Warning: Adult language and themes present in this chapter!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the other copyrighted characters. Credit must be given to J.K. Rowling.


Him

Chapter 4

Pansy sat in the stiff, high backed chair, staring down at the old, wooden desk as the rosy-cheeked woman chastised her. When Dumbledore had died, everyone had assumed that McGonagall would become Headmistress. Minister Scrimgoeur's paranoia had gotten the best of him, though. He had felt it safer if he personally installed someone from the ministry—someone he could trust, he had commented to the Daily Prophet.

There had been a brief uproar amongst McGonagall's supporters, but it had died down quickly. The minister had made his decision, and to his pleasant surprise, there had been no protest from McGonagall or her close friends. Little did he know, the lack of objection had been because the Order really was pleased with his decision. For weeks they had been trying to find a way to slip another Order member into Hogwarts without rousing suspicion. They already had many Order members guarding the school for Auror duty, but they wanted people on the inside.

They didn't have to try hard—the minister had placed Hestia Jones, an Order member, right in the palm of their hand. Pansy knew none of this, though. The new Headmistress was more of an annoyance.

"It's best we show respect to our professors, Miss Parkinson. You, being Head Girl, should know that. I hope it doesn't happen again," the woman said in a cheery voice. Pansy contemplated rolling her eyes. The incident had been a week ago. Instead, she nodded lazily. The Headmistress stood and came around the desk.

"Well, it's late. Off to bed, deary." Pansy rose and was escorted to the door by the petite woman. As she descended the staircase, she shook her head and shuddered.

"Someone gag me, please." Pansy pulled her slipping bag onto her shoulder as she walked down the dark, abandoned halls. Something about the Headmistress bothered her to the point of insanity. Perhaps it was the way she was always smiling, even when you were being punished. Pansy couldn't stand people who were cheery for no reason, prancing around, singing about love and all that shit.

The soft clicking of her shoes stilled when she came to her portrait. She muttered her password and was met with a small gust of warm air, frantically escaping the confines of the common room. The only light in the room came from the dying embers in the fire place so Pansy began to feel her way through the darkness. She had nearly made it to her door when she heard a rustling to her right. Freezing, she squinted towards the couch and fireplace. Guardedly, she inched her hand towards her wand and gripped it tightly.

"Pansy?" She jumped at the sound, but slowly relinquished her hold on her wand when she recognized Michael Corner's voice. Though he was Head Boy, they rarely spoke to one another except when mandatory. Pansy assumed she had made Head Girl because of her leadership skills; she knew her academics hadn't convinced anyone. As for Michael…she had yet to find what qualities had landed him the Head Boy position. She had thought they would have chosen Weasley. She supposed she was glad they didn't.

There was a roar from the fire place as Michael relit it with his wand. Now Pansy could clearly see Michael's dark hair peaking over the back of the couch as he sat up.

"Hello, Michael," she said, trying to behave civilly as he watched her from his seat. She walked over to the couch he was sitting on and set her bag down next to it, relieved to be rid of the extra weight. Pansy shook her head inwardly when she noticed Michael's blank stare. Heaving a sigh, she set off towards her bedroom.

"Pansy?" Michael asked again, causing her to stop in her tracks. Growing more aggravated, Pansy turned towards him, setting a hand on her hip as she waited for him to continue. He raked a hand through his messy hair as he pushed himself off the couch, the firelight behind him casting eerie shadows. Pansy remained silent as Michael's heavy footsteps thumped against the wooden floor. He stopped a few feet in front of her.

"I've heard rumors," he said playfully, taking a step closer to her. Pansy narrowed her eyes before smirking in curiosity.

"Oh?" She crossed her arms in contempt and lifted an eyebrow. She had never gotten along well with Michael, but he'd always given her a good laugh from the things that left his mouth.

"I have ten galleons. We can use my room," he said huskily, taking hold of her upper arm. Pansy clenched her fists. She hadn't been expecting that.

"That had better have been one of your fucking jokes, Corner," she said as she withdrew her wand. "Otherwise, I'll hex you." She jabbed her wand at the area between his legs and grinned at his startled expression. Before she knew what was happening, though, he had whacked her wand away and pulled her firmly against him. He tried to force his mouth to hers, but she struggled against his hold and managed to squirm out of his arms. Heart beating wildly, she knelt down and searched blindly under a desk for her wand.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, Michael?" she asked as he made his way over to her, hoping she could distract him long enough to get her wand. She could feel it, there, at the tip of her fingers.

"I need you, Pansy. I can't explain it." With difficulty, Pansy pushed her arm further under the desk, trying to wrap her fingers around her evasive wand. She felt Michael's strong arms snake around her waist. She bit down on her tongue as he tugged her up, crushing her arm against the desk before she was able to release it from the crevice. She writhed frantically against him as he dragged her into his darkened room.

"Put me down, Michael! Stop!" she yelled furiously as his grip around her tightened. He grunted as he threw her on his bed. Pansy quickly rolled to the other side, nearly making it off. He was quicker, though, grabbing her skirt and pulling her back towards him. She was no longer irate with him—she was terrified. This was Michael Corner—Ravenclaw equivalent of Ronald Weasley: obsessed with quidditch, a bit pompous, heart of gold. He wouldn't—

He was on top of her now, pinning her down with his weight. She thrashed about, trying to get free. But it was too much, he was too much. Pansy screamed like a banshee when she felt his fingers begin to creep up her legs. She stretched her neck forward as far as she could and managed to sink her teeth into his neck. Gasping, he pulled back in surprise before fervently returning the bite. The harder she writhed, the more exhausted she became. Even her screaming was growing quieter now. She couldn't see him anymore—her eyes were too blurred with tears.

Her arms were pinned over her head by Michael's right hand; she could hear the metal of his buckle rattling as he struggled to undo it with his left. Then she heard his zipper. She was completely still now, breathing hard from her struggle. He was breathing harder—a mix of the fight and his own excitement. He unpinned her arms and reached down to pull her skirt up. She could feel his rough hands rubbing her thighs. The tears were streaming down the sides of her face. He was tugging at her panties now. Pansy felt her heart speed up again, and with one final effort, she pushed her hands against his chest and wriggled her leg free. She kicked him—kicked him so hard he was gasping for breath. She blinked her tears away, clambered off the bed, and ran from his room.

The common room air was suffocating her. It was too hot. How was she supposed to breathe? She took faster breaths, but it seemed the more she tried to breathe the less air she was actually receiving. Frantically, she rushed out of the common room, into the cold, dark corridor.

"Are you okay?" She looked up, relieved. Harry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and watched her worriedly.

"I—I can't breathe!" Her chest rose and fell quickly. Harry frowned and instructed her to hold her arms over her head. She complied, and he rubbed her back reassuringly as they slowly walked down the corridor and into a small alcove.

"Okay," he said softly as she regained her composure. "What happened?" Pansy slowly dropped her arms and frowned. Her face was still red from tears. She sniffled, and, surprising herself, wrapped her arms around him and set her head on his chest. Harry returned the hug, rubbing her back again.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she croaked, forcing down tears that so desperately wanted to be let free. Harry remained silent. She didn't care—she needed to touch him now, that was all.

"Could I stay with you tonight?" she asked softly into his chest as she squeezed her eyes shut. She had recently made it clear to him that they were in no way friends—she hoped that he had forgotten.

"Sure."

Pansy slowly opened her red rimmed eyes and looked up from her spot on the alcove floor. Harry was gone—had never been there in the first place, actually. In her hysteria she had only imagined he was there—imagined that Harry was hugging her, caring for her. Because that was what she needed.

In fact, Harry was in his dormitory, clutching a bottle of Firewhiskey as he recounted to his equally smashed dorm mates how Michael Corner had walked stiffly down the corridors and to his chambers after they had slipped a strong lust potion in his pumpkin juice.


The numbness in her fingers and toes was what woke her. She had fallen asleep there, on the frozen alcove floor. She squinted through her sleepy eyes at the windows above her. It was still dark. She estimated from the cold it was probably three in the morning. With fatigue, she uncurled herself, forced herself up, and shuffled towards her common room.

Biting her lip, Pansy stared timidly at the portrait to her common room like it was a task in the Triwizard Tournament. She was too afraid to go back in, but she wouldn't admit that to herself. She needed her wand—she was going to hex Corner so hard.

Pansy stood glaring at the portrait for ten minutes. The picture was of a mute woman in a very large, Renaissance era dress. The woman glared back at Pansy and held her head pompously. Pansy rolled her eyes and gave the portrait an angry kick before grumbling the password. The portrait swung open fast, smacking her in the head.

From what she could see from the dying embers, the room was abandoned. Despite that, though, Pansy remained as silent as possible as she crept about the common room. Incase Corner was lurking in the shadows somewhere, he wouldn't hear her. Of course, she realized, that didn't mean he wouldn't be able to see her.

On one of the walls stood Corner's broomstick, hastily set aside after one of his team practices. Pansy gripped the end of the broom tightly in her hand as she knelt down and crawled over to the desk she had been attacked at. She could feel her heart begin to pound harder as she pressed herself flat on the ground, remembering how Corner's arms had wrapped themselves around her. She pushed the broom under the desk and moved it from side to side until she heard her wooden wand roll out from underneath. She gripped it tightly in her hand and grinned. Now she would set fire to Corner's bed. She yawned. Tomorrow.


Pansy glared at Michael's empty bed. He had left–fled—before she had awoken. From his window she could see dark clouds begin to swirl angrily in the sky, threatening heavy rain and ice. Another frozen day; she shivered. It was cold enough as it is.

Her attention returned to the empty bed, still messy from a night of sleep. At least someone slept well, she thought as she transfigured one of his knick-knacks into a dagger. She crawled onto his bed and began savagely gutting his feather-down pillows, taking care to completely empty their contents into the rest of the room. She then moved on to his sheets. She whistled as she worked, finding joy in destroying. Then his duvet and bed drapes. She had wanted to set fire to them, but had decided against it. She didn't want to deal with the smoke stench. Finally, his clothes. Pansy stood in his doorway and grinned at her handiwork. That would be enough to teach him a lesson, though she had hoped to physically hurt him. She dropped the dagger on the ground and transfigured it back before walking from the room smugly.

The cold wind stung her eyes, but she didn't care. The quidditch pitch was completely empty, one of the few places in the whole fucking school that was. The dark clouds had grown heavier with precipitation and she could hear thunder many miles away. She closed her watering eyes and set her head on the frozen bench behind her.

She was starting to wonder why she had stayed. Her parents hadn't been expecting her, but they would no doubt have been overjoyed if she had come home. They really hadn't wanted her to come back this year anyway.

It was because of him. She hadn't wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing, but it was true. Potter had wanted her to stay, so she had. She wasn't sure what she was accomplishing by being here. She never knew what to do with people she was…fond of, if fondness was even what she felt for Potter. She usually just ignored them. She had ignored Draco when she had started to like him, and soon after they were dating. She hadn't spoken to Potter in a week.

"Potter," she muttered miserably to herself.

"What?" Her eyes snapped open and she sat up straight in her seat. There was no one there. A tap on her shoulder, and she turned around to find green eyes flickering with amusement. She felt her brow strain as she began to scowl at Harry, who had taken a seat on the bench she had just been resting her head on. He had his broom clutched tightly in his left hand and was now staring impassively at the darkening sky. She smiled inwardly when she noticed the purple around his eye; someone had hit him.

Pansy shook her head slowly. "Nothing." He shifted his attention back to her. She had felt suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze. It was like he was trying to read her mind, or something. After several minutes of silence Harry leaned forward and gently set his hand on her shoulder. Pansy looked up into his eyes. He had that look again—the guilty look. Pansy cringed when she heard him exhale in defeat.

"Look." He removed his glasses and showed her his bruised eye. She nodded and felt her frown deepen. Not because she felt bad, but because of the explanation she knew was coming. Continue.

His finger lightly outlined his eye. "Michael Corner paid me a visit this morning." He was taken aback when she stood up abruptly and leaned into him. She set her left hand on his knee as the fingers of her right lingered over his bruise. Now she was upset.

"I'm sorry." It had slipped out. She didn't know why she was reacting this way.

"Stop," he said as he pulled her hand away uncomfortably. "It was about you." He stood up and watched as her gaze on his wavered and slowly turned to the ground. Her dark hair fell around her face as she glared down, but she didn't care. Her arms were motionless at her sides. Harry mimicked her posture, his broom forgotten on the bench behind him and his hands tucked deeply in his robe pockets. They stood close together—nearly touching—but Pansy could feel the distance growing exponentially.

"What did you talk about," she asked meekly, lifting her head to gaze at him. She wondered if she looked blurry to him; his glasses were on the bench. Their lips were so close, but neither had kissing on the mind. Her left arm left her side and tightly grabbed Harry's school robe. They were close enough that he could see the anger in her face—her blue eyes were flashing, she was clenching her jaw, her cheeks were reddening.

He could smell it now—the rain would be here soon. "He said he'd done something—something he knew he would never have done." He could hear the straining in his own voice as he remembered Michael's miserable account of the night before. She tightened her grip on his robe.

"And why did he do what he did?" He averted his eyes at this question. A single, frozen rain drop landed on his cheek, biting into his flesh as it rolled off onto Pansy's cheek. She wiped it away.

"Last night…I slipped him a lust potion." He felt the grip on his robe release. He lowered his head to see her reaction, only to have his eye—the other eye—connect with Pansy's fist. Harry lurched backward and fell over one of the stadium benches, gripping his tender eye and watching the blur that was Pansy walk out of the stadium. The icy rain was falling heavily now.


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