PART III

"Parkinson." Yaxley stopped in front of her desk.

It had been three months since their confrontation in his office, since Pansy quit her life as a Ministry mole, and things had settled down. He hadn't tried to touch her again. Neither had he made any further threats. Bellatrix was, of course, still searching for her spy, but thankfully, the spotlight had shifted from Pansy.

She looked up expectantly to find him scowling down at her.

"Get your coat," he said. "We need you."

...

Yaxley, she discovered, had received an anonymous tip about an Order safe house in the Lake District. Rowle and Macnair had been sent at the crack of dawn to scout it out but found the whole site heavily warded. Pansy was surprised, reckless oafs that they were, that they didn't attempt to blast their way through, but then again, Yaxley's wrath was something even the most hardened Death Eaters endeavoured to avoid.

The hefty layer of wards indicated, however, that someone was indeed present, so Yaxley sent Pansy along with several other Death Eaters to break in and detain whoever was inside.

Apparition didn't usually make Pansy sick, but it was with a roll of nausea and wobbly knees that she landed on the grey shingle beach. It was still only early, and a thick layer of mist lay low on the lake. It would be the perfect cover, she realised with a sinking heart.

The Order wouldn't know what hit them.

"Ah. It's our prettiest curse breaker," Rowle said with a smarmy grin. He'd been waiting for her on the beach and now he removed his mask to look her up and down.

Pansy ignored him. She had bigger concerns, after all.

"Where's the house?"

"Not far." The Death Eater broke off his leering to gesture at a steep incline covered with dry grass and shrubs. "Just over the top of that bank."

Beyond its protective enchantments, the safe house simply looked like a derelict boat house. It extended out over the murky lake on precarious stilts, mould creeping up its white-washed walls, several slats missing from its roof.

Pansy and the Death Eaters remained hidden, using the long grass and fog for cover as they surrounded the boat house and she felt out the wards.

They were strong, certainly, but Pansy was stronger. She let her magic swell out along the invisible wall until she found the smallest fissure—the tiniest chink—and prepared to implode the entire barrier.

Then she hesitated.

There was someone in that house. There had to be. No one would weave such intricate enchantments to protect an empty boat house.

What… what if it was Fred? Or Draco? Or Andromeda? Her stomach churned at the thought.

Should she pretend she couldn't break the wards? Should she do it badly, warn the occupants, give them time to escape?

"Parkinson," Macnair hissed from his position several feet to her left. "What's taking so long?"

Yaxley would kill her on the spot; she knew it for sure. If anyone had even the slightest suspicion that she'd done it on purpose, that she'd deliberately let the rebels slip through their grasp, she'd be executed without a moment's hesitation.

Fred would do it anyway. He would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat, Death Eaters be damned. But as much as she might wish it, Pansy knew she was no Fred. She was no hero. She was no Gryffindor.

I'm sorry, she thought to the people inside, and then she shattered the wards.

...

She thought it was Fred when they dragged him out.

She started forward, panic clogging in her throat, but then Rowle threw him to the ground and she saw he was missing an ear.

George.

A wave of relief washed over her, followed swiftly by guilt, thick and sour, as Fred's brother, Fred's other half, rolled over onto is stomach and retched blood into the grass. Rowle responded with a brutal kick to his ribs.

"Look what we found," Macnair cackled, and Pansy turned to see him hauling a heavily pregnant Hermione Granger by her hair. She was struggling, hissing and writhing like a wild cat. At the sight of her, George tried to get up but was floored when Rowle slammed a boot into his back.

"Search the house," he instructed the other Death Eaters, "and secure the perimeter."

As they obeyed, vanishing into the house and over the hill, he glanced down at the man on the ground.

"Crucio," he said, casually, as if commenting on the weather. George's whole body seized. He let out a choked cry that clenched around Pansy's lungs like a fist.

He looked just like his brother. It could be Fred, bleeding into the dirt.

"You want a little more, Weasley?" Rowle asked, then kicked him, hard, in the stomach. "Crucio."

"Stop it!" Hermione cried. She lunged towards her husband, only for Macnair to drag her back. "Please," she begged. "Please stop it."

Macnair knotted his fist even tighter in her hair and forced her to still with a wand—the woman's own, Pansy realised—to her throat.

"Calm down, darling," he crooned in her ear. "You'll get your turn soon enough."

Pansy eyes snapped up in shock. The woman was pregnant. They surely weren't planning to…

"You won't fucking touch her," George spat.

"Oh?" Rowle inquired gently. "Why don't you watch us?"

He pointed his wand at Granger. The witch's eyes grew wide, and she gave a sharp tug against Macnair's steely grip.

They weren't… Pansy's fingers tightened on her wand. They wouldn't…

Rowle gave a nasty smile and opened his mouth.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The blaze of green light hit the Death Eater squarely in the chest.

The world seemed to slow, as for the briefest of instants, Rowle simply hung there, eyes widened in utter surprise.

But then he dropped, dead before he hit the dirt.

Shit.

All eyes swivelled to Pansy, who lowered her wand hand and took a hesitant step back. A great roaring sound rose up in her ears as she realised the enormity of what she'd done.

Oh Merlin, what had she done?

Macnair recovered first; he threw Granger to the ground, his face twisting with malice.

"You little bitch," he hissed, starting towards her.

Pansy took another step back, raising her wand defensively. She was stupid—stupid, stupid, stupid—but she wouldn't go down without a fight.

"You wait," the furious Death Eater threatened. "You just wait till I get my hands on you."

"Avada Kedavra!"

This time, the killing curse didn't come from her. Macnair neither.

Pansy flinched as the green flash engulfed them. She heard a dull thud and opened her eyes to see the Death Eater slumped on the ground before her.

Several yards behind him knelt George Weasley, an arm around his wife, wand aimed right at Pansy. A beat, and then he dropped his hand.

"What—" His eyes crept towards Rowle. "What… how…"

"It wasn't for you," Pansy said rudely. And it hadn't been really. It had been his brother on her mind when she'd cast the Unforgivable.

He and his wife watched, silent, as she retrieved Hermione's wand from the fallen Death Eater and stomped over.

"Here," she said, holding it out. When the witch paused, she let out a noise of frustration. "Take it."

She did, and Pansy took a few steps back, shaking out her robe. "Now hex me," she ordered. "Something nasty, or they'll be suspicious."

When George hesitated, she turned her attention to Granger. The woman was almost entirely unrecognisable from their school days. Aside from the enormous belly, her muddy brown hair had been hacked short to her shoulders, springing out from her head in mad corkscrew curls, and her face was thinner, sharper.

Pansy remembered the way she used to torment her at Hogwarts—figured that there had to be animosity there, that Hermione had to hate her still, even after all these years—and sneered.

"To think you did something so stupid as get yourself knocked up in the middle of a war," she said nastily. "Frankly," she added when the witch stared at her, taken aback, "your hair is such an abomination, I'm surprised you managed to find a man willing to shag you in the first place."

And that was enough. Hermione's face flushed an angry red, and she flung out her wand hand.

"Sectumsempra."

...

Pansy was in St Mungo's for more than a week. The curse had slashed her skin to ribbons, and she'd lost a lot of blood—enough to make it touch-and-go for a few hours, the healers had told her upon her return to consciousness. Dark spell that it was, too, the scarring might never fully fade.

The first chance she got, alone in the hospital room, she pushed the bedsheets down to her ankles, twisted her flimsy hospital robes up around her chest and examined the network of shiny pink lines crisscrossing her skin.

Well, she thought with grudging admiration, she had asked for it.

The spiteful cow.

She presumed said spiteful cow and her husband had made it safely away. As she'd lain, barely conscious in a growing pool of blood, she'd heard the outraged shouts of Death Eaters, the sizzle of curses flying, then the faint crack of Apparition. The next thing she knew she was in St Mungo's, a needle in her arm, healers pumping potions straight into her veins.

She didn't get many visitors—most of them her work colleagues, although her father deigned to visit once. She wasn't particularly surprised; she loved him, of course, but they had never been particularly close, even before he pledged allegiance to the Dark Lord.

Blaise Zabini was the only visitor from outside her department. He worked for her father as a clerk, and had done so since they left school five years prior. Like her, he'd kept his head down, done as he was told and survived thus far.

"Who was it?" he'd asked, lounging regally in a chair beside her bed. "At the safe house, I mean."

Pansy traced her finger across her belly where she knew, beneath the blankets, ran a particularly nasty scar.

"Granger," she said absently. "And that Weasel twin she married."

Blaise sat up a little, dark eyes alight with interest.

"Married?"

Pansy's finger stilled as she realised what she'd said. Rebel nuptials were, after all, not publicised in Witch Weekly.

She gave her friend a cool glance.

"Didn't you know?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could manage lying flat on her back and hooked up to a drip. "We got intel that she married George Weasley."

"Interesting," Blaise murmured, subsiding into his seat. "Very interesting indeed."

He hadn't questioned her any further after that, but she'd caught him eyeing her thoughtfully once or twice. She hoped he didn't suspect anything, although if he did, she hoped she could trust him with it.

Blaise managed to visit a couple times more, but no one else found the time. The days ticked by very slowly as Pansy lay hour after hour, with nothing to occupy her but her own thoughts.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a burst of green light and Rowle's black-clad body hit the ground. She saw George Weasley cough up blood into the dirt. She saw a furious Hermione aim her wand at her chest.

But she didn't regret saving them. Not when she knew what it would do to Fred if he'd lost his twin. It would break him. Irreparably.

And all she'd endured—Bellatrix's interrogation, Yaxley's assault, months and months on the knife edge—it would all be for nothing.

...

It was ten whole days after that fateful morning at the boathouse before they finally let her out of the hospital. There was no one to collect her, not that she needed anyone, so she travelled home alone.

Her flat, when she let herself in, was gloomy and cold. She opened the curtains, let the sunshine come streaming through, but it didn't make a difference. She wasn't sure anything would.

In the kitchen lay her enchanted silver sickle, abandoned, on her countertop. She wondered if Fred had attempted to signal her while she was in the hospital, if he even knew she was in the hospital at all.

As she turned it over in her hand, it began to grow warm. The dragon, frozen in flight on its shiny surface, flapped its wings and swooped in a triple loop.

Pansy. Her name glowed in silver. Pansy, please.

Two weeks ago, she'd have put it down, turned away. But tonight, she didn't hesitate, Apparating to the pub without even removing her coat.

The place looked much the same: dusty, dark, tumbledown. She didn't know why, but she'd expected it to be different somehow.

She felt different.

He was here. Of course he was here. Pacing in the shadows, hand in his hair, frustration on his face. He stopped mid-step when he saw her, hand dropping to his side as he stared, dumbstruck. The sight of him in his well-worn jumper and scruffy corduroys, so familiar, so Fred, took her breath away, and she could do nothing but gaze back.

He looked like he couldn't quite believe she was here. She supposed she couldn't blame him; she'd been ignoring him for months.

She bit her lip, gave an embarrassed sort of shrug.

"You called?"

Fred's mouth quirked up, then the next thing she knew, he'd covered the distance between them and wrapped her in his arms. He was warm and solid, and after the briefest stiffening of her spine, Pansy let herself melt into him.

"You came," he murmured into her hair. "You came."

He smelled so good. Like pine and something sharp like lemon. Pansy fisted her hands in his jumper, pressed her face into his neck and inhaled.

But then he pulled back and gave her a sharp shake.

"Merlin, Pansy. Do you have any idea how worried I've been? I thought you were dead!"

She gawped at him, a little startled.

"But I'm not," she said stupidly.

"I know you're not now, you daft witch," he said, voice a warm mingle of affection and exasperation. "But I didn't know before. All I knew was that you'd killed a Death Eater and saved my brother." He cupped her cheek. "And then I kept calling and calling, and you never came."

Pansy leant into his hand. He looked so tired, dark smudges beneath his eyes, red hair rumpled and sticking up at all angles. She wondered how long he'd been here. How long he'd waited.

For her.

"You can thank your sodding sister-in-law for that," she said. "Whatever the hell that spell was, it was dark."

She'd said it drily, but his mouth hardened to a thin line, a cloud crossing his face.

"I know," he said ominously. "She told me."

"I did ask for it," Pansy said, although the dark timbre to his voice sent shivers up her spine. "And it worked. Yaxley didn't doubt for a second she was trying to kill me with it."

"Knowing Hermione," Fred said with a sigh, "she probably was." He smoothed a thumb across her cheekbone, eyes softening. "You're sure he doesn't suspect?"

Pansy reached up to touch his hand.

"Positive."

"And he hasn't…" He stopped abruptly, mouth tightening once more. "He hasn't touched you since…?"

She was glad he didn't say it—just the memory of it, the mere ghost of Yaxley's hands on her body, made her tremble.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Fred let out a soft exhalation, ducking down to let his forehead rest against hers.

"Good," he murmured, eyes fluttering closed. "I was so worried."

He was close—close enough to count the freckles dusting his nose, close enough to see the near translucent lashes resting against his cheeks. Pansy reached up, let her hand trace the skin of his jaw. He'd let his stubble grow in. Not much, but more than she'd ever seen him let it. She ran her fingers along its delicious texture, wondered what it would feel like on her skin if he kissed her lips, if he kissed her body.

The thought sent hot little sparks right the way through her. She drew a shuddering breath, loud in the silent room, and let her eyes flicker shut. He responded with a hand to her hip, drawing her closer until her body met his.

"Fred," she whispered unsteadily. "Fred, please."

He lifted his head then with a noise that sounded a lot like reluctance. Her eyes snapped open to find him gazing down at her, agonised conflict written plainly across his face. Heartened at the depth of lust in his eyes, she grasped his jumper at the hem and tugged him closer.

"Please," she whispered desperately. "Fred."

A soft groan escaped his lips, before they crashed down on hers.

...

The kiss escalated rapidly. One second Pansy was curving into him, fingers pushing into his hair. The next he was tugging her with him to an armchair, gently coaxing her to straddle his lap.

His mouth found her throat, and she gasped, head lolling back as his beard scraped her sensitive skin.

"Pansy, love." His voice was rough, low, pooling in the darkest depths of her body. She arched into him, letting her hands slip down his chest, savouring the feel of his solid muscles beneath the woolly fabric of his jumper.

His hands, meanwhile, felt like they were everywhere at once; sliding down her hips, curving round her bum, tugging up her skirt. But still, she needed more. She slid a hand down, found the hard bulge at the front of his trousers and palmed him until he grunted and caught her wrist.

"Pansy," he said, a warning. She let him guide her hand back up, flattened it against the muscled slope of his shoulder. But then when he kissed her again, she sank down onto him, aligning herself with his erection.

He broke the kiss with a sharp huff and a curse. She ground down on him again, the friction only serving to deepen the ache in her belly.

"Pansy," he choked out, catching her hip, forcing her to still. "We can't… We shouldn't…"

It was a valiant effort to be sure. Pansy cupped his face in her hands, let her thumbs caress his skin.

"I need this," she murmured. "I need you."

Surrender sparked hot and dark in his eyes, and he kissed her roughly on the mouth.

...

They met regularly after that. Sometimes, they managed to reign themselves in, took care of duty first as Pansy resumed her covert observations at the Ministry. Most of the time, though, they couldn't wait—all hands and mouths the minute she Apparated in, until he was panting and she was gasping and their clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

He had her on every available surface: bent over the counter, laid flat on the pool table, pushed up against the wall. On one memorable Sunday morning, she lay beneath him in the thin Scottish sunlight, back arching, fingers clawing in the grass as he thrust into her. She had been so loud, so liberated, and he had teased her afterwards as she lay slumped against his chest.

"Didn't I tell you you'd be screaming my name?" he'd asked, pushing her sweaty hair back from her face. She'd retaliated by kissing her way down his body, until she took him in her mouth and he'd growled her name, and begged and groaned it and much more besides.

When she wasn't with him, she craved him. His touch. His humour. His heat. The days at the Ministry dragged even longer than they had before, as she sat at her desk, counting down the minutes until she could taste him again. The moment the clock struck five, she was gone, a flurry of robes and the crack of Apparition as she hurried to meet him.

When he unbuttoned her blouse, when he slipped it from her shoulders, when he pressed a trail of kisses down her breastbone, she could almost forget the world was at war.

She could almost forget that, at any moment, she could lose him forever.

"Where do you go," Blaise asked one day, after he'd witnessed her dash down the corridor, "that makes you smile like that?"

Pansy knew she should be more careful, that she shouldn't give anyone any reason to suspect her, but she couldn't help herself.

"Oh," she said, thinking of the tumbledown building in the mountains, and the man she knew waited there for her. "Nowhere, really."