Come On, Come On
Harry
The wedding was lovely. Really. It was.
While not as lavish as many of the more traditional purebloods in attendance may have preferred, the outdoor ceremony on the grounds of Malfoy Manor still conveyed a sense of pastoral charm. Not quite active in matters of politics, Draco had still taken definite and concrete steps to distance his house from their dark history, the marriage held in the light of day (rather than an altar-bearing hall) serving as a subtle indicator of this focus.
Ginny was, of course, radiant in her dress, and Draco had actually cried when she walked the cobblestone-laid aisle. The ceremony was emotional, personal, and loving, the couple's vows were almost heart-wrenchingly sweet. Of the weddings which Harry had attended, he'd honestly have placed this one near the top of his list.
Which is why he began to grit his teeth at the reception, where those who had dropped by the table he was sat at had seemed to treat him with caution, as if his presence were either a vague insult to the now-married couple (as Cyrus Greengrass had oh-so-subtly suggested with his "surprise" at seeing Lord Potter-Black in attendance), or if he were in danger of falling into a deep sadness (as Molly Weasley outright stated, amidst Harry's reassurances that he'd still attend the Burrow Christmas party).
He'd enjoyed the company of the others at his table, even as Remus laughed behind his back while Harry clumsily navigated the various jabs and concerns which the wedding guests seemed insistent upon sharing with him. Harry had happily sat with Teddy as Remus and Tonks shared their first dance of the evening, a smile coming to Harry's face as he watched his old friend manage a waltz despite his cane.
Neville and Hannah were lovely, of course, even if their use of pet names for each other ("Starthistle", really) tempted Harry to roll his eyes. He'd briefly considered resenting Neville's inquiry as to why he didn't make use of his plus-one, but thankfully Tonks' crass rejoinder of "too many options, right, kid?" had spared Harry from having to explain that he just didn't know anyone he'd consider inviting who wasn't already in attendance.
As a brief surge of jealousy surfaced when he saw Draco and Ginny unsubtly stealing a kiss beside the dance floor, he realized that he was not jealous that Draco had married Ginny, but that he was attending yet another wedding with no real romantic prospects of his own. The night wore on and many of the married couples said their goodnights, leaving Harry finding himself at the bar, where he'd have to enjoy a (responsible) amount of liquor if he was going to find the liquid courage to strike out on the dance floor. He'd make a token effort to solve his own quandary, at least.
He ordered a short pour of Beetle Berry, a nice, easy start to a several-course drinking meal, when his introspection was interrupted by a smoky voice:
"And here I thought your one redeeming quality, Potter, was that you knew your whisky. It's almost disappointing to see you drinking like a teenage witch."
Pansy
The wedding was nice and all, but by and large helped mostly to serve as a reminder that Pansy was distinctly not one of the more popular witches in the room. Whoever had planned the seating arrangements had placed her and Blaise with two old couples that Pansy had never met before, she'd politely introduced herself and all, but was met with mumbled names in response and promptly ignored the rest of the night.
Blaise was charming, of course, if there was a social situation in which the man couldn't somehow promote himself, she'd yet to discover it. Draco had stopped by to say hello, which was also nice, but he'd quickly sauntered off to talk to other, more important people. By the time that the dances started, and Blaise left to go show off his oh-so-perfect waltz, Pansy found herself seated alone, beginning to sulk.
Sulking had its upsides (her pout was particularly effective), but she had not come to this wedding, dressed as she was, to sit alone. She retreated to the ladies' room, taking stock of herself despite the fact she knew that her appearance was impeccable.
Lipstick? Black, glossy, and perfect. Hair? Also black, glossy, and perfect, the sleek bob falling just so. Dress? A slim, satin piece in a green just shy of "venomous." Heels? Black patent, high enough to be dangerous for the less experienced. Dress robe? Black, silky, and draped to show off. Tits? Noticeable.
She was not desperate, far from it. Despite some of the more unflattering nicknames from her time at Hogwarts, she was choosy with her lovers, sticking to the particularly attractive or skilled (both, ideally), and the fact that she was quick to discard those she grew bored of (whether they were muggles or magical) was simply a matter of good taste. This didn't preclude her from enjoying the attention that she received, she wouldn't put half as much effort into her looks as she did if they weren't mean to be appreciated, after all.
Strolling from the washroom, her heels clicking satisfyingly as she put an extra roll (subtle, mind) into her hips, she surveyed the wedding guests to decide upon her target. It was truly depressing how many of her generation had already settled down and started families, narrowing the field of those available significantly.
There was a beautiful blond wizard she didn't know, seated near the Weasley tables, but nearly as soon as she spotted him Blaise had turned up beside the stranger, two glasses in his hands. That'd take him out of the running, then. The younger Delacour sister (as she realized the family resemblance to Blaise's blond) was certainly striking, but too young for Pansy, even if she was of legal age now.
While Pansy didn't overly care whether or not her partners were attached or single, she knew that she'd best be cautious on this evening at least, as she didn't want the "Slag of Slytherin" reputation resurfacing due to flirting with someone whose spouse was not in favour. That ruled out Dean Thomas, as well as Terry Boot and Cho Chang (unless, of course, they felt like sharing).
The Lovegood girl certainly grew to be an attractive witch, but no. Out of the entire host of Weasleys and their relatives, only the older one with the earring caught her eye, but she'd heard enough rumors about him turning down offers from other witches that she decided not to bother. Talking with Astoria Greengrass-Weasley, her sister Daphne – now that had some potential. Pansy, as well as the entire Magical world, knew that Daphne enjoyed the company of other witches, a trait which Pansy shared (more covertly, of course). Pansy would circle back once Astoria was otherwise occupied, she decided, not wishing to experience that sort of tongue-lashing.
As she made her way to the bar, content to pass some time over a drink, she spotted, of course, the most notable bachelor in the wizarding world: Harry fucking Potter. She'd give him a go, if she were to be honest about it, but she harboured doubts that the sex would be worth the inevitable weepy feelings that he was sure to carry on about afterwards.
Still, it had been some time since she'd matched wits against anyone other than Blaise, and it was simply unfair that she couldn't even distract him with her cleavage. Potter, to the best of her knowledge, was vulnerable to such tactics, and was always good for a barb or two exchanged. She may as well entertain herself while she waited to pounce on Greengrass.
As she sidled towards the countertop, she overheard Potter's order, a mediocre whisky that may as well have been pumpkin juice compared to her taste in drinks.
"And here I thought your one redeeming quality, Potter, was that you knew your whisky. It's almost disappointing to see you drinking like a teenage witch." She sneered, leaning against the bar, enough distance between them that it was clear they were not ordering drinks together.
"Ah, that would explain it," He replied, toasting her mockingly before draining his glass in one pull. "If you were drunk through your teens, your decision-making skills would actually make some sense, Parkinson."
"Martini," She instructed the bartender, "Buckthorn's Genuine." An expensive gin, but why shouldn't it be?
"Two Dragonsbreath," Potter spoke, stepping closer to her, "and a measure of Campbell's Finest."
As the bartender busied himself preparing the drinks, Pansy turned to face Potter. He's fit, she had to admit, having overcome the awkward features that he'd possessed in his youth. Where his hair had been awful, it was now long-ish and slightly messy in a very fashionable state, his glasses actually remarkably stylish compared to his infamous frames during Hogwarts. He still wasn't very tall, but he carried himself with confidence and was lithe in a way that suggested strength, a body type she'd familiarized herself with among the models of the Muggle world.
"Trying to impress me, Potter?" Pansy asked, accepting the shot glass the bartender proffered her, lifting it to inhale the aroma. Whew, she thought, almost regretting her decision to belittle Potter's previous choice of drink. This was clearly a magical beverage, and not one that seemed like it should be taken lightly. "It won't work," she continued, "even if your choice of drink has just graduated from its training bras."
"Oh, this?" Potter asked, slinging back the drink, "it's just a warm-up, really. But don't worry, it won't make your knickers fall off, unlike, say, every other kind of drink in the world."
Pansy returned his earlier toast with the exact same level of sincerity, draining her own shot. It was aggressive, smoky, but deep, whatever spells were worked into the liquor warming her as it sat in her belly, the hairs on the back of her neck raising the slightest bit as the pleasant warm feeling continued to spread lower.
"Oh, not bad," She answered, "crude, but I wouldn't expect much else. Is this what you prefer to drown your sorrows?"
"I know it's an unusual experience for you," Potter responded, "having a bloke buy you a drink without getting into your knickers, but then again I suppose that you're giving a free show anyways."
"This old thing?" She asked coquettishly, imitating some old muggle film, "it's just a dress, Potter, not my fault if you can't control yourself."
"Ah, yes, such a change from your school robes. Still in Slytherin colours, after all this time?"
"Oh, not like you have such a strong case, yourself," she poked his eye-catchingly red tie, letting her finger linger against his chest only barely past the point where it stopped being a "poke" and becoming something else. Still, she gave him a quick once-over just to ensure that her jibes remained on target, and found herself surprised: when did Harry Potter become a man who could pull off dragonskin? "I must say, I do appreciate your shoes, Potter. That's a fine imitation."
"Ah, Parkinson," He shrugged, reaching into his blazer and withdrawing a silver flask lined with, again, black dragonskin, then taking a swig from it. "It's the genuine article, I'm afraid."
"You must tell me who your tailor is," She continued, restraining herself from reacting to the fact that at some point Potter had learned to show off, "it's simply dreadful finding the real stuff to import."
"Oh, these were a gift from a lovely old man in a little Romanian village," Harry answered, unhelpfully, "it turns out that when you kill a dragon, you get the rights to import its materials."
Thankfully, Pansy was saved from reacting with an entirely inappropriate level of admiration by an announcement coming from the stage, with the lead singer of the band taking to the microphone between songs.
"Witches, wizards, what a wedding!" The singer announced. Droll. "Since it's just hit the witching hour, we've got one more song for you, an old one of ours! Salazar's Bones!"
While Pansy didn't recognize the song, or for that matter, the band, apparently someone did, as a delighted shriek ran out across the hall as Ginny Weasley – well, Ginny Malfoy – ran to the dancefloor with her new husband in tow. The band launched into a spirited, high-energy song, suitable for the few remaining young witches and wizards in attendance.
Pansy had actually missed how quickly the hall had emptied – being midnight, she supposed that it was the hour where a traditional event would end, with this additional closing song likely standing as Draco's small, small rebellion against the expectations of polite society. She quickly scanned the dancing crowd, and was delighted to spot Daphne still in attendance, and oh Merlin what a vision she was.
Daphne was outfitted in a royal blue dress with white accessories, a particularly striking combination with her blonde hair. Her accessories were silver, and bouncing all over the place as Greengrass seamlessly switched between leaping about with wild abandon and writhing sensuously as the song demanded.
Yes, Pansy decided, watching the blue dress cling to Daphne's arse damn-near perfectly, this is happening. Though she hadn't maintained any kind of close friendship with Daphne, Pansy figured that their shared status as outcasts from Slytherin and appreciators of the female form would provide enough of a common ground for her to take the former "ice queen" to bed at least once.
Realizing she might get caught staring if she continued to – let's be fair – stare any longer, she glanced back to Potter, fortunately finding him also watching the dance floor. Where she expected that he'd be staring at his ex-girlfriend, or maybe her new husband, she felt a little thrill to realize that he was also checking out Greengrass. The added benefit of swooping in on a girl that Potter was interested in was delightful.
All too quickly, the song ended, and before Pansy could even come up with her plan to separate herself from Potter and make her way to Daphne, Draco had leapt up onto the stage and seized the magical microphone:
"I'm… I'm the happiest man alive, right now, I think," Draco slurred, "I love you all. I love my wife." Ugh. "But it's getting late, so let's get another drink, then let's all go hooooome!" He called, as if it were something to celebrate. A whoop or two from the dance floor indicated that for some, it was.
The wheels span quickly in Pansy's head as the gathered crowd that had been dancing made their way to the bar, including, at the front, the deliciously "flushed-and-slightly-out-of-breath" Daphne.
Daphne
The wedding was fine. It may even have been nice if Daphne were in a better mood, but she'd surprised herself with just how much actually laying eyes on her father again had frustrated her. Thank Merlin, her parents hadn't actually attempted to talk to her (thanks, Astoria), but even watching her father mill about and laugh with those old wizards and witches he talked to rankled her.
Sure, it was even nice to see her friends and some faces that she hadn't in a while, but even that began to turn into a nuisance when every conversation started following similar tracks: "Oh, how are you? Still doing that art thing? That's nice! Seeing anyone? No? Too bad! Me and my partner/spouse/etc. are doing great!"
It's not even that Daphne was lonely or anything like that, she just didn't care to be so frequently reminded about her own single status, no matter how benign the intention. As was typical when Daphne became frustrated, she began to feel somewhat impulsive. There were benefits to being single! For example, she was going to find someone particularly attractive and fuck their brains out.
By the time that the dancing started, Daphne started scanning those who weren't dancing to find any particular candidates. Luna Lovegood was radiant, but they'd never particularly gotten along, and she had no idea if that witch was into women or not. A distressing number of people had already paired off into relationships, let alone on the dance floor, which – briefly – worried Daphne that she might wind up going home alone.
She spotted Pansy Parkinson's tits – Merlin – and then Pansy herself. She was seated with Blaise Zabini and stuck somewhere in a middle ground between scowling, pouting, and giving fuck-me eyes to the entire world, which was a particular accomplishment all on its own. The slinky little dress she was wearing (generously cut to expose exactly the right amount of skin) was also an accomplishment, or at least how she looked in it was.
They hadn't exactly maintained a friendship over the years, but they were still on speaking terms, so Daphne figured that yes, she was going to be amused later in the night if she could play her cards right. She guessed that Pansy was single considering that Blaise was her date (a fantastic date, of course, but one who was very much not interested in women), and the roll of Pansy's eyes when Blaise sashayed past the dance floor and towards one of the Delacour cousins all but confirmed that.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her sister sitting down beside her, unannounced.
"Stori," Daphne greeted her, "how was the ceremony? The maiden bride's honour is intact, I presume?"
Her sister snorted, leaning back against the chair. "I've been on my feet all day, Daph, I'm dying. The whole 'maid of honour' thing was nice and all, but you would not believe how difficult it can be to keep Ginny focused on something."
"I think I can, actually," Daphne smiled, spotting Ron making his way over to his wife, only slightly stumbling on the way.
"Daph!" Ron cried, exuberantly drunk. "Lovely to see you!" He made his way behind Astoria, gently putting his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to kiss the top of her head. Though Daphne generally found displays of romance to be annoying at best, she had to admit that Ron and her sister were a nigh-perfect pair; Ronald Weasley clearly needed someone who was not only capable, but actively interested in helping him to manage his own life, and Astoria was more than up to that task.
As Ron murmured something into his wife's ear, Daphne once again took stock of the room, trying to find Pansy. Her earlier theory of Pansy's single status picked up a small inkling of doubt from the way that Pansy strode to the bar – she walked up to Harry Potter (oh, now there's another candidate) with a distinctly exaggerated roll in her hips, and from what little Daphne oversaw they definitely seemed familiar with each other.
"How's things, Daph?" Ron interrupted her observation, "you been seeing anyone?"
Daphne glowered, but only slightly – Ron, at least, meant well – as she measured her response: the Weasley man was sharper than others gave him credit for, and he may well have noticed her checking out Pansy and Harry.
"Not particularly, Ron," she answered, carefully, "why do you ask?"
"You should talk to Harry," Ron answered, patting Astoria's shoulders as she started to launch into a lecture, "I'm not saying 'go marry him' or anything like that, but he's a good bloke, and he could use a good woman in his life. Go for a drink or something, that's all."
She re-adjusted her own estimates again – if Harry and Pansy were an item, it was a secret, and that was even more interesting. "Noted, Ron, thanks for the advice," she answered, only slightly sarcastic.
"Just keep it in mind," Ron answered, kissing Astoria on the lips, "not saying anything else!" He left their table. Daphne looked to Astoria and pointedly rolled her eyes, which was met with a gentle laugh.
"You know he means well, even if he's being clumsy about it," her sister spoke, "but I think a part of him does want him and his best mate to also be family, and marrying sisters is the next best way to do that."
"Ah, yes, you know me," Daphne answered, draining her wine glass, "I'm just aching to get married. My ring finger feels so naked…"
"Psh, what you're aching for isn't marriage," Astoria giggled, "but I do see you looking over at the bar where a certain bachelor is, apparently, being chatted up by Pansy Parkinson at this moment. Missing your chance?"
"Hardly," Daphne answered, "I'm missing a drink. What do you want?"
"Oh, I'm fine," Astoria replied.
"No, I haven't seen you have a drink all night, and it's a wedding," Daphne protested, "what are you drinking?"
"No, Daph," Her sister insisted, "I'm fine without a drink. Seriously."
Oh. Oh! Daphne realized what Astoria was implying.
"Congratulations!" She whispered, excited despite her own "ice queen" persona she was trying to enforce, "how far along are you? Do mom and dad know? Anyone else?"
"Ssh!" Astoria hushed her. "It's early, no, and no. Keep it to yourself, or I swear the consequences will be… dire."
This pleasant surprise was followed by the band onstage announcing their last song: it wasn't one of Daphne's favourites, but it was one she wanted to dance to. She pulled her sister up with her, dancing around half in celebration and half simply because she enjoyed it, losing herself to the music.
By the time the song ended and Draco announced the end of the evening, she realized she'd nearly forgotten her recent pursuit, to get another drink, and then if things worked out, to get laid. Walking at the head of the group of wedding-goers in various levels of inebriation, she was equally pleased and somewhat vexed to notice (from the corner of her eye, of course, she wasn't going to be obvious about it) both Harry and Pansy checking her out.
Interesting, she thought. As the flurry of greetings and calls for drinks went on around her, she made sure to greet both Harry and Pansy with a little extra focus, but not so much as to draw attention to herself. Pansy was drawn away by Blaise, and Daphne caught the briefest hints of that conversation:
"Michel has run into some trouble, you see," She overheard Blaise explaining, "and he needs a place to stay tonight. I've offered our spare room, of course."
Not obvious at all, Zabini, she thought, as it was obvious why he was taking the French man home. Still, Pansy's response would be illuminating, and Daphne noted that Pansy didn't look to Harry first, but to Daphne herself. Even more interesting.
For his part, Harry was caught up in a conversation with Ron, and Daphne swore that she heard her own name come up in it. Harry didn't look over at her, which was almost disappointing, but then again she had come to realize that the so-called "Man-Who-Won" kept his emotions very well concealed these days.
As the gathered crowd did shots, had drinks, and then began to say their goodbyes, Daphne made sure to keep track of where each of Harry and Pansy were going after. Neither had – publicly, at least – made any indication that they had plans other than going home, which fit neatly into Daphne's theory about a secret fling, or perhaps even a relationship. She wondered, then, why both had been staring at her with open interest.
Pansy announced that she was going for a smoke, and left the crowd. Not long afterwards, Harry finished his own goodbyes and goodnights, and walked in the same direction. Very, very interesting. Daphne waited a couple minutes, then said her own goodnights, and followed.
Outside Malfoy manor, Harry and Pansy were sitting on a stone bench, each with a lit cigarette in their hands. They did not sit side-by-side, with enough space between them to comfortably fit another person, where Daphne promptly did just that.
Harry
Harry had not missed the fact that something very curious was developing. He'd picked up on Pansy checking out Daphne Greengrass, of course (not that he blamed her, Daphne was gorgeous), and wasn't exactly offended or anything, since the flirtatious yet hostile banter that he'd been sharing with Pansy wasn't intended to lead to anything.
And yet, at the end of the night, when Pansy announced her intention to go for a smoke (loudly, clearly for someone's benefit), Harry found himself following after her shortly after. True, he could really go for a smoke, but he caught himself thinking idly of Pansy's particularly interesting choice of outfit for the evening as he walked.
Outside, she met him with a brusque "Potter," he replied with a typical "Parkinson," then fished into his blazer for his pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he also pulled his half-empty flask out, taking a healthy swig before offering it to Pansy, who did the same.
He was further intrigued when Daphne appeared shortly afterwards, seating herself between him and Pansy.
"Well, here we are, the leftovers, right?" Daphne announced, leaning back against the bench, "and how are you two doing tonight?"
"Not drunk enough," Harry replied, without thinking.
"Hah. I agree with that," Pansy answered.
"Makes three of us," Daphne continued, "hey, Harry, you aren't actually an Auror, right?"
Weird, he thought, but answered anyways: "No, just a consultant. Why?"
Daphne fished in her clutch without replying, muttering a quiet Liberare into it. Fishing around, she pulled out a small glass vial.
"Good, because I am entirely too sober right now." She tipped the vial, pouring some of its contents – a white powder with glittering pieces of green and gold throughout – into the cap, before bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply.
"What've you got?" Pansy asked from across her.
"Cocaine, cut with some euphoria elixir and a bit of pepperup potion. Want some?"
"Sure," Harry answered, interrupting. Pansy looked at him with surprise, but seriously, you didn't go on a long journey of youth through the continent without encountering some drugs now and then. He took his own bump as Daphne offered, enjoying how the standard coke tingle fell into a pleasant humming sensation in his head. He'd always been surprised that there weren't more people abusing magical drugs, compared to the muggle world with their own inferior versions.
Pansy took one of her own, pulling a cigarette from her pack to offer Daphne, which the blonde happily accepted. Harry took a glance out of the corner of his eye, inspecting the older Greengrass sister, and definitely understood why Pansy had been so invested in staring at her; she was tall, her hair a perfectly-curled wave of gold, eyes a shining bright blue, and her nose and ears set with just enough silver piercings to add something non-classical to her beauty. He'd never been particularly close with her at any point, but Ron had pulled him aside not minutes ago to mention that maybe Harry should consider striking up a conversation with her.
"I've got more at my flat, if either of you are interested," Daphne spoke, leaning her head back and showing her elegant neck (and a not-inconsiderable amount of cleavage) as she exhaled smoke.
"I'm down," Pansy answered, perhaps slightly more quickly than she should have.
"Yeah," Harry replied, "sounds good."
A brief portkey trip, a couple of hours, a fair quantity of drinks and a little bit of drugs had left Harry feeling delightfully inebriated. Not so fucked up that he was incoherent or unsteady, but definitely in a state he preferred over the cautious sobriety of the wedding.
He'd come to find that Daphne was actually delightful to spend time around, with a deep interest in muggle culture as well as a keen grasp of pureblood politics. He enjoyed spending time with Pansy, too, which came as somewhat of a shock – though he knew that her insults didn't really carry much weight to them, he was actually thoroughly enjoying their running battle of wits.
The fact that she, too, was gorgeous certainly didn't hurt. At this moment, Harry was leaning back on Daphne's couch, a drink in his hand, as Pansy leaned against a windowsill while she smoked. His eyes trailed up her legs, to where her dress curved around her arse (not large, but incredibly shaped) before it disappeared over her back, revealing a large, intricately-designed tattoo of a black-and-green serpent.
"Done staring at my arse, Potter?" Pansy drawled, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray.
"Your ink, actually," He answered, to which she snorted.
"Ah, yes, I'm sure you're a tattoo aficionado," Pansy replied, as she strutted back into the centre of the room.
Harry, in place of a reply, unbuttoned a couple of his shirt's buttons, pulling it aside to reveal the black tattoo of a Grim that sat on the left of his chest.
"Ooh," Daphne interjected, "I like it! Does it mean something?"
"Someone I lost," Harry answered, shrugging, "I've got more, but they're not all as important."
Pansy started to reply, then the words died in her throat as Daphne suddenly reached behind her back, unzipped her dress, and let it drop to the floor. Merlin, Harry thought. If she'd been beautiful with the dress on, the reveal of what was underneath had actually left him speechless – her body was exquisite, lines of muscle just visible beneath her curves, her powerful thighs swelling into an incredible arse which itself tapered into a thin waist, all of which was draped in white and very lacy undergarments.
"I got this one," Daphne spoke, pointing to a tattoo that looked like stylized bars of music, "a couple years ago. It's the Moonlight Sonata, my favourite."
Neither Harry nor Pansy responded, staying silent for longer than was appropriate.
"Merlin, Daph," Pansy spoke, her voice husky, "I think you just made Potter cum in his trousers."
"Ah, Parkinson," Harry replied, tearing his eyes reluctantly away from Daphne, "I don't blame you, you're just used to shite men with no stamina."
"Oh, I'm quite particular, Potter," She answered, her tone practically dripping with sarcasm, "which I'm sure comes as a great disappointment to you."
"Of course," Harry's own tone was no better, "all the best of the Death Eaters, drunks, and desperate."
Pansy snorted. "Death Eaters? Are you bitter about Draco, of all people? I'll have you know, Potter, he and I never slept together, I wasn't so easy as whatever went on in Gryffindor."
"If there's one thing that's changed," Harry answered, "it's that his taste has certainly improved."
"Fuck," Daphne interrupted, "are you two going to fuck already, or what?"
Daphne
She wasn't frustrated, per se, but she was exasperated, that much was certain. Seriously, she thought, as she rifled through her record collection, seeking out something to dance to, settling on Joy Division – it seemed to suit the self-enforced melancholy of both Harry and Pansy.
The lengths to which she'd gone should have been incredibly obvious, getting both of them into her flat, all three of them a nice and even level of uninhibited, and it was not by accident that she'd dropped her dress, revealing the particularly nice set of lingerie underneath, and the two of them had immediately returned to their strange form of flirting.
For fuck's sake, she'd turned purposefully, flexing her leg just right to show off her arse, which (in her own measure) was her sexiest feature, and while the they'd both shut up for long enough to be appropriately awestruck, they hadn't even noticed her walking away to change the record.
Her earlier theory, she realized, was clearly wrong. Harry and Pansy were definitely not in a fling, and with absolute certainty they were not in a relationship, but it seemed like the two of them were either being purposely obtuse or were genuinely unaware of the positively electric tension that flowed between the two of them.
She'd sort that out, one way or the other.
"Fuck," She vented her frustration, "are you two going to fuck already, or what?"
The bluntness of her question seemed to catch the two of them by surprise, as they stared first at her, then glanced at each other, then back to Daphne.
"As if I would," Pansy replied, only the slightest hitch in her voice, "but if you get him out of here, I'll show you what I can do, Daph."
"Or," Harry answered, pointedly not looking at Pansy, "once Parkinson gets bored and leaves, maybe we should see where things go, Daphne."
"Seriously," Daphne answered, as she stormed towards Pansy. The black-haired woman was standing in the center of her living room, with Harry sprawled out over her couch. "If the two of you are going to be so frustrating, I'm going to change things up a bit: us three, we're going to play a game." She shoved Pansy into the couch, not hard enough to be violent, but enough to leave her leaning against Harry as her balance failed.
"I'm pretty sure that you both want to see me naked," she announced, "so that's your prize if you're both brave enough to play along. Here's the rules," she continued:
"First, you two need to sit closer together than that. Get your arms behind each other;"
"Second, I'm the one who's most undressed here. I'm going to keep dancing, but the more undressed you get, the more I'll take off too;"
"Third, you absolutely can't undress yourselves."