Summary: A childish part of him wanted to put her in an uncomfortable place, the easy curve of her lips like a mocking jibe. Harry and Pansy run into each other in a pub. One Shot.
AN: This is my first piece for this pairing and I hope I've done them justice. Please let me know if you enjoyed this-I always appreciate reviews.
It was bitingly cold outside and snow had started to flutter down in thick clumps, icy and harsh against his skin. Harry flipped his collar up to protect himself from the wind and shouldered his way into the pub, quickly shutting the door behind him to keep the cold out. Despite his fame, as a dark young man getting off work he didn't stand out much at first glance.
The barman knew him but had never made a point to advertise the fact that Harry Potter came into his pub a good number of evenings, and for his silence Harry was grateful. He typically left an extra couple of galleons for him out of thanks, an abnormally large tip but one that he didn't mind paying.
Sometimes Ron would meet him here for drinks—if he wasn't too exhausted from training or occupied by a field assignment. Choosing a wizarding pub in London hadn't been easy; there were so few places known just among the magical community. Loads of Ministry employees stepped in after work, but Ron had eventually scoped out a good location that wasn't in Diagon Alley, its patrons quieter and shabbier than the regulars at the Leaky Cauldron.
This evening, however, Ron would be helping George with inventory, and wouldn't be able to make it. Harry didn't mind. He was helping some senior aurors on a case and some time alone to think about all the information might allow some pattern to emerge. Signaling to the barkeep, he pointed to the fifth of whiskey behind the counter. Perry, the barman, nodded to him and poured Harry a generous glass.
It was then that he noticed the pouty, dark-haired girl only two seats away from him. Pansy Parkinson was sitting with her legs crossed wearing a short black dress, looking like she'd stepped out of a whorehouse or a funeral parlor, of which he couldn't be sure. She took a long sip of wine and pulled at the errant hem of her dress, a copy of the evening iProphet/i laid out in front of her.
Harry pulled out his pocket notebook and looked at some of the notes he'd written during his meeting with Dawlish and the other aurors. He'd left the meeting earlier than he would have liked to attend a hearing that he'd organized with the Wizegamot to clear Snape's name. Some reporters hard turned up, which made him wonder if there was anything in the iProphet/i on the court proceedings. There was no verdict as of yet, but if Harry Potter was defending an accused Death Eater then it would be big news.
Pansy drained her wine glass and folded her paper crisply. He could feel her openly staring at him but Harry chose to look through his scribblings instead of acknowledging her. Perry came over and refilled his whiskey glass.
As he was taking a drink she pressed him with a question. "Where do you get off defending Snape?"
Harry slowly turned in her direction, wrestling against the urge to rebuke her. The last time he'd interacted with Pansy she had been trying to offer him up to Voldemort.
"I have reasons."
"He hated you," she said bluntly. "Whether he was innocent or not—why would you clear someone who actively despised you for seven years? Why not leave it up to one of the other aurors?"
"Because it's not about me. He was innocent, making his likeability irrelevant, and I'm one of the only people who can prove it."
"How moral of you," she chided.
He looked at Pansy more fully for the first time since he'd noticed her next to him, observing the spiked heels she wore and the angled slant of her stylish haircut. She was fashionable in ways that most witches weren't, despite having little to no contact with the muggle world. Seeing the long, pale line of her legs stirred something in him that had been dormant since the last time he'd slept with Ginny over the summer, shocking when he remembered who Parkinson actually was.
He forced down the well of attraction that curled up his abdomen, focusing on his inherent dislike for her, short skirt or not.
"Surprised to see you anywhere without Draco," Harry said. As far as he knew the two of them were engaged, but the likelihood of that still being the case was small. A childish part of him wanted to put her in an uncomfortable place, the easy curve of her lips like a mocking jibe.
She made a face. "We split up months ago, after that bloody trial."
He remembered the "bloody trial" she was referring to quite vividly. It had been Harry's testimony that had kept Draco and his mother out of Azkaban, all the while condemning Lucius to a prison sentence.
"Sorry to hear that," he said, although the authenticity of his words was questionable.
"Don't be. I'm well shot of him. Not that it concerns you either way," Pansy said coolly.
She had never been known for subtlety, Harry reflected. He chased droplets of water across the bar top with his finger, listening hard for the insult that was soon to follow.
"I'm glad you're doing it, in any case," she said. He tried not to show his surprise. It wasn't that strange for her to defend her former professor, Slytherin House had always taken up in favor of Snape, but it was intriguing that she was talking about it with him over drinks in a pub.
"Thanks, I suppose," he said, fishing out some galleons before vacating his seat. As he reached his full height her black-brown eyes traveled up his body, lingering on his chest and shoulders. He was more developed now than he'd been in school, leaner from auror training and more scared than ever. Parkinson took notice.
"See you at the trial."
He looked up, catching her eye. She held his gaze from a few paces away, a smear of rosy lipstick coloring the rim of her wineglass.
"Yeah. See you," he said, savoring the look he'd seen in her dark eyes.
Harry threw on his pea coat and headed for the door, the image of her full lips and sveltely legs already imprinted in his mind.
fin