Cherie. A Harry Potter Romance.

Chapter Two.

“Hello, Harry,” she whispered in that satin-like voice of her's, shallow and breathless. She bent down toward the side as she tumbled down the stairs, her cobalt-grey eyes passing from up to down, and once behind her to make sure that the door was securely locked and nobody had followed her, in which she had lost her footing. She let out a light shriek as her sparkling strappy-heels tripped her over her dress, blue as her eyes and looking as if it were coated with a thousand sapphires, and a fell. Harry caught her by the waist as her perfectly choreographed fall halted. She giggled, her sweet breath stroking his face.

“Uh... S-Sorry,” he apologised, letting her astray as he folded his hands behind his back and look everywhere but near her, a blush surreptitiously coming in slow contact with his lightly stubbled visage.

“Why?” she giggled, finishing her way down the stairs. “You practically saved me from spraining my ankle.” Her face, glowing, though pale, manipulative eyes twinkling, and pink cheeks crawling with colour faded into a frightening, solemn look. She came near to him, quickly wrapping her frail arms around his neck and puled, “O, Harry! I heard Draco speaking to his father about you, and I couldn't hear them too well, but I'm afraid that they might hurt you!”

He, as if it were on of the most natural things to do, engulfed her thin waist with his arms. “Sweetie, the, um, the others and I were talking... and we think that it would be best if you left us alone.”

“W-what? I just... I thought that I was helping,” she sighed, letting him go abruptly and looking down.

“That's what we thought was a bit shady, S. I mean... you're marrying Draco and you expect us to believe that you're really on our side? Ginny and Luna are sick, now, and we're afraid that it was because of the food that you gave us.... I really want to think that you're helping, but, I just... It's hard to,” he sighed, running a hand through his messier-than-usual, curly black mess.

She bit her lip and from her gown she brought up seven little things and transformed them to an adequate size. “I know that they're not the kinds of wands that you're used to, but they still work. Be careful, Harry, please; Death has been alongside these.”

His hand drew nearer to them. They were tempting and they could get them out of here. “Harry!” cried a certain girl-who-cannot-draw. “Don't touch those! They can be Portkeys!”

He turned his head toward Hermione. “She's trying to help us, Hermione!”

“If they were Portkeys,” she hissed pointedly. “Her-my-one, then how am I still here?”

Hermione left out a huff, crossing her arms. “Be careful around her, Harry.”

Harry looked down. Could such a little girl be as much trouble as Hremione thought that she would be? Her lashes stuck together in an indescribable wetness as they were pointed down in a determined stare. “Hey,” he cooed, touching her cheek. “Don't cry, Sweetie.”

“I'm... I'm not,” she revolted. “I have to go back upstairs, Harry.”

“Hates to see her go, but loves to watch her leave,” chanted Ron a thing that Fred and George (or is it George and Fred?) taught him.

Harry glared lightly, although it was the slightest bit true. He thought of what she could've been thinking of as she tread back up the stairs, her evening gown so lovely. The rearward cloth was incised down into a 'V' form and fell to the lowest of her back, her his jutting out with her voluptuousness from her small waist and curving back down to hang loosely, but tight enough on her legs. He remembered the front well, with it's bandeau halter top and the slit up her smooth, touchable thighs and the what that her breasts bulged out from their place, her halter revealing only light cleavage.

“Everybody, everybody,” cried Draco Malfoy in what Harry recognised as a faking pleasantry voice and someglass-tapping. “I would just like to thank you all for being here and this is by far the best engagement party that I've ever hosted!” This earned roars of polite laughter, considering that Draco had never had been engaged before. Harry pressed his ear closer to the door. “And also, I am pleased to say that it is also my fiancee's fourteenth birthday. She's so beautiful and I love her so very much.” Harry could hear only a light bit of sincerity. Loud gasps then sounded. “God, Sweetie!” Harry peeked out of a vent that he had noticed to see what the hell was gong on and if Sweetie was alright. “Get a doctor!”

What he saw was completely and of the utmost disturbance. Draco Malfoy holding Sweetie's waist as she fainted. However, it was quite amusing to see him so shadowy.

Draco's head came up, seeing Harry's in the vent guard. “Potter!” he growled, charging into the basement, slamming the door shut so that cracks were heard. He pointed his wand at Harry, however grabbed his neck and pushed him up against a wall. “What the hell have you done to her?!”

“I-I don't know what you're talking about,” he croaked.

“You do, though! I know about your hellish rendezvous!” he seared. “What. Did you do. To my wife!”

“She's not your wife, Malfoy!”

His voice lowered. “What did you do to her?”

Harry chucked darkly. He needed Malfoy to believe whatever he had told him. “I fucked her,” he lied with a sloppy smirk. He watched as Draco's veins puffed out, nearly exploding, his pores shrieking with red hatred. Hermione took advantage of the way that his anger made Draco blind and Stupefied him.

“Run, Harry!” she squeaked, taking off with the others.

He couldn't help but think of Sweetie. What if Draco found out about the notes at the bottom of the platter? He bit his tongue, and ran off, second-guessing himself.