Cherie. A Harry Potter Romance.

Chapter One.

She was acquainted with him at the Malfoy Manor during the time that she was fourteen. Fourteen, she would scoff; What a terrible age to be at.

She let her bare feet glide down the stairs, trying her best to balance the silver plate of food that was barely enough for one, much less the group of people in the basement. “Je m'excuse,” she giggled in a greetful manner. “Je suis habituellement habille, et generalement bien. Voici un peu de nourriture. Je ne pouvais pas vous les gars bien sans eux sacrement maison elfes remarquant demain, mais c'est de la nourriture, cher. 1” Her comment of her dress made their heads turn down in view of her nearly knee-length, silk, bordeaux night slip and thin, fuzzy slippers with puff balls at the end. Pink. Disgustingly pink. Disgustingly rich, they decided. Maybe Draco Malfoy's?

By the time that she'd reached them, they all decided that she was, as well, enemy. “N'avez-vous pas les gens parlent jamais?2” she cackled, passing over the silver platter to a mostly good looking, but awkwardly standing man with a very stupid-looking scar on his forehead. She introduced herself to him. “Mon nom est Sweetie Boudreaux.”

He held out the platter for all to take some food on a small shelf- really the only thing that seemed to be here besides bricks, concrete, and dirt. She pushed her eye mask over her head, revealing large, cobalt grey eyes being surrounded by a skin void of crow's feet, but many anti-sleep bags and thick, dark lashes. “Excuse me?” he questioned before shoving whatever the hell he could in his mouth with no thought of poison, speaking none of French himself.

“Her name is Sweetie Boudreaux!” Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes as she pushed a cracker that seemed more like hardtack covered with horseradish sauce into her mouth. Sweetie nodded at this.

“Really? Is your middle name Christmas? Do you spit out icing-filled eggs and chocolate bunnies instead of children? 'Cause I really want some,” Ron commented, earning him an elbow from Hermione and a hunk of carrot from Eesthre. “Ooo! I really want a RedVine. How about that?”

“Can you speak English?” Harry inquired, raising his quite thick, triangular eyebrows at her.

“A.. little b-bit,” she struggled. “I can hear it good.”

“You can hear it well,” Hermione corrected. Sweetie nodded in agreement.

“What is your name?” she questioned, not combining words well yet.

Ron laughed at her ignorance, but Harry smiled proudly. Even if she'd heard of him before, he felt special because she couldn't pinpoint him, even though she surely noticed the goddamn gash on his forehead. “Harry,” he replied, not mentioning his last name for the sake of recognisation.

“I never really like that name, but I like it now,” she smiled, propping herself up on the concrete shelf on which the platter had been so indifferently placed and popped a hunk of celery into her mouth.

“Are you related to the Malfoys?” Luna inquired, asking bluntly what everybody else had been thinking.

She chewed on her lip. “Kind of. I'm supposed to marry Malfoy in June.” Harry choked on his food, only but for a moment.

“You're marrying that scumbag?” he gasped. “You can't be old enough!”

“I'm fourteen. I had to get special permission from the Ministry of Magic. And, yes,” she replied. “But it disturbs me to talk about it. Or think about it. I hate Draco Malfoy.”

“How come you're marrying him, then?” It was now only a conversation between Sweetie and Harry.

“I want to marry a rich man. My father is bothered by it. He says that that is using people and being selfish and... narcissisisiteric, whatever that means. I'd always planned to marry an old millionaire that met my standards, but they're all in America and Brazil,” she sighed. “I'm second-guessing the marriage, but I like all of the money and gifts that he gives me. He knows that I don't love him, but Draco doesn't really mind.”

“What if you fell in love and married into money?”

“Then I would be cheating. I was planning to do that, too,” she admitted. (A/N: Virtual cookie if you understand the joke :3)

He chuckled. “You can fall in love with a wealthy man.”

“I've tried and it's too hard. Some are more likeable than others, I guess. But Draco's good-looking, so I figure that maybe I'll love him someday.”

“Are looks and money all that matter to you?” he scoffed, biting into an apple.

She jumped and onto the floor, only to push herself nearly against Harry. “No. There's sex, too,” she laughed. But, after awhile, announced that she'd only been kidding. “I don't know. I don't think that I could deal with being middle class, not even upper middle class! I think that I could fall in love with just about anybody, but I couldn't marry just anybody. How about you? What matters to you?”

“I don't care about money because I would hate to have to be supported be a woman. I think that I would feel like a total douchebag. Looks might matter a little bit. Co-operation matters a lot, because you just can't live with somebody that literally constantly holds a knife to you. And love matters a lot. I won't marry somebody that I don't love,” he explained.

“Not even if they're millionaire inheritants and 're prettier than Marilyn Monroe and young Liza Minelli combined?” she inquired with a doubting snort.

“I'm sure that that would help, but if I didn't love them, then, no,” he admitted with a modest shrug. “You kind of look like Marilyn Monroe.”

She nodded. “Except for my nose. She had a button nose. I have a crooked, small, pointy nose.” She scrunched up her nose to show the effect and to accentuate her statement. Draco's cries for Eesthre were heard. He was curious why she was not beside him and the grogginess was heard in his voice. “I know how to get you out of here. I have directions. They're taped to the bottom of the platter. But, it's in French. Je m'excuse.” 4

She scurried up the stairs, greeting her fiancee. “Bonjour, mon cherie. Comment-allez vous?” 5 She scoffed mentally. He thought that shed only spoken French.

“Je sous tree brien. Et toi?” he replied.

“Je suis tre bien,” she chastised in correctment. “Et Je suis... bon, mon amour. 5” She grazed the aft of his waistline with her mitt while he slytherined (Yes, pun in

tended. Durdurdurdurdur. <3) his hand to her shoulders, her looking up at him with intensity, as if praying to not let him notice the open door to the basement.

1 I apologise. I'm usually dressed, and usually well. Here's some food. I couldn't get you guys much without them damn house elves noticing tomorrow, but its food, dears.

2 Don't you people ever speak?

3 My name is Sweetie Boudreaux.

4 I'm sorry / Excuse me.

5 I'm very well, thank you. […] And I'm... alright, mon amour.

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Sorry, if I've been ignoring you guys. :( It's been almost a month, I believe, since I've updates As They Turn Your Dream to Shame. I apologise if at any time on or beofre chapter six that I call Sweetie Eesthre (like the holiday); that was her original name.

All my love,

G-Bo.