Chapter 35: Fan of the Rodentia

George Weasley leaned over the counter and flipped his newspaper open. Images of Hermione and Draco still dominated the press cycle, despite days having passed since the new-look Sunday Prophet exploded into the world. He'd seen women sobbing in the street, clutching the magazine, and he wasn't sure if they were sad or happy. It was all anyone could talk about. He thought he might write a note to Parkinson congratulating her on the success. Perhaps concede that her work was more than just peddling nonsense.

"Excuse me?" George looked up at a young woman with far too many feathers in her hat. "Are you George Weasley?"

"Yes." He frowned, hopeful she wasn't going to ask something horrific about the war. George had learned since his harrowing experiences had become public knowledge, the public lacked tact, and many were mental.

"Oh wow." The woman gasped, and the plume of feathers in her hat trembled.

"Can I help you with something?" He queried when she didn't say anything else.

"Just these." She slid a bundle of daydream teas in his direction.

He wrung up the sale, casting his eye about his shop. It was busy for the midweek, and there were more women than usual. Many more women. Weird.

"I'm Emma Prewett, by the way." She giggled ferociously and then blushed.

"Cool." George dropped the bag into her hands with a raised eyebrow and turned back to the paper. He flicked past the story about a Death Eater caught strangling muggle women in Bath and headed straight for the Social Pages. He wasn't a fan. He just liked a bit of escapism.

'A Gent of Note' George read the title and couldn't help the tug of his cheek at her name, under the headline.

'Dear Reader, our reportage of the Winter Ball at Malfoy Manor continues, days after the event. I don't think there has been a gala with so much meat in the history of the pages. As such, we find ourselves late to the discussion of bachelors. While the bash was a roaring success in every other aspect, there was a distinct lacking in the eligible young man department. In this arid landscape reader, we found our solace in a hidden gem. George Weasley…' George stopped reading, and his eyes shot back to the shop. Women, spinster women, had their sights pinned on him like he was the last morsel of Pumpkin Pie at a Weasley family dinner.

"Parkinson…" George hissed, rolling his newspaper up. He looked down at his hand, clutching the tube. "What are you going to do? Swat her with it?" He asked himself out loud, really not used to an audience. "GUNTHER?" he called his assistant, keeping his back to the counter, lest any of the horny heiresses try to attack him from behind.

"What?" In his late forties with spiked blonde hair, Gunther appeared from a hatch above George.

"Watch the shop," George commanded, leaping over the counter. He scooted around the store, keeping his back against shelves as he desperately tried to avoid eye contact.

"Why does it smell all musky in here?" Gunther wrinkled his nose.

"Panties Parkinson!" George yelled by way of explanation.

"Hello," A woman with crooked teeth and what looked like a pet rat on her shoulder hovered over him as he made his final leap for the exit.

"Hi." George shot a derisive look at the rat.

"Oh, not a fan of the Rodentia?" She grinned. He realised her crooked teeth made her look eerily like her pet.

"My little brother actually had an adult man pretending to be a rat living in his pocket for years." He watched the rat-faced woman gasp in horror. "Bye." He scurried past her and out of the shop.

Draco Malfoy couldn't lie. The floo network was a wondrous and miraculous feat of magical engineering, but its most fantastic offering was forcing witches onto their hands and knees to shout at their former employers. Draco chewed his lip as he watched her jean-clad rear bob indignantly in front of the hearth.

"The denial of the elves' application for commercial use of the floo network was a personal attack, and we all know it." She snapped into the green flames. "Dierdre Barlow was demoted to the network manager position, and this is her revenge…." Draco watched as she listened to the people on the other side of the link. She kicked a leg furiously.

"I'm sorry, sir, but 'they're not human' isn't a legally sound argument!" She was shouting, and he was hard. He wasn't sure why her pitched voice affected him, but it always had. He smirked at his wicked ways, relishing in her fury. Very grateful that it wasn't directed at him.

"Well, sir, we'll see about that. I hope you're ready to fight, and I hope when you lose, you do so graciously." Draco watched her back arch like a cat and was fearful that she'd leap into the fire completely, "No sir, I think I've got the right fucking amount of confidence." With that, she flung herself out of the flames and onto the rug. Draco closed the floo with a flip of his wand.

"Good meeting, darling?" The smirk didn't leave his face. The tent remained in his pants.

"I will crush them." she leapt to her feet and stalked toward his breakfast table like an apex predator. "He said I was moving too fast with the elves!" She pushed Draco's chair, with him seated on it, back from the counter where his coffee and eggs sat, untouched from the moment she knelt at the fireplace.

"And you said, 'they've been enslaved for hundreds of years, Minister, should we wait a couple of hundred more?'" he grinned as he recited her argument.

"He had staff in the room with him." Hermione's fists balled with rage. "He was showing off." her lip tightened over her top teeth. Draco was suddenly reminded of when she hit him all those years ago.

"He's been reading the papers." The Observatory and the Prophet had both run stories in their political pages about Hermione's sway with the ministry and how long it would be before she dethroned The sitting Minister. The Observatory had erred on the side of caution with a prediction of ten years, while The Prophet had doubled down with a cavalier five. Hermione had said both were ridiculous. She wouldn't run for minister until she was at least forty six.

"He's got no idea what is about to hit him," Hermione growled and swept her arm across his breakfast, sending his eggs flying toward an antique urn.

"What are you doing?" He stood and watched as she flung herself back onto the table.

"You said you wanted to have angry sex. I'm fucking furious and need to redirect my energy." Hermione grabbed at the wool of his jumper and dragged him roughly toward her "plus, you've been standing at attention since I knelt on the rug." She inclined her head toward the floo. Draco scrabbled for his wand, ready to magically disrobe them both. "If you vanish these jeans and I can't find them again…" something that had happened to her favourite eating pants. He had no clue where he'd sent them to. He'd been in such a rush. "I will murder you, and Ginny will help me cover it up. These are the only jeans that fit me right," she said in a small but deadly voice.

"To the laundry basket," he assured, "You're scary when angry," Draco smirked as their clothes vanished.

"After we're done here, I need to go to Dover." Hermione wrapped her arms around Draco's neck, pulling him roughly into her.

"Ow!" He protested with a smirk "need company?" he asked as her mouth attached to his neck.

"No." She grumbled against the juncture of his throat. "Now shut up and grab my arse." She commanded before sinking her teeth into him.

"I've told you before, Granger," He did as she bid and roughly manhandled her rear, lifting her up to meet his throbbing cock, "If you don't stop biting me, I'm going to Turkish Delight you."

"You wouldn't dare." She bit him again just to show off.

"PANTIES PARKINSON!" George Weasley strode with purpose through the bullpen of the Daily Prophet. His eyes scanned the messy desks and the glass-fronted offices for a shock of raven hair. A few journalists and photographers who knew him from the post-war parading he'd been forced to take part in shot him waves and smiles. George ignored them, his mission singular.

"Hello, Georgie boy." Pansy grinned as she flung open the door of her tiny office at the far end of the workroom.

"You!" He pointed at the paper.

"Ah, you read my little column." She purred as he stomped toward her, almost knocking a goblin print mechanic off his feet.

"Watch it there stretch," The little creature groused at the joke shop owner.

"This isn't a column Parkinson. It's a fucking war drum." He seethed as he stomped into her… office was too generous. It was a glass cubicle. When he was fully ensconced in her world, he noted that she lowered the blinds, ensuring the many prying eyes were left with nothing but their imaginations.

"I forgot you like to make a scene." She smirked and popped an eyebrow up. He was shocked to find her almost entirely clothed in muggle wear. Her dress was well made and contoured to her body, the black fabric a stark contrast to her fair skin. She wore shoes that seemed almost dangerously high. The spiked-heel had George Weasley transfixed. "How do you walk in those things?" He found his brain distracted from his mission.

"Pain potions and practice." Pansy pushed herself onto her bare desk. She clearly didn't go in for trinkets. Her office was almost devoid of personal touches, except a small framed picture of an elderly woman waving happily and a potted poinsettia. His mind blanked again. "Your mother sent me the plant this morning and a lovely letter, thanking me for the kind things I wrote about her son," Pansy spoke, realising he was rendered mute.

"You said I was a mogul." He snapped back to reality, slamming the paper onto the desk beside her.

"You are!" She laughed loudly. "You own a successful franchise of joke shops…."

"Three!" He corrected.

"And you have the ministry contract for diversionary defences." Pansy rapped her fingers on the wood of her desk as she watched him seethe in the small space.

"That's private." He pointed at her warningly.

"It's public record," She grinned. "And I don't know why you're annoyed, Georgie boy. I only had lovely things to say about you!" She cackled and watched him turn aimlessly, trapped in her glass cage. Pansy opened the newspaper he'd brought with him and flicked open to her pages. "George Weasley is a bachelor unlike any other." Pansy recited gleefully.

"I am not a bachelor!" He countered.

"Oh, I'm sorry, have you wifed up since we last met?" She licked at her canine as she toyed with her prey.

"No, but…"

"The joke-shop mogul has carved his place in the retail and private sectors." she continued to read. "Well connected, handsome and charming, it's astounding this magnate has managed to keep himself unbound. We wait with bated breath to see which persistent Witch has the wit to win this Weasley." she snapped the paper shut, "I'm a fan of alliteration."

"Why did you do this?" he slumped into her office's single chair.

"Well," Pansy took a deep breath and canted her chin to the ceiling, "I thought it would be funny. Which I was right about. It's hilarious." She cricked her neck from side to side before lowering her gaze to meet his narrowed eyes. "You and Fred tormented me, called me Panties, shrunk my skirt, gave me some sort of pastel that made me squawk for hours, amongst countless other transgressions." He hadn't heard anyone say Fred's name in a long time, and the casual way she did it, felt like a glass of water being splashed in his face. It woke him up and reminded him for a moment who he was. "And then you had the sheer audacity to mock my column and undermine my life's work all while being a secret fanboy. No… I think not. Karma is a bitch, and she's called Pansy." The dark-haired woman's face broke into a mischievous smile as she waved the paper in front of him.

"You have no idea what you've just done, Panties." He pushed himself to stand, shaking his head. His hair fell into his eyes, and he swept it back.

"Oh, I do. You're Georgie boy." She also stood. Even with the heels, she was barely nose to chin with him. "You'll retaliate with something trademark Weasley, fill my flat with fake poo? Make my chair disappear? Make an attempt to embarrass me" She smirked and shook her head. "I'm a penniless spinster who has no family and no prospects. There's nothing you could do." She shrugged and leaned into him, enjoying that clearly, neither of them knew what they were doing. "I'm shameless."

"That fake poo stuff was child's play, Panties." he hadn't felt like this in years. The closest he got to a prank now was tormenting Ron. That was less a fun activity and more a civil service. Someone had to make Ronald as miserable as he made everyone else.

"Oh, am I getting the big guns?" She clapped her hands, "Fun."

"You're in a world of trouble." he stepped back, breaking the intense standoff they'd somehow embroiled themselves in.

"There you go underestimating me again, Georgie boy." She flicked her wand, and her door opened.

"I see what this is," He called loudly, drawing the eyes of every hungry journalist in the building. "You want my attention, Parkinson." He grinned with both cheeks. A rare sight indeed.

"Well, your attention is a precious commodity George. All those sopping spinsters chasing after Wizarding Britain's last eligible mogul." Pansy crowed, her hip cocked against the door frame as she watched him leave. A few of the copy girls whistled at the passing Weasley.

"There's only one sopping spinster who's got my attention now, Panties." George Weasley shouted over the throng of newsmakers as he edged closer to the door. She pursed her lips, and he was sure he saw her blush. "Victory," he whispered and headed back to his shop, preparing once again for war.

Hermione Granger and her shaky legs stepped out of the floo and into a dark, dust-filled office. It had been months since she'd visited. She scanned the executive office for the concierge bell she'd installed herself and tapped the button. Ding . She waited.

"Miss Granger," A breathless wizard in dark pinstriped robes barrelled through the door, sealing it behind him.

"Hello, Mr Pinter," She smiled and tugged at her woollen jumper.

"I expected you sooner. When you left the ministry." He said hurriedly as he illuminated the office and cleared the dust.

"I had other priorities, and I'm delighted with how you've been running things. Numbers are up?" She accepted the files he offered her.

"I just follow your plan." Mr Pinter, a short but handsome man in his mid-thirties, nodded. "and yes, ma'am, numbers are up." He tugged at his tie nervously. "Did you get my letter about the managers' concerns"?

"Yes, and their concerns won't be an issue for much longer." Hermione gave Mr Pinter a knowing look and slipped behind the large desk.

"Does this mean…?" he let the question tail off.

"It means things will change," She pursed her lips. "One of those changes will be our relationship with the ministry. "

A/N Pansy and George sitting in a tree!