#macru

‘Hermione’s terror at watching Draco collapse onto the table in front of her is beyond anything she’s ever known; it is a bottomless chasm of screaming fear, panic, and helplessness, that renders her mute and frozen for what feels like minutes (though in reality is but a few milliseconds).

Time drips like a slowly-leaking tap, only to suddenly slam back into regular perception with a great whoosh, as the surrounding noisy panic underlines the gravity of their situation.

Draco, hold on– HOLD ON, I WON’T LET YOU LEAVE ME, DRACO… NEVER!

She cradles his limp head, fighting to stay calm and concentrate on what she knows she must do. Her structured brain rapidly assesses and chooses a plan of attack. Yes. YES. This is going to work. It has to work.

Her eyes darken to the colour of bitter chocolate, as she turns her head to authoritatively address the gathered crowd of professors and flocking, curious students.

“Kvothe Flagg, get me a bezoar – NOW. Luna, fetch Madam Pomfrey – tell her Draco’s been poisoned with some sort of alkaloid compound. Neville, summon Professor McGonagall. Cecily, Pomona – clear the room, get rid of all the gawkers – except for that one,” Hermione snarls, momentarily straightening from her protective crouch over Draco’s insensate form to wandlessly pin the ashen-faced, cringing Seventh Year schoolgirl to the stone wall on their left.

“Madam Hooch, grab that little witch – she laced his coffee, and she’s going to bloody well explain herself!” Her tenuously-restrained fury internally snaps and writhes. Not now – but soon. Soon.

“Well?! GET MOVING!” she roars, although Luna and Neville have already raced away on their respective orders...’

“Are you comfortable back there, love?” Harry slows his broomstick a little, risking a quick shoulder-check on the brunette witch snugged in behind him. Pansy temporarily loosens her strong grip around his midriff to make a thumbs-up gesture with her right hand.

“Absolutely, Duckie. This is so much fun!” she yells into his ear. “Faster, please?”.

Sighing his pleasure into the wind buffeting his face, Harry readily accedes to his girlfriend’s enthusiastic request. Taking her home on my broomstick after the Quidditch match was a sudden impulse – but certainly the best idea I’ve had all day. Keeping his strict control on the concentrated magic needed to fly, Harry takes a few moments to simply appreciate the joy of having Pansy wrapped around him, her cheek and soft breasts on his upper back, arms bracketing his torso, and her legs tightly pressed to the outside of his thighs.  

I guess this was what Sirius was talking about, when he was fondly reminiscing about the thrill of ‘doubling birds’ on the back of his flying motorcycle, Harry grins to himself. Not that I’d ever describe Pansy as a ‘bird’ – nope, no sexist 70s slang from me. Pansy makes a slight adjustment, her body warmth seeping deliciously through his Quidditch cape and jersey. Harry’s breath hitches, his ever-present arousal kicking up another notch or four.  

“We’re almost at your apartment – I’ll start the descent in a few minutes, OK? We’ll land on the roof, the Disillusionment Charm is still good,” Harry shouts. Her small nod against his spine indicates she’s heard him.  

He swiftly rearranges his cape before he checks on Pansy. Her long, straight ebony hair has partially escaped the confines of the patterned grey and white silk scarf she’d re-purposed as a head covering, and her cheeks are flushed and smiling. The blotchy cloud cover shifts to allow a thin beam of radiant sunlight to illuminate her from her head to her toes, as though paying homage to her vitality and effervescent charm.

Gods, she’s gorgeous. Harry’s answering grin falters a little as his heart clutches like a missed gear change. He is relieved when Pansy doesn’t immediately pick up on his sobered mood; she flings herself at him, hugging him affectionately.  

“Harry, that was marvellous, I’ve never flown like that before,” she gushes, pulling back to look in his eyes. “I guess it’s not new to you, though; you and Ginny must have zipped around together quite a bit.” She bites her lip, face flushing, as he blinks in surprise...’  

‘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...’

“That wretched bastard is extremely lucky he still breathes,” Draco growls beneath his breath. “I know, I know, I shan’t harp on my fervent wish for his early demise.”

“Macdolas would draw and quarter the fell devil, and bathe in his blood! Use his guts for garters, grind his bones to dust, and– and– urinate on his scattered teeth!” he shrieks, hopping up onto his chair again. All it takes is one stern look from Ruibby for a chastened Mac to clamber back down.

“That’s definitely your last Red Rocket, you feral scamp,” Draco warns, flicking his wrist to magically pour the rest of the contents of the cordial jug down the kitchen sink. “Have you told Hermione the great news about your Hogwarts living arrangements?” he urges, grinning mischievously.

Mac blushes as he shyly reveals, “The Highly Heralded Headmistress McGonagall offers Macdolas and Ruibby a special [his voice drops to a whisper] conjugal suite; Macdolas wishes to formally ask his darlingest Ruibby to do him the greatest honour of living with him in socially-sanctioned domestic bliss, viz and to wit a one bedroom apartment complete with kitchenette, sunken bath and built-in linen closet,” he speaks in a rush.

Oh, heavens! For a moment there, I thought Mac was about to propose! Hermione gently rubs his quivering back as he awaits Ruibby’s response.

The beaming blonde fey maidservant squeaks, “Ruibby asks Macdolas to share her domain, as Headmistress McGonagall advises Ruibby she may decorate the allotted quarters as she wishes… would Macdolas care to help Ruibby select curtains and towels, and further decorate our sweet love shack?”.

With a jubilant snap of his fingers, Mac Apparates to stand beside his beloved, hugging her tightly as Draco is startled into knocking over the basket of fresh, fragrant garlic bread. “For the love of Snakes, Macdolas – give a man some warning!”. He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully at the petite pair as Hermione claps for joy.

“You just screamed a little, Draco – you can’t blame Mac for your skittish nature,” she hoots. “What are you trying to say, my love? I don’t speak Haughty Eyebrow, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t you have a something you wish to discuss with Ruibby and Macdolas, Hermione? An important, timely issue… that rhymes with inception, perhaps?” Draco prods. He admonishes the embracing little lovers: “Look, the both of you don’t fit properly in that chair, and I’d rather you didn’t paw at each other right beside me, thanks.”

Coming up for air, Mac merely smiles beatifically. “’MacRu’ are listening, Your Grace Lady Granger.”

“Boy, that Howler was a doozy, huh?” Neville Longbottom’s mellifluous voice interrupts Draco’s agonized musings. “My Gran’s sent me a few over the years, but I’ve been pretty lucky to not be savaged by prejudiced strangers. Nougat Chunk?” Neville rounds the wide trunk, shaking a Honeydukes bag invitingly.

“Nougat Chunk… what?” Draco dully replies.

Neville digs out a big lump of the sweet confection, diffidently offering it upon his palm. “My hands are clean, don’t worry,” he misinterprets Draco’s reluctance to partake.

“Thanks, Neville.” Popping the nougat into his mouth, Draco is glad its gooey texture makes speech impossible for a little while. Neville chomps into his own piece as the two men gaze out at the Scottish landscape.

When Neville speaks again, his words are quiet and sincere. “I’ve got a bit of a hidey-hole in the next tree over,” he jerks his dark head at the massive yew; a fringe of dense moss partially conceals the hollow within. “Sometimes… I find all the noise and people in the Great Hall a bit… too much, so the elves pack me a little picnic. They always give me enough to feed a giant, if you’re hungry. No pressure, of course.” The Gryffindor Herbology professor steps back with a shrug. “And the hollow’s bigger than it looks, you won’t have to sit in my lap or anything,” he laughs.

I have to admit, hiding in a tree hollow sounds like frigging paradise, right now.

“I’d like that – lunch, I mean. Not sitting in your lap,” Draco’s lips curl in a wry smile. “No offence.”

Guffawing, Neville carefully pulls aside the moss, revealing a cosy nook, lit by four suspended candles. A dark blue and green tartan blanket covers the ground, a wicker basket open in its centre. Neville folds himself into a cross-legged stance with easy grace. “Help yourself, Draco.”

Copying Neville’s seated position, Draco reaches for a sandwich, surprised to find his appetite has recovered. I guess I’ve been more stressed than I realized… though I wish I’d not spoiled Hermione’s joy over her first official teaching day by being a dramatic git. I’ll have to make it up to her, somehow...

“My Gran didn’t really encourage talking about one’s feelings,” Neville comments, almost to himself. “Purebloods are supposed to be proper and phlegmatic at all times – well, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”.

Munching on his corned beef and mustard sandwich, Draco soberly nods.

“I reckon it’d take some adjustment, living and working together… having to routinely express your feelings, when your ingrained instincts are to bottle up the negative sentiments and deal with it yourself,” Neville continues. “I get that.”

“Yeah – I feel like a right louse for having some doubts… I’m raining on Hermione’s parade, and that’s the last thing I want,” Draco vehemently replies. “I despise the fact that my past is always going to come back to haunt me… haunt us, now. What if the parents who object to my teaching appointments come after Hermione, too? She’s already copped flak for being my girlfriend… maybe I should just call it quits now, before anything else happens–”

“Bullshit.” The emphatic oath halts his self-pity party immediately. “Hermione chose to be with you, just as she chose to come here to live and teach with you, Draco. She doesn’t support anyone or anything she doesn’t wholeheartedly believe in – trust me on that. You do her a great disservice by not having confidence in her faith in you.”

“But you just said you understood how it’s hard to open up!” Draco sputters..

‘Harry’s brow unwrinkles as he properly turns to face her. “Hermione… it’s hard to describe, but when I’m with Pansy, I feel like– like I can be the true version of myself… like I don’t have to try to be what everyone expects of me, you know? Merlin, I sound like a callow schoolboy carving our initials into a tree,” he laughs at himself.

Hermione bumps his half-full mug a little as she impulsively bestows a tight, emotional hug on her dear friend. “I’m so happy for you, Harry – and yes, I absolutely get it. That’s how I feel, with Draco… he gets me, and he loves every part of me, even the dark, iffy shadows,” she smiles. “Though I don’t know how long either of you are going to hold out on your tortoise-slow romantic pace,” she teases. “Pansy had a certain… salacious look in her eye, when she was describing how much she appreciated your strength and protectiveness. ‘Salacious’ means ‘lustful’, by the way.”

“It may surprise you to learn I’ve read a few more books since we left school, Hermione,” Harry defends, gulping down the rest of his hot beverage in one hit. “Please don’t remind me of my foolish public declaration to woo Pansy unhurriedly… I stand by my decision, but all the ruddy ‘salaciousness’ bubbling around me is making things pretty hard– oh, shite – forget it, and stop laughing at me,” he places his mug in the sink and keeps his embarrassed face averted.

“Hey – you said it, Harry, not me,” Hermione chortles. “ And you did razz me and Draco constantly, if you recall.”

“No – come on, I was simply trying to help you two idiots realize you were mad for each other – that’s entirely different,” Harry argues. “You have to admit, your mutual delusion was painful to watch.”

“Oh, phooey,” Hermione bats her hand irritably. “We weren’t quite ready yet, that’s all.”

Harry stares at her, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sure, love,” he patronizes. “Whatever you say. No, don’t bite, we should get going,” he offers her his arm.

Cheeky wretch. Let’s see if you’re still grinning slyly after a whole week spent snuggling with Pansy Parkinson at night. That’ll cook your smug goose, my friend.

Pinning together her lips, Hermione nods, accepting Harry’s escort to the fireplace.

“Let’s go, Harry.”

‘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…’