Chapter 78

Wednesday 25 March 2003: PM

"Thank you, Kreacher. This looks utterly scrumptious." Pansy's stomach makes a soft rumble, reminding her that it's been some time since she gobbled down a loveless ham sandwich, a handful of almonds, and half a punnet of raspberries for lunch, at the boutique today. She smiles at the elderly elf as he stands beside the small dining table.

"Kreacher thanks Mistress Pansy; he tries a new recipe. Oven-baked chicken with harissa, tomatoes, olives, and crushed new potatoes. Master Potter does enjoy the humble potato, in its many varieties and incarnations," the elf deadpans. "Kreacher learns to try everything once before flatly rejecting it evermore."

Who knew the dour manikin had such a dry sense of humour? Pansy wonders. Evidently not Harry, who is staring at Kreacher as though he's sprouted wings overnight.

"Master Potter and Mistress Pansy will summon Kreacher when ready for the dessert course," he bows once, careful not to disturb the black kitten sleeping in the ubiquitous sling attached to Kreacher's concave chest. The snap-crackle of his Disapparation quickly fades.

Smoothing her linen napkin over her lap, Pansy tries to calm her nerves about the evening ahead. Like Hermione and Draco said, communication is key. I'll find the right time to tell Harry about my qualms, and go from there. She watches him covertly as he picks up the bottle of Côtes du Roussillon red wine and pours them both a glass.

"Thank you. To house elves," Pansy toasts, taking a small sip of the light, exotic varietal.

Harry clears his throat after setting down his wine glass. "Pansy? Kreacher's pretty much your Official Number One Fan now, you know. I've never seen him be so warm before – well, comparatively, you should have met him when I first inherited this house. You, Boadie, and Tavi – he's really making an effort."

"Ohhh… I'm rather flattered," Pansy replies. "Do you truly think so? Isn't he just doing his job?".

Harry chuckles. "He didn't make chicken with harissa and boiled new potatoes for me, Pansy. He's determined to impress you, love."

What do I say to that? Pansy instead busies herself with slicing and sampling her aromatic dinner. As anticipated, it is delicious… spicy and rich, without being too heavy.

"This is lovely, Harry," she comments, after happily chowing through a goodly portion of her meal. "I think you're reading too much into Kreacher's behaviour – but if he keeps feeding me up like this, I might never leave!". She hurriedly stuffs another forkful of potatoes into her mouth, wishing the impulsive words unsaid as an indecipherable (albeit intense) expressions washes across Harry's handsome face.

"How– how was your day, Harry?".

"Shit," Harry brusquely replies, laying down his cutlery. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so crude, Pansy. We used the Veritaserum on Bones and McLaggen – it was harrowing," he rasps, looking up from beneath his messy black mop. His beautiful jade eyes are sad and strained.

"Harry – you can tell me… if you want," Pansy offers, reaching across the table to softly stroke his forearm.

"Wait – what have you done to your hands? Did you punch Bones again?". She grips his fingers as he tries to pull away, clucking worriedly at the multitude of scrapes and raw bruises.

"No, no; though I might have given serious thought to strangling Cormac, at one point," Harry ruefully confesses. "Leo made me stand in the naughty corner, I only observed from then on. My hands got a tad banged up when I– er– I punched up the boxing bag in the home gym. Downstairs. In the basement. Kreacher already sprayed something antiseptic on them, it's fine." He shivers a little as she lovingly caresses each finger in turn, careful not to abrade the cuts and swelling. "That feels nice, love."

"Oh, Harry – your poor hands, you've really hammered them. Why didn't you use a healing spell?" Pansy chides, her voice thready as she fights back sympathetic tears. "I'll fix them now."

"Pansy, it's OK – please, eat your dinner, or we'll both risk Kreacher's wrath," Harry jests. "Little Tavi inspired him to consult a Healer about his rheumatoid arthritis, can you believe it? And he let me pet Boadie without first signing an indemnity agreement," he smiles.

"You can try to change the subject all you like, but I'm not having it." Pansy keeps hold of Harry's battered hands. "Harry, you're under a lot of strain… I'm worried about you. Please, will you talk with me?" she implores.

"I– I don't want to add to your stressors, Pansy. I'll be alright." Harry unnecessarily adjusts his rounded spectacles. "Really."

"This relationship… it can't be a one-way street, Harry. We have to take turns to support each other, not just you propping up me all the time – well, me and the rest of the world. I might be relatively new to this boyfriend-girlfriend caper, but I do know that much. You can trust me… and you can depend on me. I would like to know what's happening, with the roofie case. Depending on how comfortable you are with discussing it, of course." Pansy exhales deeply after her impassioned little speech.

She does her level best to ignore how damned adorable Harry looks, peering abashedly at her through his tousled dark fringe.

"You're right, love. I'm sorry; I do trust you, of course I do. I realize that sometimes I… bottle up my feelings, and take on a bit too much… I'll do better." He nods determinedly, roughly swiping his thick black hair from his brow. "I promise."

Smiling tremulously, an idea sparks in Pansy's head. "Harry, after dinner… may I give you a back massage? I'd like to speak with you first, though." Pansy withdraws her hand, nervously spearing a kalamata olive as she awaits his reaction. Have I pushed too hard?

"Oh, you don't have to do that, love! But… I'd really like that, Pansy," Harry grins. "I have a firm policy of never turning down an offer of a back rub from a beautiful witch – uh, not that I've had many – OK, this is the first offer, and probably the last," Harry ruefully comes clean, as Pansy chuckles at his (charmingly awkward) attempt at flirtatiousness. "Go on, mock a bumbling wizard's smooth moves, why don't you?". His face sobers as he concludes, "We can talk now; are you alright? I'm sorry, I've had my head up my own– I mean, I'm listening." Harry bolts down half his wine in one hit.

"It's not a big thing… well, I don't think it is," Pansy vacillates, before giving herself a mental slap. "Last night, when we were… making out– kissing, and– you know, petting– I mean, when we were getting hot and heavy on my snug… I greatly enjoyed it, and I'm very attracted to you, Harry," she babbles. "But I'm not quite ready to… go much further, I don't want you to think that I don't want to take us to the next level – I do! – but I need more time. I'm still working through my reactions to being 'outed' at the Gala, and everything that transpired afterwards. That's what I wanted to tell you."

Heaving out a deep, ragged exhale, Pansy flumps back against her chair, her posture relaxing as she finally divulges her reservations.

"Love, have I been pressuring you? Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry – putain de merde! I've been a thoughtless fool–" Harry clenches his teeth and yanks at his hair with both hands.

"Harry! Stop – you've not pressured me in the slightest, I was an eager and full participant in everything we've done together." Pansy leaps from her seat, rushing round the table to detach Harry's fingers from his much-abused sable crop. "It's a wonder you still have any hair, the way you savage it," she cradles his head to sweetly kiss his drawn-down mouth, before plopping into his lap.

"Let me take care of you, starting with these," Pansy lifts Harry's abused fingers to her lips, identifying and tenderly kissing each bruise, abrasion, and cut, in turn. "My boyfriend's a bit of a ninny sometimes, have I told you that? He thinks he has to carry the whole weight of his nearest and dearest's troubles… he needs to learn that every one of them is willing – and happy – to take turns, and can help bear his burdens, too." Sliding her holly wood wand from her skirt pocket, Pansy whispers "Episkey", concentrating fiercely until Harry's wounds are healed down to nothing more than faint bruising.

Harry gazes at her raptly, his eyes sheeny and bright. "You're amazing, you know that? Your idiotic boyfriend doesn't sound worthy of you, Pansy Parkinson. Are you sure you want to stick with him?".

"There's no one else I'd rather be with… and nowhere else I'd rather be," Pansy croaks the last phrase, guiding his palms to cup her cheeks. "Harry, don't you dare doubt that – don't you dare doubt how happy I am, with you. I'm not asking you to fix my problems; I just need you to listen, and to be here for me."

She pauses, gulping down her overspilling emotion. "I'm going to act in my Confirmed Girlfriend Capacity to respectfully suggest that you might benefit from speaking to a professional, Harry. I'm now thoroughly qualified to advise you on that, seeing on how I spent fifty-five minutes blabbing, braying and crying on a therapist's couch just yesterday," she grins.

"I don't know… it always feels– invasive… alright, alright, I know you're going to call me out for being a hypocrite," Harry allows. "I'll make an appointment to see the Auror Division's headshrinker– I mean, counsellor, by the end of the week. Thanks, love." His broad fingers caress her sensitive skin, his thumbs moving down to stroke her neck.

"You're welcome, duckie." Pansy giggles at Harry's flabbergasted reaction.

""Duckie'? Of all the pet names you can pick from… you go with 'duckie'?" he mock-protests, kissing the tilted tip of her nose.

"Well, you're fluffy, and adorable, and your hair's quite downy, Harry," Pansy builds her case.

"Hey, I'll have you know that 'duck' or 'duckie' is thought to have derived from the word 'Duke', not because of ducklings… Merlin, I guess I retained more of Hermione's obscure lectures than I realized," Harry grumbles. "What's a cross between an encyclopedia, a dictionary, and a thesaurus called?"

"Hermione Granger!" they laughingly answer in unison.

Pansy links her arms around Harry's neck. "What would you say to skipping dessert, and moving this little party to your bedroom? I'm rather keen to strip off your shirt… to rub your back, I mean." She impishly bats her lashes. "It's wholly therapeutic, not sexual; I promise." Not tonight, anyway, she amends in her head. But soon…

By way of reply to her suggestion, Harry slides his hands onto her hips, bunching the black silk beneath his hands. "Close your eyes, love."

He Disapparates them straight to his bedroom, keeping her upright as they land upon his bed.

"Pansy, you may do with me whatever you like; with one condition," he offers, smiling at her with undisguised affection and trust.

"What's that?".

"You be the one to explain to Kreacher why we turned down the butterscotch mousse dessert he fussed over half the afternoon – I'll be in for a right scolding, otherwise," Harry grins.

"Deal."


"Granger, will you stop whizzing about the room for five seconds, please? Come sit in my lap and tell me what's happening in that busy, brilliant brain of yours." Draco invitingly widens his legs and pats the space between his thighs. His platinum head rests against the padded headboard as he tracks her flurried movements with his glittering grey eyes.

"Uh, no… your lap has distracted me more than enough for one day, Malfoy," Hermione tuts, scribbling down another item on her list. "I won't be much longer."

Best not to look back at him – he's such a seductive temptation. I'm still behind on all my catch-up files, and I truly don't want to disappoint Marilda by leaving my paperwork unfinished. Thank goodness I already negotiated a change of bodyguard tomorrow; Mac jumped at the chance to come to the Ministry with me, one last time.

"You said that five minutes ago," Draco whines. "You weren't complaining about my lap when you were stretched over it… with your delectable arse bared to my spanking hand, ma petite." His petulant expression is replaced by a raunchy leer. "Je veux faire des cochonneries avec toi… beaucoup plus de choses sales avec toi."

Hermione decides to fight fire with fire. "Oh, oui... seulement la prochaine fois, je serai celui qui fesse ton beau cul, mon amour." She revels in his enlarged pupils and restless shift against the banked pillows. "You like that idea, don't you? Now cease your attempts to lure me to the bed, I've things to do."

"Interminable lists to write and re-write, it seems. Are you noting down an itemized account of everything you love about me? Carry on," Draco makes her laugh with his exaggerated, pompous wave. "No wonder it's taking you an eon to finish."

"I'm writing down everything I want to import here from my apartment, and figuring out what Ginny and Ron will need to bring," Hermione reveals. "Ginny owled me this afternoon; they're delighted with the idea of sub-letting, and will be moving in on Saturday evening. She has a Holyhead Harpies all-day practice session, else they'd come sooner. You don't have to be there, Draco; I'm well aware of your antipathy towards Ron, and I'd sooner avoid a blow-up," Hermione heads off his Ron-based gripe before he can voice it.

"Of course I'll be there, Hermione; I'm your boyfriend, and I fully intend to assist you with packing your things," Draco sullenly vows. "I won't start any trouble with Weasley, provided he stays out of my way. My unchecked jealousy is a thing of the past," he loftily states.

"Really? Is that why you terrorized poor Joseph McGrath, during your Hogwarts interview?" Hermione scoffs. "Did you think I wouldn't find out how rudely (and ridiculously) you'd behaved? Shame on you, Draco: you owe that lovely boy an apology."

"That rat fink Macdolas snitched on me, didn't he?! He can talk – you should have seen him, trying to trip Head Boy Whatshisname when he took them both downstairs," Draco snipes, grumpily folding his arms.

"Ruibby told me, actually. She was quite taken with Joseph, and she's already put a flea in Mac's ear for his peevish display." Hermione pauses in her list-making to eye her cranky beau. "I'm surprised Minerva didn't deduct twenty points from Slytherin for your insolence."

"Oh, McGonagall chipped me for it, never fear. Fine, fine – I'll say sorry to McGrab once we're moved into our quarters on Sunday, sweetheart. Gods… that's just a handful of days away," Draco muses. He smiles guilelessly; the sheer beauty of his comely features and relaxed, joyful demeanour makes Hermione's heart quiver.

"Did you ever imagine you and I would be living together – working together – at Hogwarts, Hermione? Not even in my craziest dreams – and I've had more than a few, starring you, of course – did I ever allow myself to envision such an incredible future." He fiddles with his sterling silver cufflinks, unclipping them before nervily dancing them across the backs of his hand like Jacks.

"No, I didn't… I never conceived of being so astoundingly happy, and fulfilled, as I am with you, Draco." Laying down her parchment and pen, Hermione gladly crawls up onto the big bed. She kneels beside him as she says, "Some nights, I wake up in your arms, and stay awake for five or ten wonderful minutes… just to soak up how blessed I feel, with you. Thank you, Draco."

The jiggling cufflinks are abandoned to the floor as Draco scoops her into his arms and hugs her tightly, peppering smacking kisses all over her smiling face. "I'm the one who's blessed, Hermione… my dearest love… my darling… my sweet little lioness." He briefly raises his head to boast, "I lured you into my clutches after all, didn't I? Muahahaha!"

"Being loved by you is no hardship, Draco. I am going to finish my list though." Hermione decides it's time to voice a niggling fear. "Do you think we're moving too fast? Have we allowed ourselves enough time to get everything done, this weekend? I mean, we have to survive dinner with both sets of parents on Friday evening; then on Saturday, we've your Quidditch game, and I'll have to cherry-pick the rest of my belongings from the flat, plus sort out what we need to take to Hogwarts… Minerva said our chambers will be furnished, but we can swap out our own things once we've settled in a bit… and what about Mac and Ruibby? I'm worried about how they'll cope in a strange environment, plus they'll be properly living together for the first time–"

"They'll be perfectly fine, sweetheart – Macdolas's inexplicable charm and Ruibby's tenacious intelligence will see them through just about anything," Draco steadily assures. "Though I did warn McGonagall of Macdolas's ferocious tendencies and obsession with sharp weapons; she's going to have a quiet word with him about the school's own extensive safeguards and well-protected boundaries… and perhaps run a few metal detection spells on the rascal every morning," he snickers.

He curves his right arm around her shoulders, gently stroking her unbound hair. "You're my little worrywart, aren't you? Don't fret about Friday's dinner, our mothers are a formidable pairing and neither of our fathers will dare to cross them. I don't expect you to come to the Quidditch match, it's just a friendly get-together with our friends and your workmates.'

"Do you feel things are moving too quickly, Hermione? We can always renegotiate for more time. If– if you'd rather have your own quarters at Hogwarts, we can do that too… whatever works best for you, love," Draco's smile is pained as he makes the tentative offer.

"No! Please, I never meant to imply that I feel rushed about us– believe me, I'm ecstatic with how our relationship is progressing." Hermione shakes her chestnut curls in vigorous negation. "I can't wait for us to live together at Hogwarts, Draco. I want to make sure you're OK, too… given how structured your life was before I bumbled into it, I'm concerned that too many sudden changes of lifestyle and profession might be somewhat… triggering."

Draco's cloud-grey eyes express his relief at her explanation. He drifts his thumb across her cheek, resting it against her parted mouth as he replies, "Knowing that you care about me like that… well, it's nothing short of miraculous. Thank you, Hermione. I will admit to some anxiety about our life changes, but I'm going to ensure that I attend regular AA meetings, possibly at night, or on the weekends. Ewan's just a telephone call away, too. I intend to buy a mobile phone tomorrow, since you've banished me from your office for the day," he teases.

"You've only yourself to blame for that, Malfoy – you're too sexy and handsome for your own good, and well you know it," Hermione kisses his pale thumb. "Oh, and I'm definitely going to watch your Quidditch game… that's going to be a highlight of my weekend, trust me," she mutters the last to herself. "Let me up, please; I have to get that list sorted."

"Alright, Miss Bossy Britches. But I demand a kiss first," he puckers his mouth into a parody of a model's pout and coyly flutters his dark blonde eyelashes. "Hurry up, your 'homework' won't ever be finished, otherwise."

Laying her hands flat on his chest, Hermione takes her own sweet time, choosing to first caress his eyebrows with her closed mouth. She savours the tiny sighs he releases as she kisses the outer corners of his shuttered eyes, before gliding along his cheekbones. Finally she touches her lips to his… flirty little passes of her tongue tip that swiftly evolve into full-blown passion.

Pushing Draco back against the heaped pillows and bedhead, Hermione enthusiastically dips and swirls her tongue into his groaning mouth, loving his tangy taste and eager responsiveness. She doesn't cease her sensual onslaught until they are both gasping for breath.

"Sod that ruddy list, Granger," Draco tries to recapture her kiss-swollen lips, growling as she pulls away her head.

"Stop, stop – I've paid my dues. There's a reason I always beat you for top marks, Malfoy: I stayed focused, and avoided distraction as much as possible. You, sirrah, are the greatest threat to my committed concentration, and I won't be swayed," Hermione proclaims. She immediately makes a mockery of her proud speech as she dives back in for a last snog. I can't help it – just look at the man… my man.

"What's that you were saying, Granger? Oh yes: you won't be influenced or side-tracked from your goals," Draco gloats, once she actually succeeds in distancing herself from the sexy devil by hastily clambering off the bed and out of reach of his strong arms and firm lips. "You didn't always beat me for the top spot in class, you know. I bet your secret ardent attraction to me sabotaged many of your study sessions, anyway."

The smugness in his voice makes Hermione want to hit him with a horn-growing hex. "Pfft. Hardly. To both your claims. You wish, Malfoy," she flouts, fully reverting back to childishness by derisively blowing a raspberry back in his direction.

Their amused gazes clash; a heartbeat elapses before they simultaneously burst into laughter.

"By Salazar, you're a funny one, Hermione. I wish we– well, I– hadn't wasted our school years being a stuck-up little bastard to you," Draco wistfully says.

"Never mind all that; we can make it up to each other in– " Hermione checks her wristwatch – "one hundred and eight hours, and a handful of seconds. Look out Hogwarts, here we come!" she beams.

Grinning euphorically back at her, Draco relaxes his head back against the top pillow, humming quietly.

"Oh, ma petite… I cannot wait."


It's just a massage, Harry sternly tells himself (and his far too-invested nether regions). Remember what Pansy said – it's not sexual, it's therapeutic. Don't embarrass yourself, man. She barely touched you when she removed your glasses, unbuttoned your shirt, and helped you out of your trousers, and you're already more riled up than a hungry Hungarian Horntail after a lean winter.

Hurriedly flopping onto his belly on the end of the bed, Harry's arms jerk awkwardly by his sides. Should I leave them there? Cross them under my head? He opts for a posture somewhere in between, leaving his splayed hands folded by his shoulders. I probably look like a lizard, poised to scurry across the floor.

"You don't seem comfortable, Harry. Choose the pose you feel most natural with, OK? I'll just grab some moisturiser, it works almost as well as massage oil." Pansy patters out of the bedroom; Harry assumes she is headed for the bathroom.

Do I even own moisturiser? Oh yeah – there's that stuff Hermione gave me a few Christmases ago. Some kind of crap with shea butter and jojoba oil… and what else was she going on and on about, allegedly to offset razor burn? Collegial oats? Whatever. Harry is about to sing out to Pansy to ask if she needs help finding the large jar when she returns, the lotion clutched in her hand.

"Harry James Potter – have you even opened this? I had to rip off one of those shiny adhesive Muggle gift bows, for heaven's sake," Pansy chastises. "You should take better care of your skin – you will take better care of your skin, starting right now. Sit back up, I'm going to rub this into your face, then I'll massage your back." She clicks her tongue impatiently as Harry merely blinks back at her. "What's wrong?"

"N-Nothing." Harry snatches at a nearby pillow, wedging it in front of his legs before he obeys. Godric's balding ballocks – if I'm this het up at the thought of Pansy's beautiful hands on my skin, how am I going to survive the actual massage? He gulps, closing his eyes as he turns to face her.

"Relax, duckie." He hears Pansy unscrewing the lid and peeling off the sanitary plastic barrier. She strokes the first daub of cool cream over his brow; Harry's head automatically drops in pleasure, tingles grazing up and down his spine.

"There… that feels good, hmm?" Pansy soothes. "Will you tell me what happened today, please? Just the broad outline. I'm listening, Harry," she continues smoothing the lightly-fragranced lotion over his cheeks, diligently working it into his beard scruff before gliding down his neck, and behind his ears.

Holy cannoli – is it possible to die from sensory overload? Harry wonders, unable to process Pansy's question for a few moments. She's so gentle with me…

"We gave Cormac the Veritaserum; he basically hanged himself, Pansy. He was absolutely incensed by Marcus's 'betrayal', and wasted no time naming names and telling us where to find Flint's list of contacts and all the research information about the roofie potion's development and funding. We expect to make a series of international arrests in the next few days," Harry quietly replies. "It was… disturbing, the way he ranted. He truly believes himself entitled, and hard done-by."

"The worst of it is – well, I know that Cormac is irredeemably evil, and cruel. There's nothing – nothing! – that could ever justify or excuse his actions, and their disgusting plot." Harry sucks in a breath, momentarily opening his eyes to sombrely look into Pansy's jasper-green depths.

"The thing is… I felt a tiny shred of pity for him. I think– I think his uncle might have abused him, when he was a kid. And when he talked about his bitterness at not receiving recognition after the War… he had a point, though his viewpoint is so darkly twisted. I'm sorry, this is too much," Harry regrets his candour as Pansy's face grows markedly dispirited.

"No – it's alright, love. It makes me sad… the damned cycle of abuse, it keeps creating more victims, who in turn become predators," she responds in a subdued voice, her hands stilling against his jaw. "I know not all abusers are themselves abused; but many are, aren't they?" she asks rhetorically, expelling a long sigh.

"Harry – you can't blame yourself for the adulation and fame that people forced upon you, after you defeated Voldemort, and the dust had settled. You never asked for it, and I know you never wanted any special attention or consideration," she insists.

"No, I didn't – but that's the thing, Pansy, I didn't beat Voldemort on my own. Everyone defeated him – everyone who refused to be cowed, everyone who risked their lives and families to stand up to his wicked, maniacal reign of terror – everyone deserves to be acknowledged. I hate that we – me and Hermione and Ron – somehow became these ludicrous 'heroes'. Knowing that the lack of appreciation shown to Cormac contributed to setting him on his path of vicious crime and horror… it's awful." Harry shudders, grateful for Pansy's touch to help ground him from his despair.

"I know – I understand – but Harry, that's human nature, to single out the few from the many. Creating and celebrating public figureheads who represent goodness and grace helped people to heal, especially after the trauma we all went through," Pansy nods emphatically, refusing to let him drop his gaze.

"It's not fair – and it's not true, this idea that any of us were somehow special, or without sin, or that we weren't scared shitless most of the time," Harry chokes out. "So many times, I wanted to flee– I dreamed of running away, just finding some tiny, impossible corner of the world where no one knew me, or my tragic history. Some hero I am."

"Harry. You were incredibly brave, and selfless, and strong – and not just because of what you did, but because you stayed. Don't you see? You're not a saint, but you chose to stay, and fight, and help others. That's what makes you special – that's what makes you a hero." Pansy trails her index fingers from his rigid jawline, winding them around his ears, before mildly tugging on his lobes. "I hear what you're saying – but Cormac and Marcus made their choices, too. You're not responsible for their decisions to commit evil crimes. They are."

Sagging a little, Harry closes his eyes against the surge of tears Pansy's kind words engender. She finishes caressing the fancy lotion into his facial skin in silence, every slide of her hands bringing a fresh wave of joy.

"Lie down, Harry. Let me lo– let me look after you." Pansy guides him to lie back on his stomach, her hand upon his right shoulder as he docilely obeys.

A few salty droplets leak from his eyes as he tucks his head onto the shielding pillow, leaving his arms loose against his bare ribs. Expecting to suffer some vulnerability, Harry is surprised at how... contented he feels.

"I'm just going to tie back my hair, lest it tickle you when I bend over," Pansy elucidates.

"I don't mind, I love your hair," Harry murmurs. "So silky, and soft… so beautiful. Like you."

"Says the man who claimed he lacked romantic words," Pansy husks a laugh. "Please tell me if the pressure of my hands is too hard, or not hard enough, OK?".

He nods his assent. "Pansy? When did you learn massage?" Harry bites his lip as her moisturized hands press into the base of his spine, travelling in wide parallel arcs up to his neck. Sweet Merlin, that feels spectacular.

"I take weekend courses in Muggle things that interest me," Pansy surprisingly reveals. "Just the last couple of years though, I was kept busy building up my companies, before then. Besides practising on our classmates, you're the first person I've massaged, Harry." She tsks unhappily before he can express his gratitude.

"Harry, your neck is as stiff as a board! I'm shocked you can move your head at all, honestly." Moving to the other side of the bed, she increases her skilled manipulations of his tight muscles. "Close your eyes, and take nice even breaths. That's the way," Pansy encourages.

Doing as he's bid, Harry relishes the warmth and release her busy fingers are creating. Though her touch is incontrovertibly arousing, the sensation of being lovingly touched and expertly cared for supersedes his desire. His respiration hitches a few times as the sheer delight of the experience overwhelms him.

He pretends a few minute coughs to disguise the glitches in his breathing. Harry feels himself decompressing with every leisurely, concentrated pass of Pansy's small hands. Having worked industriously to free up his crazily tight neck muscles, she now alternates between strokes and taps along his vertebrae. Her body heat seeps into his skin as she leans over and across him.

I have to stay awake, he drowsily admonishes himself. It'd be rude to conk out in the middle of this glorious massage, he thinks, yawning hugely.

"Go to sleep, Harry. It's alright, my love." Pansy's whisper penetrates his languid consciousness just before he succumbs to the welcoming embrace of slumber.

'My love'… you're my love, Pansy. My Pansy… my love…

Harry falls fully asleep, a little smile lifting his cheeks as Pansy continues to massage his broad back and shoulders.

"Sweet dreams, duckie."


French translations:

Je veux faire des cochonneries avec toi… beaucoup plus de choses sales avec toi – I want to do dirty things with you… many more dirty things with you.

Oh, oui... seulement la prochaine fois, je serai celui qui fesse ton beau cul, mon amour - Oh, yes... only next time, I'll be the one spanking your beautiful bum, my love.