For the first time in several days, Harry feels truly, incandescently content.
He'd gone straight to Terry and Padma with the vial of Acromantula ichor and the contact from Slughorn. Padma had swept a delighted kiss on his cheek after her business partner negotiated a deal using a Floo call. It had felt like the centaur hoof on his chest was finally lifted, and he had even let the pair of them coerce him into a little celebratory cocktail.
As he Apparates to the front door of his house pleasantly buzzed, he realises that he now has pretty much the rest of the day to look forward to.
He undoes his trainers, - Padma had spilt half a glass on his shoes when she refilled - leans against the door frame, and slips his feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers when he hears muffled steps and a voice yelling for someone he can't make out. Instantly, he crosses his arms over his chest, adjusting the arm holster hidden under the right sleeve of his robe. If it's an intruder, this posture would let him have his wand out in an instant.
The footsteps become closer, and he thinks the voice is distinctly female and deliberately adopts a casual stance. His fingers brush against the base of his holster when the speaker reveals herself.
It's Parkinson.
Wearing a Quidditch shirt over some too long jeans that sweep the carpeted floor as she walks.
It's not like it's an ordinary Quidditch uniform either. Sometime after Harry had moved into Grimmauld in the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, McGonagall had given him the captain's Gryffindor Quidditch uniform worn by his father every game between the 1975 - 1977 seasons. She had found it hanging in the trophy room, enclosed inside a glass case behind rows of archival tapes of the Quidditch commentary. For three weeks straight he had worn it every day to bed, swearing to Ron that he could smell his dad.
Hermione had gently convinced him to not wear it again lest Kreacher ruined it with the frequent laundry, so he reluctantly squashed it in the shrine he had built for his parents in Sirius' old room. On nights when he couldn't sleep, he had reverently touched his father's signature under the griffin emblazoned across the chest, imagining his seventeen-year-old father scribbling his name with flourish after winning the Quidditch Cup his final year, sweat dripping down his face as his mates cheered his name.
She comes into the light, and Harry swallows at the sight of her.
James Potter had wider shoulders than Harry, and was a few inches taller, and the outfit dwarfs her. She has rolled up the pants several times, but it's not enough because she nearly trips over them at the end of the stairs muttering something furiously.
The shirt is like a blanket wrapped around her small frame, and she's barefoot. He's never seen her like this - hair messy and tied up in a ponytail that doesn't quite succeed in keeping the dark strands out of her face. She's not wearing any makeup, he guesses, and the only colour on her face is possibly due to the exertion it must have taken to climb down the steep stairs.
She looks strangely vulnerable, and suddenly, it feels like someone has twisted a knife into Harry's gut. She can wear the fuck out of that uniform.
She spots him and stays rooted to her spot, toes digging into the carpet, and eyes widening like she's got something to hide from him and he's appeared out of thin air before she can find the perfect hideout.
"What are you wearing Parkinson?"
She turns her nose up in the air at his question.
"An inkwell accidentally exploded in my face," she sniffs.
Harry raises his eyebrows.
"And?"
"This was the only decent thing I could find in your house, so I took it," she says nonchalantly, then narrows her eyes athim. "The question is, what are you wearing?"
It takes a second for Harry to follow her gaze and find that it's aimed at his feet, which are ensconced in a pair of the fuzziest, most neon, furry-like slippers on the planet. The googly eyes pasted on the top rattle in indignation at the mocking in Parkinson's voice. Victoire had apparently insisted her parents buy it for Uncle Harry when they vacationed at the Paris wizarding district.
Harry's neck burns.
"Never seen slippers before?" he taunts. Unconsciously, she crosses her arms against her chest to mirror his posture.
"Nothing as obnoxious as this, I can assure you," she says, wrinkling her nose. "Even still, it's not as obnoxious as you, so I'll allow it."
"You'll allow it," he repeats, deadpan. "May I remind you this is my house?"
She rolls her eyes at that, even going as far as to tilt her neck backwards, and mutters, "Not like it would suddenly become mine if you stopped reminding me a dozen times every damn day."
Harry grits his teeth, suddenly filled with a desire to cross the gap between them and give her shoulders a nice shake for her insolence. He doesn't get to act on his instincts, though, because she opens her mouth and asks: "Where were you this morning?"
"Maybe you would know if you were on time to work," he quips back, with no little sarcasm. She colours at the statement, and the knife in his stomach twists deeper.
"I cannot be omnipresent, Mr Potter," she informs him. "I came in, checked your schedule, and couldn't find any meetings. I would have come in earlier if you had an important meeting."
He scowls.
"If you had come in earlier, you would have known I had an important meeting."
She pinches the bridge of her nose like he's being wilfully bothersome.
"It doesn't specify in my contract that I need to be here every morning at -"
"I don't care about what's in the contract, it's the principle of the thing. And -"
"I'm sorry, the principle of the thing? You really want to go there?"
Harry takes a deep breath.
"What are you doing downstairs?"
She looks a little taken aback by the sudden question. "What?"
"I get that there was this whole thing about ink and quills, but why are you downstairs?"
She gives him a shifty look, eyes crossing together for a second, and hugs her body.
"I'm searching for my lost earring."
Harry stares at her for a second. "An earring."
"Hmm," she nods, and sways a little on her feet as if to comfort herself. "I had it on me before I went to take a shower, but I can't find it now."
"You lost one earring?"
"Yes?"
"Where's the other one?" he says quizzically, and Parkinson's fingers jump to her right earlobe.
"I must have left it in the bathroom by the soapdish," she says, eyes glazing over.
Harry stares at her.
"There is no soapdish in the bathroom on the fourth floor."
She doesn't miss a beat to reply.
"Of course, considering that there are three other bathrooms in this house, I must have taken a shower at any of them," she replies flippantly, causing Harry to bite the inside of his cheek in contemplation.
"But did you take the clothes from Sir - the closet before you went - "
"Merlin, Potter, I get that you were an Auror, but can you stop your interrogation for one damn minute?"
"I'm just checking," he defends. "You see, there is only one way to access all the shared bathrooms in the house, and that is through the bedrooms or the living room. Considering that Kreacher keeps the unused doors locked, there is no possible way you could have showered anywhere other than the fourth floor bathroom."
His lips thin.
"Or you're lying to me."
Parkinson's not looking at him, though. Her eyes widen at something behind him, and Harry doesn't duck in time, so there is no preparing for the full weight of a fully grown Scottish deerhound jumping on his back.
Parkinson lets out an inhuman shriek as Harry falls forward, and somehow twists his body to land on his side instead of planting his face on the floor.
He groans as Snuffles barks in his ear and licks the glasses off his face.
"What is that thing?" Parkinson yells, already having run up the stairs.
Harry tries to laugh but he probably has hurt his shoulder, so he lets out a series of coughs and rubs Snuffles.
"It's my dog," he replies in a strained voice. "Easy, boy, woah. There, there. Oi, no lying down on me, you lump, geroff. Good boy, good doggie…"
The dog is on his back, accepting the generous belly rubs that Harry gives him. From the corner of his eye, he spots Parkinson's head peeking out to take in the scene - master and dog on the floor. Snuffles senses the intruder as well, and rolls over to stand up, and cautiously trots up to her.
"Parkinson, don't move," Harry calls out as she looks ready to sprint again. "He's a hunting dog - he will chase after you if you run."
"The fuck," she says through gritted teeth as Snuffles sniffs her. "Why did you have to tell me when your fucking dog is smelling me?"
Harry smirks as he stands up and dusts off the dog's muddy pawprints on his robes. Wait, muddy?
A chills goes down his spine as he watches the dog that's supposed to be elsewhere growl in approval of his assistant.
"Snuffles," he says, grabbing the dog by his collar, and kneeling on the floor before him. "Where's Teddy?"
Pansy doesn't have much experience with dogs - her mother never wanted pets in their house except owls - but she's willing to bet her second best purse that Potter's dog is complaining to him.
The creature sits on its hind legs, and seems to be letting out a series of low pitched whines at Potter who intently looks into the dog's face. It's pathetic and… fascinating.
So he understands dogs? I wonder how much Witch Weekly will pay for this tidbit.
She's pulled out of her thoughts by Potter looking up at her with an expression she can't place. "What?"
"I asked if you saw Teddy anywhere in the house," he repeats, eyes glittering up at her.
"Who's Teddy?"
"My godson," he snaps and stands up, pulling at the dog's collar so it can transfigure into a leash. For a second Pansy is genuinely worried he's going to punish the dog and braces herself to let out a scream high enough to pierce something in Potter's ear to divert his attention. But he snaps his fingers to get her attention and faces his palm downwards and draws an imaginary line to his ribs. "He's about this tall and can change the colour of his hair."
Yes, I talked to him, and then I lost him.
"How would I have seen him?" she says, deliberately avoiding his gaze and rolling her eyes.
"Because you were roaming around the house searching for your earring," he grumbles, tapping his foot on the floor. He gives a warning tug on the dog's collar when it tries to yank him away. His biceps bulge in his tight shirt for a moment as he divests himself of his robes and carelessly throws it on the floor where the garment self irons and flies to the coat stand . "Did you hear anything? A giggle, maybe, or footsteps?"
"No," she fixes her eyes away from Potter's arms, letting some of the frustration leak into her voice and masking it for sincerity. "Is he supposed to be here?"
"No," he says and runs a hand across his face. "I dropped him off at school and left Snuffles in charge."
Pansy gives her a few extra moments to make sure she heard right.
"You let a dog watch over your godson?!"
"Snuffles is not like normal dogs," he insists, looking down at the dog who is busy trying to lick his own balls. "He's a smart dog."
She lets her expression do the talking. "If there's nothing else - can I get back to my work, Mr Potter?"
"Right," Potter says. "I'll start with the house first, and then check with his school. Snuffles - you're going to help me."
The dog looks to be nodding his head
His face looks to be the very picture of heartbreak as he stands there, looking lost, and something in her melts a little. Maybe it's guilt on having lost the boy, or the tiny fear that she might lose her job if Edward ever decides to rat her out, but she feels somehow responsible.
She clears her throat. Potters looks at her.
"My mother always said a two-eyed skrewt is better than a one-eyed one."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Do you want me to help you look for your godson?"
Harry stands in the middle of the kitchen the third time since morning, and yells hoarsely, "TEDDY!"
It's futile, and even as he uses the new and improved models of the Extendable Ears (with the ability to listen through Muffliatos and thick walls), he hears nary a whisper. He listens even more closely, but it's only the subdued barks of Snuffles from several floors above, and Parkinson shuffling around something in the living room.
It's been close to an hour since he discovered his godson to be missing, and with every passing minute, he is filled with dread as he imagines the different, nightmare-inducing scenarios of Teddy's disappearance. Already he's exhausted seventeen options ranging from kidnapping to the boy running off and joining a secret ninja society.
Snuffles had found Teddy's schoolbag by the service stairs leading to the kitchen early on in their search, and that is the last solid lead they have had. He feels haunted, he realises after placing the emotion - out of sorts, like his body is in the kitchen, but his mind is far away.
He listlessly searches in the kitchen, casting one Homenum Revelio after another, and feeling his stomach lower to his feet as every spell fails to glow in the outline of the boy.
"Damnit, Ted," he whispers, climbing up the stairs. "Where are you?"
But Teddy can't hear him, so Harry makes his way to the dining room where he's hooked up a Muggle telephone. He'd have to call Teddy's school, he knows, and have them alert the necessary authorities.
And Andy.
Andy, who would die a thousand deaths before letting any harm come to her grandson. Andy, who indulges him with stories about the godfather he had never gotten around to knowing fully. Andy, who fed and bathed Harry when a rogue Death Eater had hit him with a paralysis spell…
Fuck, he thinks as he sinks to the floor, telephone receiver in hand, and feeling his heart rate spike up. Please, not now.
A ringing sounds in his ears, very much like if you blew a Quidditch whistle directly in your ear drum, and his eyes blur. With a shaking hand, he unbuttons the collar button and feels sweat pool at the base of his throat.
"It's a panic attack," Percy had said quietly the first time it happened.
They were the only two people at the Astronomy Tower, trying to rebuild the school bell that had collapsed, taking with it a huge chunk of Professor Sinistra's office. Harry had seen the exact spot Dumbledore had stood the last time they saw each other, and had felt the ghost of his reassuring touch on his shoulder. Next thing he knew, Percy was pressing a wet rag to his lips, propping him up on the floor, and face paler than Nearly Headless Nick.
It's okay, he thinks dimly, like someone was saying on the telly in Aunt Petunia's living room. He feels bony fingers, colder than the first snow on the tongue, wrapping around his neck, and he bends forward, gasping for breath. It's going to be okay, just breathe.
It's easier said than done.
He doesn't know for how long he sits like that, trying to breathe and stop his body from shaking, but eventually, he thinks of his mother. His mother in the clearing of the Forbidden Forest, long hair shining even when she was non-corporeal. His mother beaming at him. You've been so brave.
Even the very thought of her centers him. He takes a large gulp of air, and feels his shoulders relax as his lungs fill up. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He blinks the world into focus and feels the plastic in his hand. Distantly, he hears the faint barks of Snuffles. Experimentally, he stands up, and holds on to the mounted telephone as his knees steady.
His dog comes bounding into the room and barks up at him in excitement, running in circles as he pants.
"What is it?" Harry commands and replaces the receiver. "What's happened?"
Snuffles tugs on a wire escaping his pant pocket in response and Harry hurriedly pulls out his Extendable Ear. Parkinson's voice is crystal clear.
"Potter - he's in the broom cupboard next to your bedroom. Come quick."
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Potter appears in front of her with his hair wilder than she's ever seen it, - Quidditch matches included - and sticking to his forehead with sweat. She wants to make a nasty comment about it but she drops it when she sees the hope and desperation written all over his features.
She gestures towards the bed, where the boy's orange hair peaks out from something like an invisibility blanket.
"That's it Ted, you're done," Potter growls with his veins on his forehead and neck sticking out dangerously, and he steps towards the boy with the same manner he had in their third year during Care of Magical Creatures class.
That time, Pansy had the urge to step between Draco and Potter as well but Millicent stopped her. Now, she manages to cut into his way and stop him with her hands on his chest, which is quite sturdy and warm underneath her palms-
"Get out of my way," Potter says slowly, his hands balled into fist next to his hips and his chest muscles twitching-
"Let him sleep first," she whispers, "he'll feel much worse when he wakes up late and finds you waiting for dinner."
Potter's brows knit together, his posture relaxing, and he rolls his neck from side to side. Pansy can feel that he's calmed down a fair bit and she can take her hands off him but he still hasn't pushed her away and her hands have been cold for some time in this house, the stingy man he is.
"Are you sure?"
She nods, patting him once before she reluctantly releases him, grabbing one of her wrists with the other behind her back. She hesitates for a moment, rolling on the balls of her feet before she lets the words out. "It was my dad's favourite tactic. Waiting until I brought the topic up."
Potter's face clears, staring down at her with a blank expression. "Did that work?"
Pansy shrugs, jutting her chin towards the door, waiting for him to get a move on. "Almost every single time."
"Does that mean-"
"Harry!" Andy's voice echoes around the stairs, waking several portraits. Pansy wonders if these elders actually had decent hearing when they were alive, being wizards. If so, her grandmother did actually ignore whatever she wanted to ignore.
Potter stops her with a hand on her forearm when he starts to the landing, making her heart lurch in her chest.
It's physical attraction, she tells herself. Only because he's your type.
Potter drops her arm like it burns his skin and Pansy is once again slapped by the reality.
She squares her shoulders and raises one eyebrow, half annoyed and half amused at the constipated look on his face.
"Can you… not mention this to Andy?"
Pansy bites into her cheek and closes her eyes.
She can't let Potter know she's on the verge of howling with laughter.
"I must not tell lies," she shrugs, frowning when Potter visibly winces. "What?"
"How do you know about that?"
"How do I know what?" Pansy snaps, "Do I have to know everything that crosses that bird nest?"
Potter, ignoring Andy who's insistently calling from downstairs, doesn't cease to glare at her. "I'm asking you who told you that."
"Told me what?" she pushes him out of her way with her shoulder, smirking for a moment when he grunts in pain. It's the same shoulder on which he fell down when his overexcited dog jumped on him. She dodges his grip this time, almost falling face first on the stairs to run away from him.
"Andy," she shrieks as she barges into the living room, Potter at her heels. She wonders where she is and if grabbing her as a human shield is too rude but Potter devoids her of that option when he grabs her by the waist and covers her mouth with his hand, shutting the door behind them with a kick.
She screams when he lets go.
Potter covers her mouth again, this time with two hands, and Pansy bites down on him with all his power, trying to aim a knee to his groin.
"Calm down Parkinson," he yells, groaning when Pansy grabs his hair and yanks with all her might. He tries to dislodge her hands, freeing her mouth. "Merlin, calm down, I'm sorry—Just!"
"You bastard!" She hisses, trying to decide whether to bite his ear or one of his fingers off. "I'll kill you in your sleep and feed you to that monster you call a dog-"
"I only asked you to-"
"I'm gonna leave your remains in front of the fucking Ministry-"
"Look, I'm trying very hard not to hurt you now-"
"I'm going to mail your head to Wizengamot-"
They're separated with a strong wind, both of them thrown to the opposite corners of the room. Pansy rubs the back of her head before she lifts her eyes to look at Andy, who is watching them as if she's staring at the Hippogriff shit she'll have to clean.
"Why?" she says, fitting so many words into one.
Pansy looks at Potter, who's silently begging her with his eyes, and fuck him, but he's got nice eyes.
"He told me I can't bring my pets here," she blurts out, giving him a satisfied grin when he chokes on his own spit.
Andy sighs, rubbing her temples. "What do you have? A dragon?"
"No," she coos. "I've got two cats and two owls."
"Why did you tell her she can't bring them?" Andy asks, blinking furiously with confusion.
Potter's lips thin and he sends a scathing glare towards Pansy. "Because…" he clears his throat, "I don't like cats."
Andy turns towards Pansy and tells her flatly, "Bring them to breakfast tomorrow."
"What?"
"What?"
"You heard me," she says impatiently, "Maybe they'll get rid of the mice in the cellar." The two of them open their mouths at the same time but she holds up a hand before they can protest. Pansy wants to make it clear that her cats and owls only eat the best quality meat but Andy talks over her. "Now, I just dropped by to tell you that the Tonks Cottage is doxy-free and you can drop Teddy after you pick him up from school."
"No," Potter shakes his head, no doubt giving himself a whiplash.
"Excuse me?"
It's obvious that Potter's never lied on the spot before because he looks like a thestral caught in a flashlight.
"Umm, he's sleeping now - no, I mean, it'll be nice if he can sleep over today as well."
Potter then has the nerve to look at her, causing Andy's gaze to turn curious.
"What Mr Potter means is that," Pansy begins, glaring at Potter and wishing her gaze vaporised him where he stands. "You must be very tired from taking care of the doxies, so you should have some time to yourself to unwind."
Andy gestures vaguely with her hand.
"Is that what you meant?"
"Yeah," Potter says earnestly.
Andy's mouth pinches, and her eyes hop between them as if both options are giving her a severe headache, before her lips form into a curious smirk.
"Interesting," she says and keeps looking at the pair of them. Pansy resists the urge to poke her finger up her nose, just so she can give the older woman something to stare at.
"Fine," she breathes out in the end. Potter gives a loud sigh and does something with his mouth that looks painful in an attempt to smile.
"Get the breakfast ready at eight."
Potter salutes her with a straight face and Andy's mouth twitch in the corner.
"I wouldn't want to intrude on your family time," she interjects, her heart twisting painfully when she realises she'll have to wake up early again.
"Nonsense," Andy waves her hand, ignoring Potter's hopeful face. "I'll expect both of you there."
Two of them deflate at the same time.
She grimaces before she speaks, "Can I trust the two of you to not fight if I leave now?"
"Yes," Pansy cuts in, "I'm going to leave now to look for gala locations anyway."
"Oh," Andy perks up before eyes roam slowly over her, like she's realising her outfit now. "I'm not going to ask. But-"
"I'll step into my house to change my clothes first."
"Good idea."
Margaret is still laying down and watching telly when she comes back to her house without any intention to go out and look for a place.
"You look happy," Margaret comments, not taking her eyes off the screen.
"It was a good day," Pansy throws herself on the sofa, putting her head on Margaret's thigh. Rowena jumps on her belly, bumping her head under her chin in greeting before she steps down to curl on Margaret's lap, her head resting on Pansy's shoulder. She sees Margaret running her hand over Rowena's spine, her fingers touching her hair when she scratches the back of her ears.
"I see you've bonded."
"She's shameless," Margaret says, her tone laced with affection. "She'd been attacking my feet all day before you came in."
"I have this calming effect-"
She hits her on the forehead lightly, causing Pansy to chuckle.
"Come on," she whines, "tell me why you're smiling."
Pansy mulls over the answer for a while, but decides the truth is the most innocent option. "I just got the upper hand with this war with my boss."
"Oh? Does he fancy you?" she asks distractedly, tapping her nails on her steaming mug. It smells of jasmine, her favourite herbal tea, but Pansy has been craving for coke since the morning so she doesn't demand her to brew for her as well.
"No," she tugs on her sweater, "he's my boss."
Margaret snickers into her glass, her attention finally on Pansy instead of a shitty show. "Seduce him."
"I might just be the last woman he'd touch."
"I doubt that."
"Well," she starts, almost terrified to go on, "I mean, he looked at me today."
"Okay," Margaret stretches out the word, her frown deepening. Rowena gives a deafening meow when she stops petting but Margaret, a heartless girl that she is, doesn't give in to her demands. "If you're really that hungry for attention just go to a bar, Pansy. Put on your lipstick-"
She waves her hand in the air in protest. "That's not what I meant."
"Yeah?"
She shrugs, earning a hiss and a harsh nibble on her ear for her discomfort from Rowena. "I-I don't know for sure what I meant but that's not it."
Margaret keeps silent.
"He has a gorgeous girlfriend," she tries, getting frustrated at herself when Margaret looks even more confused. "Look, what I mean is, he's taken and he can't stand to breathe in the same room as me. But he still couldn't help but look at me."
"Okay, but still, that happens to you all the time, doesn't it?"
"Never with him."
Pansy turns to her in suspicion when she doesn't say anything. She narrows her eyes at the small smile on her face. "What?"
"You fancy him."
"I fancy his body," she corrects her. "And maybe his face."
"Is that why you're wearing his shirt?"
It's like a fresh bucket of iced water over her head. Her fingers twitch on her sides not to cover the front with her hands and she keeps still not to arouse any suspicion. She doesn't think Margaret will wonder about the shirt but she still wants to hit herself over the head repeatedly for her thoughtlessness.
"I ruined my shirt there," she explains, her voice coming out steady. "I should go get changed."
"When are you giving it back?"
"Tomorrow morning at-"
She stops herself at the self satisfied smile on his face.
"Not because," she starts but lets out a loud sigh and pushes herself up. "It's not what you think but I'm not going to try to explain myself," she declares.
All she gets is a 'shhh' as her friend's attention is already back on telly.