Note from Me: You have every right to despise me, readers. You must have thought I'd forgotten about this story. God, it's been so long since I updated. I am soooooo sorry... Words cannot express the frustration I've dealt with regarding my fanfics, especially when I so dearly love to write. My love to all of you who care enough to continue reading. I certainly do not deserve your understanding. :'(
CHAPTER DEDICATION: To anyone who's ever reviewed me. You guys are the best support we writers have. *hug*
If Walls Could Talk
Breathe, Hermione. Just clear your mind and breathe.
Hermione shakily exhaled as she leaned back and tried to gauge the situation. Malfoy's pale skin glistened like alabaster thanks to the layer of sweat that now covered him, and his limbs remained in their stiff positions. He was as still as a corpse, and Hermione briefly had the rather bizarre notion that he looked like an angel who had been tossed onto the earth. She stared at him for another moment with anxiety clawing at her throat, hoping that this was all just a very bad dream, and praying that someone would rouse her from this nightmare.
But hopes and prayers can only do so much.
Okay, calm down. Think. Think, goddammit! You're going to be a Healer!
Hermione clenched her jaw and quickly thought back to the seminar she had attended three months before to learn proper emergency tactics. As her mind's eye began to roll through her memories like an old movie camera, the familiar face of her ever-stoic instructor popped up, and suddenly, the words of his lecture seemed to flood her ears:
"...as you can see, the subject is clearly unconscious and immobile. In such cases where there is no evident cause of collapse, your first and foremost duty is to rid the subject of anything that might hinder proper respiration..."
Without further ado, Hermione leapt forward and furiously began unbuttoning Malfoy's shirt, refusing to spend a single extra second on the fact that she was essentially stripping her sworn enemy in her own apartment. Within seconds, a finely tailored dress shirt and a forest green silk tie lay strewn across her carpet, and a half-naked ferret lay before her slightly quivering hands.
"Once all constraints have been removed, it is crucial to perform a spell that will clear the airway of any obstructions and allow the subject to resume breathing on his own. If the first two attempts do not restart the subject's breathing, then the Muggle method of CPR must be used as a last individual resort before the aid of an expert is required..."
Hermione snatched up her wand from the floor and steadied her hand as she cried, "Anapneo!" With her heart threatening to ram through her teeth, she waited for the slightest movement in Malfoy's chest to indicate he was breathing. When it became clear that there had been no effect, she grasped the wand firmly in both hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and shouted, "Anapneo!" once more, concentrating intensely on the spell as to maximize its power. A small whoosh of air rushed out as Malfoy's lips parted, and his body undulated once like a wave before his chest began rising and falling normally. With a sigh of relief, Hermione sank against her table and wedged her face between her knees, willing her mind to slow down and relax once more.
Why? Why was I so anxious? It was like I'd never even held a wand before... How could I allow myself to be so nervous? I've performed that spell countless times...
"G-Granger?"
Hermione started at the sudden voice and looked up to see Malfoy haltingly raise himself to a seated position. He was still covered by a sheen of sweat, and she could see him instinctively clench his hands into fists to try to stop the periodic tremors that had begun to ripple through his muscles. She darted towards him, offering a hand to help him stand up.
"Listen, Malfoy, we have to get you to St. Mungo's immed-"
"No!" he exclaimed forcefully as he tightly grabbed her hand. "I can't! My m-mother must not hear of this!"
Torn with indecision, Hermione considered breaking free of his grip and calling in someone like Ron or Harry to help take Malfoy to St. Mungo's, but the degree of vehemence in those steely eyes led her to rethink her options. She was also becoming increasingly aware of the heat emanating from his body as he began to shake more and more violently.
"Malfoy," she began gently. "You can't just stay here in this state, and I-"
His trembling hands maintained a solid hold on her as he sharply interjected, "No, Granger! You can't take me there!"
Her voice rose in protest. "But I can't just let you lie here on my apartment floor like this! Merlin, Malfoy, I don't even know what's wrong with you and I'm not qualified to deal with a medical emergency!"
"To hell...with qualifications," he gasped as his breathing grew labored. "Just...do something about it!"
Hermione ripped her hand out from between his and began ransacking her cabinets, searching madly for the stash of potions she reserved only for crises. After a minute of panicked rummaging, she dashed back to Malfoy with her fingers curled around a small bottle of lavender liquid. She wordlessly grabbed his chin, tilted his head back, and poured the contents of the bottle down his throat before reaching for his pulse point once more. The results of the potion were tangible as Hermione felt Malfoy's pulse slow significantly, and she hurriedly braced herself to lift him from the floor and onto her couch.
"Careful, Granger," Malfoy grumbled weakly as she gracelessly heaved him onto the cushions. "You're dealing with an incapacitated patient here, not rolling in the sack with Weasley."
Hermione's response was what she deemed a feminine snort of derision, and she caught a flash of a smirk while turning to bring a bowl of warm water and a small towel. Clearly the dingbat's constitution was no longer in dire peril. Upon her return, Malfoy raised his eyebrows and gestured towards the potion vessel now lying on the rug.
"Incidentally, what was that gunk you just shoved down my throat?" he asked curiously. "It wasn't very appetizing, to say the least."
Hermione submerged the towel in the bowl before wringing out the excess water and regarding him with a grim expression. "Well, it was meant to stabilize your heart and diminish your feverish conditions, but I suppose the fact that your testicles are now a third of their original size..."
"WHAT?"
Suck on that, you little louse.
Hermione struggled to contain her laughter as Malfoy attacked his belt with an animalistic urgency. Then she realized, to her horror, that he would probably expose his nether regions just to ensure everything was intact and in the right form. With a strangled sound, she latched onto his forearm and stopped his frantic quest.
"Wait! Erm, that was just a joke, Malfoy," she said quickly as he froze mid-search. "Er...nothing's going to happen to your testicles. I was just joking. Really."
His eyes narrowed as he slowly drew back and allowed his head to rest on a pillow. "You'll pay for that one, Granger. Cruelty has its limits, especially when defenseless demi-gods are made to be the victims."
Hermione nearly choked on her own spit at his words. "Excuse me? You, a defenseless demi-god? A senile Satan, yes. A lunatic Lucifer, sure. A deranged demon-child, no doubt. But a demi-god? Spare me, ferret."
"I am so curious, Granger, about these little quips of yours," he remarked sarcastically. "Do you really have nothing better to do with your life than come up with insults for me?"
"Shut up, Malfoy."
As Malfoy opened his mouth again to protest, Hermione swiftly launched the towel at his face and effectively cut off what was sure to be a stream of insufferably arrogant comments. On a merciless whim, she took the towel and roughly started wiping his cheeks until a small groan from him caused her to relent.
Sighing, she dipped the towel in the water again and began to softly clean his forehead, noticing that his eyes had fluttered shut. "What did I ever do to deserve this?" she muttered quietly.
One side of Malfoy's mouth quirked up into that bothersome smirk. "Oh come now, Granger," he answered loftily. "It's not every day the average female gets to have the world-famous Malfoy physique all to herself."
Hermione raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, "Is it world-famous because of its anemic appearance? I suppose the general public sees you as quite the medical miracle."
"Ha!" he scoffed as Hermione finished wiping off his face and immersed the towel in the cooling water. "I'll have you know that I was recently voted 'Best Body' by 'Wizards' Quarterly' and I've won 'Sexiest Bachelor of Britain' for the past three years without fail. Now you tell me whether or not I won those because I look like a terminally ill blighter."
Hermione shrugged and touched the towel to his neck. Suddenly, his throat visibly constricted and his hands morphed into tight fists once more. "Malfoy?" she asked, alarmed. "Is something wrong?"
His eyes had flown open at her touch, but they gradually closed again, and he mumbled, "Yeah, no, I'm fine. I just...felt something. I'm fine."
"Well, if you're sure..."
"Yeah."
When Hermione still sat there, unconvinced, Malfoy opened one eye at her and said, "Honestly, Granger, stop acting like a freaking mother and just finish wiping me down. I'm fine, all right? You don't have to look like someone killed your bloody cat."
Annoyance replaced her brief worry, yet Hermione silently drew the towel down Malfoy's neck and across his shoulders. Almost against her will, she could feel every contour of his (unfortunately) muscled body as she continued onto his chest, and the foreign, hard expanse under her fingers left her with pink cheeks.
Completely and utterly humiliating, you floozy. Is this going to happen to you every time you deal with a male patient? Will you morph into an awkward, hormonal teenaged girl every time you happen to feel a few wayward muscles?
Hermione gritted her teeth and wiped down his stomach, refraining from letting her eyes linger too long in one place lest he catch her gawking. She hated to admit it to herself, but judging from the look of his abs, Malfoy took working out very seriously. There was a momentary silence as she focused on nothing but the towel, thoroughly frustrated by her lack of mental control and his stupid, incredibly fit body.
Damn you, brain. And damn you, Malfoy. Why couldn't you just be a pale, chubby slob like I'd always assumed you'd be?
Hermione cleared her throat. "So, ahem, er...care to explain what you think brought on this condition?"
Malfoy ignored the question and leered at her as he took in her still slightly colored cheeks. "Ah, I seem to have had quite the effect on you, Granger."
"Don't make me laugh, ferret. I'm just shocked at how remarkably pale you are. Do you know, you are literally three shades away from being deemed part-albino?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes and answered the original question: "I don't know for sure if this is the real issue, but it could be that this happened because I forgot to take that blue potion."
Hermione frowned as she tried to remember him ever mentioning a blue potion. "Blue potion? What for?"
His eyes glinted at her as he venomously replied, "Just a little something I was given that night your effing lapdog lashed out. You really ought to keep him on a tighter leash, Granger. One of these days, his face is going to end up smashed like a certain bottle of alcohol..."
"Just because you have the foresight of a rabid squirrel and the fighting prowess of one does not mean you have any reason to pin the blame on Eric like you'd done nothing wrong," she retorted.
Malfoy made to jump up, but could only manage balancing himself on his elbows. "Do not push your luck, Granger," he snarled. "Your bloody boyfriend caused me to end up on the receiving end of one of Mother's rants. If this Eric of yours knows what's good for him, he'll stay the hell out of my way until the end of time."
"Well, now, honestly," she remarked contemptuously. "What are we to do if some spoiled pureblood has to answer to his mummy every now and then? Maybe your mum wouldn't treat you like a five year-old if you would stop acting like one."
Suddenly, he was sitting fully upright, and Hermione could see the muscles in his jaw working. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her by the back of her neck, drawing her so close that she could feel his breath blowing into her face. She tried to push back, but the hand that clasped her did not yield, and she was left staring deep into a pair of stormy, silver eyes. He leaned in even further, moving slowly until there was no more than a few inches between their faces, and Hermione felt an odd tingling begin to spread through her limbs like someone had injected a live current into her veins. He jerked back, causing her to nearly tumble across his lap; she was forced to flatten her hands against his chest to keep from colliding into him.
Malfoy tilted his head slightly to the right and asked in a husky voice, "Do five year-olds act like this, Granger?"
She couldn't answer. If she opened her lips, her internal organs would burst out, covering Malfoy with a hodgepodge of two pathetic lungs, a dormant brain, and one highly dysfunctional heart.
His fingers no longer held her skin taut. Now, it was almost like they were caressing her, swirling patterns into her flesh with all the softness of feathers. Hermione tried once more to push off of him, but this time, he used his other hand to encircle one of her wrists, essentially locking her in position. The warmth of his palms felt like fire, but the pressure was not painful...rather it was making her sort of light-headed.
What...what is happening? What is he doing?
"Well, do they?"
She'd forgotten how to breathe. What was breathing, again? Oh right, you were supposed to inhale and exhale rhythmically so that the body's cells could receive sufficient oxygen. Easier said than done.
"Tsk, tsk," Malfoy tutted quietly. His eyes had never strayed for a second. "It's unusual to have you rendered speechless, darling. Don't tell me you're falling for me."
Falling...for you? Oh, HELL NO.
Hermione decided to play the part and throw him off-guard. She tilted her head to the right as well and mirrored his nonchalant smirk, being careful to curl her fingers lightly against his chest. "Oh my," she murmured in as smoky a voice she could muster. "You've completely taken me by surprise. Naughty, naughty," she said with a low laugh.
Ah, Andi, if you could see me now. I should just give up modeling and become a full-time hooker.
His jaw dropped and the hand that had been at her neck slipped off. She smiled sultrily at him before leaning over and whispering in his ear, "Pity...you didn't have that bad of a face."
And before the poor bastard could let the words sink in, Hermione Granger punched Draco Malfoy in the face for the second time in her life.
...
Pain. Pain throbbing in his left cheek. It felt as if he'd knocked heads with a mountain ogre and then repeatedly slapped himself in the face with a boulder. Comfort. Ah, comfort. Wait. Comfort? Why was the pain going away?
Draco reluctantly opened his eyes to find himself staring at a polished black ceiling decorated with silver and gold designs. He turned his head to see Blaise holding a container of salve, his expression an ominous combination of pity and aggravation.
"What?" Draco barked gruffly, mentally preparing himself to battle through another tirade of blah blah this and blah blah that.
His best friend said nothing, and merely set the salve aside before snapping his fingers.
Instantly, a well-dressed house-elf materialized alongside a floating tray holding a bowl of creamy soup and a perfectly baked, golden bread roll. The little servant scurried forward, leading the tray to hover in front of Draco. Blaise snapped again to dismiss the house-elf, and with a bow of its wrinkly head, the docile creature was gone.
"Er, thanks," Draco mumbled as he dunked the bread into the soup and took a bite. He could feel dark eyes drilling holes into his head as he ate.
An awkward couple of minutes passed as the only sounds to be heard were of Draco chewing and swallowing while Blaise sat perfectly still. Once the food was gone, Draco heaved a great sigh and plastered a look of utmost boredom on his face. He cracked his knuckles and stretched out his arms, relishing the obnoxious popping noises that echoed along the walls. He made a great show of rolling out his shoulders and twisting his torso around, basically doing anything that would prove to his mute companion that he was undeniably at ease. Draco contemplated whistling a lively tune to refine his carefree attitude, but something about the way Blaise was watching him gave him a distinctly morbid feeling.
Finally, he cracked.
"ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT, GODDAMNIT, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? I'VE BEEN SITTING HERE EATING BLOODY BREAD AND ONION SOUP FOR THE PAST HALF-HOUR, AND ALL YOU DO IS SIT THERE AND STARE AT ME LIKE YOU'VE FOUND OUT I MOLEST BABY DRAGONS FOR A LIVING! I'VE HAD IT, I TELL YOU! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!"
The other man had raised an eyebrow at the "baby dragons" part, but his cold demeanor never wavered.
"I'M SERIOUS, ZABINI! IF YOU'VE GOT SOMETHING ON YOUR MIND, HURRY UP AND OUT WITH IT. I AM TIRED OF THIS BULLSHIT! I-"
"Shut up."
"HOW DA-"
"Shut UP."
"I WILL NOT SHUT UP, YOU-"
"DRACO MALFOY, SHUT THE HOLY FUCK UP!"
This final roar boomed throughout the room, and Draco was left breathing heavily amidst a whirlpool of sheets, pillows, and blankets. He glared at Blaise with newfound animosity, methodically grinding his teeth with each angry burst of air that pushed out from his lungs.
"Thank you," Blaise said in a clipped tone. He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet at shoulder-width. He looked exactly like an incensed father about to berate a misbehaved child.
"Draco," he continued acidly. "I've been friends with you ever since that time you yelled at Parkinson on the Hogwarts Express for speaking ill of my family. After that, I always saw you as kind of a role model – sure, you had your flaws like having a monstrous ego and flaunting your wealth around like a rotten brat – but in the end, I saw you do and feel things that contradicted how the rest of the world saw you. You had your good moments, fleeting as they might have been, and those occasional gems were what held you up in my eyes." His voice grew softer and kinder, and his arms were no longer crossed. "I remember how you used to run around at night, telling us that you were off practicing with your broomstick, but actually writing letters to your parents up on the Astronomy Tower. I remember how you took Parkinson to the Yule Ball, despite initially deciding to reject her, because you felt guilty inside after seeing how earnest she was about being your date. I remember how you always watched my back, even when I thought that people would rip my guts out if they could."
Draco lowered his head and addressed his knees. "You remember a lot of things, Zabini. But what does all of that have to do with me right now?"
Blaise sighed and furrowed his brow as he squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "My point, Drake, is that once upon a time, you were really a good guy. Like I said, your virtues weren't obvious by any means, but hell...you were a lot better than most of us. My question to you now is, where is that boy?"
Draco lifted his head and stared at Blaise through heavy eyes. "If this is about fucking Granger, Zabini..."
"You're right. It is," Blaise snapped staunchly.
"AGAIN with that woman?"
"Work with me, Draco! I told you all of this so that you would realize that clearly there is more to her than meets the eye, just as you are not a one-dimensional person! Maybe you hate her just for the sake of hating her, not because you genuinely think there's something wrong with her."
"If you think that I'm going to become one of those brainless twits who sucks up to the Goddess Divine of the Golden Trio, you are sorely mistaken," Draco hissed through gritted teeth.
"No one's asking you to kiss her arse, mate," Blaise replied wearily. "All I'm asking is that you grow up and be civil."
"Be civil! Ha! Do you know where I got this?"
Draco swiveled his head around to show his bruised cheek before getting to his feet and saying menacingly, "You want civil, my friend? This is what that bloody banshee did to me! You lecture me on the merits of acting human while the object of your obsession is going around pummeling people's faces! Like hell I'm going to 'grow up,' as you so put it."
"If I were her, I would have done a lot more than just punch you," Blaise spat. "You deserve to be scalped for how you've treated her. And especially after she took care of you, all just because YOU were irresponsible and didn't take your damned potion when you were supposed to!"
Draco opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking back to when he had been lying on a couch, had something poured down his throat, and then had felt a soothing coolness slowly subside the fire blazing on his skin. She had freshened him up, but then something had happened...what had he done?
Merlin, help me.
He'd pulled her in and tried to seduce her. She had been a hair's breadth away within seconds, and he could still feel her palms pressing against him, how his hand curved at the base of her neck, enveloped by that mound of brown hair.
What...what have I done?
Something about being five years old. She had tried to get away, and then...something had gone wrong. She had tossed her hair and leaned in closer, murmuring words in a tone that hinted at unspeakable things. And then...and then...
Oh, right. Pain. Loads of it, really. The impact of her punch had stunned him, and he'd toppled over sideways, thankfully planting his battered face into a fluffy pillow. He vaguely remembered a series of curses going in and out of his ears, but the last thing he'd seen had been a door opening and a dark-skinned person striding over...
"Draco? Draco?"
His reverie broken, Draco blinked at Blaise. "So it was you. Granger called you over to come drag me away."
"Wasn't like she had much choice," Blaise sniggered. "She couldn't very well call your mother, now could she?"
Draco shuddered to think of the possibilities: if his mother had found out that he'd collapsed because of the fight from before, she would have placed him under house-arrest until he was old and senile, wasting away in a mangy cot somewhere without two Sickles to flip.
"Exactly," Blaise said grimly. "You've got to give her credit, though," he added thoughtfully.
"Who, Mother?"
"Nah, I meant Granger."
Of course you did, you wanker.
Draco grunted to indicate his indifference. He was starting to tire of hearing that name.
"I mean, she took you in even after you tried to intimidate her for the umpteenth time, gave you a temporary remedy, and even bothered to have you escorted out by someone who actually cared about you. Doesn't that warrant some credit?"
Yay, the bitch has a conscience to go with that bloody overstuffed brain of hers! Somebody go bring me a jar to hold my overflowing tears of joy.
"Right. And then she socked me. In the face. But apparently, that doesn't matter to Blaise Fucking Zabini because lo and behold! Granger's a bloody saint!"
"Merlin, if you would just listen to yourself. Acting like she's mortally wounded you in battle before. I've heard of bruised egos, but I feel like in your case, the ego's shattered."
"I seriously don't get you," Draco exclaimed in disbelief. "You'd rather defend some arrogant know-it-all with a superiority complex than your own best mate?"
Blaise chortled. "Funny, Drake, I never asked you to describe yourself."
Grey eyes narrowed into slits. "I've had enough of this shit. If I don't get myself washed up soon, I'm going to end up ripping off someone's head."
Blaise shrugged and gestured towards his lavish bathroom. "Feel free to use my stuff. I'll lend you some clothes to change into."
His offer was met with the slamming of a door, followed by a lot of cacophonous banging and incomprehensible yelling. Soon, the sound of running water filled the air, and Blaise slumped against the back of the armchair with his head pounding like mad. After nearly fifteen minutes, Draco emerged barefoot with a towel draped over his shoulder, wearing only a pair of simple black slacks. He saw his friend watching him unabashedly, made a rude hand gesture that would have earned him a tight slap from his mother, and strutted over to the giant mirror that hung on the wall next to a dresser.
"Please, Zabini, try to keep your eyes in check," Draco drawled as he critically examined his unblemished jawline. "I can't handle having another man stare at me with such naked lust written all over his face."
Blaise rolled his eyes and stuck his hands in his pockets as he traipsed over to where Draco was. He stared at the pair's reflection in the mirror, frowning and biting his lip from time to time. Draco refused to acknowledge the unwanted presence, and instead chose to spend the next five minutes fussing over his already immaculately styled hair. Eventually though, the feeling of lingering together in silence broke Draco's restraint and he spun on his heel to face the cheeky git.
"Got something to say?" he taunted. "Or are my pheromones proving to be too much for you? If you want, I can go put on my shirt..."
In the blink of an eye, Blaise's hands rocketed out of his pockets and slammed down on Draco's shoulders before pushing him back until his body was flat against the mirror. Blaise tightly held Draco in place as he stepped forward and angled his head inwards, his eyes never wandering from the other man's. Breath after breath floated onto the glass behind the blond head, and a foggy halo seemed to surround Draco's face.
For once in his life, Draco was absolutely speechless.
"Draco Malfoy," Blaise whispered in an impassioned tone. "All my life, I've wanted to do something to you. Something beautiful. Magical. Something that I think will change the way we see each other, forever. I've yearned to do this for so long, but I've never had the courage to approach you. I never had the guts to just follow my heart."
Draco couldn't say anything. He stood, transfixed by the Italian's fiery gaze, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny voice was screaming its fucking throat out about how there was something terribly, undeniably wrong with this whole scene.
DRACO MALFOY, WAKE THE FUCK UP, YOU NO GOOD SON OF A BITCH! DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?
Blaise roughly steered Draco away from the mirror and guided him towards his bed. Draco stumbled backwards mindlessly, confused so much that all cognitive abilities had been rendered utterly useless. He felt the soft mattress against his thighs and realized that Blaise's hands were still flattened on his shoulders.
The expression in Blaise's dark eyes was one of primal necessity, and Draco found that he no longer could even swallow. His throat had run dry, and the voice in his head had already been shocked past the point of no return.
"Finally, Draco, I've found the courage to do what I've always wanted to do. You're mine now, and nobody, nobody can stop me."
Draco shut his eyes as tightly as he could, willing the universe to unleash all its mystical power and envelop him in a cyclone of hellfire and molten lava. He thought of all the times he'd ever teased Blaise about the dark boy's secret fantasies, how he'd never thought twice about stripping down in front of the person he considered to be something like a brother. He thought of how all his life, he'd never entertained the idea for a second that something other than a pair of breasts could entice him. He thought of how he'd never stopped to reevalute his relationship with Blaise because he'd always deemed the bond one made by common backgrounds (sexy purebloods with neurotic parents), similar abilities (indescribably intelligent, able to charm the pants off of anything with a pulse), and mutual interests (money, Quidditch, and sex – not necessarily in that order). He thought of how -
Hold on.
Why did he have so much time to think?
Draco fearfully pried one eye open and stammered, "B-B-Blaise?"
Blaise grinned a thousand-watt smile and cupped Draco's face with his hands. "You'll thank me for this later, sweetheart."
And for the second time that day, Draco Malfoy was unceremoniously punched in the face.
...
Delilah Skybrook gazed around fondly at her little cafe. She'd just opened the place a year ago, but the customers poured in like ants storming a picnic, and both her heart and her checkbook had managed to find their happy place. She was the owner of "Heartstrings," a cute corner shop that catered to the snacking whims of overly-eager teenaged girls and their reluctant boyfriends. She'd had enough regulars to have learned dozens of names by now, but there was always that one pair that seemed to elude her memory.
They always entered together amidst gales of laughter. The kind of laughter that involved crinkled eyes, rosy cheeks, and lack of breath. Delilah had first watched them with the same tenderness that she reserved for all her special couples, but soon concluded that there was something different about them.
It wasn't that they secretly hated each other or anything. It was just that...they seemed a bit older than what she was used to seeing.
Of course, she had no problem with older customers, but her cafe was known as the popular meeting spot for the young wizards and witches. This certain couple just didn't act the same as everyone else.
This particular evening, the duo arrived in the typical light-hearted state and immediately headed for their regular booth, a small compartment located in the far corner of the shop. The woman was tiny, but her smile and booming laughter eclipsed any issues with her height. The man who accompanied her was handsome to say the least. He had an intelligent, charismatic personality, and his clothes always appeared to be of the highest quality. The moment they entered the booth, their voices were hushed, and the general clamoring inside the cafe masked what they were saying.
Delilah chewed the inside of her cheek, momentarily ambivalent about what she would do. She could already hear her husband complaining about how she always had to stick her nose in everything, but she couldn't help it if her mind sought a bit of insight every now and then, could she?
With a swish of her apron, she sauntered through the cheerful crowds with a tray balanced on her hand, and casually stopped by a table next to the booth. Under the pretense that she was deeply interested in the condition of her salt shaker, she strained to hear what the two were speaking of.
"I just don't understand," the woman sighed. "She's so stubborn, you know?"
"Trust me, I know. I deal with it every day."
"They're so stupid, the two of them. Honestly, it frazzles my mind thinking about it."
"Rushing them won't help."
"I don't care. They're meant for each other, the idiots."
"If only they'd open their eyes for once."
"Bloody nitwits."
The man chuckled. "Be kind, darling. Not everyone is as quick as us."
"But still..."
"I know."
There was the sound of a fist slamming down onto the table. "They're wasting time!"
"It'll happen eventually. We just have to help it along."
"You're damn right, we do."
"Trust me. It'll all work out."
"I trust you, darling. It's those two I don't."
The man chuckled again and then there was silence.
With another swish of her apron and skirt, Delilah pivoted and faced the couple with a sweet smile of obliviousness. The man and woman looked up and smiled back warmly.
"And what can I offer you two dearies?"
...