CHAPTER FOUR- Learning Lesson the First
Mornings to herself were a thing of beauty, Gen thought as she stretched her toes to the very end of the bed and fantasized about a hot shower and no one to share with, no one to fuss at.
Mornings to one's self in the Wesley household were few and far between, and she planned on enjoying this one as much as she possibly could. Pleased with the prospect of the peaceful house, Gen treated herself to a long, leisurely shower and then took her time getting ready. In all that time for peace, quiet, and healthy feminine primping, she'd nearly managed to forget the previous afternoon's punishment, the quarter-hour of near-torture she'd spent in the presence of Lucifer himself.
Nearly.
It was in the back of her mind as she ran a brush through her hair, one hundred strokes that were just a little more vigorous than they needed to be, strokes that carried a little more spirit than they ordinarily would have.
Deep inside, Genevieve Wesley was triumphant over the way the encounter had ended. She'd had the last word, by God, and that was a nice feeling.
After all, the last word in a household of six siblings was a rare commodity. She intended to relish it. She still had a little spring in her step as she shut the front door of their small house behind her. And that spring turned to a stumble as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
Of course he'd found a way to ruin her morning. Of… bloody… course.
A startlingly shiny Jaguar sat at the curb, the sleek body glittering envy-green in the sunlight, every inch of chrome polished to a murderously cold shine. The camel-colored top had been lowered, and in deference to the onslaught of the elements, the car's owner had apparently made the spikes of his hair extra stiff, and his eyes were-as usual-shaded from the sun. The black sports coat of his suit lay crumpled in the back seat, and though the day wasn't yet warm and wasn't likely to be all day, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up.
She was rooted to the spot, galled by the sight of that git idling in front of her house. She knew she was staring at him like a slack-jawed idiot, but the dual hazes of rage and shock left her speechless as he tipped down those damnable sunglasses and looked at her.
He'd spent a likely bit of time the evening before contemplating how, exactly, he could play this situation with the Wesley peasant. Only a fool wouldn't see her behavior of the day before as a challenge, and he was prepared to give it right back to her. A Mallory didn't need the pity of the headmaster and he certainly didn't need the charity - forced though it was - of the school's poorest student.
Frankly, Drake was shocked the Wesleys could scrape up enough money for uniforms, let alone tuition and books.
"Climb in, milady," he said sarcastically, gesturing impatiently at the car door. "Can't sit here all day."
"If you think I'm riding anywhere with you, you insufferable, spoiled prat, you're a great deal dumber than at first I'd feared," Gen spouted, finally finding her voice. Ride with him? Was he bloody well insane?
She'd rather bite her own tongue off.
He leaned over then, popping open the passenger side door. "If I understand correctly, you're supposed to be tutor, my mentor. And cor, I just got so mixed up with my lessons last night, I don't know if it's right." His voice was heavily affected with an innocent tone, but the sly look in his eyes gave him away. "I suppose I could always ask the headmaster," he added absently, batting his eyes.
Gen thought she might be sick.
"You are a bastard," she said through clenched teeth, getting in the car and saying a silent but fervent prayer that none of her neighbors had seen her. To satisfy herself, she slammed the door of the compact machine as hard as she could, but not a single gauge on the dash rattled, and she wasn't even rewarded with a flinch. "I don't know what I did to deserve this," she muttered.
He took off before she could fasten her safety belt, sending the wind whipping through the hair she'd so carefully brushed and arranged. "Be a love and check over my cave scratch, would you?" He glanced over at her, his eyes unreadable behind the reflective tint. "As long as you're at my beck and call, I may as well make use of it."
Her only response was to jerk the book from the floorboard and settle it in her lap, taking his assignment out and shielding it from the decidedly nippy wind blowing through the car.
Smirking in satisfaction, Drake rounded a corner with just a touch too much speed and cut his eyes to her. "I knew you'd get in," he said, pushing just a bit harder on the gas as he saw her almost get a good grip on the sheet of paper. She didn't ask why he knew; he hadn't really expected her to. So he kept talking, comforting himself with the knowledge that he was surely on his way to a very entertaining and edifying morning. "After all, you had to satisfy your curiosity."
"The only curiosity I have is how your brain managed to escape your head," Gen muttered, finally pinning his paper to the dashboard and reading it with critical eyes, listening to him with only half her attention as she dug a pen out of her bag.
Irked at her inattentiveness, Drake slammed the car to a sudden halt at a crosswalk, nearly sending his passenger face-first into the pen and paper she held. "Well, what Wesley wouldn't get into my car? Never seen something worth this much money, have you, pauper?"
She gasped, tears starting in her eyes at the acidic comment. Her temper should have gotten the better of her, would have, had the stakes not been so high.
But what she really wanted was to wound where it hurt most, to strike back at his one weak spot. So Gen grinned fiercely, baring her teeth like an animal, and raked her ink pen down the butter-soft black leather of the passenger seat.
It was somehow sickeningly satisfying to hear the almost feminine gasp tear from his throat. In the moment before he could regain his composure, she could see those wide silvery eyes pop to a comical width behind his shaded glasses, five long fingers fluttering out as though to touch the seat reassuringly.
The trouble with material things, Gen thought, was one got entirely too attached to them. The git was making a fool over himself, and so for good measure, she kept the writing instrument poised over the seat of his car, where a long black line now marred the formerly flawless leather.
"Oops. I guess a pauper like me doesn't know the value of something so fine, eh?" she asked sweetly, tossing her wind-tangled hair back.
"I can have them redone, you careless bint," he said through clenched teeth, regaining his composure-just barely-and driving the rest of the way to the school. What sort of a fool, he asked himself, let what was basically a wild animal into their car?
Fool me once, he thought, getting out in just enough time to open the door for her, making a big show of it for all the students who were milling around at the doors. "After you, mi-fuckin'-lady," he said, sketching a ridiculously large bow to accompany his nasty words.
She swung her legs out of the car with his book still in her lap and then stood, spilling the book and assignment onto the ground. From what little she'd had time to read, he'd not only recopied the answers she'd provided him-- he'd done a bit of his own work, as well. Though now, she ruminated, slamming her shoulder into his chest as she passed him, he'd be turning his homework in with her footprint on it.
"I'll see you after classes," she said, her back now to him.
And now that her back was to him, she could allow the shame to come, the hot, angry tears that had risen to the surface when he'd insulted her- and insulted her family. Sometimes the truth hurt worse than lies, and his truth had certainly stung.
But if it was a battle of wills he was wanting- and it most certainly seemed like it, since he'd bothered to get up early just to pester her- he wouldn't be disappointed. She had quite a will to pit against his, and she intended to win.
Angry, speechless, and unquestionably bested, Drake slung off his glasses and threw them into the car, not caring at all for the sound of one of the lenses breaking.
~~~
"What are you doing?"
She jumped nearly out of her skin at the sound of his voice; she hadn't heard him enter the lavatory. "Shhh," Hermione said, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a position immediately familiar to Harry.
"You're not trying something again, are you, 'Mione? No more spells, okay?" he asked warily, tilting his head and looking at the book she held. "'The Divulgence of Divination'?" he read. "Thought you didn't believe in Divination."
Rolling her eyes mightily, Hermione looked up at Harry. "It's not that I don't believe in Divination. I just don't believe in that hack Trelawney."
Uncomfortable, Harry shifted his weight. It bothered him more than a bit to hear her speak so; after all, Sybil Trelawney had gotten it right once upon a time. In his mind's eye, Harry could see the dusty glass ball that had been his-his and his enemy's. That glass ball which had signaled the end of his godfather. The end of his innocence.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said, shutting the book gently and standing to face him. His emotions had been clear enough for a moment, the pain and remembering as apparent as the scar on his forehead. She reached a gentle hand to him, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "Let's just forget about it, shall we?" She forced lightness into her voice, knowing he wouldn't want to be bothered with her latest escapades in self-teaching.
"All right," he said, trying just to let those feelings slide away. After all, he'd come looking for her with nothing more complicated than a bit of supper on his mind. And so they left the bathroom conversing quietly, with Harry's mind secretly on Sirius and Hermione's on the book in her bag.
~~~
"I am afraid I do not understand." Professor Dunmore looked at the school's history professor, his eyes hiding a wealth of amusement and glee. "If the young man has turned in his first piece of homework in a month, how is this a quandary?"
The professor, a harried middle-aged woman with a cloud of frizzy black hair, threw her hands in the air. She'd tried explaining to the batty old man a half-dozen times, but he seemed to be on another plane altogether. "'ow'm I supposed to know it's actually his, eh? Look at it!" she crowed, jabbing a finger at the offending piece of paper. "It's a footprint in the middle of it. 'ow do I know he didn't nick it off someone?"
Dunmore tapped his fingers together, his sock-clad feet dancing happily underneath his desk. "Because, Professor, he has a tutor. Have a little faith."
Knowing he wouldn't say anything worth listening to-after all, the old coot hadn't said anything worthwhile in the last half hour-the history professor got up with a dismayed sniffle and left the office.
Gen Wesley had only spent fifteen minutes with the school's most infamous bully, and yet it was his homework with the footprints all over it.
At least now Albus Dumbledore knew one thing for certain: his beloved students had retained their personalities-fire and all-as Muggles.
Things were going just according to plan.