a/n: for the purpose of this story's plot to work, i've made harry a pureblood and sirius has filled in as harry's father figure all his life. more notes to come, my brain's pretty fried to think of some more.
If there's one thing Harry Potter is certainly good at, it's the art of being determined— and right now he's determined to figure out how the fuck he can get out of this ridiculous, nonsensical (arranged) marriage he's supposedly part of.
"Sirius, this must be some sort of joke!" Bellowed the young man who had been promoted to head auror just hours ago. But what he had expected to be a celebratory dinner at Grimmauld Place turned quickly to some sort of demented disaster holding up nothing but abrupt announcements of an engagement unbeknownst to his own knowledge.
Him! Arranged to wed to some unknown witch!
So maybe she isn't so unknown, Sirus claims she's from an affluent pureblood family after all.
But to hell with that, it isn't like he could care any less for blood status anyways. It's preposterous in all ways it could be and it summons all the anger Harry could possibly muster in his clumped up fists and flickering orbs. All the anger burns in the red of his knuckles, a sweeping rage he never knew he possessed specially not towards the man who stood as his father for all his life.
"Harry, I know this comes as a shock—"
"A shock!" He hoots as if it's some sort of joke. "A shock is me announcing I was appointed head auror when as all weren't expecting it until three years by the least. You telling me I've always had a fiancée I had no bloody idea about isn't a shock, it's a cruel attack. How could you! You've gambled me away!"
"Harry, I made the unbreakable vow with nothing but your best intentions in—"
"Which doesn't include my happiness, apparently."
With that Sirius doesn't respond and that's when Harry successfully ends and wins the conversation. There's an immeasurable satisfaction to know he's proven his point and yet a heavy unfamiliarity with the entire situation.
By now there's nothing both men can do but sigh and the earth simply feels too light under Harry's feet, as if everything is continuously spinning and he's just glued there to tolerate the dizzying spell of reality's nightmare.
"She's a lovely girl, she really is. I did this for you," is the only thing Sirius manages, croaking as his head and gaze lowers.
Harry blinks himself back to his dilemma and squares his shoulders just before apparating with a distinct pop.
As much as he trusts his godfather's judgement, he'd rather pick out the women he chooses to be involved with himself.
Of course Pansy Parkinson knows all about him , who doesn't in this day and age? Most eligible bachelor according to not only Witch Weekly but the Daily Prophet, with his name and success echoing deafeningly in every other article its' got to offer— with the latest of being the youngest to be chosen as head auror by the Ministry of Magic. Her mother's perfectly manicured nails are wrapped around the Prophet's front pages, the image of the man of the hour smiling brightly as hoards of cameras flash and compete to take the best taken photograph. He's every single witch's daydream, strikingly handsome in his messy jet black locks even as he's sputtering out some sarcastic, dim-witted joke to reportees who's just trying their best to get the latest ministry scoop.
However, even back in school he had already been so… special.
Strutting about the halls of Hogwarts with that smug grin plastered to his thin face, the hems of his white polo shirt casually untucked with his tie hanging loosely around his neck. With their second year rolling in he's made a name for himself as the youngest seeker (he had a thing for being the youngest whatever, it seems). In fifth he's the most desired student every witch wanted to date, like some sort of delicacy every girl just needed to get a taste of. By the time they're in their seventh year he's known as boy wonder, The Chosen One, ever so popular and well liked despite the knack of trouble he magnetized each time. Good looking and chiseled with his quidditch calloused hands and probing emerald eyes, not to mention those broad shoulders he'd always show off in time of a match.
Maybe quidditch isn't half bad as Pansy thought it, she probably once recalled in all those years spent with Harry in school.
She isn't blind, of course that much about his looks she recognized.
But he was kind too, always so giving, and not to mention courageous. He stood up for those who didn't matter, defended them from those who do; and not once did he ever give Pansy Parkinson the time of the day all because of a comment she's said about Hermione Granger's hair.
"But her hair is so… so… ghastly," Eleven year old Pansy had sputtered when pointed to the back of the other girl's head. It had been the truth, it's not like she's lying. Granger's hair was as thick as a bush if could pass up as a bird's nest.
Young Harry had turned on his heel faster than a lightning could strike the night sky, brows knitted in obvious annoyance. " Her hair isn't ghastly! It smells good! "
And since then Harry's been best friends with the bushy haired brunette and Pansy's been known as that slytherin whose one comment can never be lived down.
So when asked with ' How do you know Harry Potter? ' by an oblivious mother who couldn't perform the basic math, she answers, "Because he shagged every other girl in the school except me. He loathed me."
Her mother gives her a look of disdain, as if to scold her for saying such thing out loud in such a public place.
The scandal she could cause if someone heard. Did she really care though?
Probably not.
Half true, she doesn't really know how many girls Potter's shagged back when they were still in school. She figures a select chosen ones, he did have a few relationships if Pansy can remember correctly. And to make it interesting enough, Hermione is probably one of them.
Perhaps he's into bushes.
As far as hating her goes, probably also half true— only she's never heard it, just felt it. More like assumed it but that Pansy will never admit out loud. Old school rivalries between the houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin burn out the longest they say and the myth holds truth. And he's always looked at Pansy like she's nothing but a nuisance, an unnecessary matter taking up space in a world that didn't need any more trash all because he was in Gryffindor and she in Slytherin.
"You'll speak no such rubbish about your fiancé." Fiancé sounds odd and will always do, she figures. She just rolls her eyes and remains silent in the corner of the table, wiping cherry red tinged lips as gracefully as she could like she's expected and taught: a prim and proper pureblood of this society. "You'd be thanking me that I made that unbreakable vow to Sirius Black the day you turned three. The Potters have marked history in the wizarding community and it's clear that their son is continuing on with their name's legacy." Finally folding the paper back to the table, she adds before taking a long sip of her champagne glass, "Dinner is already arranged for the two of you. I expect you to be in your very best behaviour."
She doesn't reply once more, the sounds coming out her mother's lips drowning out in the low impact noise of the outdoor café in the gist of Diagon Alley's bustle.
Seven years of torture in Hogwarts with summers in between filled with lessons after lessons, be it French, fancy dining, playing the piano, swimming, or dance— dedication to finding her passion not just in the world of classic music but in literature, in writing, in basement crisped books, they all don't matter because each cumulated effort all leads to this: she's always been set to marry one of the most expected influential man, even in the prime of his birth. And whether she's known since then or just found out ten minutes ago from a hard to please mother who can't ever be interrupted midsentence, it didn't change one bit of the situation.
Status is what binds them, status is what will probably always bind them. In pureblood families like theirs, there is nothing that matters more than continuing old traditions after all.
Today she's Pansy Parkinson.
One of her tomorrows, she'll be Pansy Potter whether she approves of it or not.