…?
"Hermione? What's wrong, ma petite?" Draco appears before her, concern marked across his fair face. His left hand gently circles her wrist as he 'subtly' checks her pulse. "I thought you'd already left for the Manor?".
"I came back upstairs – I'm worried about leaving you here alone, Draco." Hermione chews on her bottom lip before continuing, "I know you said you're fine – but what if you have a delayed reaction to the poison? Negative aftereffects can continue for several days – seizures, visual hallucinations, memory disruption, delirium– no, I'm staying home," she abruptly announces.
Draco moves his hands from her forearms to her shoulders, his thumbs stroking her collarbones through her dark blue blouse. "Granger, do you think Madam Pomfrey would have cleared me to leave the castle if she truly believed there was the slimmest chance I might relapse? I haven't had a single seizure or hallucination, my memory is sharp, and I've been rigorously supervised to the point of being smothered, thanks to our well-meaning but overbearing friends and colleagues. You've been sneaking into the library the last few days to research belladonna, haven't you?" he fondly chides.
"So what if I have? You can't stop me," she childishly mutters, relaxing into a grudging smile as he tips back his head to laugh. "Well, you'd better not try, anyway." She gladly returns his hug, despite her churlish mood.
"Rather grumpy today, hmm? Are you well, darling? You seem a little tired, and out-of-sorts, perhaps," Draco diplomatically comments. "Maybe you should send your regrets to the Manor; I'm certain Mother has Macdolas's party arrangements well in hand by now."
"I can't; I promised I'd help set up the Muggle DJ/karaoke machine Dad insisted on renting," Hermione sighs. "He was supposed to oversee it himself, but he's been delayed with a difficult wisdom tooth extraction – don't worry, I shan't go into the gruesome details," she reacts to Draco's instinctive wince. "Won't you reconsider coming with me tonight, please? Just for an hour or two, and you can bring your sketch," she flutters her hand at the half-completed portrait of 'MacRu' that Draco intends to gift to Mac for his birthday.
"Very well, but only because I'm worried about you, my beautiful little witch. Your temperature seems a little elevated, and you've been pressing at your tummy the last few days," Draco shrewdly remarks. "I think we should arrange for Healer Kuznetsova to consult with you when she sees Lucius in the morning."
Hermione irritably shakes her head, stepping away from their hug with a scowl. "There's no need! I've had a little light spotting because my period's due, that's all. Sorry, sorry– I guess this week has taken a bit of a toll on my temperament," she makes an effort to dispel her uncharacteristic crankiness. "I'll be right as rain after a good night's sleep, Draco."
He makes a non-committal noise as his argentine eyes thoroughly scrutinize her person. "You're sure that's all it is?" he finally queries.
"Yes, mon amour." She shivers as he meanders his fingers around her earlobe and down her neck. One small touch from this man and I melt like butter… every time. Hermione moves back into his side, smiling up at her beloved. "Your parents will be overjoyed to see for themselves that you've so quickly recovered, Draco. Hey, maybe you can find out which costumes they've picked out? Mum and Dad are still being sneaky about what they're wearing."
"You're really loving all the planning and plotting, aren't you? My super-organized little Gryff," Draco drops a benevolent kiss onto her lips, before packing his sketch and pens into his portfolio. "No one shall hold a candle to my gorgeous girlfriend, I know that already. Let's go, darling," he winds his free arm around her waist to begin their descent to the Floo.
"Draco, you and Hermione should immediately apply for a leave of absence from Hogwarts; you can stay here at the Manor, until that heinous wretch Mulciber is located. Are you absolutely certain this Throndson girl was coerced into doing his vile bidding? There could be any number of – what's the term – sleeper agents – ready to strike at my family like vipers… I simply won't have it," Lucius loudly announces, rapping the head of his silver snake cane onto the dining table for added effect. "Your mother's been worried sick ever since we heard… as have I," he says the last softly but clearly. "That's settled, then."
He leans his stiffened back against the high-backed chair at the head of the table as Hermione wearily rubs at her forehead. She speaks before Draco has a chance to reply.
"Give it a rest, Lucy – you sound like you've been reading too many espionage novels. McGonagall has confirmed that Selina's story is authentic, and the Ministry are confident that they'll have Mulciber in custody by mid- next week." She and Lucius engage in a silent stare-off until his father breaks first, glowering at his plate of spring vegetable fettucine alfredo.
"And before you point out that Draco's food and drink runs the risk of further poisoning, I assure you that Macdolas and Ruibby are personally overseeing the preparation and delivery of every edible substance we're consuming," Hermione adds, smirking as Lucius's mouth closes with a sharp snap.
Deciding that he'd best butt in before the stubborn pair's disagreement develops into a proper row, Draco mildly says, "Much as we appreciate the offer, Father: we are perfectly safe and sound at Hogwarts. It's highly unlikely any assailants will try the same fell approach twice, too– uh, I mean, we've not received any further indication that anyone else wishes us ill." Damn… judging by the frenetic drumming of his fingers, Father's now perturbed about other ways we could be harmed… and Mother looks worried, as well.
"It really wouldn't be the slightest trouble to host you both – I mean, this is your home, Draco; and of course, yours too, Hermione," Narcissa reaches to the left to affectionately squeeze Hermione's hand. "I understand that you value your privacy, but Draco's old suite in the East Wing is both roomy and secluded… perhaps you'd consider staying just for the weekend, then? We could all enjoy a leisurely Sunday breakfast together," she cajoles with a winsome smile, before firing her secret weapon.
"Hermione, I've hunted down some interesting old tomes on soul bonds; I'd love the opportunity to discuss them with you, but with Mac's party tomorrow… well, another time, perhaps," Narcissa elegantly shrugs.
"Oh! Do you know… it would make more sense for us to simply stay over, what with the party likely to roll on most of the night," Hermione promptly responds, fussing at her cutlery. "If you're sure it wouldn't be too much bother; and just for the weekend."
"Of course," Narcissa takes care to shoot her triumphant grin at her husband and son when Hermione's gaze is lowered to her food. Draco hides his smile in his napkin. Watch and learn, Lucius.
"Are you well, dear? You look a trifle peaky," Narcissa quietly enquires of Hermione.
"I'm a little fatigued – it's been a big week, that's all. Obviously." Hermione sips at her glass of sparkling water.
"Ms Granger– Hermione… thank you, for saving our son's life. We are forever in your debt." Lucius's tone is abrupt, yet unquestioningly sincere. "I realize that may yet harbour some… understandable reservations, about my character. But if there is ever anything I can do for you, any favour, large or small… you need only ask." His pearly head swivels as he glances at his wife and son, his jaw tight and his eyes heavy with unspoken, fervid emotion.
Draco holds his breath as he watches his father and the woman he loves exchange equally inscrutable stares. There is an odd tension crackling in the room, eased only when Hermione lifts her head a little higher to address his father.
"I'd die for Draco – and not because he's my soulmate… soul bond aside, I love him, with everything I am, and everything I ever will be. You owe me nothing, Lucius Malfoy. I will always, ALWAYS do whatever it takes to keep Draco safe… and alive." She smiles fiercely across the table, readily clutching Draco's hand as tightly as he grips hers.
Eventually releasing her hold, Hermione fastidiously rearranges her napkin before she rises from her seat chair. "Would you excuse me, please? I'd like to finish setting up the music equipment; then I think I'll return to the townhouse for an early night. No, don't get up, please," she waves off Draco and Lucius coming to their feet.
"But darling – you haven't had any dessert; it's perfectly scrumptious, a nice light orange chocolate mousse," Narcissa interjects.
"Thank you, but I'm not particularly hungry. Dinner was delicious, as ever," Hermione places her hand on Narcissa's shoulder and bends to kiss her cheek. "It shouldn't take me more than half an hour, then I'll come find you, Draco." She skitters from the room before anyone else can speak.
Silence settles on the remaining trio. Narcissa delicately couches her query. "Is Hermione unwell, mon fils? She seems a tad…"
"Hectic; and irritable," Lucius caustically concludes. "What? She does – and Draco, I may not know much about women, but I do urge you to go after her, son. Something's not right."
Dashing to the door, Draco curtly nods. "I know."
Geordie translations:
She dinna mean to fash ye – She didn't mean to upset you.
The weeny crabby lass – The little cranky girl
Your sonsy chep yearns for grayne – your good-looking fellow longs for family
Hev ye a good bubble, pet – Have a good cry, love
Aye, tis early days ganning straights with your bobby dazzla lad… but young Blaise is proper rowly-powly gone on ye – Yes, it's early days courting with your lovely boyfriend… but young Blaise is head over heels for you.
Mind ye dinna teuk the gee too far and dunch his geet big heart – Take care your stubbornness doesn't wound his great big heart.
Haad on a min't, lassie – Hold on a minute, girl.
Aa dorsn't be telling ye half-nowt, lest ye be huffed – I daren't tell you almost anything, in case you are offended
Mevvies not right hence, but I'll not be fratching aboot settling here, not one whit – Maybe not right now, but I'll not be arguing about living here, not at all
teuk – take
axed – asked
man-to-be – husband-to-be
I'd best away and click up the wee bairn – I should get going and collect the child.
ganny - grandmother
Italian translations:
mio triste tesoro – my sad darling
mia splendida aquila - my splendid eagle
il mio brillante, affascinante uomo – my brilliant, handsome man.
The song excerpt Pansy sings is from 'You Make Loving Fun' by Fleetwood Mac (written by Christine McVie).