The Re-Written Agreement

The sound of a muffled thud coming from the front door matched the throbbing rhythm of Pansy's head. "Ugh," she groaned, pushing the hair from her face and thrusting her left palm into her eye socket and giving it a hard rub. "Go away!" she called out weakly.

But still, the knocks persisted, growing in intensity with each passing moment.

With a huff, the young witch pushed her knees up to her chest and heaved herself to a sitting position. Placing her arm behind her, Pansy struggled to remain upright as her head spun.

Thud, thud, thud.

"Fuck off!" she tried louder, rubbing her fingers to each temple. Her voice rang horse, cracking with each syllable. Groggily, she began to scan through her mind, trying to pinpoint exactly who in the bloody hell could be showing up at—wait, what time is it? She squinted, checking the thin silver watch at the pulse point of her wrist.

Two in the afternoon.

It definitely wasn't Nott, Zabini, or any others from that lot, she knew. Her former classmates wouldn't have even bothered knocking in the first place. "Parkinson!" she heard a deep voice say, muffled behind the thick oak door.

Who—

Thump, thump, thump.

This time the knocks were harsher, louder, and more urgent. "I'm coming!" she snapped, swinging her legs to the side of the bed. Pushing herself to a stand, she stumbled a bit and fell back, her head spinning as she steadied herself in several attempts to remain in an upright position.

Thump, thump, thump.

Pansy looked around her wide bedroom, squinting as light pooled in through the crack of her blackout curtains. Sighing, she reached for the first shirt within arms distance and hoisted it over her head, wincing as her limbs ached from whatever toll last night's activities had taken on her.

Thump, thump, thump.

Shuffling her feet, the raven-haired witch made her way to the huge, carved closet that took up an entire wall in her sleeping quarters. The beads that hung in front jingled and clanked together as she thrust them to the side and ripped into a small drawer. After minimal digging, she found an acceptable pair of purple knickers to throw on.

Thump, thump, thump.

"Pansy, open the bloody door!" she heard the voice say again, just as she snapped the waistband into place. Scowling, she ran a hand through her hair and made her way through the tall archway, closing in on the front door to answer it— if only to stop the incessant knocking.

Thump, thump—

"I said fuck off!" she said as she threw the door open, revealing a very familiar and incredibly ticked off looking wizard.

His hair just as messy and disheveled as it had always been, Harry Potter stood glaring at her just over the threshold of her front door's entryway. His eyes flashed emerald green behind a pair of round black spectacles, his brows knitted together in a scowl. "Why the hell did it take you so long to answer the door?" he snapped.

Pansy sighed, leaning her body weight on the archway. "I was sleeping," she stated bluntly. "Very soundly, might I add, until Officer Arseface showed up at my flat, demanding my presence."

Harry looked at her as if she had transfigured herself into a pygmy puff and started doing the wizard's waltz. "At two o'clock in the afternoon?"

Pansy scoffed, "I'm sorry I didn't expect my probation Auror to show up on a Saturday, of all days." Harry glared at her for just an in instant, pushing his way past the door and into the small townhouse.

"By all means, do come in," she said, her words laced with sarcasm. "You know how much I love your erratic drop-ins."

"It's Wednesday, Parkinson."

Pansy's brow furrowed in confusion and she dropped her gaze to the floor, lazily pushing the door closed behind her with her foot and making her way into the attached kitchen. "Besides, it shouldn't have been unanticipated. You'd know that I was scheduled for a visit if you had bothered to check your owls, an—wait, why aren't you wearing any trousers?" Harry asked critically, cutting himself off mid-sentence.

She glanced at the stack of unopened letters sitting on her kitchen table, ignoring the question as she began pouring a scalding hot cup of black coffee. Grabbing her pack of menthol cigarettes she kept on the counter, she stuck one in her mouth and fumbled with the damned Muggle lighter she never quite got used to operating.

Once she got the sodding thing lit, she took a deep drag, the nicotine seeping into her lungs.

"Nirvana?" Harry asked, earning a confused look from the half-naked witch standing in the kitchen. Turning her head, she met his eyes as he jabbed his chin out, gesturing to her top. "You know that's a Muggle band, right?"

Glancing down, Pansy tugged the shirt taut to read the front. It had a bright yellow smiley face down the middle, with matching letters that read "ANAVRIN" beneath it. "Huh," she grunted, mocking interest. "To be honest, I couldn't even tell you who this shirt originally belonged to."

"Classy," he mocked, grabbing the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Setting her mug on the coffee table in the sitting room, she threw down her cigarettes and plopped lazily on the couch behind her and grabbed an ashtray.

"Why are you here, Potter?" she said lazily, taking another drag and watching as he shifted uncomfortably. He had gotten taller since school and filled out considerably. His once highly visible lightning bolt scar now sat faded underneath raven-black fringe, his skin tanned and his arms folded over one another as he looked down at her.

"Close your legs, Parkinson. I didn't come to talk face to face with your purple lace knickers," he said uneasily, redirecting his eyes. Pansy's eyebrows shot up, a condescending smirk tugging at her mouth.

"I didn't even know they were lace," she muttered, causing Harry's cheeks to twinge into a light shade of pink. "How very observant of you. But I think ogling one of your charges is—"

"Don't be disgusting, just go put something on," he said sternly, pointing in the direction of her bedroom.

"Why?" she prodded. "Am I making you feel uncomfortable?"

Harry's eyes hardened, his jaw tightening, while Pansy's blue eyes danced with delight. She loved making him squirm.

"It's not appropriate," he said finally. "Besides, no one wants to see the bruises covering your legs, suspiciously in the shape of handprints. I can only assume they're from whatever poor sod you lured into your clutches last night. I, of all people, am the very last person who wants to see that! So, I say again— as your assigned Auror—Go. Put. On. Trousers!"

Pansy arranged her face into a scowl, plunging the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray with force, and made her way into the bedroom. "Yes, sir!" she called back sarcastically.

Harry Potter was never overly pleasant towards her. She could only assume it was partially because he was still bitter about her attempting to give him up to Lord Snake Face during the final battle. Or maybe because although he was considered the "savior" of the wizarding world, she still refused to treat him as if Merlin barfed him up on a silver platter.

Salazar knows the rest of the bloody world treated him as such.

He also didn't want to take her as a charge, as he's told her this often, usually whenever they got into a particularly nasty argument. Though she assumed his current mood had to do with the latest headline smeared across every magical paper in Great Britain: "WAR HERO HARRY POTTER LEFT AT ALTAR, GINNY WEASLEY RUMORED TO BE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH DRACO MALFOY, EX DEATH EATER?"

The paper was shite. At least the part about Draco having an affair with the Weaslette, anyway. That's not to say that the silver-haired Slytherin prince had been completely innocent. No one else knew what she knew about his affairs, and even Draco himself tried desperately to keep it hidden. But alas, she knew him better than anyone.

Truth was, her former schoolyard fling had been actively shagging none other than the Gryffindor princess and third half of the golden trio—Hermione Granger.

Not that the development had surprised her, in reality. Even as far back as third year, she herself could practically cut their sexual tension with a knife. It was one of the reasons Pansy had been so harsh on her back then. Besides the obvious fact that she was a know-it-all brainy swot.

Granger hadn't changed much since then, but as Pansy's feelings towards the young Malfoy heir dwindled, she seemed to become more tolerable as time went on.

It had been the small things that clued her in on their affair. Soft touches when they thought no one had been looking, heated gazes from across the room— not to mention the fact that Draco had taken to complaining about her almost constantly. He always found some way to bring her into the conversation.

"Her hair is just so impractical, I don't know why she doesn't take more pride in her appearance."
"Of course Granger had to be the one to find that level two error in the contract, who else?"
"Do you think she just doesn't know about Sleekeazy's? Should I just leave a bottle on her desk as a hint?"

Pansy figured that it was his attempt to cover up the whole thing. But to her, they were so bloody obvious she wondered how no one else even seemed to pick up on it themselves. Not that it would have been a big deal if people did know. They were two single, grown adults, for Merlin's sake. She did suspect, however, that maybe they didn't want their friends finding out. That might turn into a disaster rather quickly.

The thought to slip the information to Potter had crossed her mind a few times. Usually on a day where he was particularly nasty, but she always decided against it. It just wasn't her secret to tell.

By the time Pansy made it back to the sitting room, Harry had made himself at home on her couch. An array of papers cluttered her large coffee table that sat in the middle of the room, but her eyes were instantly drawn to a particularly small, thin metal box clutched in his left hand. Her heart pounded as she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat.

"Is that my—"

"Sit down, Parkinson."

He didn't even throw a glance her way as he muttered the command. Instead, he simply sat on her sofa, flipping through various pieces of parchment.

The young witch stayed quiet, not even managing to shoot him her signature scowl like she normally did when he got all authoritative towards her. The walk was agonizing, her feet feeling like lead with every step she took.

She continued to stare anxiously at the silver box clutched tightly in his hand as she lowered herself next to him on the sectional. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours as he finished what he was doing and looked up towards her. His green eyes softened a bit as he met her face, which, for once in her life, was devoid of any scowl or hint of irritation. Clearing his throat, her sky-blue eyes darted up to his face.

"You've done well," he said softly. "I know it's taken you a long time to get to this point. What should have been six months probation for your transgressions in the war quickly turned to three years after all of your penalties." Pansy said nothing, her throat suddenly feeling unbelievably dry. "But—" he continued gently. "For the past year, you haven't failed a single drug test or been penalized for any unapproved apparition. You've made curfew, attended your meetings—"

"Get to the bloody point, Potter!" she snapped, no malice behind her voice, only uncertainty.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "We're re-granting you the rights to your wand. You'll still be on probation for a remaining six months, but I pushed for a re-arrangement of your agreement, so you'll find it to be a bit less restrictive—"

"Why?" she asked, cutting him off.

Harry shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair and readjusting his glasses. Deep purple rings sat beneath his sunken eyes, and she could faintly make out a bit of darkened chin stubble. The second half of the newspaper headlines might have been shite, but looking at him now, there was no doubt that his problems went beyond a phony newspaper article.

"Despite what you might want to believe," he said flatly, "I'm not a sodding tyrant. You may be a heartless bitch who slags around humping anything with a pulse, but you're not evil."

The tiny spark of sympathy for the arsehole prat blew to smoke as Pansy's lip twitched into a scowl.

"Just because your precious flower of a wank stain left you, doesn't mean you need to take it out on other people, Potter." Harry's jaw dropped for a fraction of a second before he clapped his mouth shut and returned her irritated glare. He glanced down at the stack of parchment in front of him, tightening his jaw before handing her a quill.

"This is your re-written agreement," he said, choosing to ignore her jab. "You'll still have a curfew, but you're to be in this house by two instead of midnight. Apparition is allowed but will be closely monitored. You'll be having weekly meetings with me—"

Pansy scowled.

"But it'll be here instead of you having to go to the Ministry. Do remember the days I'm coming next time, and be fully clothed," he emphasized. "Your scheduled drug tests have concluded, but I reserve the right to give you one of I suspect any unprescribed potions or herbs. Oh, and upon each meeting, I will be monitoring your wand, just so you're aware."

As he went on, she looked down at the parchment, skimming the writing. It looked to be about 14 separate pages, pretty legal speak outlining her initial agreement and the re-write. Before he was even done speaking, she flipped to the last page, signing the dotted line so hard she almost cracked the tip of the enchanted quill.

"Okay, now that's done, you're going to need to sign the wand disclosure agreement," Harry said, flipping through another stack and tugging a single page loose. Pansy stared at it as he set in in front of her for what seemed like hours before shakily lowering her hand and loosely scribbling her name.

For three years, she had not been allowed to touch another wand, and now she was about to get her own back. After several infractions on her record (followed by extensions on her terms) the young witch accepted the fact that she would be living like a squib for the rest of her life.

Always being around magic, but never allowed to partake in it. Not even for a side-along apparition.

She watched as other war criminals, the ones like her who didn't end up in Azkaban, waited out their sentencing in stride. She stood by as they eventually joined the rest of wizarding society, no more restrictions weighing on their shoulders. Even Draco Malfoy—who had stricter guidelines than she did, and for a full probationary period of a year as opposed to her initial six months —eventually gained his wand and full privileges back. He had even ended up working for the Ministry after, working side by side with people like Granger

But Pansy was a fuck up. And if anything, she was consistent.

Harry's hand brushed hers as he mindlessly reached for the quill, his brows knitted together as he leafed through the papers. She watched as he hovered above the dotted line, then, with a sigh, leaned down and signed his name right beneath hers. Their names grew bright for a just a moment before the enchanted ink settled within the tooth of the paper; finalizing the agreement.

The entire thing seemed surreal.

Lifting the box up, Harry gave it a knock, the latches flying up to reveal her wand. The wood, made of holly, still looked as polished as the day it had been taken. The nine-and-a-half-inch wand had always suited her, made with a dragon heartstring core. As soon as Harry placed it in her hand, she felt the familiar thrum of magic spread itself up her fingers, wrap around her wrist, and tingle as it spread throughout her body.

"Don't make me regret this Parkinson," Harry warned in a stern voice. "If everything goes well, I can finally sign you off as a charge. Just… just keep your head low so the discharge hearing can go as smoothly as possible, yeah?"

So that's why he pushed so hard for her. Well, fine, the feeling was mutual. Only six more measly months of putting up with Potter, and he'd be out of her life for good. "Yeah, whatever," she drawled, forcing a bored tone as she stretched to a stand. "We are done here? I've got plans."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pulled out his own wand and gave it a flick, making copies of the agreement and setting them on the corner of the table. Pansy tapped her foot impatiently.

"Your boy toys can wait a few more minutes," he said offhandedly. "And even if they can't, I'm sure you'll find another."

"What's with your sudden interest in my love life, Potter?"

Harry scoffed, standing up and making his way towards the front door. "I don't think getting sloshed every night and bringing blokes back to your flat counts as a love life," he jabbed.

"Have you been following me?!"

"It's my job," he said sternly, making his way through the door. "Don't try to twist my wo—"

"Whatever, see you next meeting," she drawled lazily, cutting him off. With a flick of her wand, the door shut firmly in the chosen prat's face, the locks clicking in place.

Only six more months.