A/N: Thanks for the lovely comments so far. Enjoy x

PART IV

Pansy had never been happy before without it coming to a swift and jarring end.

Her sheltered childhood had ended with the death of her mother, the year before she began Hogwarts. And her final year at the school, when she'd been just eighteen, starry-eyed and expectant with the world at her feet, she'd watched it all slip away as the country plunged into war.

So when she realised she was dreaming of a future with Fred, when she realised that she wanted it more than anything in the world, when she realised that she was happier now than she had ever been in her whole entire life, she knew it had to come to an end.

She just didn't think it would be so soon.

...

"Harry found all the horcruxes," Fred said quietly, completely out of the blue.

It was quarter to midnight, one blustery night in March, and Pansy was curled up in his lap in the pub's one surviving armchair.

She lifted her head from his chest to blink up at him.

"What?"

"The horcruxes?" He arched a brow. "You know, creepy as hell things You-Know-Who stuffs his soul into?"

She did know. Fred had explained it all many months ago, when the Order found and destroyed the fifth, Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem. Fred had, of course, cracked several jokes about the Dark Lord's pretty tiara, which had ebbed the rolling nausea somewhat.

But now they'd found the last, and Pansy knew what it meant.

She dropped her cheek to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear, trying to ignore the howl of the wind through the broken roof.

"You're going to take the Ministry."

...

Fred wouldn't tell her when. He made her hand over her enchanted coin, murmured a spell she didn't recognise, then grinned sheepishly when she gave him a suspicious scowl.

"So I can find you," he said, "when the fighting begins."

He'd asked her all sorts of questions about the Ministry, her department in particular—access points, escape routes, who worked where. She told him about Yaxley's private Floo, which made him narrow his eyes and mutter something under his breath.

"You get somewhere safe the minute you know we're there," he said as they stood up to leave. "I don't want you fighting."

"I'm perfectly capable," she said, affronted.

He chuckled and brushed his fingers through her fringe.

"I know," he said. "Believe me, love, I do. But no one else in the Order knows you're on our side. You could get caught in the crossfire."

Pansy realised reluctantly that this was true. Fred had promised they were going to keep casualties to the minimum, but the attack would be fast, and from all angles. It would be easy for the Order to mistake her for the enemy. Not to mention what the Death Eaters would do to her if they realised she was fighting against them.

"Fine," she said. "I'll hide like a coward."

He must have heard the sour note in her voice, because he caught her face in his hands, tilted it up so he could meet her gaze.

"Don't you realise how much you've done for us?" he asked softly. His voice was full of… of something Pansy couldn't name but that swelled her heart nonetheless. When she glanced down, embarrassed at the depth of her emotion, he ran his thumb across her eyelashes.

"You've sacrificed so much more than we ever asked," he murmured, "and I've had to stand by and do nothing but watch. Every time."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then tugged her in for a hug that felt, inexplicably, like it could possibly be their last.

"Let me protect you, Pansy," he whispered into her hair. "Just this once."

...

It happened four days later. Sod's law, Pansy was not safely tucked away in her office, but in the foyer, having been sent by Yaxley on an errand. She was hurrying back to the second floor, papers in hand, when with a blinding flash of light and a thunderous rumble, all hell broke loose.

She dove to the ground as curses began to fly.

Somewhere safe, Fred had said. She glanced wildly around, but she could see nothing but running feet, the flap of robes, papers flying everywhere. In a word, chaos.

She managed to crawl the short distance to the towering Magic is Might statue, where she hid, breathless, her back against the stone.

Her options, she realised dismally, were few. Either wait here for Fred, or woman the hell up and get herself out of this mess.

A loud crack from way above, as a bolt of red light toppled the mighty granite wizard from his throne. A large chunk of stone missed Pansy by inches, and decision made for her, she scrambled to her feet and took off across the room.

Around her, people battled and fell. Most, however, seemed to be trying to flee. Pansy blocked a few wayward hexes, weaving in and out of falling bodies, feeling shattered glass and other debris crunch beneath her feet.

Through the smoke, she spotted an alcove, sheltered by a thick velvet curtain, and veered off towards it. She reached it just in time—white-hot flames of magic lapped at the ends of her robes as she threw herself inside.

She'd barely managed to catch her breath, when something moved swiftly in the gloom. Pansy responded instinctively and found herself wand to wand with Hermione Granger.

"You," she snapped.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, defiant, but said nothing. A moment, long and tense, as the two witches glared at one another.

And then Hermione dropped her wand.

Pansy watched suspiciously as the woman turned and limped a little further into the recess to press her back against the wall and slide weakly to the ground.

She'd been hit. Badly, considering the amount of blood seeping across her now almost flat belly.

Pansy warded the alcove to stop any uninvited visitors and followed her into the shadows.

"Congrats," she said drily as she knelt beside her. "On the baby," she added when Hermione's eyes slid to hers, confused. "What was it?"

"Girl," she said with a grimace. "We called her Rose."

"Rose?" Pansy was unimpressed. She ducked down to examine the wound. "What an insipid name."

Hermione snorted.

"Right. Coming from a woman named Pansy."

Pansy acknowledged this with a little smirk and a dip of her head. The witch did have a point.

"What happened?" she asked, although she already had a fairly good idea.

"What do you think?" Hermione said flatly. "One of your charming compatriots." She'd gone very pale, her skin worryingly waxy, and Pansy realised they needed outside help. She'd never been much good at healing magic.

She sat back on her heels.

"Is there someone who can fix this?"

"Hannah Abbott," Hermione said with effort. "But she was supposed to take the second floor."

Pansy glanced one more time at the growing pool of blood on the witch's midriff. After all she'd gone through to save this blasted woman's life the first time round, she wasn't about to let her die now.

"Then we'll go there," she said decisively. "Can you walk?"

...

Hermione could walk, as it turned out, but not very quickly, and Pansy had to support her the whole way. She cast a disillusionment charm on them both, hoping if they kept moving and stayed quiet, they'd make it to the second floor without incident.

The foyer was silent now, the fighting having moved deeper into the Ministry. Bodies littered the floor, puddles of blood glinting, dark and oily, on the shiny black marble. It appeared to be mostly Death Eaters among the dead, although some looked more like bystanders who hadn't been able to run quite fast enough. Possibly a few Order members. It was hard to tell, and Pansy didn't want to look too closely, lest she spot a familiar face.

Her father. Blaise. Fred.

"Minimum casualties my arse," she said as they limped through the carnage. Hermione, to her credit, seemed equally pissed by the situation.

"What did I tell them?" she muttered angrily, jerking Pansy to a halt to kick at a pile of rubble. "Fucking arseholes."

Pansy rather agreed, but at that moment, a distant explosion sent dust trickling down over their heads like sand in an hourglass. It was, she decided, time to get out of the open.

Taking the seldom-used staircase at the far end of the foyer meant they made it to the second floor without meeting any fighters—Death Eater or otherwise. Pansy propped a pale and sweaty Hermione up against the wall, instructed her to hex anyone that came round the corner and crept alone through the heavy double doors to her office.

It was, she discovered, curiously empty. No Death Eaters. No Order members. Certainly no Hannah Abbott.

A battle had, however, very evidently taken place. Pansy had to step over the body of a snatcher near Yaxley's office, and there were several more slumped in the very furthest corner.

Pansy swallowed and returned for Hermione.

The woman was only semi-conscious. Pansy half guided, half hauled her into the office and managed to get her down on the floor behind a sturdy wooden desk.

"I'm going to find help," she said, crouching beside her. "Stay here."

Hermione blinked blearily up at her, then froze, staring eyes wide in horror at something beyond Pansy's shoulder.

"Look what we have here," drawled a voice that made her blood run cold. "A traitor and a mudblood."

Pansy turned, standing swiftly to find him blocking their exit. He was dressed in Death Eater black, that horrible silver mask hanging about his neck.

"Yaxley," she hissed.

He gave her a vindictive smirk.

"Traitor."

A flush of anger snapped her into action. She thrust out her wand, but he was ready for her—"Expelliarmus!"—and it whipped from her grasp, hitting a desk across the room and skittering uselessly over the edge.

Defenceless now, she nevertheless met his gaze head on. Decided there and then that no matter what he did to her, no matter how he hurt her, she wouldn't show even the slightest ounce of fear.

His eyes raked over her, thin lips curving into a sneer.

"I should have realised it was you," he said, voice thick with contempt.

"But you didn't." Pansy gave him a triumphant smile, designed to provoke. "I was right under your nose the whole time, and you never even noticed."

Yaxley's nostrils flared with anger.

"I'm going to have so much fun with you," he promised, pointing at her with his wand. "Just you wait, sweetheart. You'll be begging me to finish you off."

She met his eyes—held her head high, jaw set, as she anticipated the inevitable curse. Whatever it was, it would hurt. But she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't beg.

No matter what he did.

"I'm waiting," she said insolently, because if she was going to die, she'd do it like a Slytherin. Proudly, and on her terms. She cocked a brow. "Or aren't you man enough?"

Yaxley's face twisted with rage, and he lunged.

"Stupefy!"

A jet of scarlet light hit the Death Eater from behind. He went down like a broken puppet, sprawling face-first on the ground before her.

Pansy gaped, shock leaching through her veins.

What… what just…?

And then Fred was racing across the office towards her. Pansy simply gazed at him.

"Pansy!" He caught her wrist, dragged her into a fierce embrace. "Bloody hell," he breathed into her hair. "I thought he was going to kill you."

Pansy clung to him, legs suddenly very wobbly. He had saved her. He had saved her.

"I think he was," she said, voice muffled by his collar. He tightened his grip on her, as if at any moment she might be snatched from his grasp.

"I told you to find somewhere safe," he said crossly, although she could tell it was mostly for show.

She tilted her head back to look up at his handsome familiar face.

"I tried," she said wrily, "but I got a little distracted. Oh!" Her eyes widened suddenly, as she remembered Hermione bleeding on the floor.

But Fred had brought company, and George and a light-haired woman Pansy vaguely recognised as Hannah Abbott were already attending to her.

The woman herself was pale-faced but awake, George holding her protectively to his chest. She grimaced as Hannah passed her wand over the wound, murmuring a gentle incantation. But then her eyes veered up to meet Pansy's.

A moment of gratitude passed between them, words neither would ever say aloud hanging in the air.

"Is it over?" she asked softly, as Fred slipped his arms around her waist.

"Yeah." He ducked his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. "He's gone. They're all gone."

Relief washed over her.

It was over. She was free.

"I knew it!" a familiar voice crowed suddenly, and she glanced over, startled, to find Blaise had appeared out of nowhere. He'd evidently joined in the battle; his face was smudged with dirt, his robes charred around the edges. There was, however, the most shit-eating grin she'd ever seen on anyone plastered across his face. "I knew you were shagging someone."

She blinked at him.

"You—how…?"

"You weren't the only mole in the Ministry, Parkinson," he said, tapping his nose. "I wasn't quite in the thick of it like you were, working for your father. But at least I wasn't hooking up with my handler every chance I got."

Her father. Pansy turned to Fred, breath catching in her throat. He'd promised her he'd do all he could to protect him, but she knew, in the heat of the battle…

"He's fine," Fred said. "He surrendered. He's safe."

She exhaled in relief, twisting so she could press her cheek to his chest and wrap her arm round his middle.

"Are you hurt?" he asked softly. She could feel his body tense against hers. "Did he—did he hurt you?"

"No," she said. "You got here in time."

He let out a breath.

"Good. Good."

Blaise was still smirking at them, so she pulled a face at him, making him laugh silently and shake his head.

The room was so quiet. Peace, Pansy realised. It was peace, settling on them all like a layer of snow.

Hannah had finished patching Hermione up, and all three simply sat, Hermione and George's hands linked between them. Hannah kept sneaking glances at Blaise, who kept sneaking them right back.

As she watched them, a half-smile tugging at her lips, she felt Fred reach up to tuck her hair behind her ear, felt his other arm tighten around her. His body was solid and warm against her, and she took more comfort from it than she felt was probably natural.

But he had saved her life, and not just today. She wanted to tell him how much he'd come to mean to her, how much she loved him, but she couldn't find the words.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for saving me."

He seemed to understand, seemed to hear the depth in her voice, because he leant down and brushed a kiss to her head.

"Thank you for letting me."