**Trigger warnings: angst, mention of past sexual abuse and trauma**
Chapter 71
Sunday 23 March 2003: PM
"No, not that one, Potter– grab the Assam, Pansy prefers it in the afternoons," Draco instructs, as Harry fumbles about in the well-stocked tea box in the pantry.
The exasperated blond elbows Harry aside, reaching for the brown-packaged loose leafed tea himself. "You'd best stick to boiling the kettle – and don't pour in the water straightaway, you'll burn the leaves."
"Yeah - I knew that, Malfoy. I'm not a complete Philistine," Harry defends. "One teaspoon per person, plus one for the pot, right?".
Draco merely raises his sceptical eyebrows before grunting his assent.
The two wizards settle into their allotted tasks: Harry notes that Draco is obviously familiar with Pansy's compact but stylishly functional kitchen. Harry's busy hands briefly still as the horror of Pansy's past threatens to overwhelm him.
My poor, plucky, spirited darling... Harry gulps and shudders, trying to hide the sounds of his distress with a manufactured cough.
"You can go to water later – when Pansy's not around," Draco observes (though not unkindly). "I'm not attacking you – Merlin knows, it's horrendous, and heartbreaking – but push it aside as much as you can, for now."
Leaning back against the stainless steel benchtop, Draco crosses his arms before fixing Harry with a shrewd stare.
"As Pansy's oldest friend – and as her family – I must ask you, Potter: what exactly are your intentions toward her? Lower your hackles, I'm asking in earnest. You've a hero complex wider than the Amazon; I wish to ascertain that this isn't some pet project you feel compelled to undertake, alright?".
Biting back his first, sharp retort with considerable difficulty, Harry forces a couple of calming breaths. The irony of Malfoy repeating his own aggressive query when he first realized the blossoming relationship between Hermione and Lord Haughty isn't lost on him.
He's an arrogant bastard... but he has a point, I guess. And he clearly cares deeply for Pansy.
"I- Pansy is important to me, Malfoy... very important," Harry stresses, carefully selecting his words. "I'll be here for her, for as long as she needs me. Unless she asks me to leave – I'll be her rock. I swear it."
"Good. I expected you'd say that." Draco lifts a finger in stern warning. "But if you let her down – in any way – you'll name your second for wands drawn at dawn. Got it?".
Harry's mouth thins. "I got it."
They engage in a wordless stare-off for a few moments, before Draco turns to select a couple of pretty green floral tea cups and saucers. He eyes the larger, plain blue mugs, his pale hand hovering over the nearest two.
"Do you want a hot drink, Potter? I'm making myself a cuppa – with a tea bag, the Assam is for the girls."
I'd prefer something much stronger… but that will have to wait until I get home tonight. Harry rubs his hand over his developing stubble, weariness hitting him like a Bludger to the temple.
"Yeah – please. Strong, sweet, a splash of milk. Ta," he tacks on.
Harry sticks his head back in the open pantry, easily spotting the biscuits Pansy had requested. She loves strawberries… it's her signature scent, and those Chocoballs she gifted me… Harry hands the cookies to Draco before his shaky fingers drop them.
The burble of the simmering kettle masks Draco's next words.
"What? I didn't hear you," Harry questions.
"I said – how much do you know? About Pansy's past?" Draco repeats. He turns, catching Harry's involuntary blench and bobbing Adam's apple.
"It must have been a bad shock… seeing those photographs," Draco quietly adds, fixing his attention back on the tea preparation. "I can't imagine how harrowing that was for you… even if you have been trained to move past the muck and filth to get on with your job."
"Yeah – it– it was rough," Harry chokes. "The first photos, you couldn't see her face – but then – her eyes, Malfoy. I nearly threw up… I still don't know how I managed not to."
Draco waits for the squealing kettle to reach its boil and subside, before answering, "Pansy didn't confide in me until after rehab, and Paris. I held it together at the time… but fuck, I wanted to drink myself into a monstrous stupor when I went home that night." A muscle tics beside his left eye.
"Her parents knew, Potter. Her grandfather paid them off. The Ministry claimed she couldn't prove their complicity – and now the DMLE's grossly let her down. Again." Draco's upper lip peels back as he snarls, "If you don't throw the book at that slimeball Bones, I will personally find a way to tear him a new arsehole. With a rusted spoon. Putain de bordel de merde!"
Rage rushes into Harry like an incoming king tide. Had he still been holding the packet of biscuits, they would have been pulverized by his hands instinctively clenching into taut fists. The delicate tea cups rattle on their matching saucers as his infuriated magic swoops about the small space.
Her parents knew… they knew… they sold her innocence and trust to a devil… oh, Pansy…!
"Steady on, Harry! Don't ruin the tea, it's almost ready," Draco cautions, arranging the accoutrements on a silver tray he'd located in a lower cupboard. "I'll take this in; then you and I are going to have a serious discussion, in the lounge."
Once Draco has whisked away the tea things, Harry grips the sink, opening his mouth in a silent scream, head bowed and shoulders heaving. He allows himself only a minute or two of emotional release before Malfoy returns.
You have to be strong for her – this isn't about you, no matter how much you yearn to seek revenge and somehow remove her pain. That's not possible… but you can and you will offer all your support, and understanding. Keep it together.
"Grab the rest of the bickies, Pansy said we could have some," Draco picks up the mugs before he strides down the hallway in the direction of the living room. "Hurry up, Chosen One."
Git. Choosing to ignore the gibe, Harry snatches the packet and follows Draco down the corridor.
Pouring the tea with deep concentration, Hermione isn't aware she is poking out the tip of her tongue until she notes Pansy copying her silly expression, exaggerating her frown and crossing her eyes in a gentle parody.
"I do not look like that, Pansy – I am the very picture of grace and elegance," Hermione snootily points her nose in the air, channelling Draco at his lordliest. "'My father will hear about' – oh, shit!" she quickly blots at the spilled tea on the silver tray, while Pansy sniggers.
"You forget, I've met your father – he'd be delighted to hear of me poking fun at your 'Very Serious Tea Etiquette Face'," Pansy smiles. "Thanks, Pollyanna," she accepts her cup.
The women sip daintily at the hot cha; rather than make her friend uncomfortable by continuing to scrutinize her melancholy demeanour, Hermione takes the opportunity to gaze about the bedroom.
It's not at all what I expected… Well, what did I expect? Hermione ponders. Probably sleek lines and designer austerity: the more modernist, fashionable version of Draco's Scandinavian décor.
Instead, Pansy has decorated her most personal space in a tranquil blend of florals and Victorian prints: soft pinks, deep blues, and complementary purples… It's 'Laura Ashley' style, Hermione decides. Romantic English designs with a nineteenth-century rural feel. The walls are papered with tiny clusters of cranberry wisteria, linked by vines and yellow-green leaves. There is an antique pink and ivory washbasin and pitcher set atop the wooden dresser, and the heavy dark wooden panel four poster bed carved with serpentine shapes is dressed in a ruffled cream and lilac quilt. An abundance of thick pillows in matching linens are piled against the tall headboard.
This room is a peaceful, personalized sanctuary, Hermione thinks admiringly. Perhaps the one place where Pansy allows herself to just 'be'… without feeling the need to polish the hard, shiny shell she presents to the world.
"Do you like it?" Pansy diffidently asks, picking at a lump of white chocolate on the biscuit in her hands. "I know it's a bit… different… but I love it."
"Pansy, it's simply gorgeous. I feel honoured that you've shown me this part of you… that you trust me enough to share your inner sanctum with me," Hermione warmly replies. "Thank you."
Mouth full of strawberry cookie (from which she probably took a deliberately large bite to avoid having to answer, Hermione reflects sadly), Pansy gives a jerky little nod.
Nibbling at her own delicious biscuit, Hermione waits for Pansy to speak. The other witch keeps her viridian eyes on her tea cup, sipping slowly.
"Hermione… t-thank you. F-For coming over," Pansy stammers, expelling a harsh breath. "I guess Draco told you what happened to me." The brunette witch finally raises her eyes.
"He did. Pansy… I'm so very sorry, for all your suffering," Hermione risks reaching for Pansy's cold little hand, clasping it loosely in her own. "You're utterly amazing, and I want you to know that I am so proud of you. I'm incredibly proud to be your friend, and I love you dearly." She lets the ungoverned tears drip down her cheeks and nose as Pansy's swollen eyes well upon hearing the heartfelt sentiment.
"Bloody hell – not even ten minutes in and we're both b-blubbing," Pansy yowls, groping blindly for the box of tissues on the bedside chest of drawers. Hermione yanks a handful for herself before passing over the whole box.
"Sorry – bugger it – I thought I'd sobbed myself dry in Harry's arms," Pansy miserably announces. "Hermione… I can't shake the feeling that I'm not meant to be happy – every time I think my life is chugging along smoothly and I'm beginning to feel right… something like this blindsides me. I mean, first there was Ron, at the Gala; that shitbag Cormac using me as bait; and now this atrocity– " she husks.
"I'm terrified that Harry is still hanging around because he's simply a nice guy, and he… he pities me. I loathe being pitied, Hermione – I absolutely ABHOR it!" Pansy flings a clump of damp tissues on the floor.
Shuffling down on the bed, Hermione bangs into Pansy a trifle clumsily; she grabs her distressed friend in a tight side-hug. "No, no, no, and NO! You listen to me, Pansy Parkinson: this sucks, and you don't deserve any of it – EVER – but you are meant to find and enjoy happiness, OK?" She shakes Pansy lightly.
"And as for Harry pitying you – Pansy, he's crazy about you – he'd walk through Fiendfyre for you, truly. Harry pities the vulnerable, abused, hurt little girl he saw in those dreadful pictures; but right now, he's in agony because he wants to take away your pain and right your wrongs, and he would literally do anything to make that happen. He adores you, Pansy. You'd better get used to it… when Harry loves you, he loves hard."
Taking a deep breath, Hermione looks into Pansy's wide, bloodshot jasper eyes. "I know you're not ready to hear that right now – but I just want to say, I'm thrilled that you're willing to let Harry support you through this. We're all here for you, whatever you need."
Wiping tenderly at Pansy's streaming wet cheeks with another tissue, Hermione appends, "Just quietly… I happen to know an excellent lawyer, who's looking for a complex civil case (involving the historic redress of old wrongs) to sink her teeth into – pro bono, of course." She pretends to polish her short nails with an imaginary buffer. "No pressure, though."
"I'll – I'll keep that in mind, Pollyanna," Pansy wraps her arm around Hermione in a quick, affectionate headlock. "I'm not quite ready to go down that route; but I think that maybe… with you guys helping me – I might reconsider it… soon. Thank you."
Pansy sighs as she says, "I wish – I wish we'd been friends, at school… well, I know it wouldn't have been possible, not with me being Queen Snake-Headed Bitch and you the Gryffindor Princess–"
"I detest that term – how ridiculous, honestly," Hermione grumbles.
" – but I'm just so– so glad you're my friend, now. Oh hell, I said 'glad' – you're rubbing off on me, see? Disgraceful," Pansy jests. Her expression sobers, her eyes pensive as she quietly petitions,
"Hermione… does knowing about– about what that man did to me… do you see me differently, now? Like... do you think I'm… damaged? Or– or dirty?" Pansy slouches, tension bowing her slim shoulders.
"No, not at all… I see a strong, valiant, intelligent and successful young witch who has found a way to move past the harm inflicted on her; a woman who is living her best life, and is willing to lean on her friends – no, we're your family – to help her through the rough spots," Hermione answers without a moment's hesitation. "You're a survivor, and you're flourishing."
She keeps her tone as easy and even as she can, despite the anger coursing through her at her dear friend's insecurity and deep hurt. Pansy needs to hear my sincerity; she needs to know that my support and love are unqualified.
"I– I appreciate you saying that," Pansy whispers. "I want to explain… after I went through therapy (when my repressed memories returned and the sick family poop hit the fan), I decided I wasn't going to let that man have any more power over me – or over my sexuality." She pushes out a hard breath.
"That's why I prefer – preferred – casual sex. I took back that bruised, beaten, stolen part of me, Hermione; I clawed back my right to feel safe in my own body, and to make my own sexual choices. I'll never let him win." Pansy's face glows with tenacious purpose. She laughs softly at herself as she adds, "I didn't have a chance to tell you, at brunch yesterday: Harry wants us to 'get to know each other' before we have– I mean, before we make love," she pinkens sweetly.
"Erm… Mac might have mentioned it – oh, not the waiting part, just that he busted you two necking like teens on his bed," Hermione hastens to explain, as Pansy's blush turns fiery. "That's lovely, Pansy – see how invested Harry already is, in your relationship?" she gently prompts.
"Relationship'?! Oh – well – yeah, alright, we're in a relationship." Pansy begrudgingly admits. "And that little squealing pig Macdolas should apply for a job as the town crier, the rascally gossip." Her tolerant smile cancels out any sting in her observation.
"I've little doubt that will be memorialized as one of his next outfits du jour," Hermione chuckles. "I swear that the extravagance of Mac's costuming is designed in direct proportion to Draco's exasperation with the over-the-top elaborateness of his apparel."
Both women snicker as the theory. Pansy scrubs at her face with the tissue, removing the last of her tears and runny eye makeup.
"By Aphrodite – I'm a proper mess, aren't I?" She Accio's a pretty silver-backed hairbrush from the dresser, leaving it hovering before Hermione's hand.
"I was promised a plaited hairdo, Pollyanna; and perhaps you could help me pick out an outfit that doesn't scream 'angsty and traumatized'?" Pansy commands. "Well, I'll choose the clothing, you can fix my hair and tell me pretty lies about how the redness in my swollen eyes really makes the green pop."
"Hmmm… now that you mention it…" Hermione cocks her head in jest, before taking possession of the expensive hairbrush.
"Harry invited me to dinner tonight; I'm going to go over there and have a nice meal with my new boyfriend… and maybe ask him to cuddle me for a goodly portion of the rest of the night," Pansy determinedly states. "But first – a shower. You get started on the outfit, and I'll be sure to find fault with your selection when I come back," she pinches Hermione's arm affectionately.
"Hey, I'm stylish – look at my beautiful merino sweater!" Hermione makes a token protestation, pointing at the fine brown garment.
"That's Draco's, I recognize it of old," Pansy dismisses. "He loves giving you clothes – he'd order you a whole new wardrobe if he didn't know you'd hit the roof and donate the whole kit and kaboodle to charity just to prove you aren't with him for his dosh. You crazy kids," Pansy ribs with a smirk.
"Go on – have your shower, and stop razzing your friends with eerily accurate remarks and predictions," Hermione orders.
"Thanks, Hermione. For everything. You're rather awesome… for a lowly Lion."
"Coming from a slippery Snake, I take that as the highest compliment,' Hermione slips off the bed to envelop Pansy in a light, candid hug.
She pulls back to quietly pronounce, "You're going to be OK, Pansy… because you're a total boss, and you've got this; we've got this. Together."
Pansy meets Hermione's clumsy fist bump with one of her own as she softly agrees, "Together."
"Tell me, Potter – what's your plan? Have you thought that far ahead, or are you intending to wing it and hope for the best, in true Gryffindorian style?" Draco can't resist the taunt (though he does tone it down to 'lightly mocking', in deference to the unpleasantly fraught vibe of the day).
Harry's face tightens. "Can you not say my name in that insanely fucking aggravating manner, Malfoy?! Call me Harry – even you can't snob that up overmuch." He pauses a beat. "And if you don't consider us to at least be reluctant friends by now, you're not half as smart as I believe you are."
Draco finds himself in the unusual position of being rendered more or less speechless. He gulps down a mouthful of tea to cover his mild stupefaction. Friends… with Harry Potter… well, that's going to stick in Lucius's craw like an ill-chewed apple. Heh.
"As to your rude query: in regards to Pansy, I won't physically leave her side unless I'm positive she has all the support she needs, from me, or you guys, or the rest of the group. As for our relationship… unless Pansy explicitly states that she doesn't want me around – I'm sticking to her like super glue. That's a strong Muggle adhesive," Harry describes, noting Draco's dubious expression.
He grimly expounds, "In terms of the investigation: I'm going to go after everyone – EVERYONE – involved in this disgusting network, and I'm going to fucking ruin them. Including her revolting parents. There are laws in place to protect innocent children – the Parkinsons are equally as culpable as her vile, repulsive abuser."
"I'm due to interview Flint and McLaggen this week – as soon as the Veritaserum orders have been signed off on – and I am going to turn them inside out for every last scrap of information. Literally, if it comes to that." His hands clench around his blue mug of tea in a way that has Draco fearing for the continued structural integrity of the slim handle.
"Pott– Harry. I know where you're coming from, and I sympathize; Merlin knows, I wanted to dig up that evil, sick excuse for a man simply to reanimate him and kill him all over again… but that doesn't help Pansy. If you don't put her well-being and needs first, you'll lose her." Draco leans forward, determined to get his message across to the angry young wizard perched precariously on the blue chintz snug.
"When Pansy first told me everything, I near went off my trolley ranting and raving about getting revenge and bankrolling a legal case against her foul parents," he reveals. "It was more about me being a macho dickhead than genuinely supporting Pansy. She called me on it immediately, and told me in no uncertain terms that if and when she wanted me to take affirmative action, she'd advise me of it herself – and to stop running around half-cocked like a testosterone-poisoned fool."
Harry flumps back against the back of the sofa; Draco can almost see the lightbulb illuminate above his head.
"My advice to you is this: listen to her, offer her anything practical you think she might appreciate, and simply be present and engaged. Pansy will tell you if you're being unintentionally overbearing, or if she needs more space. And since we're – buddies now, I'm going to gift you some Pansy Parkinson summary notes. Do you need to write them down?" Draco prompts, hiding a smile as Harry looks by turns contemplative, shrewd, surprised, and fascinated.
Damn, he's got it bad for her – serves him right for being such a smug bastard when Hermione and I first got together. Karma's a wheel, Harry.
"I won't forget. Go on then… pal," Harry rips back. "I'm all ears."
Setting aside his empty mug, Draco taps his fingers against his lips before he launches into his lecture.
"Pansy's favourite colour is black; she likes Darjeeling tea in the morning, Assam in the afternoons, and mint in the evening. Her favourite flowers are not pansies, though she likes them well enough; she adores pink peonies. She'll eat strawberries until the cows come home; her favourite cuisine is Italian; and she's highly allergic to bee stings – she carries a Muggle EpiPen with her at all times. She loves Old Hollywood movie stars like Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, and she used to secretly dream of having a tight-knit little family with a man who worships the ground she struts on."
Draco crimps his smile at Harry's dazed reaction to the information overload. "I did warn you to take notes," he reminds with a hint of asperity.
Flouncing an irritable hand in the air, Harry replies, "I told you I'll remember, Draco. Thanks… and thanks for coming over so promptly. I was– I was really worried about Pansy. I judged you harshly at school – I thought you were using her – but I was wrong, and I apologize."
It is Draco's turn to appear flummoxed as Harry holds out his hand; he grips it firmly in a brief shake. "I was an arse to her, at Hogwarts; but she's always been my friend, and she always will be. Thanks… Harry."
They awkwardly look at anything but each other after the odd exchange of quiet acknowledgements. Draco hurries to fill the conversational void.
"Erm… I was wondering if you could grant me a favour? Not straightaway, perhaps… I know how busy you are. Actually, forget it – I'll figure it out on my own." Draco stands, collecting their used crockery.
Harry stubbornly hangs onto his mug as Draco tries to take it. "Hold up – what's the favour? Don't be coy – I'll simply ask Hermione and she'll weasel it out of you in two minutes flat," he threatens.
"No! Leave it, I said," Draco snips. "Forget I mentioned it." They tussle for the mug again. Draco fleetingly wonders if they both look as stupid as he feels, grappling for a blue cup.
"You can have it once you ask me the favour – c'mon, how often in my life will I be able to gloat over that particular sentence?" Harry asks, grinning broadly.
"Alright! The thing is… I-want-to-learn-how-to-cast-a-Patronus," Draco wiffles in a rush, scratching the back of his reddened neck with the hand not holding the cups. "Go on – laugh. Just give me that wretched mug." I should have kept my overeager mouth shut, he dourly decides.
Harry eyes Draco speculatively, finally handing over the blue beaker. "Have you never tried, before?" he asks, curiosity leaking through his tone.
"No – there's the little matter of the legend of Death Eaters being devoured by maggots swarming from their wands if they try to produce a Patronus," Draco acerbically responds. "I figured that you're the best around – aside from Hermione – and if it's true, watching me be magically consumed by my own poor spellwork would be far less traumatic for you than her," he divulges.
"Draco – you were never a true Death Eater. You're not a dark wizard, and I'm one hundred percent confident your wand and person are safe from an occult maggot attack," Harry rises to follow him down the hallway. "I'll help you with it, as soon as I can carve out some spare time. And to set your frightened little mind at ease, I'll even hit the books about counter-spells… well, I'll ask some of the senior Aurors," he modifies his promise.
"Keep your voice down – if it works, I want to surprise Hermione with it," Draco hisses.
"Yeah – you're welcome, you big snoot," Harry mutters. "I've got a condition of my own: you teach me some of those French curses you like to spout, Draco; they'll come in handy at the Ministry."
"Deal. But you'll have to work on your accent, Harry – I'd wager it's utterly atrocious." Draco guffaws at Potter's affronted expression.
He nearly smashes the mugs on the floor when Harry snaps (in perfectly enunciated French), "Je te nique ta race sale fils de chien!".
"You– how– where did you learn that?! You just called me the son of a dog and told me to go fuck myself!" Draco sputters.
Harry looks obnoxiously pleased with himself. "Fleur Delacour-Weasley coached me on that little gem for weeks. Pretty good, right? She wouldn't teach me anything else, though – she said she hadn't the time nor the patience."
Smart woman. A few stray chuckles escape Draco's throat at the thought of their strange bargain.
"Grab a dishtowel, and I'll start you off on some easy stuff, appropriate to your place of employment. Repeat after me… 'C'est des conneries!'".
"Said de Connery!" Harry dutifully mangles the phrase.
Draco pulls a pained face. Oh, hell. I think I got the short end of this stick, after all.
Waving her goodbyes, Pansy waits until Draco and Hermione have disappeared in a puff of green smoke before turning to Harry.
Why am I so nervous? He did already invite me… and he held me tenderly on my lounge room floor while I cried piteously for a good half an hour. Ugh, I feel so vulnerable… but that's OK. Harry won't hurt me.
Harry won't hurt me, Pansy silently reiterates. Isn't it funny – not 'ha-ha' funny, 'peculiar' funny – how certain I am that this wizard would rather cut off his right thumb than deliberately harm me? What did Hermione say…? 'When he loves you, he loves hard'? Oh – not that I'm presuming he loves me, that's ridiculous… but Harry does care for me. Not only does he speak it; he acts it. My instincts have long been telling me to trust him… and they're absolutely correct.
Sucking in a steadying breath, Pansy blurts, "Harry – does your dinner invitation still stand? I'd like– I'd love to see where you live, and share a nice meal. I mean, if it doesn't inconvenience you…"
The joyful smile on Harry's face by way of reply makes Pansy giddy. They simultaneously rush at each other; Harry lifts her a few inches off her feet in a small swoop, before he attentively plants her securely back on the floor. Look at me – being all girlish and shit, Pansy laughs at herself. Ginger Rogers, eat your heart out.
"I wasn't sure if you'd want to come – of course, I'd be delighted, Pansy," he beams. "Would you mind if we had a less formal meal? Maybe just a simple pasta dish, on the coffee table in the small lounge? It's still chilly enough to light a fire… I think you'll like that room. No shrieking bigoted old portraits in there, and the furniture was constructed before 1801," he quips.
Standing back a pace, Harry's gaze lingers as he belatedly inspects her appearance. "You've dressed up… you look beautiful, Pansy," he solemnly praises. "I feel work-stained and scruffy by comparison," he gestures ruefully at his Auror robes.
"No – you look handsome – you always look handsome, Harry." Pansy's mouth seems to have a mind of its own. Stop gushing, you ninny. But oh… he's blushing! Damn, he's cute… eh, settle down, witch.
She smooths at her ivory, off-the-shoulder, half-sleeved, loose midi-dress, pleased with its dual effect of lifting her spirits and attracting Harry's admiring glance. Hermione had proven herself more than competent in the hair-styling department, working Pansy's razor-straight locks into simple side braids that join up in the back, giving the look an extra bohemian touch.
Pansy's efforts to project a careful nonchalance are blasted to smithereens when Harry slides his arms around her waist.
"May I kiss you, Pansy?" he asks, emerald eyes nervously blinking behind his glasses.
Nodding, Pansy thrills at the feel of Harry's silky black hair as she slowly glides her hands behind his neck, letting her manicured nails graze his scalp as she gently combs the shorter hairs there. His mouth unhurriedly descends to hers; the first skimming brush of his warm lips leaves hers tingling sweetly. She shuffles closer to initiate the next smooch, pressing a little firmer, the very tip of her tongue tracing the tiny indent in the middle of his bottom lip. Harry groans faintly as her breasts nudge against his hard pectorals.
This 'getting to know one another' caper has much to recommend it, Pansy thinks happily. A relaxed, leisurely romance seems truly perfect right now, actually. Not that I would ever use Harry to forget my pain… but his presence is brightening the darkest of my shadows.
They break apart, eyes shining and breath a little frayed. Harry's strong hands squeeze her hips, before he releases her completely, offering his arm instead.
"Shall we– Floo– um– would you like to leave now, Pansy? To go home – to Grimmauld Place, I mean?" his voice rises in pitch as he flubs his request.
"Great," his relief is obvious as she nods. "I know it's early, but I need to speak with Kreacher about the change in menu, anyway."
"That's fine, Harry," Pansy smiles. Was he always this adorable, and I mistook it for a calculated attempt to charm? Probably. Harry James Potter couldn't be guileful unless the fate of the world depended on it, I'd say.
Keeping a tight hold on Harry's bolstering arm, Pansy steps into the hearth.
"Lead the way… boyfriend," she bashfully whispers. She catches a quick glimpse of Harry's delighted visage, before closing her eyes to Floo to his home.
French translations:
Putain de bordel de merde! – Fucking hell!
C'est des conneries! – This is bullshit!
