Teaser, Tormentor
Harry
Harry became aware of two things as he awoke to the high-pitched sound of someone exasperatedly clearing their throat: first, that waking up with two naked witches draped over him was a very pleasant experience; second, that waking up to Kreacher demanding his attention was not.
"Kreacher asked," the ancient elf spoke, "if Master and his… guests are wanting breakfast?"
"Er," Harry rasped, blearily remembering how to speak, "no, thank you, Kreacher. If you would, I'd actually prefer that you reorganize the hall of portraits according to… birth month."
"Kreacher will do this!" Good, that'll keep him out of my hair for a few hours, Harry thought, as the elf vanished – quite literally – from his sight.
This left Harry with the significantly more enjoyable sight of Daphne and Pansy in the morning: at some point in the night, they'd managed to rearrange themselves so that one of the women was on either side of Harry, and if their present proximity was any indication, apparently snuggling during sleep was a common Slytherin trait.
"Wuzzat a House Elf?" Daphne asked, her voice thick with sleep.
"Came with the house," Harry explained, not really wishing to spend more time thinking about Kreacher when there were much more pleasant options available to him. Pansy, for her part, made a disgruntled sound and rolled off Harry to bury her face in a pillow – not a morning person, her.
"Think I'm pretty much awake now," Harry summoned his glasses from his nightstand, "you fancy breakfast?"
"That would be delightful," Daphne replied, rolling onto her back to sit up, blinking her eyes in a way that probably shouldn't have been attractive, but she managed it somehow anyways. Harry made a noise of acknowledgement as he finished untangling himself from (still sprawled face-down) Pansy, pulling on a pair of pants and a t-shirt as he made his way to his kitchen.
By the time that Harry had the kettle boiling and several rashers of streaky bacon sizzling, Daphne had wandered down from his bedroom to sit at the table, wearing a pair of comfortable-looking shorts and a tank top that she'd presumably transfigured from some of the much less breakfast-suitable clothing she'd worn at various points of last night.
"Tea or coffee?" Harry inquired.
"Tea, please," Daphne answered, leaning back and stretching in a way that really showed off her figure, "y'want me to help with anything?"
She gets less formal in the morning, Harry noticed, as he made a quick gesture to turn down her offer. Flipping the slices of bacon with a fork, he strode to the cupboards, pulling a mug and a box of teabags from within. Pansy made her appearance at this point, having begrudgingly removed herself from Harry's bed, and without speaking she made her way beside him, reaching up into the cupboard to remove a mug of her own.
This action helped Harry to notice that Pansy had definitely not bothered to transfigure herself a new set of clothes, instead she was wearing one of his t-shirts and her thong from the night before. This realization, of course, was also helped along by the fact that her stretch to retrieve a mug gave Harry a fantastic view of her arse.
He smirked as she glanced over his shoulder to catch him in the act, the roll of her eyes paired with a tiny quirk at the corner of her lips. As had become a more frequent occurrence since he got involved with them, Harry was once more struck with the realization that spending time with Pansy, Daphne, or especially both was just easier than he'd expected it to be.
Which was something he had to be cautious about. While he wasn't lying when he had told Pansy that he'd had casual sex before, even casual sex with friends, those previous situations had always seemed to carry an inherent expiration date due to outside factors, and from what he could tell neither of Pansy or Daphne had any upcoming plans to leave England. This kind of sustained closeness was something that could easily start becoming intimacy if he wasn't careful, and while he was hardly put out by that idea, he also knew that that simply wasn't the kind of relationship that the three had with each other.
"Thanks," He spoke, accepting a mug of coffee of his own that Pansy passed into his hand, before she strode through the kitchen to join Daphne at her side of the table. Speaking of "intimacy" Harry thought, watching Daphne lean into Pansy's hand as the brunette idly stroked the blonde's bare shoulder. They could work together, he continued musing, cracking some eggs into a second pan, they're both artsy and into fashion and all that, and Daph's tough enough not to get steamrolled by Pansy.
"I'm curious," Daphne interrupted his thoughts, "why do you cook Muggle fashion? I know a lot of us moved away from the magical world for a while, but, well," she gestured vaguely at the surroundings, the – granted – magical mansion that Harry had lived in since the war ended.
"I lived with Muggle relatives when I was young," Harry answered, carefully measuring his response. "You aren't 'bothering' people when you share with them," he reminded himself, recalling a particularly salient piece of advice his therapist had once offered. Beginning to plate breakfast, he continued, trying to share without over-sharing. "I guess I never really bothered to learn it another way, this is just what I was used to."
"Huh," Daphne said in response, "I never knew that. I guess I assumed you would have been raised as a ward somewhere, being the heir to your house and all." Not exactly part of Dumbledore's plans, that, Harry thought with the slightest twinge of resentment, sitting himself at the table and setting the plates of bacon and eggs in the center.
"To be honest, I'm still not really sure what all that Lordship stuff even means," He answered, drawing a snort from Pansy as she reached to grab a slice of bacon directly off the serving plate, "I definitely didn't learn about it as a child."
"You'd absolutely hate it," Pansy drawled, "it's a bunch of rules and traditions and other stodgy bullshite, which if I remember right, was exactly what you learned to ignore as a child."
"Hey," He protested, "I followed the rules at Hogwarts! Sometimes. Now and then. If they weren't stupid."
Daphne laughed, a pretty, almost musical sound. "You know, sometimes I almost feel like I missed out not being more outgoing when we were all in school."
"You really didn't," Pansy grimaced over her mug of coffee, "it's absolutely mad to think of how much time we spent hating each other and circulating ridiculous rumors."
It was worse than that, Harry thought, meeting Pansy's gaze. She pursed her lips and broke her stare from his eyes, instead opting to lift an egg onto her plate. Harry had never bothered asking Draco how much the blond had shared with Pansy during Hogwarts, which left him in the uncomfortable position of having no clue what Pansy knew about the true actions taken during the functional cold war held in the halls of their former school.
"Oh, I definitely still heard rumors," Daphne explained, "Tracey was more than happy to share what she'd heard with me. You, Harry, had some particularly ridiculous ones surrounding you!"
"Oh?" He asked, on edge despite his own efforts to take this conversation as nothing more than a light repartee.
"Let's see… I'd heard you killed a troll, that you battled Slytherin's monster in the forbidden forest or that you were commanding it to attack your enemies, that you'd mastered wandless magic before you even got to Hogwarts, or that you were a necromancer using the ghosts of Hogwarts to spy on people."
Despite his caution (only arguably "paranoia", he'd insist), Harry found himself chuckling at this list of deeds attributed to him. "I'd say that's roughly half accurate," he explained, smirking.
"You're a pretty deft hand now, I've gotta say," Pansy cut in, apparently also happy to move away from actual conspiracies of Hogwarts and towards imagined ones, "but I would have noticed if you were some kind of magical prodigy at Hogwarts. It's not that one."
Harry nodded to her. "I didn't kill a troll, I just knocked it out, really, and Ron and Hermione helped."
"If you had command of Slytherin's monster, Draco wouldn't have survived second year," Pansy reasoned.
"I'm no expert, but you hardly strike me as a necromancer," Daphne added.
Master of Death, Harry thought before tamping that particular train of thought down immediately. "It turns out that the ghosts are just happy to have someone to talk to, though," he left any further implications of that statement unsaid.
"So that's two half-truths, two falsehoods, that leaves, what?" Daphne sipped her tea, "you fought a monster in the forbidden forest?"
"Well, yeah," Harry admitted, "but Slytherin's serpent never made it out to the forest."
Pansy brought her mug down on the table with enough force to make Daphne jump. "What!? There really was a monster?" She frowned, "I always thought Draco was making that up to try and make himself look brave."
"Er, yeah." Harry realized that he'd said more than he had really meant to. "There was, in second year, it actually was attacking students."
Daphne's eyebrows rose in surprise, before immediately dropping into a furrow as she thought her way through this statement. "There's only a few creatures that would match those attacks, Harry…"
Fuck, I forget how smart she is. While Daphne was fun to spend time with and didn't often bring up particularly academic pursuits, Harry recalled – too late, apparently – that there were several times throughout these school years where Daphne was competing directly against Hermione for the highest marks in different classes. Might as well get it over with…
"Yeah. It was a basilisk."
Pansy actually goggled at this, before letting a low whistle loose and muttering "fuck me…" in surprise, slumping back in her chair.
Daphne's surprise was a little more obvious, as she cried "A Basilisk!?" with enough volume that Harry was half-afraid that Kreacher would decide he was being summoned and show up with some unfortunate reptile in hand.
"Well, it was. It's dead now, so that problem isn't going to happen again."
"What, did Dumbledore dispose of it?" Daphne asked incredulously.
"Er," Harry glanced over at Pansy, not that the wide-eyed brunette was apparently going to back him up on this one, "No, uh, I killed it."
"Your magic was strong enough to get through a basilisk's defenses at twelve?" Daphne almost whispered, looking up and down Harry as if she expected to find some sudden change to his physical shape.
"Well, no, I got lucky," Harry scratched the back of his head, "if it wasn't for Fawkes I would have died, and I, uh, I didn't use magic."
He hoped that this ambiguity would be enough to end the discussion before he made himself look any more foolish than he already was, but the two witches remained silent, if not actually seeming eager to hear the rest of the story for some reason.
"Er… I killed it with a sword. It was all luck, and it got me anyways."
There was a moment of suspenseful silence, before Pansy broke the tension with a nearly cackling bout of laughter. "You know what, Harry? I think I hate you more than ever. All this time I've thought your whole humility angle was just some kind of play at seeming mysterious, but now I'm realizing that you're actually this fucking thick, aren't you?"
"I, uh, yes?" Harry answered, frowning. Pansy's words were certainly sharp, but he'd experienced both genuine venom and toothless teasing from her over the years, and this felt different than those occasions.
"I think, Harry, that you've actually managed the impossible," Daphne interjected, "you've impressed Pansy Parkinson."
"Fuck off, Daph, you're impressed too." Pansy's gaze – where Daphne had seemed analytical or curious – was practically smoking.
Sensing an opportunity, Harry busied himself with wolfing down some bacon, hoping that the conversation's swerve towards a debate between the two women would change the topic away from himself.
"Kills a basilisk with a sword, at twelve, survives a basilisk bite," Pansy dashed Harry's hopes immediately. while pointing at the circular scar burned into his right bicep despite Fawke's miraculous intervention, "I thought you were just trying to sound impressive at Draco's wedding, but you're actually a dragonslayer too, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah," Harry thought that this was fairly straightforward, in that situation he'd had enough planning, foresight, and the use of his magic that it seemed to be fairly routine, "but loads of people could have. It was half-mad, basically more like animal control than anything else."
He stood to begin clearing the plates from the table – definitely not running away, or trying to hide, or any of his other more troublesome instincts – when Daphne, finally, provided a change in topic.
"You know, one of the other more persistent rumors was that Draco had a snake familiar that he kept hidden, was that one true too?"
Well it wasn't Draco who had one… he recalled, before forcing himself to think of happier times.
"Pfft," Pansy snorted, "you both know Draco better than I do at this point, which should have given you plenty of evidence that the man has absolutely no fucking subtlety about him. If he had something up his sleeve, he'd show it off as quickly as possible."
"Oh, yeah, like when he showed up with that new broomstick," Daphne continued, as Pansy snorted and added in other recollections of her own.
Thank Merlin for Draco Malfoy's ego.
The rest of the morning had passed without any further cause for Harry to get too uncomfortable talking about himself, and the afternoon had begun to lapse into the evening before Harry even realized that he'd spent most of a day just hanging out with Daphne and Pansy, enjoying their company without it being sexual in nature.
It took a little longer for Daphne to apparently reach the same conclusion, as she suddenly asked Harry if she and Pansy should leave, to which he found that his immediate answer was that they should not.
Pansy's similar realization came shortly afterwards, which she chose to remedy by redirecting the energy of their socializing back to a distinctly sexual nature.
"So last night was definitely great," She opened, "but we should probably lay out any boundaries and preferences now before we get into anything too intense."
It gets more intense?
"I'm pretty much game for anything that doesn't involve vomit or shit," Pansy bluntly stated, "I'm sure you can tell that the rough stuff is a big 'yes' for me."
"I think you're more experienced with that than I am," Daphne admitted, "I'm curious and all, but I think I'd prefer if you two ask me before trying something new."
"Oh, of course," Pansy agreed, "I'm all for spontaneity but don't try and shove it up my arse without a warning, Harry."
"Uh," he started, before realizing that she was teasing him, of all things to tease about, "yeah, same for me."
Pansy's eyes lit up at this. "Oh, I do fancy myself pretty good with a strap-on, if that's something you want!"
"Never tried it," Harry shrugged, surprising himself a bit with his candor, "the idea doesn't really do much for me, but I mean… fair's fair?"
Daphne giggled, "I'm interested, it looked like a lot of fun, but that's a whole new thing for me that I'd need to get used to. I guess that's one of my turn-ons, I think I like watching the two of you together."
"Ooh, yeah, voyeurism can be hot. What about hard 'no's? I'm definitely game for dirty talk and a bit of degradation, call me a slut or a cunt or whatever, but do not call me stupid." Pansy spoke authoritatively.
"Don't call me a freak," Harry blurted, realizing in that moment how absurd it was that this dirty sex talk had somehow opened a door for him to address a distinctly non-sexual insecurity of his. "I don't want to be tied up, either." Too many times when it was not a fun occasion.
"I don't want to talk about getting pregnant when we're having sex," Daphne added, her eyes briefly glazing over sadly before her usual spark returned, "I'm on the potion and we can always discuss the actual health side of that issue, but while you are more than welcome to cum inside me, Harry, I wouldn't like it if either of you implied something about the… results."
"Hmm," Pansy tapped a finger against her lips in thought, "I'm on the potion too – obviously – but I think it might be kind of hot if you wanted to try that roleplay with me, Harry."
"Once again," Harry shrugged a second time, at least restraining his impulse to scratch the back of his head, "doesn't do a lot for me, but I'm game. Definitely won't happen with you, Daph. I'm not down for anything that involves actual pain."
"Where's the line for you?" Pansy inquired, "I mean, don't beat me black and blue or anything like that, but I'd really appreciate it if you can spank my arse red now and then, or slap me around a bit."
Harry felt a flush creep up his neck while he pictured Pansy's arse in that state. "Yeah. Yes. That's good with me, I just don't want to be whipped or anything like that."
"What if you were doing the whipping?" Daphne – surprisingly – asked. Harry thought about it, trying his best to divorce this topic from the more serious instances of torture he'd experienced.
"Maybe? I don't want to feel like either of you aren't enjoying it, whatever I'm doing. If you're super keen on it I could try."
"Oh, trust me," Pansy reassured him, "I'm thoroughly enjoying everything we've done so far. So, yes, Harry, I would adore if you wanted to tie me up one of these times."
"I'm not sure if I have any particular fantasies, really," Daphne pondered, "I think I'm happy just exploring the possibilities, you know?"
"This was my biggest fantasy," Harry snorted, "I think having two witches at once is a pretty standard one."
Over the course of the conversation, Harry noticed that Pansy had been inching her way over his couch closer to him, and he was pretty sure that the burgeoning arousal this inspired could not be excused at all by the effects of the stamina potion he'd taken the night before. The amount of sex he'd had the night before (let alone over the last few weeks) was already approaching a personal best for him, and yet he was still interested in more – yeah, there's some real chemistry here, he admitted to himself.
"Just two?" Pansy teased, smirking.
"Hah, that reminds me of all those rumors we talked about earlier," Daphne practically giggled, "if you believed the rumors, Harry, you had slept with just about every witch in Hogwarts: the Gryffindor chasers, the Patil twins at the same time, even some of the Professors."
Harry chuckled. "Believe it or not, I didn't sleep with anyone when I was at Hogwarts." After, though? The list was still mostly inaccurate. He certainly hadn't slept with all three chasers or both Patils, but he didn't feel like going into those details.
"Oh, yeah, Harry Potter: Sex God was a surprisingly persistent rumor," Pansy agreed, "you would not believe how many times I heard a story that you had literal magic sex powers."
"Er," Harry started speaking, then stopped.
"Er?" Pansy's gaze sat on him heavily, as she abandoned the pretense of inching closer to him, instead beginning to crawl towards him on the couch.
"Well, uh, kind of. I haven't done it in a long time though."
Daphne laughed at the other end of the couch. "Harry, don't get me wrong, you're very good, but… sex magic?"
"I, uh," he licked his lips, noticing Pansy's eyes tracking the movement of his tongue, the flush at the back of his neck back with a vengeance. "Y'know how I'm a parselmouth?"
"Harry." Pansy's voice was coming out with far too much smoke. "You haven't done this to me yet why?"
"It's been a while, and it got harder after…" After the Horcrux in me was destroyed. "After some things happened. I need to look at a snake to speak parseltongue anyways, and I'm definitely not kinky enough to bring reptiles into the bedroom."
Pansy closed what little gap remained, crawling into Harry's lap, facing him.
"Potter, you absolute tosser, I have a snake tattoo."
Oh. Oh!
"I think I'm all fucked out from last night," Daphne's voice was mirthful, "but I did just say I like watching, so, yes, Harry, I think you should show Pansy what you mean."
"Alright," he replied, trying to force more confidence into his voice than he actually felt, "uh, what kind of position works for that? I can't really see your back if, y'know…"
Pansy silenced the beginnings of his stammering with a fierce kiss, her tongue pushing past his lips and into his mouth immediately.
"On your back, Potter," she commanded, as she guided him into this position, laying him on the couch so that his head was pointed towards Daphne and his legs were stretched out towards the opposite end. "Daph, I've got a compact in my purse, if you mind?"
Any attempt that Harry made to solve the mystery of what Pansy was implying was lost in the fact that she spun herself around, planting her rear end – still clothed in a thong – directly onto Harry's face. He groaned against her, arousal surging through him as he reached around her hips to squeeze her arse.
From what he could see that wasn't obscured by Pansy's arse and pussy, Daphne apparently found what she was looking for, as a small object floated out of Pansy's purse at the end of Daphne's wand, growing rapidly in size and levitating above the pair on the couch: a makeup mirror, expanded so that Harry could get a clear glimpse of Pansy's back from his vantage point.
Pansy pulled his shirt off herself, revealing the aforementioned tattoo, before reaching down to start fussing with Harry's waistband.
"You did say 'fair is fair'," she smirked, as he felt her breath against the head of his cock. Groaning, he slipped her thong to the side, taking a slow, languid lick up the entirety of her slit, luxuriating in her slightly-bitter, slightly-salty taste. "Now show me what you can do with your 'sex magic'."
Fine, he thought, you want to see what I can do?
Focusing on the emerald serpent tattooed at the base of Pansy's spine, Harry summoned up the darker sorts of thoughts that were necessary for him to speak parseltongue these days. The exorcism of a fragment of Voldemort's soul had – briefly – seemed to strip certain capabilities away from Harry, but he noted that they returned to him as he settled into his post-war identity.
In retrospect, if you'd told him that all the time he'd spent worrying and angsting about his own "potential to go Dark" was going to be a waste of time because it would lead up to Pansy Parkinson sitting on his face, he probably would have thought he'd already gone mad – but in this moment, he was absolutely thrilled to hear the sudden gasp from her as he hissed "Hello, little snake" against her sensitive flesh.
"Holy fuck," Pansy yelped, "don't fucking stop."
Harry was happy to oblige her, beginning to work his way through the lyrics of "God Save the Queen" and onto the introduction of Hogwarts: A History as the brunette began to writhe on top of him, her periodic moans and gasps muffled by the fact that she was legitimately attempting to match Harry blow-for-blow - by shoving as much of his cock into her throat as she could manage to.
His own satisfied groan – in parseltongue – sent an actual spasm shooting through Pansy, as he felt her legs quiver and shake around his head. Slapping one of her arse cheeks, he pulled her closer into his face, deciding that if she wanted him to show off this talent, he'd damn well make a show out of it.
Her hand began to pump up and down his length with wild abandon, the pace and urgency of her own actions serving to bring forth the first signs of his own approaching orgasm, even as he latched his lips around her clit and ordered her to "come for me" in the snake language – which she absolutely, obviously did, a veritable scream escaping from her mouth around his cock. Her final, desperate push forwards to engulf the entirety of his length was all the remaining stimulation that he needed, and with a satisfied moan, he came down her throat.
Both parties spent a few moments in a haze, before Pansy disentangled herself, almost stumbling as she turned to flop back onto the couch, while Harry lay, satisfied, his arms outstretched over his head.
"Fuck yes," Daphne reviewed, "I really do like watching."
Daphne
Daphne sighed, setting her brush down and sipping from her mug of tea. The painting that she'd begun was failing to materialize in the way that she had expected, hitting a creative wall after what seemed like only a dozen paint strokes. She usually found that painting - out of the various mediums she dabbled in - required the deepest extent of introspection to put her in the right creative mindset, and she was certainly avoiding that particular activity.
Not that there was anything wrong, far from it, she'd had a very pleasant weekend. In typical Ice Queen fashion, she was now beginning to withdraw a bit; responding to the excitement of the past days by isolating herself in her quiet, solitary art.
The remainder of the Saturday night at Harry's place had been relaxed, easy – and now, by Tuesday afternoon, that easiness was beginning to worry her. Harry, Pansy, and herself had all vaguely agreed to some kind of friends-with-benefits arrangement, but Daphne was coming to realize that she didn't really have a fantastic idea of how to be "friends" with someone, let alone adding the "benefits" in.
Sure, she spent time around people often enough, and she certainly had a collection of acquaintances, but as far as genuine friends went, she had Astoria (do siblings even count?), Tracey (living across the Atlantic), and… that was about it. She got on fine with both Ronald and Theo, the respective partners of each witch, but the primary nature of those friendships was "the man that my friend (or sister) is dating (or married to)".
Perhaps that was why she was discomfited – surely friends talked to each other, right? If so, it made sense that she had spent an evening just hanging out with Harry and Pansy, and it wasn't some kind of initial warning sign that she was overstepping the borders of the nebulous dynamic that existed between the three.
I'm probably going to have to actually sit them down and define the rules, she realized, which somehow seemed much more intimidating than the light and enjoyable way that they'd managed to outline their respective boundaries and expectations for sex itself, something that seemed like it should be more personal.
Whatever Harry and Pansy thought, it didn't really seem to bother either of them, but both of them were possessed with different kinds of self-confidence that Daphne didn't think she shared with either of her most recent lovers. She'd picked up on Harry getting uncomfortable around talking about his experiences during the Second Wizarding War, but strangely, the man seemed to struggle more deeply with his triumphs than with the many (many) traumas he'd experienced.
Pansy… she, on the other hand, maintained an aggressive form of confidence that Daphne didn't care to be on the bad side of again. Where Daphne thought that she'd been playing a fun little game by leaving Pansy uncertain about her attendance at the opening of Serpentine, she'd quickly realized her misstep when Pansy had literally seized her by the throat. Fortunately, Pansy had stepped back from the heat of her anger, sparing both of them from the need to test each other in conflict.
And that is another matter entirely, Daphne thought. While she'd love to ignore the role that some particular aspects played in her life, the reality was that she was a witch, she wielded magic, and even outside of dueling arenas there were particular consequences arising from the extent of power that any individual witch or wizard could bring to bear. Much of her notoriety as the Ice Queen of Slytherin – and the corresponding insulation from the ravages of the war that this isolation had afforded her – came as a result of her ability with magic.
The students of House Slytherin learned quickly to sort themselves into a hierarchy based on how dangerous each of them was, and the quickest means of asserting that one was a dangerous person was to show off how well you could wield power. Wealth or political status was one arena, physical presence worked in a pinch, but the ability to destroy your enemies with your magic was best of all.
Blaise had been the top dog in Slytherin in sheer magical power, Draco was next (and his political power and wealth far outstripped Blaise's), and Daphne herself had resided in the third rank. Blaise had enjoyed a social status that bypassed the prejudice and bigotry of Purebloods, Draco had essentially been in charge of the entire house, and she had mostly been left alone, uninvolved with Dark Lords or pureblood extremists.
Not that she'd really had the chance to witness him duelling, but Daphne figured that Harry would probably be able to take on the former top three Slytherins at once. She'd noticed that he casually used wandless and wordless magic, which was impressive enough, but it was the way that he had brushed off the sheer madness of some of his feats as a child (with genuine humility, at that) which had caused her to reassess her opinion of his magical strength.
This worried Daphne for two very different reasons: first, and most directly relevant, it reminded her of Astoria's oh-so-helpful hints that Harry would be a good partner for her, one who could protect her. She understood that her sister meant well, but Astoria undoubtedly had a better grasp over Harry's capabilities than Daphne did (given that her husband was the right-hand-man for Harry during the war), and the fact that Astoria hadn't mentioned "oh, and he's basically the strongest wizard in Britain, by the way" left her feeling almost like her sister had been manipulating her.
Daphne knew that, on some level, she was being a bit paranoid, that Harry hadn't shown the slightest indication that he was the type to abuse the power he wielded, but she still felt an impulsive urge to prove that she didn't need anyone to fight her battles for her. It (surely) wasn't what Astoria meant to imply, and she doubted Harry would even be aware of the context, but it brought to mind how her father (a powerful wizard in his own right) assumed that he could dictate the lives of his children as if they were his servants; someone of Harry's status, power, and wealth could look someone like Cyrus Greengrass in the eye and tell her father that his own designs didn't matter any more, because Lord Potter-Black had made his own decisions about Daphne Greengrass's life.
Blinking, she returned her attention to her tea, which had begun to grow cold in the time she'd been lost in thought. Daphne grumbled, retrieving her wand and muttering a re-heating charm, chiding herself internally for getting lost in these kinds of worries. While it was objectively true that Harry was probably the most eligible bachelor in Wizarding society, the various forms of power that he commanded weren't what attracted her to him, and she had the distinct sense that Harry would be deeply offended if that had been the case.
Then again… the second reason that she'd been worried couldn't be ignored entirely. Powerful wizards and witches tended to attract followers of different types through their mere existence, some kind of quirk of magic that Pureblooded families were well aware of (even if the phenomenon was not entirely understood). Not only was Harry almost certainly the most powerful wizard in Britain across all of the various arenas she'd considered, but his closest ally was likely the most powerful witch of their generation: the only reason that Daphne considered Ronald Weasley to be Harry's right-hand-man was because Hermione Granger stood beside Harry as an equal, not as any kind of "follower".
While Daphne wasn't exactly worried about Harry or Pansy taking other lovers (though she supposed that was another topic that should probably be discussed), and she'd never picked up on any real indicators that Harry felt any kind of romantic attraction to Hermione… if it turned out that Daphne and Pansy were just idle means of passing time until Harry and Hermione paired off and began reshaping Magical Britain, the thought of being left as a loose end to be tied off by Granger was a scenario that Daphne didn't care to ponder.
Not to mention Pansy… Daphne thought – this recent bout of anxiety had focused entirely on Harry until this point, but Daphne had her own fears about the other Slytherin in the strange little dynamic they were sharing. Daphne liked Pansy just as much as she liked Harry, and the trio had been remarkably free of jealousy in the few weeks that they'd been involved with each other, but she had begun to notice a connection between the other two that she wasn't entirely sure she was part of.
It wasn't surprising that she'd initially wondered, back at Draco and Ginny Malfoy's wedding, if Harry and Pansy were secretly together – the two shared a fiery similarity to each other, both of them self-assured and passionate in a way that Daphne just wasn't. Sure, she was entirely capable of standing up for herself, but Pansy was fierce, and Harry, well, Harry could apparently slay magical beasts in single combat as a child.
Pansy was all smoke and sharp edges, if Daphne had to characterize her in a single word it would be "dangerous", and Harry was – apparently – an endless well of surprises and hidden strengths. Harry's close friends were already becoming the movers and shakers of their society, and Pansy didn't give a fuck about his position in society, treating him with a feigned disdain that Daphne could tell Harry found enjoyable (intoxicating, she thought).
Daphne Greengrass, the Ice Queen? She barely even had friends, she had only bothered to participate in the Second Wizarding War at the very end, and – compared to what Harry and Pansy seemed to each bring to the table – she wasn't sure if she'd even really had a relationship. Millicent had certainly been of the opinion that their time together hadn't qualified. Is it any wonder that I'm afraid of navigating this thing when I've never done anything like it before?
Sighing, she began to pack up her painting supplies. Though she'd apparently managed to summon the introspection that she'd been missing earlier, anything that she wound up painting in this kind of mood was just going to wind up insufferably angsty.
By Thursday, Daphne's mood had improved, but she still found herself noticing little details about the way Pansy and Harry wrote to each other in their group conversations in the magical notebooks they used to communicate, picking up on (what she was sure must be) signs that perhaps this little dynamic was inevitably leading to Harry and Pansy pairing off.
It was with these kinds of insecurities in mind that she went to Astoria and Ronald's house for lunch: one of the lesser Greengrass properties (her father could be generous when he felt that his wishes were being obeyed), the married couple had moved in to the property shortly after their wedding, and had immediately begun to transform it into their home.
"Hey, Daph," Ronald greeted her at the front door, "Stori's in the kitchen."
"Cheers," Daphne replied, entering their home after kicking her shoes off. She was wearing one of her new blouses from Serpentine, having realized before her visit that she hadn't quite rationalized her newfound closeness with Pansy in a way that wouldn't have aroused Astoria's suspicions, but also not overly worried about any speculation her sister might have into Daphne's relationships.
She found Astoria fussing over a kettle – an electric Muggle kind, though it was unplugged and the cord dangled uselessly off the counter – and Daphne merely quirked an eyebrow in bemusement as she seated herself at their table.
"My wonderful husband," Astoria explained, tapping her wand against the side of the kettle and giving a little yelp of surprise as it suddenly billowed steam, "has decided that we should learn how to use technology."
"Way of the future, innit?" Ronald walked behind his wife, quietly showing her whatever charm was actually needed to get the kettle to work. "I figure my dad's on the right track after all, we're missing out on some of the cleverer Muggle inventions."
"Ah, yes," Daphne teased, "however would we figure out how to boil water without using magic?"
"Hush," Astoria grumbled, nevertheless cracking a grin, "I still don't see why we can't just employ some house elves for the kitchen."
"We never needed any," Ronald began to pour the now-boiled water into cups, teabags already prepared, "and anyways, I don't want the kid growing up spoiled, y'know?"
Daphne felt a warm sense of happiness at how her sister practically beamed at this last sentiment. She had no doubts that Astoria and Ronald would be good parents (certainly better than most Purebloods), and she was always impressed at how easily the pair navigated incongruities between the Greengrass' more privileged lifestyle and the Weasleys'… more unconventional practices.
"Right, yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about today, Daph," Astoria took her cup from Ronald, gently brushing her fingers over the backs of his hands as she did, "I figured that we could use some help planning the announcement party, and you're obviously my first choice."
"What do you mean, it should be incredibly simple," Daphne took her own tea, nodding in thanks to the red-headed man (who appeared to be growing a bright red beard, of all stylistic choices), "all we have to do is find a way to have our father present without him making me angry enough to kill him, set a date where many of the most popular and busiest people in Britain will be available, and adhere to the old customs without being stuck-up bints about it, yeah?"
"And that," Ronald took his own seat, "is precisely why my brilliant wife has decided that I shouldn't be in charge of planning."
"At least you'll have an idea of how to seat a dozen various Weasleys," Daphne teased, "not to mention that I'm sure half the population of France is going to attend with all the Delacours."
"Ah," Ronald's face tightened in a grimace, briefly, before the expression passed, "the, uh, the Delacours won't be attending."
"Oh?" Daphne was confused. Though hardly privy to the inner workings of that side of her brother-in-law's own inlaws, she knew that the Delacours were one of the few magical families that could compare to the Weasleys in both size and insistent friendliness.
"Not my place to talk about it," Ronald grumbled, drinking from his cup, as Astoria reached a hand out to lay overtop his. Daphne saw him grip Astoria's fingers between his own, and the sight prompted a fleeting worry - do I want to get married one day? - before Daphne refocused herself on the conversation at hand. "My brother's an idiot. I'm sure it'll be in the Prophet before long, but for now," he waved a hand dismissively in the air.
Puzzling, she thought, before leaving that line of speculation for another time.
"It's not only planning," Astoria interrupted, "we also have something to ask you."
"We'd be honoured if you would be the kid's godmother," Ronald blurted, "you're the only one who knows yet, and I know it's early, we don't even know if they're a boy or a girl or…"
"Of course!" Daphne exclaimed over Ronald's rapidly-panicking stammering, "I would be honoured!"
She would, too. While Daphne might not have had any fucking clue whether she wanted to pursue a marriage (or even children) of her own, Ronald and Astoria's relationship was certainly one that could be aspired to, and her emotions soared with the realization that Astoria was willing to publicly make a gesture that she refused to let their father's obstinance affect the relationship between his daughters.
As the two Greengrass women excitedly discussed what names Astoria had thought of, who should be told of her state before the announcement, and so on, Daphne was derailed when she felt her enchanted notepad vibrate against the side of her chair from her purse. Later, when Astoria and Ron stood to clear the dishes, she checked to see which of Harry or Pansy had written her a message.
"Hey love, I would really like it if I could actually display some of your art.
Plans for Saturday? Maybe I can come over and we can discuss?
I promise I'll be good this time xx"
Maybe it was spill-over from the overwhelming happiness she felt for Astoria, maybe it was because she was actually feeling better and had been worrying over nothing, but Pansy's message brought a quick, beaming smile to Daphne's face.
"That sounds wonderful."
Pansy
Pansy stared at herself in the mirror, cocking her hip to the side. No, no, too much, she thought, instead posing by leaning forwards, her chin held in her hand, as if inspecting something with curiosity. The fact that this pose allowed a generous portion of her cleavage to spill out of her top would surely appear coincidental, right?
She scoffed, shaking her head at herself internally. It wasn't like she had to plan on seducing Daphne, considering they'd already fucked several times, and yet Pansy still felt the urge to follow some kind of script on how she'd like to imagine this upcoming (presumably) dalliance.
Lighting a cigarette, she continued musing. Pansy supposed that she didn't know for certain that Daphne was even open to having sex today – after all, they were ostensibly meeting to discuss displaying a piece of her art at Serpentine, perhaps Greengrass wasn't the sort to mix business and pleasure – but she would rather not waste time pondering those boring outcomes when she could instead imagine much more enjoyable ends to the evening.
Glancing at her clock, she tsked. Pansy was far too far ahead of her own schedule: getting dressed with literal hours to spare could be seen as an indicator of the almost embarrassing amount of excitement that she felt. Ugh. It wasn't even like this was a date or anything so ooh la la as that, Pansy had two perfectly rational reasons for visiting Daphne's apartment: to have the (admittedly) talented artist produce something for her shop, and to get the blonde's face between her legs.
Yes. Perfectly rational. No need to muddle anything up with "my feelings" or something that ridiculous.
Pansy nodded to herself, as if she needed the reassurance, before slipping out of her current outfit and beginning to try another one on. She was fairly sure that she'd be able to convince Daphne to fuck, even if the unthinkable happened and her outfit wasn't perfect, it wasn't like that was the only reason the blonde was interested in her, right?
Right? She thought. Hmm. I wonder what she is interested in about me.
A lesser person might have called this fleeting thought an "insecurity", but Pansy Parkinson didn't feel those kinds of pedestrian emotions: surely this was merely an intellectual curiosity, a brief pondering of the milieu of her life, yeah?
Pansy rolled her eyes at herself, pulling what could have been called a "summer dress" (if it weren't pitch black and satiny) up her legs as she chastised her own thoughts. It was obvious why Daphne would be interested in her: Pansy was smart, had a sharp and intelligent sense of humour, a killer sense of style, and incredible breasts. Who wouldn't be interested, really?
Of course, until a few weeks ago, she would have assumed that Harry would have fallen into that category, but the man had actually managed to surprise her. Sure, she'd picked up on their mutual interest in expensive whiskey and being prats to each other, and if pressed she might admit that she'd even considered taking him home on a few occasions before she wound up shagging him at Daphne's flat, but she had completely and utterly failed to pick up on the fact that he also shared that interest.
Then again, another interest that her and Harry appeared to share was also Daphne, so really the whole thing fell together quite fortuitously, in Pansy's opinion.
Striking another pose in the mirror, she decided that yes, it'll be this dress, and set about finding a way of distracting herself from herself until it was an appropriate time to show up at Daphne's.
Later, at Daphne's, Pansy could have slapped her recent-past self for worrying, as it was pretty much obvious from the way that Daphne was flirting that she had the same intentions as Pansy herself.
"I like the colour, but the shape's a bit… aggressive, in terms of the shop decor," Pansy drawled, a glass of wine in her hand, a red-and-onyx statue wreathed with cruel-looking spikes the current center of their shared attention.
"Mm," Dahpne agreed, "I can see that, yeah. What's the vibe you're shooting for, then?"
"Oh," Pansy leaned forwards, elbows on the table (as practiced), "I'm thinking something sensual, maybe even a bit dangerous, you know?"
Daphne quirked an eyebrow in response, a hint of a smirk appearing on her upper lip. "Well, you'd be the expert there, I'm afraid."
"Oh?"
"I'm sure you've noticed, but you're distinctly more fashionable than I am, Pansy."
Oh.
Pansy, as a rule, didn't waste her time doing things that she wasn't good at, which generally included "emotional support" and "being nice to other people", but it wasn't like she was heartless or anything. It was obvious that Daphne was concerned about something - perhaps another vestige of their days in Slytherin rearing its head – and it seemed that this concern had placed Pansy as a threat of some kind to the blonde.
"We all have our talents, darling, but I'd hardly say you're exactly lagging behind on that front. Anyways, you're much more of an artist than I could claim to be."
Yes, this is reassuring.
Her attempt seemed to fail to land as she'd intended: instead, Daphne frowned, a look of actual vulnerability crossing her face. Not old Slytherin habits, then; someone who looked weak in that setting would have been chewed up and spit out in a heartbeat.
Inwardly, Pansy groaned, as she set her wine glass down and crossed the distance between Daphne and herself. She really, truly wasn't good at this "reassurance" bit, but fuck it, she'd give it a try, even so. If Daphne was still feeling tender about the last time that they'd discussed art together, then it was fair enough that she'd have to smooth over the remnants of that argument, right?
"Hey." Fuck, Daphne actually looked like she might have a tear in her eye. "I mean it." Pansy pushed into her, the embrace feeling more intimate somehow than the various sex acts they'd already engaged in, tilting Daphne's chin down towards her own face with one hand, the other wrapped around the small of Daphne's back.
The kiss the two women shared was brief, definitely not chaste by any means but lacking somewhat in the aggression or (even better, in Pansy's opinion) desperation that their previous snogging sessions usually featured.
"You are actually a brilliant artist," Pansy reiterated, "I think I was being a bit of a bint last time because, well," fuck, "I was a bit intimidated. Or something."
"Or something." Daphne smirked – thankfully, seeming to have backed away from the edge of crying by Pansy's efforts.
"Maybe it isn't the spikey lad on the table there, but I seriously and actually want to display something of yours." Alright, Parkinson, you've got this – this is definitely how supporting a friend works.
"I'll figure out something more… sensual, right?"
"Love, you won't have a hard time with that," Pansy brought her hand down firmly on Daphne's arse to punctuate this statement, which brought a small yelp that turned into a giggle out of the blonde.
Nailed it. Definitely just friends being friends.
As it turned out, one of Daphne's preferred methods of unwinding – which she'd decided to invite Pansy to share – was to get stoned in a warm bath.
Pansy found this experience utterly delightful, her head swimming in a thoroughly enjoyable way from the weed (Daphne's boast that she had "good shit" was certainly not in vain), the heat of the tub, and the bottle of wine that the two had split.
It didn't hurt that she was stretched out against Daphne, the two witches seated so that they were side-by-side with their legs extended alongside the other, allowing them to talk face-to-face. The occasional moments when their skin would rub against each other were electrifying.
Pansy might even have admitted that she was giggly, though surely that was due to the influence of the drugs, and had nothing to do with how surprisingly comfortable it was to just spend time with Daphne, telling old stories about their respective experiences as Slytherins and making fun of all the various stuck-up prats that they'd encountered along the way.
"Nah," Pansy continued her story, "Draco and I were never really really together, not the way that everyone thought. Don't get me wrong, he's a good enough lad and all, but it was pretty much all for show from about, uh, fourth year on."
"Fuck," Daphne giggled, "I've snogged Draco. I'm honestly shocked that you haven't!"
Pansy snorted a laugh, one which threatened to descend into giggles of her own. "He's pretty enough, but that's not really what I like in boys, yeah? Once I figured out that I was into witches too, it seems counterproductive to go for the pretty boys when women are just better at it."
"Oh, you like the big, rough brutes, yeah?" Daphne was blushing a bit, which was definitely proving Pansy's theory correct.
"Definitely," Pansy wasn't able to prevent herself from breaking into giggles, continuing as she recovered, "that's certainly how I'd describe Harry, giant of a man that he is."
"When'd you figure it out?" Daphne asked, and Pansy had to circle the question a few times in her head before she landed on an answer.
"That I wanted to shag Harry? Uh, I guess a few weeks ago when it became plausible, but I suppose it had crossed my mind a time or two before. Maybe a couple times in fourth year, when he flew around a dragon and all."
Daphne laughed and smacked Pansy's leg gently. "No, when you figured out you liked women too. That realization came before I figured out that I was into blokes, for me."
Pansy actually had to think about this.
"Y'know… probably around fourth year, now that I'm thinking back on it. I remember that I couldn't stop paying attention to that Veela girl, but I thought I was just jealous at the time."
"Understandable!" Daphne snorted, "I think that pretty much anyone would be jealous of Fleur Delacour."
"Pfft, you don't have to be." Pansy's compliment left her lips before she realized she was saying it, and she felt her skin flush in a way that she couldn't entirely write off as due to the warm bath. "I mean, yeah, you're both tall gorgeous blondes, right?"
Daphne's returning blush soothed Pansy's brief moment of panic, but she still wanted to regain control over the topic at hand.
"Anyways, part of being Draco's 'betrothed' was that I got to hear all his family stories, which were great up until it started being all 'I can't tell you that, Pans' or 'It's in service to my Lord' and all that dark magic fuckery." She continued.
"Oh?" Daphne was being infuriatingly and adorably coy.
"Did'ya know that his mother still doesn't know what ickle Draco's first words were?" Pansy stifled a laugh.
"What? How's that even possible? I knew they were some of the more head-in-arse purebloods, but even so that seems-"
"MY FATHER WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS," Pansy cried, in her best Draco imitation.
The two women stared at each other for a beat, before both broke out into laughter.
Okay, it's not just "being friends".
One of the pitfalls of being a witch who shagged witches that Pansy had never quite learned how to navigate was that sometimes, shared nudity was just… casual nudity, with nothing sexual behind the state. The bath that Daphne and her had shared was one of these occasions, where even though they'd slept together and were naked together, neither of them seemed to have sex on the mind at that time.
As soon as they'd left the tub, it turned into a scenario that was definitely sexually motivated.
She'd been toweling her legs when Daphne had swept behind her, the blonde's hands gripping Pansy's breasts.
"Maybe you have some Veela in you, you know," Daphne whispered in her ear, her voice husky, "with these tits."
Not the smoothest line that Pansy had ever heard, but fuck it worked in the moment. An entirely unrestrained groan escaped her lips as Daphne pressed a kiss against the side of her neck, holding Pansy tight enough against her own body to prevent the brunette's brief attempt at turning around.
When one of Daphne's hands trailed lower, between Pansy's legs, she was already wet in a way that could not be explained by the bath they'd shared.
Pansy came before they even made it into Daphne's bedroom, where she'd knelt between the blonde's legs, trailing kisses up her glorious thighs, pressing her tongue gently against Daphne's clit, finding that she was somehow even wetter than Pansy herself was. Their moans were practically in concert as Pansy set about devouring her lover, alternating between deep, slow licks and light, fast flicks of her tongue, Daphne muttering a stream of praise and winding her fingers into Pansy's hair.
Almost as soon as she'd brought Daphne to her own orgasm, Pansy found herself being lifted onto the bed, enjoying the surprising show of strength from Daphne – definitely a plus of being with a tall woman – allowing herself to be laid down against Daphne's sheets.
When Daphne began to lower her head between Pansy's legs, her typical enjoyment of authority in the bedroom reasserted itself, briefly.
"Wait," She said, her voice shaky.
Daphne looked up, the ghost of concern flashing across her features.
"Turn around." Pansy commanded.
Daphne smirked, but she listened, reorienting herself to swing a leg over Pansy's head, and Pansy was nowhere near patient enough to wait any longer, gripping Daphne's spectacular arse firmly as she raised her head back to Daphne's dripping sex.
Not that Daphne was idle: after a muttered "fuck me", she shoved Pansy's legs open, and immediately pressed her tongue inside Pansy, whose moan was muffled by her own activities.
Pansy considered herself to be fairly lucky that she was fully capable of multiple orgasms, but she was nowhere near as gifted on that front as Daphne. Though she fully believed in her own skills at eating pussy, it seemed to take mere seconds for her to make the blonde cum again, though – fuck me – Pansy wasn't exactly far behind on her equivalent second orgasm.
Daphne turned off of her perch, huffing, as she crawled around to face Pansy, lying on top of her. This kiss, compared to the first of the evening, was nothing even resembling chaste – just as Pansy could taste herself on Daphne's tongue, she knew that the blonde could also taste herself, and this thought was so erotic that when Daphne's fingers pressed inside of her, the tall witch thrusting and pushing against her as she fucked Pansy, that her third orgasm of the night came thundering directly on the tails of the second.
Though it might only have been the span of perhaps a dozen minutes, if that, it definitely marked one of the absolute best times that Pansy had ever had sex.
Then again, the top two spots were inarguably claimed by times that Daphne had also participated in… fuck. Fuck.
Pansy's moment of realization – thankfully – came after she'd finished shagging Daphne, because the brief panic that set in as she realized that this was really beginning to challenge the boundaries of "friends with benefits" would probably have spoiled the mood.
"I should get home," she muttered.
"Don't be silly," Daphne murmured against her ear. "Stay."
Even with this recent realization in mind, Pansy couldn't find a reason to argue.
She'd slipped out reasonably early in the morning, making some excuse or another about having to check on the shop that afternoon, kissing Daphne goodbye despite her instincts screaming at her.
As a rule, Pansy Parkinson did not do things that she wasn't good at.
Relationships were certainly one of those things.
Somehow, though, she was stepping over her own rules, completely bypassing the boundaries and walls that usually kept her safe from these kinds of things, and apparently all it took was the fucking Ice Queen and the Golden Gryffindor Boy to do so.
Ugh. She hadn't even thought about Harry in her moments of concern, but that was another fucking problem altogether. When things had first kicked off, she'd assumed that Harry would have been the first to make things weird, to get overly emotional or – worse – attached, but here she was mooning about not only Daphne (maybe she could write off the thoughts she'd had the night before as due to sex and weed) but the man who hadn't even been present for the night's activities.
Which was completely and utterly fucking insane of her to even consider. Pansy Parkinson did not fucking date people, she fucked them and then either she or they would eventually get bored of that arrangement, and that was fine. How the fuck would that even work? Three people?
No, if anyone was going to wind up coalescing together due to this… arrangement, it would undoubtedly be Daphne and Harry, right? Not the fucked-up Slag of Slytherin who had never actually been in a relationship, but the two goody-two-shoes types who had come out of the Second Wizarding War as heroes (or at least on the right side), yeah?
"Good night, eh?" A rough voice interrupted her panicked musings.
"Some would say," Pansy answered Blaise, who had completely and utterly caught her returning to their shared flat at a distinctly "walk of shame" hour. "Where's your hanger-on?"
"Mm," Blaise was… uncharacteristically serious. "Michel had to go back to France. Short notice."
"Oh?" Pansy blinked, wishing that her head was clearer than it was.
"Yeah. The Delacours are gathering their forces, I guess one of them is getting a divorce."
Fuck. Blaise's turn of phrase might well have been literal, given how rare and how serious Magical Divorces were. "What happened?"
"No fucking idea," Blaise answered. "give me a cigarette." Pansy wasn't one to argue, fishing a pair from her smoke, lighting hers after Blaise had taken a deep drag from his. "I'm not sure who it is, and I don't think they're actually going to war over it, but apparently one of the Delacour women called for a divorce."
"That doesn't happen, Blaise." Magical marriages were significantly more serious than their muggle equivalents: one of the many ways in which Pansy had realized that Pureblood society served to particularly keep witches at a disadvantage.
"I know. Like I said, I don't know the details yet, but… yeah."
The wheels span at a frantic rate in Pansy's head, trying to figure out what this could mean – it was almost certain that whatever had happened wouldn't impact her at all, but still, this felt like a big deal for magical society in general: marriages often contained vows equivalent in nature to the fearsome Unbreakable variety, and if that were the case… then some French witch was willing to forsake magic rather than continue her marriage.
"So, then, Michel?" Pansy floated the question as gently as she could. For all that Blaise had an utterly unshakable self-confidence, she had never known him to grow attached to one of his lovers in anything resembling a "relationship"… and yet, now that she thought about it, the French man had literally been living in their flat for weeks at this point.
"Yeah, Pans." Blaise smiled, though the remnants of concern lingered in his eyes. "We're giving it a shot. Dating. A relationship." He waved his cigarette through the air as if conducting. "The real deal."
Fuck. Things are changing.
"I'll get the liquor," She drawled – she couldn't show too much enthusiasm or it would be unseemly, but this was abso-fucking-lutely something she wanted to celebrate.
"The real deal". Huh