Chasing Angelina

She couldn't eat. The house-elves had outdone themselves, conjuring a celebration feast that rivalled any other, but Angelina's plate remained untouched. Her mum and dad, chatting happily with Mrs. Spinnet, didn't notice. They were too relieved that she was alive and the war was over.

Angelina's throat tightened painfully. She had never told them Fred Weasley meant more to her than just a friend. They didn't know it felt like part of her had died with him, and what remained was a hollow shell.

A ghost...

The thought brought Angelina to her feet.

Her mum looked at her questioningly.

"Loo," said Angelina. It took every shred of willpower not to bolt from the Hall. She walked swiftly, smiling in reflex action when friends called to her as she passed. Once she reached the main corridor, her pounding heart controlled her pace. She ran like a madwoman.

There were chunks blasted out of the main staircase. She manoeuvred around the rubble and kept climbing. When she reached the seventh floor, Angelina dashed past paintings that exclaimed in curiosity or surprise. Only the tones of voices registered. Her mind was consumed in thought.

Would he be there? Was it possible?

If it was, her whole life would change. She would quit the Harpies and apply for the position Madam Hooch declared available when she announced her retirement after the battle. Quidditch coach and flying teacher would suit Angelina. Her future might not be the one she'd dreamt of, but if she returned to her quarters every evening to find Fred waiting, she'd be content.

At the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, the Fat Lady raised her painted eyebrows. "What's the hurry, Miss? If you're meeting someone, they haven't shown."

"Not yet," said Angelina. She hurried into the common room. The second the painting closed over the entrance she cried, "Fred? It's Angelina! Are you here?" Her eyes darted across the empty room, lingering on his favourite chair by the fireplace. She gasped when a ghost materialised beside her. "Sir Nicholas! You startled me!"

He looked at her with such pity, tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear," he said. "Fred's gone on. They all have--the ones who fought and died so gallantly."

"No!" It was like losing Fred all over again. Angelina sank to the carpet.

The nearly-headless Gryffindor ghost hovered beside her. "Odds faith, I am ill-equipped to offer comfort. I have no handkerchief. I cannot pat your hand." His spectral fingers floated over hers. "All I can do," he said, "is to assure you that a ghostly existence is a poor substitute for life, and not something I would wish for anyone as fine and brave as young Mr. Weasley."

Deep down, she knew he was right. Ghosts were only shadows of their former selves. Loving a ghost was like loving a memory. If Fred had stayed, he wouldn't be able to hold her, or return her feelings. His company might ease temporary grief, but eventually it would lead to more bitterness and heartbreak. She would live for the moments they spent together, growing old, only to face eternal separation.

The thought made cry harder.

Angelina cried until soft arms wrapped around her. "Nick told me you were here," said Alicia. Her voice broke. "I'm so sorry. I know how much you loved Fred. I'm so very, very sorry!"

It was a strange solace to hear someone acknowledge her feelings. Her friend's tears helped Angelina feel less alone, and freed her to grieve.

-

Four weeks later...

Angelina sat in the conference room at the Holyhead stadium, listening to her team-mates speculating over the reason for the day's meeting. She didn't comment. She could care less if the club had been sold. If it had, there was a chance for improvement. Even the Cannons had better maintained facilities, and put up in quality hotels for matches away.

"What if Management demands we take a cut in salary since we didn't play a full season?" Jo Evans, the Harpies' Seeker, looked worriedly from one player to another. "It wasn't our fault there was a war!"

Angelina, aware that Jo supported her grandmother and two young sisters, said, "We're the best team in our league. If there's a new owner, she'd be a fool to do anything other than give each of us a bonus."

A low, husky laugh rang out. Angelina turned to see a famously beautiful witch standing in the doorway. "I am no fool," said Dalila Zabini, "so each of my players will receive a well-earned bonus." Her smile was dazzling white against mocha-coloured skin.

Behind the new owner, the coaching staff huddled together, smiling as if entranced. Angelina glanced sideways, toward team captain Gwenog Jones. The Beater was staring slack-jawed like many of the others, displaying none of her trademark aggressiveness. Angelina shrugged. Since everyone else was rendered speechless by glamour, she'd ask the question that was on all their minds. "How big a bonus?"

The stocky head coach edged past his assistants to escort Mrs. Zabini to the conference table. Coach Glamorgan said, "Unless Jones conceded her captaincy, Johnson, you're speaking out of turn."

"Enoch," Mrs. Zabini said in her softly accented voice, "I value every player's input."

"Of course, of course," said Glamorgan.

Angelina had to admire a woman who could slap a man down and make him like it. She herself lacked that ability. During her captaincy of the Gryffindor Quidditch team she had been a strong leader, but not always a popular one.

I admire strong women.

Her recollection of Blaise Zabini's face and voice was uncomfortably vivid. Angelina watched Mrs. Zabini greet each Harpies player by name, struck by the resemblance between mother and son. Both were tall and elegant, with high cheekbones and exotic, slanted eyes.

When Mrs. Zabini reached Angelina, she said, "While I am the majority shareholder, Miss Johnson, my co-owner is the official team manager." The woman looked past Angelina. "Here he is now."

There was affection in Mrs. Zabini's tone that made Angelina uneasy. Maybe she married husband number eight and I missed the announcement in the Daily Prophet, she thought hopefully.

"I apologise for my tardiness. I was assisting the maintenance staff," said a voice like dark chocolate.

Angelina recognised the sinfully tempting voice. It belonged to Blaise Zabini.

She stepped to the side to allow Mrs. Zabini to move forward.

"What happened?" asked Coach Glamorgan.

"A water pipe burst on the first floor. It's repaired now, but the changing rooms were flooded and no Drying Charm can repair the damage. Extensive remodelling will have to be done."

Cheers broke out among the players.

Angelina stood stock-still, grappling with her conflicted emotions. Anger, guilt, and shame tangled together.

She was angry at herself for finding Blaise attractive and angry at him for being there. Did the poor little rich boy ask his mummy to buy the club because he was bored--or because of her? If she had been polite to him at school, that didn't mean she was willing to fulfil his juvenile fantasies now they had both left Hogwarts!

Guilt struck. A part of her had been flattered by his admiration. Even when she'd still hoped to be Fred's girlfriend; it had given Angelina a thrill to know the gorgeous Slytherin boy her friends whispered about fancied her.

Shame knotted her stomach over the relief she'd felt when Blaise left the school before the final battle. He wasn't the man she loved. She shouldn't have cared. The knots in her middle tightened when she remembered all the fantasies she'd had about him. The most recent had jolted her from sleep only a week ago. It had been very adult.

Angelina resumed her seat and deliberately averted her eyes from the two who held every other gaze riveted. The pair sat at the head of the conference table, weaving a verbal spell of promised improvements and financial gains for all.

Not even Angelina was immune. She hated staying in low rent hotels.

By the time journalists and photographers from several papers arrived, everyone was beaming with enthusiasm for the organisational changes. One of the photographers joked that he hadn't seen so many beautiful, smiling faces since the Miss Wizarding World pageant.

Angelina's smile hardened. "We've been promised bonuses," she told the man. "That's something to smile about."

The Quidditch Illustrated reporter turned to Blaise. "How big a bonus, Mr. Zabini?"

"That's yet to be determined," said Blaise.

"Miss Johnson would make an excellent negotiator for her team-mates," the reporter said with a grin.

Blaise looked directly at Angelina. "Do you have an exact number in mind?"

She'd forgotten how fathomless his eyes were. "Yes."

"So do I. We'll compare figures later."

His tone wasn't suggestive. Images of them ripping each other's clothes off shouldn't have sprung to mind--but they did. Damn it. Angelina nodded briskly before walking away. The pitcher of water on the side table beckoned. Her mouth was completely dry.

Nia Capel, a reserve Chaser and one of Angelina's flatmates, sidled up to her. "So what's up with you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?"

Water went down the wrong pipe. "Bonuses!" Angelina gasped between fits of coughing.

Gwenog Jones had come over to lend her Beater skills in the aid of her team-mate. She thwacked Angelina on the back. "We could all use a hefty bonus, Johnson, so make sure you score for the team!"

Angelina hoped her dark skin concealed her flush. Gwenog tended to speak in Quidditch terms. She wasn't suggesting anything improper.

"Are you all right, Miss Johnson?" Dalila Zabini's silky voice rang with motherly concern.

Eyes watering, thoroughly embarrassed, Angelina said, "Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Zabini nodded toward Blaise, smiling slightly. "I'll go reassure my son. He's very concerned about the welfare of each player."

There was a twinkle in the other woman's eyes. Angelina pretended not to see it.

At the end of the press conference, the new owners went around shaking everyone's hands. Angelina froze when Blaise Zabini clasped her fingers and slipped a note into her hand. She palmed it, waiting for the right moment to slide it into her pocket.

When her team-mates gathered around to ask how much she planned to ask for bonuses, she said, "As much as I can get."

Cheers broke out for the second time that day.

Angelina waited until she returned to her flat and shut the bedroom door to pull out Blaise's note. She unfolded the parchment and read.

I'll come for you at eight o'clock.

She read the note several times. He obviously wanted to discuss the bonus over dinner, although there was no mention of a restaurant.

Angelina crossed to the window. Her block of flats faced the water and offered a view of the magnificent white hotel perched on a hill directly across Treaddur Bay. During the press conference, Mrs. Zabini had confirmed purchasing the hotel. Would Blaise expect them to dine in his suite?

Angelina crumpled the note into a ball. If he did, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome was in for a surprise. She tossed the parchment toward the rubbish bin. It bounced off the rim. "I'm not Trelawney. I don't believe in omens," she muttered, marching over to pick up the wad of paper. She started to throw, stopped, and then tore the ball to pieces directly over the bin.

At six o'clock, she was yelling goodbyes to Nia and Kathy, who were going out for the evening. Her friends thought she was planning to take a long soak in the tub. Instead, she took a quick shower, opted to moisturise and powder her face only, and began to search through her wardrobe.

Dark blue denims paired with boots were an easy choice. Deciding on a top was the hard part. She wanted her outfit to say "I'm not trying to impress you," but at the same time, pride demanded she dress attractively.

She chose a bold print top with black and fucshia bands trimming the v-neckline. A spell changed the beads in her hair to coordinating colours.

By the time the expected knock was heard, Angelina had run a dust mop over the French oak flooring, done the washing up in the kitchen, lit a vanilla scented candle, and gathered Nia's stack of Cosmopolitan Witch magazines from the sofa and dumped them onto her flatmate's bed. She felt confident and composed--until she opened the door.

Blaise Zabini wore dress robes. Hand-tailored and perfectly fitted, the formal attire looked so good on him Angelina could only stare.

He smiled wryly. "You look lovely, but I seem to have over-dressed."

"You didn't say where we were going." Angelina had planned to deliver the line with attitude. She could barely force out a whisper.

His self-deprecating grimace made her pulse leap. "No, I didn't."

She bit her lip. "I thought we could walk to the Tandoori restaurant down the street."

Blaise reached up to unfasten his bow tie. "I'll make myself more casual and we'll be on our way."

Angelina tried to keep her expression impassive, as though watching him disrobe wasn't threatening to make her knees give out. She lifted her wrist, attempting to distract herself from lusty thoughts by checking the time.

She wasn't wearing a watch.

"I think it's a hair past a freckle," said Blaise.

Her mouth fell open. "You made a joke."

He unfastened gold cufflinks before shrugging out of his white dress shirt and using a charm to shrink discarded clothing into scraps he placed in a pocket. "Don't tell the Slytherin Alumni Association."

Stripped down to a white t-shirt and black trousers, his muscular body was as tempting as his voice. Fred was gone and Angelina hadn't been in a relationship for over a year and a half. Her fingertips twitched with the urge to discover whether Blaise's smooth skin was as firm as it looked. She dragged her eyes away, pointing toward the door. "After you," she said. "I have to engage the wards."

They walked to the Indian restaurant in silence. Angelina was glad Blaise wasn't the type to fill the air with meaningless chatter. Her first serious boyfriend had nattered on like an old woman.

"Why don't you order for us?" Blaise said after they were shown to a table for two.

"Vegetable samosas for starters," she told the server, "with tamarind chutney, and then Jalfrezi Chicken." Angelina looked at Blaise. "Have you ever tried Indian lager?"

"I'm more interested in the Omar Khayam Champagne," Blaise said. "I remember the name from Muggle Studies. I found it interesting that the man was a scientist as well as a poet." He asked the server, "Do you recommend the champagne or the lager?"

"The champagne! Most highly!" The man gestured to a mural running the length of the wall. "My cousin is from Bombay. He painted the vineyard after visiting the slopes of the Sahyandri Mountains, where beautiful grapes make beautiful champagne. I bring you a bottle, yes?"

"Yes," said Blaise.

A short while later, Angelina smiled as she took a sip of champagne and then dipped the corner of a triangular fried pastry into a sweet and sour relish. "It's the contrast," she told Blaise, when he asked what was so amusing. "Samosas--street food--and champagne. They shouldn't go together."

"Why not? I find the combination deliciously addictive."

The way Blaise spoke made Angelina think of kisses. Maybe it was because she was staring at his mouth. She dropped her gaze to the white tablecloth. "That doesn't mean they're really suited."

"Some tastes suit themselves."

The server saved her from trying to think of a reply. He delivered the Jalfrezi Chicken to their table.

Angelina took a bite of the rich, spicy dish. It wasn't overly hot to her, but Alicia had gulped lager and spooned down yoghurt and rice to "put out the fire" as she put it. Guiltily, Angelina realised that she'd ordered the dish expecting Blaise to be unable to take the heat either. She snuck a peek at him, feeling mean and petty. "Do you like it?"

Blaise regarded her steadily. After a sip of champagne, he said, "On Zanzibar, my mother's family always makes Pilau rice when we visit. It is spicy, and served with a salad of sliced onions marinated in lime and fresh chillies." He speared a chilli out of the sauce on his plate. "Yes. I like it very much."

She sipped champagne and watched him finish his meal, feeling a heat that had nothing to do with spices. "About the bonuses," she said, when Blaise set down his fork, "What are you willing to offer?"

Her breath caught when he said, "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you."

-

-

A/N: I almost wrote "Tell me what you want" instead of "Tell me what you need," but then I imagined Blaise and Angelina singing The Spice Girls greatest hit and before you could say zig-a-zig-ah I changed it. :D Something else I almost did was kill off Madam Hooch. It wouldn't have been against canon. Harry did say fifty people besides Fred, Tonks, and Lupin died. Is it plausible than not one teacher fell in the course of battle? I think not! Aside from resenting the h-e-double hockey sticks out of the deaths in DH, my murderous frame of mind was due to watching Sweeney Todd recently. It had a definite effect on me, because I was humming "We all deserve to die" when the idea that Hooch could retire popped into mind. I had to switch to singing "Nothing's going to harm you, not while I'm around," although that song isn't exactly reassuring. ;)