Chapter 72
Sunday 23 March 2003
"Please, have a seat, Pansy – I'll just have a quick word with Kreacher. Make yourself comfortable, love, I'll be right back. Would you like a drink? We have… OK, I don't know what we have, but Kreacher can bring whatever you'd like," Harry jabbers.
At least Walburga's bitch portrait stayed blessedly silent when we walked past. Well, Pansy is a Pureblood, I guess. But so is Ginny – and Walburga always had something cutting to say about her when we were together. Harry decides to leave that thought cluster alone for the moment.
"Just some water please, Harry," Pansy rearranges the folds of her pretty white dress, her eyes curiously wandering the small parlour that Harry thinks of as his private bolthole. "This is a nice room… I like the vibe," she quietly remarks, glancing quickly at him before dropping her eyes.
Harry manages to stop himself from blurting, 'Ginny didn't much care for it'; instead, he smiles his relief. "Thanks, Pansy. I'll get the fire started when I return. Would you like to pick out some music?" he gestures at the old Muggle record player.
"Oh – yes, I can do that." Pansy jumps to her feet and skitters in the direction of Harry's extensive record collection.
She's nervous, too… this is our first proper 'date', Harry reflects. The Gala certainly didn't count. He allows himself a few more moments to admire her, while she is focused looking through the stacked vinyl.
The freshening shower and skilful makeup has masked most of the physical signs of Pansy's pain; her beautiful eyes are still a little swollen, and her smiles a trifle sad… but Harry is gladdened by the returning gleam of determination and strength in her tourmaline-green eyes, and her improved posture. She called me her boyfriend… gods, that felt good, Harry remembers, a slow smile spreading across his features.
Just before he departs the den, Pansy quietly petitions, "Harry? Please… can we not speak of– of before? Can we try to be a witch and a wizard on a simple date… just for the rest of the evening? I'm all cried out; Hermione really knows how to touch your heart, doesn't she?". She smiles wanly.
"That she does – and of course we can do that, Pansy," Harry instantly concurs. "I'll be right back."
He ducks out of the room before he succumbs to his urge to scoop her up and kiss her silly. Go slow… slow as a sloth… and definitely no pressure of the amorous variety. Harry repeats the mantra as he approaches the kitchen.
Kreacher is bustling about the narrow space; Harry thinks the elderly elf is talking to himself until he glimpses Boadie tucked into the knotted sling on Kreacher's torso. The little black kitten occasionally mewls and swipes playfully at whatever Kreacher is carrying, earning an indulgent, ineffectual scold.
"Hallo, Kreacher. I brought back Pansy," he starts. "She's had a rough afternoon: would you mind if we changed the menu to something simple and comforting, like macaroni and cheese? And perhaps some ice cream and fresh fruit, for dessert? She loves strawberries," Harry explains, as Kreacher's sparse brows beetle.
"Mistress Parkinson has been harmed?" he sharply enquires. His gruff tone makes the kitten emit a warning hiss, tiny claws poking through the ropes of the sling.
"Yes – she's alright, but I can't tell you more, not without her permission," Harry hedges. "She's coping, but I would like to make this evening as pleasant and relaxing for her as possible, hence the comfort food. If it's a problem, I can head out for a quick takeaway– "
"No! Master Potter need not worry, Kreacher is wholly capable of providing a simple meal to cater to Mistress Parkinson's tastes," he grumbles. "Kreacher has not yet begun to prepare the supper."
Harry diffidently confirms, "If you're sure…"
Irritably waving him away, the geriatric elf gently pushes Boadie back into her harness, thwarting her attempt to slash at Harry's red robes. "Would Master Potter prefer to eat in the dining room, or the Potter Parlour?" he refers to Harry's den.
"The latter, please, Kreacher. Nothing too formal tonight, we'll save that for another date." Harry tries not to blush as the elf shoots him a narrowed, speculative stare.
A long pause elapses. "Master Potter woos Mistress Parkinson… properly?" Kreacher probes. Something that once resembled a smile creaks fleetingly across his weathered visage. Even the cat looks mildly pleased as she licks her diminutive paw and begins to cleanse her triangular black ears.
Harry mumbles, "Yeah – she's my girlfriend," before he flees the weirdness, heading to his bedroom to quickly bathe and change.
Pansy is surprised at how much she is enjoying her light snoop around Harry's cosy little parlour. It clearly wasn't deliberately designed or decorated with any pre-planned thematic consistency, but the organic result is nonetheless welcoming and charming.
The little stone hearth (which isn't Floo-connected) is already laid for a fire; Pansy sets it alight with a quick point of her wand. The modest, licking flames add to the ambience created by two mismatched pedestal lamps dotted at opposite corners of the room. The furniture is comprised of an old, deep burgundy diamond-tufted leather two seater couch, a brandy-brown upholstered recliner, a small desk and plain wooden chair, a sturdy bookcase, and basic shelving for the extensive record collection.
Spying a flash of Gryffindor red, Pansy cranes her neck; there is also a collection of memorabilia and a few knickknacks at the very top of the bookcase, almost out of sight. The desk holds two framed photographs and a chipped mug with quills, biros, and chewed pencils stuffed inside. The walls are painted a warm light bronze, with a faded red, brown, and cream rug covering most of the dark wooden floorboards. The single window has mid-green drapes half-opened to the lowering twilight; Pansy is contemplating the narrow view of the quiet streetscape when Harry returns.
"Hey – you started the fire," Harry comments, ruffling his unoccupied hand through his damp sable locks and looking slightly disappointed. He hands her a tumbler of water, from which she takes a quick sip. Pansy lets herself to appreciate how boyishly handsome Harry looks, in his dark blue jeans, navy sweater, white tee, and socked feet.
Boyish – but all man. Her eyelashes shutter half-closed as Harry fidgets at his hair again, causing the sweater and shirt to ride up, revealing a delectable band of toned midriff. Damn… down, girl. Pansy relaxes her suddenly tight hold on the glass and takes a short, centring breath.
"Mmmm… I didn't realize a simple 'Incendio' was solely your domain, Harry," she teases. "I can douse it though, if you like…?" she pulls her holly wood wand from her dress pocket, waggling it playfully.
"Ha – I guess I just wanted to show off a bit," Harry grins. "Ignore me, I'm nervous… I really want to impress you, Pansy. You know… with my basic spellwork and motley old house," he jokes, moving nearer until merely a foot separates their bodies.
"Wait until you see me get bossed around by my recently cat-obsessed ancient elf," he shrugs ruefully. "And his beloved new pet – the little horror tried to scratch me when I got too close."
"Harry, she's a kitten: that's what they do," Pansy chuckles, slapping his chest… and letting her hand linger. He's really bulked up since Hogwarts… I guess Auror training and Quidditch keep him this (marvellously) fit. Ahem.
"Quidditch – do you still play Quidditch?" she squawks, mortified to realize she's been enthusiastically groping his pectoral muscle; but as she tries to pull away her hand, Harry's shoots out to hold it in place. His strong heartbeat thumps against her palm like a drum.
He steps closer again; Pansy can smell his piney soap. I bet he does use a plain old bar of soap… her mouth dries as she instantly imagines him efficiently rubbing the fragrant cake all over his wet, naked, strapping young body… Sweet Circe, I need to settle down.
The shadow of a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth as he replies. "Yes – pick-up games, with friends and colleagues… anyone we can rope in, really. I didn't know you were such an avid fan… of Quidditch, Pansy." He fits his work-scarred hands confidently to her hips, thumbs gently rotating against the top of her innominate bones.
The sly bastard is flirting with me… well, if the apprentice thinks he's ready to approach the master… Pansy brings up her other hand, trapping both between their chests. Tossing her hair, she widens her eyes before blinking slowly.
"My interests are wide… and varied, Harry," she breathes, not needing to feign the husk in her voice. She licks her top lip with the tip of her tongue, glorying in his choked inhale. "I'm happy to discuss them; I'm sure we'll find plenty of… common ground."
"R-Right– um, have you picked an album? To– hear, I mean, to listen to?" Harry blathers, squeezing her hips once before his hands drop to his sides.
Pansy slides her fingers down his torso, delighted with his fluster. Ten points to Slytherin… She ignores the fact she's managed to rile up her own fascinated desire, as she steps back to answer, "I haven't really looked yet, Harry… You've quite the collection?".
"Yeah… it's mostly seventies and eighties classic rock/pop. Sirius told me my mum was really into Muggle music, and she got my dad interested. He gave me a couple of their favourite albums… that's how I started the collection. Barney gifted me some old records, too… it's kind of a hobby, I guess." Harry's shoulders hunch as he crouches in front of the deep shelves, his lean fingers fondly rifling through the vertically-stacked vinyl.
"You should choose, Harry. Pick something… pleasant," Pansy entreats, capitulating to the need to thread her fingers through his glossy black hair. His head bows; she strokes his vulnerable neck, loving his little shivered response.
Pressing his head against her hand a final time, Harry turns away to rummage through the lowest tier, confidently selecting an album with a brown cover depicting four small figures dressed in white and spotlighted in a crowd. He rises, deftly setting the record upon the turntable and expertly descending the needle.
Hands sheepishly stuffed in his pockets, he speaks quickly, before the first notes of the song drift into the room. "Sirius said I used to love this song, when I was a baby… I'd clap in my crib and smile when they played it. It's called 'Super Trouper', by ABBA – they're a Swedish group, they were huge popstars…"
He bashfully peers at her from beneath his rumpled jet fringe, holding out his supplicating hands. "May I have this dance, Pansy?".
She nods avidly as the joyful singing voices begin, before walking into his arms. Harry initially holds her as though she's made of glass, until she makes a protesting sound and lays her head against his shoulder. They move easily together, Pansy letting the happy music wash over her like cleansing rain. She trembles as Harry softly kisses the crown of her head.
"You feel like– like coming home, Pansy," he whispers beside her ear. "I love dancing with you."
Pansy habitually deflects, "I think that – technically – we're swaying, Harry." He stills for a moment.
"I meant to say… I love dancing with you too, Harry," she gulps. "This is a very sweet song; thank you for sharing it with me."
"You're welcome, love." Harry hums the chorus, as Pansy relaxes further in his sure embrace. There isn't much room for proper dancing in here, she thinks with a small smile. I'd rather sway with Harry Potter than foxtrot with Fred Astaire, in any case. She closes her eyes, revelling in the intimate moment.
Gryffindors, with their huge, reckless, ever-expanding hearts… I've become a bloody fool for the Pride of Red Lions. I have to heal my own wounds, of course… but knowing this amazing man is right by my side is going to make such a difference. She stifles a sob, as the song draws to a close.
Flicking a finger toward the stereo, Harry turns off the music. Tipping up her chin, he gazes intently into her damp eyes. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he worriedly asks.
"Nothing– I– I trust you, Harry. That's all," Pansy rasps, lacing together her hands at the small of his sinewy back. "This is… you are… just what I need right now. Thank you."
He smiles at her guilelessly. "Thank you for trusting me, Pansy. I promise I won't let you down." Sombreness rolls through his jade eyes as he quietly adds, "I need you too, you know. When I'm with you… I don't know how to express it, I'm not good with words, like Hermione… but I feel like I don't have to be anyone but who I want to be. With– with you."
Well, hell… 'not good with words'…? I'd be absolute putty in his hands if he ever decided to hone that skill. Pansy covertly blots her wet eyes with the back of her palm, pretending to fiddle at her plaits. "Will you play me some more of your favourites, please?" she murmurs, needing a change of subject (lest her emotional equilibrium completely capsize). "This ABBA band – did they have many other hits?"
"Did they – did they ever!" Harry energetically replies. "If you like ABBA, you'll love Fleetwood Mac – well, they're a bit grittier, but then again, ABBA weren't scared to tackle the harder stuff; they were two married couples, you see, and when their marriages both broke up around the same time, their personal strife was reflected in their songs…" he leads Pansy to the two-seater couch, continuing his light, educational patter.
She nods encouragingly in the right places, content to indulgently listen and watch attentively as Harry selects half a dozen albums, showing her the covers like a proud schoolboy displaying his treasured collection of Chocolate Frog Cards. He's so sweetly earnest…
Harry eventually decides on the next album; he begins the record player again, before plonking down on the sofa and folding his arm around her shoulder.
"This is 'Rumours', by Fleetwood Mac. It's sad and contemplative in parts, but I think you'll enjoy it – it's considered one of the greatest albums ever made," he gushes. "Why're you smiling at me like that?" he nuzzles at her neck, as Pansy giggles.
"You're so cute, chattering fervently about your tunes," Pansy pats his cheek patronizingly as Harry pulls her onto his lap, faking a few growls and nips at her razzing. "No! Ahhh… I mean it, you're a darling, Harry." Pansy tremulously kisses his parted lips, drawing back as insecurity makes her doubt her actions.
"Don't stop, love… let's snog like I've snuck you into the Gryffindor common room late one night," Harry teases. "Or better yet – you've smuggled me into the Slytherin dungeons, well aware I could have my skin hexed clean off by a nest of angry Snakes," he speaks something intense-sounding into her skin.
"What– what was that?" she gasps, as he attacks her neck purposefully, sucking a tiny bite into her pulse point.
"I said, 'You're incredibly sexy, and smart, and strong," Harry mutters, licking at the newly-created hickey. "Kiss me, Pansy… please."
Gladly, she concludes, matching thought to action. The rich blend of raw and romantic acoustic/electric music pulses in the background; Pansy grows bolder with every enthralling touch of her mouth to Harry's. She sits up, swinging over her leg; her pretty ivory dress grants her just enough width to plant her knees on either side of Harry's legs. He whines into her jawline as she shifts closer, sliding against the stiffened fly of his jeans.
Hiking up and down in miniscule increments (timed to the music), Pansy smirks down at the panting brunet wizard. "You wouldn't have lasted a single hot minute in the Snake dungeon – not unless I declared you untouchable and under my protection," she boasts, fingers possessively gripping the back of his messy mop. Spurred by impulse, she demands, "Do you need your glasses to see me? As close as we are now?".
"No – but I look weird without them," Harry warns, scrunching his nose. His hands carefully but surely rove her back, up and around in eccentric circles, occasionally dipping to the top of her buttocks, before gliding up again.
"Let me be the judge of that," Pansy states. He remains static as she plucks off the round spectacles, placing them carefully on the square coffee table. "Harry… your eyes are gorgeous," she asserts, quickly becoming engrossed in their radiant green depths.
"They're almost the same shade as your eyes, Pansy… but yours are simply stunning." Harry straightens, gently persuading her head forward until their mouths are level. He kisses her with heart-stopping tenderness, his heavy-lidded eyes never leaving her face.
Pansy is on the verge of considering impatiently divesting Harry of his sweater and t-shirt when a hoary elfish cough grates from the doorway. She covers her mouth as she tries to steady her jagged, aroused breaths; Harry swears… in French?, pointing his wand at the stereo to turn it down.
"Kreacher knocks, but Master Potter's and Mistress Parkinson's attentions are… otherwise engaged," he impassively observes. "Dinner is served," he magically sets down a large silver cloche upon the coffee table, followed by crockery, cutlery, and two snowy cloth napkins. He lifts the lid with a dramatic whisk, revealing two bowls of aromatic, creamy macaroni and cheese.
Pansy dismounts Harry's lap to sit demurely by his side. She suppresses a snigger at Kreacher's stern expression as he studiously avoids looking at either of them directly. With a snap of his bony fingers, he conjures a bottle of red wine and two goblets into position.
Leaning over to inspect the vino, Pansy nods approvingly before passing it to Harry. "Spanish Grenache; nice choice, Kreacher."
Bowing low, he imparts, "Master Potter will summon Kreacher for the dessert course. Enjoy," he shuffles from the room as silently as he entered.
Harry fumbles for his glasses, plopping them on his flushed face before proceeding to grapple with the cork of the wine bottle. Working it loose, he fills each wineglass with the rich red liquid.
"This looks lovely, Harry; and perfect, for tonight," Pansy cups his knee warmly. "I… I'm sorry, I know we agreed to go slow… I got a little carried away, and I'm probably not ready for much more at the moment…" she trails off, biting her lower lip.
"Hey – you have nothing to apologize for, Pansy. I apologize– I didn't mean for things to get so heated – it's hard– no, no– I didn't mean, it's hard– uhhh– oh, shite–" Harry slaps his palm to his forehead in embarrassed frustration.
"It felt hard, to me," Pansy cannot resist baiting him a little, as Harry turns a fetching shade of puce. "Relax, Harry… I'm messing with you. Shall we get started?" she picks up her wineglass to toast.
"To… better days."
"To better days… with my beautiful girlfriend," Harry clinks his goblet to hers, before they tuck into their meal.
Sunday 23 March 2003: PM
"What on earth is all that racket?" Draco queries, as they arrive home. "Are we being burgled?".
Hermione frowns, moving quickly in the direction of the commotion. "Draco, I think it's Mac and Ruibby arguing – in his room." Her suspicions are confirmed as a door slams; a little blonde whirlwind with tear-stained cheeks charges down the corridor toward them.
"Ruibby – whatever's the matter? Has something happened?" Hermione gently snags the upset elf's arm, staying her headlong dash. "Are you hurt, dear?".
"Ruibby wants to go home – Ruibby doesn't wish to speak of her relationship discord," she sniffles. Draco silently hands over his white handkerchief; Ruibby bobs a curtsey before she swipes it fiercely over her wet little face.
"Thank you, Master Malfoy. Ruibby apologizes for the disturbance, but must away." She tugs free of Hermione's loose grasp, just as Macdolas emerges from his bedroom.
"Ma chérie Ruibby! Please wait, Macdolas must tell you–" he shrills, jumping about as he tries to fix his mis-buttoned shirt front whilst running to her.
"You have said enough, Macdolas of the Clan Fhionnlaigh. Ruibby begs you not to follow her; she requests time to process Macdolas's inflexible opinions. Good eve to you, and to Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger." Keeping her head held regally high, Ruibby spares Macdolas a furiously miserable glance, before snapping her fingers and Disapparating. The last swish of her full peach skirts echoes in the tense air.
Macdolas sticks out his trembling chin and works his mouth open and closed a few times, before snapping it sealed and hurtling back into his room. Hermione winces as the door bangs shut again.
"'The course of true love never did run smooth'," Draco facetiously quotes, rolling his neck and shoulders with an aggravated sigh. "Teenagers – what utter pains in one's arse."
"Draco, they're both very upset," Hermione chastens. "Do you want to talk with him, or shall I?".
"Flip a coin?" Draco wryly suggests. "Never mind, ma petite; I'll speak to him."
"No… I think I'd better, actually. You could use some space, to deal with your lingering (though undeserved) guilt over Pansy's pain and suffering," Hermione quietly comments. "I need to inform Macdolas of the whole terrible affair, anyway; Pansy asked me to tell our group, including the elves. She– she doesn't want them to learn of it second-hand, if it leaks to the newspapers."
"Merlin – I didn't even think of that fresh hell," Draco groans. "I'm alright, Hermione. We can chat with Macdolas together." He moves behind her, lightly resting his chin on the top of her head.
Shifting a little to look up at him, Hermione shakes her head. "Mac might feel better with just me; and I do think you could use the time to work through your reactions and emotions, mon coeur. Perhaps you could sketch for a while, or work on something else in your studio? I'll be fine. Promise." She taps her lips for a kiss, relieved when he complies.
She constricts her arms around her gorgeous, pensive boyfriend in a quick hug, before moving away. "See you soon, Malfoy."
The weight of his perturbed gaze follows her as she knocks softly on Mac's door, entering as soon as she hears his croaky assent.
Maybe speaking with Mac will help me with my own distress and anxiety over poor Pansy, Hermione hopes. But first… eleven romantic drama.
Mac is sprawled face-down on his unmade bed, his posture eerily reminiscent of all the times Hermione has witnessed Harry and Ron brooding; she quells a smile at the similarity. Sitting close enough to pat his quivering back, Hermione says, "Would you like to talk about it, Mac? Sometimes a different perspective can help you get a handle on your problems."
A prolonged pause, before Mac mumbles something incoherent into his tightly-clutched pillow.
Hermione waits, continuing to pat his shaking shoulder.
Moving gingerly, Mac finally props himself upright, turning his woebegone little face side-on; his bright auburn hair is both mussed and flattened. Hermione is surprised at how plain his outfit is today… a cream-and-brown striped shirt with a white collar, black trousers, with the matching black waistcoat and jacket flung over the end of the bed.
"Macdolas apologizes to Her Grace for the unseemly display in the hallway," he mutters faintly, as his whole face reddens. "Ruibby is most aggrieved with Macdolas… she says we are at a crossroads – and that Macdolas prioritizes his career over his heart, to the woeful detriment of our love."
'Crossroads'? 'Career over heart'? A puzzled Hermione smiles encouragingly. "I'm listening, Mac."
Arms folded rigidly across his front, Macdolas tonelessly explains, "Ruibby asks Macdolas about their future… Ruibby asks Macdolas to return to work at the Manor because she misses him, but Macdolas must honour his commitment to the House of Granger-Malfoy, and yet protect Her Grace Lady Granger. And… and Macdolas must be sending back his increased salary to his cherished mother in Scotland."
A fat tear leaks from his squinting left eye, noiselessly plopping onto the crimson bedspread. Hermione gathers him into a sympathetic hug. "Oh, Mac! You poor little angel! It sounds as though you two might just need to have a good, long talk with us, hmmm? Draco and I would never make you choose between your job and your darlingest Ruibby – and Ruibby is right, we've been expecting an awful lot of you, these past few weeks. I'm sorry, Mac."
"Oh no, Macdolas never accuses his most revered and gracious employers of overwork!" he vigorously negates, jerking agitatedly in her hold. "'Tis an honour and grand privilege to hold the triple roles of the Principal of Personal Protective Detail to Her Grace Lady Granger, Chief Steward of the Townhouse of Granger-Malfoy, and Head Butler of Malfoy Manor!".
"Mac dear, you've just proven my point," Hermione contends. "In asking you to cover too many concurrent roles, we've spread your time and attention too thin; and this is a very important time for you and Ruibby, as you're enjoying the heady throes of your newly… intimate relationship. I'm very sorry: but Draco and I have already discussed a possible solution, if you're willing to consider it."
Nodding eagerly, Macdolas bounces and twists to face her properly. "Macdolas has supreme faith in Her Grace's superior intelligence and problem-solving skills; Macdolas is all ears." The named appendages wiggle independently of each other.
"Well, it was Draco's idea, actually," Hermione confesses, chuckling at Mac's dismissive shrug. "Alright, so we were thinking…"
Snicking open the studio door, Hermione barely takes two paces inside before Draco rushes over, cupping her cheeks as he kisses her passionately; her willing lips soften under his ardent attentions.
"Mmmm… you're the best kisser, Draco," she whispers against his pliant mouth.
"I know," he smugly replies, cocking one pale eyebrow. "It's just as well – I'm the only man allowed to kiss you, for roughly the next hundred years or so."
"You're an arrogant so-and-so, Lord Malfoy," Hermione tsks, even as she happily puckers her mouth for more smooches.
"I am, and you love me for it," Draco declares, laughing between kisses. "How did your new career proceed, as a Counsellor to the Fey? Has our resident peanut resolved his amorous difficulties?".
"I don't know that Mac likes being called 'peanut'; and his problems were mostly our fault, in truth." Hermione reluctantly clambers onto one of the high stools. As much as I crave Draco's skilled lips and hands, he does play havoc with my concentration.
"He loves it, it's a term of great affection," Draco claims. "How is his spat with Ruibby our fault, pray tell?"
Hermione summarizes Mac's employment dilemma as succinctly as possible, concluding, "I suggested he respect Ruibby's request for privacy for the night; tomorrow he might wish to order her a huge bunch of flowers to send with a heartfelt letter, asking if he may call on her to explain our proposed solution to their problem. The plan to have him working at the school with us will depend on Ruibby's professional ambitions, of course; Mac is adamant that her wishes are paramount in making these decisions. He's cheered up considerably, though he's now anxious that Headmistress McGonagall won't consider him 'Hogwarts-worthy'." Her concerned gaze collides with Draco's exasperated one.
"What can we do about Mac's mother, Draco? He told me he feels terribly conflicted for leaving her in the employ of that nasty old harpy Lady Mac Fhionnlaigh; but so far, she's refused point-blank to consider moving to England." Hermione chews at her thumbnail, before Draco slips his hand round hers, wedging his tall body between her bent legs and resting his other hand on her lower hip.
"We'll think of something, sweetheart." He grins dryly as he asks, "What's Macdolas wearing today, do you know? It's bizarre how colourlessly subdued he looks when dressed 'normally'."
A peal of laughter escapes Hermione's arched throat as she reveals, "It's Mac's nod to the great British author, 'J.R.R.R.R' Tolkien." Draco steadies her as her helpless guffaws threaten to topple her from the stool. "He was quite piqued when I pointed out a few of the 'Rs' were superfluous."
"If he had a middle name, it would be 'Indignation'," Draco jests. "How did he react to learning of Pansy's abuse?". Their jovial mood turns serious once more.
"You know how loyal Mac is! He ran straight to his Extendable Wardrobe and began rummaging for his sharpest sword, gabbling about asking Kreacher for 'intel' as to the best way to infiltrate Azkaban. It took a few minutes to persuade him to stand down," Hermione discloses. "Judging by the loud clanking coming from that cupboard – I wouldn't be surprised to learn he's ordered himself a suit of armour, Draco."
"Fuck's sake – that's all we need," he groans. "Next thing you know, he'll purchase a Welsh pony and a couple of jousting sticks: our very own pint-sized Don Quixote."
The image of a wild-eyed, heavily armoured Macdolas hanging onto a galloping pony for dear life – whilst grappling with a jousting stick – has Hermione in stitches. He'd probably challenge Wirey to a jousting tourney, the first chance he got. Best not to mention anything of the sort to him, she determines.
Draco joins in her affectionate mirth, though his smile fades when he quietly asks, "Hermione… how are you coping…? Now that you know fully of Pansy's trauma, I mean." He tunnels his hand restlessly through his white-blond hair, his mercury eyes grave as they watch for her reaction.
I feel terrible… I feel like I want to cry buckets for the little girl I never really knew… the little girl who deserved to be safe, and loved, and protected… yet another child treated as prey, to be used and abused... and then violated by more evil men, years later. When does it end?! Hermione's lips jitter as she fights against adding to Draco's already heavy burden of historic guilt.
"I'm alright," she husks, bending her neck and pretending a sudden fascination with the hem of her brown woollen pullover. "How are you, Draco?".
Exhaling sharply, Draco takes a moment before responding. "Ma petite: let us be honest with one another. I'm struggling… I want to enact violent, uncompromising revenge on Pansy's repugnant parents, and as for Flint and McLaggen, and every other loathsome fell creature involved in their dirty schemes – they do not deserve to live.'
"But – I know my yearning for vengeance does not do anything but pander to my baser emotions; it certainly doesn't help Pansy, at present. She must be my – our – focus. I cautioned Harry against letting his fury overrule his vow to support her – he seems to have grasped the concept far more effectively than I have, at present," Draco lays his forehead against Hermione's for a moment; the transitory touch helps to calm her unrest.
"Hermione, please don't hold back; you must be shattered, after staying strong for Pansy. Talk to me, ma belle lionne," he entreats, stroking her cheek with the pads of his middle fingers, moving down to rub her sensitive pink earlobes. "Let me be your strength for a little while, as you are mine."
"I just – I feel so sickened, Draco," Hermione admits, her voice low and lachrymose. "Not of Pansy – never! – but I'm heartsick… there's so much evil in the world, and people keep perpetuating it, day after day, year after year… the strong target and abuse the weak, it never stops–" she chokes, tears spilling from her tired eyes.
Pushing back into her again, Draco hugs her firmly, murmuring consolingly into her tawny hair as she clenches her hands into the back of his tan sweater, accidentally yanking his striped Oxford button-down shirt free of his jeans.
His voice is as hoarse as hers as he soothes, "I know… I'm sorry, darling. But you are doing something about it – you're helping Pansy so much, with your unwavering friendship, love, and unconditional support. I bet you told her you'd represent her if and when she ever decides to seek legal redress against her parents, didn't you? My genius little Gryffie," Draco comments proudly, after she nods ever so slightly.
"Working together to stop the cycle – by shining a hard, uncompromising light on these dark acts – that's what we have to do, I believe," Draco avers, sorrow and resolve etched across his fine features.
"Yes, I agree," Hermione puffs out a dejected breath. "Witnessing the dreadful damage done to my dear friend… it's appalling, Draco. Pansy… she told me she feels like happiness isn't meant for her; that whenever she believes she's content and fulfilled, something terrible happens to sideswipe her back into abject misery… my heart breaks for her," she snuffles.
"She's incredibly strong – but today, I saw that scared, anguished little girl peeking out from behind her eyes… and I just wish I'd been nicer to her, in the past. I was too shallow to see past her bitchiness, when we were at sch-school…" Hermione's voice hitches and breaks.
"Hey, hey – I was her closest companion, and I failed to recognize the signs – we were all just kids, Hermione. I deeply regret that I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit to be a decent friend to Pans, though," Draco rumbles.
"You weren't to know, Draco. I realize we should focus on moving forward, for Pansy; but it's going to take me a little while. I– I want to make them all suffer, too," Hermione growls. "Everyone who hurt her – everyone who wanted to hurt us. I want to watch their blood trickle into the gutters… or, you know, annihilate them in court," she amends.
"My bloodthirsty beauty," Draco remarks approvingly, a hint of amusement colouring his words. "I'm glad to be on your side, Hermione."
"Mmmm… Draco, did I hear you refer to Harry by his first name, before? I did, didn't I? You said it when we spoke our goodbyes, too," Hermione probes, blotting her wet eyes with the sleeve of her jumper.
"Eh… we're friends, now… apparently," Draco mumbles abashedly. "Let me be the one to tell Lucius the happy tidings, please."
Giggling into his neck, Hermione clings just a little bit tighter, relishing Draco's warmth and solidity. He helps to make even the bad, sad days, that much brighter, she reflects. Relying on him to help me through the rough spots isn't weak, it's smart… I hope that Pansy trusts Harry to do the same for her, tonight.
"Draco? What did you and Harry talk about? You seemed pretty chummy when Pansy and I came out of the bedroom," Hermione teases, leaning back to catch every nuance of Draco's pother at his new 'buddy' status.
"I graciously granted him some sterling advice, and we made an Unspeakable Vow," Draco quips, poker face in place. "Before you try to grill me – by definition, it's an oath I may not speak of, my curious little chaton." He hoists her off the stool and onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry, ignoring her automatic, squawking protest.
"I'm taking you straight to bed, Hermione Jean Granger. What's the catchphrase from that silly Muggle game that had Gelsy and Wirey at each other's throats? 'Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds'? You may collect your knickers in the morning though, if you wish," he magnanimously decrees, as he kicks shut the studio door and jogs down the staircase, swatting her bum as she tries to pinch his.
"Oh! Well, if you're going to play games, Draco Lucius Malfoy…" Hermione waits until they cross the threshold of their bedroom, concentrating on projecting her sultriest, most vampy voice as she finalizes her sentence…
"… Count me in."
Monday 24 March 2003: AM
Harry wakes with a smile already curving his lips. A shaft of pale pre-dawn light peeks through the gap in the heavy bottle-green brocade curtains, illumining the face of the sleeping brunette witch tucked into his side. He savours the opportunity to look his fill, bringing up his left hand to gently card through her sleek, midnight-black tresses.
Pansy stirs; Harry holds his breath until she re-settles against his bare chest, her drowsy little grumble pronounced against his skin. Her left arm is wrapped securely around his ribcage, as he lies on his back.
By Godric, she's beautiful. I can hardly believe she's in my arms… in my bed. Harry's mind ticks back to the night before, as he resumes stroking her waterfall-straight hair and gazing at her peaceful, slumbering face…
After they'd polished off their bowls of scrumptious cheesy pasta, Kreacher had reappeared, clearing their plates with practised efficacy. Pansy's jade eyes had rounded as two crystal dessert bowls had materialized onto the table, each containing generous scoops of pink ice cream, topped with a puff of whipped cream and a halved strawberry.
Digging her spoon into the confection, Pansy had moaned at the first taste. Harry had looked away, unable to cope with the dual temptations of her plump lips wrapped around the cutlery and the expression of sheer bliss on her pretty face.
"Strawberry ice cream – I adore strawberry ice cream," she'd whispered, emotion infusing her soft tones. "Thank you, Kreacher; and thank you, Harry," she'd laid her spoon back in the bowl, creeping her small hand into his.
"Kreacher is honoured to serve Mistress Parkinson; he begs a boon, if he may?" Kreacher had gestured to the jet kitten winding around his legs. "Would Mistress Parkinson and Master Potter be so kind as to watch Little Boadie for a while? She has been fed, and is in need of some attentive company whilst Kreacher cleans the supper dishes."
"We'd love to take her, Kreacher. And please, call me Pansy – or Mistress Pansy, if you prefer," Pansy had smiled. Boadie had strolled over to the couch, boldly embedding her talons into the bottom of Harry's jeans before climbing him like a ladder. Harry had prudently shoved a cushion in his lap before the brazen little cat had decided to savage his more tender parts.
"Very good, Mistress Pansy. Kreacher thanks you. Here is her favourite toy," he'd handed over a cunning creation of feathers, wool, ribbons and bells tied to a bendy stick. Pansy's happy grin had grown wider as she'd happily dangled the contraption over the frolicsome kitten.
Catching Harry's eye whilst Pansy's attention had been diverted, the gnarled elf had winked (actually winked!), before exiting the parlour.
Kreacher procuring the special ice cream… bringing in the kitten on that flimsy pretext… accepting Pansy's offer to call her by her first name… this must be Kreacher's version of tying a red bow around Pansy's neck and sticking her beneath the Christmas tree. Merlin's fluffy bathrobe – what a turn-up for the books!
Feeling somewhat floored, Harry had nevertheless been clued-in enough to seize the opportunity to snake his arm around Pansy's slim waist.
"Eat your ice cream, love. I'll keep Miss Bodacious here occupied." He'd taken possession of the toy with his spare hand.
Watching Pansy's obvious enjoyment of the sweet treat had been just as pleasurable as eventually sampling his own bowl, Harry had decided. He'd kept up a light chatter as he'd teased the kitten, loving the sound of Pansy's delighted laughter every time the cat had snagged Harry's clothing and obstinately refused to let go.
Exchanging custody of Boadie once she'd finished her ice cream, Pansy had tired out the little hellion within ten minutes. She'd laid down the mini fishing pole upon the table, gently petting the black kitty curled up in her lap. After changing the record ('I Am' by Earth, Wind & Fire), Harry had added a few logs to the fire.
Sliding back in beside Pansy, he'd snugged his arm around her slender form and guided her to rest her head upon his shoulder. Pansy had been content to pet the kitten and watch the firelight, while Harry had gloried in the cosily intimate moment, his hand lightly caressing her arm.
They'd spoken desultorily; Pansy had asked more about his musical tastes, and confided some of her own, telling him she mostly listened to the classics, with piano concertos a particular favourite. She'd asked if he owned a television set, to which he'd replied that he'd had his fill of mindless TV whilst living with the Dursleys… which had led to an abbreviated explanation of his family tree.
"Dudley and I are friendly, now; we keep in touch, and he visits occasionally. My aunt and uncle… well, we tolerate each other. My real family is Hermione, and– " Harry had swallowed his next words, coughing uncomfortably to cover his faux pas.
" – Ron. It's alright, Harry. He's your friend, and I truly don't wish to come between you," Pansy had soberly assured. "You'll be friends again. He was devastated, yesterday… Was it really only yesterday? I feel like a decade has passed, since the Gala." She'd pressed a sweet kiss to his hand, before her eyes had fluttered halfway closed again.
"Harry?" she'd murmured, a little later. "We're both orphans, of a sort."
"That we are, love," Harry had held her a little closer, his heart pinching at the wistful longing imbuing her statement. "Found family is just as strong and meaningful, Pansy… choosing to love, and being chosen in return… it's powerful, and deep. You're going to be OK," he'd repeated the mantra.
"Mmmm…" Pansy had drifted to sleep not long after. Much as he'd gloried in the joy of holding her sleeping form, Harry had reluctantly called quietly for Kreacher after ten minutes had elapsed, figuring that Pansy would not appreciate a cricked neck on the morrow.
"Could you take Boadie, please; I'll escort Pansy home," he'd advised, sotto voice. Once Kreacher and the kitten had departed, Harry had carefully gathered the quiescent witch into his arms and stood up.
His plans had been foiled as she'd cracked one eye and groused, "Don't want to go home, Harry… want to stay with you…"
"Are you sure, Pansy?" Harry had smoothed her hair from her face, needing to make certain. "I'm happy to stay with you at your apartment, darling."
"No – please, take me to bed, Harry… just to sleep… I'd like to be close to you, tonight…" Pansy had opened both eyes then, gazing at him with unfeigned trust and affection.
Unable to speak (emotion tightening his throat and thickening his tongue) Harry had nodded once, before walking them up to his bedroom. Setting Pansy back onto her feet, he'd obeyed her request to help her undress, her back to him as he'd unzipped her ivory dress and unhooked her bra. He'd hastily selected one of his plain black t-shirts from the dresser, slipping it over her head and tugging it down to her thighs, before shooing her into bed.
Undoing her clever plaits and combing out her hair with her fingers, Pansy had stubbornly insisted that he strip down to his boxers; she'd dismissed his attempt to wear a shirt with a peremptory sniff.
"Skin-to-skin, Harry… I need your warmth, tonight," she'd cajoled, her tiredness not quite masking the wicked cant to her smile. "Unless you can't be trusted, after all…?".
Wily little witch. Harry had called her bluff, flipping back the plain charcoal bedding and firmly draping her across him (steadfastly ignoring his racing pulse and blazing desire). He'd arranged the bedlinens to cover them both, before wandlessly turning off the lights and bidding her goodnight. He'd relished feeling her relax against him, her arm wrapping around his ribcage and her cheek rubbing against his chest as she'd rapidly fallen back asleep.
Now – as he counts Pansy's regular breaths, and wills his own respiration to stay steady – Harry realizes that he doesn't want to ever let her go. I've fallen hard… I'm still falling… so much for going slow. Even if she doesn't feel the same – I couldn't stay away from her if I bloody well tried.
The tiny scoff he makes at his startling self-discovery inadvertently wakes her; Pansy yawns, dark lashes flickering once, twice, before her eyes properly open and she smiles up artlessly at him.
"Good morning, Harry." She lays her head back down on his upper pectoral, her mouth pecking delicately in the softest of smooches.
Harry brings around his right hand, cupping the side of her head as he tenderly kisses her forehead. "Good morning, Pansy. How did you sleep, love?". He keeps his fingers in place, using both his hands to card rhythmically through her satiny jet locks.
"Like the proverbial log… that's a funny saying, isn't it?" Pansy replies, cuddling him back.
"It's thought to have originated because of the heaviness and immovability of sawn logs, and the exhaustion of the lumberjacks who cut them," Harry explicates, as Pansy quirks one eyebrow.
"Hermione," they say in unison, chuckling together.
I suppose we'd best get up and face the day… Harry sighs, unwilling to give up the singular bliss of holding Pansy Parkinson in his arms.
"Harry… thank you, for letting me stay," Pansy says. "You make a terribly sexy teddy bear, Mr Potter."
Ah – don't tell me that, in your deliciously sleep-husky voice, Harry grimaces. He exhales as he wills his interested lower body to return to dormancy.
"You're very welcome, Pansy – you can stay whenever you like." Please do… I'm addicted to holding you, love. "Er… I suppose we should get up," he is dismayed at how squeaky his voice sounds.
"Five more minutes?" Pansy's fingertips patter against his spine in a lulling (yet simultaneously inflaming) motion.
"Five more minutes," Harry immediately accepts.
He spends the time building a daydream, envisioning a future where he is blessed with the luxury of waking up with Pansy every morning… gifted full reign to kiss her, hug her, sit her in his lap while he buries his fingers in her shiny, silky hair… her strawberry scent wafting through the house, her fresh taste on his lips, her assured, gentle touch imprinted into his skin…
Slowly… you promised you'd go slowly. A leisurely courtship, you said. A respectable wooing.
Merlin – I really am a fool.
