A/N:

This chapter is dedicated to Little Avocado. Your amazing reviews greatly helped to shape the direction of this update, especially with regard to Molly Weasley's portrayal. Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it.

And a huge thank you to all of you still reading this. I really appreciate each and every one of you.

Much love from VJ xoxo

Chapter 92

Friday 04 April 2003: PM

The enthusiastically canoodling couple on the 'Devon Pewter' sofa bed fail to notice the sound of the apartment's front door opening until Mrs Green sternly harrumphs to announce her presence.

Blaise curtails Gus's instinctual bolt, grinning down at her passion-flushed, scowling face.

"Get off me, they're home," she hisses, snorting a giggle as he smoothly rolls them semi-upright and clamps his hands onto her hips to haul her into his lap.

"Please, cara – I desperately need your help to hide a certain engorged part of my anatomy right now," he wickedly murmurs in her ear.

Gus (the saucy minx) swiftly turns the tables by deliberately grinding down her firm buttocks on the turgid organ in question, before turning to address Mrs Green.

"Hi, Nella; we were just– um–"

"Christening – I mean, testing – the new couch," Blaise chips in, somehow managing to get his breathing and tone back to reasonably normal levels. "I'm delighted to announce that this sofa is blessedly free of any sag, or the malign propensity to suck you into an alternate dimension. Ah, where's Tavi, Mrs Green?".

"Get your blaa, lad; and who are ye codding, Aa ken ye've been cuddling," Nella's mouth twists in a smile. "The wee bairn's waiting outside. Tavi's been dowie all day, thinking on her mischief this morn. Aa'll send in the kidda in a min't – Aa just took a keek in to find oot what was on, and twas as Aa expected. Mad-het for each other."

She reaches out to lovingly comb Gus's shambolic short blonde locks back into order. Patting Blaise's shoulder, Nella grins knowingly before walking back down the corridor. "Aa'll skedaddle hame; come for scran in aboot an hour."

Blaise loosens his grip on Gus's hips to allow her to slide off his thighs; he nestles her into his side as they share an embarrassed glance.

"Now I know what it's like getting busted by your parents while you're necking on the family lounge," Gus mutters. "It's your fault for being so irresistibly sexy, Blaisey." Though her voice is austere, the quick smile she sends his way assures Blaise of her sincerity.

My stunning warrior witch thinks I'm sexy… and irresistible. Like there was ever any doubt – but it's always brilliant to receive confirmation of same. Blaise has trouble restraining his hoot of sheer elation, settling for a quick fist-pump as Tavi clatters into the small living room.

"Hullo, Miss Octavia; I'll leave you two ladies alone, I need to have a chat with Mrs Green anyway," Blaise busses a kiss onto Gus's warm cheek, standing up and squeezing Tavi's scrawny upper arm in silent support. He can tell from the little girl's woebegone visage that she feels dreadful about her outburst this morning.

Much of the blame for that rests with me – I did go a little overboard when Gus was away. I really tried not to spoil the munchkin – well, I thought I tried. Guess I need to learn when enough is enough. Although… perhaps a lovely big bunch of flowers would help to say 'sorry' to them both – no, no, rein it in, you plonker! Blaise clicks his tongue against his teeth as he starts walking to the narrow hallway.

"No– please stay, Mr Blaise." Tavi lifts her sad eyes, arresting him in his tracks. "Please?".

"It's alright, Blaisey," Gus quietly adds. "I'm listening, Kiddo."

Sitting back down beside his girlfriend, Blaise holds his breath as the siblings begin to converse.

Tavi takes a few steps forward, little knuckles white as she clings onto the flared arm of the new grey sofa. "Gus… I'm really sorry, for the awful things I said to you, before I left for school. I didn't mean them, I promise! I was naughty, and selfish. I– I'm sorry," she hangs her head, gulping down a sob.

Gus immediately slips to her knees to hug her little sister. "Oh, Tavi, it's OK, it's OK," she rocks her gently as the child weeps. "I know you didn't mean them; but it did hurt my feelings, when you accused me of being mean, and when you said you didn't want to come home."

"I just– I really liked staying with Mr Blaise and Gelsy, Gus Gus. I wish we could all stay there together, forever," Tavi mumbles.

"Look at me please, Kiddo." Gus waits until Tavi raises her damp face. "The Villa is wonderful, and heaps of fun – but I've worked hard to make a home for us here, and when you say things like that, I feel sad… like you don't appreciate me, or our little family."

"No– no, Gus, I do appreciate you, I do!" Tavi cries. "I'm sorry!".

"I know you are, Tavi. Please try to think of how much power your words can have, before you speak… I realize I haven't been the best substitute for Mum and Dad, but I'm trying, Kiddo," Gus croaks. "You were still so little when they died, you probably don't remember that we didn't have a lot of money, or fancy things… but they loved us so much, and they always made certain we had enough to go round, even when times got really tough."

Blaise lets his sympathetic tears fall unchecked, hastening to push his clean handkerchief into Gus's tense hand. She nods her thanks, but ignores her own wet eyes in favour of delicately mopping up Tavi's streaming tears.

"Hush, sweetie, it's alright, I'm not angry," Gus croons, as Tavi blubbers in her embrace. "We're a team, remember? First it was just you and me, then Mrs Green adopted us… and now we're very lucky to have Blaise, and Gelsy, and all our new friends. Hey, do you remember that song you were always singing when you were a little tyke?".

"'Barbie Girl'?" Tavi confusedly suggests. "But you hated it, Gus– you said it made your ears bleed, remember?".

"Ha: no, no, the other one… The Backstreet Boys one…?" Gus encourages.

"Oh – 'As Long as You Love Me!" Tavi launches into the chorus. "I don't care who you are /Where you're from /What you did /As long as you love me," she carols in her high, sweet voice.

"That's it," Gus weakly grins. "Well, you played and sang it so often, it's permanently etched in my head, Octavia Felice. You and Mum used to dance to it, and Dad and I would just shake our heads and pretend to wince… anyway, it was kind of our family anthem, you know? Let's strive to be kind to each other, and remember that family is what matters, OK?".

"OK, Gus Gus. I'm so sorry– you're the best parent ever, truly! I love you so much, and I love our home," Tavi fiercely declares, squeezing Gus tightly. "Especially now we have a beautiful new lounge– I mean, things aren't important, people are– but isn't it pretty, Gus? I helped Mr Blaise pick it out, you know," she brags. "He wanted to buy a cream one, the silly-billy. Can you even imagine the stains?! Mrs Green laughed fit to burst, I did too actually."

"Now, I was just throwing out some suggestions," Blaise defends his stylistic choices, rapidly switching the subject as Gus and Tavi share a pitying look. "I'd love to hear you sing the rest of that catchy song, Miss Octavia: and Gussie, you should dance with your sister, go on," he urges, blithely ignoring Gus's negatory frown over the top of Tavi's jittery head.

"You have to sing along, Mr Blaise – you too, Gus," Tavi drags her into the middle of the tiny room as Blaise helpfully moves the coffee table out of the way. He softly hums the tune, laughing and clapping as Gus and Tavi sing in unison and perform a couple of clunky yet adorable spins. Gus mugs a few cringing faces, but her broad grin conveys her happiness.

His own dopey smile speaks volumes. My glorious Gilmont girls… maybe they're not quite ready to move permanently into the Villa, but we're family now. His contented rumination is interrupted when Gus yanks him to his feet.

"Time for you to cut a rug, orsacchiotto," Gus holds one of his hands, Tavi the other. The trio manage a wildly uncoordinated, lively jig; Tavi rolls her eyes as Gus abandons all pretence of distaste for the song, belting out a verse so loudly that their upstairs neighbour hollers and raps on the thin floor.

Oh, Gussie – I'd merrily listen to you until the cows come home, tesoro. Blaise joins in the next chorus at the top of his lungs, hamming it up until the banging above becomes a staccato beat. They literally fall about guffawing.

With a heavy thwump, Gus piles on top of Blaise, devilment in her golden brown eyes.

"Stacks on!" Tavi shrills, perching her slight form atop her sister. "You're gonna get super squished, Mr Blaise!".

Well, I'm pretty sure my heart is already, poppet.

Friday, 04 April 2003: PM

Kreacher Apparates back into the main lounge room for what Harry irritably judges to be the sixth time in half an hour.

He forces himself not to snap as the geriatric elf redundantly states, "Mistress Pansy is late, Master Potter. Kreacher keeps dinner warming, but he wonders at her whereabouts."

"Look, she's probably just been delayed by a last minute customer at the boutique…" Harry doesn't miss Kreacher's meaningful glance at the ticking grandfather clock in the corner. It's now gone eight – and the shop closes at seven o'clock, at the latest. Where is she?

The sound of the Floo activating has never sounded so sweet. Harry rushes for the hearth, skidding to a stop as Pansy's salon manager steps out, holding a large box and a wearing a troubled expression.

"Auror Potter? You may not remember me, my name's Mayumi–"

"Yes, yes, you work with Pansy – is she alright?" Harry impatiently breaks into the brunette woman's hesitant introduction. "Sorry– I don't mean to be rude, I'm worried about her, Mayumi. And call me Harry, please."

"Uh– Harry – Pansy asked me to deliver this: it's your costume for the party tomorrow," Mayumi offers the rectangular box to Harry, but it is Kreacher who comes forward to take possession of it. "There's a note, too," she reaches into her coat pocket, handing over the single folded page (to an eager Harry, this time).

He nearly tears the parchment in his haste to read its message. Mayumi and Kreacher fall silent as he scans the text, shoulders slumping.

"Pansy sends her apologies for not joining us for dinner, Kreacher. She said she's busy – she's staying back at the boutique, to process a late stock delivery," he dully reveals. "She'll meet us directly at Malfoy Manor, tomorrow… I don't understand, she told me she wanted us to get ready together."

Mayumi anxiously discloses, "Harry, I already finished with all the new stock, before I left. I think… something happened earlier, when I was in the back room. I heard someone come into the boutique – an older woman? – and when she left, Pansy came to ask me to look after the front of the store. She seemed quite upset, but she pretended she was fine. I made her a cup of tea and took it in… she was just sitting at her desk, staring blankly out the window."

"Bloody hell– who came in, Mayumi? Did you hear anything of their conversation?" Harry presses, badly needing answers. He tries to corral his agitation as Mayumi bites her lip in concentration.

"I couldn't hear their actual discussion, but the tone was definitely tense – polite, but strained. Like Pansy knew her, but they weren't friendly… perhaps her name was… Wheatley? Beazley? No–"

"Weasley," Harry says with her. His visible shock is speedily replaced with cold anger. "Mayumi – was Pansy still in her office, when she sent you here?".

"Yes – she was shuffling papers on her desk, I don't think she had any intention of going home; she has a daybed in there, she sleeps there overnight sometimes, when we're really under the pump– oh!" a flustered Mayumi sidesteps as Harry rushes past her.

"I apologize, Mayumi: but I need the Floo first. Thanks for the deliveries – and for the information. Kreacher, I'll let you know how Pansy is as soon as I can. Don't wait up." He snatches a pinch of green powder, enunciates his destination, and Floos away.

The single lamp burning over Pansy's desk provides sufficient illumination to write in the opened journal Dr Rica gave her, although her quill and ink lies untouched beside it. Pansy has spent the last twenty minutes skimming through her earlier entries, growing increasingly pensive and miserable at every gushing, gooey mention of one Harry James Potter.

At least I finished my crying jag before I asked Mayumi to drop by Grimmauld Place, she consoles herself. Now I just have to figure out how to somehow extricate my fool self from Harry's life, without hurting his feelings overmuch… He might be a little upset, but better to make a clean break now, right? Don't start bawling again, your stick of concealer is already worn down to a sad nub, and the tissue box is almost empty.

She traces her shaky finger around the daft little heart doodle she'd drawn around Harry's name a few days before. How am I going to let him go?! Simply thinking about a Harry-less life makes me feel utterly desolate.

The Floo grates to life, making her jump. She hastily slams shut her journal, accidentally knocking it off the desk.

"Bugger! Mayumi, did you forget something– oh!" Pansy ceases groping for the dropped notebook as her startled eyes clash with Harry's thunderstorm-green gaze. He appears equal parts worried and cross as he makes a beeline for her.

"Hello, love. When were you going to tell me that Molly Weasley paid you a nasty little visit, Pansy?" he jumps straight to the point.

Pansy's brain kicks into overdrive, unfortunately stalling completely when she scrambles to concoct a workable response. "I– she– I didn't want–" she sputters, inwardly appalled at her pathetic lack of coherent speech.

Harry gestures jerkily. "You didn't want me to find out that Molly came here expressly to meddle in our relationship? What the hell did she say to you, Pansy?!". His terse voice and manner soften as she involuntarily cringes.

"Oh, cripes– I'm sorry, love," he kneels before her, his hands hovering just above her jiggling knees, the lamp's light glinting off his spectacles. "I'm not angry with you, sweetheart – I'm terribly upset about whatever Molly has said, to make you think you need to withdraw from me, from us. Please, tell me, Pansy. Please, sweetheart."

His impassioned earnestness spurs her into covering her face with her hands in a fruitless attempt to disguise her distressed sobs. Harry tenderly cups her trembling hands with his, drawing them away from her face as he stares intently into her tear-lashed jade eyes.

"It's going to be alright, love; come, sit with me." Pansy mutely follows as he helps her stand and leads them to her daybed, carelessly tossing aside the plump black cushion before sitting down and cradling her in his arms and lap. He stipples comforting little kisses all over her hair while she weeps.

"I'm being disgusting, snotting all over your nice woolly jumper, Harry," Pansy weakly comments, once her tears have eased. "My old etiquette coach would be horrified, if she could see me now."

"Good thing I can't even spell etiquette, let alone give a monkey's for it, then," Harry cheerily replies, smiling down as she emits a faint chortle. "Snot away, Kreacher loves a laundry challenge."

"He does not, Harry!" Pansy manages a proper smile. "He grumbled to me for ages about all the filthy stains you manage to inflict upon your poor Auror uniforms."

"Yeah, well, Kreacher loves a good gripe, too. He becomes positively depressed if he doesn't manage one strident whinge per day, at least. Are you ready to talk to me, my beautiful girl?". He blots the last of her tears by pulling his sleeve over his hand and applying the soft wool to her face.

"Thanks, Harry." Pansy strives for composure, momentarily closing her eyes as she considers how best to frame her unpleasant 'chat' with the Weasley matriarch. Shrugging, she decides to run with the bald truth, verbatim. I'll do my best to keep emotions out of my retelling; and at least this way, Harry can judge for himself what motivated Molly's visit.

"Well, I was putting away the clothes on the return rack, when Mrs Weasley walked in…"

Harry quietly listens without interruption, but Pansy can feel the tension thrumming through his hard body, as she comes to the end of her tale.

"… and after I replied, 'Good day', I went to ask Mayumi to cover the front of the shop – and I returned to my office. That's everything that was said, Harry." She fidgets slightly, not wanting to relate her wretched bout of hopeless crying after she'd holed up to lick her wounds.

"I'll come back to what Molly said to you – believe me, that will be thoroughly addressed – but when did you decide you were going to break up with me, for my own good?" Harry asks, hurt infused in every quiet word.

"I– I didn't want to break up with you– I– I just thought that perhaps a little space might be best… I don't want to drag you down into the muck with me, Harry," Pansy stammers. "I know I fucked up… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she gasps, trying to pull away.

Harry doesn't let her wiggle more than half an inch away, his calloused hands holding her firmly in position. "I'm not letting you go, Pansy, OK? We promised each other openness and honesty, remember? You just said you don't want to call it quits; well, neither do I. I know that this relationship caper isn't always easy for you… I struggle with it too, sweetheart. Everyone does – but by Merlin, Pansy, it's worth it – you're worth it.'

"You've brought so much joy to my life, in so many ways, and I'll fight tooth and nail before I let anyone come between us, love… my darling Pansy. My Pansy," he vehemently repeats. 'You're incredibly smart – can't you see I'm crazy about you?! Cuckoo as a corkscrew, nutty as a fruitcake, mad as a March hare; and blissfully so, love."

"Oh, Duckie– I feel the same way," Pansy chokes out, overwhelmed by his declaration. "You're so wonderful, I can't believe you want me… I'm not good enough for you, Harry."

"Bollocks and bullshit! You're bloody amazing, and I'm not worthy of you, I know that, but it isn't going to stop me from stubbornly being your utterly devoted boyfriend, Pansy. What's this nonsense about 'dragging me into the muck'? The only grubbiness I'm aware of is the mud being slung about by a meddlesome woman who should keep her rude nose well out of our business," he seethes.

"Harry, I really don't want to come between you and Molly– " a perturbed Pansy wrings her hands.

"You haven't done any such thing, Pansy; that's all on her. I'll deal with Molly's sticky beak antics tomorrow, you're my first priority," Harry severely affirms. "Until I speak with her, I can't say with any certainty why she decided to deliberately undermine our relationship, and cast thinly-veiled aspersions on your character and suitability as my chosen partner; but everything Molly said and implied is utter crap, love. Please don't waste another moment dwelling on her unkindness, OK?".

He waits for her mumbled assent before he continues.

"Right now, you're coming home with me, and you'll stoically endure Kreacher's fussing and tutting, and meekly eat the dinner he's kept warming for you, regardless of how desiccated it's likely to be; and then you'll docilely allow me to replace all the tears you cried tonight with my kisses, until you fall asleep in my arms, Pansy. Um, you know… if– if you want to," Harry diffidently ends his otherwise dominant speech. "Just please come home with me, darling?" he beseeches.

Mutely nodding, Pansy leans in to press her mouth to his, instilling the kiss with all the unchained, wild emotion that engulfs her for this extraordinary man. His lips soften beneath her tremulous ones, coaxing and nibbling as they both utter soft sighs of harmonious pleasure.

Slowly threading her fingers through his gloriously messy dark mop, Pansy whispers, "I'm your 'stubbornly devoted' girlfriend too, Harry. I swear to you, the next time anyone – or anything – tries to come between us, I'm not going to run, or hide. You're worth fighting for… we're worth fighting for," she amends.

"Always, Pansy. Let's go home, love."

Friday 04 April 2003: PM

Using the backs of her hands, Hermione dashes at the dumb tears dripping from her hot eyes as she wends her way through the main corridor of Malfoy Manor. I don't even know why I'm crying! I'm alright; Draco's made a full recovery; we're soon to celebrate Macdolas's birthday… pull yourself together, woman. Ugh, I hate being at the mercy of my hormones – I hope my period properly starts soon, and my regular logical persona kicks back in.

She continues silently berating herself as she moves from the mansion to the huge white marquee erected in the expansive back gardens. Narcissa had toured the massive temporary tent with them when they'd first arrived for Friday night dinner, pointing out the separate sections for dining, dancing, games, and the bathrooms.

"The Manor itself will be open to our guests, of course; but I thought it would be much more convenient to provide the necessary amenities in situ," Narcissa had explained. "The jumping castles will be inflated early tomorrow afternoon, unless the weather badly worsens. The nice young Muggle couple Jane hired were quite emphatic about the dangers of the castles potentially becoming untethered and blowing away if we experience extremely high winds – well, we couldn't exactly tell them that's not an issue for wizards and elves, could we?" she'd chuckled.

"Wait – you brought in Muggle contractors, Mother?" Draco had not managed to completely hide his incredulity.

Narcissa had planted her hands on her hips as she'd retorted, "Yes, Draco: and not for any ritual sacrifices, they were completely unharmed when they drove their truck back out the front gate, I assure you. Your father even managed to exchange a few basic pleasantries when he wandered out to inspect the castles, actually."

"He did?" it had been Hermione's turn to evince surprise. "Um– without being coerced? I mean, great! That's great," she'd lamely concluded, giggling behind her hand as she'd noted her initial shock mirrored on Draco's face.

The Malfoy matriarch had chosen to take the high road and ignored their dubiousness at Lucius's newfound affability; she'd merely daintily sniffed and turned on her heel to lead them back to the dining room.

Hermione now sighs as she contemplates the complicated music equipment Bernard Granger had strenuously argued be included in the party preparations. "I love you dearly, Dad – but you really need to put your dopey daydreams of becoming 'DJ BarnHouse MoshMaster' to rest," she grumbles to herself, as she begins attaching the multitude of cords and plugs to the portable generator and speakers. She pauses for a moment, sniggering at the mental image of ex-Lord Lucius Malfoy being mercilessly badgered into singing cringey karaoke. Oh, Lucy – it's so happening.

Fast footsteps interrupt her humorous reverie.

"Ma petite – are you alright?" Draco stands before her, carefully placing his arms on her shoulders to stare searchingly into her weary eyes. "I know you're not OK… I'm terribly worried about you, sweetheart. Will you tell me what's going on, please?" he implores, picking up her free left hand to cradle against his cheek.

"Don't you mean, why did I run off like a temperamental goat after hollering about my undying love for you at your father?" Hermione attempts to make light of her recent uncharacteristic actions. "Oh, Godric… I'm going to have to apologize to Lucy for being shrewish, aren't I? Ugh," she pulls an exaggeratedly reluctant face.

"Of course you don't have to apologize – and hearing you say those words… I love you so, Hermione. I'll never fully be able to express just how much – but please know how much it means to me, to know you feel the same." Draco tilts his head to kiss her palm, his smoky eyes trained on hers. "What's wrong, darling?".

Shuffling closer, Hermione opens her right hand to drop the cords to the floor. Her lips tremble as she slowly speaks. "I… I guess I'm kind of sinking a bit, Draco. I usually have so much energy, but I feel flat… and I can't stop running 'what ifs' through my head… What if Kvothe hadn't had a bezoar? What if I hadn't been able to tap into our soul bonded magic to keep you alive? What if– what if you'd–" she cannot continue, brokenly sobbing as he wraps her up in a comprehensive hug.

"Shhh, shhh… it's OK, mon coeur, mon âme," he breathes, tucking her head against his chest. "I'm so sorry, you've had a hellish week, I know. It's my fault, I'm sorry–"

"Draco! Are you truly apologizing for being poisoned?! Stop blaming yourself for being victimized, you lovable big lug," Hermione sniffle-growls, wondering why she's still astonished by the poor man's capacity for guilt and self-censure. "I'm sorry for causing a scene back there, and for riding an emotional seesaw… I'll be as good as new as soon as I get a good night's rest, I promise." And when my pestilent period finally condescends to call, she adds in her mind. Wild mood swings – get lost already!

Tipping down his face, Draco purses his lips. "I would feel infinitely more assured if you'd only agree to see a Healer – or perhaps not," he hastily backtracks as her soft regard instantly shifts to 'laser-like'.

"Or – bear with me – you abandon this hot mess for now," he nods to the tangled cables. "Come home with me and snuggle up to your favourite wizard in our comfy bed, while I read aloud to you until you fall asleep, hmmm? I'm willing to recite whichever smutty historical novel you're currently wallowing in, for the purposes of relaxation, of course," he grins.

Draco's expression sobers. "However, if you're still not feeling quite the thing tomorrow morning, you will see a medico and assuage my concerns. That's my final offer."

"Never said you were my favourite wizard," Hermione teases. "Joking! Don't pout, mon amour. Alright, let's go home. I'll text Dad, he can come early and sort out this crap tomorrow, I don't even care."

"Well, now I'm really worried," Draco teases. "Hermione Granger saying she's not interested in the finer points of optimized organization? You must be coming down with the dreaded nerd herd flu, ma petite."

"Up yours," Hermione laughs along. "Oh– but what about your sketch?".

"It can wait until the morning, I've not much more to do. I just have to fine-tune Macdolas's ridiculously besotted expression," he snickers.

"I know you're playing for laughs, you told me you loved him when he sliced off his toenail, remember? Too late to back-pedal now, Draco. We should pop in and say goodnight to your parents, before we leave. I hope they don't think I'm a total ditz…" She bites the inside of her cheek.

"Mother adores you, and Father advised me to go after you when you tore out – not that I needed any urging, but he did seem genuinely concerned," Draco divulges. "No one thinks you're anything but my genius, gorgeous, huge-hearted girlfriend, Hermione."

"I'll always be yours, Draco… and I'm starting to see that Lucy isn't quite the giant jerk I thought him to be," Hermione concedes. "Hurry up and take me home, my beautiful man."

"Hold tight please, sweetheart." Scooping her into his arms, Draco walks them out of the marquee and back to the Manor. He smiles down fondly as she makes a token protest.

"You don't have to carry me, Malfoy… but I love when you do." Much-needed calm and a pervasive sense of rightness washes over her as she relaxes in his sure, steady hold. Hermione can't help but rapturously gaze up at him. Her heart flexes and swells as she considers how lucky she is to be in his arms… in his life. Smack bang at the centre of his existence, in fact.

It has a been a tumultuous week… I should cut myself some slack and just breathe for a bit. There's no way I'm going to miss the benevolent, madcap chaos that Mac's party promises to deliver. Hermione momentarily closes her eyes, immensely reassured by the regular rhythm of Draco's generous heart.

Saturday 05 April 2003: AM

"Harry, I'll be late if you don't stop smooching me," Pansy lightly chides, winking at him as she defies her own directive to bestow another sweet, lingering kiss on his willing lips. She runs her hands up the front of his light blue button-up shirt, fiddling with the collar until the fold is perfectly even.

"Don't you look handsome, Duckie? I'm glad you kept your beard, you're going to look fantastic in your costume," she smiles.

Harry grins back, deeply relieved to note few traces of last night's misery on her vivacious face. "I just hope I won't look like a troll paired with a queen, love. You'll be the most beautiful woman at the party, hands-down," he decisively asserts. "No, don't shake your head, it's true, Pansy. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you this morning?.

"Thank you, but I'll be fine, Harry. I'm actually kind of looking forward to unburdening my soul to Dr Rica… I know– who am I, right?" Pansy chuckles. "And I do have to stop by the boutique, I left my own costume there; also, I should reassure Mayumi that I'm OK." She checks her wristwatch. "I'll be back here around noon, if that suits?".

"Absolutely, love. We'll have a light lunch: I reckon there'll be enough food at Mac's party to feed the British Navy," Harry replies.

Pansy nods, eyes bright. "Is it daft that I'm really excited about this celebration, Harry? I guess… no, I know a large part of it is that I'll be attending with my sexy, strong, awesome boyfriend… perhaps you've heard of him? He's kind of a Big Deal," she simpers, bursting into laughter as Harry blushes. "Gods, you're adorable, Harry."

Another lingering kiss, until she pushes away with a sigh. "I really have to go! See you soon, Duckie."

"Bye, love. Be safe." Harry watches as Pansy exits via the Floo, his waving hand dropping to his side as soon as she has disappeared. Snatching up and donning his coat, Harry prepares to step into the hearth himself, until a bony elfish hand lightly but firmly encircles his wrist.

"Kreacher insists upon accompanying Master Potter to The Burrow," the manservant gruffly intones. His grip strengthens when Harry attempts to shake him off.

"Resistance is futile; Kreacher invokes his right to defend Mistress Pansy's honour." Kreacher's black eyes burn with zealous fire as he engages Harry in a stare-off.

Blimey – I knew I should have kept my mouth shut last night… and did Kreacher just (inadvertently) quote 'Star Trek'? Harry groans as he remembers Kreacher's dogged persistence about being told what had upset Pansy, upon their return to Grimmauld Place; the elderly elf had eventually demanded Harry's presence in the kitchen, using the flimsy pretext of requiring assistance to find a pot holder, of all things.

Kreacher had blocked him from leaving until Harry had brusquely outlined Molly Weasley's spiteful call at the boutique. Harry had been more than a tad alarmed at the black cloud of fury that had rapidly transmogrified the manikin's wrinkled features; but Kreacher had merely nodded once and silently continued fixing Pansy's dinner plate.

Cripes, his fingers are like iron bands; his arthritis medication is certainly proving effective…! Harry gives up trying to peel off Kreacher's knobbly digits in favour of reasoning with the irate sprite.

"Kreacher, I know you care for Pansy, but I've got this under control, alright? How did you even know I was headed to see Molly, you wily wesen?" he grumbles.

"Master Potter displays his every waking thought upon his face; Kreacher reads him like a penny dreadful. We now depart," Kreacher yanks him into the Floo.

"Wait, wait– what about Boadie?" Harry plays his last, desperate card. "I thought you didn't like leaving her alone?".

"Little Boadie yet sleeps comfortably in Master Potter and Mistress Pansy's bed," Kreacher easily dismisses the feeble objection. He crimps a portion of Floo powder into his free hand. "To The Burrow!".

Kreacher doesn't release Harry until they are both standing in The Burrow's cosy living room. Arthur Weasley pokes his head over the newspaper, jumping to his feet as he exclaims, "Harry! And Kreacher! Hullo – were we expecting you?".

Harry rubs at his wrist before accepting Arthur's enthusiastic handshake. "Hi, Arthur; no, this is an unscheduled visit. Is Molly home? I need to speak with her, please." His subdued, stoic tone is enough to make Arthur's genial smile fade into an uneasy frown.

"Yes, she's just popped upstairs to collect her knitting, she'll be back in a jiffy. Is something the matter, Harry?".

"There is, yes. I'll wait until Molly returns to begin, if you don't mind." Harry endeavours to keep his voice steady and calm, though his renewed anger is already simmering.

"Of course. Here, have a seat," Arthur picks up his wand to move the homey clutter of overstuffed cushions, newspapers, Muggle 'artefacts' and craft work off the mismatched furniture, zooming the items into large wicker baskets and onto side tables.

"I'd rather stand, thanks. We won't stay long."

"That bad, eh?" Arthur jests, realizing the truth of his remark as Kreacher grimly glowers and Harry remains silent. The tall, redheaded wizard walks to the stairs to call, "Molly, would you come down, please? We have guests."

A beat passes, before Molly shouts back, "Coming, dear! Put on the kettle, please, Arthur – and there are some fresh jam drops in the tin atop the pantry, I hid them from Ron."

"Ron's here?" Harry sharply interjects, his stomach flipping. Bugger – another fly in the ointment. Not that he's a pest… but I had a clear idea of how this confrontation was going to proceed, and that's already been demolished, thanks to my bullying house elf. Screw it, I'll wing the rest.

"No, but we're expecting him later," Arthur replies. "I'll just get the tea started; excuse me." He ambles into the kitchen at an atypically swift pace, patently relieved to escape the rising tension in the room.

Harry steels himself to not explode as he hears the clack of footsteps descending the main staircase. Molly Weasley pops into view, a bundle of yarn securely tucked under one arm. The warm smile on her face doesn't match the apprehension in her wood-brown eyes as she discovers the identity of her visitors.

"Harry! What a lovely surprise, dear. You brought along Kreacher, too," she greets, with a touch of asperity. "Why are you still standing? I would have thought Arthur has better manners than to not offer you a chair."

"He offered, and we declined, thank you." Harry decides he's had enough of social niceties. "You must know why we're here, Molly."

The knitting accoutrements fall to the floor as Molly flaps her hands in an irritable gesture. "Well, no, Harry; I don't know what Miss Parkinson's told you, but I can assure you–"

"Pansy. Her name is Pansy, Molly. Please enlighten me as to why you thought you had to pay my lovely girlfriend a visit at her shop, then proceed to disparage her successful career, question her commitment to our relationship, and subtly imply that her 'reputation' makes her an unfit choice as my partner?" Harry grits out, his angry eyes noting every shift in Molly's mien. Defiance, sullenness, righteousness… followed by a distinct, bitchy snobbishness.

"Molly – you didn't interfere, did you? You did," Arthur Weasley stands in the doorway, unhappy reproof suffusing his freckled face. "I wondered at your sudden interest in high fashion… and why you seemed oddly manic when you caught up with me last night. You shouldn't have meddled, you know." He wearily rubs at his furrowed forehead, gazing sorrowfully at his spouse.

"Don't you lecture me, Arthur Weasley! I was simply looking out for our boy – I've every right to question the suitability of a witch like that," Molly bristles. "Harry deserves a good girl, someone he can be proud of, not– "

"Think very, very carefully about choosing your next words, Molly. How dare you – how bloody dare you! 'A witch like that' – like what? A witch who is smart, loyal, hard-working, kind-hearted and beautiful? Or do you mean a witch who enjoys her sexuality and doesn't hide behind society's usual hypocritical double-standards on the matter? Why is it I've never heard you say a judgemental word about Ron's wide variety of sexual partners, yet Pansy's past is apparently fair game?". Though he hasn't raised his voice above a snarl, Harry's coldly incandescent rage is easily conveyed.

"Harry– dear, I was only looking out for you, you don't know what some of these witches are like…" Molly wrings her hands.

"Molly, I'm an adult man, and I've had a few one-night stands – does that mean I'm somehow less worthy? No? How can you not see how unfair you're being? You've no idea how much Pansy has suffered, how much sheer horror she's managed to overcome – but still, you waltzed in, used your snide words to slip a metaphorical stiletto between her ribs, and justified the whole sly production by claiming you were doing it for my own good." Breathing harshly, Harry stifles his qualms at witnessing Molly's copious tears.

"I'll forever be grateful for all your love and support, and for your generosity in opening your home and your heart to me… you've been a wonderful surrogate parent, during some of the worst times of my life – but you're not my mother, Molly. And even if you were, you still had no right to sabotage my relationship with Pansy, nor to damage her fragile self-esteem."

"I'm sorry, I never meant– "

"You're apologizing to the wrong person, OK? You brought poor Pansy so low, she was convinced she had to break up with me… but your mean little scheme backfired, because we're stronger than ever. I know you desperately wanted me and Ginny to get married and have a passel of kids and live happily ever after – but we didn't work out, and we're both happier for moving on with our lives. Your constant push for us to stay together didn't help in the slightest. Honestly, I think you need to have a good, hard look at why you seem to have such an ingrained problem with other witches." Harry crosses his arms, waiting for Molly's predictable denial.

"How can you say that, Harry?! I'm a staunch feminist – I've supported Ginny in whatever she chooses to do, and raised her to be her own woman!" she indignantly retorts. "I do not have a 'problem' with other witches!".

"No – as long as they fit into your narrow, rigid standards of femininity and 'appropriate' behaviour. What about the horrid way you snubbed Hermione, when Rita Skeeter was writing scurrilous trash about us, during the Triwizard Tournament? And your downright vile behaviour towards Fleur when she and Bill became a couple? As far as I know, you've not apologized to either of them, Molly."

"I've– I've made some mistakes, but we've all moved on," Molly blusters. "How can you be so cruel, Harry? You may as well have slapped me in the face today, truly."

Gentling his tone, Harry steps forward to grasp Molly's quivering hands. "I'm not trying to be hurtful – but I won't tolerate you meddling in my life ever again. If you can't bring yourself to treat Pansy with sincere respect and cordiality, you won't be welcome in our future. I'm going to marry that wonderful witch, and raise our children with her; we're already a family, and I'll fight to keep it that way. Yes– she means that much to me. Please… think on what I've said, Molly." He lets go, wiping at his moist eyes.

Kreacher judges it is time to state his opinion. His low, intense, sibilant voice immediately transfixes his audience.

"Mistress Weasley, Kreacher supports all Master Potter has said, and adds this: Mistress Pansy is the shining epitome of a 'good witch', and she be Master Potter's true mate. Kreacher will not countenance any slurs against Mistress Pansy's honourable character, and warns one and all they shall face his merciless wrath, should they ever dare to contrive to hurt her again."

"Are you… threatening me, Kreacher?" an incredulous Molly asks.

"Verily, Mistress Molly Weasley. Kreacher always protects his family, by any means necessary." The elf's fiery eyes glow with enough heat to ignite a bonfire as he glares at her.

Molly opens her mouth, shuts it, opens it again… ultimately making the wise decision to keep it closed. Everyone bar Kreacher flinches as the kettle begins to insistently shrill from the kitchen.

Harry prudently shoves Kreacher behind him before the situation deteriorates any further. "Right– well, we'd best away. Goodbye Arthur, Molly." In an ironic reversal of their entry, Harry holds Kreacher's angular wrist as he hustles back into the Floo and spirits them home.

"You are welcome, Master Potter: Kreacher has assured that Mistress Weasley will not entertain any further schemes to oust Mistress Pansy," he complacently announces. "Kreacher would fain repeat his warning to any other fool antagonist, should Master Potter require?".

"No! No more dire threats, please – we're lucky Arthur didn't rightly object to you menacing his wife, and blast us both, you ruthless elf." Harry rolls his eyes as Kreacher preens. "That wasn't a compliment."

"Rest assured Kreacher accepts it as one, Master Potter."

Geordie translations:

Get your blaa, lad – get your breath, boy

codding – kidding

dowie – depressed

took a keek – took a look

Aa'll skedaddle hame; come for scran in aboot an hour – I'll head home; come for dinner in about an hour.

The quoted lyrics are from 'As Long as You Love Me' by The Backstreet Boys, written by Max Martin.