Chapter 2: The Marseillaise
"So," she mutters, suddenly conscious of the silence between them--of the way the toilet lid pounds against her back as the carriage sways along the tracks; of his breath, ragged against her collarbone; of his cock, pulsing as it softens inside of her--"what are you up to this summer, Weasley?"
"Ah," Pansy says, "traipsing after the Potter?" When the bruised look doesn't alter, she begins to climb off of his lap, but he holds her in place.
"What are you doing this summer?" Weasley asks, his eyes dark and frighteningly open.
Helping idiot Draco to find a way to keep himself and his mother alive. Trying not to let him or Nott or Millie get sucked back into Lord Wormbrain's little army. "Can't tell you. Can't tell anyone."
He nods sadly, and helps her up off of him; the plop when they disengage is probably the saddest sound Pansy has ever heard.
As she's pouring herself back into her bra and he's buttoning away her not-so-little piece of him, she asks, without looking him in the face, "I don't suppose anyone you know will be anywhere near Canterbury on July 14?"
The train-sound-filled silence tells her that he's figuring the angles, reminds her that he's not as stupid as he looks. "Why?"
"Because my mother's French and she always drags the Pater off to Paris for Bastille Day. And if one were to check at the Hound and Hynde on Chandler Street in Canterbury on the fourteenth of July at, say, one in the afternoon, one might be directed to the room of a Miss Harris, who might be... accepting visitors."
Again the tiny WC is filled with train sound, and now Pansy isn't sure what he's thinking, and so she looks up; his face is stony, but the eyes still dark and open. "One o'clock. July fourteenth. The Hound and Hynde on Chandler Street in Canterbury," he mumbles, and together, they nod.
Before her resolve breaks any further, she opens the door into the corridor and finds a Hufflepuff third-year girl, gaping at their state. "Close your mouth," Pansy snaps, "before someone uses you as an ashbin."
She feels him brush past her and down the corridor towards Potter and Granger and anger flares through her--but the sight of his broad shoulders, of his not-quite-down-in-the-back jumper and the un-done tie over his shoulder send an entirely different emotion through her, one for which Pansy Parkinson has no name. Walking towards her own compartment, preparing herself for Blaise and Daphne's preening prattle, Pansy finds herself humming the Marseillaise, and she smiles.