A/N:

Many thanks and credit to Little Avocado for her idea for Blaise and Tavi to make breakfast for Gus. Hope you like it.

And as always, thank you all very much for reading and reviewing.
đź’“ đź’“ VJ

p.s. Chapter 100 will be the final instalment.

Chapter 97

Sunday 06 April 2003: AM

Gus secures the long sash of the luxurious sapphire-blue velvet robe around her waist before following the mouth-watering smells downstairs, feeling uncharacteristically regal as she descends the sweeping central staircase.

It's just as well I'm able to follow my nose to the kitchen… this place is humongous. She turns left at the bottom of the stairs, progressing down a long, wide hallway. Gus smiles at the sound of childish giggles and a deep masculine rumble, interspersed with an occasional word from Mrs Green and Gelsy.

Turning the last corner, Gus stills as she absorbs the charmingly domestic picture before her. Having expected a luxurious (leaning toward chilly) grandeur, she is surprised instead to note the stupendously large kitchen is tiled in a warm terracotta, with white-plastered walls and honey-hued cabinetry that matches the central island and wooden dining table set.

The overall décor is rustic, rather than palatial. Fresh potted herbs and cookbooks line the shelves, as well as beautiful Italian tin-glazed pottery in the form of plates, bowls, urns and vases. Gus recognizes the maoilica style, marvelling at the gorgeous golden yellow, blue, and green designs on white enamel backgrounds.

And from the looks of it, they're casually using most of it for everyday china ware… Heavens.

"Gus Gus!" Tavi is the first to notice her arrival. Blaise reaches out to steady the little girl as she slides off the stool positioned beside the multi-burner stovetop. Tavi flashes him a grateful smile before bounding over to her sister.

Greeting a genial "Good morning," to Gelsy and Mrs Green, Gus crouches to accept Tavi's energetic embrace.

"I'm teaching Mr Blaise how to make you blueberry pancakes for breakfast – the Muggle way – and he only burned the first five or six," Tavi proudly points to a still-smoking side plate and its charred offerings. "I showed him how to crack an egg without smashing it to smithereens, too."

Gus coughs to cover her chuckle, both at Tavi's qualified praise and the massive pile of pancakes Blaise is excitably hovering over; clearly Blaise's usual exuberance and penchant for excess extends to his newfound cooking abilities.

The tall wizard (currently wearing a small cream apron that reads, 'O mangi questa minestra o salti la finestra') clucks in mock-disapproval at her laughter, planting his large hands on his hips and sadly shaking his head.

"Now, Gussie, is that kind?" Blaise grins. "Making fun of your poor boyfriend's earnest attempts to broaden his life skills – how rude."

From her seat beside Nella at the table, Gelsy pipes up, "Gelsomina often offers Master Blaise lessons in the culinary arts; but he declines, until this momentous day. Mistress Augusta should visit more often."

"Indeed, she should," Blaise immediately agrees, his naughty, slow smile hinting at their shared memories of how his offer to 'tuck her in' after the party last night had turned into an extremely heated heavy petting session. Gus cringes a little as she remembers thoroughly losing her head in the throes of passion; only Blaise's insistence that they wait until they have complete privacy had stopped them from fully consummating their sexual relationship.

Desperate for a distraction from her torrid memories – and from her sexy suitor's sinful smirk – Gus side-hugs her little sister and addresses Gelsy, "Is that your apron Blaise has borrowed? What does it say, Gelsy?".

"'Either eat this soup or jump out the window'," Gelsy drolly replies. "Master Blaise was a fussy little boy; but he quickly learned that which he refused to eat for one meal would be served up for the second. And third, and fourth…" the maidservant joins in their mirth. "Gelsomina knows hunger will always win out, sì?".

"Hey, is this Pick On Blaise Day?" he groans, though his lips are still quirked upward and his eyes shine with happiness. "I'm going to manfully ignore your cruel barbs, because I know these freakishly fabulous pancakes (that the lovely Miss Octavia helped me to prepare) will silence all my cruel critics. Please be seated, Gussie; my accomplished sous chef will bring you cutlery, a dollop of crème fraiche, and a scattering of extra blueberries."

He winks at Tavi, who all but shoves Gus into a chair before importantly bustling about to follow Blaise's directives.

"I told Mr Blaise we usually just have yoghurt or whipped cream on ours, but he really wants to impress you," Tavi whispers in Gus's ear as she lays a napkin across her lap. "So even if yours is a bit yucky, please don't say so, Gus."

Nodding in agreement, Gus watches as Blaise painstakingly selects and stacks three pancakes with exquisite care, handing off the plate to Tavi to spoon on the crème fraiche and distribute the fresh berries. She slides it before Gus with a flourish worthy of a seasoned restauranteur.

"Buon appetito! Gelsy taught me that, Gus; it means, 'Enjoy your meal'," Tavi solemnly imparts. "Gelsy says I'll be bilingual – no, trilingual, 'cos I can speak Geordie, too – in no time."

Bringing over his own plate for Tavi to garnish, Blaise slides into the chair beside her, fidgeting while he waits for Gus to finish swallowing her first bite.

"Well? Do you like it, cara? Is it edible? Not that it's going to make you sick– Tavi measured out all the ingredients and told me exactly what to do, and I didn't drop any eggshell in the batter, I promise–"

"It's delicious, Blaisey. Absolutely perfect," Gus assures, immeasurably touched by his anxiousness. Laying down her fork, she cups his chin and leans in to drop a tender kiss on his warm lips. "Thank you, orsacchiotto."

"Aww," their female audience approvingly sighs in the background. Blaise pays them no heed.

"Thank you, tesoro," he murmurs against her mouth. "For taking a chance on me… on us. And on my very first blueberry pancakes," he chuckles, lightening the mood. "I'm a pretty decent cook, if I do say so myself."

"Humble as ever, Zabini. Just wait until you've tasted my 'Sunday Surplus' omelette, big boy," Gus teases. "You'll be surprised at the extensive versatility of eggs, that's for sure."

"I can't wait," Blaise lays down his knife to rest his hand upon her right knee, gently squeezing.

Even through the layers of clothing, his fond touch makes Gus's skin pleasurably prickle. She reminds herself that pouncing on her gorgeous boyfriend at the breakfast table isn't a smart idea – well, not in front of these spectators. Speaking of which…

"Hey, I was wondering if you would all like to check out a cool new Ministry of Magic-designed park that Harry told us about, just outside London? It's not huge, but there are plenty of nice walking tracks, plus an expansive grassy common, and even a small lake. It's still being finished, but Harry said it's already open, to anyone Wizardly or fey, and their families." Gus helps herself to coffee, looking around in puzzlement as the others swap odd looks. "Did I miss something here?".

Mrs Green smiles. "Haad on, lassie; young Blaise and our bairn be planning summat else, unbeknaan to us til this morning, ye ken."

Conspiring rascals. Gus turns to scrutinize Tavi, but Blaise rushes to explain before she has a chance to quiz the jittery little girl.

"Ah, mia bella Gussie… it so happens that – pertaining to our discussion at dinner last night – Tavi and I thought that today would be a perfect opportunity to visit an animal rescue shelter and perhaps permanently liberate one of the residents… depending upon your approval, of course." He dials up the charm until his winsome smile almost stretches to his nicely-shaped ears.

"Gels and Nells plan to drop some coin at a craft shop in Diagon Alley, you needn't worry they'll feel left out. What do you say, cara?" he wheedles. "I know how keen you are to give back to the community, my generous girlfriend."

Soooo subtle. Gus tries to prim her lips in a forbidding fashion, but a resigned chuckle manages to escape. "Alright – but we're only looking, OK? No need to rush in and adopt the first one we see. Remember you're claiming you need a guard dog, too."

"Absolutely. You won't regret this, Gussie – I promise."

Gus eyes the… creature before her with unmasked dubiousness. "You're sure – as in, one hundred percent, no backsies, with wholly committed certainty – that this is the one you want, Blaise? And that it's… actually a dog?" she razzes, startled when the mutt appears to roll its intelligent eyes at her before doggishly grinning.

Tavi impatiently clicks her tongue, stooping to clip the leash to the animal's body harness. "Gus, don't be silly – you know he's a dog! A very, very good, extra special doggie," she croons, kneeling to hug the hairy critter and receiving some sloppy cheek kisses in return.

Blaise laughs at Gus's quick, squeamish move to wipe off the slobber from Tavi's beaming face with a tissue.

"Don't worry, Gussie, this little fella is perfect; all we need to do now is name him. Miss Octavia, what do you think? Any ideas in that cluey little head of yours?".

I'd best not say what I think: i.e., that he looks like an uneasy cross between a spider monkey and a Puffskein. But he is sweet, and he's already devoted to Tavi… trust my big-hearted little sis to ask which dog has been here the longest, and to make a beeline for him.

Seeing his missing left paw (a birth defect, according to the attendant) and the canine's unselfconscious limping gait had sealed the deal; Gus had all but glimpsed tiny pink hearts zooming around Tavi's head as she'd gazed adoringly at the funny little mongrel.

"We think he's a cross between an Affenpinscher and a Griffon Bruxellois, with a perhaps a bit of Maltese and Yorkie thrown in there somewhere," the quiet young woman had explained. "They're known as 'Affengriffons', and their low-shedding coats are usually hypoallergenic. Please don't be put off by his crazy-looking fur, it's actually quite silky and soft, and he doesn't need much grooming. He loves being brushed though, the sweet little guy." She'd raked her fingers through his neck ruff as the dog had closed his wood-brown eyes in ecstasy.

Now, Tavi replies immediately to Blaise's query; clearly, she's already given it much thought.

"Can we please call him 'Gryff', Mr Blaise? Short for Gryffindor, and because he's part Griffon, get it? If that's OK with you, of course," she checks, holding her breath until Blaise cheerily agrees and high-fives her much smaller hand.

"Gryff it is– that's brilliant, Kiddo! Come along, Gussie; we need to stock up on healthy dog food before we go home," he wraps his arm around her waist and busses a kiss onto her ear, before moving to hold open the door for them. Gus reaches for his hand, keeping their fingers twined as they step onto the pavement.

"Yep, and a proper collar, and a brush, and toys, and a bed – and maybe a jacket? I don't want Gryff to get cold at night," Tavi fusses, bending to pick up the mutt and awkwardly (but lovingly) cradle him in her arms like an infant.

"Tavi, please put him back on the ground, you know he can walk just fine," Gus firmly advises. "He doesn't need a jacket, he's got enough fur for Mrs Green to spin the excess as yarn and knit you one, if you wanted." She tries not to be captivated by the way the little dog's dark eyes look at Tavi with absolute trust, his pink tongue lolling in another happy grin.

Well, perhaps his ambiguous looks might come in handy if Tavi asks for Gryff to visit her once she starts at Hogwarts – he could pass for an ugly cat familiar, if necessary, Gus smiles to herself. Blaise is such a softie… and so much for getting a sentinel, Gryff looks more likely to lick someone to death than bite a burglar. Since when do rich wizards worry about home security, anyway? Pfft.

Even knowing she's been snowed by the cheeky pair, Gus isn't genuinely annoyed. Tavi is radiating happiness, skipping along with the dog (occasionally stopping to pat his black, grey, and dark brown dappled coat, and commend Gryff's good behaviour) as they walk away from the rescue shelter. Though the little girl usually has a sunny disposition, some of the anxieties that have regularly plagued her since their parents' deaths seem to have lifted; and Gus is certain that Blaise's exuberantly caring and committed influence has helped to make Tavi feel more confident, and supported.

We've loads to thank him for, already… and yet Blaise seems to think we've brought so much to his life, and never credits how much he's changed ours– and most definitely for the better. Gus uses her peripheral vision to watch him, absorbing his genuine love for life, and his indisputable joy in their company.

Drawing his hand up to her lips, Gus presses a soft kiss to his knuckles, enjoying his thrilled expression at her tender gesture.

"What was that for?" he whispers as they wait for the lights at the next pelican crossing.

Because you're my dream come true, Gus wants to reply, before her shyness gets the better of her.

Instead, she casually shrugs. "Just because. Can't a witch kiss her wizard every now and then?".

"Gussie, I hereby grant you carte blanche to kiss me whenever and wherever you like – as Miss Octavia and Mr Gryff are my witnesses!" Blaise dramatically booms, lifting her in his arms and spinning her around the slim metal pole. Tavi and Gryff squeal and yip respectively, as Gus breathlessly giggles and admonishes him to put her down before her blueberry pancakes make an unwanted reappearance.

He does have a substantial ego; but his heart is even bigger. Nella was right… he's family now... Our Blaisey.

Sunday 06 April 2003: PM

Lazily waving her wand, Hermione cheerily hums as she summons another book from the towering pile atop the low sideboard in the townhouse's loungeroom. During their late breakfast at the Manor, Narcissa had insisted that every single tome she'd recently unearthed about soul-bonded magic return home with Hermione and Draco.

"I think you may find the information contained within quite… instrumental," the Malfoy matriarch had asserted, her sapphire-blue eyes glinting as though she'd been enjoying a private joke.

Musing on it now, Hermione worries at her lower lip with her top teeth. Mum and Narcissa kept looking meaningfully over at me last night, come to think of it… as though they knew something I didn't. Actually, so did the rest of the girls… are they in cahoots in some kind of plot, perhaps?

She dismisses the idea with a short laugh. Pfft, talk about being paranoid! For a moment there I thought they might be scheming to hold an intervention – but there's no basis for that. Unless they've somehow decided that I'm overly addicted to chocolate. Ha.

Languidly wiggling her socked toes beneath the turquoise cashmere throw rug, Hermione carefully places the fragile old book onto the coffee table before she sinks a little deeper into the pewter-blue couch, eyelids drooping. She is on the verge of succumbing to an early afternoon nap when the Floo grumbles, disgorging Macdolas and Ruibby.

Sitting upright again, Hermione brightly smiles at the couple. "Hallo! We didn't expect to see you until it's time to return to Hogwarts this evening… is Beathas settling into the Manor OK?" she checks.

"Macdolas's Maw has pronounced herself most comfortable and content with her spacious quarters and new role – and already has sent away Kevyn with a flea in his ear," Macdolas grins rather wickedly. "Kevyn dare not interrupt Maw mid-sentence ever again, Macdolas predicts."

Evidently, both elves are still on a high from last night's fun-filled celebration; they are brimming with fervid energy as they approach the couch, sharing custody of a large, cloth-covered basket.

"Have you brought over some leftovers from the party?" Hermione perks up immediately. "Great – we haven't eaten lunch yet, I was waiting for Draco to come down from his studio."

Ruibby shakes her blonde head. "Nay, Your Grace Lady Granger; MacRu bring Your Grace specially prepared foodstuffs, appropriate to the estimated stage of her delicate condition."

Whipping back the clean tea towel, Macdolas lists the contents of the basket as he lays each item upon the table. "Kale and banana smoothie, made with fortified yoghurt; pumpkin and chickpea salad; chicken, sweetcorn, and noodle soup; and raspberry and coconut loaf. Macdolas considers making Mediterranean garlic and herb crusted roasted sardines, but his cleverest Ruibby suggests the strong piscine aroma may not appeal to Your Grace's currently extra-sensitive nose." He nods importantly before linking hands with Ruibby again.

"Huh?" Hermione blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of what she's just heard, her puzzled gaze flicking between the excited pair. 'Delicate condition'? 'Extra-sensitive nose'? Did I miss something due to being distracted by the delicious scents of the food? What in the name of Godric are they on about?

"Darlingest Macdolas, Her Grace requires crockery and cutlery in order to partake," Ruibby prompts, mistakenly assuming that is the reason for Hermione's continued muteness.

"Of course: Macdolas rectifies his oversight immediately!" He pops in and out of the lounge with startling speed, laying down silverware and plates before Hermione has done more than part her lips to speak.

"Um, guys? I greatly appreciate you bringing me this lovely food; but I'm afraid I don't understand why you think I need extra attention… I mean, I've not yet started my period proper, so my cramps haven't even kicked in."

Hermione's brows knit as Mac and Ruibby exchange a bemused look. "I'm flattered that you've remembered my menstrual cycle, but you really didn't have to go to all this trouble," she adds.

The silence that follows seems to thicken by the second. Finally, Ruibby firmly nods to Macdolas before daintily lifting and patting Hermione's right hand.

"Your Grace… is it yet a secret from Master Malfoy? Perhaps Your Grace wishes to wait until the initial risk period has elapsed?" the elf covertly murmurs, significantly tilting her head toward the ceiling.

"'Risk period'?" Hermione echoes, still baffled. "I'm not sure wherein lies the risk… it's a natural biological process, Ruibby."

Macdolas scratches his long nose. "Yes-s-s… indeed, pregnancy is an organic, regular occurrence– but never commonplace, Your Grace! Never would MacRu consider the impending birth of the first Granger-Malfoy offspring anything but a marvellous miracle! An immeasurable joy! A prodigious phenomenon! An unquantifiable blessing and boon! An unparalleled manna from heaven!…"

Hermione reels back against the plump cushions as though she's been struck in the face with a wet fish, Macdolas's continuing verbose expressions of celebratory delight fading to a dull buzz. Ruibby's grip on her hand tightens, concern wreathing across her little face.

Pregnant? PREGNANT?! Me? Baby? BABY?!

"St-Stop– Mac, stop," she croaks. "I'm not– I can't be– I'm about to get my period…"

"Mon cher Macdolas, please hush: Her Grace Lady Granger does not know," an astounded Ruibby announces. "Do call down Master Malfoy, quick sticks."

Hermione makes a chopping motion as she squawks in a panic, "No! Leave Draco be for the time being– please," she tacks on, trying to calm her involuntary shrillness. Deep breaths, deep breaths… and think. Think hard.

Once she feels sufficiently composed, she slowly asks, "Ruibby, would you please explain to me why you believe me to be… pregnant? I'm rather– discombobulated."

Scooching onto the sofa beside her, Ruibby's lovely violet eyes widen in sympathy.

"Poor dear Grace Lady Granger; Ruibby does her best to convey MacRu's certainty that Your Grace has been 'stung by a serpent'," she soothes, prudently ignoring Hermione's hysterical guffaw at the old-fashioned idiom.

Well, at least she didn't say I have a 'bat in the cave' – or that I'm 'harbouring a fugitive'. Small mercies.

Ticking off each item on her long, limber fingers, Ruibby begins. Macdolas nods sagely at each confidently stated point.

"Late menses; excessive fatigue; smell sensitivity; disparate mood swings; breast fullness; tummy bloating; and an increased appetite, Your Grace. MacRu also note an especial glow surrounding their beloved Brightest Witch… all of which Mother Beathas confirms when she Consults the Bones after meeting Your Grace at the party last night," Ruibby smugly concludes.

"Maw has the Sight," Macdolas proudly reveals. "Hence why Macdolas and Ruibby prepare today's gestational feast: Your Grace Lady Granger should be increasing her intake of folic acid, protein, calcium, iron, Vitamin C, potassium, and omega-three fatty acids," he seamlessly recites. "Plus the other recommended essential nutrients; Macdolas happily lists all thirty-three for Your Grace–"

"Not now, please," Hermione faintly demurs, slumping as her mind whirls. Any appetite she possessed for the delectable foods arrayed before her has completely dwindled. She is dimly aware of the two elves peering closely at her ashen face and concernedly muttering to each other, but her mind is stuck on an endless loop.

Baby. Baby. Baby… BABY…

"I'm going for a walk," she abruptly announces, leaping to her feet before flumping back down again to yank on her discarded trainers. Bouncing back up, she snaffles her wand and shoves it into the pocket of her comfy navy tracksuit pants.

"But– Your Grace is upset; she should not be alone," Ruibby frets, wringing her nubby hands. "Master Malfoy–".

"I'll be fine… I just need some fresh air," Hermione babbles, swinging back to petition, "Not a peep about any of your– theories– to Draco, alright? Your word, please," she tries to soften her harsh tone as their eyes boggle. "If he comes downstairs, please tell him I'll be back within the hour. I won't go far, and I've got my wand, OK?".

Eventually, the elfish couple reluctantly nod their agreement. Hermione nearly dissolves into tears when Ruibby carefully hugs her shaky legs.

"Please be safe, Dearest Grace Lady Granger! Ruibby and Macdolas never mean to distress Your Grace."

"You didn't, I'm fine, truly– it's all a misunderstanding, I'm sure– bye," Hermione skitters out of the room, blindly grabbing the closest coat hanging from the hallway rack before she charges through the front door in a jerky blur. Her eyes burn with the effort not to cry.

Just a silly mix-up – of course it is! I'm not pregnant…

Ridiculous.

Hermione concentrates on the slapping sound of her shoes on the smooth pavement, ticking off each step as though she will later be tested on the exact number… anything to keep her from addressing MacRu's imperturbable claims. Her breakneck pace slows only after she nearly barrels into a young man exiting the corner store.

Mumbling an apology, she moves to the side and takes stock of her surrounds, her stomach briefly lurching as she spots The Wonky Donkey on the far diagonal. No – it's OK. There's nothing to fear from the pub itself, and the men who tried to prey upon me are behind bars.

Still, she feels relief once she reaches the next block, making for the picturesque park she'd previously glimpsed on their trips to Death by Decaf. Once there, she chooses a seat on a shaded bench, not realizing it overlooks the compact children's playground until she hears jolly, high-pitched laughter.

I guess the universe is going to force me to take a good hard look at my situation whether I'm ready or not, huh? Buck up, witch. Hermione closes her eyes again, fingers idly buttoning the warm woollen cardigan she'd snatched in her precipitate exit… Draco's shawl-collared blue one, as it happens. Sniffing at his uniquely magnificent scent instantly calms her; she slowly relaxes against the back of the slatted wooden bench.

Before she attempts to sort through her tangled thoughts and emotions, she reminds herself of some of Dr Rica's sound coping strategies. Focused, deep breaths. Progressive muscle relaxation. Centre yourself in the moment. Count backward in threes from one hundred.

She has worked her way down to 'sixty-one' when a kindly voice interrupts.

"Care for a butterscotch, miss? You look like you might need a little sugar." The older woman on the next bench over reaches out, gently shaking the open red-and-white striped bag of lollies. "Go on, I've plenty. They're all individually wrapped, if you're worried about taking candy from a stranger," she smiles, nudging the packet a little nearer.

Beginning to politely shake her head, Hermione surprises herself by plucking a golden sweet from the bag, untwisting the wrapper as she offers quiet thanks. Popping it in her mouth, she savours the moment when the rich, creamy lolly starts to melt on her tongue, emitting an appreciative hum.

"Good, aren't they?" the lady comments, selecting another for herself. "Don't worry, I'm not about to press you into an awkward conversation born of geriatric loneliness, dear." She cocks her head in amusement as Hermione blushes at having her thoughts so easily read. "I need to be starting home soon, in any case."

"I wasn't– I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. I've just had… a bit of a shock," Hermione divulges. "Sometimes, I struggle… coping with change. Unexpected change, especially," she sighs, her gaze shifting to the children vigorously crawling over a rope climbing net, whirling on a low spinner and rocking on the swing set. A baby… but we've been careful, I know we have…

"Life tends to push you in the back to send you sprawling when you least it expect it, doesn't it? If you wish to get something off your chest, often a stranger's the best person to tell," the other woman invites. "If you want to, dear."

"I might be p-pregnant," Hermione blurts. "I don't know yet– I don't think I am– but what if it's true? I'm… I'm scared, I didn't plan for it. Not right now, anyway." She gulps as hysteria threatens once more.

"Well, that's understandable. May I ask if you're on your own? No judgement, dear. All I'll say is that this is a time when you do need family and friends – or a family of friends, whatever form that takes."

"No, I'm not alone; quite the opposite," Hermione admits, her panic subsiding as she thinks of how blessed she truly is. Reconnecting with Draco – loving Draco, being loved in return – has broadened her circle in ways she hasn't given enough credence, or respect.

Swivelling to face the sympathetic stranger, she says, "Thank you – you're absolutely right, I'm extremely lucky to have family and friends – and the most wonderful boyfriend in the world. I lost my head for a moment… I'm guilty of letting my worry take over my reason," she ruefully confesses. "I'm sorry to burden you with my foolishness."

"Not at all; I'm glad to have provided a willing ear, and a few sweets. Here, take another before you go," the lady drops a couple more in Hermione's palm as the younger woman stands. "I'm here most Sunday afternoons, if you're ever in need of some more trite life advice," she smiles.

"No– you've been very kind and helpful," Hermione adamantly argues. "I'm Hermione, by the way."

"I'm Margaret, but my friends call me Meg. Pleased to meet you," Meg briskly shakes her hand. "You're welcome, Hermione. Good luck, dear."

Waving goodbye, Hermione sets off on her return journey to the townhouse with a much lighter heart.

I do need to sit down and have an in-depth talk with someone about all this… and I know exactly who to ask.

Jogging down the last staircase, Draco chides himself for not paying closer attention to the passing of time. I hope Hermione didn't wait for me to have her lunch, else she'd be starving by now.

Entering the lounge room, his easy grin fades as he encounters two furiously whispering house elves arguing by the coffee table.

"MacRu promise Her Grace! Macdolas keeps his lips zipped!" Ruibby growls.

"But Master–" Macdolas's rapidly expressive shift from grumpy to alarmed would be comical if Draco weren't alert to the peculiar mood pervading the room.

"'But Master' –what? And where's Hermione?" he sharply asks. "What did you promise her, Ruibby?". His jaw tightens as neither elf verbally replies, instead seeming to engage in a silent battle of wills.

"Her Grace Lady Granger goes for a walk, Master Malfoy; she tells MacRu she needs fresh air, and bids them not to disturb Master." Ruibby pleats at the front of her long green dress, not meeting Draco's eyes.

"When was this?" he barks, fear harshening his tone. "What's going on here? Why are lips being zipped, pray tell?". Draco advances on Macdolas, sensing he is the weakest link in the chain of secrecy. "Out with it, you shifty little shrimpet."

"Her Grace says she returns within the hour– listen, Master Malfoy, the door!" the manservant screeches, scurrying around the armchair to avoid the angry wizard, then jinking toward the front door with canny speed. Draco is right behind him as Hermione enters the house, her cheeks rosy from exertion and the snappy spring breeze.

"Ma petite – are you alright?" Draco forgets his aggravation with the close-mouthed fey as he sweeps Hermione into his arms, his anxiety decreasing as soon as he touches her, though he still feels somewhat uneasy. I need to get to the bottom of what the elves were discussing, that's for certain.

Hermione squeezes him with a fervour he hadn't expected, keeping her head tucked into his neck as she replies, "I'm fine, I just needed to clear my head. How did your painting session turn out?".

"It was productive– but whatever's the matter, Granger? I overheard Ruibby and Macdolas bickering when I came downstairs, but neither will spill their secrets. Hermione?" Draco frowns, his sharp eyes roving her face… and his mind lightly probing at their telepathic link. He receives little more than a confused impression of a date circled in red on a calendar and a strange little white plastic device before Hermione boots him out.

"Malfoy! That's incredibly rude, regardless of our soul bond," Hermione scolds, pulling away and crossing her arms. "Do you want to snoop through my diary while you're at it?!".

Well, yes… I'd love to. Draco has the brains not to say it aloud.

"I apologize, I'm simply worried about you, darling. You seem… unsettled." Distracted, ruffled, antsy… Not about to mention those descriptors, either.

Hermione gnaws on her lip, her irritation replaced by hesitancy. "I promise that I will tell you all about it, once there is – or isn't – something to tell, mon coeur. Please, don't press me for more details right now… I just need a little more time, OK? I'm not ill, nor am I in danger, I swear." She winds her arms around his neck. "Will you please trust me on this, Draco?".

One look into her ingenuous, big, brown, beautiful eyes and he is lost, as ever.

"I trust you, Hermione. But please, remember I am not a patient man… and unsolved enigmas drive me insane," he grumbles.

"I don't mean to be cryptic," she ruefully smiles. "Lions aren't known for their inscrutability, in any case."

"True; but I love you for wearing your heart on your sleeve. Even if it is currently covered by my jumper," he jests, tweaking at the wide collar of the blue knitwear she has borrowed.

"Communal property," Hermione shrugs, playing along. "You're welcome to my wardrobe too, it's only fair."

"Well, I am perpetually interested in getting into your pants–"

"Master Malfoy forgets MacRu are listening," Macdolas sing-songs his cheeky remark, Ruibby snickering beside him. "And what of the specially prepared ges– luncheon?".

Before Draco can query the elf's odd stutter, Hermione jumps in. "Mac, would it be too much trouble to ask you to please pack it all up and reheat it for our dinner tonight? Luna invited me to afternoon tea one day this week, and I'd like to return to Hogwarts early, to visit her now. Would you mind, Draco? I really need to speak with her."

"I don't mind in the slightest, ma petite. Maybe you should take something of your own to eat, just to be on the safe side," Draco muses, remembering the hidden dangers of the mini Dirigible plum puff pastries Luna previously served.

"It'll be fine. Luna's moved onto a green food phase now, but I might take along a chunk of the raspberry and coconut loaf," Hermione says, as Macdolas chirps,

"Excellent! Leafy greens for fol– " he hastily subsides when Ruibby hooks her arm through his and trots them back into the living room.

"Won't be but a moment, Your Grace Lady Granger!".

Draco wonders anew at the blood rushing to Hermione's neck and ears. Something fishy is indubitably afoot here… but I pledged my trust… and unfortunately Ruibby is too canny to leave Macdolas alone long enough for me to trick it out of him.

"Please don't try to hoodwink Mac into telling you anything, either; I don't have to read your mind, your wily expression gives you away." Hermione taps his pouting lips. "Your word, Malfoy."

"Very well. You drive a hard bargain, Granger."

"You'd do well to remember that, mon serpent chéri."

Blaise collapses back against the burnished brown leather u-shaped sectional couch, light-headed from laughing so hard at Tavi and Gryff's antics in the Villa's spacious informal lounge.

After they'd returned from the shelter and the pet store, the little dog had been turned loose to explore his new domain, his tail frenziedly wagging as he'd darted to and fro. Blaise had marvelled at Tavi's ability to keep pace as she'd diligently shadowed Gryff from room-to-room and floor-to-floor. Gus's concerns that his misshapen foreleg may present a problem with the numerous flights of stairs were soon put to rest, with just a small hitch in the canine's stride as he'd swiftly hopped up and down each staircase.

Having expected Gelsy to be less than impressed with the scruffy mutt, Blaise had been astounded by her effervescent welcome, to the point where he'd had to stop her from merrily feeding Gryff the prime rib fillet steaks meant for their dinner.

Mrs Green had proclaimed him 'bonny, bowld, and birkie, and in fine fettle, to byeut'. Gregarious Gryff had further charmed the suffer-no-fools Geordie when he'd spontaneously sat up to offer his good paw to shake.

Now, Blaise watches as Tavi teaches Gryff how to roll over and play dead; the rapidity with which the dog adopts the 'new' trick makes him suspect that Gryff is humouring the little girl in order to satisfy her delight in instructing him, as well as gain more tasty treats along the way. Quite a bit of conniving Slytherin in the cute little scamp, methinks.

Gelsy and Nella are seated on the right arm of the large lounge suite, nattering about their purchases from their Diagon Alley jaunt, while Tavi and Gryff play on the thick rug before the fireplace. Blaise and Gus occupy the sofa's left corner, their long legs stretched out and snugly tangled.

Pressing herself flush against his heaving side with an easy familiarity that thrills him to his core, Gus whispers, "Hey, Blaisey… thank you."

Before he can ask, she clarifies, "Thanks for making my little sister the happiest kid in greater London – hell, greater Europe, probably – by adopting that scrappy pooch. And for hosting us in your grand palace… yet again. You must be well sick of us encroaching on your peace and quiet every time you turn around." Her tight-lipped smile betrays the depth of her sincere concern.

"Are you kidding me, Gussie? I abhor peace and quiet – too much of it, and I start climbing the walls. Thank you, all of you, for breathing new life into this dull old joint. You know I'd love–" Blaise halts, aware that his fervent wish of moving in the whole family is a sore point. "I'd love to see more of you," he amends, his fingers burrowing into the short, velvety blonde hair at her nape.

"Only you would call this mansion 'a dull old joint', Zabini," Gus grins. "I've visited smaller museums, honestly."

"Art museums? I know you enjoy the Old Masters, Gussie. And the Impressionists, although your all-time favourite artist is Vermeer." He revels in her shocked yet delighted mien.

"You thought me a total Philistine, didn't you? All beauty, few brains," he sighs, playing up his 'woundedness' with a sad head shake, his left hand theatrically splayed against his chest. "I've told you before that I'm the complete package, cara."

"Bragged it, more like," Gus tempers, her own hand moving to idly play with his flared fingers. "It's… I didn't expect you to want to know that type of minor detail about me, that's all."

Her quiet, shy admission spurs Blaise to pull her fully into his lap and reply in a impassioned murmur.

"I want to know everything about you, mia bella guerriera… nothing about you is 'minor', not to me. I want to know what ticks you off, which song you sing in the shower, whether you like crunchy peanut butter or smooth–"

"Crunchy– except for fudge, duh," she chortles.

"–what's the one book you could read over and over again and never tire of, your favourite swear word, whether you snore or steal the blankets– no, don't tell me, I like surprises! I want to know your preferred flavour of ice cream, and your regrets, and triumphs, and dreams."

He resists the intense urge to kiss her silly, leaning his forehead against hers as he stares steadily into her golden brown eyes.

"I want all of you, Gussie."

Her sensual, succulent lips part, the tip of her tongue resting against her upper teeth. Blaise forgets to breathe as their mouths unhurriedly inch closer, both of them willingly caught in a web of longing and deep desire.

Come on, mia gloriosa strega… just a little farther, my Gussie…

A deceptively mellifluent and marginally accented familiar female voice shatters the moment with one dramatic, vicious sentence.

"Blaise Nario Zabini: I believe I raised you better than to shamelessly cavort with a Mudblood witch in our family home, mio prezioso, fuorviato, sciocco figlio!"

Geordie translations:

Haad on – Hold on

unbeknaan – unbeknown

bonny, bowld, and birkie, and in fine fettle, to byeut – good character, bold, and smart, and in excellent condition, as well.

Italian translations:

mia gloriosa strega – my glorious witch

mio prezioso, fuorviato, sciocco figlio! – my precious, misguided, foolish son!