I already explained this. I don't like you. I don't like most people, but I especially dislike you. I could start my own religion based on how much I dislike you. - Theo Nott
Pansy Parkinson loved sex. She wasn't afraid to admit it either. She was the sort of woman that was constantly on the prowl for a willing wizard to scratch her latest itch. She hadn't the slightest bit of shame, nor did she believe such mundane feelings were necessary.
It wasn't something she could properly explain to the Ministry officials. They were easily the most judgemental in all of the Wizarding World, next to her mother, of course. Their pity would have instantly segued to sneers that dripped with disdain and she'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.
Pansy had put up quite the fuss when she was stashed away within the dreary walls of Grimmauld Place. It was ridiculous to expect her to be happy with subpar accommodations, even if it was the former Black residence. She required opulence and finery, not wailing portraits and boggarts rattling cupboards.
The Muggle place wasn't better, but at least she didn't have to listen to Black ancestors screeching at all hours. Instead, it was the Weasley girl sniffling in her sleep and Astoria's constant whining. It was all shit really, and it didn't matter how much she complained, nothing changed.
She was slightly appeased by regular outings. They helped some, but not enough. It didn't matter how hard she tried, Pansy was unable to lose her Ministry mandated escorts. She was near desperate and probably would have given them a go if she could get Astoria to fuck off. The bloody blonde had attached herself to Pansy's side much like a leech and there were limits dammit.
"This is utter bollocks."
Pansy hissed and wrenched her arm from Astoria's firm grip. She wouldn't be surprised if the Prophet was splashed with their pictures at this rate. Rita Skeeter, the ever-present annoyance, wouldn't have the slightest issue with inferring a lesbian relationship between the two; such things happened when engagements were broken.
"I miss Draco." Astoria sniffled and gazed into the distance with that insipidness of hers.
"I miss a good shag, what's your point? Do you plan to list all the things we can't have? I think that's rather tedious and unnecessary, but if that's what makes you happy, have at it."
Zacharias Smith snorted and hurried after the distressed blonde. He swore it was the worst assignment Potter could have thrown at him and suspected it was yet another guise to keep him out of the way. Despite the obvious dislike that surrounded him, Smith was good at his job. He enjoyed being an Investigator and he didn't miss his Auror days in the least.
"Nigel, stick with Parkinson. She seems to hate you less." Smith laughed without mirth and rolled his eyes heavenward.
"She's a bit prickly, not my cup of tea, not at all." Nigel Wolpert pushed his sloppy blond hair from his forehead and sighed. "I'm not 'sposed to go off on my own, not as a Junior Auror. You bloody well know it, Smith."
"Aye, but where the fuck is Peasegood? We've got to keep eyes on Parkinson. I'll snatch Greengrass and we'll meet at the Leaky in ten."
Zacharias didn't watch the lanky blond hurry toward the departing brunette witch. He kept eyes on Astoria and watched her slip into a darkened alcove. He frowned and in his haste, he pushed passed Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. Smith wrenched the blonde from the alcove, angry she attempted to conceal her location.
"Please, don't." Astoria's voice warbled as she stumbled forward, her eyes never leaving Draco Malfoy's back. "I didn't want them to see me. I wasn't running off."
Zacharias wasn't usually the sort of wizard that took pity on anyone, yet there was something about the forlorn witch that altered his testy demeanour. He offered his arm, waited until he felt her hand. With regret, he turned them toward Flourish and Blotts, knowing Granger had slipped inside.
"He was supposed to be mine," lamented Astoria.
"Alright, enough of that rot. Malfoy isn't a fucking house elf. You can't simply declare ownership and that's that. He's a human being and has a right to his own choices. You're a spoilt Pureblood witch, just set your sights on someone else and I'm positive your daddy will deliver."
Astoria harrumphed and attempted to extricate her hand from the crook of Smith's elbow, yet the sudden influx of witches and wizards kept her pressed against his side. Vaguely, she wondered if there was some sort of event scheduled within Diagon Alley. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen so many easily recognisable people.
"Seems we missed the memo, Greengrass." Smith chuckled at his poor attempt at humour and hurried her along to the Leaky.
The pub was near to bursting, the whoops of delight, tinkling of glasses, raucous laughter, and ridiculous singing was more than Astoria could bear. It was completely unrefined, downright pedestrian even, and she detested every second. She snarled and pushed at the bumbling patrons, desperate for the Floo, but bloody Smith directed her toward a rickety table in the corner.
"I want to leave!"
"Yeah and I want to be independently wealthy with a harem of supple witches, suppose we'll just have to settle for butterbeer." Zacharias pushed Astoria into the chair nearest the wall and scowled. "Stay here. I've got to track down Parkinson and Wolpert."
She crossed her arms and glared at his retreating back, utterly disgruntled. Astoria discerned from the sounds of the cheers and drunken laughter someone had recently been married. It should have been her. She should have been deliriously happy with Draco Malfoy on her arm, but everything was ruined now and she blamed that fucking Muggleborn bitch.
Astoria had no intentions of waiting for the bloody Aurors to return. She'd never been fond of limits or instruction for that matter. She drew her hooded cloak over her head, stood, and prepared to disappear in the crowd when strong hands gripped her waist.
She gasped, prepared to issue a scathing rebuke when she spied Pansy with that bumbling Weasley in the midst of the ruckus. Her blood boiled, her vision blurred, the moment she saw Draco Malfoy wrapped around Hermione Granger, bloody laughing. There she was, completely brokenhearted and he was bestowing affection in public no less.
Astoria was jerked backwards, hidden away in the inky black shadows of the corner, a hard body behind her, insistent fingers digging into her hips. She didn't struggle, still paralyzed by the scene, a gasp on her lips when Pansy leaned into Ron Weasley's chest and winked. Everyone had gone mad!
"I've missed you."
A gravelly voice, hot breath, and a wet tongue teased Astoria's ear. Her stomach rolled, her senses finally righting themselves as a large hand covered her mouth and held her still. She didn't know how it happened, but her hands were bound behind her back, and the wizard enjoyed flexing his hips to graze his erection against her fists.
"Have you gotten better with age?"
The wizard hissed, his hand beneath her skirts, sliding along her thigh, his tongue eliciting unwanted shivers as it teased the side of her neck. Astoria whimpered, struggled even, but there wasn't much she could do against his ironclad hold. She didn't scream when his hand slipped from her mouth to tease her breast. She was completely frozen in horror.
"Please," Astoria begged, tears mixed with bogies on her cheeks. "You can't, you see. My father, it was a spell, to keep me from slagging about. The uhm, the next wizard that shags me is bound to me in marriage. You should just let me go."
"Interfering bastard spoilt all my fun, didn't he? Well then, what sort of husband shall I choose for the prissy little Pureblood? Oh, the choices are nearly endless. Shall it be Weasley? I'd love to see that, but from the looks of it, Parkinson has sunk her claws into him. Wait, who is that? Fucking perfect."
Astoria scoured the crowd as much as she was unable, but she didn't see anything perfect about any of it at all. She whimpered when the hard wood of a wand was jabbed beneath her chin and closed her eyes. If she was going to die, she didn't want to see it upon her.
"Dedisco." The wizard sneered nastily, waiting patiently until the haze of confusion was splashed across Astoria's pretty face. "Imperio."
While Astoria mindlessly weaved through the Leaky patrons intent upon seducing Neville Longbottom, Pansy laughed into Ron Weasley's chest. She'd always secretly had a thing for gingers, not that she'd ever admit it, but seeing him there, his cheeks flushed from drink and a dopey smile on his lips was all she needed to move in for the kill. She didn't care that Malfoy had finally managed to marry his Muggleborn witch. He was Slytherin just as she, and in the end, they always got what they wanted.
"Should we stop them?" Hermione asked delicately.
"Why? It's hilarious. Weasley won't know what hit him." Draco chuckled and tugged his new wife into his side.
The magic coursing between them was unlike anything he'd ever experienced and he wanted to soak in every moment of it. It was supposed to remain a secret, their nuptials that is, but a quick jaunt through Diagon Alley, paired with the apparent shine in his eyes and the blush on Hermione's cheeks seemed to alert everyone they'd ever known that something enormous had happened. It was only natural to head to the Leaky for celebrations.
"Your mother is going to kill us."
"I'd like to pretend she won't find out, but judging on the size of this crowd, you're probably right, Granger." He pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek, his blood roaring through his veins, his teeth demanding to sink into her skin. "Can't stay much longer."
Hermione noted the strain around his eyes and the way his tongue purposely prod his incisors. She understood to a certain extent, yet she was remiss to leave the festivities. It'd been an unusually long period of time since she'd merely had a bit of fun, yet the magic tugged at her just the same.
The front of her incredibly pale blue robes brushed against his trousers and she gasped. Draco held her in front of him, casually wrapped his arms around her waist, his chin on her shoulder. He ground against her lightly, groaning as the chafing eased some of the ache.
"Is it always going to be like this? You're completely insatiable and I do have other things that require my attention. We can't skive off work every time you've got an itch. We've got cases and ermpf—"
Hermione's words remained lodged in her throat as Draco swooped down to cover her lips with his own. He wasn't interested in listening to her babble about their responsibilities. He was well aware of what their responsibilities included and right now, his priority was consummating his marriage before his cock burst.
"You're entirely too serious for your own good. Look at Weasley and Pansy over there, she's eating his face, not that he minds. Hell, even Longbottom's got himself a bird and she's practically undressing him. I'm not sure they're going to make it to a room at that rate."
Hermione's senses were muddled, which in retrospect was strange considering their surroundings. Ordinarily, she would have been overwhelmed by the varying sights, sounds, and body heat, but she wasn't. In fact, every nerve ending directly correlated to Malfoy. Her skin was pebbled with gooseflesh, her exhales a hiss that teased of longing, and he continued to press against her, his hands unyielding on her hips.
She averted her face from Ron's wandering hands as they squeezed Pansy's backside, only for her dark eyes to widen as she watched Neville being dragged off by his tie. She blinked and swore she spied Charlie Weasley whispering into Daphne's ear while the witch giggled.
"We need new friends."
"I think," Draco breathed into her ear, "we need to learn from them. They've got the right idea. Tomorrow, we can dedicate all the hours in the day to our cases, but tonight, say you'll be mine."
It was easy to lean into his chest, absorb his warmth. It was nearly habit for her head to fall to the side, the subtle pleading for his lips, which he was quick to oblige. Their magic entwined, twisted even, pushed and pulled, delicately flickering, much like a flame.
"Do you feel that? Why does it do that?"
Hermione's head spun as easily as her body, a gentle hum escaping her lips while warm arms enfolded her and held her tight. She vaguely remembered a time when she couldn't bear his touch. The unsettling tension thick in the air, a cavernous chasm that nearly tore their department apart, yet had somehow segued into a ridiculously taut string of sexual tension.
"My hands are exceedingly warm, can't pretend I care for that, or even understand it." Draco sighed into her hair, his feet moving toward the Floo, his hands consciously tugging his wife. "I worry sometimes. Mother said my eyes wouldn't blacken, she was wrong. Mother said the call to mate would dissipate once I marked you, she was wrong. Was she wrong about the wings and bloody fireballs as well? What if she was wrong about everything?"
Hermione stumbled in her peep-toe heels and grasped his wrists. She studied his palms, her fingertip tracing the lines. They were warmer than usual, yes, but it really wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It was easy to blame their magic, the exhilarating situation, their barely dried ink marriage, therefore, she did.
"I uhm suppose we'll figure it out, Malfoy."
Draco smirked; his eyes a dangerously dark shade of grey. It wasn't like her to remain answerless in the face of researchable questions. He quite liked it, found it intrinsically sexy to see his little princess flummoxed.
Draco nipped her throat with a small growl and decided the Floo would take entirely too long. He refused to entertain the thought of releasing her even for a singular moment. Instead, he reached into the back pocket of his black trousers, withdrew his wand, and Disapparated.
"I hate it when you do that!"
Hermione shoved at him, teetering on her heels, her breaths rapid and raspy. Her curls bounced with a shake of her head to clear the spot of dizziness that always accompanied Apparition. Her hand clutched at her heart, but then there was only Draco.
Draco yanking the pins from her messy updo. Draco pushing her cloak off her shoulders. Draco gasping against her skin with every breath, drinking in her scent. Draco dragging the hidden zipper from the top of her spine to the cusp of her arse. Draco's trembling hot palms against the delicate ties until her icy pale blue robes pooled at her feet.
Suddenly, Hermione was inexplicably nervous, even as she stared at the familiar four-poster bed. The moonlight cast shadows on the bedding and she gulped noisily, filled with trepidation. She flinched, eyes closed, palm against the feather duvet as she listened to his trousers strike the floor.
"Hermione."
A whisper she was certain she'd misheard until once more it graced her ringing ears. She felt it then, the stinging heat of his hands, even as she tumbled to the bed. Her magic simmered beneath the surface, desperate to swirl around his, causing an ache that weakened her limbs.
"I asked her," whimpered Hermione. "I asked her. She said the mating was a myth, but I don't, I don't believe her."
Draco gasped, groaned even, and braced his weight on his elbows as he hovered over her. His bare skin seared, screaming for the intimacy he denied it. It was different this time. It wasn't like the others when he could barely contain himself before sinking into her.
She was no longer merely a hurried shag against the nearest hard surface until his knees sagged. She wasn't stolen kisses laced with mind-altering confusion. She was his wife. His wife. Hermione Granger was more than his co-worker, his partner. She was, she had become his life, and it terrified the fuck out of him.
Neville Longbottom was an unassuming wizard. He always had been. He had also finally grown into his own, but it took quite some time. When he was a child, he was a bumbling sort of oaf, timid, uncomfortable in his own skin, and often doubted his Sorting. He hadn't felt like a Gryffindor. He hadn't felt courageous or brave, or any of those things.
It was different now, of course. He exuded a confidence he rarely felt due to that singular moment of bravery that altered everything. He was the wizard that sliced off Nagini's head. He had faced Voldemort and encouraged the others to keep fighting. It was small in the grand scheme of things, but it was something he supposed.
He'd worked beside Harry and Ron to capture the remaining Dark Wizards, but Neville hadn't found his fulfilment being an Auror. It was an honourable career, but it wasn't for him. He preferred the welcoming walls of Hogwarts and his plants.
Herbology made him feel brilliant and he needed that more than anything. He desperately yearned for something that would make his parents proud. Neville was old enough to know such things would never come to pass, but in some ways, he was still sort of a child, merely seeking acceptance.
Neville hadn't wanted to have drinks at the Leaky, but Ron had insisted. He didn't see the point in it, not really. The witches always flocked to the Aurors and he was often left alone in a dark corner nursing his pint. It didn't bother him, though. He knew they didn't see him as he was; only as he had been.
"This is stupid."
Neville grunted as he was jostled between two Weasleys. The air was thick and filled with the heady spice of firewhiskey. It was near impossible to have a word with anyone as the tinkling of glasses and rowdy laughter filled his ears.
"Come on Longbottom, live a little. Bet there's a feisty witch just begging for a bit of what you've got."
Charlie Weasley jabbed his elbow none too lightly into Neville's side, long red hair swinging, dangling dragon hanging from his left ear as he took a long draught from his pint. The bitter cold didn't faze him in the least. It was nothing compared to the frigid temperatures of Romania.
"Why are we here?"
"Malfoy and Hermione snuck off to the Ministry to get hitched. Don't know why they believed they'd get away with it," laughed Charlie. "We're here to celebrate! Drinks on me!"
Neville stared into the welcoming brown pool of his pint and sighed. He'd heard the rumours, everyone had. Apparently, Malfoy had a bit of Veela in him or some such rot. He'd set his sights on Hermione and after that, well, it was only a matter of time before she became a Malfoy as well. He didn't understand the need to celebrate it. He actually felt a little sorry for Hermione. She'd always been kind to him and Malfoy, well, he was always sort of a wanker.
"Oi, who's that? She's got quite the bum." Ron tossed back a tumbler of firewhiskey and blearily glanced over the array of witches with a keen eye.
"Parkinson." Neville offered with a half-laugh.
"Really? I think it's only polite to say hello."
Charlie half laughed, half snorted into his pint while he watched Ron push his way toward the brunette witch with the lovely arse. He fully expected his youngest brother to return utterly defeated, perhaps with a hand-shaped red blotch on his cheek. It had been known to happen, especially after Ron got into his cups.
"She's actually talking to him."
"Gods, she's leaning into him and everything."
"His hand is on her arse!" Charlie leaned into Neville's side, his eyes wide in utter disbelief.
Neville remained silent, the small empty pieces of his heart twanging as a gentle reminder they still existed. He'd had a fair amount of interest in a handful of witches, but nothing had ever come from it. It probably would have given him many a sleepless night if he'd spent any time thinking about the reasons behind the subtle rejections, but he hadn't.
"Good for him then." Neville flashed Hermione a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes, an overwhelming tidal wave of loneliness swept over him even as he watched Malfoy kiss the top of her head. "Think I'm gonna call it a night."
"Longbottom, there's a blonde eyeing you. Don't look, just keep nursing your pint. There's a dark-haired beauty that's caught my eye." Charlie growled, his teeth bared and a sparkle in his eye.
"That's Daphne Greengrass. I'd be—"
Neville shook his head, his words lost in a particularly loud screech while Charlie swaggered toward the demure Pureblood near the window. It was just as he said it would be. He was sat alone on a barstool, sipping his pint.
He listened to the cacophony of celebrations with half an ear. He hadn't the slightest desire to watch Ron Weasley's tongue thrust into Pansy Parkinson's mouth. It turned his stomach a bit, to be honest. He didn't care that Draco Malfoy was smiling, fucking smiling of all things, or that Hermione Granger was now Hermione Malfoy if the gossip could be believed. He just didn't care and—
"Hi."
Neville blinked, glanced behind him, expecting a terribly handsome wizard with a cheeky smile to be standing behind him. The blonde witch repeated her salutation and giggled as she slowly invaded his space. Her perfectly manicured pink fingernails slid up his hard chest, eliciting a shudder until they came to rest on his broad shoulders.
"I think maybe you're confused."
Neville attempted to be gentlemanly, but it was exceedingly difficult with a warm, willing, flirtatious witch leaning into him. Her waves tickled his nose, her breath was warm against his ear, and his trousers were suddenly too tight.
"You're Neville Longbottom," she breathed. "You're a war hero, a former Auror, and the current Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. I've been watching you and I think you're the sexiest bloke in the entire pub."
Neville studied her eyes and noticed they were glassy, though it was anyone's guess if it was from entirely too much libation or the clouds of smoke in the air from celebratory cigars. She licked her lips, fisted his striped tie and he was lost.
"I was nearly positive you were enamoured with Malfoy." His large hands gripped her waist under the guise of pushing her away, yet he dragged her between his knees instead.
Astoria Greengrass had never been taught how to resist the Imperius, not that she was trying. Longbottom was easy on the eyes, concerned as to her mental faculties, and she found that endearing. There were worse wizards to shag. She would know. She'd probably shagged them.
"I've heard that Muggles say you shouldn't cry over spilt milk. I've never cried over milk, but I've spent entirely too much time crying over a wizard that was never mine. I think I'd like to forget I wasted the time. Would you care to help me with that?"
Neville wanted to speak. He tried to speak, lips parted, tongue flicked along the edges, and yet there was nothing but silence. His eyes were drawn to the creamy swells of her cleavage as she thrust her chest forward. His fingers itched to touch them, to taste them, not that he would ever be quite that forward.
"How could I possibly?" He finally managed, his voice at least a full octave higher than normal.
Astoria fisted his tie and tugged until their lips nearly touched. Sweat broke across his brow, his cheeks flushed, and gods be damned if she didn't find that endearing as well. Neville was sweet and she deserved sweet.
He watched from the safety of a darkened corner as Astoria Greengrass happily dragged Neville Longbottom toward the staircase. He smiled nastily for a moment and chuckled lightly. Strangely, an insistent pang of guilt continued to plague him and it wasn't long before he ascended the stairs in search of his puppet.
"You've never done this before, have you?"
"We don't have to do anything if you like. We could uhm have a chat and a cup of tea."
"You're achingly sweet and I don't know what to make of you. Should I tear off your clothes, shove you onto the bed, and shag you senseless? Should I protect you from the harsh world and snuggle into your chest before a crackling fire? I don't know what to do with you."
"I'm quite partial to the first option if my opinion means anything."
He listened to Astoria's light laughter and flicked his wand. He sort of expected her to burst through the door, utterly embarrassed, perhaps sobbing in humiliation. She didn't. He pressed his ear to the door and frowned at the silence.
"Oh yes, just like that," Astoria crooned, her breathy voice laced with a ragged moan.
"I wish I hadn't heard that." He gagged and ambled down the steps, desperate for another pint or twelve until his ears recovered from the sounds of copulation.
He had an itch that needed to be scratched, but his favourite playthings were preoccupied. It really was a pity. He supposed the Weasley girl would do, but he didn't enjoy it as much when they were compliant. It destroyed the anticipation and the pleasure.
He tipped his hat toward his coworkers and hurried toward the Floo. He had an itch to scratch and it wouldn't wait. He had plans to formulate and punishments to deliver. They would pay. They would all pay and with their dying breaths, then and only then would they know it was he that had sent them careening to destruction.