Engaged

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Chapter Three

Jealousy is dangerous. Envy is poison.

DARREN SMITH

The crystal chandelier hung high above the ceiling, illuminating the room with its magnificence. There were waiters serving tall, sleek glasses of champagne, the golden sizzle proving it to be not only of high quality, but magical. A slow, melodious music played in the background, from the corner of the lobby, where the musicians performed, oblivious to the moving crowds before them. They were lost in their music, timelessly entranced. Everyone was dressed in suits and elegant attires, each looking glamorous.

It was all Hermione's idea, of course. She wanted everyone to meet her fiancé, and had decided to congregate people to a gathering, for a proper introduction. After all, they were getting married, and it wouldn't do if nobody knew him. She cared a great deal about Harry's opinion, and was simply dying for Harry to meet Darren. On the other hand, however, he was not at all interested in meeting the bloke. In fact, it was probably the last thing he wanted to do. Still, for Hermione's sake, he agreed to throw a banquet at his mansion.

Harry was sitting at the bar near his private living room, unseen by the rest of the wizards and witches. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention to himself. Harry ran a hand through his thick, soft hair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Quietly sipping a cocktail, He observed the crowd, his gaze lingering on only one person he cared about. Hermione was biting her lip in nervousness, looking quite distressed. She was dressed in white, her gown made of satin and silk, making her skin look translucent. There were jewels sewn into the low V-neck of the evening dress, which matched her diamond necklace and earrings perfectly. Her dark brown hair tumbled over her back in curls, wild and messy. She turned her back to Harry, totally unaware of the fact that he was gawking at the slim line of her figure.

Darren had failed to arrive on time. He was "approximately" twenty minutes three seconds and thirteen milliseconds late. And no, Harry was not counting. He wanted to clap in glee at Darren's tardiness, since it was obviously an indication of rudeness. But he was immediately guilty at having felt so. Because he was sorry for Hermione. She was trying so hard to please him.

The guests left their seats one by one, now navigating to the dance floor, where they slowly waltzed. Harry spotted Ron in the near center of the room, a pretty blonde in his arms, swaying in rhythm to the music. Couples quickly identified themselves, rested in each other's embrace. Harry found himself feeling embarrassed. Wondering what caused the reaction; he stood up, straightened his posture, and strolled off into the crowd. He was recognized, then flattened against the wall by admirers and attractive women, practically kissing his feet.

Harry was about to leave the throng when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning around, he quickly acknowledged the stunning beauty before him as Auhurel, an Auror he had dated years before. She was a blonde, with natural highlights. She had piled her hair on top of her head, and long tendrils that slipped from the clasp framed her high cheekbones. Smiling gently, Harry nodded at her. She slipped her arms around his neck, her gaze in a deadlock with his.

"Dance with me," she whispered, giving him a mysterious smile.

Her voice was cool and feline, a silky whisper that caused Harry to feel both annoyed and light-headed. He gave no resistance. She dragged him towards the dance floor, and started to flirt with him, staring up at his face and blinking rapidly. Her garments were hardly suitable for the formal ball. Her shirt was filmy, and Harry could tell that she wasn't wearing a bra. She flashed her legs eagerly, and pressed her body so close to his that he wondered if she had splattered glue all over herself. Harry was faintly disgusted. But she was gorgeous. Anything would do.

Her face was now so close to his; he could feel her breath on his neck. She smelled like expensive perfume. The song was slowing to an end. She looked up at him, her blonde hair silver in the light, her startling blue eyes exploding with sexual longing.

With something like an animalistic leap forward, she pressed her lips against Harry's. Before he even had a chance to react, her tongue was already exploring his mouth. He didn't protest. Harry was suddenly pleased with the idea of comfort sex. It was going to be just a fling, but he was in desperate need of one. He needed someone to take his mind off Hermione, along with the certain acquired knowledge. So he did nothing. She arched her body towards him, and was kissing so hard that Harry's mouth began to feel sore. He pushed her away first. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his lips red, his mouth aching.

"You haven't changed." Auhurel said breathlessly, her flawlessly applied lipstick now smeared around her mouth. She smiled a little dazedly, and grinned like she had turned dumb. She was still breathing heavily, her eyelashes slightly wet, her eyes gleaming. Harry was almost intimidated by her appetite, but his confidence allowed him to keep his dignity. He gave her a smile, and leaned to whisper in her ear.

"You know where to find me."

From the corner of his eye, he saw a stir amongst the crowd. It could only signify one thing. So, Harry thought, the mule finally arrives. He observed the figure that stood distinguished in the crowd, cursing under his breath. He was standing too far away for Harry to get a clear view of his face. Auhurel turned her head towards the man's general direction. Looking slightly interested, she turned back to Harry, watching the change of his expression.

"What's wrong?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

It took seconds before Harry turned back to face her.

"Nothing," he lied, smiling tightly. He stopped a passing waiter, taking the champagne off the silver tray, and drained the glass in one gulp. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve in a manner that was barbaric, he half-threw the glass back onto the tray, and dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand. Auhurel watched him with curiosity, looking mildly startled.

Harry could see that Hermione had steered Darren towards his direction. The couple was now moving towards him, past the guests that stopped them occasionally to shake hands and exchange a few words. Harry turned his back towards them, his heart slowly sliding to the pit of his stomach. He dreaded the final confrontation. What could he possibly say to the mule? Congratulations, fucker, you're marrying my best friend. Smiling bitterly at the marble tiles beneath his feet, Harry pushed a tangle of black curls from his eyes, pushing it from his forehead. He was counting the seconds in his head, though he was positive that it was not going to be accurate. He suspected that he was counting too fast.

Harry smoothed his tailored suit, and stood straight, squaring his shoulders. Auhurel made an attempt to fix his messy hair, smiling coyly. Perhaps she had caught on. She then walked away from him, pointing to her messy lipstick, heading towards the restroom and winking over her shoulder. He watched her shadow disappear in the crowd, feeling slightly lost with himself.

"Harry?"

Responding automatically to the familiarity of Hermione's voice, he turned around to face her, smiling. But as soon as he made an about-face, his smile rapidly evaporated.

It was him.

Standing next to his best friend was her fiancé, the legendary Darren Smith. And very much to Harry's frustration and displeasure, he was every bit as perfect as described. The Mule was a Greek god. His sandy colored hair was sleeked back, and his enchanting blue eyes bore directly into Harry's. It was disturbing, almost. Darren smiled, and Harry suddenly felt very ugly. BLOODY FUCK.

Darren extended a big hand. Harry took it in his, hoping that his pasted smile wouldn't fail him. With crushing force, Darren shook his hand, then released it. Harry fought the urge to scream aloud. The war had only begun.

"Hello," Harry said with easy politeness, noticing his inferior height compared to The Mule.

"Nice to meet you." Darren replied, smiling. His voice came out an octave lower than Harry's, yet was smooth as silk, and rich as dark chocolate.

Harry felt liking telling him to shut up for the rest of the night.

Popping out from behind Harry, Ron came up and stood next to him, leaning slightly on Harry's shoulder, beaming at Hermione and Darren. Harry's face had already turned sulky, and his eyes had the impenetrable look of a murderer. Ron patted Harry on the back, as if to console him and put him at ease.

"Well, well, well," Ron said cheerily, "if it isn't Darren and Herms." Ron laughed, watching the dangerous expression on Harry's face, noticing that his jaw was clenched tightly. Stepping sharply on Harry's foot, Ron forced a few words out of his mouth.

"Yes, we've all heard so much about you." Harry added bitterly, wincing a little.

"Of course you have. We are, after all, getting married."

Thanks for the bloody reminder, MULE.

Harry turned his head towards Hermione helplessly, wishing she would cause some sort of distraction so he wouldn't have to continue the conversation with the mule. She only gazed at Darren in adoration, her expression a mixture of pleasant reassurance and comfort.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Auhurel entered the scene. Her lipstick had been reapplied perfectly, and she had loosened her hair, so it was a golden cloud that floated around her face. She slipped beside Harry, and put a manicured hand on Harry's chest, flashing Darren a cold and fatal smile. Hermione looked at her with interest, though her smile did not falter in the least. For some reason he could not explain, Harry felt himself deflate in disappointment. Hermione had never been jealous of his girlfriends. Auhurel looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to introduce her to the engaged pair.

"Um, this is Auhurel. She's an Auror." Harry said uncertainly. Ron looked like he had a hard time taking his eyes off her chest, but Darren looked otherwise unperturbed. The Mule slipped a hand around Hermione's waist, pulling her closer to him. She blushed furiously, her gaze cast to the floor. Harry had the sudden flashback of himself holding the frying pan in his hand, with his arm around Hermione's slim waist.

"Charming," Darren drawled, nodding his head at her.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You look familiar," she commented, "did you two date before?"

"Yes, three years back. I met Harry on one of his secret missions," Auhurel replied, her voice silky. Ron squirmed comfortably beside her, his eyes still glued to her body.

"No wonder," Hermione said, smiling. "I thought I've seen you before. Once or twice."

Auhurel looked as if she had been insulted. Her lips were curving into a snarl.

"And I remember you, too, vaguely. The friend of Harry's. I don't think he ever mentioned you much in his conversations." Auhurel snapped.

"That's hardly surprising," Hermione replied, oblivious to the previous insult. "Harry's always so busy with his work."

"Oh?" Darren interjected, looking interested, "What do you do for a living, Potter?"

Stay out of my business.

"I work for the ministry." Harry answered curtly, not wanting to elaborate.

"And what kind of job do you have at the ministry? What do you do?" Darren pressed on, either out of personal interest or out of personal interest in pissing Harry off.

"I'm the SA. Specialized Auror. Basically, I track down anyone who works for Voldemort, and put them in Azkaban, where they belong."

"Interesting," Darren smirked, wearing the your-job-is-lame expression.

"Believe in justice, don't we?"

There was no mistaking the mockery in his tone.

"And I suppose you think you're so much better, don't you?"

It took two seconds for Harry to realize he had said this aloud. Hermione looked shocked, Darren surprised, and Ron highly entertained.

"Excuse me?" Darren asked incredulously.

"Are you any better? I shouldn't think so, if I were in your position. After all, you are only a weenie Quidditch player," Harry replied, his anger having caught up with him.

"Really, Potter, I have no idea what you're talking about - "

Harry slammed Darren against the wall. He lifted Darren by the collar, as if the action was effortless. His face was a mask of evil cruelty and hatred. He felt like spilling blood.

"You don't know me at all, bastard. You have no idea of what I am capable of, where I live, where I go, and what I do. I don't plan on ever informing you, either. So right now, why don't you just wipe that smirk off your face, and shut the fuck up."

It was Hermione's shrill voice that brought him to his senses. She stepped up behind him, and slapped Harry hard. Harry didn't blink. He stared at her moistened eyes, on the brink of tears, wondering why he suddenly felt so lost.

"What's wrong with you?" Hermione screamed, though she didn't expect an answer. Harry was immobile for a long moment. He silently stared at Hermione's face, still beautiful in his eyes, suddenly hating himself. Harry loosened his grip on Darren's collar, knowing full well that his face was burning in shame. Darren coughed and straightened himself, rubbing his neck slowly. Hermione was instantly all over him, touching his cheek tenderly, while giving Harry glares that he did not dare look up to receive.

Harry looked up at Hermione, catching her glare that shot daggers in his heart. He had to mend the situation, to make it up to her, to let her know what he felt. Unconsciously, he extended his hand, touching her face. She slapped at him, heavy enough to make him flinch and pull his arm back.

"Don't touch me," she growled, disgusted.

There was no mistaking now, that he was nothing compared to Darren. Realization ripped through him, and he shook violently, wanting to hug himself. His head felt like it had been slamming against a brick wall. All he felt was a numbing pain, a shock that scarred his mind. Her words sounded so trivial. So insignificant. She wouldn't understand. She could never. That it meant so much more to him than just a biting comment.

Harry could feel the eyes drawn towards him. The staring, unbelieving eyes, terrified and confused at the events that had just taken place. Ron was silent beside him, mutual, not taking any sides. He was suddenly bared. He felt like slipping through the floor beneath him, so he could disappear and never see anyone again. It was, truly for the first time, that he had lost his temper so disconcertingly. Auhurel stood wide-eyed, though she had begun trying to break the tension in the room, ushering the crowd away from the scene. Harry stared at his feet, his blood pounding loudly in his ears, his curls covering his eyes. He had never felt so humiliated in his life. Never felt so at a loss. Never felt so hurt and pained.

Harry slipped away from the mass as quietly as he could, not daring to meet anyone's stare. He stalked out of the ballroom, past his private bedrooms, his head down the whole time. Nobody made a move to follow him. Feeling betrayed and drunken, he wandered through his house aimlessly, unsure of what to do. He left his mansion from the back door to his garden, opening the door carefully. He sank into the soft grass, listening to the door swing shut behind him. He stared up at the skies above, now a grayish black hue, a drifting mist. A dry, cracked cry rose from his throat, scratching and tearing at his insides. Burying his face in his hands, he never looked up to see Ginny standing in the shadows watching him, her purse still in her hand, indicating that she had just arrived.

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