Addictive
By: BonaFake
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Author's Note: This is just a (totally not short) one shot I wrote for almost no reason at all expect for that I love Hansy and wanted to experiment with character and relationships and symbolic lipstick. It's part 1 of the Contrast in Love AU which will have 5 parts in total. 1) HP/PP (this), 2) DM/HG, 3) BZ/LL 4) RW/DG, and 5) NL/TD. Oops. Got a little rare there at the end.
Quick note: I'm on tumblr at bonafake, where you can request one shots and drabbles, and my gmail is bonafake3 AT gmail DOT com. Thanks for reading and reviewing!
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[good.]
Harry stands in the corner of the room, just- just mad as hell. He really shouldn't be this mad anyways. It's his best friend's wedding. He should be happy. And Draco had asked him to be best man for it, because he's Hermione's best friend, and they're both crazy happy. But he's mad. And that has something to do with the long red hair he sees standing on Hermione's side, clothed in an elegant column of Slytherin green.
The wedding party slowly dissolves as the reception gets louder and rowdier. Hermione and Draco are being nauseatingly in love, and Ginny's dancing with her team manager that she left him for. He grabs a cup of champagne from the passing caterer and sits down at the table he was told to sit at. Soon enough, there's someone else there, someone who looks just as sloshed as he is.
"Potter," she greets, slurring only a little bit.
"Parkinson? What are you doing here?"
"Hermione asked me to be a bridesmaid for the same reason I imagine Draco asked you to be best man," she replies, taking another sip- or gulp, really of the stupidly expensive champagne.
"Oh," he replies, not sure what to say to the woman that tried to turn him over to the Dark Lord. Granted, he was going to turn himself over, but still.
"Potter?" she asks.
"Yeah?"
"Doesn't that," Parkinson says, pointing, "over there, make you angry as hell?"
He doesn't really have a reason not to tell her. "Yeah."
"Thought so. The guy she's dancing with? That's Marcus Flint. The guy who was supposed to be my fiance."
"Shite."
"I know, my parents and his all had a contract drawn up. And then he went and ran off with her. Bitch."
"Certainly can be."
"And she left you, too, didn't she? I guess the two of them deserve each other."
"Guess so."
"Don't you want to just- just ruin it all?" she asks. He stares at her. The Pansy Parkinson that he knew from school never would have said anything like this in front of him before. She must be really, really drunk.
"Sometimes."
"Then let's." And then she's pulling him to his feet and dragging him over to the dance floor and then they're dancing, faster than they should for a slow song and definitely closer than they should be at a wedding. And Harry can barely think of what he's doing, dancing- grinding, really, with the girl- woman that tried to turn him over to Lord Voldemort. And even when the thought crosses his mind, it doesn't really make him that mad.
But then, because Ginny and Flint are staring at them, and because Parkinson is pressed up so close to him, he does something- something odd. It's the oddest thing he's ever done, actually. He pulls Parkinson up, grabbing her arse so that she's tall enough and he kisses her wet and hard and sloppy and almost certain to cause a scene at his best friend's wedding and she kisses back hard and teeth and tongues fighting and her lipstick tastes like sin but she tastes like champagne that's far too expensive for a wedding even a tasteful one. And then he gently sets her down, more gently than he thought he'd be able to, but he can, and then she's looking at him, a question in her eyes, and he really must be a lot more sloshed than he first thought he was, because she's attacking his lips again and. He. Barely. Notices.
They keep dancing, barely noticing when Hermione and Draco can hardly stand up because they're laughing so hard, and Ginny looks so red it matches her hair. And when another caterer walks by with excessively nice champagne, he doesn't grab another flute of it, because he's high on the taste of her lipstick, the scent of her skin: blood orange perfume and sweat and cigarette smoke. Draco and Hermione, he sees, have collapsed into each other in one chair for both of them, and Nott, who's sitting with a bimbo he brought whose name no one has bothered to learn yet and whose name Theo most likely doesn't know either, is sitting down next to them, laughing his arse off while the bint looks on.
He gets tired quickly enough, and he walks Pansy over to a table, still holding her wrist, and they're both laughing, laughing as hard as Hermione and Draco seem to be. Pansy whispers, "Want to make even more of a scene?" into his ear, and he nods, eager to do anything to replicate that hilarious shade of red on Ginny's face and the feeling he gets from kissing her, tasting her.
"Take me to the bathroom in the reception hall. Right now," she says, and he pulls her to her feet, and with them both still laughing and drunk and high on the kiss, walks her over to the bathroom.
"Girls or boys?" he asks sweetly, wondering exactly what she has in mind, whether this is just to make a scene or for something else.
"Does it matter?" and drags him into the family room, locking the door with a quick spell. She sits onto the sink and starts to pull her dress up and motions to him with a quick hand motion. He walks over to her quickly, because he's never had sex in a public restroom before and wants to either start this as fast as possible or finish it. Harry's not entirely sure.
Kneeling down, he pulls her green dress up to the sight of her black lacy knickers. Yanking those down, he gets to work sucking and licking at her clit. His tongue swirls around the sensitive spot, getting her to thrust into his mouth. She tastes like her lipstick, full and musky and sin. Pansy groans and pulls on his hair, yanking him closer.
"Fuck, Potter," she says, practically moaning his name as he begins thrusting his fingers in and out of her wet cunt. He looks up at the witch right as she bites down on her lip to stop from screaming out. The sight has him working faster, biting at her clit, wanting to see her release as soon as possible, perhaps only for his own relief. With one final thrust, she comes onto his fingers, and he's still there, helping her ride out her release. Her face as she climaxes is something Harry thinks he'll remember for a long time.
"Your turn," she says, and yanks at the belt restraining his erection. Harry swallows. It's been awhile since someone's gotten him off other than his own hand, and the anticipation is… delicious. Pansy re situates herself atop the sink and asks, "Are you sure?"
"Fuck, yes," he says, nearly growling. She's wet enough so that when he enters her, there's hardly any resistance at all. He shifts inside of her, and they both groan slightly. And now he's thrusting into her hot tight cunt and he's never ever felt better a day in his life and she's amazing and the feeling of her building orgasm has him whimpering her name and the feeling of her walls clenching around him has him coming too and he bites down on her neck hard and they both go tumbling off the edge into oblivion and then they're tumbling off the sink too him still inside of her and ouch.
He pulls out of her gently, rubbing his sore head. "Ouch," he mutters.
"The sink might not have been the most strategic place to fuck," she offers, sitting up and running her own head.
"So, what's next?" he asks, really curious as to what exactly she'll say.
"I don't know. My prefered version of events is one where you return my knickers and we both go out there to bug the Weaslette and Marcus even more, and Theo and Hermione and Draco all have a really good laugh."
"Okay," he says. "And then what?"
"And then I think we should go back to my flat where we can have sex in a more strategic location, also known as the bed and when we wake up, you can leave for your job and we can both refer to this as the best shag of our lives."
"Anything after that?" Harry asks, wanting more, hoping for more. Just a little bit.
"I think we might have something of an arrangement that occurs at undisclosed times and locations where we just fuck. Sometimes in places where the Weaslette and Marcus might see us. Just to piss them off."
"Sounds good to me," he says, offering out his hand. She takes it, and they both stand up.
"How about giving me back those knickers now, Potter?"
"I think I might keep them," he says, tucking them in his back pocket and grinning cheekily.
She huffs, but only a tiny bit, just enough to let him know that it's okay for him to steal them, the little black boyshorts that he just finds so, so cute. He shoves them into his back pocket. "Who knows, maybe Flint and Ginny will see them and be very, very uncomfortable."
"Okay," she replies and smiles. "Let's go."
They walk out of the bathroom, Harry with the knickers in his back pocket, hand in Pansy's. They walk closer together than actually necessary, and sit down at the same table as Theo, Luna, Hermione, and Draco. Pansy grabs some expensive champagne from the caterer and takes a sip. Theo appears red in the face from laughter and Hermione and Draco are leaning on each other.
The caterer drops another bottle of champagne on the table, chilled with a few glasses. Hermione smiles at the group and makes a grab for a cup, until Draco blocks her from the bottle. "Sparkling water?" he asks. She pouts at him, and Theo makes a meaningful face at Harry.
Pansy pokes Harry in the shoulder and points to a place a few tables away. "The Weaslette and Marcus don't look to be having a very good time." They don't. Both of them are sitting on opposite sides of their table, glaring at the other.
"We have done a very bad thing," says Harry, smiling widely.
"Yes, we most certainly have," Pansy replies, grinning just as wickedly.
# # #
Harry sees Pansy three days later, as he's rushing through the Ministry, late for his morning session of pushing papers. They don't talk, but ten minutes later, he's sitting at his desk and there's a knock at the door.
She enters the room purposefully, locks the door, and proceeds to kiss Harry senseless on top of his desk and all of his papers. Her lipstick tastes just the way it did at the wedding, and she's wearing the same perfume as that night. Her short pencil skirt rides up on her hips as she straddles him, and Harry is terrified that someone is going to walk in on them and see them, see them both in an- awkward position to say the least. But he pushes the inhibitions aside and grabs her hips, lets her grind onto the hardness in his pants.
She kisses him, and the taste of sin, delicious sin, fills his mouth and smears across his neck and cheek and the collar of his good work robes. Pansy is the one to push the robes off of Harry and yank her short skirt up even higher. Harry fingers her clit from over the top of the dark purple lace and wonders briefly if her bra matches but he doesn't have to wonder for long because she's taking off her white silk blouse and her bra is silky and grey so the answer is no they don't match but Merlin her tits are gorgeous and he gets so lost in licking them pinching and touching her nipples that he barely notices when he's been pushed down onto the desk with Pansy on top of him and they're kissing again and he can taste it taste it all and the moment is perfect.
Pansy pulls off her underwear and grinds into his erection even more now. He can't stop from groaning, but he wouldn't want to, anyway, because the sound seems to turn her on.
She sits on his face and allows Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived, eat her out while they're getting a mess on all of his paperwork. He sucks on Pansy's clit and licks her wet slit, until she shudders, coming harder than she did the night of the wedding. Harry laps up all of her juices and wonders what exactly it is that she tastes like, something new and perfect and musky. He's intoxicated by the scent, the smell of her, and barely notices, yet again, when she slides onto his cock, which is rock hard from the look of her climax.
Pansy rides his cock, fast, jumping up and down on top of him, and Harry lies back and enjoys the show, her pretty tits bouncing up and down, her face a mask of pleasure. The pleasure he feels is almost overwhelming, and when he comes, he groans just as much as she did the first time around. After he pulls his trousers up and they begin the hunt for Pansy's bra, which turns up wrapped around the coat rack, he shakily suggests they really do try it on a bed next time.
"Take me to your flat, Potter. Then we'll talk."
"By talk you mean shag?" he asks hopefully. To which she laughs. Of course, she laughs.
# # #
They have sex six more times at the Ministry in that month alone, nine times at his flat, five at hers, and another two in some seedy Muggle bar where they tip the waitress three times the amount they normally would, because Pansy gave him a blow job under the table. Harry's beginning to wonder how his sex drive increased so much since just a few months ago, when he would wank on occasion in the shower. Now, though. Now he's getting blowjobs in pubs and fucking someone in the loo at the Ministry of Magic. Something must be happening to him.
In fact, something is. He returns home one day to find Pansy reading a mystery novel, brewing tea and eating crisps, goes to a coffee shop with her and doesn't fuck her in the men's room. Harry stocks the pantry with her favorite kind of biscuits, and has her over for a heated makeout sesh while she's on her period. He gets her a toothbrush for his bathroom, and he gets used to the scent of blood oranges on the pillow on the left side of the bed.
Something is changing, and he likes it. Likes have the dates for required Ministry events, likes having her there, to kiss or fuck or not fuck or talk to. He likes it. And that's scary, because the last time he liked someone, really liked them, they turned around and left him for their Quidditch manager. But Pansy is different. He hopes, at least.
They meet up with the others for their monthly lunch event. Hermione and Draco are back from their honeymoon, on which Hermione was not allowed to drink, she gripes, and Draco did most certainly drink, and she is showing and glowing and radiantly pregnant. Theo's by himself, and Blaise and Luna sit next to him because they appear to be in some sort of odd relationship that has even odder boundaries and rules than Pansy and Harry's… thing. Ron is with his wife Lavender, again, and Harry struggles not to vomit at their disgusting PDA, which they don't even have the courtesy to do under the table.
Granted, Harry's had his hand up Pansy's skirt the whole time, having made her leave the flat without her knickers, but still. He's doing it under the table, at least. Ron is just snogging Lavender outright.
He rubs her clit lightly, and she bites her lip. Theo looks over at them, amused, while Hermione, who sees the distraction, steals a piece of something she can't eat off of Draco's plate. Harry grins brightly, and thrusts two fingers into Pansy's practically dripping cunt. She barely manages not to moan. Theo narrows his eyes at the pair.
"It's great that you could come, Pansy, you know, with all of your work stuff going on," Hermione says brightly. Pansy mutters to Harry, not loud enough for anyone else to hear, "I'd better be coming soon."
He chuckles lightly, and moves his fingers more quickly through her warm heat. Pansy shudders against him, shifting a bit so he gets just the right angle. And he's got it he's found the spot now and his fingers his clever clever fingers are moving fast and hot and wet and ohh and she comes crashing down from the high he's gotten her up to and the moment is perfect perfect perfect until she sees Theo's face and it's even perfecter because that expression is one she would pay to see and Pansy laughs and falls back down onto the back of her chair.
Draco and Hermione begin talking about baby stuff and nursery room color themes, and Harry tries to tune them out, but it's nearly impossible. Instead, he turns over to Pansy and grabs her hand under the table.
He's pretty sure that the rest of their friends, besides Theo, of course, have no idea that they're in a quasi relationship. But hand holding in public is a bit of a risky move, and Harry wonders how she'll react to it. He gets a bright smile, one that seems a bit too bright for traditional Pansy. Then again, everything he's been seeing from her has been sort of- less sarcastic Pansy and more like nice Pansy. Odd. He thinks he likes nice Pansy.
The group laughs and talks, and Hermione sneaks things she's not supposed to have from other people's plates, while Pansy gets into it with Blaise because they don't usually get along, and Harry loves it. He loves being with his friends, Pansy, and having Hermione try to break the rules, even just to get a few slices of unpasteurized cheese. It's brilliant, because he sees just how much Draco dotes on her, how much he cares. Harry wants that with Pansy. He wants them to be able to care for each other in public. But right now, they can't.
# # #
The next day, Harry's in his flat on one of the rare days that Pansy's not there, sitting on the couch that they'd christened twice. He's still thinking about whether or not he should ruin what they have now, or keep going with their arrangement, knowing that his feelings will probably stay unfulfilled. He wants to tell her, ask her what she thinks, but he knows he can't. He's not that stupid.
[bad.]
She wants to go over to his flat, but she's not sure she can. The last time she showed up unannounced, he seemed a bit surprised. It wasn't a bad sort of surprised, she muses, but he doesn't usually like surprises. The one with Hermione and Draco's baby was a lovely one, but not having a sort of girlfriend show up, she thinks.
They look so happy, she muses. The two of them are perfect for themselves, practically made for each other. Something about them just clicks. Pansy wonders if her and Harry are that good a match, or is it just sex? They don't always have sex, though. Lots of the time they talk, or read, or drink coffee or tea. They have a really nice sort of relationship, spending a lot of time at Harry's flat and doing whatever they like. Most of the time, that's sex, though.
Pansy thinks she might like to date, really and properly date Harry, but she's not quite sure about what he feels on the subject. Maybe she should ask.
On the other hand, though, Harry hasn't talked about wanting a relationship at all, and she doesn't want to ruin what they have right now. It's almost perfect, but she does wish they could hold hands publicly in Diagon Alley, but that's really not everything.
Fuck it. She's going over to his flat. Pansy walks over to her fireplace, throws some Floo powder in, and shouts, "Potter Residence," and jumps through. Harry doesn't look entirely surprised when she comes over, as though he's sort of been expecting her.
"Hey," he says when she comes through.
"Hey," Pansy replies, and gives him a quick hug, but then remembers that this is kind of a booty call and hugging your booty call is weird.
"I thought you'd probably come over," he says. "It's been exactly a month since we first started, you know."
"It is? It feels like it gone so much faster."
"I know. I like spending time with you."
"I do too."
They stand a bit awkwardly in the hearth, until he makes a coughing noise in his throat, the sound that means he wants to get going, and says, "Shall we?"
Pansy walks over to Harry's room, lying down on her side of the bed, ready for whatever was coming her way.
Harry kisses her, soft and sweet and not at all like fuck buddies generally do before sex. No. This is relationship kissing, tender and gentle and tongues not fighting in each other's mouths. Merlin, but it's been way too long since someone kissed her like that. Their lips for together perfectly, soft and melding together, melding into each other. It's not like the fighting kiss they had at the wedding nothing like that because this one is sweet and almost loving and he tastes like the stupidly expensive tea he drinks all of the time with lemon and honey and they aren't going to stop the kissing bit any time soon are they but she doesn't care because it's the best thing she's done in a while and maybe they could just kiss for a few more years instead of shagging. But soon he's unbuttoning her white blouse that she wore to work that morning and she needs him, more than she ever has before. The persistent ache in between her legs has gotten worse since he took his lips off of hers if that was even possible.
Pansy maneuvers them over to his neatly made bed and collapses on top of it. Her shirt is almost all the way off, and she briefly remembers that she did, in fact, remember to wear a matching set today, just because. He fingers her clit gently over the pencil skirt she's wearing. Work clothes aren't the sexiest things to wear, really. She ought to remember that. But his fingers feel so good, touching her gently, softly, caringly. They slide her out of her blouse and get to work on the bra. Even after all this time, he's still no good with the clasp. She does it for him, reaching around and letting her breasts fall out.
Harry kisses the space between them carefully, as if she'll break, and she wants to tell him that she won't break, that she doesn't break, that she's Pansy fucking Parkinson and she doesn't, doesn't break, doesn't break, that she bends, and on that subject, she's very flexible and would he like it very much if she demonstrated? But she doesn't, because it's been too fucking long since anyone has touched her like she might break and if it's Harry Potter, then so be it.
The gentle, non-breaking kisses continue down her chest, ghosting over her bellybutton and down to her cunt, which she's sure is practically dripping at this point. His mouth really ought to be declared a Crown Jewel at this point, really and truly. And Merlin, the things he can do with that tongue of his! Pansy really never would have expected the savior of the whole goddamn wizarding world, the zenith of light, the epicenter of purity to have a mouth like this. But he's amazing at giving head and that marvelous tongue of his is circling her clit right now, making her quiver at his every touch. Her climax comes crashing down around her quickly making her feel complete and she may or may not be chanting his name at this point and grabbing his dark hair dragging him closer to her.
Harry pulls himself up towards her on the bed while she's panting heavily, still coming down from the explosive orgasm he just gave her. She pulls him closer to her and kisses him, firm, on the mouth. Pansy can taste herself on his tongue. It tastes like sin, something perfect and wrong and flawless, just like she feels in his arms. She shifts them so that she's on top, straddling him and his impressively large erection. Not that she's told him that. It would just have inflated his ego more.
Frowning, Pansy notices that he's still wearing his boxers. She plans to rid him of the stupid article of clothing as soon as possible. But first, some teasing. She kisses down his chest, toned from years of playing Quidditch, right towards the offending undergarment. His eyes go wide in anticipation of what she's going to to do, what she might do. The second her teeth touch the elastic of the boxers, she can see from Harry's eyes that he knows he's a goner. Slowly, ever so slowly, she drags them down from his body, taking care to let her teeth touch his leg the whole time.
After the boxers are around his ankles, she presses a quick kiss to the inside of his thigh. He shuts his eyes. Slowly, so so slowly, she moves up to his cock. Pansy might not be smart, might not be special, but she knows how to give a blowjob. A damn good one, too, from the reactions she's gotten from various ex-beaus. She circles her tongue around the very tip. Harry grasps the sheets with both hands, knuckles white, and she takes her mouth off of him completely to move his hands to her hair. He's clutching that now, and for some reason, Pansy really likes the feeling of that. Of him having control.
Quickly, she takes him, all of him into her mouth, and he grabs at her even more tightly. Her tongue is sliding all around now, moving fast and sloppy, and he seems to like that, really like that, so she keeps going, feeling his hardness with her tongue and the back of her mouth. After he seems warmed up and wet, she pulls herself up to eye level with him, and in one swift movement, she lowers herself onto him.
They both let out a gasp of surprise, Pansy realizing just how much giving the blowjob had aroused her and Harry seeming to be surprised at the fast penetration. Being on top is one of her favorite places to be when they're together, and she briefly wonders if he likes it as much. Quickly, though, she pushes the thought out of her head, because they've got the absolute perfect angle for her, and with every thrust, she's one step closer to an explosive climax. Pansy lets out a tiny groan, and Harry looks a little surprised. To the best of her knowledge, she's not usually very vocal, so this must be really something to him.
Both of them are close, and she knows it while she's riding him, his face a mask of pleasure. Neither of them talk much during sex, so her next words surprise both of them, her especially. "Let go, Harry," she urges. He does, closing his eyes, and she does the same, working her clit with one hand, the other on his arm. They climax at the same moment, with a slight moan from Pansy, who rides out her intense sensation of ecstasy on his quickly softening dick. It's the best sex they've ever had, and they both know it.
Slowly, she pulls herself off of him and flops, face down, onto the pillow. Her and Harry move their sweaty bodies so that they're spooning each other, her on the inside, feeling his skin, every square inch of him. It's become habit at this point, so natural that they just do it at the end of every night. She wouldn't admit it to anyone that asked, but she wouldn't lie to herself and say that she doesn't like this part. It isn't the promise of delicious morning sex, but just the physical closeness.
Harry mutters into her hair as they're starting to drift off to sleep, "I think this trumps the wedding on the best sex ever list."
Pansy responds, "Hell yeah."
They fall asleep, his hand on her shoulder, her head in the crook of his neck. Pansy doesn't have time to consider whether or not this is normal booty call behavior.
# # #
She wakes up before him as usual, and heads to the kitchen to fix coffee for herself and weird expensive tea with lemon and honey for him. Shaking her head, she gets the french press to do what it's supposed to do, and gets started on his tea. It's made in a really specific way, and she occupies herself with getting it ready, until she exits the kitchen with the tea.
Harry's sitting down at the kitchen table and has muffins for both of them. He looks up from the Daily Prophet as Pansy enters the room. "Hey," he says. "Thanks for the tea. Did you sleep well?"
She nods, still tired, with a headache on the way. Harry hands her the cup of coffee that she had neglected after making the tea. He folds up the paper and gestures to the seat next to him. Gratefully, Pansy sits down and grabs a muffin. They sit in companionable silence, her reading the Society pages and him holding the Sports section. This has become something of a ritual on the nights she stays over. It's comforting.
Later that day, a day when neither of them have work but don't want to have sex either, they're sitting in front of the Wizarding broadcasting system leaning on one another. Pansy's overcome by a wave of emotion and starts crying on the couch while Celestina Warbeck sings in the background. Harry pats her back and tries to comfort her, but since she doesn't even know what's wrong, he can't really do anything.
"I'm such a mess," she says, wiping tears away from her eyes. "Why do you even like me?"
This is a classic line, a test. But right now, it's not. Sort of. Actually, it is a test. But right now, Pansy's not sure she wants an answer. Most guys don't give her an answer. They strut around the question, filling the conversation with strange comments and elusive statements. But Harry does.
Harry looks at her. "Because you're real. You don't apologize for who you are, for anything, and you're also not trying to worship my fucking feet for being a war hero. You're real. And it's perfect and exactly what I need."
"You should hate me," she says, not touching him, tears still in her eyes. "I tried to turn you over to Lord Voldemort."
"I don't care," he says, holding her hand. He's solid and right and it feels like light embodied.
"But I do. I'm not worthy of spending time with you."
"Yes, you are. Pansy, you wanted to protect your friends and stop the fighting and just stop it. That was brave, what you did. I would have done the exact same fucking thing if I were you."
She shudders and collapses into his shoulder. Harry rubs her head and pulls her closer. Pansy thinks that she might break now, actually and it might be a really good idea to kiss her like she might break now at least. It's exactly what she wants. She wants this, whatever they are, something solid and good and right, but right now, she's not sure that's what she needs. She needs wild and fast and fucking and drinks every night and a new guy every twelve hours and she just can't can't have something perfect right now and something has got to be utterly wrong in her head. But she wants him and what she wants, she will get. And he will give it to her, Pansy knows. Because that's just the kind of person Harry fucking Potter is.
"I think we should start dating," Harry says into her hair. She nods, fully aware that she's pretty much soaked his shirt with the tears in her eyes. It's nice, feeling his firm chest underneath her. And she needs him why couldn't she understand that five seconds ago she needs him like air or water and Pansy just knows that saps like Hermione would call this love but she's very pragmatic and doesn't quite believe in love yet but she will and she thinks Harry must know that now that they will fall in love at some unspecified point in the future and she's crying and hugging him and they're kissing and it's exactly what she needs what she wants everything everything everything all at once and for a moment they are infinite.
But then the moment ends and Harry looks up at her. "So, yes to the dating?"
Pansy cringes and pushes herself away. Harry is perfect and solid and right and what she wants but she can't she just can't have something so good and right now because she's broken even if it's only a little bit and perfect things don't get along well with shattered glass that's a fact of life and she runs runs runs out of his flat because she just can't have perfect right now and now she's standing in the street that his flat's on and she's still crying stop it Pansy seriously stop it but she can't and she needs something that's just as broken as her right now because she can't just let herself have perfect.
# # #
It's two months since she last saw Harry Potter. Hermione is four months along, and she and Draco are agonizing over baby names and whether the kid should be named after a Shakespeare character or a celestial body, but they're leaning to a moon right now. She doesn't care to offer her input. Don't people know that naming a child Caliban is just fucking asking for trouble? But apparently it's a stupid fucking compromise, something that's she's never really been very good at. Merlin, she fucking knows that already.
Pansy knows, she knows that she needs to talk to him, sort things out, tell him that she likes him, that she cares about him more than should really be reasonable, but she's too busy being exactly what everyone expects her to be, the unstable one, the girl with a guy in and out every day, with a full glass of red at her mouth and a cigarette dangling from her fingers and a crimson stain on her lips, their lips, their collars if she really likes them and a dress to match. And she can't stand it, that she needs this, that she needs the meaningless connection, but she's still a bit broken and she needs everything to be just this broken. And it is. Fuck, it is.
So she's fairly surprised when Theo invites her over, doesn't give her a drink the second she walks in through the door, and sits her down on one of his nicer armchairs. It's odd because the last six times she's been over there, they both drank far more wine than they ought to have, bemoaned their lack of a significant other, and came up with even more ridiculous name suggestions for Draco and Hermione. But he doesn't, nor does he pour a tumbler of firewhiskey for them when they're seated either. Pansy frowns. This is distinctly un-Theo-like behavior. He grabs her knee with an anxious look in his eyes. "Pansy, I'm worried about you."
Instantly, she responds with a sneer. What right does he have to talk about her life choices? Theo's got a new bird in and out of his flat in six hour rotations every day, and his liver's probably going to fail faster than her's. "Why?" she asks, not expecting a real answer.
"Because you haven't been- haven't been this bad since right after Hogwarts," he says, gulping air instead of scotch. He seems out of his element right now, and Pansy relishes in the discomfort.
"Like you're one to talk," she says, not liking the sensation sneering has on her face.
He cringes, only slightly. "It's not about the drinking or that, really," Theo insists.
"Then what is it?" she asks impatiently. Pansy's got a cigarette calling her name and Theo doesn't let her smoke in his flat.
"Pansy, I knew about you and Harry," he says.
"Well, yeah," she responds. "Harry said he thought you were the only one that knew."
"No," he insists. "I knew that you were both half in love with each other."
"I wasn't," Pansy snaps back.
She stands up, grabbing her pack of smokes from her purse. And she leaves. She walks through the streets with cancer in her mouth and a glare in her eyes. And then she walks right to Muggle London, straight into one of their most populous pubs with the ridiculous hope of forgetting. Forgetting everything, forgetting Harry, Hogwarts, Draco, her whole goddamn life right now, because that's what she needs even though she wants something completely different, strong arms around her waist and kisses on her neck and weird expensive tea in the morning.
When the guy taps her on the shoulder she turns around, the mask in place, the mask that has fuck me, please written on it in indelible ink and a sultry smile pasted on in brilliant blood-red MAC lipstick and pretty pretty pretty desperate pretty not broken pretty. Because that's what they want to see, the guys that tap her on the shoulder and aren't Potter. They're the guys that want the vermilion smear on her lips and the pretty dark short hair and the strap of her scalloped green lace bra that just barely sticks out from underneath her dress. They want to see if the knickers match. Those are the muggles that tap her on the shoulder, take her to their flat and kiss the red smear off of her lips. And right now, she needs that.
Pansy turns around. It's him.
She blinks, the perfectly made- up eyes looking at him with surprise. "Hey," Harry says.
Her brain doesn't seem to want to work right now. Pansy grabs her purse and walks out. It's starting to rain now, and she can feel the muggle mascara dissolving and riding off into the sunset with her eyeliner. Is she crying maybe? Pansy has no idea.
[good.]
He's found her. After two months of looking, interrogating Hermione and Draco and Theo, he's finally found her. And then he had to go and bungle it by doing the idiotic shoulder tapping thing. Harry can still see the look on her face, the stupid pretty girl look that she was wearing right up until she figured out that it was him. Was that who she was? Was she the girl he had seen in the bar? Yes, he decides. Pansy is the girl in the bar and the one that makes him tea and the one that cries while listening to Celestina Warbeck and asking doubled edged sword-questions. She is broken but. But. He. Misses. Her.
Maybe she just needs time, he thinks. Of course that's it. Everyone had parts of themselves break off into themselves during the war and she needs to be alone to reassemble. But. But. He. Misses. Her. Harry wonders if that's a good thing or a bad thing. She was getting herself back together far worse than he or Hermione or Ron had, though. What had he done to sew himself back up?
He had locked himself in Number 14 Grimmauld Place.
He had drunk all of the remaining firewhiskey in the house.
He had slept with so many girls he forgot all of their names.
He had not spoken to Hermione or Ron for months.
He had tried to fucking forget it all.
No, he hadn't done any better than Pansy at fixing himself. No, he had failed at healing himself. The rest of them had barely done any better. Hermione had worked and drunk and worked and fucked and worked and forgot it all with Draco Malfoy and a bottle of firewhiskey and sex and a few more sips of Dreamless Sleep every night. Ron had disappeared for a year and not spoken to his family and left right after the funerals and tried to lose himself within a machine with large tits and an impressive cooking repertoire and the desire to pop out babies as quickly as possible. No, none of them had healed themselves very well. And he still hasn't and none of them have and they all just fucked each other and put just a smidge more in their glass and shout a bit louder and shut their eyes slightly tighter and shut up a little faster. They're all still broken, Harry realizes as he's standing in the rain and he can see her from where he stands.
Fuck, he wants to run over to her, wants to help her heal, but he realizes that he can't and she broke herself even more by trying not to be broken. The muggle makeup is running down her face and pooling at her chin. Is she crying or is it just the rain? He thinks it must be the rain, because that is Pansy fucking Parkinson and she does not fucking cry. At least, not unless she's listening to Celestina Warbeck and confused as hell about everything and anything and them.
Instead, Harry waves to her, and now he's crying, he thinks, and they're both so broken, so fucking broken that they think they're healed, but really they're not and probably won't ever be, and the only thing that tipped him off was just one look at her, at her beautiful jade green eyes that are definitely filled with tears. They're walking towards each other now, because she cares and he cares and they can't really do anything about it except try to heal each other and fix what they've both broken, also known as their hearts, also known as their very souls. But they can't do anything about that, only tape each other up and kiss away the nightmares.
And now, they're standing right across from each other. Right now, Harry thinks, they don't need to talk. Hopefully. He's always been shite at talking. Carefully, he reaches towards her lips and wipes the crimson stain off of her lips. He wants to taste her, just her, and he thinks that the lipstick might ruin that. She smiles through her tears, but just a little bit. And opens her mouth. Fuck, they're going to start talking. "I was wrong, when I left," Pansy says carefully. "I don't know what I was thinking."
Harry opens his mouth to start talking, but she frowns and puts a finger over his lips, her voice still strained with tears. "Actually, no. I know exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking that I needed something crazy to fix myself and be out of control and break myself to fix everything."
He nods and tries to speak again, but her finger's still planted on his lips, and there are a lot of things Harry will do with his tongue, but lick Pansy Parkinson's fingers is not one of them. "I wanted to break everything so that- so that I could fix what I knew I could fix. The scars from the war- they're not the kind of things that you can fix so easily. And I was going to but I want you more than me."
She lifts her finger off of his mouth and Harry starts to talk, most likely going to fuck everything up. "Pansy, it's okay that you're still broken," he says. "Hell, we're all still broken. The war broke everyone and no one fixed themselves, really. We can help each other."
"I know. I hope," she says, and moves in towards his mouth. This kiss isn't like any of the others. It's not like the one they had one the first night when they were both drunk out of their minds and all they could taste, all they could feel was the champagne. It's not like the last one with the wizarding radio on in the background and tears covering both of them and saying nothing and everything all at once. This is like nothing ever before and they are far, far more infinite than two months ago. And he knows in that second that he's not just a bit in love with this witch, he's a lot and this kiss tastes like it. It tastes like love.
It's everything that they've ever been searching for, the kind of thing that lets both of them know that it's going to be okay, and they might be broken, but that's okay too. He closes his eyes and melts into it, into her.
[bad.]
She's well aware that she's kneeling in the middle of the fucking road while kissing Harry Potter in the rain and tasting something that makes her question all her pragmatism and refusal to believe in love. And it's going to be okay, it's going to be alright and it's all because she's here right now, and she may or may not be in love.
But all kisses have to end, and when this one does, her forehead is on his but she's still not looking into his eyes. "I still want to date you," he says to her nose.
"I want to marry you," she says, barely even able to hear herself. And the weird thing is, she means it. He brings her to her feet.
"Yes," he says, leaning in and hugging her. Pansy doesn't quite know if he's saying yes to her or something else. She finds it doesn't matter all that much. Harry picks her up bridal style and kisses her nose. There's gotta be something about it, she thinks. First he's asking it out and now with the odd kisses. Oh well. There are worse things than a boyfriend sort that really likes your nose.
# # #
They are lying down on his couch after a properly brilliant shag and he is running his finger through her short, black hair, hair that's gotten a bit long since they started dating and walking around in Diagon Alley and holding hands in restaurants. "You should hate me," Pansy says, suddenly realizing and needing to make sure that he doesn't, wants to make sure that they can still fix each other and themselves together.
Harry plants a gentle kiss on her temple. "I shouldn't," he replies. "I don't."
"I'm still very angry, you know," she states. "I was trying to save my friends and stop the fighting and I thought that handing you over was the best way of doing that. I wanted to save them."
"I love you," he says softly. "And I know that you might not love yourself right now but I do, and I just wish that me loving you was enough."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you don't love yourself. And I wish you would."
"Why should I?" she asks, her voice hard. Maybe she'll cry. Pansy's not sure.
"You deserve it. You deserve to love yourself after what we've been through. Don't you get it? You are worthy of your own love."
She leans into his shoulder and shuts up because no matter what he says no matter what he says about deserving to love herself she'll never be more than the girl that didn't stop being scared long enough to be brave and she doesn't doesn't doesn't deserve her own love the love that she'd give to Harry or her friends without a question and probably does right now and she knows that she doesn't deserve it for herself. Pansy's next suggestion is a surprise to both of them, though. "Let's move in together," she says.
He kisses her, soft and firm and perfect and love all at once. "Yes." Another kiss. "Yes." His mouth is on hers again. "Yes." And there's the last kiss, the long awaited one that deepens and makes her burn and freeze and love all over, and she can't stand not touching him, so their clothes find their way to the ground at some point.
At some point, Pansy thinks: I could get used to this.
# # #
Pansy and their friends are in the middle of packing up her flat. Theo sits on the bed, wincing as he hears the creaks that it makes as soon as he puts his weight onto it. Hermione and Draco are in the kitchen, hopefully packing up her dishes, or, more likely, shagging on the countertops. Harry is in the living room, shrinking her furniture so that they can move it more easily. "You'll be getting rid of this," Theo says, motioning towards the bed. "It's a safety hazard."
"Or you'll be getting rid of those," Pansy mimics, motioning towards his stomach. He hasn't really gained any weight, but it's fun to tease him. "It's a safety hazard."
Theo crosses his arms and glares. "Shut up," he scoffs lightly.
"Well, I don't really need it anyways. Vanish it."
Theo does as she wishes quickly and soon there isn't really much left in her bedroom. She moves into the bathroom, ready to purge anything that she doesn't need. There's been quite a lot of junk she's cleaned out already, and she's ready to conquer her personal vanity space.
She goes through the drawers, dumping all the contents out onto the counter and sorting through them; makeup kits and crusty nail polish and mascara bottles and old hair brushes. Pansy sorts through and ferrets out the good things from the old trash. It's hard to figure out what's still alright and what's pointless to keep, so she has to test it. When she's done, her face is a mess of asymmetrical makeup and weird color combinations. Theo laughs when he sees her and tosses her a tube of lipstick that he's smeared onto his own lips. "This one's still good, Pans," he says.
She looks at the blood red tube with a little bit of distaste in her expression. "I don't think I need that anymore," Pansy replies, and tosses it in the trashcan next to her.
They walk out of the bathroom soon after that, with Pansy's bag of cosmetics to keep in her hands. Today, she'll be moving in with Harry. Today, they're going to start a new life together, and everything will be okay because everything is always going to be okay and it will be because that's what they need it to be. They're going to be okay. They're going to repair each other. And it's all going to be okay.