Chapter 98

Sunday 06 April 2003: PM

"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!".

Gus springs off Blaise and the couch, hurtling to her feet. She instinctively slips her maple wood wand from its holster and into her hand as she protectively stands before Tavi and Mrs Green, blocking them from the disparaging gaze of the haughtily beautiful woman poised in the arched open doorway.

Shi…izzle on a shingle – this is not good. I may not know what the Italian means – but I understood the 'Mudblood' part, alright.

Gelsy angrily hisses something derogatory beneath her breath, bumping Gus in her hurry to stand beside her. Gryff wriggles from Tavi's grasp, wacky fur bristling in all directions as he emits a surprisingly dangerous-sounding low growl that would do a Rottweiler proud.

Blaise's mother – the familial resemblance is obvious in their shared high cheekbones, patrician noses, and dark eyes – curls her lip at the fierce little canine.

"Che schifo! What is that overgrown rat doing in here?!" Mrs Zabini pulls her own wand, directing it at Gryff. "Stand aside, Gelsomina."

"NO!" Tavi screams, wobbling a little as she scoops the mutt into her arms. "Don't hurt Gryff, you bad lady!".

With one hand, Gus grabs them both and pushes them behind her again, never taking her eyes nor her wand off the snooty sorceress.

"If you continue to point your wand at my sister or the dog, you'll soon be picking up your teeth from the floor like dropped rice. You have three seconds to lower it. One. Two. Thr–"

"STOP." Blaise's deep voice rings out like cold steel, his tall, broad frame acting as an solid shield (for whom: us or his mother? Gus wonders) as he plants himself between the warring parties. "Electra, do as Gus says. Now. I won't ask you twice."

He calls his own mum by her first name? Cripes – that's rough. Gus doesn't have the time to indulge her aching pity; all her attention is needed to ensure this little showdown doesn't go irreversibly south.

"'Gus'? That's no name for a woman. Though it does suit you, I suppose." Electra Zabini's elegantly-shaped brows display her cutting disdain as she shrugs and returns her wand to the pocket of her pristine silver-white robes.

"Well, you're hardly the epitome of 'shining, bright, and radiant' yourself, Electra," Gus cannot resist throwing out some name-shade of her own, pushing at Blaise's strong back with little effect.

"That's 'Signora Zabini' to you, Miss Gilmont," Electra snaps. "You may move away, patatino; we shan't come to blows. Not today."

"'Auror Gilmont', you mean." Gus dodges around Blaise after nodding her thanks to Nella, who is hugging Tavi (and by extension, Gryff) tightly to her side.

Gus addresses Electra with cool insouciance. "Jury's still out with regards to your last assertion. I don't tolerate blood racism, or cruelty to animals."

"Cruelty? How quaint. It would be a kindness; the pathetic creature is clearly a cripple." Mrs Zabini abruptly stops speaking, her parted lips prudently closing before she communicates her next thought. Instead, she cranes her long slender neck to enable her gleaming sable eyes to flick to Tavi's orthotic braces and thick spectacles, returning to meet Gus's irate stare with an expression of cruel triumph.

You vicious bitch. Gus almost says the words aloud; only her respect for Blaise stops her from doing so. Her hot fury recedes somewhat as the unpleasantness of the situation takes hold; old feelings of disappointment, alienation, and inadequacy resurface, even as she scolds herself for letting those emotions creep into her mindset.

She jerkily steps back, striving to keep her tone steady and impassive.

"It's time we went home. Thank you for your hospitality, Blaise. Mrs Green, do you mind if we Side-Apparate back to your flat? It'll be quicker."

"No!– Gussie, please, stay," Blaise implores, his complexion paling as she flinches away from the hand he raises to stroke her cheek. "I don't want you to leave… and not like this, tesoro," he unhappily whispers, his jet black eyes uneasy with conflict and pain. "I'm sorry, I'll make this right – I promise."

"Aye, lassie. Gi' us a min, pet," Nella waits for Blaise to finish speaking before she replies, stuffing her recent purchases into her roomy craft bag with more haste than care. "Gus hez the right of it, young Blaise; we'd best away afore yon heckler gets the fratch she's wanting," she softly grumbles the last. "Think-shyem of herself, she should be."

"Come on, please, Tavi," Gus has to blink hard and swiftly look away from Blaise's imploring mien and posture. "Leave Gryff, his home is here with Blaise."

Tavi's face predictably crumples. "But– but– that mean lady–"

"Gelsomina accompanies the Gilmonts; she safely returns with il cagnolino Gryff when Signora Zabini is no longer in residence," Gelsy briskly declares, grasping Nella's thin hand and glowering at Electra.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gelsomina; you are paid to serve our domestic needs, not to gallivant with ragtag Muggles," Mrs Zabini snips. "Fetch me an espresso, pronto."

Gelsy bares her tiny teeth with unmasked relish. "Make your own espresso, Signora. Gelsy is a free elf who works for Master Blaise, alone; she would not spit on la signora if she were afire. Andiamo, ragazze."

Oh, the look on Electra's face! Gus fixes it fast in her memory, as well as Gelsy's small crow of exultation at the imperious witch's initial poleaxed reaction.

"Gelsomina!? You dare– you DARE to speak to your betters in such a manner! Ungrateful, impudent–" Mrs Zabini screeches, once she recovers the power of speech.

The housekeeper retorts, "Signora Zabini is not, has never been, nor ever will be, Gelsy's better; and she is about as fine an employer as she is a mother to Master Blaise. Vai al diavolo, donna." Gelsy's triumphal grin is utterly priceless as she delivers her final sally.

Deciding that is definitely their cue to depart, Gus turns to the tense wizard on her left.

"Bye, Blaise." Ignoring Electra's censorious glare, Gus pecks a barely-there kiss onto her boyfriend's lips, pivoting on her heel and hoping he doesn't notice the tell-tale swelling at the edges of her eyes. "I'll see you at the Ministry tomorrow, OK?".

"I'll come round to the flats as soon as I'm done here–"

"Please, there's no need– we're tired, it's been rather a big few days. Tavi needs an early night, school tomorrow and all that," Gus babbles. "I've a huge week of work coming up, too."

"Goodbye, Mr Blaise." Tavi's little voice is thready and forlorn. "Thank you for a very nice weekend," she stiltedly recites.

When Blaise kneels, Tavi hesitates before she carefully hands Gryff to Mrs Green; the little girl apprehensively watches Mrs Zabini as she tightly hugs Blaise.

"Mr Blaise… if your mum is mean to you, you can come stay with us– you can have my room, I don't mind sharing with Gus Gus at all," she offers in an earnest whisper, clumsily patting his back.

"Oh, sweetie– thank– thank you," Blaise chokes out, squeezing his eyes tightly closed for a moment. "Don't you worry about me, Miss Octavia, I'll be right as rain. I'll see you soon, OK?".

"OK," Tavi dubiously echoes, still eyeing Electra as though the woman is about to sprout horns. "We'll look after Gryff for you, I promise."

"Thanks, Kiddo." Blaise reluctantly disengages, smoothing one of Tavi's feather-fine blonde locks behind her ear with a shadow of a smile. "Gus – please, have faith in me… have faith in us," he entreats in an urgent undertone.

Biting at the inside of her cheeks, Gus nods once before regathering her sister and grabbing Nella's free hand. The image of Blaise's sad, strained face is imprinted on her inner eyelids as she shuts her eyes and prepares to Apparate home.

Gods… he looks so lonely… however has he coped with that shrew for a mother for all these years? My poor Blaisey…

And… how are we ever going to move forward with our relationship when his sole living parent is so instantly and uncompromisingly hostile at our very first meeting? She doesn't know me… she doesn't want to know me, because her rampant prejudice has already decreed that I'm beneath her, simply because of my blood and background. No, there's no way I will allow anyone to make me – or my family – feel inferior.

Something has to give… and it won't be my self-worth. Never again.

Blaise strides to the kitchen, uncaring whether Electra has followed his brusque demand to follow him there. All he can think of is the hurt etched onto Gus's strong, beautiful face (which had been glaringly evident to him, despite her coolly impassive demeanour as she'd traded barbs with his mother and gathered her flock to return home).

Her eyes… my lovely Gussie looked so wounded… and it's all because of her. Salazar, the horrid things Electra said! Why the fuck has she turned up here unannounced, after so many months without as much as an owl?!

For the thousandth time, Blaise wonders at his mother's impeccable timing. When she remembers I'm alive, she descends upon me like a fairy godmother, laden with gifts and fribbles, and cooing and fussing like mad… until the next man comes along. The next mark, I should say. Poor, doomed fools.

Standing before the imported coffee machine, Blaise shoves a few cups into position and stabs his blunt-tipped fingers at the appropriate buttons, grimly glad for the few minutes of mechanical sounds to drown out the figurative noise in his conflicted mind.

Breathing deeply, he thinks of what he needs to say, and the most efficient way to get his message across to his strong-willed, narcissistic madre.

It ends here. It must. The dread and unease he has felt ever since hearing his mother's voice ebbs, replaced by stoic resolution. Deftly gathering the tiny coffee cups in his hands, he swivels to place them on the wide wooden table.

"Your espresso, Electra." He leans against the central island bench, folding his arms to keenly observe the witch seated opposite.

The Zabini matriarch wears a sour expression, pouting between dainty sips of the hot, bitter brew. "Blaise, I cannot believe you allowed that uppity stronzetta to insult me like that! Had I known how wickedly impertinent Gelsomina has become, I would have terminated her employment many moons ago… 'employment', how ridiculous. Mark my words: this modern idiocy of unindentured house elves shall not last, patatino."

"Gelsy is not a bitch. She is loyal, and hard-working, and extremely smart and talented… and she's been my true mother, ever since you blithely dumped me here into her care, Electra." A small, spiteful part of Blaise revels in his mother's flabbergasted, gaping mouth.

"No– you'll hear me out; what I have to say to you has been a lifetime in the making. Listen well, for this is your one and only chance to repair whatever you can of our 'relationship'… Mother." As he'd anticipated, the flawlessly made-up and richly garbed woman seated across the table flinches at his final word.

"I realize that you gave birth to me only to satisfy the terms of my late father's will: no heir, no inheritance, correct? You soon learned to read (and cunningly negotiate) the fine print on your subsequent marriage contracts though, didn't you? Hence my status as an only child, and your unwillingness to actually parent me in any way that obstructed your flagrantly hedonistic, selfish lifestyle. I thank Leto every day that you left me here with Gelsy, you know." Blaise ignores the fake tears dripping down Electra's high cheekbones; he knows from past experience she is able to summon them effortlessly, and that they contain much more salt than genuine emotion.

"For years, I agonized over what I lacked, thinking it was my fault you never stayed. Was I too quiet? Too slow? Not funny enough? Not handsome enough? I tied myself into knots trying to be enough for you to want to be here, to want to be my mother in deed, as well as word. You'd forbidden Gelsy from relating anything about you that didn't cast you in the best possible light – but still, I began to see that your visits were timed to whenever you needed to present the image of the perfect, doting mother, to further impress your besotted suitors. I won't be your dancing bear ever again, Electra.'

"Blaise! My darling son– how could you harbour such undeserved, misdirected poison in your heart?! All I have ever done has been for your own good, or for the good of our family–" Electra mournfully interjects.

"'Family'? You're not my family, but I'll tell you who is: Gelsy, Gus, Tavi, Mrs Green, and Gryff – all of whom you've insulted, maligned, or downright threatened, all in the space of the first five minutes of your unwelcome visit today. They are my family – yes, a free elf, two Muggleborn witches, a Muggle, and an unprepossessing mongrel dog – and I would do anything to keep them from harm, do you understand? I am utterly furious with your downright disgusting, bigoted behaviour toward them, Electra. I will not tolerate another word against any of them – and if you cannot swallow your bloated pride to accept them in my life, you are no longer welcome in Villa Zabini."

Electra raises a trembling hand, splaying it over her heart as she whispers, "You would– you would oust your own mother from her home? For an Amazonian Mudblood and her tragic dependents?! I came as soon as I heard you were keeping such dubious company, but I never dreamed it had already gone this far! My darling boy, she must have slipped you a love potion– you're not making any sense–"

"Don't be ridiculous," Blaise sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in weary frustration. "I should have saved my breath… you're never going to understand what I feel for Gus, are you? You've never loved anyone but yourself, and it shows. Oh, let's skip the breast-beating maligned mother act, we're well past all that."

"My maternal instinct to protect my only son is not an act, Blaise," Electra huffs. "Even in the face of your cruel abuse, my primary concern is for your well-being; you're obviously not thinking clearly. I see I shall have to extend my visit until you're quite yourself again, cucciolo."

Blaise shakes his head with firm finality, surreptitiously sliding his wand from his pocket.

"No. You're leaving here as soon as you've finished your coffee; and you won't be returning. I'm immediately rescinding your Floo privileges, and strengthening the wards around the Villa, to indefinitely exclude you. I'm stupid enough to retain the tiniest hope that you may one day want to build a healthy, genuine relationship with me – but I'm also smart enough to know you cannot be trusted not to use me until I have nothing left, materially and spiritually."

He pauses to ensure she comprehensively grasps his next uncompromising statement.

"If you do or say anything – a single nasty word, an idle curse, anything at all – against any of the Gilmonts or Gelsy, or my little dog, I will not hesitate to wholly ruin you, do you understand? We're done, Electra. Anything you've left here that belongs to you, I'll send on to your Rome apartment."

"Stupido, ingrato, idiota moccioso! Avrei dovuto soffocarti nella tua culla, piccolo bastardo!" Electra's eyes glitter with spite as she releases a stream of foul invective; Blaise effortlessly ducks to evade the coffee cup she viciously hurls at his head.

Well, I knew that was on the cards. Just as well she'd already drunk most of it. He opens his palm to show his wand in warning.

"Predictable as ever, Electra. Please leave before this gets any uglier."

"You fool– I hope that ugly bitch copper crushes your stupid heart beneath her boot. Do not come crying to me when she does, you weak little shit." Electra flounces out of her chair, her face a mask of malice and rancour.

"You are correct, I never loved you. Every time I look at you, I see the repulsive face of your padre patetico. You are hopelessly soft, just as he was," she sneers.

Smoothing her robes, she histrionically declares, "From this day forward, I have no son."

"Charming. Floo's that way," Blaise jerks his thumb toward the foyer. "Addio, Madre."

With a last fulminating glare, Mrs Zabini sweeps from the kitchen, snarling all manner of foul curses in a furious mash-up of Italian and English. Blaise follows at a judicious distance; once the Floo rumble dies away, he moves forward to effect the necessary spellwork to update his permissions and wards.

Sagging against the mantle, he sucks in half a dozen heaving breaths, eyes burning and his throat tight.

'I should have smothered you in your crib'… that doesn't come as any surprise, but by Salazar… it stings.

I'm not the one who's lacking, he reminds himself as he tries to stop shaking in the aftermath of their unpleasant confrontation.

I am lovable; and I don't deserve her abuse, he staunchly repeats. Fear almost turns to blind terror as he worries that Electra's blatant malevolence toward the Gilmonts may have irreparably soured their connection.

I can't lose them – any of them, but especially my Gussie… I have to find a way to make this right.

I will… but I might need some help.

"Hello, Luna? It's Hermione," she calls, rapping softly on the ajar door to Luna's Hogwarts suite.

"Hallo! Come in; I'm so glad you accepted my invitation," Luna swings open the door to enfold Hermione into a very gentle, very long embrace.

Oh, well… it's lovely that she's affectionate, and I really do need a hug.

Hermione ceases trying to extricate herself and decides to just go with it. Looking around Luna's quarters over the petite woman's shoulder, she wonders anew at how Luna's eclectic tastes somehow manage to harmonize so well. An alarmingly toothy gnomish skull sits beside a filled witch's ball, various carefully arranged crystals, Magizoology texts, and a small silver chalice. The slowly transmogrifying purple and pink lava lamp on the shelf above casts a low light onto the delicate white and red cherry blossom Japanese tea set next to it. Luna's calm and ethereal personality is perfectly reflected in her private abode, imbuing the space with a sunny, peaceful energy.

Letting go at last, Luna tows over Hermione to the small dinette set by the mullioned window. "Please, have a seat."

Curious as to the collection of books stacked to the right of her place setting, Hermione moves to read the spines.

"Not yet, Hermione; all in good time." Luna calmly tugs a blue and silver silk scarf off her shoulders, tossing it to cover the tomes and sticking it in place with a quick incantation, smiling at Hermione's disgruntled reaction. "Your inquisitiveness shall soon be rewarded, never fear."

"Mac and Ruibby sent this," Hermione rummages through her bag, handing over the raspberry and coconut loaf. "I doubt we'll need it, though. This spread looks lovely, Luna."

The tiny table is packed with green foodstuffs, which Luna quickly describes: "Cucumber sandwiches, spinach, almond, and raisin salad with apple cider vinaigrette, courgette and polenta slice with broccoli pesto, matcha macarons, mint chocolate chip brownies, and green tea," she lifts the steaming pot to pour them both a cup. "Dig in, Hermione."

Despite her trepidation at the upcoming conversation, Hermione loads her plate with a goodly portion of each savoury dish. "Thank you, Luna; you didn't need to go to all this trouble, I know I sprang this on you at the last minute."

"I always have time for my dear friends… and the house elves whipped up this feast, they're always keen to try out new recipes." Luna's pellucid blue eyes sharpen as she regards Hermione tucking into the cucumber triangles. "They're very tasty, aren't they? I suggested the layer of whipped cream cheese, it's rich in calcium and Vitamin A, as well as being yummy."

Munching on her sandwiches, it takes Hermione a moment or three to absorb the subtext. 'Calcium… Vitamin A'… this cannot be a coincidence…! She drops the food in her hand as though it's radioactive, jerking up her head to gape at the Ravenclaw witch across from her.

"Luna? What… how…" she chokes out, too overwhelmed to continue.

"How do I know you're pregnant? The signs are all there, you've just been a tad too close to see them before now, I think. It's alright, Hermione," Luna swiftly moves around the table, gathering and gently rubbing Hermione's suddenly chilled hands within her own. "You've had quite a shock, dear heart."

"Luna– I don't know that I'm pregnant… but today, Mac and Ru came home, they'd made a bunch of special foods, and they seemed so certain! And Ruibby listed all these 'signs', too – and Mac said his mum has the Sight and apparently Consulted the Bones last night… I don't know what to think–" Hermione sobs on Luna's shoulder. "My period could just be late, it's not inconceivable– oh, damn–"

"There, there," Luna hums. "Just take a minute or two, Hermione. It's going to be alright," she tranquilly repeats. "Becoming a parent is a wondrous event, but it's bound to be daunting, all the same."

Hermione lifts her woebegone face. "I'm so scared… what if Draco thinks I'm trying to trap him into marriage? Godric, what's Lucius going to say? But mostly I'm terrified because… what if something goes wrong? What if all those Crucios that Bellatrix hit me with mean that our baby is already at risk– or that my womb is too weakened to carry to term– "

"No. NO. Hermione, you're smarter than this." Luna briskly wipes away Hermione's panicked tears with her thumbs. "Sit up straight, and listen quietly, please. Will you do that?".

Feeling a bit put out, Hermione's nod is a shade sullen, but Luna smiles cheerily, nonetheless.

"Good. Now, as to whether you're pregnant: there's a simple diagnostic spell I've been practising, but Pansy reckoned you'd baulk at that, so she bought these testing kits instead." From the highest shelf, Luna Accio's a paper bag sporting a Muggle pharmacy logo.

"She said she didn't know if any particular brand was better than the others, so she got one of each. They look very interesting, although urinating on them might be a bit finicky; some of them suggest weeing in a cup and then dipping in the predictive stick, perhaps that would be more efficient," she muses. "I wouldn't want to re-use the cup, though."

"Pansy knows?!" Hermione shrieks. "Who else is in on this?! Ginny? Gus? Not Harry, too?!". Her nails dig into her palms in an effort to relieve her self-directed anger and frustration.

"Please don't hurt yourself, dear." Luna pats Hermione's rigid hand until it relaxes. "The girls and I had a little talk last night; they unanimously voted me as spokeswoman for the group. Pansy said Harry is concerned you're a tad stressed, that's all. So there's no need to freak out; your secret is safe with us. I'm pleased you're finally facing up to it, Hermione."

"Luna, I'm not sure that I'm ready to find out… I mean, I could give it a few more days to see if my period starts," Hermione attempts to stall, dismayed by Luna's uncompromising shake of her blonde head.

"Oh, no: it's the spell or the sticks today, Hermione. I love you too much to let you worm out of this and spend the next week fretting and fidgeting. Well?". The sparkle in her blue eyes tells Hermione that Luna is well aware of her mild tyranny – and isn't ashamed of herself in the least.

"How did you end up becoming a Magizoologist? You should have been a dictator, truly." Grumbling beneath her breath, Hermione accepts the inevitable with bad grace. "I pick the sticks, then. Meanie."

"Goody, I was hoping you would – I want to see if a happy face does pop up, like it says on the box," Luna gleefully announces. "Relax, we'll get to the testing later." Her bossiness shifts to earnest encouragement as she slides back into her chair, keeping hold of Hermione's quivery hand.

"Hermione, I understand you're struggling to process all of this, and your thoughts and emotions are something of a convoluted snarl; but take it from me, Draco would never think you were trying to trap him into marriage. Besides, being wedded to you has been the secret deep desire of his heart for a decade, so put that nonsense out of your head for good."

"But– Luna, I want Draco to want to marry me, for me… not because he feels obliged, or because of his ingrained Pureblood expectations and strictures," Hermione miserably expounds. "Thank Circe he was upstairs painting when MacRu dropped their baby bombshell! I made them swear to be discreet… and then I had to gain Draco's vow not to pressure Mac, I could tell he was itching to interrogate him."

Luna clucks her tongue. "Human relationships are fantastically complex, aren't they? I promise not to breathe a word to Draco, though I'm a trifle surprised he hasn't put one and one together and made three," she chuckles. "I do understand you want to be certain his motivations aren't directed by your pregnancy."

"And as for Lucius Malfoy – I doubt he'll dare voice a negative opinion (if indeed he has one, he's rather mellowed)… and who cares what he thinks, anyway? He's not stupid, he'll go along with whatever Narcissa decrees; and Cissy will be thrilled to bits."

Hermione straightens her shoulders from their hunch. "Yes… you're right… ohmigod, the books! Narcissa wouldn't let me leave the Manor this morning without taking all the 'soul-bond magic' volumes she found in their libraries, and she had a calculated look in her eyes– she knows, Luna, she must KNOW… which means Mum probably knows, too… this is soooo embarrassing," she groans, worrying at the hem of Draco's cardigan.

"It's not important, except that it brings me to my next point, Hermione. You're frightened that your past torture might affect your baby, or your pregnancy; from a purely scientific point of view, I think your incredibly powerful soul-bonded connection wholly negates those concerns. For instance, you haven't considered how you likely became pregnant in the first place. Have you been unequivocally diligent in casting the Contraception Charms, or in practising any other contraceptive measures? Both of you, I mean." Luna chomps on a few forkfuls of spinach salad as she patiently awaits Hermione's reply.

"Yes! Well, mostly. No, we have… but perhaps it was occasionally chanted at the– um, at the last minute," she acknowledges, blushing strongly (and not particularly willing to dwell on the times when they'd woken later in the night and made love). The Charms last for many consecutive hours, I'm sure… I think…

"Mmm. What if your unique soul bond has identified your subconscious mutual desire to procreate, and acted accordingly? Is it possible that – just as it is automatically healing your scar, and Draco's Mark – your metaphysical connection has manifested to effectively nullify the Charms?"

On the brink of indignantly denying the prospect, Hermione pauses as she recalls a paragraph she'd recently read in one of Narcissa's borrowed books.

'…it is theorized that soul bond magic becomes increasingly sentient; the mated sorcerous cores swiftly learning all manner of conscious and unconscious desires, oft spontaneously and joyously enacting various spells and overriding other supernatural barriers in seeking to meet the bonded pair's needs before the couple themselves are aware of their subliminal wishes and expectations…'

Fudging frosty Fudgsicles… Luna's right… our merged magic has likely knocked me up! The table rattles as Hermione blindly gropes for her handle-less cup of green tea, her throat suddenly parched and her head spinning.

Luna slips the vessel into her hand, helping to steer it to her dry lips, waiting until Hermione has drunk all the warm liquid before assuring, "It's going to be alright, Hermione. You just need to get your feet underneath you again; and to consume some chocolate, for the shock. Have some brownies." She crumbles one into manageable chunks and steadily feeds them to her like a mother magpie.

I'm going to need a family-sized block of Cadbury Dairy Milk, at this rate…

BABY.

Luna quietly asks, "Hermione, are you certain you want to try the last test, too? I don't wish to be blunt, but I suspect we're flogging a dead dragon, at this point." She points to the five used pregnancy tester sticks lined up on her small bathroom vanity.

"'Flogging a dead horse'," Hermione correctively mumbles through numb lips, her eyes skating over the array of 'positive' symbols (as though refusing to look closer at the devices will somehow nullify their blaring messages). Nothing like a little self-delusion over a major life event…

"Pass it to me, please, Luna; there is such a thing as a false positive… there could be blood or protein in my urine, and certain Muggle drugs interfere with accuracy–"

"Are you taking anti-convulsants, hypnotics, fertility drugs or tranquilizers?" Luna segues straight into reading aloud from the tiny pamphlet that came with the 'happy face' test.

Hermione morosely shakes her head, scowling at the tiled floor as Luna hands her the last white plastic wand.

"I'll be right outside," her friend sympathetically comments, pressing a soft kiss to Hermione's down-bent tawny ringlets before snicking closed the bathroom door behind her.

Five minutes later, Hermione stumbles back into the main living area, brandishing the six testing sticks in one hand and cradling her tummy with the other.

Luna looks up from skimming through the stack of pregnancy-related books on the table, her blue eyes alight with cheerful anticipation.

"I'm pregnant," Hermione baldly states. "Knocked up. Got a bun in the oven. Joined the Pudding Club. Eating for two. In the family way. Up the duff. Preggers." Her mouth twists humourlessly, her eyes dry as a Saharan storm.

Luna wraps her into a gentle hug. "Hermione dear, as much as I enjoy a clever idiom… I'm worried you're suffering shell-shock. Here, have another brownie–"

"I don't want a bloody brownie! I want to know what the hell I'm supposed to do now, Luna! I don't have a plan for this– but– but I always have a plan!" Hermione wails. "Sorry– I'm sorry for shouting, I'm all over the place, I'm sorry– "

"Here, put those away for now; and let's sit down." Luna guides her to an armchair, plumping up a duckling-yellow cushion and slipping it behind her head. She perches on the arm as Hermione hollowly gazes straight ahead.

"Are you ready to talk with Draco about this, Hermione? Would you like me to summon him?" Luna suggests. "It's no bother, I can easily send a Patronus."

"No… he's gone to The Hog's Head, to meet with the other guys; Blaise Floo-called him, just before I came to see you," Hermione divulges, still appearing dumbfounded. "I think Blaise mentioned desperately needing some relationship advice…"

"How sweet! He and Gus are as an ideal pairing as Harry and Pansy – and you and Draco." Luna steeples together her hands in child-like joy. "I'm so happy for my dearest friends… and I'm thrilled for you, Hermione. May I ask you something?".

"Of course." Her brown eyes sluggishly rise to meet Luna's concerned gaze.

"Do you not want to be a parent, dear?".

Hermione emphatically shakes her head. "No, I do! I want to be a mother… I'd love to be a mother," she slowly repeats, joy breaking through her panic and fears.

"Luna… if everything goes OK, I'm going to be someone's mum; I'm going to have Draco's baby. Me. Hermione Granger. Oh, Merlin!" she excitedly squeals.

"Do you have any parchment and quills, please? I really need to formulate a Plan."

Draco watches from his dilapidated nook as Blaise marches purposefully through the doors of The Hog's Head pub, just ahead of Theo and Harry. The trio briefly converse with Neville at the bar; putting in their drink orders, Draco assumes. Publican Aberforth Dumbledore merely grunts at them in greeting, though he deigns to bare his teeth for a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile at Harry.

Neville scrupulously loads up their glasses of ginger beer onto an ancient tray, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he walks it over to their table.

"Right, listen up: my evil mother turned up at the Villa today and immediately made a supremely nasty, dreadful scene – I need to know how to fix it before Gussie dumps me," Blaise states as he flops into the seat beside Draco. "Brilliant ideas only, none of the usual claptrap with flowers and chocolates, fellas. Hit me."

Shrugging, Draco cheerfully thumps Zabini's shoulder, grinning as the other wizard yowls in pain.

"You asked for that, you rude bastard. Try saying 'hello' and 'please, help me', next time."

Turning to the others, Draco says, "Guys, I appreciate that you ordered non-alcoholic drinks; but you could have chosen Butterbeers, or Firewhiskey, you know. I've got more motivation than ever to stay on the wagon now."

Neville smiles. "Draco, it's usually safer to order stuff here from a sealed bottle; Aberforth's a decent bloke, but some of his, er, suppliers are a bit questionable. Anyway, it's best not to put temptation in a mate's path."

"Neville's right. And last night's party definitively proved we don't need booze to have a blast," Theo adds.

Harry sips his drink, quietly chuckling. "Especially in the case of your elves; I inadvertently stumbled over Mac and Ruibby last night when Pansy sent me outside to look for you and Hermione, Draco; they'd obviously recently been–"

"No– no– say no more! We actually walked in on them mid-shag in the conservatory, the dirty beggars," Draco groans, as everyone else guffaws.

"Enough about your copulating fey folk! This pow-wow is about my problems," Blaise whines, still aggrievedly rubbing his shoulder.

"Why do you get to monopolize the dialogue, Zabini? I require advice about Hermione," Draco argues.

"And I want to ask you guys about Pansy," Harry chimes in.

"I'd like some tips about dipping my toe into the dating pool," Neville diffidently admits.

Everyone looks at Theo.

"What? I'm fine – and very happy to be single, given the way you lot are whingeing," Theo leans back in his chair with a smug grin. "True love sounds like hard work, from where I'm sitting."

"Yeah? Well, from where I'm sitting, true love has chewed the shit out of your neck with her hungry little mouth, pal," Blaise crows, gripping Theo's head and shoulders to show the others the multiple love bites trailing from the short black curls on his nape to the dent of his collarbone. Theo attempts to squirm loose, to no avail.

"Piss off, Blaise! That's a rash– it's not– let go of me, arsehole!" he sputters, face flushed and green eyes glowing with annoyance and embarrassment. "What did the Wicked Witch of the West do at Villa Zabini, anyway?".

"That's a glaring attempt at deflection, but I'll take it. We can mercilessly tease you about your secret lover another day." Blaise gives Theo's neck a final squeeze before letting go.

"So, I was cuddling on the lounge with Gussie in the informal living room when Electra made her grand entrance…" he swiftly brings them up to speed.

Gods – and I thought Lucius was problematic. Draco clears his throat after Neville's shocked exclamations die away.

"Blaise… I'm sorry. That was a difficult choice; and one you should never have had to make. You did the right thing."

Bowing his head in mute acknowledgement, Blaise rubs at the droplets slowly rolling down his tumbler. "Yeah… thanks, Draco. I don't regret a word that I said to Electra; but I'm freaking terrified Gus won't want to keep seeing me, after that horrible fracas."

Harry leans across the table. "Gus doesn't need any grand gestures, Blaise; it's not her style. I advise you to sit down and relate everything you just told us – and impress upon her exactly how much she means to you. She'll appreciate your honesty and forthrightness much more than she would being wined and dined, or showered in presents."

"And give her a little space and time; Gus asked you not to go straight round there," pipes up Neville. "You're clearly dying to sort this all out right now, but she probably needs to process it a bit differently."

Theo puts in his two Sickles' worth. "Also, stop applying the pressure for them all to move in straightaway – she'll let you know when she's ready."

"Hey! I haven't pressured her about that for days, dickhead," an aggrieved Blaise defends, frowning as they laugh at him in unison. "Get stuffed, I was being serious."

"Speaking of moving in: Kreacher dug up an old key for Grimmauld Place's front door from Merlin-knows-where; he's polished it to within an inch of its life and keeps strategically dropping it into my pockets," Harry pushes a lustrous brass key onto the table with a sigh. "Look, he's even strung it onto an emerald ribbon that perfectly matches the colour of Pansy's eyes."

"Wait– are we done talking about me already?" Blaise squawks.

"Yeah. Harry, take the hint and formally ask Pansy to move in with you. You're patently gaga for her, and she for you." Draco smirks at Potter's slackened, gaping mouth.

"I dunno– do you really think she's into me? Like, you know– that she properly likes me?" Harry flips them the bird amidst their cackling at his bumbling angst. "Shut up, you pricks… I don't want to rush anything, alright?".

"Take your own advice then, Harry. Sit down and speak candidly with Pansy about how you feel, and what you want from your relationship," Neville earnestly appends, seconded by the other nodding wizards.

"Right, that's Potter sorted. Take a gander at this, please. Is it Hermione's style? Should I go with a different gemstone? Is it big enough?" Draco anxiously queries, flipping open the black jewellery box he's been clandestinely carrying about for weeks. The boys knock heads in their eagerness to peer at the engagement ring.

"My eyes!" Blaise hams it up, shielding his 'blinded' orbs with his hand. "Zeus's banging bollocks – when did you rob the Tower of London?".

"'Is it big enough?' Draco, Hermione's going to need a wrist brace from hefting around that boulder on her finger," Theo gibes.

"When are you going to propose? Have you asked Barney and Jane for their permission? Are your parents on board?" Harry shrewdly questions.

"Is it a diamond? It's not a blood diamond, is it?" Neville worries. "Or cursed? Um, sorry, Draco… but Hermione wouldn't wish to wear jewellery that has a cruel history. Or that could, you know, kill her."

Funny, that. Draco stops his lips from curling, conceding that Neville has made a couple of good points.

"No, Neville, it's not a blood diamond; I recently had it commissioned at Cheruwellery's Fine Jewels. It's guaranteed curse-free, with an entirely ethical provenance. Harry, I'm planning to ask Hermione to marry me this week. I haven't officially asked Jane and Barney for their permission, but Barney's already given his overt blessing… as well as threatened me with some serious forced dental restructuring if ever I hurt Hermione," he recalls. "Jane and Mother have been jointly plotting our formalized union for a while, and as for Lucius… he seems to have come round. I don't care if he hasn't, in any case."

"As for you two," he accusingly forks his fingers at Theo and Blaise, "Don't take the piss… I'm on the cusp of asking the woman I love – with all my heart and soul – to marry me, and you jokers are mocking my jewellery choices? Ta gueule!".

"Easy, bud. We tease you because we love you," a shamefaced Blaise hooks his arm around Draco's stiff neck. "It's a beautiful ring, wholly perfect for Hermione's lovely little hand, and I'm ninety-eight percent sure she'll say yes to your likely spectacular proposal."

"Why the two percent doubt?" wonders Draco as he ineffectively whacks at Blaise's solid headlock.

"One percent for Gryffindor unpredictability, and another percent for the known contrariness of women," Blaise solemnly states. "But having said that, she probably won't even let you finish your sentence before she accepts you as her future hubby. I'm so happy for you, Jakey." He lays a big smackeroo on Draco's cowering cheek.

"Hey, are you blokes thinking what I'm thinking? BACHELOR PARTY!" Blaise hoots, keeping his arms draped over Draco's recoiling form as he stands up behind his chair, animatedly wiggling his hips. "Leave it to me, I've loads of awesome ideas, as usual–"

"Cut it out– and settle down, I haven't yet asked Hermione – not a word from any of you, agreed?" Draco hurriedly warns, his aggravation rising as he rocks back and forth to escape Blaise's buffoonery.

"Blaise, could you give me some pointers as to how to go about meeting women?" Neville blurts. "You've known a lot of witches, right? Erm– I mean, you're experienced, with how to talk with them, how to get to know them," he nervily qualifies, while Theo chortles, and Harry pretends a fierce interest in the dregs of his ginger beer.

Releasing Draco at last, Blaise draws up a spare chair, sitting on it backwards to speak intently to Neville. "Nev, my man, if it's wisdom about witches you seek – you've come to absolutely the right wizard," he preens.

He wags an admonishing finger in front of Neville's fascinated face. "But before I reveal the Sacred Secrets of Skilled Slytherin Seductiveness, I must ask: are your intentions pure? Do you seek your One True Love, Professor Longbottom?".

"I do," Neville assiduously answers. "Were you all told Sacred Slytherin Secrets? Really? I once asked Professor Dumbledore if he had any special advice about dating… he just said to carry an extra clean handkerchief," he sighs. "Not that it doesn't come in handy, but I was rather hoping for something more ground-breaking."

Another round of good-natured laughter ensues, with Neville ruefully joining in.

"Pay Blaise no heed; and remember that Professor Snape was our Head of House," Theo reassures Neville. "The only real Hogwarts 'secret' we Snakes learned was a shortcut to the kitchens for snacks, and that came about by covertly following the Hufflepuffs. And I'd take Zabini's romantic advice with a pillar of salt, considering that he's incredibly lucky to have caught and kept Gus's attention. He's floundering about here, just as clueless as the rest of us."

"Yeah, you're right," Neville muses. "I'd still like to hear more about this seductiveness stuff, though."

Draco's eyes meet Harry's and Theo's, exchanging looks of quiet amusement as Blaise begins to airily lecture Neville about 'social opportunities', 'active listening', and 'carefree confidence'. Zabini's quicksilver shift from beleaguered to brazen is diverting, albeit somewhat dizzying.

Relaxing and stretching out his neck, Draco lets his thoughts wander to the shiny engagement ring, now safely housed back in his pocket. Good thing no one noticed I never answered Harry's question about when I plan to propose… I still can't decide when – or where – I should pop the question. Don't sweat it, there's plenty of time… but I'm just about bursting to ask her…!

Soon. I'll ask her soon…

Définitivement.

Italian translations:

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

Che schifo! – Eeww, how disgusting!

Patatino – little potato

il cagnolino – the little dog

Andiamo, ragazze – Come on, girls

Vai al diavolo, donna – Go to the devil, lady

Stronzetta – little bitch

Cucciolo –puppy

Stupido, ingrato, idiota moccioso! Avrei dovuto soffocarti nella tua culla, piccolo bastardo! –You stupid, ungrateful, idiotic brat! I should have smothered you in your crib, you little bastard.

padre patetico –pathetic father

Addio, Madre – Farewell, Mother.

Geordie translations:

We'd best away afore yon heckler gets the fratch she's wanting – We should leave before that sharp-tongued woman gets the fight she's wanting.

Think-shyem of herself, she should be – She should be ashamed of herself

French translation:

Ta gueule! – Shut the hell up!

Définitivement – Definitely.