Chapter 30: Flame

19 May, 2018
Malfoy Manor

The Future House of Malfoy

As consort to the future King of England, there is little doubt Hermione Granger is already quite conscious of her responsibility to bear the children who will inherit her husband's throne. While the House of Malfoy has produced a single son for the last four generations, there are already those who speculate that perhaps Hermione and Prince Draco, the first marriage made for love in nearly a century, may ultimately opt for a larger family.

Hermione is reticent to speak of motherhood, instead focusing her attention on advancements in science, art, and education, but Prince Draco is known to be exceptionally fond of his godchild, having spoken with great affection (and enthusiasm!) for the little one he calls 'Jamie' in various private interviews. It seems rather safe to presume we may soon see a nursery full of princes and princesses, if His Highness' doting nature is any indication of his willingness to start a family.

That any of us have even touched this book is preposterous, though I suppose there's something of a morbid curiosity in seeing how we've all been recast in Rita Skeeter's diabolical narrative. It was a marvelously clever thing Hermione did, in the end, requesting that Rita write the official account of her relationship with Draco; surely, had Rita been given anything less than the noose of Palace approval, she would have told a very different tale indeed. Her account of my marriage, for example, was certainly no sentimental ode to lovestruck coupling—though, I suppose that's what I get for largely foregoing romance.

Or, rather, for delaying romance, I should say, as 'foregone' is perhaps too harsh a sentiment.

20 December, 2014
London, England

"Are we done, then?" Neville said, glancing awkwardly up at Pansy.

The question had been preceded by about five minutes of silence that were neither particularly comfortable nor uncomfortable. They'd had several meetings of a comparable variety that ended similarly, though with some degree of variation. Is that all, Will I see you next week then, Is it just the cake tasting tomorrow, etc etc.

"Yes," Pansy said, taking a sip of her tea and doing everything she could not to retch it back up. "Unless you have any remaining questions," she permitted, though she fervently hoped he did not. Much as she had hoped, in theory, to be rendered emotionless by Neville's presence, she seemed to be suffering quite a lot of feelings in reality, none of them particularly good.

There had always been little disconnects like that for Pansy between her feelings and her thoughts, particularly where it came to her logical mind, which was in constant battle with a demon who seemed to live inside her head. At the moment, the demon was quietly suggesting to Pansy that perhaps she should simply reach across the table and shove Neville's head into his empty bowl of soup. It would flash behind her eyes for a moment, bright and intoxicating, and then she would swiftly exhale, bite her nails into her palm, and recall that this, the arrangement between them, was practical.

Necessary, even.

And then she would smile, like now, and Neville would give her a look that said how plainly he feared her, and she would tell herself that made her happy, or at least satisfied. She would not think about the last time Neville said he loved her, or the fact that it had been a lie. Such thoughts tended to upset the baby, or perhaps her digestion. It was beginning to be quite difficult to determine which sensation was which.

"I trust you with any and all cummerbund choices," said Neville, and in reply, Pansy thoughtfully did not remark how little she trusted him with anything, as she assumed by now he was probably already aware. She didn't make a habit of wasting her breath, or at the very least, tried not to.

She rested a hand on her stomach, imploring herself to remain calm. The many evenings of frantic research about her condition had informed Pansy quite conclusively that she was growing a brain at the moment—would soon be growing ears, hands, tiny fingers with tinier fingernails—and therefore, as the person responsible for such development, she should be quite careful with her body's reactions to things. Stress, for example. Sadness, too. Depression in the mother could irreparably harm the child, which she'd read about the previous night until she'd forced herself to sleep. The baby needed sleep. It needed food, comfort, warmth.

She painted on a smile, taking another sip of her tea.

"Wonderful," she said. "I'm meeting with your grandmother tomorrow to go over any final details, but aside from that—"

"I'll see you next week?" Neville supplied for her, and she nodded.

"I'll be the one wearing white," Pansy said, which was meant to be a joke, though it had the unintended effect of prompting them both to matching grimaces. There, she thought, catching the reflective wavering of his expression. See? We have something in common, don't we?

Perhaps the most important thing, in fact, in that they were very soon to share the same unsavory fate.

"Do you need a ride home," Neville began tentatively, "or—?"

"No, thank you," Pansy said, and Neville nodded, rising to his feet.

"Well, bye then," he murmured, and leaned forward hesitantly. Pansy forced herself rigidly still as his lips brushed her cheek, though the demon in her head suggested that shoving him away (and into the frying pan—or was it the fire?) would be preferable.

He glanced down at her stomach, and then, Pansy thought, perhaps something had stirred in him. The idea of being a father was very enticing to Neville, as she already knew. There had once been a time she'd looked fondly at Neville and thought how wonderful it might be to have several smaller versions of him. Perhaps a girl with her father's soft-spokenness, or a boy with his height and his kindness. It seemed unlikely Pansy would have any such things now, seeing as the child she'd actually been given would have none of those qualities even remotely. Instead, the baby whose brain she was currently growing would likely have black hair, messily unkempt, and a ruthless sense of irresponsibility. This baby, unlike the imaginary children she would never have with Neville, would have its mother's weakness and its father's proclivity for vice, which was… perhaps less than ideal.

Still, maybe it would also have an infectious smile; the specific sort of smile that made others wish to smile in reply. Perhaps with an incurable taste for adventure—which would mean at least one broken piece of priceless furniture—but then, it might also be a child who learned to mend and fix. It would have atrocious eyesight, without question, but maybe it would see the world as something to be conquered, and if she did nothing to screw it up now, then it might grow to hold the world in the palms of its hands, which Pansy herself would make for it.

She would do everything in her power to make everything as perfect as she could, as she had always done. Trust me, she thought to the baby, I will take care of you, and if I can promise you one thing, it is that you will never have a problem your mother cannot solve.

Neville must have noticed her spirits lifting, because he softened a bit, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Are you well?" he asked her quietly, and while she knew he meant something other than what he asked, she nodded stiffly.

"I'm fine," she said, though she must have done it poorly. Neville slipped his hand from his shoulder, letting it find a less icy place near his side, and withdrew a step.

"Next week, then," he said, awkward again, and Pansy nodded.

"Next week," she agreed, rising to her feet. Neville, gentleman that he was, helped her put on her coat, then awaited instructions. He was like that, always wanting to be told what to do next, or so she'd thought—though really, by now she no longer believed her understanding of him was particularly real. That had been the primary insult of the lying, after all; the deception of what he really was. It was less the fact that Neville had been sleeping with Blaise—Pansy knew better than anyone sex could so easily be nothing—but that he had been something Blaise could fall in love with, or at the very least, find attraction to. It must have meant that Neville himself was a lie.

They parted as he put her in her private car and turned away, heading somewhere she didn't know. Perhaps he was going home to Blaise. They were free (free enough, anyway) to be together now, and so perhaps they spent each evening in each other's arms, drinking Blaise's favorite wine and talking about nothing, or about everything. Blaise was enamored with his little joint meditations, ponderings he called exercises of thought; which, like all his games, could only be played with others. What about this thing, or perhaps this thing, Pansy what do you suppose this means?

Blaise, like Pansy, hated being alone. He feared it more than anything.

She could feel herself growing agitated at the reminder and soothed herself with a hand on her belly, closing her eyes as the car pulled into the street. She would have to name the baby after his father, most likely. Neville Longbottom II. Perhaps she could name him after Draco, though there were no appropriate nicknames to distinguish between them, so maybe not.

You could name the baby Henry, the demon suggested nastily, popping up inside her head.

Do me a favor and call me Henry while I fuck you.

Pansy tightened her legs, her pulse quickening slightly. This was hormonal, as she already knew. She'd always been very conscious of her body, which was how she'd known so quickly she was pregnant. Little things had changed; internally, of course, and then with her hair, her skin, her sense of the world around her. It was as if something inside her had woken up, and while it came with more vomiting than she cared to admit, she also felt in tune with something different, some energy outside herself.

So, given that, she understood her sexual impulses were more difficult to suppress lately than usual, and attributed it to the change of pregnancy. She glanced down at the baby and admonished it silently, then changed her mind. You do whatever you want, she said to it, I don't mind.

The car pulled up to her family's London townhouse and after gracefully disembarking, legs held perfectly together, Pansy strode in through the front doors, paused by a little sound of throat-clearing from her left.

She stopped short, going slightly rigid, then pivoted slowly.

"Mother," she acknowledged, and Lady Dahlia Parkinson pursed her lips.

"You're late," observed Dahlia.

"Yes. I'm afraid it took longer than expected to get a table."

"Did you give them Neville's name?"

"No. I made the reservation myself."

"Well, there you go, then," Dahlia said archly.

Pansy fought a grimace. "Is that all, Mother?"

By the looks of it, evidently not. Dahlia slid a glance over Pansy, expression souring further the longer she looked. "That dress is from at least four seasons ago," she noted. "The empire waist has thankfully come and gone, don't you think?"

"You told me yourself Chanel is never unfashionable," Pansy said.

"Good Chanel is never unfashionable," Dahlia corrected, "but even Karl makes mistakes." She paused for a moment, and then added, "You've put on weight."

Pansy glanced down, adjusting her coat. "I'm sure it's just the dress, Mother."

"No, dear," Dahlia murmured, "it isn't."

Pansy said nothing.

"The wedding is quite rushed," Dahlia noted, adding slyly, "More so than your friend Daphne's."

Silence.

"Daphne's such a pretty girl," Dahlia mused to herself. "Such a lovely figure, don't you think?"

Pansy shifted in place. "Mother, I—"

"Even that American has a memorable face. Disastrous, really, to think how she's had the gall to position herself, but I suppose that's rather remarkable, isn't it? In a slightly vulgar way, I suppose, for however long it lasts. Though," she added with a scoff, "if those partying photographs are any indication of what, exactly, Draco sees in her, then I suppose it's really no surprise—"

"Mother," Pansy said. "You may recall she's my friend."

"Yes, yes, you've mentioned," Dahlia said, dismissing the comment and adding tangentially, "Really, it's such a pity you never turned Draco's head. Though, I suppose that's my own fault. You were too familiar with him, always so eager to be his friend." She gave a small tsk of displeasure, adding distastefully, "A man never looks twice at a girl he's known since childhood."

"I'm marrying Neville," Pansy reminded her mother, who sighed.

"Yes, thankfully," Dahlia said, "though something's rather off about him, isn't it? He'll lose his hair early in life, I suspect. Best to get him on some sort of preventative supplement now," she advised, "or support a fondness for hats."

She pondered her glass of sherry, then gave Pansy another sweeping glance.

"Well done," Dahlia mused softly, and Pansy blinked.

"Well done what, Mother?"

Dahlia gave Pansy a look of detest for her tragic insipidity, rising to her feet.

"You've eaten very little," she observed, taking a few steps towards Pansy. "You've been unusually ill, and even you're not so ludicrously tasteless to consider this dress remotely flattering. Besides, having your wedding so soon after your friend's, it's unlike you." She slid the hair forward from behind Pansy's ear, adjusting it to fall more pleasingly around her face. "I know my daughter's ego well enough to know you'd never submit to such a brief engagement if it were not entirely necessary."

Pansy, who had been scolded from birth for her every nervous tick, was careful not to employ any in response. "I told you," she said quietly, "Lady Longbottom requested that we have the wedding sooner. Neville's father isn't well, and she hopes t-"

"It was really quite brilliant, what you did," Dahlia interrupted, removing a speck of dust from the shoulder of Pansy's dress and depositing it into the air. "You saw you were losing his attention, didn't you? I had questions, really, what with all the alleged tennis he so clearly wasn't playing," she said, chuckling to herself before sobering to glance again at Pansy. "Was it another woman, then?" she asked, and Pansy's mouth tightened.

"No," she said, and again, Dahlia laughed.

"Very well, don't tell me. I'm relieved, really," she sighed. "I was so worried you couldn't see it."

Pansy bristled. "See what, exactly?"

(The demon was feeling sadistic, it seemed.)

"That you'd lost his interest," Dahlia replied with clever certainty, shaking her head before adding, "Which, of course, you were always going to do eventually, but with such a long engagement I was beginning to grow concerned. The pregnancy was very clever," she admitted thoughtfully, "though, you'll need to do a better job of hiding it. If I can tell, then certainly so can everyone else," she warned, and Pansy fought the urge to flinch.

Dahlia smoothed Pansy's hair, half-smiling, and remarked, "I always suspected you lacked a bit of killer instinct, my darling. I never thought you had what it took, and for once, I'm pleased to see I was wrong."

Punch her, whispered the demon, or comment on her hairline. Either or.

But Pansy, who knew better than to listen, merely took a step back, removing herself from her mother's reach.

"I wasn't trying to trap him," she said, but Dahlia waved a hand, disinterested.

"Save your energy," Dahlia advised. "There will be others to convince. Your father, for instance, not to mention Augusta. She's very old-fashioned, you know," Dahlia sniffed, "despite what she claims. She'll want to think you pure, the old bat—so don't spoil it."

She turned her attention to Pansy's stomach, giving it a doubtful glance.

"You'll have to go away with Neville after the wedding," Dahlia suggested, still scheming to herself. "He has a house in the country, doesn't he?" she asked, and when Pansy nodded grimly, she declared, "Good. Stay there until the baby's born. People will talk, of course, but your reputation will be largely intact. When you return, you can focus on your patronage for—oh, I don't know. Impoverished children, perhaps," she said with a little shrug, "and people will forget any of this ever happened, as they do. Or perhaps simply have another very quickly and people will believe Neville exceptionally virile, which—Pansy. Pansy, are you listening?"

The idea of sleeping with Neville, once fine enough, was now repulsive to the point of upsetting even the baby. Pansy, feeling a series of newly unpromising symptoms, had clapped a hand over her mouth, hurrying to the stairs as her mother let out a chuckle that grew to a full, mocking laugh.

Please be a boy, Pansy thought desperately to the baby. I'll grow the dick myself, she told it firmly, just to see to it you'll have some privilege I haven't.

Then she flung herself into the bathroom, her knees hitting the priceless Italian marble of her parents' expensive floors, just in time for her stomach to turn.

At night, Pansy dreamed about Harry.

During the day, she thought of the former versions of him, imprints from her memory, which came to her mostly out of curiosity. She would rest her hand on her stomach and think of him at the various ages the baby would one day be—the scrawny orphan he'd been, then the lanky teenager in glasses, then the young man who'd always been the sort capable of convincing other people they needed his approval. When they'd been children, Pansy would always secretly hope Harry would be the one to invite her to play. Draco always did, but he and Theo spoke a language she didn't understand, and therefore the games weren't always fun (the two of them were either always on a team or they were cheating, she was sure, though she could never quite figure out how). But it was Harry who would tease her about how clean and pressed her dress was, who'd push her and nudge her and pull her around and dare her to do this or do that, and wasn't she so scared of everything? Get away from me, she'd say, and Harry would grin his sloppy grin that matched his untucked shirt and his overgrown hair and then he would oblige her, running off with Draco and leaving her to wish she'd said nothing at all.

Pansy had seen Harry's attention cut away from hers too many times to know she could never keep it. They were friends, and it was best that way, because there were no other women in existence as close to Harry as Pansy had always been. Having him and losing him would be a far worse fate than having nothing, and trapping him, unlike trapping Neville, wasn't an option. Neville enjoyed being trapped, even if he'd never admit it. He liked the security of having restraints, but being forced into anything would lead to Harry's eternal resentment.

This way, Harry would thank her, Pansy was sure. She would say I solved it on my own, and he would say you always do, Pans, you always know what to do, you always clean up my messes, and then maybe he'd kiss her forehead or she'd kiss his cheek and they'd go on as if nothing had happened—or so she hoped.

But at night, it was a different story.

At night, it was grown-up Harry, the Harry who'd had her on his kitchen table, who'd been wearing contact lenses instead of the glasses that had so long been a distraction from his wide green eyes. It was Harry's lips next to her ear, saying don't be afraid, Pansy, play a game with me, it'll be fun—Pans, you're a queen, he'd say in her dreams, and yes, sex with Neville was fun, just as it had been fun with everyone who'd come before him, but sex with Harry was incendiary. From a purely mechanical perspective, she could tell he'd had practice. Sex was a craft, and he'd clearly done the work on pacing, on responsiveness; on the subtle details of balancing aggression with intimacy, blending them to a brilliant jewel tone of quintessential satisfaction.

What people didn't always realize about Harry—because he was chronically procrastinating, and therefore a terrible student—was that he could be spectacularly single-minded when it came to something he wanted. He had a rare sense of focus, razor-sharp, when there was something he needed; it was almost a compulsion. He wanted answers, usually. He hated an unanswered question, and it nagged at him like an itch. She could see on his face he'd thought to himself I need to know how she works, and then he'd put himself to task, and if he solved one thing then he'd inevitably have to solve another. She likes my tongue here, how will she like my fingers? How will she have me when I pull her to my chest, where will I kiss her when I take her on her back?

Pansy, on the other hand, was meticulous, detail-oriented, which didn't always work for sex, but certainly did when it was sex with Harry. Her compulsion to get things right met his obsession with having answers in a way that meant nothing, absolutely nothing, was ever lazy. It meant every sensation was felt, and fully. It meant that when he slid his fingers through her hair and she pressed her lips to his intake of breath, neither motion was unintentional.

There were no accidents between them—except for one. For once, Pansy had let go just as Harry had asked, and look what had happened. It was probably no coincidence that the one time in her life she'd forgotten about her birth control had been the same singular instance she'd slept with Harry, who was about as wrong for her as any man (or woman, for that matter) could possibly be. She remembered coming home to the two pills she'd missed and thinking: It's going to happen, it has to, because things like this do not simply align to less than cataclysmic consequences.

It was either a miracle or a catastrophe, this baby.

But a true instance of either was so rare that Pansy couldn't help feeling it didn't matter which it was.

Usually, when she woke from dreams of Harry she thought of Blaise, who had been appearing in her thoughts more than she cared to acknowledge. Anger was a difficult emotion to hold, it seemed, and hatred too heavy to carry around. She wished her episodes of spite had more longevity, but between sharp instances of loathing she missed Blaise in little pieces she couldn't avoid. She missed his meandering thoughts, his constant wondering. She missed his laughter, his absurdity, the way she could never predict him, however much she tried. Neville was the proof, wasn't he? Blaise surprised her, always. He made her question everything, always. That the only man whose love she'd never doubted had betrayed her with the man whose love had always meant nothing was so consummately Blaise that Pansy wondered how she hadn't seen it coming.

She missed him, badly, and when she woke from her dreams of Harry to find a little pulse of yearning between her legs, she sometimes slid her fingers down and thought of Blaise. His love for her had been so constant, so maniacal, so beautifully undeserved. She didn't know which she craved more, that sense of undying loyalty or an actual fucking cock inside her. It was beginning to blur in her mind, the wanting, which she guessed was another symptom of growing a baby. Most of her thoughts, she suspected, were redirected to whatever it took to keep the little thing warm.

"Sorry," she whispered to it. She didn't really think of it as a real thing yet, though she did think of it constantly. She understood that it didn't have thoughts or feelings yet because she was still making the thing that would eventually provide them, but still.

She wanted it to know that she cared, even if doing so looked very convincingly like she didn't.

"So," Hermione said with Hermione's usual enthusiasm, "how was lunch with Augusta?"

UTTER FUCKING RUBBISH, the demon replied.

"Hermione, please," Pansy sighed, "I'm going to need you to immediately desist."

"Desist what?" she asked.

"Everything," replied Pansy, and Draco chuckled.

"Pans," he murmured, warning her to good behavior, and she pursed her lips, suggesting with a glance that perhaps, given everything, he should take his niceties and put them entirely elsewhere.

Following news of Prince Lucius' ill health, Draco had returned to London to continue his father's public appearances. The blow to his reputation that had come from his frolicking around with Hermione and the disaster twins had been addressed with Draco's usual diplomatic charm, but it was obvious Abraxas had put him on something of an apology tour, placing him in front of every conceivable media mouthpiece until they had no choice but to grudgingly consider his good deeds.

Pansy had (of course) scolded all involved parties for their carelessness, reminding them what happened when they no longer took into consideration the fact that actions had consequences. They, sheepishly, had said nothing for nearly five entire minutes—until, of course, Hermione had interrupted in favor of turning their attention to Pansy's personal life.

"Pans, I'm just asking—"

"It was fine," Pansy cut in, pursing her lips. "I don't always enjoy Augusta's taste, but as always, I'd be foolish to refuse it. Now," she sniffed, clearing her throat and rising to her feet, "if you'll excuse me, I suspect you have things you wish to say to me, which unfortunately I have no plans to entertain."

"But Pansy, I just—"

"Are the two of you back together or not?" Pansy asked neutrally, leveraging a pointed glance between Draco and Hermione until the latter's cheeks flushed pink. "Because Rita Skeeter seems to suggest that you are, whilst the two of you seem to be enraptured with an irritating little game that you aren't."

"We're not," Hermione said firmly, giving Draco, who was looking innocently down at his glass, an admonishing glare. "Well, I mean, we're… Well, we're, um—"

"Back together," Draco confirmed, and then qualified it with, "Sort of."

"Sort of?" echoed Pansy, who already knew as much. She looked over at Theo, who was shaking slightly with silent laughter, and returned her attention to Hermione, arching a brow.

"We're not," said Hermione, conclusively. "Together, I mean. Not really."

"Though, of course, they are," corrected Daphne.

"Well, yes," Hermione said, cheeks now furiously crimson, "but also, we're really rather not."

"We will be," Draco suggested, and Hermione nodded.

"Yes. I mean—maybe. But not necessarily," Hermione hurried to amend. "There is, after all, a reason I declined to spend Christmas with your family—"

"You're still in London, though, aren't you?"

"Yes, but that's unrelated. We discussed this, Daph, it's not as if I stayed for Draco—"

"Mm, of course not."

"—I simply stayed, which isn't at all the same thing—"

"No, of course not. Though it is, isn't it? Sort of," mused Draco, and Pansy, having successfully distracted them, slipped out of the room, making her way to the kitchen to fetch herself something she hoped (though the baby vehemently disagreed) would be moderately nutritional.

"They're hopeless," came a voice behind her as she was peering sullenly at a box of Weetabix, turning to find Theo leaning against the doorframe. "Though, so are our cupboards."

"Well, I hardly expected anything else," Pansy remarked, giving him a disapproving glance. "That the two of you are somehow continuing to survive into adulthood remains an unsolvable mystery."

"Mm," Theo said with a hint of suggestive amusement, "quite."

Pansy shot him a warning glare over her shoulder, then proceeded to seek out the Nutella she was confident Daphne would have hidden somewhere in the backs of her cupboards. "Is there something you want, Theodore?"

"Oh, only barely. I do seem to recall a certain friend who came to my aid when I was somewhat in need of some violent nudging," he mused, traipsing innocently towards her, "and I merely wondered if, perhaps, I might return the favor."

"The difference," Pansy reminded him irritably, "is that you, Theodore, are a mess, whereas I am clearly not."

"Well, indubitably." Theo launched himself onto the counter, letting his interminably long legs swing in the process. "Looking for something?"

"An escape hatch," Pansy said, locating peanut butter and considering it for a moment before determining it unsatisfactory. "Though, any hasty exit would suit me fine."

"The good stuff is in the spice cupboard," Theo advised.

Pansy gave him a narrowed look of suspicion, though she obliged, proceeding to shift one cupboard over. Behind the rack of spices (clearly purchased all at once, with only one or two showing any sign of being opened) was a bag of Haribo sour bears, a handful of Cadbury bars, something that appeared to be an enormous chocolate frog, and, much to the relief of Pansy's less responsible nature, a half-empty jar of Nutella.

"I can't eat this," she said over her shoulder, which was mostly a reminder to herself, and also to her demon. And the baby.

"Sure you can," Theo said.

"No, I can't. The baby needs vitamins."

"Hmm." Theo peered around his kitchen, frowning in thought, and then leapt off the counter, rummaging around in something Pansy hadn't realized was a fruit bowl until he'd removed the bundle of Daphne's scarves that had been sitting in it. "Well," he said, withdrawing an apple and hunting around for a knife, "as we were saying—"

"You don't have to slice it for me, Theodore, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"—you're clearly in need of guidance," Theo continued, surprising Pansy by managing not to cut off his own thumb, "and while I'm not the ideal person for it—"

"Or even an adequate person for it," she grumbled.

"—surely something about this feels wrong to you," Theo finished, beckoning for the jar in her hand. "The difference between us," he informed her, unscrewing the lid from the jar and slathering an apple slice in chocolate, "is that where I was once hesitant to make a choice, you are intent on choosing the thing you know is wrong." He held the apple slice out to her, tempting her with it. "Why do you think that is?"

She reached for the apple, scowling as Theo retracted a step. "Theodore—"

"Pansy," he said, arching a brow. "Why do you insist on the worst possible version of your life?"

"You don't know that. Have you considered the maths?" To his shrug, she informed him, "Surely if you had, it tells you that winding up penniless and cast out by my family is hardly the better situation."

"If they disinherit you, they have no heirs," Theo reminded her.

"They'd rather have none than me, believe me," Pansy muttered, and Theo sighed, holding the apple out for her.

"Take it," he said.

She stiffened. "I don't need any favors."

"It's not a favor. Open your mouth."

"Close yours," she growled, and Theo grinned.

"You're hungry, Pansy, and you need help. Separate issues, though not unrelated," he reminded her, waving the apple in front of her face until she looked away, annoyed. "You know, I have to tell you," Theo said, taking a step towards her, "I find it very interesting you'd rather marry Neville than whoever the father actually is."

Pansy, who was tired of being hungry in addition to immensely bothered, snatched the apple from his hand, taking a bite of it and opting not to answer.

"The reason I say that," Theo said as if she'd asked, "is, of course, because it doesn't exactly seem like you're afraid the father won't help you. I think," he said, watching her closely for a response, "you're afraid that he will."

Pansy said nothing, her expression still carefully schooled. Theo, meanwhile, turned back to the apples, picking up another slice, and dipped it into the Nutella a second time.

"I think you care about the father," Theo summarized neatly, holding the apple out to her. "Contrary to what you claim."

Pansy scowled, but accepted it. "I told you. I don't want him to know."

"Yes, clearly," Theo scoffed, continuing to scrape apples against the jar on her behalf, "but that's precisely what makes me so sure it's someone who matters. After all, Neville's quite safe, isn't he?"

"You think the man who cheated on me," Pansy echoed doubtfully, "is safe?"

"Yes, very safe," Theo confirmed, handing her the next apple slice. "Isn't he? He did the worst thing to you he could have done and you're still marrying him, which indicates to me that he didn't actually hurt you very much. Not as much as Blaise, anyway—"

"Don't talk about Blaise," Pansy warned, and Theo gave her a disarmingly Theo look of conspiracy.

"The point is," Theo continued, "whoever the father is, he clearly matters more to you than you're letting on."

He slid a sidelong glance at her, which she made a point to avoid.

"Pans, if you're afraid of telling him—"

"I'm not afraid of telling him," Pansy corrected impatiently, beckoning for another apple slice and snatching the jar from Theo's hand. "I'm not afraid, I'm just—" She broke off, glaring at him, and dug the apple into the Nutella. "I don't want to be tied to him for the rest of my life," she said in a low voice, and Theo frowned.

"You don't mean that," he said.

"Of course I do, Theodore, I don't go around saying things I don't m-"

"No, I meant—that isn't exactly what you're trying to say," Theo interrupted. "You're not afraid of being tied to him. You're afraid of him feeling tied to you," he noted, and then leaned against the counter, scrutinizing her. "Pans."

She glanced down at her fingers, noting chocolate on the pads of them. "What?"

"Lick it," said Theo, and she looked up, scowling.

"What?"

"Lick it," he advised, pointing to the Nutella, "and you do realize you're really rather loved, don't you?"

"Theodore, that's disgusting."

"Well, be that as it may, it's true. We care about you, Pans."

"I meant licking my fingers, but that doesn't help."

"Please. As if you don't want to."

"What, be cared about? I'm not a masochist."

"Actually, that's exactly what you are," Theo corrected her, "so just lick the chocolate, would you? You're only ridding yourself of a chance to be happy."

"What, because I won't stoop to grooming myself like a cat?"

"No, because you're planning a life with someone you will never love. And for the record," he drawled irreverently, "a cat is precisely what you are."

"Theodore—"

"You are not your mother," Theo said, and Pansy stiffened, still staring at her hand. "And for the record, I find it immensely silly that I have to keep reminding you. Don't you realize I have other things to do with my time? I have a very demanding schedule," he airily remarked, "which largely begins and ends with servicing my wife at all hours, but still—"

"I'm making its brain," Pansy said.

Theo blinked, interrupting his maniacal rant. "What?"

"I'm making its brain," Pansy said, and then clarified, "The baby's. I'm responsible for giving it a brain, and its heart, and then, someday, I'll be responsible for putting things in both of them. I will be the one to teach it right from wrong. I will be the one to read to it, to show things to it, to encourage it to dream or to try or to learn." She glanced up at him, frowning. "Do you ever think about how easy it is to ruin a child?"

"I do, actually," Theo confirmed. "All the time. But then I remember there's you," he assured her, sliding his finger along the lid of the Nutella jar, "who managed somehow not to be ruined by your parents—only very slightly damaged," he amended, meeting her glare with a wink. "And there's Draco, of course, who's mostly quite inoffensive as a person, despite being the spawn of blond satan," he said in an episode of gratuitous praise, glancing down at the chocolate on his finger, "and Harry has no parents, so—"

He placed his finger in his mouth, sucking it lightly, and shrugged.

"Maybe there's a bit more to it," he suggested, and Pansy made a face. "What? Go on, do it," he said again, and she sighed, glancing down at the smeared bit of cocoa and hazelnut on her finger.

"The baby wants it," Theo reminded her neutrally, and Pansy grimaced.

"I'm not naming the baby after you," she told him.

He shrugged. "Your loss."

She brought the edge of her knuckle to her mouth, making a point to kick him in the shin in the same moment his grin broadened.

"Ouch, Pans—"

"Don't tell anyone," she told him. "Seriously. Don't."

He straightened with a grimace, grabbing the jar back from her, and shook his head, digging two fingers in and smearing them over her face.

"And to think," he sighed as she let out a yelp, "I shared my wife's Nutella with you."

She scowled at him, visciously, and in apology, he held out the jar.

"Talk to him," he advised, and Pansy sighed.

"You've always been my least favorite," she grumbled, though she conceded to accept both the jar and the subsequently gifted spoon, leaning against the counter and licking chocolate from her fingertips as Theo turned to slice another apple.

Pansy supposed she shouldn't have been surprised to find her sitting room occupied upon returning home. She'd hoped for a bath, and maybe a quiet evening to read, but instead discovered something just shy of an ambush.

"Theodore sent you, didn't he," she commented drily, because there was nothing she hated more than being surprised. "Truly, he's so committed to lacking any form of subtlety I can't decide whether to congratulate him or kill him."

In answer, Blaise rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket.

"Does that mean you're happy to see me, then?" he asked.

Pansy tapped her foot for a moment, considering it. On the one hand, she could forgive him.

But on the other, he'd lied to her. Repeatedly. For over a year.

Some decisions really only require one hand.

"Get out," she said.

Blaise tilted his head, engaging his most infuriating habit of trying to read her intent rather than listening to her words.

Then, outrageously, he said, "Marry me."

Damn it, Pansy thought, quietly enraged. He must have known he was still the only person who could ever catch her off guard long enough to make his point.

"You've lost your mind," she said.

"Not quite. Nearly, but not quite."

"Get out."

"You haven't heard my proposition yet."

"I don't have to. I'm already engaged," she reminded him, "and also, I despise you."

His lips quirked slightly, and then he shook his head.

"Well," Blaise murmured, "as I've mentioned, hate isn't the opposite of love. I believe love's true opposite can be easily defined by your impending marriage, in fact."

Briefly, the demon in Pansy's head suggested a knife could be readily found somewhere in the vicinity, and that it would make a pretty home out of the side of Blaise's slender neck.

"Indifference," Blaise reminded her, "in case you've forgotten."

"Get out," she said, and he shook his head, bold now in his mutiny.

"Choose me," he repeated.

"Why would I ever do that?"

"Because you don't love Neville."

"I don't love you, either."

"Oh, you love me, Pansy, far more than either of us understand. Don't you?"

"Not anymore." She waited, sharpening her rage for a moment, and delivered her fury drily, succinctly. "You lied to me."

Blaise hesitated, then nodded.

"Yes."

"For over a year, Blaise, you lied to me."

"Yes."

"And you let Neville lie to me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I fell in love with him," Blaise said, and fell silent.

Pansy, meanwhile, felt an ache somewhere near her chest. She placed her hand on her stomach, remembering the baby's brain, and willed herself not to release any too-terrible hormones.

"You broke my heart," she informed him, and to his credit, Blaise looked sufficiently miserable. He looked, for another moment, uncertain, and then he took a step forward, and then another, until the two of them were face to face.

"I've hated every day of waking up to life without you," he said quietly. "I don't know what it will take to have you back, but I know you don't want to marry Neville, so I'm starting there."

He reached out, looking as if he would have taken her hand, and then stopped himself.

"I'll raise it, whoever's it is," he said, and she slid her arm protectively around her stomach. "It's yours, and that's enough for me. More than enough." He paused for a moment, collecting himself, and said, "I may not have Neville's name, but if it's money you're worried about, I have plenty. And I will love you," he promised her, dark eyes falling solemnly on hers, "better than Neville ever could. I knew what made you happy once, and Pansy, I could do it for a lifetime, happily, if you let me."

She'd never been a fan of pretty words. A consequence of growing up with people who meant nothing of what they said, and said nothing of what they meant.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because, Pansy, I'm telling you, I—"

"No," she interrupted, folding her arms over her chest. "Why?" she repeated, more emphatically that time, and Blaise flinched, nodding as if he'd known she would ask, but had been dreading it.

"I wish I had a reason that felt… reasonable," he admitted, and she was relieved to see he looked flustered, which he almost never was. "The truth is, I really don't. I don't know why it was him, I don't know why I couldn't turn him away, I don't know why I couldn't simply deny it—"

She knew Blaise well; knew, specifically, that he would spin silver all night if she let him.

"Deny what?" she prompted, cutting him off.

He looked away. "You always do this," he said, and she opened her mouth to retort, but he shook his head. "I mean it in a good way." He slid a hand over the hair shorn close to his head, looking wistfully disappointed, or perhaps grudgingly relieved. "I have been a falsity for so much of my life I forget, from time to time, that perhaps some people expect more out of me. That you," he clarified, "expect more from me."

Pansy arched a brow, expectant, and Blaise grimaced.

"I know you won't understand it," he said. "I know it won't be something that… computes for you, but—"

"What, you think I don't understand love?" she asked, suffering a sting at the accusation. "That because I choose tangible things, real things—just because I understand the way the world truly works, Blaise—I can't possibly grasp the sensation of loving someone. Is that it?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No, Pansy, I—"

"You think I'm just as cold as everyone else does—is that it, Blaise?" she demanded, frantic now with something she hadn't realized was fear until it produced a chill. "Everyone thinks I don't care," she snapped, feeling pressure in her throat and vehemently swallowing it down. "Look at Hermione—half the time she thinks I'm being cruel just because I'm trying to be honest, because I'm trying to tell her the things she needs to hear, but doesn't wish to. She thinks it means that I don't love her, that she doesn't matter to me, and I thought—" She broke off, swallowing again. "I thought you knew better, Blaise, I thought—"

"Pansy." He shook his head and pulled her tightly into his arms, and though she went rigid with dismay—remembering, after all, how many nights she'd thought of him, wondering what he'd been thinking and hating herself for it, for missing him, and for giving him the means to hurt her in the first place, which she'd been so careful to deny everyone else—she managed to slowly uncoil the tension in her limbs once she felt the rapid thudding of his heart, and the pressure of his throat that told her he was no less anguished than she was.

"I didn't mean that," he said in her ear, "but it's impossible not to fear you, at least a little bit, even when I love you."

She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest.

"He caught me, somehow, or caught onto me," Blaise said softly. "He saw through me, and at first I hated it, and hated him, but the clearer he saw me and wanted me anyway, the less I could stop myself from wanting him in return. You know my loathsome proclivity for truths," he murmured, leaning back to catch her eye, "and if that's what he loved me for, I don't know. I really don't. But I didn't know how to tell you, either, and I was too selfish and too afraid—"

"Afraid of what?"

Blaise winced.

"Afraid that if I stopped," he exhaled wearily, "I would never feel it again."

She wanted to say the words, Feel what?

But it seemed that somewhere, in little caverns of her chest where she had no wish to go, she already knew the answer.

She already understood that to feel something rapturous once was to wonder at constant intervals how fleeting it was, or how real it had ever been. It was to constantly question whether it was possible to feel it again, and there was a certain undeniable longing to do so. Because Pansy did understand love, didn't she? Understood, at least, that one of love's defining characteristics was the constant thumbing of its nose in the face of logic, toward rationality itself. Hadn't she always understood that Blaise Zabini, whatever he was, was rare? That he had made her, for all the times she'd been made to feel she was nothing, feel as if she, too, was something more than what she was?

And if Neville had done that for him, the demon in her mind whispered, then perhaps it wasn't all that surprising he'd given up everything to possess it.

"I didn't want to hurt you, Pansy," Blaise said, "and I know those must sound like empty words, but I really thought that—"

"Do you love him?"

Blaise blinked, looking down at her. "What?"

"Do you love him," Pansy repeated, and clarified, rather inanely, "Neville."

That, out of everything, seemed to be the topic Blaise was least comfortable discussing.

"I haven't seen him since Halloween, Pans. After everything, I couldn't… I just couldn't. And I promise, I swear to you, I'll never see him again, Pansy, never. Just let me do this for you—please," he said again, quietly anguished, "please, give me a chance t-"

"Do you love him?" Pansy asked, and then, coldly, "Don't make me ask you a fourth time, Blaise, or I'll be forced to remind you how much I detest being made to repeat myself."

Blaise hesitated again. She'd only seen him hesitate a handful of times, and most of them had been during this conversation. "Pansy, I—"

She gave him a hard look of impatience, and gradually, he withered.

"I'm so fucking in love with him I feel like it's rotting me from the inside out."

The statement dropped between them like a weight, at first, and then shifted somewhere before it reached them to float like a feather. In the span of an instant it went from heavy, burdensome truth to whispered confession, to the filigree of a secret shared between friends. How delicate it was, Pansy thought, and how weightless, by the end.

How terribly she had missed him, she thought, and reached up to touch the bone of his perfect cheek.

"I can't marry you," she said, and he blinked.

"Pansy, just give me a chance t-"

"I forgive you," she said, though she added firmly, "If you ever lie to me again—"

"Oh, I'll end myself before you have a chance to get to me," he assured her hastily, "I'm not stupid."

"Good," she sniffed, and pursed her lips, nudging him away. "Am I winning?"

"Yes," he said instantly. "You've always been winning. As it turns out," he sighed in false lamentation, "the keeper of the points is deeply, unquestionably biased."

"Be sure to take some points from Theo," Pansy said, "as I don't care for his little foray into mediation. It'll go entirely to his head."

"You keep saying Theo," Blaise noted with a frown, "but he never mentioned anything. It was Draco who told me about the, um. You know," he said, glancing down at her torso, and Pansy swatted at his shoulder. "Whatever little creature you seem to be growing in there."

"Well, be ready to commit treason, then, because we riot against the monarchy at dawn," Pansy said irritably, and then, noting that Blaise was still looking at her stomach, sighed loudly. "It's too small to do anything, Blaise, so please desist your incessant gawking. It's hardly bigger than a pea, and you're certainly not going to see it, however long you stare."

"Can I," Blaise began, and promptly made a face. "Can I touch it, or—?"

Cut off his hands, suggested Pansy's demon.

But then again, she thought with a sigh, it would be very nice to share it with someone.

"Yes, fine," she permitted, watching Blaise's eyes widen as he reached out, tentatively spreading his fingers across her stomach. "Happy now?"

"Yes, actually," he said, and while she once again wanted very much to feel nothing, she sensed a loathsome warmth rising from her chest into her cheeks at the look of uninterrupted bliss he wore on his idiot face. "I'm very happy, Pansy," Blaise said, and then looked up, meeting her eyes with a smile that made her feel quite alarmingly hollow (or perhaps rapidly overfull) for having been so long without. "Though, the fact remains that I would more than happily raise it with you, if you changed your mind."

"You would be a menace as a father," Pansy told him stiffly. "What child would possibly manage any discipline from you? Your impulse control is positively woeful."

"Ten points for diminishing my personal trauma," Blaise said.

Pansy slid her hand over his, letting her palm float over his knuckles.

"What will you do now?" he asked her quietly, and then added with a sigh, "Please don't say marry Neville, because I've played my last card with the marriage proposal. If that won't stop you, then I simply haven't the slightest idea how to recover from my crippling failure."

Pansy considered it for a moment, tapping her fingers on top of his, and then nudged his hand away.

"Get out," she said, and Blaise blinked.

"But I thought—"

"Go," she said again, and then, loftily, "Tell him I'll take care of it, like usual."

Blaise frowned, bewildered, and then slowly, his brows came unfurrowed. His eyes un-narrowed, his lips un-tightened, and every instance of tension in his shoulders came gradually undone, something dawning in each of his bones.

"Go," Pansy said again, and then, beatifically, Blaise smiled.

Then he kissed her forehead and pivoted away, clumsily—with the patience of a man who'd already waited a lifetime—and half-sprinted from the sitting room of her parents' empty townhouse, shouting his undying love for her as he went.

"Pansy," said Augusta, frowning at her entry. "It's quite late. I thought we were already clear on the floral arrangements?"

"We were," Pansy confirmed, "but it appears I will have to make one final change."

"Well, my dear, I realize you have a very… specific taste," Augusta qualified impatiently, "but as I mentioned, I simply didn't think your choices were appropriate for a December wedding. Given the expediency, it would be best if we simply didn't make any further changes, don't you think?"

Pansy took a deep breath, bit her nails into her palm, and exhaled.

"There's one change, actually. I will not be marrying your grandson," Pansy said, and Augusta stiffened, then frowned. She, after all, was as well-trained as Pansy, and would certainly rather die than betray any evidence of surprise. "The wedding is canceled. I have already taken the liberty of canceling the reservations made under your name, and provided both our families are willing to be discreet, I've drafted a joint press statement that I feel should be more than suff-"

"Have you lost your pretty little mind?" Augusta snapped, rising to her feet with a speed Pansy wouldn't have guessed within her capacity. "You will marry my grandson, you selfish girl, because you've made a promise—and perhaps that means nothing to you, but in this family, we keep our word."

Pansy's demon suggested silently that perhaps Augusta would like to hear the irony of that particular statement, but she reminded herself that in order for Blaise to have his happy ending, then Neville would have to have one, too.

"I understand your opposition," Pansy began, but was cut off again.

"Listen to me very carefully, Pansy, as I will only say this once," Augusta said, her fingers tight around her glass. "If you leave my grandson in disgrace, I will personally ruin you. I will see to it no young man of any caliber ever considers you. I will poison the well of every noble family in England—in the entire United Kingdom—before I let you profit from your schemes. You think I'd let you leave here having dirtied my Neville's good name? Over my dead body," she snapped, as Pansy struggled to remain expressionless. "I did everything I could to nurture you, to mentor you, because you were my grandson's choice. Because you were friends with Hermione Granger, that clever girl, who's worth ten of you," Augusta spat, "and because I hoped one day, with Neville's help, you might manage to become something more than a less-pretty duplicate of your snake of a mother—"

"I'm not my mother," Pansy said, struggling to remain calm, and Augusta scoffed.

"Please. You think I can't see what kind of women you are? You may have a name, you may have a fortune—you may have the breeding of someone worthy, and perhaps you bamboozled my grandson into thinking that meant you were worthy yourself—but you and your mother are both cold-hearted, manipulative, enamored with your own ambitions, and—"

"I was unfaithful," Pansy said, and for once, Augusta blinked.

"What?"

"I have a lover," Pansy repeated, shrugging. "If you require something with which to dirty my name, Lady Longbottom, then have it. I'm pregnant with another man's child," she informed her, and though she would not be able to acknowledge it for another several minutes, some piece of her was conscious of her reputation falling away like a weight. "And unless you wish me to make a cuckold of your grandson…"

She trailed off, expectant, and Augusta, who appeared crimson with rage, couldn't quite manage to speak.

"I thought not," Pansy murmured, turning away. "Best wishes to you, My Lady, and of course, should we ever meet again—"

"I will bloody ruin you," snarled Augusta, flinging it at Pansy's back, and Pansy turned slowly, catching her eye.

"Then I beg your pardon now," Pansy said simply, "because I doubt my destruction will bring you satisfaction."

She dropped into a perfect curtsy, lingering only as long as Augusta's rank was owed, and spared her one-time future matriarch-in-law a temperate nod of her head.

"Goodnight, Augusta," Pansy said, and if something else was said, she didn't hear it.

She headed through the door without a second glance, one hand on her stomach, and said to her baby: Be whatever you want, little love. I promise I will always defend you.

Pansy doubted her parents would do something as drastic as canceling her credit card (the shame of charges being declined in public would be enough for Dahlia to take to her bed for a week) so she checked herself into a suite at the Goring, finally opting to settle down for the bath she'd so long intended.

"I'm fine, Hermione," she must have said around eight hundred times. "Please stop calling."

Hermione, always incurably chatty, was infinitely worse on the phone. "Pans, you shouldn't be there alone, Daph and I can be right over if you need us t-"

"Hermione, please. The last thing I need is the brigade of photographers you'd bring with you," Pansy said irritably, "and besides, as I've already told Draco, I'm perfectly content to be alone. Not everyone has your desperate need for company."

"Pans," Hermione said with her usual mild hysteria, and Pansy sighed, dropping the phone from her ear as a knock arrived at the door. The sound of Hermione's voice continued from the phone's speaker at breakneck pace as Pansy rose heavily to her feet, hoping her room service request for Nutella had finally arrived.

"—Pans, are you listening—"

"Yes, yes," Pansy said into the phone. "Something about how I must be devastated and in need of tiresome affection, I heard you—"

She swung the door open, realizing she probably should have put on shoes, and perhaps also produced some money for gratuity. "Yes, hello, you can put it on the—"

She stopped.

"Pansy," said Harry, his mouth grim.

Pansy slowly raised the phone to her ear.

"I have to call you back," she said to Hermione.

"What? Pans, I'm just trying to tell you t-"

She hung up the phone and set it on the entry table, half-hiding behind the door.

"Hello, Henry," she said. "Did you need something?"

Harry shook his head, exasperated.

"Are you going to let me in, Pans, or will we have to discuss this from the corridor?" he asked, and she grimaced, reaching out to yank him inside the room and then resting her back against the door, wincing slightly as he turned to face her.

"What," Harry began, "the f-"

"I'm sorry," Pansy said instantly, and then blinked. "Wait. How much do you know?"

Harry gaped at her.

"I'm just checking," she sniffed. "I'm not stupid enough to confess to something I've not done, am I?"

He stared at her a bit longer.

And continued to stare.

And then, when Pansy had begun to squirm and he was still staring at her in silence, she finally flinched.

"Who told you?"

"Theo," he said, and Pansy made a mental note to murder him at her earliest convenience before Harry suddenly snapped, "You really weren't going to tell me yourself? Did you think I'd just come home and think to myself, 'Oh, what a coincidence,'" he postulated with traces of mockery, "'she happens to be pregnant, I wonder whose it could possibly be, if only I grasped basic arithmetic—'"

"You're cross with me," Pansy observed, lifting her chin, "but I hardly think—"

"Oh, don't even try it, Pans," Harry growled, raking a hand through his untamed hair. "Even you have to know this was shitty, and now you're going to go ahead and marry Neville—"

"No, I'm not," Pansy said staunchly. "I'm in a hotel, aren't I? And you managed to find me, didn't you, so if you're not going to bother being fully apprised, then I really don't think—"

"Oh really, Pansy, I'm not fully apprised? Shocking," Harry cut in brusquely, and then immediately took a step back, catching the flaring of his temper and beginning to pace the living room of her suite in agitation.

"Listen, Pans," he said after a minute, speaking as much to her as to himself, "I don't particularly know what to think right now, I hardly know what to feel—"

"You don't have to do anything," Pansy said quickly, prompting him to freeze in place. "I promise, Harry, I wouldn't put that on you, really. It was my mistake, and I'll fix it, I swear—"

She broke off, noting the look that came over his face.

"Are you," she began, and stopped, clearing her throat. "Have I said something wrong, or—?"

To her surprise, Harry sank heavily into the sofa behind him, staring at some fixed point in space and dragging his hands to his unshaven cheeks.

"You really think," he began, and stopped.

She blinked, waiting, but he continued staring into nothing.

"Harry," she ventured, and his attention shot to hers.

"You honestly think I want an out?" he said, and though he'd rasped it, said it softly, she felt it like a full-bodied strike to her constitution. "You didn't think for even one moment that maybe I wanted to know because I want it?"

"Want what?" she asked numbly, and his eyes widened.

"You're joking," he said, his voice a listless scratch against his throat.

"No, Harry, I'm not, I just—"

"The baby, Pansy," he said emphatically, still staring at her. "The baby, you think I don't want it?"

She slid her shoulders back, compelling her problematic hormones not to interfere.

"Harry, I simply thought—"

"Is it because you think I'm irresponsible, is that it? That I can't handle a baby because I'm not capable of being an adult?"

"No, Harry, listen—"

"I thought you knew me better than that," he accused her, launching to his feet again. "All the times I've been there for you, and you still don't trust me? Do you honestly think I'm whatever Rita Skeeter thinks I am? Because Pansy," he said, looking unforgivably hurt, "if that's what you really believe—"

"No, no, Harry, please—"

"—I've clearly done you a disservice, haven't I? And it's no surprise, but if you were going to keep this from me because I convinced you I couldn't handle it, please, I at least deserve a chance to prove you wrong—"

"This isn't about what you deserve!"

"—or at least the chance to try, don't you think? You can't act like this is all your doing, Pansy, because it isn't, it's half mine, responsibilities included, and—"

"HENRY," Pansy snapped, and Harry fell to a rigid halt, suspended mid-rant.

"What?" he croaked, and she dug her fingers into her palms, flinching apprehensively at the prospect of telling him the truth.

"It's not that I didn't think you could do it," she said.

"Then what—"

"I didn't want you to have to do it."

He looked at her in confusion, and she sighed heavily, finally leaving her post at the door and approaching him in the living room.

"I didn't want to be the thing that tied you down," she explained, and when he opened his mouth, she cut him off with a shake of her head. "I don't want to be your obligation, Harry. I didn't want to be a responsibility, and certainly not a burden, and I thought, if I could just keep it from you long enough, then it was something… some kindness," she pleaded desperately, "or some favor I could offer you, so that you wouldn't have to derail your life alongside mine, and I thought—"

"You thought I wouldn't want you?" Harry asked, and Pansy stopped.

She attempted to say something—No, no, of course not, I don't care what you think of me, Henry, and I never have, we both know you're a tireless knave and this has nothing, less than nothing, to do with your feelings about me, and besides, we'd never work, it's silly we're even pretending—but found her throat dry, her mouth empty.

"You have Ginny," she managed, and Harry shook his head. "Or… that Loony journalist, or—"

"None of them are you." He looked at her a long moment before saying, with pained deliberation, "You are much, much more important to me. You always have been."

Her chest tightened. "But Harry—"

"Pansy," Harry said, scraping a hand over his cheek in disbelief. "You didn't want me to feel obligated, I can understand that—but you didn't want to give me a chance to choose you, either?"

"I," she began, and struggled, her demon suggesting very noisily that flight was likely the better option. "No, of course not, Harry, don't be silly, I only meant—"

"Don't lie to me, Pansy." He advanced a series of steps to take hold of her, keeping her from the escape she'd hoped he hadn't noticed she was planning. "Please, just tell me the truth. If not for me, then for—"

His green eyes floated down, falling gently where her hand had begun to reflexively settle.

"My entire life," he said, shaking his head. "My entire life, all I wanted was a family."

Pansy, carefully rehearsed in suppressing even the most violent of her feelings, said nothing.

Harry spent a few more seconds thinking about something in silence, letting his thoughts float around in his head, and then he glanced up, half a smile on his face as he looked for another long moment at Pansy.

"I hope she has your eyes," he said.

Immediately—despite her best and most concerted efforts—Pansy felt another surge of distress rise up from her throat, shattering her ceaseless defenses and reaching her lips with a sob.

"You monstrous, incurable idiot," she had hoped to say calmly, but instead flung at him in a wail, not realizing he'd pulled her into him until she was already beginning to saturate the material of his sweater with tears she cursed in silence. "My eyes are nothing, you horrible rogue, nothing worth remarking in the slightest, and certainly not compared to yours—I've spent all this time thinking about a little green-eyed boy with your idiot face and your idiot hair and your stupid, stupid laugh—"

Unhelpfully, Harry laughed aloud, and despicably, Pansy sobbed even harder.

"DON'T LAUGH AT ME—"

"Pans," Harry said with a sigh, stroking a hand over her hair and resting his chin atop her head. "Did it really never occur to you that perhaps I might want it all?"

She struggled to glance up, bemused.

"The foot massages," he explained, and she stared at him, utterly bewildered. "For when your feet swell? Those, you know the ones—I want them. I want the doctor's visits. I want the trips to the shops when you can't do without some sweet, or when you have some silly craving. I want to tell people move, she's pregnant, get up, don't you see she's carrying a baby? She's making a brain right now, for the love of Christ, get out of the way—that. I want all of that," Harry informed her, as if this were extremely reasonable, and added, "And besides that, I want the baby, too. I want to be her first word—"

"You don't know it's a girl," Pansy said, and Harry shrugged.

"Fine, his, whatever, the point is I want us to fight over which one of us she says first. I want her first steps, I want to put her on my shoulders and say Mummy's in a foul mood, isn't she? And I want to spoil her, Pansy, my god do I want to spoil her positively rotten—"

"She's not a girl," Pansy argued weakly.

"—but of course you won't be the bad one, will you? No, you'll act tough, but you'll be the one she tells all her little secrets. You'll say isn't Daddy such an idiot and she'll say Yes, Mummy, why on earth did you ever agree to marry him? And you'll say, Well, because he's an epic lay, sweetheart—"

"Henry, for heaven's sake, I would never say that to a chi-"

Pansy broke off, registering the reality of the portrait he'd been painting for her.

"You," she began, and stopped. "You want to marry me?"

She half expected him to reach out with his Prince Harry grin, to touch her cheek and tease her, to say of course Pansy, won't it be fun, like a little adventure, only he didn't.

He gave her another long, sobering look, and he said, "I understand that maybe it doesn't appeal to you, being with a boy you've known forever. I understand maybe you'd hoped for a better love story, or a more reasonable one, but give me a chance—let me prove to you ours can be good, that it will be worth however long it takes. Give me time, take as much of it as you need. My father told my mother he was sure enough for both of them, Pansy, and I will be that for you. For you, Pans," Harry said, "I swear, I am sure enough for both of us."

It was, in a word, the most idyllic, most ludicrously perfect sentiment.

And then, slowly, Harry shifted away.

"Don't," Pansy warned, and he winked up at her, and she loathed him and wanted in equal measure to kiss him and throw him from her window. "Harry, this is ridiculous, it's trite and sentimental, please don't ruin it with some fairytale proposit-"

"Lady Pansy Parkinson Six-Names," he said, settling himself gallantly on one knee as she groaned, "will you do me the honor of—"

"Jesus balls," Pansy growled, "have you even thought about this, Henry? I've already told Augusta Longbottom I slept with someone else, which she's sure to mention to someone, and once Rita Skeeter finds out about this it'll be all over the papers, and—"

Harry shrugged.

"I'm Prince Harry," he said. "It doesn't matter what they think."

For a moment, his clarity stunned her.

Then, in a swarm of demonic possession—

I never thought you had what it took—

You may have the breeding of someone worthy, and perhaps you bamboozled my grandson into thinking that meant you were worthy yourself—

You're cold-hearted, manipulative, enamored with your own ambitions—

"No," Pansy exhaled, what was left of her reservations leaving her shoulders like the turn of a tide. "No, it really doesn't, does it?"

Harry smiled up at her, pleased.

"So," he said. "May I have your hand in marriage, then, or shall I grovel a bit more?"

She rolled her eyes. "Way to bungle it."

"You say bungled," he replied, "I say logistically expedient."

She hesitated another moment, unsure.

"It's not as if I'm in love you," she said, and at his frown, she remarked weightily, "Yet, I mean. I love you, of course, I always have, but the rest—"

"No, that will come with time," he assured her. "For me, too, but I know enough to trust it. Don't you?"

"I don't trust much," Pansy remarked.

They nodded, jointly sympathetic.

"The sex is good, though," Harry said. "Isn't it?"

She let out a delicate scoff at his uncontainable hubris, but permitted a nod.

"Fine. Yes."

"In fact, the sex is very good."

He was looking at her the way he used to look at the trees he planned to climb in the garden when Prince Lucius wasn't looking.

"Don't get carried away," Pansy warned him, and Harry's grin broadened.

"You know, seeing as you're already pregnant," he said slyly, "I don't really see the point of waiting until marriage. I hardly see the point of waiting ten minutes, to be perfectly honest with you, but—"

"I haven't said I'll marry you," Pansy reminded him, deliberately toying with a pause before leaning down to murmur in his ear: "Henry."

Much to her satisfaction, he gave a visceral shiver.

"Call me that when I'm inside you," he said, half-whispering it, with his eyes half-closed.

She straightened, running her fingers through his hair, letting her nails scrape along the nape of his neck. He leaned forward, resting his hands on her hips, and pressed a meditative kiss to her skirt, his lips softly brushing the fabric.

The pads of his fingers skated up the side of her thigh, tracing little lines of longing. Her pulse ricocheted inside her chest, heart pounding, as his lips brushed the silk of her blouse, the skin beneath it pebbling with the delicacy of a breeze.

"Marry me and I'll fuck you," Harry said with guttural certainty, his voice buried in fabric. "As often as you want. However you want me to."

She shuddered. "You really think I'm just another of your randy conquests, then?"

"No." He shook his head. "You're the conquest, Pansy. You're endgame." He rose up slightly, fingers toying with the buttons of her blouse. "You're the one I've been waiting all this time to win."

"I'm not a prize, Harry," she reminded him with an irritable groan, though she leaned her head back for the kiss he bestowed on her neck.

"No," he said, "but you're mine to earn, and I will spend a lifetime doing it."

His hand slid possessively over her waist, palm resting flat against her stomach.

"Say yes," he said in her ear, and in her head, her demon gleefully whispered: Do it.

Harry slid a hand around the back of her neck, drawing her chin up for a kiss, and paused just as a breath passed between them.

"If you hurt me," Pansy warned, and he laughed, nipping lightly at her lips.

"I know better," he said, and kissed her cheek, and then her forehead. "No need for threats, Pans."

He drew her closer, her hips flush against his, and hell on earth, he was really very good, wasn't he? Her blouse was already parted, the lace of her bra pressed to his chest, and one of her hands sat helplessly on his waist, the other curved around the muscle of his back. He was a master of his craft, unforgivably.

"Come on, Pans," he coaxed her, lips brushing the side of her mouth. "Let go," he whispered, and she exhaled, letting him lay her back on the sofa of her hotel suite.

"Yes," she said in his mouth, and he slid her knickers aside with a grin, kissing her until her lips went numb.

Second times carried the immense probability of being a letdown from the first. Not so with Harry, though that may have been for lack of lucidity about the details of their first encounter. Gin did not a memorable occasion make, and though the floor of her hotel room was hardly a more responsible venue than his kitchen table, there was a certain sparkling clarity now to the prospect of sex with him. All of it should have been very straightforward—how different was his tongue from any other really?—and yet it wasn't, because was it actually his tongue that made the difference, or was it the way he looked at her, green eyes locked on hers while he looked up from having the taste of her on his lips?

Her entire understanding of sex was warped incontrovertibly by the way Harry was fearlessly, brazenly, completely incautiously into it. There were no wandering thoughts, no lack of intensity, never a doubt he was wholly focused on her. "Fuck, you feel so good," when he was inside her, "Christ, Pansy, the way you taste," when he slid his shoulders beneath her hips, "Harder, baby? Come on, say it," when he wanted her to grab his hair, to dig her nails in, to return the favor and say yes, Henry, yes, like that, make me feel it. Was it weird? It wasn't not weird. She'd recognize things she'd always known—scars, freckles, the omnipresent tan that faded near his hips—because how many times had she seen Harry shirtless? More than she could count. She knew where every muscle was, had seen them all in action, but it was different to sink her teeth in and make him swear under his breath.

"Play nice, Pans," he'd pant in her ear, and then she'd bite him sweetly, kiss him hard. "Better," he'd say, wrenching her hips up until her entire body hummed with pleasure, or with something very like it, until it washed over her in waves.

It wasn't until she finally made it to her long-awaited bath, however, that a small detail about her childhood friend Harry snuck back into her consciousness, the haze of sex fading to finally permit blood to flow to her brain.

"Wait a minute," she said, jolting up from where she'd been resting against his chest. "You're Prince Harry," she accused him, and he arched a brow.

"Who exactly did you think I was before just now?"

"No, you're—you're royal," Pansy said, something gripping tightly at her throat. "You're third in line for the throne!"

"I thought you were aware of all this," Harry remarked neutrally. "Don't you have all our patents of nobility sitting somewhere around your house?"

"Harry," Pansy snapped, "you're not listening. If you're third in line, then…"

She trailed off, glancing down at her stomach, and felt herself quake slightly with nerves.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Harry said, sliding a hand around her waist. "Not to panic you," he said with a laugh, brushing his lips near her ear, "but I'm thinking we should probably get married quite soon."

"I—oh no." Pansy's vision briefly swam. "Do people know you're here?"

"What people? The hotel staff, I suppose."

Shit, said Pansy's demon.

"What?"

"Well, I was a little pressed for time, Pans. Couldn't exactly plot my disguise when I was petitioning for emergency leave and rushing over, could I?"

"Henry, pay attention," Pansy sniffed impatiently, nudging him away from where he was leaving a trail of kisses down her neck. "I told Augusta I'd been seeing someone. If she does decide to go to the media and everyone saw you come to my room, it's only a matter of time before people start to think that—"

"That what? We've been seeing each other? Fine," Harry said, shrugging. "I don't see why Abraxas wouldn't approve. It'll be difficult, maybe, given everything with Neville, but it's not as if you're some sort of… oh, I don't know," he postured with a grim laugh, "an American commoner or anything—"

"Hermione," Pansy realized, the lightness in her chest from Harry's reassurance suddenly trodden on with disappointment. "Abraxas can't approve two risky marriages so close together—he won't do it, Harry, you know that."

"Pans." He reached for her, easing her back, and though she was intensely reluctant, she leaned her head against his chest again, letting him soothing her with a stroke of his thumb to her cheek. "You're growing a duchess right now," he murmured in her ear, brushing his lips against her temple. "Don't want her to have a weak chin."

"She's not a girl," Pansy said.

"Sure she isn't," Harry replied, and Pansy sighed.

Then she remembered, absurdly, the thing she had once told Hermione about the woman who would one day be Prince Harry's wife, when she'd been certain it would be anyone but her.

"They're going to throw me to the flames, aren't they?" she asked him softly, and Harry tucked his chin into the crook of her neck, inhaling her for a moment before answering.

"Yes," he said, giving her the benefit of believing her strong enough for the truth, and then he added slowly, "But I won't let you burn, Pans."

Pansy waited for the familiar ripple of fear and discovered, for the first time, there was none.

Then she closed her eyes and laced her fingers with Harry's, hoping that in the moment, she would grow a little bit of bravery for the baby by virtue of gaining some for herself.

I suppose it's no surprise Hermione would come to me in her time of crisis. Before I was a mother, I was designated crisis-handler and problem-solver—which is a role I have no choice but to accept, considering I am surrounded by ineptitude.

"Oh, just a favor," Hermione said on the phone, as if this could possibly be any pleasurable errand, "but it will have to be you."

I suppose I do owe her something. After all, if not for her, I certainly would not be where I am now, nor would I have been able to do the things I've done.

But still. I'll have to remind Jamie once again not to do as Aunt Hermione does the very instant I get back.

a/n: Hello, friends! I have to travel again this weekend (busy month) and am unsure if I will manage to finish the next chapter in time to keep to our usual schedule, so I apologize in advance if things are a bit off-kilter for another (1) week. If you are in need of some daphne and theo, a reminder that Black Jeans and Daphne Blue is now available as Chapter 133 in Amortentia. Thank you for your patience!