**Trigger warning: mention of past sexual abuse, pedophilia, and child pornography (not explicitly detailed).


Chapter 69

Sunday 23 March 2003: AM

"Draco! Well, knock me down with a feather – where've you been, dear?!" Bonnie exclaims, rushing over to wrap him in an energetic hug as they darken the doors of Death Before Decaf. "It must be six weeks since you came by!".

"A month, actually," Draco grins, his happiness spilling out like an overstuffed cannoli. "Bonnie, you remember Hermione? My sweet, beautiful girlfriend?" he proudly adds the stress to the last word. Hermione pertly squeezes his left buttock, her groping hand hidden behind his broad back as Draco re-introduces her to their agog, effervescent waitress.

"Oh! I knew it, I just knew it – after I served you two that morning, I went home and I said to Clyde – Clyde's my hubby, love," she excitedly explains to Hermione – "I told him, our Draco came in today and he had the loveliest young lady with him, they tried to snow me that they weren't together but you could just about smell the furrymoans leaching off them, what with the URST and all," Bonnie babbles.

Not having the heart to correct Bonnie's distortion of 'pheromones', Draco chuckles as Hermione blushes shyly.

"Hi, Bonnie. It's nice to see you," the brunette witch smiles. "Are you well?".

"Right as rain, love. Come, let's get you set up at your table," Bonnie expertly bustles through the narrow gaps between the seating arrangements, as Draco and Hermione follow.

"Here you are, dears," Bonnie sets down two menus and pats their hands affectionately after Draco sees Hermione securely seated. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

Folding out his napkin onto his lap, Draco smiles boyishly at Hermione's continued flush. "I have to say, Granger – I believe most of those 'furrymoans' Bonnie sensed were coming from you, at our last breakfast here," he teases. "It's not your fault, of course; my charisma is overpowering."

"Oh, really?" Hermione recovers her equilibrium instantly, her mocha eyes glimmering with sharp amusement. "Let's not tabulate who fell for whom first – and hardest, Lord Malfoy. Just like our academic achievements… you'll always come in second place."

"As long as I come, Granger," Draco leers, delighting in little gasp. "But you first, of course, ma petite."

"I won't dignify your shabby innuendo with a response," Hermione sniffs. She opens her mouth as if to comment further, closing it with a small snap as Draco cocks his eyebrow in query.

"Hermione? What is it?".

"I– I was thinking about our conversation, at our first visit here… when we agreed to 'a mutually beneficial, purely sexual liaison'," Hermione slowly answers. "You said you definitely didn't want – or need – a girlfriend, remember?". She fiddles at her own napkin.

"Yes… because I had zero hope you would ever countenance the mere idea of being my girlfriend, much less the reality of it," Draco confesses. "I couldn't believe my luck when you took me up on my reckless offer – I wasn't about to roll over and show you my soft emotional underbelly, Hermione. Not after I'd–" Draco clamps closed his runaway mouth, feeling his ears beginning to burn.

"You'd what? Please, Draco," Hermione entreats, snugging her hands in his across the table.

Well, I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Draco puffs out a few hard breaths before he continues speaking.

"Not after I'd yearned for you for over a decade – alright, after I'd hopelessly loved you from afar for twelve years… and fucked up any slim chance I ever had of being worthy of you. No, I know – I know you're going to say I was wrong, and I'm being too hard on myself. I'll just say that I'll never stop working on being the man you deserve, and that I am forever blessed to have you in my life… smack bang in the centre of it, Hermione."

Swallowing hard, Draco keeps his eyes linked with hers as he hoarsely pronounces, "You are my wish come true, Granger. I'm sorry I was an overbearing blockhead during our first breakfast here; I was terrified you'd see straight through me and bolt for the hills," he admits.

"But you also know that I'm a selfish bastard, and I was prepared to tie you to me by any cunning means I had… not that having sex with you was anything other than an absolute revelation," Draco firmly proclaims.

"I said I wanted a monogamous liaison because even though I knew our arrangement was merely temporary – and that I would never have your heart – I sure as hell wasn't going to share you with anyone… Merlin, just thinking of you in another man's arms makes me want to kill," Draco growls. "That ginger tosspot sniffing around you with his blowsy roses and substandard chocolates – he's damned lucky I didn't Transfigure him into a hagfish on the spot. Fucker."

"Draco, you know Ron is firmly in my past – and you're my future, right?" Hermione fervently states. "For the record, the very thought of sharing your favours with other witches made my gorge rise."

"I'm sorry… the other women I've – been with, they were only ever pale substitutions for the witch I hungered for… for you," Draco rasps. "I was– I was always too cowardly to tell you then what I'm about to say to you now, Hermione." He pauses, gripping her hands a little tighter, as he marshals his thoughts.

"I never wanted anyone but you, Granger. I regret that I didn't tell you any of this sooner… I rue that I was deathly afraid of being rejected, mocked, and vilified… and I'm forever grateful that it was your courage that made us acknowledge our relationship for the deep connection we really do have. You can lord that over me until the day I die – I deserve it," Draco sighs.

"I know I'm revoltingly sappy – constantly – but the truth is… I cannot get enough of you, Hermione. Mind, body, soul… even your mad, glorious, constantly-shedding hair," Draco chuckles, hoping to lighten the intense mood of their discussion.

"You arse – I'll lop it all off in a pixie cut and see how you like that," she threatens, pretending to glower.

"NO! Don't you dare!... I mean, you do whatever you wish, ma petite," Draco hastily corrects his rash objection. "Please, please leave your hair just as it is; I adore it. Gods, the daydreams I indulged in at Hogwarts! Burying my hands in your luscious locks… slowly trailing it across every inch of my naked body–"

"Have you had a chance to decide on your order, dears?" Bonnie's brisk voice sounds from behind his shoulder, causing Draco to choke in horror. He fumbles for his water glass as Hermione smirks, appearing disgustingly pleased with his discomposure.

"Would you mind allowing us a few more minutes to decide, please, Bonnie?" Hermione smoothly replies. "Draco's an awful ditherer sometimes."

"Of course, lovelies," Bonnie darts off again.

Hermione recaptures his fingers, slyly prompting, "You were saying? You've dreamt of my hair brushing your nude skin…?".

"You're wicked, Hermione: poking fun at your poor, pining, lovelorn suitor," Draco tries and fails to look as piteous as possible, cracking up with a huge grin as Hermione laughs disbelievingly.

"No, I am– I was– I am! Um, one more thing… I knew you were lying, when you staunchly told me you didn't want a boyfriend… I inadvertently sensed that, during our Legilimency session." Draco unscrews and tightens the metal tops of the salt and pepper shakers, ducking his head slightly.

"Really…" Hermione's response is dangerously non-committal.

"Well, as I explained to you at the time, the process is unique, depending on a number of factors, including the relationship and levels of trust between the participating parties…" Draco's bumbling, pompous attempt to justify his actions fades out as Hermione presents him with an impressive poker face.

"And… I may have… not been able to resist having a little snoop – but I didn't consciously intend to, honestly. I apologize, darling – and I withdrew as soon as I realized what was happening – erm, what I was doing." Draco screws up one side of his face in a remorseful wince.

"Tell me exactly what you 'saw', Malfoy." Hermione does not appear happy.

Draco flashes back to that pivotal night of Legilimency in Hermione's apartment… the first time I held her next to me… the first time I kissed her sweet lips. The memories flood his consciousness with visceral intensity…

Turning up at her apartment, after having readied himself an hour earlier than necessary: nervously changing his blue cardigan for a suit jacket – and switching back again – no less than half a dozen times. Sweating like a racehorse, which in turn had caused him to take another shower, and effected a change of shirt.

Leaving the townhouse thirty minutes ahead of schedule, only to lurk at the corner of the block of flats until one of her neighbours had eyed him suspiciously from behind a twitching curtain: he'd had to cast a Disillusionment Charm to allow him to skulk right beside her door until precisely six o'clock.

Being so annoyed with his foolish, giddy behaviours that he'd acted sullen and decidedly prattish as soon as she'd answered the door. Trying not to notice how delectably pretty Hermione had looked in her dusky pink sweater and fantastically form-fitting grey leggings, her wild chestnut hair mostly constrained in a loose ponytail (which Draco had immediately envisioned wrapping around his hand as he plundered her luscious mouth).

Prowling into the kitchen behind her, reaching across to snaffle a bottle of water from her fridge, well aware she had been deliberately holding her ground against his invasion of her home territory… thoroughly relishing the light brush of her back against his front.

Sitting on her red velvet Chesterfield, knees almost touching, as he'd focused all of his skill and determined will into leading Hermione safely and effectively through her lost memories of that wretched night. Cuddling her close as her stress levels had risen, wrapping the cerise blanket around her quaking form and basking in the incredible feeling of rightness that had enveloped him from that simple touch.

Realizing Hermione's true motivations for going on internet dates with Muggle men; sensing her unmet sexual needs and curiosity; noticing her disappointment and regret at the Weasel's poor form, in bed and out.

Homing in on anything in her mind that he had sensed related to him, and her true attitude toward him; his incredulity growing as he'd discovered that she hadn't truly hated him for all those years – that she had, in fact, battled an unwilling attraction to him.

His arrogant, dictatorial caution against Hermione continuing with any more dates (motivated in no small part by Draco's scorching desire to build on whatever tiny spark of allure she still felt for him), resulting in their furious screaming match, and his reckless offer to act as her carnal tutor; unsurprisingly, being roundly reprimanded for his highhandedness, and summarily kicked out.

Giving in to the irresistible temptation to kiss her as he'd always dreamed – just once – and the insane conflagration of their tumultuous clinch outside her front door, until his screaming conscience had somehow compelled him to step away from her fiery heat and raging passion. Wordlessly seeing her safely inside, before he had forced himself to assume a bodacious saunter into the dark of the night.

Going home, excruciatingly torn between concluding he'd completely screwed up any potentiality of a relationship between them, and clinging obdurately to the miniscule possibility that Hermione might not think him a unredeemed, rampant arsehole… that she may still harbour the tiniest of yens for him.

Reliving every second of their spectacular encounter again and again as he'd lain in his big, empty bed, the white t-shirt Hermione had worn hidden inside his pillowcase… her scent driving him slowly mad, as his Slytherin brain had carefully re-examined every snippet of useful information he'd unintentionally gleaned from the Legilimency.

Sweet Salazar – what an utterly magnificent memory. Draco startles as Hermione's voice interrupts his blissful recollections.

"Draco? Do you not wish to answer me?" Hermione cocks her head to the side as her cocoa eyes narrow speculatively. "Is your confession really all that dreadful?" she snips.

He refocuses his concentration to their discourse, striving to convey his sincerity with his response.

"Uh– that is – I told you, that I sensed you wanted a true partner. A man of equal intelligence, sharing similar interests, with a keen sense of humour… preferably a wizard, but that wasn't as important to you as a loving, affectionate, honest and loyal boyfriend," Draco gulps, as Hermione's face grows stonier.

"Go on. I know you're holding back: don't."

"Ah… you really wanted to be romanced, and cherished, and to be sexually adventuresome with a man you liked and trusted– and– and that when we were at Hogwarts… after I stopped slicking back my hair like Lucius, you thought I was hot, even though you wanted to hate me– and when you smelled Amortentia, you lied about it because you didn't want to admit you also scented green apples and my cologne. I'm sorry!" Draco rushes to finish.

Hermione's expression cycles through shock, outrage, and embarrassment… before settling on vexed acceptance.

"Is that all of it? Did you sniff out my most secret sexual fantasies, too? My deepest regrets? The time I angrily threw a rock in the lake – when Dad wouldn't buy me another ice cream cone – and it struck a duck?" Hermione's tone is deservedly scathing.

"No! You killed a duck? Never mind," Draco hastily backpedals.

"I didn't murder the duck! But I hurt its wing… I made Dad wade in to catch it, and we took it to a vet to be treated and cared for," she defends. "And I never meant to harm it; I still feel terrible. I donated half a year's pocket money to an animal welfare charity, alright?".

"I'm sorry – sweetheart, please," Draco leans across the table to delicately trace the curve of her pink ear with the tip of his forefinger, infinitely relieved when Hermione's mulish expression softens a little. "I know you didn't mean to injure the duck; and I am genuinely sorry I carelessly nosed about in your mind and memories."

"Well… I appreciate your apology," she mutters, pinning him with her severe topaz stare. "Please don't do that again, Draco. You wouldn't like me to go sniffing about your psyche, would you?".

Draco shuffles his feet under the table. "No– no, I would not. You have my word, ma petite."

Nodding firmly, Hermione flips open her menu. "Good. Now… don't let me order anything other than a very light meal, please: I think my stomach has irreversibly stretched after yesterday's constant feasting. You should have stopped me before I went after that lemon cake for the third time."

"Hermione, I know better than to ever get between a woman and dessert," Draco solemnly pronounces. "I value my life far too much to ever take that risk."

"True. Draco… what do you think our mothers are together scheming about? I don't mean their disturbing… sexual frankness," Hermione doggedly continues, as Draco claps his hands over his ears.

"La-la-la-la-la! Nope, I can't hear you," he singsongs.

Pulling away his hands, Hermione scolds, "We all heard them! They're up to no good, I just know it."

I can't tell her my mother is pushing for me to propose – well, not so much pushing, as bullying, Draco decides. I refuse to allow Mother to ruin my timeline… I am not going to screw this up.

To Hermione, Draco replies, "Sweetheart, there's very little we can do about whatever conniving plots our mothers are cooking up, you know that, right? I fear that the best strategy we can employ is to not sit within hearing range of their collusion – and their filthy conversations," he concludes.

'The Limber Lobalug' – if ever a term deserved to be Obliviated from my brain, that would be it. Draco shudders as he unwillingly pictures his patrician parents going at it hammer and tongs. Don't, DON'T! Talk about an appetite suppressant.

"I don't need to be a Legilimens to know what you're thinking, Malfoy – stop. Quickly, talk about something else," Hermione implores. They share a look of mutual horror, before giggling at the absurdity of the situation.

"It's a proper delight to see you two smiling and laughing," Bonnie stands beside their table, hands on plump hips as she smiles indulgently at their merry chuckles. "No more mopey solitary breakfasts for you, eh, Draco? This one's a keeper, and I knew it from the start," she pats Hermione's shoulder with visible self-satisfaction. "You make sure you keep him on his toes, Hermione dear; Draco's been gifted more charm than you can shake a stick at, but you've got his measure, I reckon."

"Indeed I do, Bonnie," Hermione snickers. "It helps that he's been madly in love with me since he was eleven," she brazenly declares. "He was cute even then – but a right little shit. It's a good thing I love him so desperately, isn't it?" Her mirth dies down as she gives Draco a look of pure adoration and joy.

Gods… if this be a dream, let me never wake, Draco fervidly prays. You sweet, darling, magnificent creature, Hermione Granger… My Hermione.

Bonnie's mild sniffles taper off as she briskly dabs at her moist eyes with a huge striped handkerchief. "I keep telling my Clyde – there's no need to be watching 'Coronation Street', not when I've all the drama and romance I need at the café! Eh, look at me blubbing – here now, tell me your orders before I dissolve into a big soppy puddle from watching you sweet lovebirds," she commands.

Hermione goes first; Draco allows himself the luxury of watching her unobserved. Dressed simply in a long kelly green skirt and soft white blouse, she tucks a springy ringlet behind her ear as she intently listens to Bonnie's explanation of the contents of the Bubble and Squeak special.

She treats everyone as special, and worthy, until they prove themselves otherwise… and by some miracle, she's decided I'm the man for her.

He isn't aware of the huge grin wreathed across his face until Hermione imperiously questions, "Why do you look like the Cheshire Cat, Draco? If your smile were any wider, you'd crack your cheeks," she ripostes.

"Oh, I'm just quietly worshipping the love of my life," he revels in her rapid blush, and Bonnie's appreciative sigh. "And looking forward to a lifetime of laying my heart at your feet, actually. Is that a problem, Hermione?".

Shyly peering up at him from beneath her dark lashes, she lets the pause lengthen… deliberately teasing me with her silence, Draco realizes. Cheeky little coquette. He holds his breath until she finally puts him out of his misery.

"Oh… I suppose I can tolerate that, Draco," she cockily avers. "Carry on – I'm not going anywhere… correction: I'm never leaving you, mon coeur."

"As if I would ever let you go now, m coeur et mon âme... My beautiful Hermione."

Hands clasped tightly, they beam at each other as Bonnie digs frenziedly for her giant hankie again… mumbling good-naturedly about mushy young love being the death of

Draco winks saucily at her as he begins to speak his breakfast order.


Sunday 23 March 2003: PM

Pansy potters indolently around her compact apartment, pleased with her decision to spend the morning buying and installing a few new pieces of furniture. She fusses at the indigo cashmere throw rug folded over the arm of her new couch.

There was no way I was going to keep the brown leather camelback sofa – I definitely do not need any reminders of Ron Weasley's recent odiousness in my sanctuary, regardless of how fleeting and meaningless our interaction was. Anyway, it was a bit stark in here; the classic navy blue chintz snug couch and matching armchair are a refreshing update.

I wonder if Harry will like them. The thought sneaks into her head and refuses to leave. Pansy presses her fingertips to her lips as she recalls Harry's impassioned goodbye kiss, after he'd escorted her back to her flat after the Granger-Malfoy brunch (well, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, and supper, really. We didn't end up leaving until well after sunset).

Harry meant what he said, about wooing me; he's consistently been wonderfully solicitous of my welfare – just as a boyfriend should be, I guess, Pansy muses. It was lovely, having him come out to the back garden and sit beside me, chatting to Narcissa and Jane… holding my hand, and stroking my neck. A witch could certainly get addicted to that kind of devoted attention.

Pausing in her small décor adjustments, Pansy smiles wistfully as she remembers how Harry had refused to let go of their conjoined hands, even as she'd hugged Hermione and Draco goodbye. Oof – I can't believe I used to think he was putting on a goody-goody act, at school; he genuinely is a sweet, upstanding, caring man… which is just as sexy as that thirsty look he frequently gives me. Ay, caramba! Pansy grins widely as she recalls their torrid parting of the ways, last night.

She'd barely stepped out of her Floo before Harry had wrapped her up in his strong arms. He'd showered kisses all over her face like tiny meteors, each one leaving behind a flare of exhilarated heat. Pansy had given as good as she'd gotten, feverishly running her hands all over his powerful, wiry body… with a special emphasis on his deliciously tight little butt, she remembers with a wicked smile.

And those spectacles of his… By Demeter, who knew she had such a glasses kink? Their increasingly impassioned kisses had knocked his lenses askew – not that it had done anything but ramp up his appeal, Pansy thinks. She hisses out a slow breath as she admonishes her flaming lust to settle down; Harry had (sadly) stuck to his avowal of a slow courtship, leaving her riled up and panting as he'd climbed back into the hearth to travel to his own home.

He's so endearingly earnest – so wholesome – but at the same time, sexy as sin with his tough Auror persona, and those vivid jade eyes. Pansy wonders whether Harry would mind if she started calling him 'Lightning Bolt' again; but this time, the term would refer to his unquestionable ability to strike a fire in her loins – with a single, careful touch.

What's that sound? Pansy sharply twists her head to check she is still alone, before she comprehends that the cheerful humming in the room is emanating from her own daffy mouth. I don't bloody hum, she scoffs. Just because Harry invited me for dinner at Grimmauld Place tonight – that's no excuse to start trilling stupid tunes like that odd, animated film the Elf Brigade were watching yesterday evening. Singing and dancing candlesticks, my arse.

'Be our guest, be our guest, put our service to the test…" No! Pansy folds closed her warbling mouth before she can launch into another verse. I blame Potter for this rank display of girlish silliness… but damn, he does make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Can't let that slip to the man, though.

I shouldn't read too much into tonight's dinner invitation… Harry said there's no need to dress up, and he's not sure when his work is going to finish today, anyway. I might draw myself a lovely warm bath… lots of bubbles, and perhaps I'll light the water lily and hyacinth candles I gifted myself for my birthday last year… lovely.

Pansy turns for the hallway when her Floo activates; her heartbeat bounces as she immediately recognizes Harry's ruffled dark head ducking out from beneath her mantle.

Her elated response (and swift step towards him) falters as Pansy registers the grave expression on the wizard's handsome face. He shuffles nearer, his velvet-green eyes projecting apprehension… and deep sorrow. Pansy distantly notes that Harry is holding a small buff envelope against the right leg of his scarlet Auror robes.

It's about the right size to contain photographs – and it's also horribly familiar. Pansy feels her throat closing up as an old horror reaches for her with sharpened claws.

"Pansy – please, sit down, love," Harry urges, guiding her to the chintz couch. He tucks her quivering, hunched body into his side, softly kissing her temple before leaning back to speak.

Don't – don't say it. Please don't say it. Pansy tries and fails to shape the words aloud, as her tremors amplify.

"Oh, god – Pansy, I'm so sorry – Pansy, I'm sorry," Harry husks, as she tries to evade his searching, knowing gaze, whipping her head from side to side, her silky black tresses tangling in his hands as he attempts to soothe her.

"N-No, no, I don't– you can't– I can't–" Pansy croaks, through numb lips.

"Pansy – I have to tell you. No, wait," Harry gathers her carefully as she struggles to bolt away – to escape the past that yet rises like the spectre at the feast.

I'll never be free of this pain – never. I should have known that my flimsy, newfound happiness would be snatched from me. Pansy covers her miserable face with shaking hands, clumsily pressing her whitened knuckles to the welling tears.

"Oh, darling, please, please let me help you," Harry gently pries her hands from her cheeks, his own eyes reddened and damp.

"You can't help me – just say what you came to say. Don't drag it out – please, Harry." Pansy focuses on the dark blue throw rug, spine rigid and breathing jagged. "Say it."

"We found a huge stack of pornography in a hidden safe in Cormac's hunting lodge today," Harry expels the words in a burst, keeping his arms curled around her. "All kinds of it – I found this envelope full of photographs, shoved inside a Lust Potions book. And I – I recognized the child… I saw it was you, Pansy."

"How– how did Cormac – get those pictures?" Pansy whispers. "I handed them to the Ministry – years ago."

"We think Barry Bones sold them to Flint and McLaggen – they bribed him to frame Theo, and he must have been selling them whatever inside intel and foul material he could, for some time," Harry's face crumples in disgust and fury.

"They– did they– distribute the photos? They did, didn't they?" Pansy violently wrenches herself out of Harry's embrace, unsteadily pacing to the wall beside her fireplace. She totters down and against it into a heap, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking slightly, as she awaits his answer.

Crouching before her, Harry reveals, "I don't know yet, Pansy. But I swear to you, I will track down every single picture, and every single scumbag who traded in this despicable filth – I'll fill every cell in Azkaban with these evil bastards, if it comes to that. Hell, I'll built another fucking prison, if need be. I want to make this right, love." He roughly brushes a fat teardrop from the end of his nose.

"You can't 'make this right', Potter. No one can. I tried – I really tried – but the past never stays dead for long," Pansy twists her lips in a bitter smile. "I should never have bothered to seek justice through legal means – not that it mattered, not in the end."

Harry tentatively extends a hand, laying it softly on her knee. "What can I do, Pansy? Please, love – I'll do anything. You need only say the word."

"So you've… you've read… my file?" Pansy quavers. "You know all of it, then? Every last, sordid detail? I tried to warn you, Potter – I'm damaged goods. Something broke in me – noI was broken, by an evil man, and my callous, unscrupulous, mercenary family. You should leave," she abruptly flings out her arm to point at the Floo.

"Pansy, sweetheart– you're not 'damaged goods' – you're strong, and clever, and so very brave – please, don't push me away," Harry's voice is agonized. "I'm not leaving you – I'm here for you, love. Always," he vows, kneeling beside her now. "What can I do?! Please, Pansy."

I don't want to be alone… I need help… I need my friends.

Pansy raises her thumping head from her knees to wheeze, "Please… get Draco… and Hermione. Draco knows – ask him to tell Hermione, Harry. Ask them to come. Please."

"Of course– wait– " Bounding upright, Harry rapidly produces his stag Patronus, uttering Pansy's instructions in a clear, terse tone. Pansy watches dully as the silvery phantom hart elegantly exits her living room. Harry grabs the dark sapphire cashmere throw, settling it over her shivering shoulders with great care.

"May I make you a cup of tea? Hot chocolate? A glass of water?" he anxiously offers.

"No. Thank you," Pansy woodenly replies. Her hand creeps out to touch Harry's, before she can quell the impulse; he gladly threads together their fingers, softly kissing the pad of each little manicured fingertip.

"I'm right here, Pansy. I'm not going anywhere, love. May I hold you?".

Sobbing quietly, Pansy dips a minute nod, keeping her weeping eyes closed. I should have ripped out Cormac's degenerate throat when I had the chance. The dirty, perverted, slimy piece of dung has violated me all over again. Now I understand how he happened to call me 'Little Flower' – it wasn't a coincidence, after all.

I wish I'd stomped both of the bastard's testicles, she savagely reflects; her tears ease slightly, as her wrath fires anew.

"We'll get through this, together. I've got you, Pansy." Harry sits down, mindfully cradling her on his lap. He adjusts the rug to fully cover her pale pink voile peasant top, before he smooths his hand down her hair (a little awkwardly, but with immense tenderness).

"Harry? Please don't call in that Mediwitch – Martha, I mean. She's pushy, and a pain in the bum," Pansy grumbles, her words barely audible against Harry's warm chest. "I don't like her."

"Alright, love. Martha stays at St Mungo's." Harry drops a delicate kiss to the top of her head. "Don't worry, my valiant little Snake. I've got you," he repeats steadfastly. "You're safe, Pansy."

Snuffling into his crimson robes, Pansy wishes she could believe Harry's heartfelt declaration. Held securely against his comfortingly steady heart, she allows herself a tiny smidgeon of hope… like the flutter of a pigeon's wings, silhouetted against a darkening sky.

French translations:


mon coeur et mon âme – my heart and soul.


Credit to Howard Ashman and Alan Menken for the quoted lines from the song 'Be Our Guest' in the 1991 animated film, 'Beauty and the Beast'.