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Walden
When Walden had started pursuing Greta Catchlove, he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting.

All right, so that one time in second year when he'd kissed her on a dare didn't really count, did it? Especially because she'd just kicked him in the shin before he even got into range. Bloody girls.

No, that was a lie -- he knew exactly what he'd been expecting, he just hadn't gotten it. She was a Gryffindor who had been dating a man seeing two women at once, how difficult could it have possibly been to woo her into making hot sex with him?

Apparently far more difficult than he'd first anticipated, because the first time that they had gotten into serious making out at the Masquerade, some sort of flash of logic in Greta's mind had made her blurt out that she wasn't really into sleeping with Slytherins that she'd only just met and she'd run out on him.

It had taken him weeks to get up the nerve to ask her on an actual date, because that meant that he was supposed to spend actual money on another person and that they'd have to actually talk about their interests. Much to his surprise, they actually got on rather well and the semi-fancy restaurant seemed to impress Greta well enough. They even went back to his flat, Spartan as it was, with the promise of heavy-petting outside the restaurant bearing down on his mind.

...until Greta vomited all over his welcome mat. She'd insisted on having the shrimp salad. He had taken her to St. Mungo's and even stayed with her until she was discharged; to this day he's sure that is the only reason she ever spoke to him again. Their second date was supposed to be much better, and Walden even went so far as to cook for her. Haute cuisine, too -- lasagna and garlic toast, real fancy stuff. The meal was great and by the end of it, Greta's foot was sliding up his leg and all he could think was that he was finally going to get laid -- but the fates were not with him, and when he leaned over to brush his hand affectionately over her cheek and coax her into a kiss, his sleeve caught fire on the candle he'd set in the middle of the table.

What followed was a flail to end all flails -- the tablecloth caught, the cheap polyester of his carpet caught on fire -- and soon enough they were dousing the place with water-jet spells. Being soaking wet might've been a turn-on if it hadn't been freezing cold for some Merlin-awful reason.

She stayed over, though -- that was something, wasn't it? The next morning when he woke up next to Greta with her hands on his stomach and a devious smirk on her face, he was positive that things were going to work out in his favor. Her lips traced down his chest, across his stomach ... and just when he felt her mouth above his navel, his body seized with pain and his hips shot up off the bed, fingers clenched in the sheets. Greta probably thought he was just very into the whole 'wake-up oral sex' until he rolled himself out of bed and out the door without a second word to her.

Fucking Voldemort.

It had been nearly four months since he'd started 'dating' Greta by the time they shagged proper...for a fixed meaning of 'proper'. He'd owled her as usual to take her out for dinner, expecting a horrible mockery of some kind to follow ... and when he showed up at her door she was wearing naught but a pair of green satin knickers and a bra that left very little to the imagination. Still gaping as the girl drew him inside, Walden could think only one thing: at least it was worth the wait.