Chapter 59

Friday 21 March 2003: PM

"Malfoy, slow down – I'm not used to these heels," Hermione gasps, as Draco powers out of the elevator and through the foyer of Level Two. "My legs aren't as long as yours – mmmphff!". Utilizing his graceful athleticism, Draco pivots to sweep her into his arms, his pace dropping only marginally as he charges down the corridor leading to her temporary office. Lacing her arms around his neck, Hermione waves feebly over his shoulder at Gilmont and Faulkner as they exit the other elevator to follow them.

"I wasn't hinting that you had to carry me, Draco," she chides. "I'm getting better at walking in these shoes – I didn't want to risk my ankles by running in them, though."

"Trust me, ma petite: holding you against me is mostly a self-serving gesture," Draco smugly admits. "Your risqué stunt at the table nearly pushed me over the edge… I would prefer to– erupt with you in private; the sooner we get to your office, the better."

"The girls made fun of us for being lewd at the table," Hermione whines. "I wasn't that obvious, was I? Draco? Hey!" she squawks, as her boyfriend merely lifts his eyebrows.

"Hermione, you… stimulated me to within seconds of a roaring orgasm, sweetheart," he chuckles.

"Well, I won't be spontaneously… lusty, ever again, since I made such a hash of it – "

Draco stops dead. "Look at me, my beautiful, sexy, amazing witch. You were perfect – you are perfect. Never doubt how much I want you – and how much I appreciate you showing me that you want me, too," he earnestly imparts. "No, I was simply concerned that I was going to 'arrive at the end of my sentimental journey' ahead of schedule."

"Oh. So… you liked me… 'stretching your leather', hmmm?" Hermione replies with another anachronistic sexual euphemism, grinning as she feathers her fingers through Draco's satiny hair.

"I should have known better than to attempt to best you at dirty word-play," Draco laughs, stepping forward again until they are standing before her office door. He sets her back onto her feet. "Release your wards, please."

Hermione complies, a heady sense of carnal excitation and primal agitation making her movements jittery and her words breathless. The feeling heightens as soon as she steps through the portal; Draco swoops on her like a dark angel, slamming shut the door and spinning her around. He cradles her head gently even as he wedges her back to the smooth old wood in one ruthless motion.

"M-Malfoy, wait, wait– we should cast– ooh!– we should cast a 'Silencio', Gilmont and Faulkner are– "

Growling, Draco breaks off feasting on her neck to perform the quick charm. He turns on her desk lamp with an impatient flick of his wrist. His eyes are glimmering with a certain wildness that makes Hermione's sex pulse in desperate anticipation.

He looks as though he barely has control of himself… I don't think I've ever seen Draco so… savagely passionate before. For me… he really wants me. Me. She thrills anew at the realization.

"You'll address me as Draco, Hermione. I want to hear my name on your lips constantly… I want to know that you know who is buried deep inside you, whose fingers and tongue and cock are owning you, tonight." His voice is stern and ragged, his gaze roving over her from head to toe and back again in a lascivious loop.

For form's sake, Hermione objects, "Owning me? You don't own me– " The rest of her token protestation is lost on a keening moan as Draco bites down onto the special spot at the intersection of her neck and collarbone, suckling hard.

That's going to leave a mark. It is her sole coherent thought as Hermione begins to slide down the wall, bolstered immediately by Draco's hands on her hips, holding her in place as he laves her throat mercilessly. Her eyes close instinctively; her nervous system is already close to overload.

"Look at me. Say my name. I am going to fuck you, Hermione – I cannot be gentle, not tonight. Tell me you want this, tell me you want me, before I go any further." Beneath the autocratic declarations, Hermione hears Draco's frantic need for her full consent and participation.

"I want this – I want you, Draco Lucius Malfoy." Hermione exhales deeply. "Fuck me, Draco – I need this, too. Claim me, mon cœur. Claim me hard."

"Je vais lécher ta chatte jusqu'à ce que tu jouisses encore et encore… Je vais te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses plus marcher… Je vais te stimuler jusqu'à ce que tu sois impuissante sous les tremblements qui secoueront ton corps…" Draco's fingertips go straight to the high split of her skirt, skating beneath the elastic side of her scanty scarlet knickers to dip into her swollen folds. He repeats his guttural pronouncement in English: "I'm going to lick your pussy until you come again and again… I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk… I'm going to play with you until you're helpless to the tremors that wrack your body."

Hermione shudders at both his explicit words and his sure, stroking hand.

"Fuck – look how wet you are, Hermione," he hisses, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean as she watches, panting with helpless arousal. "Hold still."

Bunching her full red satin skirts up to her hips, Draco drops to his knees, apparently hell-bent on following through on his earlier promise of fervent cunnilingus. Hermione cries out when he nips at her sensitive lower belly, his teeth dragging at her lingerie; Hermione eagerly reaches down to help remove them, only to have her hands lightly smacked away.

"This is my job – yours is to stay upright and spectacularly come on my face," he lewdly advises. "You understand I would rip these off you right now, if we didn't have to return to our table? I won't have any other men chancing a glance at your sweet honeypot," Draco snarls. "I want to fucking rip out their hearts as it is – every time another man so much as looks your way."

The rampant possessiveness in Draco's harsh voice makes her even wetter. Hermione whimpers as Draco applies himself to peeling her knickers down her legs with his mouth, his lips tracing down her shaky lower limbs until his blond head nudges her left calf to lift, to pull the lacy underwear clear.

He spreads her trembling legs a little wider, holding her thighs apart with firm hands. "J'ai passé toute la journée à penser à te baiser, chérie… I spent all day thinking of fucking you, darling; I'm going to make you come so hard," he vows. "Tell me if it's too much and I'll stop."

"Don't– don't you dare stop, Draco. Please," Hermione clutches at her heavy skirts, giving herself over to the marvellous experience of Draco expertly tonguing her sex; he begins with a bold open-mouthed kiss, tonguing her labia open with flat stripes and suckles. She realizes he is still growling and humming, the vibrations adding an extra dimension to the sheer overall eroticism of their tryst.

"Draco – harder, please, harder–" Hermione sobs, delighted when he immediately obeys, plunging his stiffened tongue inside her channel and rubbing against her inner front wall. Her hands leave her dress, gripping his hair as she grinds her hips frenziedly against his face. Her body is aflame, magic joining sexual arousal to prickle at every inch of exposed skin.

Her wizardly lover responds by moving his left hand to her dripping pussy, his mouth raising to suck at her clit as he thrusts three fingers deep inside her, twisting and shuttling them in a hard, fast pace. It is all Hermione can do to remain on her feet; starbursts of gold, red, and orange are shivering in the air between them, joy dancing along her nerves and centering in her sensitized loins. The sly, sexy devil eases his strokes and suckles every time Hermione thinks she's going to climax, driving her (literally) back up the wall.

"Let me come, damn you," Hermione moans, aware that he's deliberately 'edging' her.

"Say my name and maybe I'll oblige," Draco withdraws again, looking up from beneath his disordered platinum fringe with a feral grin, his face glossy with her slickness. Seeing the evidence of her arousal marking his features makes Hermione ever more desperate to reach her peak.

"Draco– make me come, you sexy bastard!" Hermione yanks him back to where she needs him most, choosing to ignore his self-satisfied chortle as he obeys her demands instantly.

The combination of Draco's skilled, pumping fingers and the bold caress of his hot tongue on her core push her higher and higher; Hermione is only vaguely aware that she is shrieking his name over and over (as he'd earlier prophesied). Her thighs clamp his head in place as her orgasm finally detonates.

She rides out the euphoria with a long groan of bliss, involuntarily thumping her head back against the wall with every shocking burst of pure libidinous rapture. Tears leaking down her cheeks, Hermione loses track of time and space, her existence narrowed down to the pleasure Draco is bequeathing; his hands and lips remain busy as he prolongs every last drop of sensation from her apogee.

Well… damn. That was… that was epic. Hermione weakly opens one eye, relieved to see that Draco's hair appears to be still attached to his head (though in a terribly sexy state of dishevelment). He continues to pluck ripples of sensation from her soaking sex with little nibbles, though his hands have moved to prop her slumped, enervated form more securely in place.

Giving her one final hard kiss, Draco springs upright to crowd into her. The savage, primitive expression he has worn since they entered her office has intensified; he watches her now with a thrilling combination of pride, desire, and searing cupidity on his handsome face. The hot pulse in her veins spikes anew at his clear desire for her.

"Fuck, you're so hot when you come– and you taste so good, Hermione," Draco rumbles, licking his lips. "Did you enjoy that, ma petite? Do you want more? I will wait until you're ready – but I am aching to bury myself deep in your sopping wet quim, my naughty little witch." He restlessly bumps his hips into hers; the rock-hard bulge in his pants sparks a fresh wave of raging lust at her core.

Inhaling sharply, Hermione nods, amazed at how quickly her libido has recovered after being blown apart by his expert oral and digital ministrations. She reaches for the fastening of his trousers as she huskily bids, "Take off your robes, Draco – now."

Shucking his black robes with lighting speed, Draco groans as she frees him from his pants, scrabbling at his boxers until they are low on his hips and his long, rigid cock is hot and heavy in her hands.

"How did you describe your big cock earlier, Draco… 'girthy', I think you said? Is that right?" Hermione teases, thumbing the tip before smearing his pre-come all along his length with her palms. He makes a noise halfway between a whimper and a growl as she continues to manipulate his warm, distended flesh.

"Don't tease me, Hermione – let me fuck you, sweetheart," Draco grabs her hips, lowering his head to plunder her mouth. Her own musky taste lingers on his lips… salty and earthy, but not unpleasant. She returns his caress, feeling reinvigorated… aching, and needy once more. Fidgeting in his tight hold, Hermione remembers a glaring oversight – possibly just in time.

"The contraceptive charm! Cast one too, please – Luna warned us about Spring Equinox increasing fertility by seventeen percent!" Hermione finally manages to extricate her vine wood wand from its narrow pocket to mutter, "Proprieque Dicitur". Draco follows suit.

"'Seventeen percent'… how on earth…?" he muses.

"I'll tell you later – hurry, I need you inside me," Hermione wraps her eager fingers around his tumid hardness again, impatiently guiding him to the entrance of her tight, wet passage.

Draco resists her urgings for a moment, his engorged bellend tantalizing her by going no further. "Hermione – I meant what I said – I'm going to fuck you hard, mon amour. Are you ready? Are you with me?"

Tilting up her hips, Hermione snakes up her right leg to curl around Draco's. "Do you need a written invitation, or wha– ohhhhh," she cries out as he sheaths himself inside her with one powerful surge.

"You're mine, Hermione Jean Granger – you have always been mine. I claim you, Hermione. I have to– I have to have you," Draco grunts, staring intensely into her eyes as the strong muscles of his back and buttocks begin to flex. Hermione's back arches as she pushes forward, meeting him stroke for powerful stroke.

"I– I claim you, Draco Lucius Malfoy – you're mine, too– take me, as I take you– " Hermione keeps their gazes locked as they find a brutal, pounding rhythm. Draco lifts her higher, his tunnelling cock stimulating her clitoris on the upswing and her inner wall on the downward withdrawal.

We've never been this basic… this ferociously wild before, Hermione wonders, as the smacking sounds of their primitive joining echo in the tiny office. Heat and power radiate off their fused bodies, each scrape and slide of their mostly still-clothed forms adding to the near-barbaric intensity of the moment.

"Hermione – I'm crazy for you, ma petite – I never want to let you go," Draco's voice is a gravelly rasp, his breathing as erratic and sawing as her own. "I want you to feel you come apart on my cock– ahhh– "

His eyes briefly shutter as he somehow picks up another gear; even in their frenzied coupling, Draco is careful to not crush her against the door. He uses his superior strength to lift her up and down, adding a twist to his hips that has her inner muscles immediately bearing down in involuntary response. She dimly hopes that the Silencio charm also muffles the thumping door as it rattles in its frame.

Holy Hippogriffs – it's a wonder my heart hasn't given out. Hermione is close to being wholly overwhelmed by the mad passion they are creating; her second apex is already hurtling toward her like a rogue meteor.

Draco rasps between harsh breaths: "Hermione– I can't get enough of you– I want you so badly– the more I have you, the more I need– I need you– ah, fuck– fuck me – merde, you're squeezing me so impossibly tight– ma chérie, come for me– come for me sweetheart!" he roars, driving his pelvis deep and fast as she claws at his neck and back, scrunching up his black tuxedo shirt.

"Ohhhh fuck – fuck, Draco, Draco I'm coming – don't stop, pleasepleaseplease don't stop– " Hermione yields to the maelstrom of sensation blasting her senses, convulsing in unrestrained shudders and jerks, her inner muscles clamping on Draco as she keens uninhibitedly. He shouts her name, hips stuttering as his own orgasm seizes him powerfully. Hermione's sensitive tissues register each hot spurt of release and pounding thrust; she holds onto his shoulders for dear life as her knees wobble.

Through her damp lashes, Hermione slowly becomes aware that their magic is illumining the whole room, making the desk lamp superfluous as the multi-coloured sorcerous dots swell and dance around their joined forms. Occasionally, a stray pinprick of light brushes affectionately against her cheek or brow, a tiny spark of heat and joy.

Draco's bolstering grip on her buttocks eases a little, as his urgent lunges scale down to gentler nudges. Opening her eyes fully, Hermione is smugly proud of how utterly wrecked her gorgeous wizard appears. His hair is actually knotted in places from her grabby hands, his red bow tie is half-undone and hopelessly askew, and liberal patches of sweat mark his jet shirt and flushed face.

Eh… I suppose I look equally as destroyed. But damn… that was so worth Pansy inevitably scolding me for messing up my appearance, when we return to the table. Hermione sighs in disappointment as she feels Draco finally disengaging from her blissed-out body.

"I'm sorry, ma petite… I am afraid my legs are going to give out," Draco explains softly, tenderly kissing her parted lips. "Are you alright, Hermione? I didn't – I didn't hurt you?" he anxiously enquires. His hands run compulsively over her arms, dipping down to check her tummy and hips. He carefully kneels to help assist her back into her lacy crimson kickers, raining little kisses on her exposed legs as he draws up her underwear and fixes her dress back down into position.

"You certainly didn't hurt me, Draco – though I have to admit, you absolutely rocked my world again," Hermione assures, giggling as Draco teasingly snaps the side elastic of her panties before standing upright before her. She helps him pull up his pants, tuck in his shirt, and re-fasten his trousers, her hands impishly grazing at his groin as he groans.

"Of course I did," the arrogant blond prat nods. "But then again – you absolutely rocked mine," he smiles. "You always do… Have I told you lately how much I love you, Hermione? How my heart belongs to you, and you alone? You are my world, darling. My gorgeous, brilliant, sexy witch… I love you."

"I love– I love you too, Draco. With– with everything I am," Hermione chokes, wiping at her wet cheeks with some embarrassment. "I'm sorry – I just feel things – everything – so deeply, with you."

"Hey, don't ever apologize for that!" Draco chides, pulling her against him in a gentle hug. "It's the same for me, you know."

Snuggling happily into his arms (being mindful not to scratch Draco's shoulder with the gold laurel headband), Hermione regretfully comments, "I suppose we should think about returning to the Gala… but we should clean each other up a bit, first. Do I look… terribly ravished?" she pulls away to allow him to scrutinize her presentation.

"Hmm… I wouldn't say 'terribly'… 'thoroughly' ravished, yes," Draco jokes, with an ogling wink. "I'm kidding! Here, let me help restore you to rights; though I refuse to glamour away the hickeys on your neck and shoulders – I want everyone to see them, and know who put them there," he decrees.

"You're wicked – but that's fine: I've scratched at your neck, in case you hadn't noticed," Hermione retorts. "Let me just run a few drying and cleansing charms on you, though – and your hair is a bird's nest, I'll cast a combing spell," she whips out her wand and performs the incantations, fussing at the last few strands of his lovely fair hair with her fingers.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Draco briefly nuzzles at her neck, snickering as she pushes him away before he can increase the diameter of the biggest love bite on her throat. "Alright – now, I'm not great with hair charms, but let me see what I can do…" he begins muttering a few restorative spells.

His words die off suddenly. Draco reaches for her left arm, flipping it palm-up and peering at it intently.

"Hermione… did you put covering make-up on your scar? When you were getting dressed?" he asks urgently, his voice deep and serious.

"No… Pansy asked me if I wanted some, but I told her I didn't need it," Hermione blinks, unable to see the horrid etched slur on her arm, due to Draco's masking hand. "Why? Is it inflamed? That happens sometimes, it doesn't worry me like it used to– "

"It's fading – your scar's fading." Draco blurts, encircling her wrist and lifting her forearm. "I thought it might be a trick of the light – but it's actually healing, Hermione. Look."

Their soul-bond magic light display has dissipated a little, but the office remains brightly-lit. Hermione stares at her rotten 'Mudblood' scar, astonished to discover that Draco is correct. The cursed letters still mark her olive skin… but the redness has definitely faded to a dull pink, and the weird tails on some of the letters have disappeared altogether.

"Lucius mentioned that our mated magical cores might work together in 'mysterious ways'," Draco quietly informs. "I should have asked him to clarify – I was feeling squeamish after he alluded to our… sexual connection," his ears redden.

"Draco – your Dark Mark! Quick, roll up your left sleeve– " Hermione impatiently scrambles to do it herself, hampered by his expensive ruby and gold cufflinks… in the shape of tiny lion heads, she belatedly notices.

Such a closet sweetheart. Her heart thuds in awed delight, even as she mock-grouches, "Help me, please; and of course it has to be cufflinks, no bog standard buttons for Lord Malfoy."

"It's a tuxedo dress shirt – naturally, it requires cufflinks," Draco's disdainful affront at the thought of slipping formal standards makes her snigger. "Leave it – you'll rip the sleeve, my brusque little heathen. There– " he expertly undoes the cufflink and flips up the cuff three times, his fingers freezing as his Morsmordre tattoo is completely revealed.

Hermione reaches out with a shaky hand, hovering above the skull-and-snake design until Draco tips his head in a minute nod.

"It's changing, too… look, Draco – the ink is dark grey, not black," Hermione whispers, lightly stroking the despised Mark. He shivers beneath her touch.

"But we… but we didn't consciously decide to – to heal one another," Draco says, stunned. "I don't know…"

"Our magic knows. What else did Lucy tell you? Draco?" Hermione prompts, as her boyfriend gulps.

"He said – he said that if we are truly soul-bonded, we can potentially… call on each other's powers, in times of need, or illness. And as we become more comfortable with each other – with our bond, our combined magic strengthens. I thought he was talking poppycock, old wizards' tales… I'm sorry." Draco's shellshocked mien starts to clear. He ravels down his sleeve and absently reattaches the lion's head cufflink.

"Wow. That's… wow." Hermione's usual verbosity deserts her. "Why aren't there more texts about this?! I really need to check the Hogwarts library – I'll ask Minerva if I may be granted early access…" she muses decisively.

Draco's slow smile widens to a mega-watt beam as he crushes her to him in unbridled joy. "Your clever studiousness never fails to enchant me, Granger. You'd live in a library if you could, wouldn't you?" he remarks.

"Only if you lived there with me," she shyly admits. Scooping Draco's formal robes off the floor, she shakes them out before holding them out for him to don. "Let's go back… I want to dance with you, Malfoy. Like… like I wished we'd danced, at the Yule Ball, all those years ago. You looked so handsome – I probably shouldn't feed your healthy ego by telling you this, but I was envious of Pansy, that night. You didn't seem like your usual scoundrel self at all, really," she razzes.

"Lovely," Draco carps, though he is still smiling. "I've yearned to hold you in my arms on a dance floor for longer than I care to admit, ma petite. Let's show Potter and Pansy how it's properly done." He twitches a stray curl back into her loose braid, before taking her hand and opening the door.

And here I thought this night couldn't get much better… boy, was I wrong.

Hermione puts an extra swish in her step as she prances out the door.


"Finally!" Harry grumbles, as Hermione and Draco languidly stroll back into the function room. "Bloody hell, you're both lousy with love bites and scratches – no, don't bother to reply, you look disgustingly pleased with yourselves. Just sit down and stay put while Pansy and I dance," he tetchily instructs.

"Nice one, Pollyanna," Pansy snickers, as Harry holds out an authoritative hand to lead her from the table. "You look well– "

"Pansy!" Hermione hisses.

" – loved. What did you think I was going to say? Shame on you, you dirty little bird," Pansy guffaws as Hermione's face pinkens. "I'm surprised you can still blush, considering what you've obviously been doing with the Lord of the Manor," she points to a complacent Draco. "I hope – for our sakes – you worked it out of your systems for the evening."

"I refuse to dignify that rude query with a response," Hermione primly ripostes, dropping a sly wink as Harry scoffs. "Go on, have fun – and make sure you hold Harry tightly, he's not the most confident dancer."

"Thanks, love," Harry mutters. "Try to stay out of trouble for the next five minutes, that's all I ask." He hustles Pansy away from the group, his work-roughened hand resting firmly on her hip. Pansy acerbically warns herself to settle down, as her pulse skitters stupidly at Harry's touch.

It's just a dance. Breathe. Enjoy yourself. Just because people are staring at you with their eyes on stalks – that merely means they're blown away with what a handsome couple we make, right? They're not judging you… they're not asking themselves what The Boy Who Lived is doing with the likes of you.

"Pansy? What's wrong? Did you – do you not wish to dance?" Harry must have sensed her turmoil; he turns her to face him, before they step onto the dance floor proper. He is close enough to kiss; Pansy doesn't want to admit how tempted she is to do just that.

"I'm worried that I– I feel like people are wondering what you're doing– with me," Pansy confesses, hating the feeling of needy vulnerability that is taking over her mind (and apparently loosening her tongue). "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

"Bruck-bruck-bruck. Cluck-cluck-cluck. Ber-kirk!" Harry suddenly chitters, further drawing the attention of the couples around them. He starts to make a funny trotting motion, head bobbing oddly.

"Harry – what the fuck are you doing?" Pansy snips in a low tone, equal parts alarmed and amused.

"Acting the rooster to your chicken, of course." Harry cluck-cluck-clucks them to the middle of the dance floor, grinning cheerfully. "Since you're foolishly concerned about the opinions of strangers – let them focus their stupid gazes on me, instead. Cock-a-doodle-do!" he actually throws back his head as he warbles the last.

"Harry! Cut it out, you maniac!" Pansy can't quell her helpless laughter, as she slaps a hand over his smiling mouth. He mumbles something unintelligible against her palm, his breath warm. "What?" she takes away her muffling fingers.

He folds her hand in his, guiding it to his shoulder, before his own hands slide to the curves of her waist. Dipping his head, Harry softly speaks, "I said: if people are staring at you, Pansy… it's because you're so gorgeous. I've never seen a more beautiful, strong, vibrant woman, Miss Parkinson. Don't you dare imply that this – us – is somehow wrong, or scandalous. I'm the luckiest man in this room – and they know it. Dance with me, please?"

Who knew Harry Potter was so irresistibly romantic? Pansy is hopelessly lost to his unpractised, sincere charm. His splendid green eyes crinkle at the corners as he continues to grin down at her. The music has switched to a slow love ballad, the lead singer crooning something about 'magic nights'. Trite… but it works.

Pansy nods her assent, frightened she'll embarrass herself horribly if she tries to speak. She hesitantly cuddles a little closer into the brunet Auror, her breath quietly catching as his heartbeat thumps against her cheek. Harry seems content to take small shuffling steps, his capable hands gliding over her back in delicious light circles. Pansy quivers as his fingertips brush just above the low back of her silk gown.

"See? Hermione was just being mean – I'm a perfectly competent dancer," Harry murmurs, as Pansy closes her eyes in happiness.

"You're a pretty good swayer – I'll give you that," Pansy chuckles. "This is… this is nice, Harry." This is wonderful, she thinks, but daren't say.

"Nice – pfft. Don't make me start up again with the chicken noises, Pansy," Harry goads; she can hear the smile in his voice.

"No, please! No more Rooster Harry… OK, this is lovely." And sweet, and sexy… and dangerously, uncommonly intimate, Pansy realizes with a pang. Uncommon for me, anyway. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I'm scared silly, she acknowledges to herself.

Releasing a sad little sough against the red wool of his formal Auror robes, Pansy lets herself forget – just for a moment – her long-held assertion that she isn't looking for anything serious. Maybe I can take a chance on Harry… maybe I can eventually trust him enough to explain some of why I keep myself – my life – so structured… so guarded. Maybe…

"Can I cut in?" the unwelcome voice resounds beside her ear. Snapping open her eyes, Pansy is horrified to see Ron Weasley standing beside them. Oh, fuck no.

"No!" she and Harry reply together. Pansy stiffens as Ron's expression cycles through hurt, resentment… and lastly, spite.

"What – I'm good enough to take home for the night for a quick shag – but not worthy of a simple dance?" Ron speaks loudly enough for half the ruddy ballroom to hear; Pansy notes scandalized eyes whipping around to avidly goggle at the escalating confrontation. What troubles her most is Harry's instinctual tension – and his loosened grip on her body, as Ron's caustic declaration hangs in the air.

Dread lodging heavily in her belly and throat, Pansy disengages from Harry, stepping back to register transparent shock, disappointment… and condemnation on his grim face, his narrowed gaze flicking between her and his long-time pal.

"You– you slept with Ron?" The unmistakable judgement infused into Harry's whispered question hits her as hard as a slap across the face. Pansy goes on the 'offensive defensive' immediately, her pride stung… and her heart quailing.

"No– I fucked him. On his birthday, apparently. Found him in a dark field, took him home, screwed him on my couch," she drawls, inspecting her lilac-painted fingernails and adopting a pose of insouciant world-weariness. As befits the painted whore. Might as well live down to the low expectations. "I certainly didn't allow him into my bed – I've never been that hard up," she quips bitterly. "But then, what else would you expect from the Parkinson slut?".

"Oh." Harry's hands convulsively crimp into fists, his aspect growing ever more closed and blank. Pansy turns on Ron.

"You happy now, Weasley? Got your petty revenge? Who were you hoping to strike harder: the witch who used you as a dildo, or your best mate? You stupid, immature, pathetic little man," she scornfully snarls, each word a carefully-enunciated verbal icicle. "I'd rather dance with the devil himself than let you touch me ever again, you fuckstick."

I have to get out of here before I start crying – there is no way I could live with myself if I had a bloody meltdown in the sodding ballroom. Pansy forces herself to slow down, her eyes already burning with angry tears as she casually rotates on her spindly heels and looks for the nearest exit.

"Pansy – wait – I didn't mean – " she quickens her pace, steadfastly ignoring Harry's belated response, and his agitated footsteps behind her.

She has almost made it to her seat when Harry's hand on her shoulder stops her jittery forward motion.

"Pansy. Please, I want to apologize – I really didn't mean to insinuate– " She refuses to turn her head as Harry stutters behind her.

"I saw your face, Potter. I saw your revulsion when you realized I'd had sex with him. It doesn't matter what you say to me now – I saw your face. Leave me alone - forever." Pansy recites the words as though she's reading from the dinner menu, her mind busily tamping down the boiling furnace of her messy emotional state.

"No, no – I was surprised, that's all– "

"I said LEAVE ME ALONE! I'm not doing this – why can't you just leave me alone!" Pansy yanks herself clear, vaguely perceiving the shocked faces of the rest of their party as she hurtles past the table and toward the far corridor. Chairs shriek discordantly as they are rudely pushed back; Hermione makes an abortive grab at her, but thankfully misses. Pansy clatters down the hallway leading to the elevators, her hands holding her long purplish skirts out of the way. She is grateful that her skillset includes running in stilettos. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.

"What have you fucking done to her, Potter?" Draco bellows, his hands tangling in the front of Harry's robes as the Auror tries to tear past him in pursuit.

"Draco, let him go, we need to make sure Pansy's OK," Hermione prises his fingers loose. "Hurry! She's already out of sight!".

"Gilmont, Faulkner, with me!" Harry calls, as the Auror pair hurry over. "Everyone else, stay put."

"Bollocks to that – she's our friend. We're coming with you," Draco coldly rebukes. "Viktor, will you please stay here with Ginny and Luna? We'll be back as soon as we find Pansy."

"Of course. Go, go," Viktor shakes his head warningly and wraps his arms around a wriggling Ginny. "Miss Luna, I can trust to not bolt."

Hermione and Draco fall in behind Harry, Gilmont, and Faulkner, their wands already drawn.

"She went this way," Harry points to the far left side of the branched corridor.

"I swear, Potter– if anything happens to her because she ran from you– "

"If you're going to threaten me instead of being marginally useful, you can fu– "

"Stop it! The pair of you! When we find Pansy, you can sort out your differences then. But if you're going to bicker like a couple of kindergarten kids, I'll Stun you both myself," Hermione vows. "Focus."

Draco and Harry nod curtly, though Draco snidely mutters, "The Weasel was behind this, wasn't he? Fatheaded, sour-graped, childish little shit. I'm going to punch him fair in his moronic mug for this."

"Get in line," Harry growls. "And shut up."


French translations:

"Je vais lécher ta chatte jusqu'à ce que tu jouisses encore et encore… Je vais te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses plus marcher… Je vais te stimuler jusqu'à ce que tu sois impuissante sous les tremblements qui secoueront ton corps…" I'm going to lick your pussy until you come again and again… I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk… I'm going to play with you until you're helpless to the tremors that wrack your body.

"J'ai passé toute la journée à penser à te baiser, chérie" - I spent all day thinking of fucking you, darling.