Chapter 62
Saturday 22 March 2003: AM
Carefully guiding Hermione out of the townhouse's hearth, Draco can do naught but gape incredulously at the scene before them. Hermione claps a hand to her astonished mouth to mute her involuntary chuckle.
The living room is a pigsty. The powder blue sofa is out of alignment (as though it has been roughly cannoned into by a bunch of three foot tall creatures), and the coffee table contains the picked-over remains of Draco's own earlier snack platter, as well as being covered in dirty glasses and bowls of sugar-rich snacks. Chocolates, lollies, fudge… Draco's eyes narrow as he spies his favourite Hotel Chocolat Super Thin Mint Truffles have also been savaged.
I was saving those to share with Hermione… the greedy little shits, he crossly reflects.
The more alarming issue is the confronting (appalling) sight of Wireceaster, sprawled inelegantly on his back on the blue corduroy beanbag – dressed only in a pair of sagging white Y-front underpants. The black silk ribbon tied incongruously around one side of his waxed and shaped long ivory moustache flutters every time the German elf emits a raucous snore.
On the couch behind him lies Gelsomina (still clothed in her steel-blue uniform, thank Salazar); she too is snoring, though her little snorting puffs are drowned out by Wirey's wall of sound. A red jelly snake is stuck to her right cheek, and her honey brown hair is wildly loosed from its bun. An array of pint-sized clothes are strewn haphazardly across the furniture and floor.
"Ma petite… am I hallucinating, or are there a couple of passed-out elves in our lounge room?" Draco whispers.
Hermione answers between giggles. "You're not dreaming them, Malfoy, I assure you. Looks like they had a whale of a time in our absence, doesn't it?".
"A whale wouldn't have left such a wretched shambles," Draco carps, gesturing crankily to the mess of food on the table, and the room at large. "Where is Macdolas – and Ruibby? And Kreacher? Surely he didn't partake in this fey bacchanalia?".
On cue, Macdolas skedaddles through the doorway, Ruibby hot on his heels. Draco squinches shut his eyes as quickly as he can, but it is too late: the image of the hastily-dressed, rumpled and reddened elfish couple is already burned on his retinas.
Salazar's stockings – there's little doubt as to how the randy diminutive lovers have been occupying their time. A pox on Potter for suggesting this foolish get-together – he can bloody well host the next G.R.E.A.S.E.R.S. meeting at his own place. No, he can host the lot of the dratted fan club's get-togethers.
Draco reluctantly opens his eyes as Macdolas stridently proclaims, "Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger were not expected to return this soon!"
"Obviously," Draco channels his late Potions professor with his deep, dour response. "Care to explain what you've done to Wireceaster, Macdolas? Or why Gelsomina has a sweet pasted on her face? Have you been raiding the Manor's wine cellar again?".
"Macdolas takes high umbrage at such accusations, Master Malfoy! Macdolas and Ruibby offer only soda- and juice-based refreshments, but the Wirey smuggles in a flask of bottomless peach schnapps, and rashly dares Signorina Gelsy to a drinking challenge after losing to her at strip poker!" Macdolas shrilly defends.
Hermione has abandoned her efforts to keep quiet; she braces her hands on her knees and laughs unreservedly. Ruibby joins in with her high, piping giggles, while Macdolas hurriedly stuffs his Robin Hood shirt back into his breeches and maintains an affronted expression.
"Why is there a ribbon tied to Wirey's moustache?" Draco randomly questions, still struggling to process 'strip poker'. If only Father could see this mind-boggling panorama… wait, the Polaroid will immortalize the moment. He reminds himself to grab it before they head upstairs.
Macdolas snickers, "Signorina Gelsy tells the Wirey he must wear her hair ribbon for a day, as a symbol of her crushing victory, twice over. Ruibby says they have unresolved sexual tenses," he pompously explains.
"'Tension', not 'tenses'," Draco absentmindedly corrects. "Where was Kreacher when all this tomfoolery was occurring? You haven't gotten him snockered too, have you?".
Mac shakes his head. "Master Kreacher gives us a stern lecture about not harassing Her Grace Lady Granger, especially directed at the Wirey for not asking for consent when grossly slobbering over Her Grace's hand," he screws up his nose and impatiently pushes his mussed carroty red hair back behind his ear. "Master Kreacher direly warns us to not partake in the strip poker or the schnapps, but Signorina Gelsomina and the Wirey do not listen, Master Malfoy."
He pauses for dramatic effect. "And then– "
Kreacher interrupts Mac's histrionic oration, shuffling swiftly into the lounge from the kitchen; the ancient elf is crouched over a small bundle of black fur he holds protectively against his concave chest. Draco blinks as he registers… a kitten? The tiny creature's bright yellow eyes are sleepy and content.
Ruibby rushes forward. "Master Malfoy, we hear a scratching at the back door, Ruibby's brave beau Macdolas arms himself and investigates–"
"We think at first it is a bat– " Macdolas eagerly interrupts.
"No, a rat– " Ruibby argues.
"It be a cat," Kreacher austerely intones, his gnarled finger delicately petting between the purring kitten's ears. "Kreacher bathes the little one before he feeds her tunafish and cream."
"May we be keeping her, Master Malfoy? She is but a poor wee stray, in need of a happy home… Please?" Ruibby implores, clasping her hands together and impossibly enlarging her violet eyes.
Ah, Mac – good luck ever denying this one anything. Draco is about to grudgingly grant his permission when Hermione minutely shakes her head, cutting her eyes to Kreacher's crestfallen demeanour.
Draco, look at him – he loves that little kitten already. Please… tell them that Harry has been thinking about getting a pet, and that – I don't know – you're allergic anyway? Hermione's clear voice resounds in his mind.
Very well, Granger – but it's up to you to convince Harry, agreed? Draco responds. She nods instantly.
"No – I'm allergic to cats," Draco fibs. "And Potter mentioned at dinner that he wants a cat – something about keeping down the Doxy infestations at Grimmauld Place," he improvises.
Kreacher opens his wide mouth as if to object to the slur on his housekeeping skills, only to close it again as Draco stares meaningfully at him.
"But Master Malfoy suffers no ill effects from the Crookshanks?" Macdolas shrewdly observes. Ruibby pouts, clearly put out that her wheedling wish has been refused.
"He's half-Kneazle, that cancels out the allergens." Draco quickly changes the subject. "Kreacher, Harry will be here in a while… I'm not sure how long until his arrival."
He turns to address the whole room. "Now, Macdolas – stay calm, please. We've something to tell you, about what happened tonight– "
"Her Grace Lady Granger has blood on her face!" Draco's attempt to keep Macdolas from freaking out fails immediately, as Mac darts over to Hermione, bristling with savage concern as he closely scrutinizes the sparse dots of McLaggen's blood speckled across her forehead.
Hermione lays an affectionate hand on her elfin bodyguard's bony shoulder. "I'm OK, Mac – I promise. It's not my blood. We – Pansy and I – were abducted by Cormac McLaggen, and briefly held captive in his dungeon. We overpowered him before he could hurt us, and he's on his way to Azkaban right now; Flint will join him there to await trial, once St Mungo's deems him fit to be medically discharged."
The ferocious growl that bursts forth from Macdolas's skinny throat gives Draco goosebumps. He shrieks, "DEATH TO McLAGGEN!" before dashing from the room; Kreacher prudently steps out of his way before he is knocked over.
Craning to see past the doorway, Draco is satisfied that Macdolas is heading back to his bedroom, instead of Disapparating from the property.
"Mistress Granger is well?" Kreacher tersely enquires, magicking a clean, damp, antiseptic-smelling cloth into his knobby hand and offering it to Hermione. Murmuring his thanks, Draco takes it and gently wipes clean her fatigued (yet radiant) face. He adjusts his over-large black formal robes before they can slip off her shoulder, his fingers lingering to lovingly caress her cheek and neck.
"I am well… just a bit tired, Kreacher," Hermione smiles. "What will you name your little kitty?" she dips her chin towards the sleepy jet feline.
"Boadicea… Little Boadie," Kreacher mutters. "If Master Potter does not object."
Kreacher's weathered face darkens as he rumbles, "McLaggen is injured? Hurt badly? He does not… he does not touch Mistress Granger, nor Mistress Parkinson? Kreacher knows many ways to punish McLaggen and Flint for daring to imperil our witches… many ways…"
"Thank you, Kreacher, but they both will be severely prosecuted, don't worry. Yes, Cormac reached for the enspelled headband Draco gave me, and it sliced off the tip of his finger," Hermione gleefully informs. "And Pansy – erm, Pansy accidentally trod on Cormac's testicles… repeatedly. She has a small cut on her throat, but Harry is going to ensure she receives treatment."
She turns to Draco with a worried frown. "I hope Pansy talks to a crisis counsellor as soon as possible, Draco – do you think we should pop back to the Ministry to make sure she does?" Hermione gnaws at her bottom lip.
"Absolutely not – would you deprive Potter of his burning desire to grovel, and be of service to her? Pfft… and you call yourself a matchmaker," Draco clucks teasingly. "No, sweetheart: I'll ask Macdolas to make you a cup of chamomile tea, then we're heading upstairs. I insist upon running you a hot bath and taking care of you, my beautiful, exhausted witch."
"Only if you promise to share it with me," Hermione winks, slipping her arm around Draco's waist.
Kreacher's horrified cough causes her to blush. "Um – I mean, that sounds like a plan, Draco."
There is a crash from the hallway; Draco breaks away from Hermione to investigate.
"What the deuce?!" he exclaims, as Macdolas reappears in the door frame… hopelessly burdened with all manner of steel weaponry. The seneschal staggers as he raises the biggest sword.
"Master Malfoy apprises Macdolas of the exact whereabouts of the evil McLaggen! Macdolas avenges Her Heroic Golden Grace Lady Hermione Jean Granger and the Plucky and Pulchritudinous Mistress Parkinson – Macdolas severs the head of the Beast Cormac with but one blow of his biting blade!".
He punctuates his bloodthirsty vow with an ululating scream that has Ruibby clapping her hands over her pointed ears. Kreacher growls his disapproval as Boadie yowls in fright, her tiny claws scrabbling at his plain black suit.
"Fool of an elf! Do not disgrace your masters, nor your people, with such ill-disciplined displays!" Kreacher hisses, soothing his new pet with gentle strokes and resettling her into his jacket.
Tweaking the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, Draco wearily admonishes, "Macdolas, you look utterly ludicrous – and you're more likely to amputate your own foot than wreak havoc on McLaggen's neck. Besides, Apparating into Azkaban is impossible, and any attempts to circumvent that will have you instantly arrested and tossed in a cell… You ferine little shrimpet," he sighs.
He grabs the heavy broadsword, laying it on the floor before divesting Macdolas of numerous knives and daggers of various sizes, tucked into his studded leather belt… plus a fencing rapier, a Swiss army knife, a cutlass, and a wicked-looking crossbow.
"Is that all of it? Macdolas?" Draco prompts, as Mac's eyes shift tellingly to his footwear. Draco pulls out a stiletto from one boot, and four types of shurikens from the other. "Japanese throwing stars – really? I'm certain I confiscated most of these weapons previously, mate," he chips.
"Macdolas re-equips himself from the Manor armoury," he sullenly admits. "'Tis a bodyguard's right and responsibility to be properly outfitted in the weapons of warfare, Master Malfoy."
"Not when said bodyguard has been warned that his enthusiasm for weaponry outweighs his ability and experience with them," Draco contends. "And please keep your voice down, I don't want a hung-over Wirey on our hands. You'll return all these items to the Manor tomorrow, is that understood? And I expressly forbid any more weapon hoarding.'
"Now – can you please make a cup of herbal tea for Hermione, and bring it upstairs, along with some chocolate biscuits… assuming you haven't eaten them, too," Draco purses his mouth as he indicates the ravaged after dinner mints. "Hermione, would you like anything else, ma chérie?"
"Just some paracetamol and ibuprofen please, Mac," Hermione quietly requests. Her face falls as she sadly remarks, "Draco – we never got to dance together in all our finery tonight! I was so looking forward to it."
Gathering her close, Draco presses a soft kiss to her temple. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'll make it up to you, I promise. And I'll arrange for a replacement laurel headband, hmmm? Let's go upstairs, let me look after you," he coaxes.
"But what about the others…" Hermione trails off, obviously fading fast.
"I'll send word to Potter; we'll host a late brunch for everyone tomorrow, how does that sound? I think we all could use some time to recover, first," Draco suggests.
Hermione yawns. "You're probably right – but let me send a Patronus to Harry, that will be quicker." She digs her wand from Draco's robe pocket and produces her silvered otter in a matter of moments.
Ruibby enacts a light round of applause as the little phantasmal mammal gambols across the living room floor. "So pretty, Your Grace Lady Granger!".
"Thank you, Ruibby," Hermione acknowledges, before speaking the message for her Patronus to convey.
"Harry, we're home safe. All the elves are staying the night: can you please ask everyone to reconvene here in the morning? We'll host brunch at about eleven o'clock. Please take care of Pansy – make sure she sees a Healer… and talks to a counsellor. Oh, and Harry? You have a new kitten, her name is Boadie. Thanks, love."
The silvern otter tumbles once more before vanishing out the window.
"Kreacher does not wish to impose… Kreacher returns to Grimmauld Place," the elderly elf mutters, appearing uncomfortable.
"Nonsense, Kreacher – there's a spare bedroom upstairs, and it would be best to not subject your kitten to any more changes of scenery for a bit… and if you stick around, Luna can give Boadie a once-over at brunch, make sure she's healthy," Draco persuades.
"Please, Kreacher," Hermione lends her support. "We'd appreciate your help with cleaning up the house tomorrow, and overseeing Macdolas and Ruibby preparing the brunch."
She holds up a warning finger before Mac can whine about not needing a supervisor. "Isn't that right, Mac? Ruibby? Good. You can show Kreacher to his room – but don't start cleaning up in the morning until Wirey and Gelsy awaken, OK? Please send up our tea and biscuits to the bathroom. Goodnight."
She reaches for Draco's hand, smiling beatifically as she leads him from the lounge; his heart thumps faster as he considers how fantastically lucky he is.
I could have lost Hermione tonight – I could have lost her forever. The terrifying thought chills his blood and chokes his breath. Dread swamps him as he thinks of all the atrocious things that McLaggen could have done.
Draco clutches the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, halting their progress.
"Malfoy? It's OK, Draco– look at me, I'm fine. We're fine," Hermione soothes, hugging him tightly as his whole body shakes in delayed reaction. "Breathe, mon amour."
He releases his iron grip on the wooden stair cap, burying his face in Hermione's neck. It takes him a full minute of simply soaking in her essence before he can bring himself to speak.
"I'm sorry – everything just hit me – I was petrified, Hermione. It's not that I didn't believe in you– I do, I always will – but I can't– I never thought we could be together, and now– now I can't live without you…" Draco's voice cracks and fades out.
"Hey, hey – I'm not going anywhere, you hear me? Wild Hippogriffs couldn't drag me away from you now, Draco," Hermione cradles his chin in her palm, until his distressed eyes meet her shining ones. "Tonight was rough, and I admit to being scared stupid at times – but we got through it… together. You and me, Lord Malfoy: we make an awesome team, if I do say so myself," she cheekily boasts.
"I think we're both going to need some serious therapy, and it will take some time to settle into our 'new normal' – whatever that means – but the danger is behind us, Draco. We're free to live our life together, without fear constantly dogging our every move." Hermione pauses, looking oddly shy.
"I want you to know… I can't imagine my world without you at the centre of it. Forget all the soul-bond ramifications for a moment – this is just me, Hermione Jean Granger, standing in front of the man I love with all my heart… telling you that I love you, Draco Lucius Malfoy." She presses a feather-soft, tender kiss to his cool lips.
"Come have a bath with me, and I'll grant you a chance to reciprocate in the love-avowal stakes," she entices, stepping to his side to wrap her arm around Draco's waist and nudge her head against his shoulder.
Draco temporarily resists climbing the stairs with her to solemnly declare, "It might take me a lifetime to fully express how much I love you, Granger. There's no getting rid of me now, I'm afraid."
"I'm counting on it, Malfoy."
"Please stay still, Pansy; Mediwitch Martha is almost finished." Luna's sweet, concerned voice makes it impossible for Pansy to snap at her.
Damn Potter for sneakily instructing Luna to stick to me like glue. I just want to get out of here before he returns – I want to go home, take a full dose of Dreamless Sleep and sink into blessed oblivion for the next eight or so hours. Is that really too much to ask, after the fucking night I've had?! Pansy's jaw aches as tension builds from her grimly clamped teeth.
"All done," the bubbly young Healer announces, flying the used swabs, ointments and packaging into her medical kit. "Now, it's up to you whether you'd like me to counsel you alone, or with Luna present; everyone's different, but many people often find having a support person in the room beneficial."
"It's a moot point – I don't want any bloody counselling, as I've repeatedly stated," Pansy growls, glaring at the baby-faced Martha. Honestly, has she even finished school? She's sporting lopsided pigtails, for the love of snakes.
"But, Pansy… if you don't talk over and process your feelings, you won't be spiritually healthy – and I promised Harry and Hermione that I wouldn't leave your side until you were well," Luna sorrowfully points out. The little blonde shrugs defeatedly. "I'll just have to move in with you and ask for a leave of absence from Hogwarts, until you're ready for therapy."
Pansy coughs out a dry, humourless laugh. "Way to apply the emotional blackmail, Luna. I'd look like an absolute whiny bitch if I didn't accede to the wretched counselling, now."
Admitting defeat, Pansy irritably waves at the door. "Alright, alright, I'll talk to Martha, OK? But in private, please – not that I don't appreciate your support, Luna... but I'd rather do this alone."
"Of course. I'll be outside, waiting with Theo." Luna affectionately pats Pansy's tensed hand on her way out of the room. "I'm proud of you, Pansy. You're strong, and courageous: but it's not weakness to accept a little help now and then. It's just science, really… we cannot achieve growth without change." She smiles felicitously, carefully closing the door behind her.
Luna Lovegood… you're almost too good to be true. I wish I had even a smidgeon of your sweet spirit… well, that's not true, I do delight in being a bitch. Pansy's lips curve in an almost-smile.
"She's a smart cookie, your friend," Mediwitch Martha genially remarks. "It helps to surround yourself with people who love and support you."
Here we go. Pansy agitatedly bounces upright from the shabby visitor's chair she was forced to perch on while her throat wound was being treated. The voluminous folds of the crimson Auror robes (that Potter had tenaciously insisted on lending her before he'd allowed her to leave McLaggen's basement) swoosh audibly with her jerky movements.
"Listen, Mediwitch Martha– "
"Just Martha's fine, I told you that before, Pansy– "
"Maybe for you it is – and since when did we start referring to Healers by their first names? What's wrong with retaining some traditional formality?" Pansy gripes. "Where was I going with this? Right: I agreed to this session to get Luna off my back, but I don't want to talk about my sloppy emotions and fears and secrets and trauma for the next however long, alright?!".
"So you lied to your friend? Your friend who loves you enough to put her life on hold to ensure your well-being?" Martha calmly asks. "That's interesting."
"Oh no no no – don't start on me with that psychobabble – I know all the tricks of your trade, Martha," Pansy irefully declares. "This isn't my first trip down Morbid Memory Lane, I've–" she abruptly breaks off, throat seizing as a horrible mix of old and new abusive memories inundate her consciousness. Cormac cruelly twisting my breast… other despised hands, moving across my frozen body… threats of domination… threats of alienation… pain… hopelessness… abandonment…
She isn't aware she is swaying unsteadily until Martha gently steers her back into the dusty chair. "I'm sorry, Pansy. You don't have to say a word, if you don't wish to. Please know that this is a safe space for you, and I am here for you. You're safe now, Pansy."
Hunching in on herself, Pansy trembles as she brings her vine wood wand to her chest; she hasn't relinquished her white-knuckled grip on the wand since Hermione gave it back to her in that repulsive dungeon.
"I hate feeling powerless… I never want to feel like a victim again," her words are little more than a hoarse croak. "I've worked really hard to get to where I am today… and right now, I feel like a frightened, lonely little girl again – it hurts, Martha. I'm hurting," she croaks.
The dam has broken. Pansy sobs convulsively. This is going to be the Ugliest Cry of all Ugly Cries, she thinks dolefully. Ah, fuck it.
Harry watches in grim satisfaction as Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes and his Auror team prepare a snivelling, bleating Cormac McLaggen for transportation to Azkaban. The magical black chains Pansy trussed around Cormac in an efficient hog-tie are replaced with thick manacles and a metal muzzle.
"He looks like a biter; best not to take any chances," Pritchard-Hawes laconically states. His dark brown eyes rake appraisingly over Harry's drained face.
"Good job, Potter. Pass on my congratulations to Gilmont and Faulkner. We've a long week ahead of us, but I recommend you go home and get a decent night's sleep, Harry. You look near dead on your feet."
"Thank you, Sir. I'll return to the Ministry and ensure all's under control there before I leave for the night," Harry answers. I need to see Pansy; I need to see for myself that she's going to be OK. He claws at his hair in frustration at the delay.
"You'll want to check on Miss Parkinson, I reckon… as a material witness, of course," Pritchard-Hawes slyly observes. "She did a real number on McLaggen's testes… accidentally stepped on them, you say?" he probes, not bothering to disguise his approving smirk.
"Correct, sir. Stiletto heels, you understand." Harry folds in his malicious grin.
"Ah. As regards my earlier recommendation, Potter: it's an order. Finalize the most pressing business at the Ministry tonight – then go home, sleep the sleep of the just, and do not come back into work until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. Don't make me have you physically removed from the premises, Harry – I mean it. You're worked tirelessly on this case for weeks, and you're in grave danger of burning out." The Head Auror fixes Harry with a stern stare.
"Agreed?".
"Yes, sir," Harry reluctantly accedes, fidgeting at his jacket buttons. "Thank you."
Pritchard-Hawes briefly claps his lanky hand on Harry's shoulder. "When you see Miss Parkinson – tell her the Ministry thanks her, too," his tiny wink could almost be construed as a facial tic. "Goodnight, Potter."
Harry has just completed giving final directions to the bustling Aurors collecting evidence in McLaggen's basement when Hermione's otter Patronus cavorts around his trouser legs. His mouth drops open as his best friend's final blithe information about having a new kitten sinks in.
I'll leave off thinking about whatever the hell that means until tomorrow's brunch. He pulls off his spectacles to rub at his blurring eyes. It's over… or it soon will be. Hermione and Pansy are safe… and we've taken a couple of dangerous, disgusting predators off the streets.
Harry's flare of exultation withers as he soberly considers that Flint and McLaggen undeniably had help: the research potioneers, the underground network, possibly even Walden MacNair. We'll find those bastards, too – I won't stop until each rock spider is located and prosecuted.
But right now… I have to figure out the best way to grovel at Pansy's feet and beg her forgiveness – for acting like a judgmental dickhead when Ron barged in on us. Shit. This is not going to be easy, not by a long shot.
Harry nods curtly at his workmates before Disapparating back to the Ministry.
Pansy is almost asleep (leaning against Theo's comforting shoulder) when a quiet knock sounds at the door.
"It's me, Harry; may I come in?".
Keeping her arm slung over Pansy's back, Luna trills, "Yes, we've been waiting for you, Harry. Pansy wants to speak with you, before we leave."
"Luna! I never said– " Pansy's eyes jolt open to collide with Harry's intense emerald gaze as he slips inside his office. Her tummy flips as she takes in how spent and regretful he looks. Pansy hardens her resolve and staunchly ignores his pleading regard. Not my problem.
On her other side, Theo stands, stretching ostentatiously. "I'm feeling a bit stiff from these terrible excuses for chairs you have, Harry – might just go for a bit of a trot to loosen up. Luna, want to keep me company?".
"Excellent idea, Theo. We'll be back in a jiffy, Pansy. Then we can all head back to the townhouse," Luna decrees.
"Ah, about that – Hermione sent me a message, she asked if everyone can come around for brunch, instead. About eleven, she said. The elves are staying there overnight, Theo," Harry diffidently tells them.
Pansy senses him moving closer, though she doesn't lift her sore and swollen eyes from her lap; her fingers continue to compulsively pleat at the borrowed scarlet uniform robes. Go away, Harry Potter.
"Good, good – well, we can all stay at my place tonight, if that's alright? I've plenty of spare rooms, and I'd rather not go home alone," Theo softly admits.
"Lovely idea, Theo," Luna springs up, threading her arm through his. "Pansy, we shan't be long, dear."
The pair walk outside before Pansy can do more than crossly chirrup in protest. Her attempt to rise is blocked as Harry kneels before her.
"Pansy, are you alright? How's the cut on your neck? Was the Mediwitch helpful with crisis counselling?" Harry petitions.
Keeping her eyes studiously averted, Pansy answers in a monotone. "I'm fine; the cut will heal without scarring; I spoke to Martha. I can take care of myself, Auror Potter."
"Hey – please, won't you look at me? Just for a moment? There's something I'd like – there's something I need to say to you," Harry entreats.
The urgency in his voice almost causes Pansy to rethink her pledge to keep her distance. I don't need more emotional baggage: after tonight's therapy, I already feel like I've overpacked an entire Louis Vuitton luggage set… chockfull of overpriced angst and bullshit.
"I'd rather you didn't – here, just let me get out of your robes and I'll be on my way– " Pansy manages to whack herself in the head as the long red sleeve catches on a hairpin buried in the bedraggled remains of her chignon.
"Hold on, you're making it worse– wait– " Pansy stops flailing as Harry's gentle fingers brush against her neck. She fights the impulse to lean in to his benevolent touch.
Harry clumsily tucks the offending hairpin back into her straight brunette locks; Pansy struggles not to visibly quiver. He shifts his hands to rest on the arms of her seat as he speaks again. She bends forward in a little, drawn by his warmth and spicy, musky scent.
"Pansy, I'm so sorry that I reacted badly when Ron interrupted us so rudely– and meanly. I never meant to imply that I thought less of you, just because –"
" –Just because I had sexual intercourse with your best friend?" Pansy coolly replies. "I saw the expression on your face, Potter. It spoke volumes."
She chances making eye contact, regretting it instantly as she realizes Harry's nearness. His hair is adorably unkempt, and the smear marking one of his lenses has her reaching to wipe it clean before she can stop herself.
Harry holds perfectly still as Pansy removes his spectacles, his viridian green eyes trained on her face with heart-stopping intensity.
Polishing the glasses with the soft cotton of Harry's Auror robes, Pansy holds her breath as she slides them back into place.
"You should take better care of yourself – and your things," she grumbles.
"May I– may I hold your hand, please? I don't want to trigger you… I can't stop myself from wanting to touch you, Pansy." Harry's voice transmits his anxiety. "Not without your permission, of course." His hand hovers above her lap, until she gives a minute nod.
Harry captures her fingers instantaneously, loosely wrapping her smaller hand in his. His work-roughened thumb delicately strokes her palm, as Pansy succumbs to the bliss of his tender caress. I'll doubtless despise myself for my weakness come tomorrow… but damn, Harry's attention feels so good… like he cares.
"Pansy, I apologize wholeheartedly for my poor reaction, in the ballroom. I truly never meant to hurt you, and I bitterly regret that I let Ron come between us… that I let his spite ruin a beautiful moment," Harry's words are quiet but unmistakably impassioned.
"Dancing with you was everything I dreamed it would be. You feel so right in my arms, Pansy. I'd give anything to go back to that moment, and to not hurt you with my idiotic, momentary lapse of reason. I'll never forgive myself for being the impetus for placing you in danger– for upsetting you to the point where you were desperate to escape even being in the same room as me– Merlin, I'm sorry… when I think of what you suffered tonight– " Harry's Adam's apple bobs crazily as his words dry up.
Pansy is shocked when a tear twists down Harry's cheek. She lifts her pinkie in wonderment, blotting its path. He's crying… over me? Me? Pansy's own eyes well as the extent of Harry's concern and… affection swamps her sensitive psyche.
"Stop it– I already look like a clown, I've cried buckets tonight! I utterly detest crying, especially in front of people– just don't, Potter!" she gulps.
"I wish you'd call me Harry again. I'm sorry I hurt you, Pansy. If you truly don't want anything more to do with me, I promise to leave you in peace," Harry mumbles.
This is what I told myself I wanted – so why can't I confirm it aloud? Why am I still holding Harry's hand, and feeling my heart crumple at his genuine, pained remorse? Why do I just want him to hold me tightly and tell me everything's going to be OK? Pansy agonizes.
Too many rotten, romantic fairy tales, probably. Sod it – I can't do it… though I'm not ready to admit how vulnerable I am to him. Charming, bleeding-heart Gryffindors!
"I accept your apology," Pansy blurts. The relief and joy that flashes through Harry's moist eyes kicks up her pulse.
"It's not your fault – what happened, with McLaggen. It's mine, for being an emotional fucking idiot and endangering my friends – Cormac called me a tethered goat, and I acted like one," Pansy says. "Although Hermione delivered the headbutt," she ruefully adds.
Harry's small chuckle is more thankful than humorous. "None of this is your fault – none of it, Pansy." His eyes darken as he snarls, "Flint and McLaggen: a primitive part of me wishes them both dead and buried, Pansy. The depravities they had planned for you– that fucking dungeon –"
"Harry – I know. I know how you feel… I wanted to slit Cormac's worthless throat, I kind of still do," Pansy confesses. "But Hermione was right – it's better that he lives out the rest of his miserable days in a tiny cell, stewing in bitterness, malice, and loneliness. And you need to question them both, to find out the true extent of their foul scheme, right?" she urges.
A pause, as Harry's mouth works furiously.
"I know– and I know Hermione's right– but when I think about what could have happened… Pansy, when I saw Cormac holding that dagger to your throat, I wanted to kill him on the spot – consequences be damned."
Harry's fierce gaze is steady as he appends, "I wasn't thinking like an Auror, Pansy; I wanted him dead because he dared to harm you. You," he stresses.
Morgana's garter belt – how am I supposed to resist him, now? Pansy squeaks, "May I hug you, Har– oh!"
She curls her arms around Harry's back as he fluidly stands, scooping her out of the chair and gingerly gathering her against his tremulous body.
"I always seem to be apologizing to you – it must be because I'm a hot-headed dummy," Harry murmurs into her ear. Pansy cuddles as close as she dares, revelling in his muscularity, warmth, and wiry strength.
"Will you please give me another chance, Pansy? A chance for… us?" Harry asks, his tones low and uncertain.
Heart leaping wildly, Pansy draws back from their embrace to slowly respond, "I'll… think about it. Harry– I don't know if I have whatever it is you need… I've got some work to do, on myself," she stumblingly explains. "What happened tonight… it's made me face up to past issues I thought I'd properly handled. I don't want to give you false hope that I– that we– "
To her surprise, Harry takes her bumbling attempt at clarification with good grace.
He reaches for her hands, waiting for her to raise them in acceptance before lacing her fingers between his.
"Pansy – I'll take whatever you're ready, and willing, to give. There's no rush… I'm not going anywhere," he avers, smiling happily as her cheeks heat.
"Oh – um, OK," Pansy blathers. "Here – your robes…" she starts to pull away her hands to reach for the hem, but is stymied by Harry's rapid negation.
"Keep them for now, I've another set. I want you to stay warm, and get some rest," Harry bosses. "I'll see you at brunch, tomorrow?". The hope in his words and visage is plain as day.
"Y-Yes," she stammers. "I'll launder your uniform, before I give it back, of course."
"Please don't, Pansy… I'd very much enjoy having my robes smell like you," Harry grins.
Her flush deepens. Cheeky, sexy flirt!
A light tap at the door before Luna eagerly pokes her head around it. "Hullo! You two look like you're… friends again?". Her china blue eyes glitter with satisfied merriment. "Ready to go, Pansy? Poor Theo is grouching about needing his beauty sleep," Luna jests.
"Yes, I'm ready. Goodnight… Harry," Pansy tugs at their handhold, but Harry doesn't release her fingers until he has dropped a little kiss to each wrist.
"Goodnight, Pansy," he smiles broadly.
Pansy pivots at the door, unable to resist a final peek at the brunet Auror.
She ignores Luna's giggle, staring incredulously as Harry Potter blows her not one, but two kisses. Pansy hurries out the door before her whole face catches fire, Luna close behind.
"You're supposed to catch them, you know," Luna chides. "What if they landed on me – or Theo?".
"What's that, Luna? More Nargles?" Theo absently queries, falling into step beside them as they move down the corridor.
"No, Theo – just Harry pitching love at Pansy," Luna rejoins, sounding serenely smug.
"That's nice," yawns Theo. "Come on, let's get some rest."
He offers the two witches his extended elbows; both tuck their arms through, smiling companionably at one another.
What a glorious, awful, traumatic, wonderful, strange night, Pansy marvels. She finally identifies the odd feeling floating somewhere in the vicinity of her bruised heart.
It feels like warm, soft cotton robes, and calloused hands; it sounds like a deep, confident tenor; it smells like cinnamon and clean male musk; and it looks a helluva lot like Harry James Potter.
Hope. He gives me hope.
And I'm a total, silly, helpless fool for it… for him.
Dammit.
