Many thanks to HarryPGinnyW4eva for coining Mac & Ruibby's couple name! I love it, I hope you guys do too.


**Trigger warning: discussion of sexual abuse, therapy, and violent crime**

Chapter 76

Tuesday 25 March 2003: PM

"Alright, Harry; they're ready for us." Leopold Pritchard-Hawes pauses with his hand on the metal lever that opens the first barrier door to the temporary containment cells, currently housing Marcus Flint, Cormac McLaggen, and Barry Bones. "Are you certain you'll be able to remain impartial, while we question Flint? There's no shame in admitting that this one hits a shade too close to home, Harry," the Head Auror soberly offers.

"I'm fine; I need to do this, sir." Harry doesn't flinch as he meets his supervisor's critical gaze. "Yes, this case is personal – but I assure you, I won't forget my responsibilities as an Auror. I've sworn an oath to uphold Wizarding law; it isn't a vow I will ever take lightly."

I fully intend to do everything possible to see that every last participant in this disgusting scheme is unmasked, and punished to the full extent of the law. They will all pay dearly, for what they did to Hermione, Pansy, and the other women; and for what they intended to do. Harry works to keep his face as expressionless as possible. I will keep my cool, no matter what filth Flint spouts in there.

Pritchard-Hawes must decide Harry is up to the task; he nods once, before depressing the lever. A series of heavy clicks and metallic screeches ensue.

Despite the permanent absence of the Dementors, the prison is yet terrifyingly bleak, both in aspect and atmosphere. The dark stone walls seem to close in as Harry and Leo walk silently down the long, wide corridor. Centuries of madness and misery have left their mark on the monolithic tower; though he considers himself mostly inured to superstitious horror, Harry is relieved they are visiting in the daytime.

By Merlin, how did Sirius survive in this hellscape for twelve years?! His late godfather's strength of will was truly incredible… and deeply humbling. Considering how dire this prison seems – even with human guards and basic reforms in place – it's hard to conceive anyone being able to maintain a semblance of sanity when the Dementors ruled supreme.

Giving himself a mental slap, Harry focuses on regulating his breathing, and sharpening his wits for the preliminary interview with Flint. Much to his disappointment, the courts had ruled that the DMLE needed to provide more evidence before the administration of Veritaserum could be legally administered; hence, the first round of questioning. Flint today, with Bones and McLaggen's interviews to take place tomorrow.

"We're here. Flint's lawyer is already inside, he was granted an hour's consultation before our interview." Leo gestures to the stark cell before them. The cell door is thick steel, with darkly glowing enchantments sealing its edges and radiating an unpleasant aura. There are only two openings in the solid door; a rectangular aperture at waist height (allowing for the passing in of food and drink), and a small, magical 'eye' window with the dual functions of observing the prisoner, and granting entry.

Pritchard Hawes points his badge at the eerie yellow eye, which shutters open in a disturbingly rapid blink. He recites his name and badge number, before beckoning Harry forward to replicate his actions. The eye swiftly spins as it processes their identification, before the door begins to grate and slide sideways.

Despite having visited Azkaban numerous times over the past five years, Harry is always jarred by the incongruity of the fluorescent lighting installed into the cells' ceilings when Shacklebolt first began to reform the penitentiary. He'd asked the Minister about the choice of illumination when at the first opportunity.

"Well, Harry – the fluorescent tubes are magically powered, of course – they're not entirely the same as your Muggle bulbs. We chose them because they were functional, yet harsh; this isn't a place for warm pools of light to chase away the shadows," Kingsley Shacklebolt had gravely informed, in his rich, deep tenor.

Now, Harry squints a little as he peers into the stark cell. A pale-faced Marcus Flint is seated on his narrow pallet, glaring balefully at them, while the middle-aged man standing beside him carefully folds a sheet of parchment in two, slipping the page into the pocket of his plain grey robes.

"Auror Potter, this is Mr Ganon Duffey, Mr Flint's legal representative. Mr Duffey, Auror Harry Potter." The men nod by way of greeting. Harry studies the lawyer, wondering why such an average-looking man has gone to the trouble of growing a luxuriant brown beard… though his mutton chops don't include a moustache. Note to self: never copy this style.

"Potter. Pritchard-Hawes. Be advised that my client will not answer any questions I deem objectionable or irrelevant. You should also know that Mr Flint is in possession of some important information as pertains to Mr McLaggen; and that we are not averse to bargaining for leniency in return for revealing this intelligence." Ganon Duffey runs a hand over his meticulously groomed facial hair in a failed attempt to hide his tiny, smug smile.

No fucking way. Harry barely restrains himself from shouting aloud his immediate, infuriated reaction.

Leopold dispassionately replies, "We are willing to consider your proposition, provided the information that Mr Flint possesses genuinely contributes to the body of evidence against Mr McLaggen." His hand twitches behind his back as he signals Harry to remain quiet. "However, your client will not be able to claim immunity, nor expect any serious reduction in the charges against him, given the mounting proof that he was involved up to his neck in this foul roofie plot. While I do have the authority to strike a deal, any small potential advantages granted to your client will be minor and relate to his inevitable prison sentence conditions, not the actual time served."

It's still bloody bullshit – but at least Leo clarified the terms, Harry sourly reflects. It's not as if Flint is going to be allowed a feather pillow and matching wines with his daily gruel. I loathe the necessity of bargaining with scumbags, and I always will.

"That is unacceptable; I assure you, my client's information is vital to your investigation," Duffey blusters. "You may think you know the particulars; but I assure you, my client is himself a victim of intimidation and coercion," he sniffs.

"Oh, he was coerced into pushing Hermione Granger down a flight of stairs, was he? And he was intimidated into funding and producing illegal potions to drug women with the intent to violate their bodies and steal their freedoms?" Harry snarls. "This interview is a formality – you'll be asked the hard questions at trial soon enough, Flint. You can hire all the barristers you want, but your guilt is glaring, and proven."

"I see you've yet to grow out of your self-righteousness, Potter – you always did think you knew everything, didn't you? Blundering around from one crisis to another, ever convinced you held the moral superiority. Here's something for you to chew on: Veritaserum is only as effective as knowing which questions need to be asked, isn't it? You can drop all the liquid truth you like onto Cormac's wicked tongue, but he won't reveal all his secrets unless you know where to look," Flint announces, idly swinging his legs to and fro as he shrugs carelessly. "Your call, of course. Don't blame me if you never find all the answers you seek."

"What is it you want?" Pritchard-Hawes abruptly queries. "Don't expect the impossible. And I reiterate – there won't be a reduction in sentence, unless your information is astonishingly enlightening."

"A bigger cell. Exercise time doubled. Access to a minimum of three books per week, and visitors once a month. A future consideration for a reduction in sentence, dependent on Mr Flint completing a registered rehabilitation program for sex offenders, and good behaviour," Duffey rapidly recites.

Holding up his palm for quiet this time, Leo promptly rebuts, "All the cells are the same size. One extra hour of exercise every four days. One book per week, and one visitor every three months. Consideration alone will be given for future compliance and good behaviour, not a guarantee of same. And none of these concessions will be upheld unless Mr Flint makes good on his boasts that he has vital new information."

Watching the slow smirk spread across Marcus's face, Harry's pure rage threatens to spill; he bites the inside of his cheeks, the pain grounding him into staying still and quiet. I despise the Dementors – but what I wouldn't pay for one to swoop down right now and suck out Flint's blackened soul. Rehabilitation, what bollocks. He knew exactly what he was doing, the slimy turd – and he did it because he liked it, not because Cormac McLaggen bullied him into it. Negotiating with these deviants sickens me to my core.

"We'll need your offer in writing, Auror Pritchard-Hawes. As a gesture of good faith, my client is willing to tell you a few salient facts relating to Mr McLaggen… and the Manifesto. Marcus won't tell you everything until both parties have signed off on the bargaining deal, you understand."

Leo's hands momentarily pressing hard against his furrowed brow lead Harry to believe that his boss is equally as disgusted by the compromise they've reached. The Head Auror's tone is stoic as he intones, "We'll have an agreement drawn up and ready to sign within an hour. Speak now, Mr Flint; my patience for this discussion is fast dwindling."

Exchanging a last self-satisfied look with his solicitor, Flint begins to talk.


"Macdolas proposes a toast to Master Malfoy: congratulations on Master Malfoy's appointment of a Hogwarts professorship–"

" –Two partial professorships, Ruibby corrects her dearest, handsomest, smartest and most talented boyfriend and new Hogwarts employee!" she butts in, her 'Red Rocket' celebratory goblet of raspberry cordial and tonic water swirling as she happily lifts it high above the dining table.

" –Two partial professorships, indeed; Macdolas thanks his sweetest, cleverest, prettiest and most wonderful girlfriend and new Hogwarts employee for her perspicacity! Her Most Honourable, Heroic, Harmonious, Hard-working, and Highly Heralded Headmistress Professor McGonagall kindly overlooks Master Malfoy's academic shortcomings and shows great faith in Master's ability to guide the human younglings' impressionable minds and spirits! All hail Master Malfoy!" Macdolas merrily clamours, clinking his own Red Rocket to Hermione's plain water tumbler.

Hermione sips her water to hide her small smile at Mac's wordy toast (or should that be, 'roast'?) of Draco's success in gaining the posts of Advanced Art teacher, and Associate Potions Professor.

"Hold up – what academic shortcomings, Macdolas?" Draco scowls, pulling back his own water glass as Mac and Ruibby stand on their dining chairs to wetly smack lips across the table. "I'll have you know that I completed my N.E.W.T.s by correspondence, you judgey little shi–"

"Congratulations!" Hermione loudly interrupts, firmly guiding a still-cooing Mac back into his seat. "Mac was simply teasing, weren't you, dear?" she prompts.

"Draco also completed an intensive Visual Arts course at one of the world's most prestigious colleges, you know; and he's in charge of creating and implementing the new all-inclusive Hogwarts Adapted Art Therapy Program, Macdolas. I have every faith in him – as should you," she gently chides the ebullient elf. "It was his idea to ask Headmistress McGonagall to interview you both, remember?".

"Macdolas is very proud of Master Malfoy; Macdolas asks pardon for his good-natured badinage. He means no offence." His ears flap as he again hollers, "All hail Master Malfoy!".

Their goblets and glasses tinkle as they revisit the toast. Draco mouths 'No more cordial' at Hermione as the elven couple eagerly slurp down the entire contents of their chalices.

He might have a point: they've already chugged down half a jug in the space of ten minutes, Hermione notices. Ruibby waves a languid pale hand to refill their glasses before Hermione can confiscate the bright crimson mixture.

"Are you enjoying your first taste of pizza, Ruibby?" Hermione enquires, as the diminutive sprite selects another slice from the box. "Harry always says it's basically just a yummier way to eat a sandwich – hot bread, toppings, sauce, and cheese," she grins.

"It's delicious, Your Grace," Ruibby agrees. "Though Ruibby is unused to eating with her hands, she is assured by Your Grace's example." She nods at the dribble of rich tomato paste dribbling down Hermione's wrist.

Aaaaand now I feel like a proper little piggy, Hermione wryly muses. Harry was right when he said our elves lead us by the nose, even if he didn't specifically include me at the time. This late takeaway supper is exactly what we all needed, after everyone's big day.

"Are you alright, Hermione? You look a little tired, ma petite." Draco reaches out his hand to stroke tenderly along the ball of her thumb. "I wish you'd let me accompany me to therapy, darling."

Sweet Aphrodite – I adore this man. Hermione flips her hand to thread together their fingers, marvelling at the paler tone of his skin against hers. "I know, and I appreciate your offer very much; perhaps next time? Today it was important to me to support Pansy, and for her to support me, Draco. She said she liked Dr Rica, and she's already scheduled her follow-up appointments. My session was a tad rough in spots, but that was to be expected – given all I had to vent about," she smiles ruefully. "It felt good to expunge some of the horror of Cormac's dreadful dungeon, and my initial feelings of vulnerability and remembered terror, when his roofie potion took effect."

"McLaggen's extremely lucky he still breathes," Draco growls beneath his breath. "I know, I know, I shan't harp on my fervent wish for his early demise."

"Macdolas would draw and quarter the fell McLaggen, and bathe in his blood! Use his guts for garters, grind his bones to dust, and– and– urinate on his scattered teeth!" he shrieks, hopping up onto his chair again. All it takes is one stern look from Ruibby for a chastened Mac to clamber back down.

"That's definitely your last Red Rocket, you feral scamp," Draco warns, flicking his wrist to magically pour the rest of the contents of the cordial jug down the kitchen sink. "Have you told Hermione the great news about your Hogwarts living arrangements?" he urges, grinning mischievously.

Mac blushes as he shyly reveals, "The Highly Heralded Headmistress McGonagall offers Macdolas and Ruibby a special [his voice drops to a whisper] conjugal suite; Macdolas wishes to formally ask his darlingest Ruibby to do him the greatest honour of living with him in socially-sanctioned domestic bliss, viz and to wit a one bedroom apartment complete with kitchenette, sunken bath and built-in linen closet," he speaks in a rush.

Oh, heavens! For a moment there, I thought Mac was about to propose! Hermione gently rubs his quivering back as he awaits Ruibby's response.

The beaming blonde fey maidservant squeaks, "Ruibby asks Macdolas to share her domain, as Headmistress McGonagall advises Ruibby she may decorate the allotted quarters as she wishes… would Macdolas care to help Ruibby select curtains and towels, and further decorate our sweet love shack?".

With a jubilant snap of his fingers, Mac Apparates to stand beside his beloved, hugging her tightly as Draco is startled into knocking over the basket of fresh, fragrant garlic bread. "For the love of Snakes, Macdolas – give a man some warning!". He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully at the petite pair as Hermione claps for joy.

"You just screamed a little, Draco – you can't blame Mac for your skittish nature," she hoots. "What are you trying to say, my love? I don't speak Haughty Eyebrow, I'm afraid."

"Don't you have a something you wish to discuss with Ruibby and Macdolas, Hermione? An important, timely issue… that rhymes with inception, perhaps?" Draco prods. He admonishes the embracing little lovers: "Look, the both of you don't fit properly in that chair, and I'd rather you didn't paw at each other right beside me, thanks."

Coming up for air, Mac merely smiles beatifically. "'MacRu' are listening, Your Grace Lady Granger."

Stifling her hysterical laughter at their conjoined couple name, Hermione begins, "Umm… Draco and I just want to be sure that… well, we thought we should check, with regard to… contraception charms. Specifically, that you're both… casting contraceptive charms, or perhaps using a potion… or both? Also, you're taking… appropriate measures every time, yes?" she weakly concludes. This was more difficult than I anticipated… why am I feeling so squeamish? It's just sex, right? I'm an educated woman – there's nothing icky about this. Draco can wipe that smirk off his face, he's the Elvish Sexpert now, not me.

Ruibby grabs at a fold of Mac's royal purple robes to cover her head, leaving Macdolas as the spokesperson for MacRu. "Every time – of course, Your Grace," he mumbles, looking everywhere but at Hermione or Draco.

"Beforehand? You remember to cast the charms beforehand, right?" Draco presses.

"Y-Yes," Macdolas and Ruibby exchange a brief, worrisome glance.

I'm going to pretend that was an expression of mutual confidence, rather than shared uncertainty. Subject change! Hermione rushes into speech.

"Did I mention that Dad texted me? Narcissa has invited them to Friday night dinner at the Manor," Hermione shrills. "With females and males to separate after the meal, to discuss… topics of interests," she lamely finishes, remembering just in time that Mac's birthday party is to be a surprise.

"Faire foutre," Draco breathes, his eyes widening in horror. "Our mothers – and our fathers – in the one room?! Granger, we have to stop this – you have to stop this! Lucius's icy temper is volatile at the best of times– and then there's your father–"

"What of my father? Are you suggesting he's too plebian to be able to attend a simple dinner at your stately mansion, Malfoy?" Hermione's dander is up in a second. "He's a university educated, successful dentist with an amazing social presence and a genuine interest in the world and people around him – you needn't worry that my father will be the one to engender any disasters of etiquette or breeding, Draco Malfoy."

Draco is out of his chair and by her side in a heartbeat. Were she not pissed off, Hermione would chuckle at the symmetry between Draco and Mac's recent romantic behaviours.

"Hermione Granger, I apologize profusely. I never, ever meant to imply that your father lacked social graces, nor tact; I am worried about my sire's ability to keep a civil tongue in his mouth, and to not insult your parents by word or deed," he gravely replies, lightly holding her stiff hands in his and kissing the corners of her primmed mouth. "It will be an honour and a privilege to welcome them both to my family home, ma chérie."

Her lingering resistance melts as Draco's lips drift lovingly across her eyelids and brows, each tiny smooch sending a butterfly-soft tingle down her fine nerve endings. He's my smooth, sexy, sweet-hearted Snake… I do know that he likes and respects Dad, and that their initial hostility is all but dissolved.

"Do you promise to not serve Dad any over-spiced meats, or trick him with the elaborate cutlery settings?" Hermione asks. "I'll give him a pre-dinner lecture about not hassling any of the elves about their teeth, if you instruct Lucy to avoid any kind of anti-Muggle rhetoric, or disdain for our far lesser fortune," she teases.

"Darling, I swear I won't seek any form of revenge for Barney's silly peri-peri chicken stunt, nor will I attempt to bamboozle him with fifteen slightly different fancy forks," Draco moves down her face to kiss her ear. She shivers in pleasure as the tip of his tongue traces the outer shell.

"Lucius doesn't talk like that anymore – honestly, I don't believe he still thinks in terms of Muggle-born/Pureblood, not since the War. Plus, Mother would never have invited your parents if she weren't wholly confident that Father will be on his very best behaviour. I'm sorry that my initial reaction was to borrow panic," Draco delicately bites her lobe.

"Though… I feel we should both be prepared for any eventuality, from fireworks to floods,' he snickers. "I truly have no idea what to expect from their first meeting – but it's bound to be dramatic, in some form or another."

I can't argue with that assessment. Hermione sends up a silent prayer to Dionysus. May Dad behave appropriately; may he respect other people's boundaries; and whatever else he stumbles over, may he NOT ask Lucius Malfoy for a 'quick butcher's at his fangs'. Amen.

"I'm sorry, I overreacted. I know Dad's a bit much, sometimes – but he really does have a huge heart, he just takes some getting used to," Hermione sighs, slipping her fingers underneath Draco's loosened business shirt and running her fingertips around his neck. "Hey – at least we'll be on hand if things start to go south, right?" she temporizes.

"Right – might not be a bad idea to keep our wands on the table," Draco jests. "Maybe we should run a quick refresher course on our dousing and shielding charms, too – just in case." He finally kisses her mouth, pleasure swamping her senses and quickening her heart rate. "Je t'aime, Hermione. Pour toujours."

"I love you, Draco. Always," Hermione repeats, tears brimming in her weary eyes. "Are we OK?".

"We're better than OK – we're absolutely amazing together, and everyone recognizes that unalienable truth," Draco emphatically answers. "Come up to bed? You must be exhausted, you've been slaving away at the Ministry salt mines all day, and then the counselling sessions… let me take care of my gorgeous witch, please."

"Oh, well… if you insist," Hermione smiles, rising to stand in the loving circle of his arms. "Wait – you mentioned something earlier, about our plans for Saturday?".

"Yes; Harry asked me to make up the numbers for an informal Quidditch match on Saturday afternoon; would you mind if I went along? I have my old Slytherin Seeker's uniform ready to go… you may wish to dig out that Gryffindor set I appropriated from your wardrobe cull, when I return home," he insinuates the last sentence directly into her ear.

Oh… oooohhhh. Hermione's breath shortens as a wild variety of uniform fantasies run through her head in flashes of heat, each scenario lewder than the one preceding. "I'll come along – to cheer you on," she quickly declares.

"You want to watch our game? Well, well, well," Draco all but preens like his family's famous peacocks, his slate eyes glimmering. "I'd like that very much, Hermione." He revolves to address the elves.

"Mac, Ruibby – would you clean up our dinner, please? Congratulations on your dual appointments, we'll talk more tomorrow. Goodnight," Draco surprises Hermione by bending in front of her. "Hop on – it's piggyback time, ma petite. Just to mix it up a little – and I am in dire need of some strength training, if I'm to avoid humiliating myself on Saturday," he explains.

Climbing onto his back as best she can, Hermione waves goodnight to their big-eyed elves; Draco pretends to buck as he dashes for the doorway, her dangling legs secured beneath his arms. "Malfoy! Stop it, you know I'm uncomfortable with heights!".

"Granger, I'm not that tall," he wheezes, laughing like a drain until she digs in her heels. "Ouch! Alright, I'll be good."

"Not too good, I hope…" she purrs, before laying her head against his upper back. "I like you a little bad, mon serpent coquin et sexy."

Draco gallops up the stairs as though he's being timed, making her giggle even harder; Hermione ignores the uneven jouncing as she revels in the contact with his warm, strong young body.

Saturday seems like an awfully long way away, all of a sudden…


"Pansy? It's just me – Harry, I mean. Hello?".

She pauses in the act of reaching for her silky pyjama top. "Harry? Hold on – I'll be right out, I just got out of the shower." Pansy hurriedly thrusts her arms into the sleeves of her pale green and cream Chirimen crape kimono, tightly wrapping the matching Obi belt. There is a fraught quality to Harry's voice that urges her to make haste; Pansy shoves her feet into her slippers and hustles into her lounge room.

Harry is standing with his back to her, his hands scrunching at his black hair. If he's trying to smooth the clumps, he's making a hash of things, Pansy ponders, smiling at his rather endearing habit. A few weeks ago, it drove me around the twist seeing him charging about with 'mad Muggle scientist' hair – now I think I prefer it messy. He'd look odd with it all combed down flat and tidy... ugh, I need to dial down the sap factor, pronto.

She clears her throat. "Harry? Hi… is everything OK?"

He pivots on one heel, his stricken face answering her hesitant question, though he attempts a wan smile. "Hi, love – I'm sorry to burst in on you like this– I had– I had to see you, I had to reassure myself–" he jerks his arms forward, dropping them at his side as he shakes his head. "It's silly, I can see you're OK, I apologize for disturbing you– " he breaks off.

Pansy nearly trips on her loose slipper as she dashes forward, flinging herself against his chest. "What's wrong, Harry? Please, unburden yourself... I'm listening," she prompts, tilting her head to scan his pallid features.

"How was therapy?" Harry peers intently into her eyes, holding her gently with his hands clasped at the small of her back.

"Therapeutic," Pansy offers, smiling wryly. "We can talk about that later – you look like a man in desperate need of a hug, and you've come to exactly the right place," she tenderly squeezes his hips, through his robes. "Sit down with me?". She guides him to the chintz snug, worried anew by his unsteady breathing.

"Pansy, it's OK, we can just sit quietly... I just... I want to be near you, for a little while," Harry rasps, knuckling at his eyes and knocking his glasses half off his nose. The fact that he doesn't make a grab for the endangered spectacles is alarming.

Plucking the glasses from the side of his nose, Pansy folds down the arms before slipping them onto the coffee table. "Harry, please talk to me. Let me be strong for you... love," she enunciates the pet name in a nervy whisper.

The sentiment doesn't go unnoticed. Harry's drawn face briefly brightens, his trembling fingers reverently stroking her cheek. "My warm-hearted, beautiful Pansy," he murmurs.

Tucking her face into his palm, Pansy waits for Harry to confide in her. Seconds tick by as Harry charts her face, jaw, and neck, his fingertips delicately skating over her slightly damp skin.

"We went to Azkaban today – Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes and I," Harry finally begins to tell his tale. His restless hands continue to caress her throat, his thumbs running carefully along the length of her clavicle exposed by the kimono's wide neck.

"We interviewed Marcus Flint: he and his uppity lawyer struck a deal. Flint offered to reveal more of McLaggen's secrets, in exchange for certain small privileges, when he serves his sentence. I hated bargaining with him – I wish it weren't necessary – " he chokes and coughs.

"Hey, it's OK," Pansy soothes. Her stomach clenches as she hesitantly asks, "Is there more bad news… about those photos?".

"No, no… I mean, Marcus did tell us where to find their hidden list of 'subscribers' – that's their euphemism for the network of sick fucks – sorry, the sickos who invested in the roofie potion research and development, and the online and mail order pornography exchange," Harry elucidates. "Pansy – I'm an idiot, I didn't think about this triggering you, especially after your first proper counselling session–"

"Harry, I'm alright. Really. But I am terribly worried about you, so if you want to make me cry out of concern, you're going the right way about it," Pansy's words convey her affectionate exasperation. She enfolds his hands within hers. "A problem shared is a problem halved, yes? Tell me. I can handle it."

"You're too good to me, Pansy." Harry's grip momentarily increases on her fingers.

Whatever this is – it's got him tied up in knots. Smiling tremulously, Pansy nods her encouragement.

"Marcus reckons Cormac murdered his uncle Tiberius – he said he drowned him in the bath tub. Held his head underwater after he dropped around and heard Tiberius crying out for help after falling down when he tried to get out. Said it was well past time the old bastard coughed up Cormac's rightful inheritance." Harry sucks in a lungful of air after his revelation.

"Cormac – killed his uncle? Just… just like that?" Pansy didn't expect this. She makes a conscious effort to close her mouth, lest she look completely gormless.

"Just like that," Harry echoes. "Marcus said Cormac boasted about the thrill of watching Tiberius's ineffectual struggles – of watching the life drain from his eyes, as he held him underwater." Harry's whole body shudders. "Pansy, I knew he was evil – but this?! Thinking about what he could have done, to you and Hermione, if you hadn't fought back and stopped him–" Harry snatches back his hands, using them to hide his ashen face.

"Harry, we did fight back – we're OK, it's OK," Pansy keeps up a repetitive patter, scooching closer, rubbing Harry's back and gently peeling away his hands from his grievously troubled visage. His gorgeous gem-green eyes are inflamed from exhaustion and anguish, his dark lashes damp and spiky.

Oh, my poor Harry… my poor love… Pansy wiggles to straddle his lap, curving her hand to the back of his mussed head and pressing him to her breast. "Shhh, it's alright, we're alright, Harry," she softly hums, feeling his silent tears dampening the vee of her kimono. "Cormac and Marcus can't hurt us now – they won't hurt anyone, not anymore."

Harry responds by clasping her tighter, his ragged respiration slowly steadying. He doesn't move his head as Pansy lovingly combs the bristly hanks with her fingers. She smiles ruefully when she checks her handiwork. I've only managed to create new clusters of his wild locks.

"Harry? Do you think that maybe you should register your hair with the Ministry? I genuinely believe it's a life form all its own, and should be classified as such," Pansy lightly teases him.

"Sirius said my dad's hair was exactly the same," Harry mumbles into her skin; she feels his small smile. "Are you saying it's a magical beast or a creature, Pansy?"

"Perhaps a combination of the two? Like if someone crossed a Puffskein with a Diricawl, and somehow permanently affixed it to your skull? The good news is, it would definitely be rated as 'Harmless / May Be Domesticated' – unless an attempt is made to tame it with a flimsy hairbrush or comb," Pansy chuckles.

"That's most unkind, love," Harry cranes back his neck; Pansy is deeply relieved to witness him smiling up at her. "You're calling my innocent mop a 'Puffcawl'… or should that be, a 'Diriskein'? What a mean little Snake." His smile widens as she pokes out her tongue to blow a derisive raspberry.

Ceasing her razzing, Pansy fondly kisses Harry's brow. "I favour the term 'Puffcawl', myself. No, your hair's perfectly lovely, Harry. I could run my fingers through it for hours," she confesses.

"Pansy… thank you. I'm sorry I had a bit of a meltdown," Harry quietly replies. "Everything kind of hit me at once… I had to see you, I had to reassure myself that you're well, and unharmed. Marcus… he told us a lot more, about their history together, and how it all started – but I'll inform you of that another time, if you don't mind. Can I just hold you a while, love? Please?" he implores, his eyes still a little glassy as they rove her face.

"Of course – you're my boyfriend, remember? You're the only guy who gets to hold me whenever he likes," Pansy shyly asserts. "As it happens, I rather adore being in your arms, Harry Potter."

"Not half as much as I adore being in yours, Pansy Parkinson," Harry earnestly avers. "I'm going to cuddle and kiss you until you tell me to stop, love."

"Your lips and arms will get sore," Pansy warns. "This could take all night."

"I bloody well hope so," Harry solemnly declares. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be, Pansy."

By Morgana – if he keeps saying things like that, our 'unhurried courtship' is going to skip about five important phases, Pansy admits, as she gazes down into Harry's ardent, blinking eyes. He's as blind as a badger without his glasses – but I'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to mistake his sincerity.

"Did I say something wrong, love?" Harry tentatively enquires, as the she stays silent a beat too long.

"Not at all – I'm struggling to say something that doesn't make me sound like a giddy teenager with a crush," Pansy sighs. "Forget your crazy hair – you should come with a warning label: too good to be true."

"Hardly," Harry demurs. "Tell me about therapy, Pansy. I've been wondering all day, about how you went… well, I've been thinking of you all day, love." He adjusts his grip on her waist as he adds, "Please – I'd really like to hear about it… whatever you're comfortable sharing."

"Oh… well… OK, but it's boring, Harry. Dr Rica was friendly, and kind, just like Hermione said; and she specializes in… sexual abuse cases. I mean, I've already been through some intensive therapy, when I first remembered… anyway, she asked me what I wanted to talk about. We just sat there for five minutes, I felt like bolting," Pansy acknowledges, sitting back on her haunches.

Harry leans against the back of the couch. "Here, let me hold you properly, Pansy. Swing round your legs to sit sideways in my lap? That's the way." He smooths down her kimono as it threatens to gape apart, bracing her back with his left arm and petting her hip with his right. "Keep talking, honey."

Honey? That's new. I like it. Pansy happily snuggles closer. "It wasn't an unpleasant silence… just a little awkward. Eventually I started telling her about how angry and helpless I felt, when Cormac used me as bait, then Petrified me; and the next thing I knew, I was talking nineteen to the dozen and making huge hand gestures," she rolls her eyes self-deprecatingly.

"Dr Rica let me ramble. She said that her approach to therapy concentrates on expressing emotion and discussing past experiences, identifying recurring patterns and themes, and focusing on interpersonal relationships, as well as exploring wishes and dreams and fantasies… anyway, she seemed very genuine and didn't lay on the psychobabble too heavily." Pansy fiddles with Harry's hair again. "I didn't get into much of… what happened when I was a little girl. I mean, I mentioned it briefly… did you know that some studies estimate that sexual violence affects one in three women, and one in four men, over the course of their lifetimes?".

"No… I didn't know… that's an appalling statistic, love. I'm sorry," Harry kisses the crown of her head before tucking her hair out of her eyes.

"I was raised to never speak of such things – Purebloods love to pretend everything is fine and dandy, you know. Appearances are everything, and little girls do as they're told… little boys too, I suppose," she frowns. "Dr Rica said we'll work together on finding a psychotherapy method that works for me; she said it's important to be open and honest if something isn't working, or if I feel we're not making progress. It's a good start, I guess.'

"Sorry, I've been babbling on," Pansy shifts restively. "Would you like something to eat? I made a lemon and ricotta pasta for dinner, with pecorino cheese and some fresh basil leaves, and there was plenty left over: let me up, and I'll heat you a bowl." She tries to rise, but Harry has other ideas.

"That sounds wonderful, Pansy; but first I'd like to hear more, about your day. You still haven't gotten around to telling me about all the businesses you own or manage, hmmm? My girlfriend is a very smart, successful witch, and I'm keen to know how many pies she has her pretty little fingers in." Harry nibbles at her fingertips, growling for added effect as Pansy shrieks delightedly.

"Eewww – that's gross, Harry – fingers in pies!" she giggles. "I won't give you any dessert, if you keep this up."

"You're the only sweet I want to taste, love," Harry's lips skim her quivering mouth, little passes that leave her aching for more. "Kiss me, Pansy," he entreats, in a voice not entirely steady.

There's an idea I can get behind. Pansy takes her time, mirroring his slanted kisses and lightly flickering tongue; she wonders if Harry is aware of the tiny mewls of pleasure he is making in the back of his throat, as she leads him on a deliberately maddening exploration of each other's mouths.

Remind me to send Ginny Weasley a big thank you card (assuming she taught him how to kiss like this), Pansy muzzily reflects, as their explorative smooches develop into full-blown, impassioned lip-locks. My arousal level has gone from simmering to boil-over in the space of five minutes! Damn… I can't wait until we take things to the next level!

"Harry?" she manages to gasp.

"Mmmphff – yes, love?"

"Is this us 'going slowly'?"

"Uh… yes?"

"Just checking," Pansy tugs Harry's head back down, her greedy lips taking bold possession of his mouth.

Scratch sending Ginny a measly old card – this level of hot expertise deserves a gift basket.


French translation:

Faire foutre – Fucking hell.

mon serpent coquin et sexy – my naughty, sexy snake.