A/N: This was a gift for the_rainbow_jen over at the pphpficexchange on LJ. Her prompt was: Any rating, way AU from the Epilogue (Harry's not an Auror, he's a ____, etc), Harry as a widower, political match that evolves into something more, doesn't have to have a happy ending
Mr. Potter,
If you could be so obliging, I would like to request your presence at my home on this Tuesday at five o'clock in the evening. I believe I have some need of the services that you provide.
The Floo address is Parkinson Manor – I would advise you against attempting to Apparate onto the grounds.
I trust you will take care of this note, and the situation, with the utmost of secrecy.
Don't be late.
Pansy Parkinson
Harry Potter scanned the letter and committed the address to memory before tossing the paper into the fire nearby.
***
Pansy Parkinson sat in a comfortable pouf sipping tea before the fire out of which she expected Harry Potter would come tumbling in five minutes.
On the table to her right lay several papers, along with a second cup of tea.
At five on the dot, the fire turned a brilliant shade of green and none other than the Boy Who Lived Twice stepped out.
"Ms. Parkinson," he said as he dusted soot off his hands before extending one to her. "A pleasure."
"We've known each other since we were eleven – I think first names are acceptable are they not?"
"Knowing someone and being in the same year are two different things, but if you wish, Pansy, then please call me Harry."
She gestured to the pouf next to hers, and he took the seat, surreptitiously checking out the room before sitting.
Pansy smiled and said, "A man after my own heart, Harry. Noting exits, windows, doors, I presume?"
He grinned and took a sip of his tea. "Would you expect anything less?"
"Certainly not from the man who, if even half the stories are true, is most… legendary."
"Legendary?" he scoffed. "Hardly. But in any case, we're not here to discuss my story. How could you possibly require my services? I may be the best security wizard there is, but you have the entire Auror Department at your beck and call, not to mention most of the Ministry. I'm sure they have far better resources than I to guard you."
"Frankly, I would rather have one of you than ten of them, Harry. You have expertise in wards, security, and just protecting people than they could ever dream of."
"True enough," he conceded. "Well then, Pansy, what seems to be the problem?"
She stared at the fire, unsure of how to begin.
"As you are no doubt aware," she started slowly, "There has been a recent spike in crime that closely mimics the Death Eater activity that immediately followed the defeat of Voldemort twenty-one years ago."
"I am aware, yes."
"The Auror Department has handed this particular case over to me and the Department of Mysteries after several interesting documents came to light," Pansy continued. "Documents that link the perpetrator of the crime to myself."
"And these documents would be?"
Pansy inclined her head in a small nod at the table in between their chairs.
Harry picked up the folder of papers and leafed through them.
Pansy watched his face closely for some reaction, anything that would give away what he was thinking. Predictably, however, she saw nothing.
"Death threats. Several of them," Harry said disinterestedly. "Frightening, I suppose. Though I doubt these are your first, considering your position as Head of Department of Mysteries. What makes these particularly worrisome?"
"What makes these 'particularly worrisome' is the fact that they weren't delivered to my office, left on my doorstep, sent by owl, or any other normal mode of contact. I found them tucked underneath my pillow one night."
Harry, who had been looking lazily about the room as she spoke, suddenly became very attentive.
"Under your pillow?"
"Yes. As you can imagine, my home is nearly impossible to breach. I have cameras, spells, guards, everything. And yet someone was able to get into my bedroom. Do you know how absolutely terrifying that is, Harry?" Her voice suddenly became earnest and lost any sense of that stability it had before. "Your bedroom. It's private, safe. It's supposed to be the one place where no one can get you, the place that no one else can touch. I've lost that security, Harry. And I need your help to get it back."
Harry studied Pansy's face, noting every line and wrinkle certainly hadn't been there when he passed her in halls of the Ministry two weeks ago. Now he saw the raw, pure fear in her eyes and the unabashed pleading – things so uncharacteristic for a proud and independent woman like Pansy that he knew she truly needed his help.
"I'll do it."
***
"First, we need to get you out of this house," he began. "Your security has been compromised once, and therefore is able to be violated again." Harry rose out of his chair and began pacing in front of the fire, Pansy's eyes following his every move. "In fact, I think it would be best if you came to my home. I checked your security wards when I came in here and you're correct – it's nearly impossible to break in. I, however, have warded my home to be truly impossible to breach."
"Naturally," Pansy said, dryly. "But don't you think people will notice when Pansy Parkinson moves in with The Chosen One? You're not exactly low profile, and people will talk. We don't even have the 'friends' bit to tell people, either."
"Easy," Harry said. "We're dating. Obviously."
The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, so plain, Pansy almost went along with it without comment. Almost.
"Pardon me?" she spluttered.
"Dating." Harry smiled sarcastically. "It's this crazy, new-fangled thing people do now days. Surely you've heard of it?"
"Yes," she said, her voice steely. "I have heard. I've also been told that generally it's between two people who – oh, I don't know – like each other!"
"Generally." He smirked. "But in this situation, it's necessary. If you want me to protect you, let me do my job. The only way you'll be safe is if you're at my house. Besides, I'm sure all your boy toys can survive a week or two until this is over."
Pansy flinched at his teasing and said, "I haven't got any of those, actually. It's hard to find a person who will love someone with a past like mine."
Harry had the decency to stop smiling. He looked into the fire, but Pansy knew it wasn't the flames he was seeing.
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
Pansy let the unexpected honesty pass without comment, as she knew Harry would wish.
Finally, after a second that lasted much longer than a second should, Harry tore away his eyes from the flames and said, "The media will be in a frenzy, of course – especially since you're the first. The first woman I've been with since… since the War."
Fuck! Harry couldn't help thinking as he felt a tear begin to form. It's been twenty-one years since she died. I'm a forty-two year old man, for Merlin's sake, and I can't even move past something that happened so fucking long ago!
Pansy, who had been observing him closely, suddenly looked away. Harry was having a moment so private, so personal, that watching him made her feel like an intruder.
Sucking in a deep breath, Harry locked away all the memories – there was no time for that now.
"Anyway," he said, all business-like once more, "You will come and live with me and we'll just make a formal press release announcing our relationship. Then I will find out who is behind these threats. That's a promise."
Pansy just smiled.
***
By the next afternoon, Pansy had moved all her necessary items into Harry's home.
He lived in a sprawling manor with the finest classical art and furniture – definitely not what Pansy had expected when he told her to Floo to "Godric's Hollow."
She had been under the impression that 'Godric's Hollow' was Harry's childhood home. She had assumed it would be a normal sized, regular suburban residence as would befit one living in the Muggle world.
Not exactly.
When he first caught her staring as she stepped in the doors, Harry smiled and said, "That's what most people do when they walk in here. Even spoiled Purebloods like yourself."
"But I thought Godric's Hollow was destroyed that night your parents were killed," she said.
"It was," He returned simply. "I built this and renamed it in their honor."
Regaining her Slytherin composure, Pansy smirked, "'Godric's Hollow', though? Utterly predictable, Potter."
His smile faltered.
"Yes, well, it's what she had wanted it to be called."
Fuck, Pansy cursed herself, Excellent job, Parkinson. Way to bring his dead wife up again.
She cleared her throat. "Ah. I see."
Harry ignored the awkward moment by showing her to the bedroom where she would be staying. He then added that his own room was right next door.
"If you need anything during the night, just let me know, alright?"
Pansy simply smiled and nodded, closing the door and putting away her clothes in the drawers and closet. She hadn't needed to bring much – the Ministry-issue robes accounted for basically her entire wardrobe. During the War, Pansy had learned the hard way that things she had previously taken for granted were just unnecessary luxuries. It was this new, thrifty philosophy that accounted for her being named Chief of Economics following the collapse of the Ministry and the Wizarding World after Voldemort's defeat. That had been a long, tough time, but it was only thanks to that experience that she had gotten where she was today. It was worth it, she knew. It had to be.
Satisfied that everything was properly put away, Pansy left the room and walked the few steps to Harry's bedroom.
Sticking her head in quietly, she saw him sitting on the bed, staring at a picture in his hands.
His eyes were closed as he lightly touched the face of the woman in the picture. By the accuracy and precision he had even without sight, Pansy knew this wasn't the first time he had done it.
Pansy knocked lightly on the door frame and took a step in the room. "I was hoping we could go over the threats and maybe discuss your plans…?"
Harry nodded and quickly placed the picture frame back on the nightstand it had come from.
"Of course." he said and led her out the door, going down the stairs and into a large room. Directing her to a chair at the biggest table, he gathered the folder of threats and several other documents.
"To start off, we just need to cover the basics – specifically, who might have a motive to cause you harm."
Pansy chuckled humorlessly and said, "My enemies are many, Harry. There are those who hate me because of my past, those who hate me for what I have become. And of course, essentially all former Slytherins; they didn't take my betrayal of the Dark Lord very well, in case you hadn't noticed."
"I worked that out for myself, actually." He smiled. "But are there any that stand out as being particularly spiteful, yet also capable of the magical prowess to breach your wards?"
Pansy considered this for a moment. "Draco is always a possibility, I suppose. Did you know we were intended to be married?"
Harry nodded his confirmation, and Pansy continued, "When I told him I didn't want to marry him, he was quite… irate. He's certainly powerful enough, but I'm not sure if he has enough contempt for me to actually kill me."
"I don't think these threats are really his style, either." Harry added, "Most likely he would crush you financially and in the workplace, to show how much control he has over the Ministry. Don't you think?"
"True," Pansy agreed. "Then perhaps Daphne Greengrass. She took it rather personally when I defected. We had been quite good friends before, but she had this fantastic notion of life after Voldemort won – a new world order of pureblood domination with her by Voldemort's side. Also, she's fooled everyone into underestimating her; she was always bloody brilliant at charms but carries on like some ditz. And that's not to mention the fact that she loves revenge above all else."
"A definite possibility, then. Anyone else?"
Pansy was silent. She knew who else could be behind it, who probably was behind it, but Harry's reaction to the name was bound to be explosive.
Harry narrowed his eyes at her, "Stop hesitating. I know you're thinking of someone, probably someone with the biggest motive of all, but for some reason, you don't want to tell me. If you're not going to be completely honest with me, Pansy, then this will never work."
Pansy sighed. "Theodore Nott."
Harry stiffened, his eyes opening wide. Pansy could feel the barely suppressed tremors of rage he exuded.
"Him?" Harry's voice was strangled.
"Yes," Pansy said, simply. "He's hated me ever since Draco and I humiliated him in front of the whole Slytherin Common Room in Second Year. I never imagined he could hold onto a grudge for so long, or I would have never crossed paths with him."
She stopped for a moment, but then steeled herself to say what had to be said.
"I-I think that night, the last battle, I mean…"
Harry's eyes slid over to hers and she could see the danger within them.
"I think it was me he was aiming for all along," she rushed out. "I was very close to her, after all, and what did he ever have against… against Ginny?"
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the mind-enveloping rage, but also the utter, heart-breaking sadness.
"Fuck," he said. "You know I could never prove it was him that shot the Avada Kedavra. That it was him that killed Ginny. Fucking bastard swore he was on our side and then goes and attacks us from behind. Not," he continued wearily, "that I could ever prove anything."
"No," Pansy said, very matter-of-fact. "You couldn't prove it. But you can catch him now! This is a new crime, with new evidence and new consequences. So catch the motherfucker and throw him in Azkaban, won't you?"
Harry smiled.
"Why, Ms. Parkinson, that is probably the best idea I've ever heard."
***
For the next five days, Pansy went to work as usual. She went through the same routine she had for the past ten or so years: wake up, shower, get dressed, breakfast, Apparate to Ministry, work, lunch, work, come home, work, eat dinner, work, go to bed. Of course, this was now punctuated by reporters hounding her every step, anxious for an interview over her "whirlwind romance with The Boy Who Lived." It was frustrating and annoying as hell, but she reasoned that, if a person tried to abduct her, at least the cameras would be close by to capture his face.
When she left Parkinson Manor, the person – she always said "Theodore" in her mind, but Harry had insisted that they keep an open mind as he had yet to find any hard evidence – merely sent the threats to her office. Finding a note informing her that when he pleased, some person – Theodore – would joyfully hunt her down, tie her up, and perform any number of various curses until she begged to die was not the best way to start a morning. Although she kept a stiff upper lip, she was starting to break down inside and feel fear, real fear, unlike anything she had felt since the War ended twenty-one years before.
Today had been particularly tough, given that when she picked up her morning coffee from the café inside the Ministry, she had found another threat attached to the bottom of the cup. It had shaken her so badly that she went into her office, locked the door, closed the blinds, and just sat in her chair, tears streaming down her face.
She was Pansy Parkinson, for fuck's sake, and yet here she was, turning into a blubbering mess.
The day hadn't gotten any better after that, and it was with a heavy heart that she returned to Godric's Hollow.
Falling with a sigh into a chair next to Harry, she said, "Any luck today?"
"Yes, actually. We got a break. He's getting careless, apparently."
"What did you find?"
"You know how many of notes where handwritten, with a few here and there typed up?" When she nodded Harry continued. "Well, I ran some tests on the typed one sent to you two days ago. Do you notice how the 't's have an incomplete tail?"
Pansy looked at the word he was pointing to – torture – and saw that yes, the 't's were incomplete.
"So what does this mean? I'm sure there are hundreds of typewriters that this could happen to," she asked.
"Generally speaking, yes. However, I checked out the font, font size, letter spacing, word spacing, etcetera, and found that this could only have been typed on a Worthington 100 model typewriter. So I looked at the Worthington records and found that back in 1942, the Worthington 100 models all reported an incomplete tail on the 't'. A small malfunction that inexplicably links Theodore Nott to a Worthington 100 typewriter. And why is that, you ask?" Harry smiled. "Because I did a check with the company and found that in 1942 only fifteen Worthington 100s were sold – they cost more than an average family made in a year. However, the Nott Family is, as you know, of old money, and one Mister Franklin Nott was able to purchase a Worthington that year. I imagine an item of such value would be kept in the family, don't you?"
Pansy couldn't help it; she was so ecstatic over the possibility that this horrifying nightmare might soon be over that she jumped up from her chair with a scream and pulled Harry out of his as well. He was grinning as broadly as she and pulled her into a tight hug. Then, with a reckless impulse that had gotten him in trouble more than once, Harry kissed her full on the lips.
She stopped laughing, stopped jumping, and stopped moving.
All she could feel were those soft, soft lips touching hers. Just as her eyelids were about to flutter closed, Harry suddenly pulled back with a gasp.
"Merlin, I-I" he stammered, looking anywhere but her. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I don't know what I was doing, I just – I don't know what came over me."
Then he turned and positively ran out the room, leaving Pansy standing silently, hand raised to her mouth in a vain effort to keep the feel of Harry's lips from fading.
***
The next morning was decidedly awkward as they prepared breakfast.
It was apparent Harry was just trying to pretend like nothing had happened, but the tension was still incredibly thick.
Pansy avoided eye contact as she buttered her toast, but when Harry's hand brushed hers as he reached for the marmalade, she felt that sizzle of electricity she had only ever read about in trashy, unrealistic romance novels.
And yet, Pansy could be sure Harry must have felt it, too, because he snapped his hand back lighting fast and the tension increased exponentially.
Biting down on her lip, Pansy silently berated herself. Fuck, Parkinson. You're a forty-two year old woman but acting like some little first-year Hufflepuff! Becoming a blithering idiot over some guy and falling into ridiculous romantic clichés… So what if he's amazingly handsome? Who cares that he's incredibly powerful? Or that when he kissed you it was like nothing you ever felt before, like for the first time in a long, long time you were finally living… Shit, Parkinson. You're screwed.
Harry cleared his throat and said, "Well, I thought today I would go to Nott's house. I'm sure he's got evidence there that'll incriminate him, and I doubt he knows that we've caught on to him yet, so he can't have stashed it away. If we're lucky, this can all be over by dinner."
All be over… Fuck, say something, Parkinson! Let him know how you feel! TALK!
But Pansy didn't speak, and so Harry just walked out of the room.
***
Pansy spent all of the morning and afternoon in a daze.
She felt like she was underwater, trying vainly to swim against the current but losing.
She couldn't concentrate, and for the first time in all her years at the Ministry, Pansy cancelled her afternoon meetings and headed down to the café. When she saw a gaggle of reporters begin to approach her, she cast a forgetfulness charm on the lot of them, smiling slightly when they all wandered off.
As she sat sipping tea, Pansy felt a hand rest on her shoulder. Looking up, she didn't even have time to register the person's face before her world went dark.
***
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and Harry had finally located Nott's home. It had been hidden by an excellent Find-Me-Not charm, but even the best of the best was no match for Harry.
He then proceeded to check out the manor house's grounds, planning where he would go if he needed a quick getaway. After he had catalogued every last bush and bramble into his brain, Harry approached the door.
Strictly speaking, if he wanted to go about this in a completely legal way, Harry would have needed a warrant, or at least an invitation in, to search Nott's house.
Luckily, Harry didn't particularly care if he was strictly legal or not, and being Harry Potter usually gave you more than a little leniency regarding the law.
First he tried a simple Alohomora. It didn't unlock the door, but, admittedly, Harry would have been most disappointed if it had. He then went along the list of progressively more complicated unlocking spells. It was the second to last one that finally did it.
With a smile, he opened the door and held his wand aloft.
The house was completely silent. No people walking around, fire crackling, house elves cleaning, nothing.
Given that it was the middle of the day, this wouldn't have been odd, normally. But Harry had a hunch that Nott was hiding somewhere in the house at this moment, and his instinct had never let him down before.
He went from room to room but found nothing.
Within an hour, Harry had scaled all three of the floors but came up blank.
As he stood in the main foyer, Harry couldn't help but think that maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't Nott after all.
But just as made to go out the door, Harry spotted a floorboard that was just barely out of place.
Walking over to it, he applied pressure to one end and saw the other raise up out of the air ever so slightly.
Grinning, he levitated it and saw what the floorboard was hiding – a trapdoor. Quickly, Harry removed all the other floorboards from the general area and grabbed the handle of the door. It opened easily and without noise, telling Harry that it must be used regularly.
There were stairs going down, but they were unlit and Harry wasn't too keen on going blindly into Theodore Nott's basement.
Conjuring up a small lamp, he used that and 'Lumos' to make his way down the stairs.
What he saw when he reached the bottom was enough to make his heart stop.
There, tied to a chair in the middle of the room, was Pansy. She was sitting limp, shoulders drooping and head hanging off to the side.
Behind her stood Theodore Nott with a maniacal grin on his face.
"Harry Potter, I'm so glad you could make it. I was afraid you wouldn't find me down here." His voice was soft, calculated, and coldly precise.
"I found you just fine, thanks." Harry remarked tersely. "Now why don't you just step away from Pansy?"
His smile only grew broader as he said, "I don't think I will, actually. Although, you should know, Harry Potter, it's not Pansy I'm after… it's you."
Harry's stomach dropped and he couldn't help but wonder what he was missing. Nott's hatred of Pansy made perfect sense – his hatred of Harry, however, did not.
"You see, Harry Potter," Nott continued, "Pansy was merely a means to an end. You were right in thinking it was I who had a grudge against her, but she was only a pawn, just an added bonus in my overall plan." Nott had kept his voice level, but suddenly the words erupted from his mouth in a snarl, "I've wanted to kill you for many years, Potter! Because of you the Dark Lord failed time and time again, and because of you mudbloods are free to soil the Wizarding World with their filth. But now I will finish what my Lord started – and that begins with killing you."
Something clicked in Harry's mind and he gasped. Ginny… oh, god, Ginny.
"You weren't aiming for her, were you? It was me you wanted all along…"
"You mean your little wife, I suppose? Or your dead wife, I should say?" His voice was taunting, mocking, and he raised his eyebrow, "Yes, of course. I wanted to kill you, Harry Potter, but at the last second someone regrettably jostled my arm and my aim went right. And the lovely Ginny Potter fell instead of you."
Harry could feel his blood boiling – this, this monster was responsible for the death of his beloved wife on the last night of the war. Her blood was on his hands…
With a roar Harry flew at Nott, sending curse after curse after curse. Nott responded in kind and the two were caught in a furious duel. Harry was fueled by twenty-one years of pent up anger and heart-break, but Nott was clearly insane and seemed to have no regard for personal safety. They fought for what seemed like hours, spell for spell, equal in all aspects. But Nott began to flag while Harry's endless training kept him fit and able.
Finally, Harry caught Nott off-guard with a rapid-fire 'Expelliarmus' and 'Stupefy' combination.
Before Nott had even hit the floor, Harry couldn't help but cry out.
Finally, after twenty-one years of pain, he felt something near absolution. He iunderstood/i now, why it had happened. It was some sort of closure that he never had before.
It was completely and utterly liberating, and as he dragged himself over to Pansy, he didn't even try to contain the tears.
After untying her, he whispered, 'Ennervate' and watched her eyes flutter open.
She blinked repeatedly and was finally able to focus on his face, "Ha-Harry?" she croaked, "What happened?"
"We were right, it was Nott – but we were wrong about his reasons. It was me he wanted all along, not you. But I found you here and stupefied him." He smiled, "You're safe now."
Tears prickled in the corner of her eyes and began to stream down her face, cutting through the grime that covered her. "Oh, Harry," she said, "Thank you! God, thank you so much!"
Harry gathered her in his arms and held on tight. Something about being with her just felt familiar in all the right ways.
Sobs began to rack her body and Harry just pulled her closer, trying to keep her from shaking.
"Shush, now," he stroked her hair, her back, "It's alright. You're safe now. He can't hurt you any longer."
Soon the cries faded and she pulled back from him. Her eyes were red and puffy but Harry couldn't help thinking she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
She could feel his eyes on her and blushed a spectacular shade of crimson.
With his eyes darting from her eyes to her lips, it was obvious what he was about to do, but Pansy knew she needed to ask, "Are you sure, Harry?"
He only threw his head back and laughed, "I'm sure, Pansy. I'm free at last and right now, the only thing I want to do is this ..."
And with that Harry Potter captured Pansy Parkinson's lips with his own in a tender, passionate kiss.
***
Over the years, the number twenty-one has become particularly significant to me.
It's the age I was when I married the first love of my life and watched her die only months later by my side. It's the age I was when I summoned the strength to take the life of other men and women. It's the age I was when I avenged my parents and killed Lord Voldemort.
Twenty-one is also the number of years I spent living in the dark. Years I spent alone, thinking that I could never be happy again after the death of my wife. But in the final one of my second twenty-one years I found a new love. She healed me in ways that I could never heal myself; put back the pieces that had been torn apart twenty-one years before.
And twenty-one is the number of years I've been married to my love. Yes, I'm sixty-three now, an age I never imagined I'd see when I discovered my destiny as a boy. And although those first two spans of twenty-one weren't necessarily the best, this third twenty-one years has been better than anything I could have hoped for – quite simply, because I finally found the one who meant more to me than life itself.