Author's note: As always, it all belongs to JKR and Warners, with the exception of a strew of people, like Glin, Marigold, Carlos, Antonio, and a whole bunch more. Well, I've been putting you in suspense long enough. Please, be kind and review. I've had a horrible week, and my lumbar hurts (long story.) Join the e-group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WAiSaD
Tracy kissed him for a minute before pulling back. "That was-"
"Certainly not what I would have expected," Charlie put in.
Her smiled widened and she sighed in relief. "You felt it, too."
"Felt what?" He queried suspiciously.
"Absolutely-"
"Nothing?" He finished.
"Precisely," Tracy didn't seem too upset about the whole thing. "It was completely devoid of passion or enthusiasm on both sides."
"I'm glad you realize that," he told her, sitting back down on the couch. She sat down beside him and patted his knee.
"I really thought it might work, Charlie," she told him. "I thought that I was just lusting after people because I was sex-starved. But with you, there's nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. Not even a modicum-"
"Hey, I feel the same way, but I'm not babbling on about how horrible of a kisser you are."
"Oh," she said, realizing how things must sound. "It's not that. It's just that if I'm not looking for some kind of fling, it must mean I'm lusting after someone in particular. Which is enlightening and helpful to say the least."
"I'd imagine. Would you like a cup of soup?"
"Vegetable? That'd be great." She flopped down onto the couch.
"So, is this mystery man interested in you?" Charlie asked as he offered her the soup mug he'd just conjured up.
"He just doesn't know it yet," she told him.
"I wouldn't want you to get hurt," Charlie cautioned.
She gave him a look of disbelief. "You think he's going to be a hard sell when I run around town wearing get-ups like this?" She motioned to the cat-suit that hugged against her body like a race car against a track. "I mean, I may be thirty-five, but I certainly don't look it."
"You're thirty-five?" He was shocked. "You don't look a day over twenty-five."
"That's my point," she said, eating a bit of the potato in the soup.
He nodded. "Good point."
Harry stepped into the flat. The lights were off, but a little light filtered in through the windows in the breakfast nook. He loosened the neck of his quidditch robes and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair.
She was supposed to have been there. Krum had very nearly snagged the snitch because Harry had been scanning the stands for her face. He'd thought that because she was on holiday from work, she might have more time for him, for them. It seemed as though she had less time for him than she ever had, though.
A fat, furry body rubbed up against his leg. Crookshanks eyes flashed as he mewled plaintively. "She forgot you too, eh?" Harry queried as he scratched the cat's ears. "Accio kibble."
With Crookshanks mollified, he walked through the darkened flat to the washroom, and threw his robes into the hamper. He stepped in the shower and hissed as hot water met cold, aching muscle.
He shivered as a light breeze swept through the room. Crookshanks had probably nudged the door open. He did that a great deal, and it always made Harry uncomfortable, as if the cat were really staring at him and thinking "that's what all the fuss is about?"
Determined not to let a cat get the best of him, he deliberately focused on nothing but the shower, even going to the point of closing his eyes.
Two cold hands snaked around his chest, and a cold nose dug into his back. "Harry?"
"Hmm?" He wasn't being deliberately dismissive. It was just... well, she was supposed to have come, and she hadn't, and sex, even if it was exciting shower sex, certainly shouldn't be able to make up for it.
"I fell asleep addressing invitations," she told him, snuggling into his back and rubbing up against him much like the cat had. It certainly didn't have the same effect.
"Why're you all cold then," he asked suspiciously, thinking himself rather clever.
"The windows in the study must have been open. The whole apartment's freezing."
"Ah." He said, nonchalantly, when he knew perfectly well that it was him who had left all the windows open yesterday.
"One minute I was addressing Dumbledore's and the next I heard the shower start running. I missed your game." She said it sadly, as if she truly were sorry.
"Quidditch never was very interesting for you," Harry hedged. "I shouldn't ask you to come when you don't enjoy it."
"But I do!" She protested, swinging him around to face her. "I find everything you do to be absolutely fascinating."
He smiled and his cheeks blushed. "That's bullocks."
"No, it's not. I love everything about you. From the way you stir your tea around six times, then tap the spoon on the cup, to the way you indulge me when I'm having silly, little arguments with you. I love the way you smell- like a pine tree. I love the way you look at me so that I know everything is going to be all right. I love the way you cuddle Crookshanks when you think I won't notice." She laid her head on his chest. "And I love the way that even though I'm an auror, I only feel truly safe when I'm in your arms."
"Is that all?" He teased.
"I couldn't say it all if I had forever," she told him.
"Ditto," he murmured as he lowered his lips to hers.
Rubbing his eyes, Draco woke from his stupor. Ginny was curled up next to him, her small arm clutched about his chest, with her head tucked beneath his chin. Her rosebud lips were hanging open just a fraction of an inch, and her warm breath danced across his chest.
He liked watching her sleep like this, without defenses. Not that she didn't have a shocking amount of trust in him when she was awake. There was just a startling amount of intimacy in watching someone sleep.
Her brown lashes were nestled against the apples of her cheeks, in startling contrast to her pale, apricot skin. A very slight smattering of freckles were spread across her nose and cheeks. Very pale pink, almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye, were the still-healing scars left from Pansy's torture. Somehow, he didn't imagine she's intended for it to be a testimonial to the fact that love heals.
A slight breeze swept through the room, and goose bumps danced across the back of Ginny's neck and his own chest. Most likely, he'd left a window open. Groaning, he slid out of her embrace, or at least he made an attempt. Ginny seemed to have different ideas, and only clutched him tighter, making an unconscious sound of protest. Glancing at her, he realized that she probably wasn't as cold as he was, seeing as she was wearing his pajama shirt.
Still, he wouldn't want her getting sick and jeopardizing her recovery. Prying her arm from his chest, he slipped out of bed, wincing at both the cold and the frown that slipped across Ginny's slumbering features.
He sprinted to the wall, and closed the offending windows. Shivering, he slipped beneath the covers, amazed at how quickly he'd become cold. Almost immediately, Ginny snuggled up to him again, twining her warm legs with his cold ones. He was surprised that the lack of heat didn't startle her into awareness, but her small foot just massaged one of his cold calves, bunching the pajama leg up to his knee. Moments before the lure of sleep enveloped him, he yawned, and pulled the bedclothes up around her shoulders.
Carlos apparated to the street right outside Glin's flat. He waved at the door guard as he walked through the open set of glass doors. He took the elevator to the top floor, and stepped onto Glin's welcome mat. Or at least he tried to step onto Glin's welcome mat. It appeared a certain jealous red-head had slept on top of the aforementioned mat the night before.
"Really, Ronnie, just because she's beautiful doesn't mean you have to lose your self respect."
"Hurg?" Ron queried, waking at the sudden surge of sound in the quiet entryway.
"Darling, this season may be all about texture, but I can assure you that waking up with the imprint of a rattan mat on your face is less fashion-forward than those little necklaces made of teeth that the hags seem to be so fond of."
"Where is she?"
"She's at the studio, gearing up for her first day on the job. I've just dropped by to pick up a few things I thought we might need."
"Really? When'd she leave?"
"She flooed out. I expect she wasn't particularly interested in seeing you."
"Why?" Ron pushed himself up into a sitting position and rested his hands on his knees. "I did all the right things. I brought her flowers, I tried to 'talk things out...'"
"You attempted to make her breakfast and then comically failed?" Carlos interjected. "Sugar, I've heard the tale a thousand times, and from individuals with much more money and charm than you. It seems everyone wants a little insight from a gal's gay pal."
"Have you any?" Ron asked helplessly.
"'Get your ass off that doormat and stop making me late' would be the first little gem that comes to mind." Carlos extended a hand to Ron, and helped pull him up. "Let's follow that up with a 'never wear those socks with this ensemble again,' and finish up with a 'men are so much simpler.'"
"Really?" Ron asked, baffled.
"Of course not, you silly git," Carlos hit him with a shopping bag. "That's my entire repertoire of stereotypical gay advice. Actually, I'd recommend backing off. You're wandering dangerously close to the line between ardent lover and stalker. A girl like Glin needs a little time to think things over. Call her in a week, and check in. Until then, lay low."
Carlos pushed the heartsick Weasley in the direction of the elevator. "If worst comes to worse, just do what she does."
"Prance about in skimpy clothing, taunting innocent, God-fearing men?"
Carlos waggled an eyebrow critically at him. "Plaster on a huge fucking smile and pretend like your having the time of your life."
Sirius Black glanced at the letter in his hand. Harry was getting married and wanted Black to stand with him at the wedding.
James had owled him, too, all those years ago. He'd stood beside James on the Hogwarts quidditch field and watched the man he loved as a brother pledge his heart to the girl he'd come to love as a sister. Years later, he'd stood next to them at Harry's christening. And in the end, he supposed, he'd stood next to their broken bodies as Harry'd screamed into the night.
When he looked at the boy, he saw James. Saw James, polishing his broom the night before a match. Saw James whirling Lily about the dance floor like she was as light as a feather. Harry was a man like his father had been, and sometimes it was difficult for Sirius to separate James, the man, from Harry, the man.
Years blurred together behind a veil of tears, and Black wished once again that'd he hadn't trusted Pettigrew. He'd told James when they'd first become friends that Peter was a liability, that he wasn't one of them at all. But in the end, he had trusted Peter. The lies, the flattery... they hadn't felt like lies at all...
Harry was a good boy, though. He'd surrounded himself with genuine people, like Hermione and the Weasleys. Harry's done much better with his life than Black had done with his, that was certain. Black smiled softly as he thought of how proud James and Lily if they could see Harry now.
He shook his head, refusing to let the tears fall, and began to owl Harry. He'd go to the wedding, and do what Lily and James would have wanted him to do.
A crisp knock sounded at Glin's door and she resisted the urge to spin around. "Carlos, I think they're getting restless..."
"Hush it, and let your lip gloss settle. I'll get it."
Carlos strutted over to the door, and flung it open to find a very sullen Mario standing there. "Yes?"
"Antonio would like to see Miss Goodrich in the studio in five minutes."
Carlos eyed the cranky little man for a moment before replying. "We'll see what we can do." He then proceeded to shut the door. "Throw on your cape, Little Red. The BBW awaits."
"BBW?" She queried as slipped into a red dressing gown with marabou feather trim. She'd make quick change from the rack in the studio when Antonio told her what he wanted her to wear.
"The Big Bad Wolf, doll." He brushed a kiss against her forehead as they stepped out of the trailer, and he murmured in her ear. "Don't let him eat you alive."
Glin pointedly ignored him. "Antonio? Have you made a decision on what costume we'll be starting in?"
Antonio whirled around from where he was fiddling with a camera and having a slightly heated conversation with one of his minions. "Glin, Darling. You're looking lovely as usual. I'm thinking we'll start with the Parfum de Malédiction spot. It's a muggle silent film star theme, so we'll be going with the black dress that's on the front of the rack. Carlos, if you could just slick it back a little, that hairstyle will work just fine. The eye shadow needs to be black to the crease, silver to the brow bone. Lipstick should be a vibrant red."
Glin shrugged her robe off and let it rest on the chair, standing in just her undergarments and stepped into the form-fitting black dress. Carlos reached for the zipper and muttered in her ear as he tugged it up. "Suck it up, Norma Jean. You're about to become Marilyn."
"You're mixing you metaphors," she said with a smile, as she sucked in a deep breath and Carlos secured the zipper at the top of the dress. He twirled her around, and spritzed something on her hair, raking his fingers through it. He finished by wiping wands over her lids and lips and spinning her around to face the photographer. "She's ready."
"Indeed she is," Antonio said taking her hand and looking her up and down. "It looks like you've poured her into that dress. Carlos, you truly are an artist."
"I've always liked to think so," he replied, plopping down into one of the many directors chairs that were sitting around the studio.
Tracy kissed him for a minute before pulling back. "That was-"
"Certainly not what I would have expected," Charlie put in.
Her smiled widened and she sighed in relief. "You felt it, too."
"Felt what?" He queried suspiciously.
"Absolutely-"
"Nothing?" He finished.
"Precisely," Tracy didn't seem too upset about the whole thing. "It was completely devoid of passion or enthusiasm on both sides."
"I'm glad you realize that," he told her, sitting back down on the couch. She sat down beside him and patted his knee.
"I really thought it might work, Charlie," she told him. "I thought that I was just lusting after people because I was sex-starved. But with you, there's nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. Not even a modicum-"
"Hey, I feel the same way, but I'm not babbling on about how horrible of a kisser you are."
"Oh," she said, realizing how things must sound. "It's not that. It's just that if I'm not looking for some kind of fling, it must mean I'm lusting after someone in particular. Which is enlightening and helpful to say the least."
"I'd imagine. Would you like a cup of soup?"
"Vegetable? That'd be great." She flopped down onto the couch.
"So, is this mystery man interested in you?" Charlie asked as he offered her the soup mug he'd just conjured up.
"He just doesn't know it yet," she told him.
"I wouldn't want you to get hurt," Charlie cautioned.
She gave him a look of disbelief. "You think he's going to be a hard sell when I run around town wearing get-ups like this?" She motioned to the cat-suit that hugged against her body like a race car against a track. "I mean, I may be thirty-five, but I certainly don't look it."
"You're thirty-five?" He was shocked. "You don't look a day over twenty-five."
"That's my point," she said, eating a bit of the potato in the soup.
He nodded. "Good point."
Harry stepped into the flat. The lights were off, but a little light filtered in through the windows in the breakfast nook. He loosened the neck of his quidditch robes and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair.
She was supposed to have been there. Krum had very nearly snagged the snitch because Harry had been scanning the stands for her face. He'd thought that because she was on holiday from work, she might have more time for him, for them. It seemed as though she had less time for him than she ever had, though.
A fat, furry body rubbed up against his leg. Crookshanks eyes flashed as he mewled plaintively. "She forgot you too, eh?" Harry queried as he scratched the cat's ears. "Accio kibble."
With Crookshanks mollified, he walked through the darkened flat to the washroom, and threw his robes into the hamper. He stepped in the shower and hissed as hot water met cold, aching muscle.
He shivered as a light breeze swept through the room. Crookshanks had probably nudged the door open. He did that a great deal, and it always made Harry uncomfortable, as if the cat were really staring at him and thinking "that's what all the fuss is about?"
Determined not to let a cat get the best of him, he deliberately focused on nothing but the shower, even going to the point of closing his eyes.
Two cold hands snaked around his chest, and a cold nose dug into his back. "Harry?"
"Hmm?" He wasn't being deliberately dismissive. It was just... well, she was supposed to have come, and she hadn't, and sex, even if it was exciting shower sex, certainly shouldn't be able to make up for it.
"I fell asleep addressing invitations," she told him, snuggling into his back and rubbing up against him much like the cat had. It certainly didn't have the same effect.
"Why're you all cold then," he asked suspiciously, thinking himself rather clever.
"The windows in the study must have been open. The whole apartment's freezing."
"Ah." He said, nonchalantly, when he knew perfectly well that it was him who had left all the windows open yesterday.
"One minute I was addressing Dumbledore's and the next I heard the shower start running. I missed your game." She said it sadly, as if she truly were sorry.
"Quidditch never was very interesting for you," Harry hedged. "I shouldn't ask you to come when you don't enjoy it."
"But I do!" She protested, swinging him around to face her. "I find everything you do to be absolutely fascinating."
He smiled and his cheeks blushed. "That's bullocks."
"No, it's not. I love everything about you. From the way you stir your tea around six times, then tap the spoon on the cup, to the way you indulge me when I'm having silly, little arguments with you. I love the way you smell- like a pine tree. I love the way you look at me so that I know everything is going to be all right. I love the way you cuddle Crookshanks when you think I won't notice." She laid her head on his chest. "And I love the way that even though I'm an auror, I only feel truly safe when I'm in your arms."
"Is that all?" He teased.
"I couldn't say it all if I had forever," she told him.
"Ditto," he murmured as he lowered his lips to hers.
Rubbing his eyes, Draco woke from his stupor. Ginny was curled up next to him, her small arm clutched about his chest, with her head tucked beneath his chin. Her rosebud lips were hanging open just a fraction of an inch, and her warm breath danced across his chest.
He liked watching her sleep like this, without defenses. Not that she didn't have a shocking amount of trust in him when she was awake. There was just a startling amount of intimacy in watching someone sleep.
Her brown lashes were nestled against the apples of her cheeks, in startling contrast to her pale, apricot skin. A very slight smattering of freckles were spread across her nose and cheeks. Very pale pink, almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye, were the still-healing scars left from Pansy's torture. Somehow, he didn't imagine she's intended for it to be a testimonial to the fact that love heals.
A slight breeze swept through the room, and goose bumps danced across the back of Ginny's neck and his own chest. Most likely, he'd left a window open. Groaning, he slid out of her embrace, or at least he made an attempt. Ginny seemed to have different ideas, and only clutched him tighter, making an unconscious sound of protest. Glancing at her, he realized that she probably wasn't as cold as he was, seeing as she was wearing his pajama shirt.
Still, he wouldn't want her getting sick and jeopardizing her recovery. Prying her arm from his chest, he slipped out of bed, wincing at both the cold and the frown that slipped across Ginny's slumbering features.
He sprinted to the wall, and closed the offending windows. Shivering, he slipped beneath the covers, amazed at how quickly he'd become cold. Almost immediately, Ginny snuggled up to him again, twining her warm legs with his cold ones. He was surprised that the lack of heat didn't startle her into awareness, but her small foot just massaged one of his cold calves, bunching the pajama leg up to his knee. Moments before the lure of sleep enveloped him, he yawned, and pulled the bedclothes up around her shoulders.
Carlos apparated to the street right outside Glin's flat. He waved at the door guard as he walked through the open set of glass doors. He took the elevator to the top floor, and stepped onto Glin's welcome mat. Or at least he tried to step onto Glin's welcome mat. It appeared a certain jealous red-head had slept on top of the aforementioned mat the night before.
"Really, Ronnie, just because she's beautiful doesn't mean you have to lose your self respect."
"Hurg?" Ron queried, waking at the sudden surge of sound in the quiet entryway.
"Darling, this season may be all about texture, but I can assure you that waking up with the imprint of a rattan mat on your face is less fashion-forward than those little necklaces made of teeth that the hags seem to be so fond of."
"Where is she?"
"She's at the studio, gearing up for her first day on the job. I've just dropped by to pick up a few things I thought we might need."
"Really? When'd she leave?"
"She flooed out. I expect she wasn't particularly interested in seeing you."
"Why?" Ron pushed himself up into a sitting position and rested his hands on his knees. "I did all the right things. I brought her flowers, I tried to 'talk things out...'"
"You attempted to make her breakfast and then comically failed?" Carlos interjected. "Sugar, I've heard the tale a thousand times, and from individuals with much more money and charm than you. It seems everyone wants a little insight from a gal's gay pal."
"Have you any?" Ron asked helplessly.
"'Get your ass off that doormat and stop making me late' would be the first little gem that comes to mind." Carlos extended a hand to Ron, and helped pull him up. "Let's follow that up with a 'never wear those socks with this ensemble again,' and finish up with a 'men are so much simpler.'"
"Really?" Ron asked, baffled.
"Of course not, you silly git," Carlos hit him with a shopping bag. "That's my entire repertoire of stereotypical gay advice. Actually, I'd recommend backing off. You're wandering dangerously close to the line between ardent lover and stalker. A girl like Glin needs a little time to think things over. Call her in a week, and check in. Until then, lay low."
Carlos pushed the heartsick Weasley in the direction of the elevator. "If worst comes to worse, just do what she does."
"Prance about in skimpy clothing, taunting innocent, God-fearing men?"
Carlos waggled an eyebrow critically at him. "Plaster on a huge fucking smile and pretend like your having the time of your life."
Sirius Black glanced at the letter in his hand. Harry was getting married and wanted Black to stand with him at the wedding.
James had owled him, too, all those years ago. He'd stood beside James on the Hogwarts quidditch field and watched the man he loved as a brother pledge his heart to the girl he'd come to love as a sister. Years later, he'd stood next to them at Harry's christening. And in the end, he supposed, he'd stood next to their broken bodies as Harry'd screamed into the night.
When he looked at the boy, he saw James. Saw James, polishing his broom the night before a match. Saw James whirling Lily about the dance floor like she was as light as a feather. Harry was a man like his father had been, and sometimes it was difficult for Sirius to separate James, the man, from Harry, the man.
Years blurred together behind a veil of tears, and Black wished once again that'd he hadn't trusted Pettigrew. He'd told James when they'd first become friends that Peter was a liability, that he wasn't one of them at all. But in the end, he had trusted Peter. The lies, the flattery... they hadn't felt like lies at all...
Harry was a good boy, though. He'd surrounded himself with genuine people, like Hermione and the Weasleys. Harry's done much better with his life than Black had done with his, that was certain. Black smiled softly as he thought of how proud James and Lily if they could see Harry now.
He shook his head, refusing to let the tears fall, and began to owl Harry. He'd go to the wedding, and do what Lily and James would have wanted him to do.
A crisp knock sounded at Glin's door and she resisted the urge to spin around. "Carlos, I think they're getting restless..."
"Hush it, and let your lip gloss settle. I'll get it."
Carlos strutted over to the door, and flung it open to find a very sullen Mario standing there. "Yes?"
"Antonio would like to see Miss Goodrich in the studio in five minutes."
Carlos eyed the cranky little man for a moment before replying. "We'll see what we can do." He then proceeded to shut the door. "Throw on your cape, Little Red. The BBW awaits."
"BBW?" She queried as slipped into a red dressing gown with marabou feather trim. She'd make quick change from the rack in the studio when Antonio told her what he wanted her to wear.
"The Big Bad Wolf, doll." He brushed a kiss against her forehead as they stepped out of the trailer, and he murmured in her ear. "Don't let him eat you alive."
Glin pointedly ignored him. "Antonio? Have you made a decision on what costume we'll be starting in?"
Antonio whirled around from where he was fiddling with a camera and having a slightly heated conversation with one of his minions. "Glin, Darling. You're looking lovely as usual. I'm thinking we'll start with the Parfum de Malédiction spot. It's a muggle silent film star theme, so we'll be going with the black dress that's on the front of the rack. Carlos, if you could just slick it back a little, that hairstyle will work just fine. The eye shadow needs to be black to the crease, silver to the brow bone. Lipstick should be a vibrant red."
Glin shrugged her robe off and let it rest on the chair, standing in just her undergarments and stepped into the form-fitting black dress. Carlos reached for the zipper and muttered in her ear as he tugged it up. "Suck it up, Norma Jean. You're about to become Marilyn."
"You're mixing you metaphors," she said with a smile, as she sucked in a deep breath and Carlos secured the zipper at the top of the dress. He twirled her around, and spritzed something on her hair, raking his fingers through it. He finished by wiping wands over her lids and lips and spinning her around to face the photographer. "She's ready."
"Indeed she is," Antonio said taking her hand and looking her up and down. "It looks like you've poured her into that dress. Carlos, you truly are an artist."
"I've always liked to think so," he replied, plopping down into one of the many directors chairs that were sitting around the studio.
