#blussie

***COMPLETE***

Artwork by @dreamsofdramione

“May I take you on a small detour first, ma petite? It won’t take but a moment,” Draco guides her to the hallway, expertly slipping her tired arms into the sleeves of her (formerly his) black woollen peacoat and buttoning it to the neck. Wrapping the nearest scarf around her neck and popping her favourite knitted beanie snugly down to her ears, he kisses the pert tip of her nose. “Are you warm enough, darling?”.

“Yes, quite – are we going for a walk? You’d best don your coat and scarf too,” Hermione fusses, resisting a little as he leads her out the front door and onto the stoop.

“I’ll be perfectly fine without… and here we are,” he smiles down at her puzzled expression. “I simply wished to take a moment to remember how and where this all began, my dearest love.” Smoothing a few stray ringlets from her face, Draco tenderly cradles her cheeks, his heart in his mouth.

“Two months ago, I found you right here… I thought I was hallucinating at first, or that someone was playing a horrid, cruel trick– you were so ill, and so vulnerable. I was petrified for you, and yet you rallied long enough to copiously vomit on me, and stridently insist I shouldn’t take you to the hospital– ”

“Ugh, talk about a ‘meet-ugly’ commencement to our romance,” Hermione groans her mortification. “Luna will certainly weave that charming vignette into her oral histories, you realize?”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Draco dryly remarks. “As I was saying…’

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994118/chapters/57718516

‘Pansy emits a squeal of pure joy as she spins around, her glee dying a rapid death as she recognizes the witch standing a few feet away.

“Hello, Miss Parkinson. You look well,” Molly Weasley says, her brown eyes slightly narrowed.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Weasley. How are you?” Pansy summons a professional smile. This is unlikely to be an ordinary transaction of goods and services; to the best of my knowledge, Molly Weasley hasn’t darkened my door before.

“Is there something I can help you with?”.

“I’m fine, dear. I’m just browsing,” Molly replies. “This is a lovely salon you’ve created, isn’t it? Must take a lot of hard work, to keep it turning a profit. I’ve heard you work long hours.”

There’s a subtext here I haven’t quite grasped… OK, I’ll play along. Pansy warily eyes the older witch.

“Every successful endeavour requires discipline, and commitment. Luckily, I have excellent staff, whom I trust implicitly.” And if only Bianca hadn’t come down with a bad cold, I could have stayed home and avoided this uncomfortable little chat. Pansy braces herself for the blow she senses is approaching.

“Well, I wouldn’t know: I suppose you could say, my ‘business’ has been raising seven children, and keeping our household ticking along,” Molly allows. “Still, it must be difficult to juggle a strenuous career and one’s personal life, I imagine. Usually one or the other is unfortunately sacrificed somewhere along the way, from what I’ve seen of the modern world.”

Ah – there’s the sting in the tail. Pansy keeps the innocuous smile pinned to her face. Let her say her piece, then; she’s come a long way to do so.

“How is Harry, dear? He’s always so busy, our darling boy… he deserves a partner who understands the demands of his taxing career, and supports him, first and foremost. And of course, he’s had enough fame and attention to last him three lifetimes; more scandal is the last thing he needs.” Molly critically examines a strapless Vivienne Westwood leopard print mid-length gown. “My, this is eye-catching, isn’t it?”.

“Very,” Pansy colourlessly agrees. “Harry’s well, Mrs Weasley. Are you certain there isn’t anything you’re interested in trying on?”.

“Bless you, dear – I doubt you stock anything that would fit, or suit me,” Molly smoothly answers. “Or something I could afford, for that matter. Well, it’s nice to see how the other half lives, isn’t it?”.

“We carry a wide range of styles and sizes, and pride ourselves on providing a piece to suit every budget.” Moving as stiffly as an old-fashioned wooden mannequin, Pansy suppresses her overwhelming relief when Molly shakes her head and begins walking toward the doors.

“I’m sure you do, Miss Parkinson, but I’ve tarried too long as it is. Arthur will be wondering where I’ve gotten to. Good day.” Molly hurries onto the street as Pansy echoes the salutation.

Sagging against the wall, Pansy knuckles at her burning eyes...’

‘Harry coughs a little, his sooty hair flopping over his forehead as he quietly says, “Um… I also wanted to say that– that I’d like– I’d love for you to make yourself at home, at Grimmauld Place, I mean. While I’m away– when I’m not away, too, of course– any time you like, not that I expect you to move in or anything– it’s too soon for that, yeah… but Kreacher gets lonely, you know, and I thought that you maybe wouldn’t mind spending some time with him, in the evenings, he’s a really good cook–”

“Harry. Shush,” she lays a silencing finger upon his parted lips, wondering anew at just how endearingly cute his nervous little speeches always are. He couldn’t be more charming if he actually tried; the best part is, he has no idea how sexy his sweetness is. Such a darling… my darling…

“If you’re certain Kreacher won’t mind the intrusion, I would like to drop by occasionally,” Pansy strives to keep her tone light and unconcerned, though butterflies are buffeting to and fro in her stomach. “I’ve developed a bit of a fondness for your record collection, you see – especially Stewart Rod, and The Windows.”

“I think you mean Rod Stewart, and The Doors, love,” Harry mildly corrects, though she can see the amused smile in his eyes. “I wish I could be there to listen to them with you… I’m going to miss you something dreadful, Pansy. Last night – last night was so special – you’re so special, and I just want you to know that I’ll be thinking of you constantly while I’m away.”

He’s determined to make me test the waterproof assurance on my new mascara. Pansy blinks away her stupid tears.

“Hey – you’d better not, I need you to concentrate wholly on the job, Auror Potter! The sooner you throw these bastards in the clink, the sooner you’ll come home, right?” she injects some spine into her wobbly voice. “Please be safe, Harry. I’ll miss you, too.”

“’Throw them in the clink’? Have you been watching old Muggle TV cop shows, love?” Harry grins, before he folds her back into his warm arms. “I’ll be safe as houses, don’t worry about me.”

Pansy lays her head against his chest, unable to speak for a few moments. How is it that being around Harry always makes me feel grounded, and whole? I feel so freaking happy… but I need to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dr Rica was right when she said the universe isn’t actually out to get me. Urgh, being an adult is hard...’

“Gussie… please promise me you’ll be careful?” Blaise stares intently into her topaz eyes, threading his fingers through hers. “You’re a total kick-arse, cool-as-a-cucumber killer cat, and I have the utmost confidence in you – but I worry about you, darling.”

“I’m not sure about your mixed metaphors there, but I’ll take all that as a compliment,” Gus jokes. “I promise I won’t take any silly risks, Blaise. You don’t need to worry about me, orsacchiotto.” Eh, I hope I pronounced that right…

“’Teddy bear’?! I’m your teddy bear! Oh, Gussie!” Blaise actually picks her up and dances them about his office as she clings to his neck and laughs helplessly. 

“Your teddy bear Blaisey is always going to worry about you – I guess that’s part and parcel of wooing a cop,” Blaise stops gallivanting as he processes his own words. “Cazzo– I’m dating a cop,” he breathes in astonishment as he settles her atop his fancy desk.

“Mmm… I did wonder when that was going to sink in. Do you have something to confess, Mr Zabini?” Gus teases.

“Yes, I’d like to report a crime – Auror Gilmont has stolen my heart,” he clutches at the named organ as she groans. “Too cheesy? Nah, too much is never enough with me.” Blaise links his hands behind her waist, his beautiful, generous lips drifting to within a few millimetres of hers.

“I should go… Kiss me, Blaise,” Gus closes the maddening gap as he happily acquiesces. She experiences a profound, primitive tug that resonates throughout her yearning body, her nerves immediately held in thrall to his touch and taste and smell… even his voice, as he hums in pleasure. Their tongues sensually tangle, their hands avidly stroking exposed skin and gripping strong young muscles...’

‘Draco securely closes their bedroom door; Hermione lazily tilts her head against the lip of the big claw foot tub, as he brings in the refreshments to the ensuite bathroom.  

“Have they settled down, do you think?” she enquires, as Draco sets the crockery and tumbler to magically hover beside the bath. Passing her two tablets of ibuprofen, he watches approvingly as Hermione ingests and washes them down with water.

Efficiently stripping off his suit and shirt, Draco bundles all the garments onto the vanity. Hermione watches avidly, her waning energy receiving a boost from the sight of all that creamy, muscled skin. He is (as ever) supremely unselfconscious in his nudity, pacing about the bathroom with an economy of movement and unstudied grace.

“Who, Lilliputian Romeo and Juliet? I truly hope so, Granger.” Draco seems unconscious of her lascivious regard as he lobs his footwear near the sink. “I should have specified ‘no sugar’ before we left for the Gala – the little devils took full advantage of our absence to run amok.”

Hermione draws up her legs in the hot, perfumed water, expecting Draco to join her; instead, he kneels on the side opposite the floating tea and biscuits.

“Have a sip, and a chocolate-dipped shortbread, ma petite,” he encourages, wetting her special soap and diligently beginning to wash her feet. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Won’t you join me? In the bath proper, please,” Hermione purses her mouth into a beseeching little moue, pouting properly when he merely smiles and continues lathering her calves.

“I want to be a solicitous, caring boyfriend – and take proper care of my sore, tired, brave little witch,” he explains. “And don’t give me those bedroom eyes, sweetheart… you’ve been running on fumes for the last hour, and you need to relax and regenerate.”

I won’t admit that he’s right… but I am starting to flag. Hermione sighs, reaching a hand to collect and sip at her chamomile tea. She dips a biscuit into the hot beverage, nibbling contentedly. Draco moves his attentions to her thighs, assiduously soaping her stomach and paying particular attention to her breasts, his eyes unblinking.

“You’re very thorough, Draco,” Hermione murmurs, as he makes yet another swirling pass around her nipples. He never fails to arouse me, though I’m too tired to do anything about it, she sighs to herself.

“Attention to detail – it separates the good from the great,” he replies….’

‘George Weasley bids him farewell, leaving Blaise alone in the shower stalls. Sticking his sore head back under the lukewarm spray, Blaise moans as he is finally able to give voice to his many aches and pains. Was that a friendly Quidditch match, or all-out warfare? Thank Merlin Draco finally snaffled the Snitch and pulled me out of the line of fire. He prods gingerly at his bruised eye socket. That bastard Faulkner was lucky the referee missed his blatant elbow to my cheek. Dirty pool, indeed.

I hope Gus doesn’t think less of me for being an – well, let’s say, ‘erratically brilliant’ Beater, he sombrely ponders. I certainly had my arse handed to me on a platter today. At least she didn’t seem to delight in the stuffing being pummelled out of me.

“Zabini? Have you drowned in there?”. Blaise skitters away from the taps at the sound of Gus’s voice, snatching up his towel to wind around his hips. He secures the ‘garment’ just before she rounds the corner.

“Gussie! What if George or Puck were still in here? Or Draco?” Blaise squeals. “Just give me a minute, alright?”. He can’t meet her eyes as an unfamiliar emotion takes hold. Am I feeling… self-conscious? Me? I guess being mercilessly hunted around the Quidditch pitch for the last ninety minutes might have dinged my self-assurance a tad. Keeping his back turned, he begins to sidle toward the cubicle containing his clothing.

“Untwist your knickers – I saw George and Puck leave, and Draco bolted out of here as soon as Hermione Disapparated home, OK? I gave you plenty of time to make yourself decent – Blaise, your ribs!” Gus gasps; her cool, nimble fingers stroke the huge bruise along his side as he freezes mid-step. “Why didn’t you see the Healer? Our Keeper Amy did, and she only had a split lip,” she chides. The palpable concern in her voice clogs his throat.

“Didn’t– I didn’t want to be late. For our picnic,” he rattles out, automatically closing his eyes as she gently runs her hands over his bruised skin. “Gelsy can fix me up when we get home tonight.”

“By Rowena, Blaise – your health is more important than a few sandwiches and home-made lemonade! Stay still – I’m healing you right now.” Gus whips out her wand, chanting “Episkey” until she is satisfied that every wound and contusion is repaired.

“But they’re really good sandwiches, Gus; Gelsy even garnished them with a sprig of parsley,” Blaise wisecracks, chancing a quick peek at her frowning face. “I’m fine, really. Thank you, Gussie.”

He carefully slides his left hand onto the sweet curve of her jeans-clad hip, loving how warm she feels. He sucks in a startled breath as she mimics his movement, resting her palm on his taut stomach, just above the thick towel’s upper edge.

“Isn’t it tradition, to award the victor a kiss?” Gus languorously asks, settling her other hand on his damp chest. “Congratulations, Blaisey.”

Breathtakingly aware of every tiny detail of the woman before him, Blaise’s anticipation reaches hitherto unknown heights. The world narrows down to the few square feet of their interaction. Frightened to speak – Gods, I’m petrified to breathe too loudly – lest Gus change her mind about bestowing him a kiss, Blaise keeps perfectly still, only his long dark eyelashes jittering as he watches her shuffle ever nearer.

“You’re so sexy, Blaise… especially now, when you’re not trying to be,” Gus purrs, her fingertips setting him aflame with the tiniest of rotations; she watches in fascination as his lower abs contract and relax with every miniscule sweep. “I guess I expected you to be blasé about the whole sexual attraction thing, given our inequal levels of experience… but you’re amazingly receptive, aren’t you?”.

“To– to you– I’m receptive to you – of course I am,” Blaise somehow manages to rasp a reply. “I burn for you, Gussie. I’ve never felt like this with another woman, ever. It’s not a line… please believe me, la mia splendida ragazza.”

“What does that mean?” she wonders, so near now that he can clearly note the darker bark-brown ring around each of her stunning topaz irises. “’La mia splendida ragazza’? I can guess the splendid part, but ‘ragazza’?”.

“It means ‘my gorgeous girlfriend’,” Blaise whispers. “I’d love to make it the truth, Gussie.” He holds his breath as it is her turn to freeze. Why did I have to blurt out that?! I’m an overeager idiot, obviously. His heart crumples as Gus remains rooted in place. Just as he miserably decides he’s gone too far, her mouth urgently crashes onto his.

Elated, Blaise follows her lead. Finesse forgotten, he tangles his tongue with her darting one, sucking hotly. Her hungry hands seem determined to inventory every inch of his flesh, starting with his tight belly. It takes all of his willpower to not thrust mindlessly against her as she squeezes, strokes, and even scratches his bared skin with her short nails. Blaise’s hands tremble as they settle on her shoulders, lightly gripping at the soft cotton of her simple black t-shirt…’

“Oh, really? Tell me, Malfoy… do you accept cash… or kind?” Hermione licks her lips excruciatingly slowly, taking care to seductively trace the outer borders of each vermilion-daubed labium. Draco watches raptly, entranced by the impromptu show.  

“Hunnnhhh… what? Kind – I accept payment in kind,” he gabbles, as Hermione leans close enough to kiss him… but doesn’t.

“Did you enjoy the lamb?” she enquires coquettishly.

“The lamb?” Draco repeats insensibly.

“Your main – the slow-grilled leg of lamb with minty yoghurt and salsa verde,” Hermione nods to the nearly empty plate before him.

“Yes, yes – the lamb was delectable… but I’d much prefer to be nibbling the leg of a certain two-legged curly-haired creature right now,” Draco decides to fight fire with fire. Hermione’s mouth gapes at his salacious intimation.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t wriggling helplessly in your chair every time you think about what I told you I intend to do to you tonight, Granger… I bet if I were to slide my fingers beneath that maddening slit in your superb dress, and run them up to the juncture of your thighs… slip my fingertips betwixt your smooth skin and hot little knickers… I’d find you wet and needy for me… wouldn’t I, sweetheart? Would you like me to demonstrate?” Draco quickly arranges the draped edge of the thick white tablecloth to better cover both their laps, his breathing already shallow and irregular.

Hermione turns the tables on him before he can set his lascivious plan into motion; Draco freezes as her agile little fingers scurry beneath his black outer robes and unerringly locate the buttoned fall of his trousers. She rubs the hefty bulge beneath once, twice, before her hand scrabbles at the buttons and undoes the top two, slipping inside his pants and cupping him tightly through the last layer of his fitted cotton boxers.

Gripping the edge of the table for dear life, Draco can do naught but vaguely stare straight ahead; Hermione’s incendiary words are a warm torment in his ear.

“Try to look natural – there you are, breathe, mon chéri,” she murmurs huskily, her clever fingers finding and opening the single button on the boxers, until they are skin-to-skin. “You’ve been quite the tease tonight, Draco… whispering your filthy sweet somethings in my ear, riling me up until I am indeed antsy with the need to be with you… to claim you too, my handsome, sexy wizard…”

‘Can I really trust him, though? Gus asks herself. I loathe feeling vulnerable… or being dependent on anyone bar myself.

“You can trust me, Gus. I won’t let you down,” Blaise uncannily echoes her recent thought processes.

“Did I say something aloud?”. The query spills from her surprised lips before she can censor it.

“No – are you alright, Gussie?” Blaise shuffles closer; before she can change her mind and warn him of the couch’s centre sag, he falls right into it – like a man sinking into quicksand, Gus observes. She is unable to quell her helpless laughter as he flails in astonishment, his long legs humorously concertinaing underneath him.

“Help! It’s got me!” Blaise bellows, his thrashing arms managing to snaffle her hands; he tugs her on top of him, continuing to writhe beneath her as he fights to get clear of the structural weakness. “What’s happening, woman?! Get me out of this brown monster, I beg you, Gussie!”.

“Stop fighting it! It’s like a riptide at the beach, Blaise – the more you struggle against it, the deeper it takes you,” Gus gasps. Even through her robes and underclothes, she is intensely aware of his hard male body rubbing and threshing against hers… making her breasts ache, and her sex throb. She tries to roll off him onto the floor, but his grip doesn’t ease as he holds her semi-flush against him.

“The trick is to wiggle your bum free, and the rest follows,” Gus imparts, her hands reaching beneath them for Blaise’s buttocks and grasping firmly. “Oh! Sorry – I wasn’t thinking – ” She snatches away her hands, her cheeks flame as she recognizes her overstep (and the singular sensation of his powerful musculature beneath her tingling fingers).

“Keep ‘not thinking’, Gussie… let’s try that again… relax, mia bella guerriera,” he whispers, keeping his eyes open as he strains upward, gently hovering just under her parted mouth. Blaise’s breath puffs against her lips, as she jettisons her last fetters of restraint.

Cupping her hands around his tight rump again, Gus manages to pull him up and out of the cavity, rolling them toward the lip of the couch. They lie facing each other, both panting shallow breaths, imbued with arousal and anticipation. Her red work robes are hopelessly tangled between his long legs, though she knows Blaise would release her immediately if she asked.

Eager to sample his beautiful mouth, Gus foregoes subtlety, sealing their mouths with a long, fierce, molten kiss that sends lust rushing headlong through her sparking nervous system. By Rowena, the man tastes like pure temptation – and I’m dying to take another bite. Changing the angle of her vigorous kiss, Gus revels in Blaise’s arms tightening around her, clamping her nearer to his powerful physique.

We’re almost of a height… everything fits, Gus wonders...’