“Fuck, Blaise, you deserve every horrible thing that woman can dream up,” Draco hissed as he came to—his lip curled menacingly as his hands went to his hair first, only to discover the gummy mess of half dried blood and tangled hair over his right ear. He winced as he tugged the worst of the mess off the partially formed scab. “Bloody terrible friend you are, you great big wanker.”
Blaise merely twirled his wand between his fingers, one hand still extended to help Draco up off of the floor. “Are you quite finished? I thought we had plans.”
“No, no I don’t think I’m finished, because you’re a prat and if we didn’t both have to show our faces at a wedding this weekend, I’d take great pleasure in knocking your teeth in.” Despite the venom in his voice, Draco hauled himself up off the floor with Blaise’s aid—then briskly gave his friend a hard shove that sent Blaise staggering back a step or two. “And now I’m convinced I should leave you holding the bag with the stag party half-planned.”
“You wouldn’t dare. Who’s going to call off Luna the next time you say something stupid? Because there will be a next time and she’s really not as innocent as she looks.”
Draco huffed indignantly. “Are you deaf or stupid? I’m pretty sure she just ended things with you. And that did not sound like a woman who wanted you back. Especially if she’s throwing things. That’s pretty much the grand send-off there, Blaise, chucking things at your head. What the hell did you do anyway?”
“Nothing worse than anything you’ve ever done,” Blaise sneered. Draco paused—sneering was Draco’s signature expression. Blaise was usually as non-reactive as a solid gold cauldron, so a break in his friend’s normally calm demeanor was a sure sign of something gone wrong. Draco had thought that Blaise’s relationship with Luna was just a casual thing, a time-filler, before he was on to the next new thing. Draco frowned; so what did it mean that Blaise was so defensive? He picked up the vase at his feet and turned it in his fingers restlessly before abruptly changing the subject. Better to drop this for now. One head wound was enough for today.
“So, are all the reservations for tonight in order then? And have you heard anything about the return Portkey? I haven’t gotten any confirmation on them yet, but I s’pose we could make do without. Though I don’t much care for the idea of staying in Munich until everyone is sober enough to Apparate again…”
---
Luna sank against the counter until she was level with the lip of Ginny’s battered (“But well-loved!” she had insisted) old cauldron and peered into the mixture frothing happily away on Ginny’s stove. Blue flames licked out from underneath the curved cast-iron belly as pearly blue bubbles rose to the surface and broke with a gentle pop-pop.
“You know, for a means of vengeance, this sure is a, well, happy potion,” Luna muttered, slightly sullen now that some of her sugar euphoria had worn off and a crying headache had set in. Ginny was humming happily, bouncing back and forth between three different books and one crackly, much folded collection of loose parchments. Judging by the torn, tattered, and just slightly burnt nature of the hand-written notes, Luna felt it was a safe bet that they had been handed down from the twins. A shiver traced its way down her spine—a slight bit of foreboding mixed with eager anticipation.
Ginny looked up at her friend, a single wrinkle marring her forehead. “Do you need something for the headache?”
“Mmm, no, ‘fraid the problems a bit lower and more heart than head,” Luna murmured, her eyes going glassy and unfocused.
“Aww, my poor Luna-Moona,” Ginny crooned, patting Luna’s head softly, still preoccupied with her notes.
Luna snorted indignantly, eyes clearing and gaze as sharp as her wit. “Aww, Ginny-Ninny,” she mocked back.
Ginny laughed, the sound ringing out like a bell. “Point taken. Save the mothering for someone who wants to be coddled. Got it. Now, be useful and come over here and stir the potion. Three times clockwise, fifteen leaves of dogfennel, crushed, then anti-clockwise ten times.”
“You’re adapting the recipe for Canary Creams, aren’t you?” Luna mused, taking her position over the cauldron. “How long do you think it will last, though?”
“Right in one, you certainly weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw for nothing. I think it should last about a week, give or take a day. Long enough for him to miss being a human, I’d say. Though what exactly are we going to do with our new Fido?”
“Mm, I vote for shared custody, mainly so I don’t get soft on him. And embarrassing sweaters, the kind with the little bobbly bits and say horrific things like ‘Mummy’s little angel’ and all that.”
“Rhinestone collars and gaudy leashes, I definitely support that. Wonder what breed he’ll turn into though.”
Luna cocked her head to the side, contemplative. “You mean you’re not just going to turn him into a yappy little ball of fuzz of a predetermined size and type?”
“Nope, what’s the fun in that?” Ginny’s grin was wicked now. “What breed of dog he turns into will reveal something about his nature. Lemon balm and chamomile to calm, blue forget me not to remember who he is no matter what the form, winter cherry to stabilize his mood, and just a hint of wormwood in case this all upsets his poor tummy,” she sang, adding in the last of the powdered ingredients and motioning Luna to stir again. The resulting mixture turned dark, settling into a soft warm brown. Ginny lifted a brimming ladle, letting it trickle back into the cauldron. “Perfect. Because it’s just the color of a dog’s eyes.” Her eyes cut to meet Luna’s gaze impishly. “And didn’t you say that Blaise never could resist a good chocolate truffle?”
--
It was late, and everything was horrible, just completely and terribly horrible, according to Draco. He’d been stuck on Goyle watch—“Not babysitting,” he had sneered at Blaise, “because babysitting is infantile”—which was no easy task, given that they’d dropped themselves right down in the middle of Oktoberfest (something else that Draco dubbed “utterly stupid”, given that it was actually September). No one had descended into debauchery, but it was rather like letting a small child loose in a candy shop—Goyle had run here and there, delighted that his two great wishes had been fulfilled (“Just good beer and good food, and no strippers or I’ll get left at the altar,” were the only guidelines he had set for Blaise and Draco) and several times Draco had lost him in the crowds. Chasing him down frequently meant leaving off flirting with a pretty woman to run after his lumbering oaf of a friend. Hardly Draco’s preferred activity. And then, while the return Portkeys had been worked out and functioned perfectly at the end of the night, whisking their small party (and plenty of beer and wurst) back to Zabini manor’s front hall right on time, he had forgotten to account for one little thing—the side effect of Portkeying on a stomach full to the brim with alcohol.
Goyle had been the first to lose his stomach, retching the second his feet touched the ground. Unfortunately for Draco and his favorite pair of loafers, Goyle’s aim was completely lacking. The slimy feeling in his socks and the queasy heaving of his own stomach had him waving his wand with great haste—and in addition to the shoes and the terrible mess, he managed to Vanish his own trousers.
Blaise crowed with laughter, nearly falling down at the sight of Draco clad in just shirt and pants, his pale legs shining like a beacon in the dark of the hall. Goyle and his two work cronies joined in as well, ‘til everyone was lying in one great laughing heap—well, everyone except Draco.
Well, that was quite enough, Draco thought, storming off towards the guest rooms. He didn’t even feel bad as he nicked the box of chocolates from the foyer table for later.
After all, it was the least Blaise could give him after what he’d been put through.
Blaise merely twirled his wand between his fingers, one hand still extended to help Draco up off of the floor. “Are you quite finished? I thought we had plans.”
“No, no I don’t think I’m finished, because you’re a prat and if we didn’t both have to show our faces at a wedding this weekend, I’d take great pleasure in knocking your teeth in.” Despite the venom in his voice, Draco hauled himself up off the floor with Blaise’s aid—then briskly gave his friend a hard shove that sent Blaise staggering back a step or two. “And now I’m convinced I should leave you holding the bag with the stag party half-planned.”
“You wouldn’t dare. Who’s going to call off Luna the next time you say something stupid? Because there will be a next time and she’s really not as innocent as she looks.”
Draco huffed indignantly. “Are you deaf or stupid? I’m pretty sure she just ended things with you. And that did not sound like a woman who wanted you back. Especially if she’s throwing things. That’s pretty much the grand send-off there, Blaise, chucking things at your head. What the hell did you do anyway?”
“Nothing worse than anything you’ve ever done,” Blaise sneered. Draco paused—sneering was Draco’s signature expression. Blaise was usually as non-reactive as a solid gold cauldron, so a break in his friend’s normally calm demeanor was a sure sign of something gone wrong. Draco had thought that Blaise’s relationship with Luna was just a casual thing, a time-filler, before he was on to the next new thing. Draco frowned; so what did it mean that Blaise was so defensive? He picked up the vase at his feet and turned it in his fingers restlessly before abruptly changing the subject. Better to drop this for now. One head wound was enough for today.
“So, are all the reservations for tonight in order then? And have you heard anything about the return Portkey? I haven’t gotten any confirmation on them yet, but I s’pose we could make do without. Though I don’t much care for the idea of staying in Munich until everyone is sober enough to Apparate again…”
---
Luna sank against the counter until she was level with the lip of Ginny’s battered (“But well-loved!” she had insisted) old cauldron and peered into the mixture frothing happily away on Ginny’s stove. Blue flames licked out from underneath the curved cast-iron belly as pearly blue bubbles rose to the surface and broke with a gentle pop-pop.
“You know, for a means of vengeance, this sure is a, well, happy potion,” Luna muttered, slightly sullen now that some of her sugar euphoria had worn off and a crying headache had set in. Ginny was humming happily, bouncing back and forth between three different books and one crackly, much folded collection of loose parchments. Judging by the torn, tattered, and just slightly burnt nature of the hand-written notes, Luna felt it was a safe bet that they had been handed down from the twins. A shiver traced its way down her spine—a slight bit of foreboding mixed with eager anticipation.
Ginny looked up at her friend, a single wrinkle marring her forehead. “Do you need something for the headache?”
“Mmm, no, ‘fraid the problems a bit lower and more heart than head,” Luna murmured, her eyes going glassy and unfocused.
“Aww, my poor Luna-Moona,” Ginny crooned, patting Luna’s head softly, still preoccupied with her notes.
Luna snorted indignantly, eyes clearing and gaze as sharp as her wit. “Aww, Ginny-Ninny,” she mocked back.
Ginny laughed, the sound ringing out like a bell. “Point taken. Save the mothering for someone who wants to be coddled. Got it. Now, be useful and come over here and stir the potion. Three times clockwise, fifteen leaves of dogfennel, crushed, then anti-clockwise ten times.”
“You’re adapting the recipe for Canary Creams, aren’t you?” Luna mused, taking her position over the cauldron. “How long do you think it will last, though?”
“Right in one, you certainly weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw for nothing. I think it should last about a week, give or take a day. Long enough for him to miss being a human, I’d say. Though what exactly are we going to do with our new Fido?”
“Mm, I vote for shared custody, mainly so I don’t get soft on him. And embarrassing sweaters, the kind with the little bobbly bits and say horrific things like ‘Mummy’s little angel’ and all that.”
“Rhinestone collars and gaudy leashes, I definitely support that. Wonder what breed he’ll turn into though.”
Luna cocked her head to the side, contemplative. “You mean you’re not just going to turn him into a yappy little ball of fuzz of a predetermined size and type?”
“Nope, what’s the fun in that?” Ginny’s grin was wicked now. “What breed of dog he turns into will reveal something about his nature. Lemon balm and chamomile to calm, blue forget me not to remember who he is no matter what the form, winter cherry to stabilize his mood, and just a hint of wormwood in case this all upsets his poor tummy,” she sang, adding in the last of the powdered ingredients and motioning Luna to stir again. The resulting mixture turned dark, settling into a soft warm brown. Ginny lifted a brimming ladle, letting it trickle back into the cauldron. “Perfect. Because it’s just the color of a dog’s eyes.” Her eyes cut to meet Luna’s gaze impishly. “And didn’t you say that Blaise never could resist a good chocolate truffle?”
--
It was late, and everything was horrible, just completely and terribly horrible, according to Draco. He’d been stuck on Goyle watch—“Not babysitting,” he had sneered at Blaise, “because babysitting is infantile”—which was no easy task, given that they’d dropped themselves right down in the middle of Oktoberfest (something else that Draco dubbed “utterly stupid”, given that it was actually September). No one had descended into debauchery, but it was rather like letting a small child loose in a candy shop—Goyle had run here and there, delighted that his two great wishes had been fulfilled (“Just good beer and good food, and no strippers or I’ll get left at the altar,” were the only guidelines he had set for Blaise and Draco) and several times Draco had lost him in the crowds. Chasing him down frequently meant leaving off flirting with a pretty woman to run after his lumbering oaf of a friend. Hardly Draco’s preferred activity. And then, while the return Portkeys had been worked out and functioned perfectly at the end of the night, whisking their small party (and plenty of beer and wurst) back to Zabini manor’s front hall right on time, he had forgotten to account for one little thing—the side effect of Portkeying on a stomach full to the brim with alcohol.
Goyle had been the first to lose his stomach, retching the second his feet touched the ground. Unfortunately for Draco and his favorite pair of loafers, Goyle’s aim was completely lacking. The slimy feeling in his socks and the queasy heaving of his own stomach had him waving his wand with great haste—and in addition to the shoes and the terrible mess, he managed to Vanish his own trousers.
Blaise crowed with laughter, nearly falling down at the sight of Draco clad in just shirt and pants, his pale legs shining like a beacon in the dark of the hall. Goyle and his two work cronies joined in as well, ‘til everyone was lying in one great laughing heap—well, everyone except Draco.
Well, that was quite enough, Draco thought, storming off towards the guest rooms. He didn’t even feel bad as he nicked the box of chocolates from the foyer table for later.
After all, it was the least Blaise could give him after what he’d been put through.
Author notes: Thoughts? Likes? Dislikes?
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