A Story of No Consequence
The Problem with Names
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Some people have a middle name: James, Jane, Bilius, and Molly. Other people have several middle names or none. For the most part, even those people who abbreviate their middle names with a single letter, like one Percy I. Weasley, still have a middle name. Not that you can really blame them for abbreviating, especially when their middle name happens to be Ignatius.
This is actually important to the story. Maybe it's not, but, you aren't going to know until right up to the very end. So, if you don't stick with this and suck in all this precious knowledge, just like Hermione Jane Granger would do, then you might just be left grasping onto straws and dust motes.
It's not likely, but, you just might.
Pansy doesn't have a middle name anymore than she has living parents or a best friend. No, her parents were taken away from her in a fire that burned hotter than a middle circle of Hell and her best friend was taken away by a bushy haired nobody who likes to boss everyone around. Like her parents and her best friend, her middle name was taken away from her also. Not by arson or a stupid, insensitive mudblood, but by her great grandmother who had already had a foot and a half in the grave anyway.
V.
It does not stand for Violet, Viola, Vi, Vee, Vivien, or any combination of a capital V and the other twenty five letters of the alphabet. Or another V for that matter. She's not trying to be pretentious, she simply has no choice in the matter. For twenty-four years, the little girl with a too hard eyes and a too loud laugh has been known as Pansy V. Parkinson.
Harry thinks it's so hot that he busies himself with drawing little V's on her arms and legs while she sleeps. Of course, it's probably something subconscious to do with the fact that the letter has often been a symbol for the vagina, but, Pansy doesn't like to dwell on that. She likes her former saviors of the world soft and innocent. Unfortunately, that's neither here nor there.
What's here is that Pansy gets drunk one night, five months, two weeks, and four days after the final battle, and comes home to her cat. A kitten, really. A little ball of calico fluff that is still nameless even after living in her flat for three days. But, that's to be excused, you see, because Pansy's a very busy girl. She's been getting drunk in Milan, Paris, New York City, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Moscow, and Cairo. This is what B-list members of the Order, Slytherins can't be A-list no matter how much they contributed, after the war is over. After Voldemort has been turned into a murky goo the consistency of baby food, all there's left is to get drunk.
See, no one is offering Pansy any Ministry positions unless it's missionary, doggy style, or on your knees under my desk for a quick blow job after lunch. Unlike Hermione Granger, who can get offers from Playwizard one week and St. Mungo's the next, no one's really respecting Pansy. Even though she helped Hermione crack some rather difficult codes using Arithmancy, created a handful of wickedly useful hexes, and kept Neville Longbottom alive long enough after his final confrontation with Bellatrix Black Lestrange for a bloody Healer to come along and save his damned Gryffindor life. In the end, she's still Draco's whore, even if they never fucked, and a Slytherin to boot.
Really then, it's no surprise that Pansy gets drunk. This finally leads us back to the poor calico kitten.
Pansy gets back from Cairo, her last hot wizard nightspot on her list of top places to get drunk, and retches in the doorway of her flat. She kicks off her shoes, steps over the pile of her own vomit, and curls up into a small ball on the couch. Then kitten, as is her want, purrs loud enough for seven Hogwarts Expresses and head butts Pansy.
Who in turn names her Pepper Toptomkins.
Which is an awful, horrid, vile name.
Harry, who doesn't hear this story until five months after they start fucking like crazed rabbits, thinks it's wildly entertaining. He, like Pansy before him, calls the poor little kitten, who grew up to be a rather large, lazy cat, PT.
This has almost nothing to do with the fact that Pansy's middle name is also a middle initial. Nor the fact that the first time PT met Harry, she vomited on his boots while Pansy made tea and then made up for it by curling up and purring in his lap while he listened to the WWN.
Sometimes, cats vibrate when they purr. PT really, really vibrates. Not that Harry is a perv, but, most of the time, boys really can't control what their manly bits are doing. It's a fact of nature. So, let's just say that PT really really made it up to Harry and, somehow, Pansy didn't think that he was a sicko pervert.
Actually, she laughed. Mostly because she's never had a boy excuse himself and rush to the loo after her cat had cozied up to him. This is because PT hates men, even Draco, and never cozies up to the boys Pansy brings home.
Probably, they think after the wedding, because none of those boys were Harry. See, cats are usually excellent judges of character. Remember pleasant Peter Pettigrew? Yeah, the asshole, well, they should have let Crookshanks eat the bastard while he had the chance.
I'm just saying that it would have saved us all a shit load of trouble. Cedric Diggory wouldn't have died, Cho Chang wouldn't have wasted her entire sixth year crying, and Harry's first kiss wouldn't have been mixed with snot and tears. Maybe Cedric and Cho would have gotten married, produced five kids, and then Cedric would have left his plump, overly emotional wife for Oliver Wood.
Because, seriously, the man's a Quidditch fanatic and everyone thinks Diggory was a bit of a poof. And how can anyoneresist that accent combined with sex on legs riding a broom? Unfortunately, Cedric died and left Harry to wrestle with the guilt. Such an inconsiderate bastard; just like a Hufflepuff to do something like that.
Pepper Toptomkins, turned out all right despite her name. Pansy, on the other hand, does not. Right away, anyway, because how can you turn out all right with just a middle initial? And a father who wants to sell you to the highest bidder for you own good? And a mother who gives you tips on how set a perfect table for tea all the while tightening your vaginal muscles?
PT got off so easy with a drunk for a mother. Harry, as his want, is inclined to agree.
You see, the savior of the wizarding world walks Pansy to her flat from Diagon Alley. Every time she stumbles, he catches are around the waist and tries very hard to ignore the fact that her breasts are pressing up against his chest. All he can think about is that Parkinson's got nice breasts. His manly bit agree, even though he is trying to ignore them.
The breasts, not his bits, because, really those are pretty damn hard to ignore. No pun intended. At least initially.
Somehow they get to the flat, even though the drunk moose keeps tripping in her broken heels and calling him names like poof and fairy. Harry doesn't understand how any woman in her right mind could say things like that, especially when he's staring right down her flimsy blouse.
It probably has something to do with the fact that Pansy smells like vodka and orange juice. With this in mind, our favorite orphaned savior of the world, hauls Pansy up with his Quidditch worn hands and props her up against his body. Not because he's feeling her up, mind you, but because he needs to get her keys. Which, pleasantly enough, are hooked onto the front of her bra. Sue him, he's a seeker,withgood eyes and fast hands so it's not like she notices right off the bat.
Actually, Pansy doesn't notice that Harry has reached down her blouse, wiggled his hand between her breasts, and fondled, I mean grasped at, her keys. By the time they make it to the entry way, her blouse might as well be pooled around her hips and his hands might as well be between her legs. Which they are not, thank you very much.
Harry James Potter is fifteen minutes late for his interview with Rita I just got a new nose Skeeter when Pansy vomits all over the front of his new button up. New in the sense that it's Gryffindor red, pseudo-silk, and bought specifically by Hermione to wear to his interview. She would have bought brown, because it brings out his eyes, but the only shirt in his size was her second favorite color to dress him in. Who says bookworms can't have fashion sense?
Most boys would be a little repulsed by this most intimate act of emptying ones stomach of top shelf vodka, pulp-free orange juice, a handful of crackers, and two chocolate bars. Harry, however, mindful of the time that he's not having to spend under the stupid fucking bitch's scrutiny, kisses Pansy full on the mouth and catches her when she passes out.
Not because of the kiss, mind you, but because she's really fucking messed up from all the alcohol.
Laying Pansy gently on her couch, mindful of the large cat perched on the arm, Harry strips out of his ruined shirt, throws it into the entry way, and walks into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. By the time Pansy wakes up, he's four hours late for his interview and Hermione has spent the last two hours pacing around Number Twelve and screaming at his miserable, blissfully ignorant ass at the top of her lungs.
Girl's got a good set of lungs. Draco would know. Ba da dum.
But Harry's so grateful for having a half way decent excuse for skipping out on a long, painful policy talk that he only memorized the night before that he stays around. He's so grateful that he brings Pansy her wand and a bottle of hang over potion, pours her a cup of coffee, and fluffs her pillow without so much of a word.
And although he acts a little shocked when she finally kicks him out, bare chested and fisting his vomit-ruined shirt, Harry still doesn't say much. What he does want, however, is a cigarette because, for not having sex, that was probably the biggest roller coaster of excitement he's had since Puddlemere took the English Cup.