Comedy of Manners

Harry

Harry supposed that it was something of a triumph that he wasn't the most drunk person at his birthday, watching Ron and Neville standing side-by-side, their arms thrown over each others' shoulders, belting out some old Gryffindor cheer song from their Hogwarts days.

Even though the two men were being – objectively – a bit too ridiculous, Harry couldn't help but smile. It had fallen into Hermione's hands (naturally) to plan an event for Harry's birthday, as he'd been more than happy to just let the day slip by without particular pomp or circumstance attached to it, but Hermione had thought that this was "absurd", "ridiculous", and "you're doing the 'don't make a big deal out of me' thing again, Harry", in order.

She might – might – have had something of a point with the last bit, but it wasn't exactly absurd that Harry figured a lot of his friends were busy: Draco and Ginny weren't even in the country (honeymoon), Astoria was feeling under the weather apparently, and Fleur had been out of touch entirely since shortly after the Malfoy wedding.

Even counting those who had made an appearance (which Harry was certainly grateful for), most of the couples had disappeared fairly early into the night's festivities. This also made sense to Harry: some like Remus and Tonks had to get back to their families, others like Seamus and Parvati were eager to go practice starting their families (if managing to get kicked out of the Leaky Cauldron for their very public snogging session was any indicator, at least), and it was safe to assume that George and Angelina had something more interesting to do than sit around a pub with Harry.

He wondered – briefly – if this was an early warning sign about the life he was leading, if the fact that people were beginning to pair off and separate from the open social circles into their own lives was a phenomenon which, by his own efforts to avoid "pairing off", was going to leave him behind.

Then again… it wasn't like he'd been much of a participant in "socializing" outside of his own particular circles, and excepting the fact that Daphne and Pansy had been spending a surprising amount of time with him (individually or, thrillingly, together), he really hadn't made many efforts to expand this circle. Even now, his birthday party had turned into a makeshift DA reunion more than anything, with the attendance almost universally composed of people who he'd fought alongside at Hogwarts.

"Y'know, Hermione, I've been thinking," Harry started, finally kicking himself into action to bring up the suggestion he'd been thinking of for a while, "I pretty much trust you unconditionally, yeah?"

"Yeah?" Hermione's confusion was evident on her face. Though she wasn't one to get drunk and would be insulted at the suggestion, the slight blush that sat on her cheeks and especially in her ears would indicate that the several glasses of wine she'd drunk had some impact on her. "What're you getting at, Harry?"

"Well, er," He sipped at his ale, feeling a bit awkward, "I figure that, y'know, I'm not doing much in politics, so why don't I give you the chance to do something about that, hey?"

Hermione snorted a laugh. "Harry, if this is a marriage proposal, it's all three of poorly planned, poorly timed, and poorly delivered."

He laughed in return. While it was certainly true that he had no idea what he'd do with himself without Hermione's presence in his life, Harry knew full well that the both of them would have to become considerably more desperate in order to ever consider marrying the other – the bond they shared was simply absent of any romantic energy. "No, 'mione, obviously not that," Harry chuckled, "I meant that since you know what you're doing more than I do anyways, why don't I make you my representative at the Wizengamot?"

"Harry, you," Hermione paused, as if thinking, "…might have a point, but that can't be as easy to pull off as you're thinking. I know, you're very powerful and all that," the roll of her eyes made it clear how much respect Hermione paid to these Wizarding traditions, "but the fact is, there's still anti-muggleborn prejudice even now, it can't be a simple thing to let me vote on behalf of two noble houses."

Hmm, he thought, sipping from his ale in consideration once more. Daphne seemed to think that it would be no big deal, but then again, I didn't mention that it would be Hermione representing me… but Daphne's smart enough to have figured that out, right? "Oi, Sue?" Harry called out across the table where they were seated, "got a question for you!"

"What's up?" The redhead woman answered. Susan Bones wasn't really one of Harry's closest friends, but they'd definitely grown closer since leaving Hogwarts than they'd been at school, no doubt partly thanks to the fact that her and Hermione were the loudest voices for reform of Wizarding society – though Susan made this voice known in the Wizengamot itself, as the Lady of House Bones.

"Political bullshite!" Harry answered, cheerfully, "I'd like to give Hermione the rights to represent me at votes and whatnot, but I'm not entirely sure what the process is there."

"Oh, you've finally started to give a fuck about your Noble houses?" Susan responded, one of her eyebrows quirked. Another reason that Harry enjoyed her company – she was completely and utterly unconcerned with "decorum" or other forms of propriety, preferring to simply say what she was thinking in a very "former Hufflepuff" kind of way.

Not that she was a woman to be taken lightly: few families had suffered worse than the Bones house had in the last war, and yet Susan was the sole member left standing at the end. While she was friendly, upbeat, and uncomplicated, she was also a hard woman, and one of the few areas where Hermione and her had diverged politically was Susan's unwillingness to forgive any of the houses implicated with dark magic.

"Well, I've figured it might be better to pass it along to someone who does give a fuck, at least," Harry answered.

"I assume you aren't getting married," Susan giggled, "so that makes it a bit trickier to name her as your representative. Hermione, have you claimed Right of Founding or anything?"

"I, uh, don't know what that is," Hermione admitted, her blush intensifying – pureblood traditions remained one of the extremely limited areas that she wasn't an expert in.

"That's a no, then! Well, that's not that bad anyways, you'll probably just need to swear yourself as a vassal to the Houses Potter and Black, then you can attend the Wizengamot under duty to your liege." Susan explained.

"That seems a bit…" Harry started.

"Patronizing and elitist? Definitely!" The cheerful redhead (though her hair was a deeper crimson than the Weasley's – Auburn? Harry pondered) took a deep pull of her own ale, setting the mug back down. "There's fucking loads of complete and utter bollocks still hanging around because it's oh-so-traditional, yeah? It might actually be better that way, though, since she'd have a harder time actually being able to cast your votes if she was also representing her own house."

Harry met Hermione's eyes, briefly regretting his choice to bring this up to Susan. The Lady Bones was certainly the expert in these matters, but "these matters" were… byzantine, sexist, and frustrating – even to Harry's "powerful male Head of House(s)" perspective.

"So how d'we do that, then?" Harry inquired, "the, uh, vassal thing?"

"Well, you need Hermione to swear a vow of vassalage to you, but the terms there are pretty much whatever you feel like, so you can avoid most of the typical obligations or contractual traps, luckily. Then you'd need three other Houses to recognize your vow, and presto," Susan mimed a muggle's version of a magical spell, wiggling her fingers dramatically, "Hermione can vote on behalf of houses Black and Potter."

"Three houses? That doesn't seem simple," Harry protested.

"Are you kidding me, Potter?" Susan laughed at him this time, and he felt a bit of a blush rising at his neck, "Sure, you can't use your houses to witnesses for each other, but you're one, I'm two, and I'm sure we can find a third literally at this pub," she explained, waving her hand, "seriously, you have Lady Lovegood, Heir Longbottom, Heir-Consort Greengrass, and Heir-Successor Macmillan in attendance, and that's not even counting us, Lord Potter-Black."

In other words, Luna, Neville, Ron, and Ernie, Harry thought, shaking his head. It was almost bizarre in retrospect how many heirs to various families wound up in the same Hogwarts year, this (already lengthy) list didn't even account for the various Slytherin-associated families, such as the heir to House Parksinson and former heiress of House Greengrass that Harry was casually shagging these days.

"Luna!" Sue called across the pub, "C'mere a minute!"

"I hardly think that now is the time to-" Hermione began to protest, before she was cut off by the force that was Susan Bones.

"Pshaw! This isn't a big deal, why not?"

"What's not a big deal?" Luna inquired dreamily, both hands clutched around a complicated looking beverage, complete with a long, swirling straw.

"Harry wants to recognize Hermione as a vassal to his houses, so she can vote for him," Susan explained.

"Oh, yes, that seems logical!" Luna smiled peacefully, as she made her way to Harry's side of the table and then basically sat in his lap, which brought his mind back into focus very quickly. Sure, Luna was a very attractive woman, and Harry couldn't honestly say that he'd never thought about her in that way… but this seemed a little more intimate than Luna (touchy-feely though she was) would usually act.

If either Susan or Hermione noticed this change in his demeanour, they were doing excellent jobs at hiding their reaction – maybe he was just overreacting because in his recent history, a woman perching on his lap had led to significantly different actions than some kind of Pureblood magic.

"Alright," Susan began, drawling in a way which suggested she was well past her first flagon of ale, "Y'want any particular oaths to swear, or just something simple and open ended?"

"Simple is best, I'd imagine," Hermione answered, "right, Harry?"

"Er, yeah," Harry answered, as Luna shifted on his legs. She wasn't exactly planted on his lap per se, but her body weight was at least mostly perched by his knees, and he was having a hard time ignoring the way that her arse felt against him even there. Pansy's made me into a beast, he thought, which immediately led to a second, more panicked realization: wait, no, Pansy hasn't "made me" anything, it's just a casual, not serious thing, yeah? Daphne too, for that matter…

"Good, yeah!" Susan practically cheered, bouncing in her seat – which Harry couldn't help but notice did fascinating things to Sue's considerable cleavage, as he realized that her shirt had been unbuttoned partly…

No need to make things weird, he reprimanded himself, you're a bit randy or something but it's probably just awkward timing, nothing about Luna or Sue, yeah?

"Alright, 'Mione, say your name, then repeat this oath: "I swear to ally myself to houses Potter and Black, so long as our goals align. Harry, when she's done, you're going to say your name, and swear that you recognize her oath and accept her as your vassal."

"Yeah, right, gotcha," Harry answered, his heart racing as Luna leaned back into him and he realized that her hair smelled of lavender flowers.

"I, Hermione Granger, swear to ally myself to Houses Potter and Black, so long as our goals align," Hermione announced, her voice clear and strong in a way that sent a tingle of magic running up Harry's spine.

"I, Harry Potter-Black, recognize your oath and accept Hermione Granger as my vassal," Harry replied, the words seeming to spill from his mouth without hesitation or needing to think about it – yeah, this is magic in action, he recognized.

"House Lovegood recognizes this oath," Luna said, a note of seriousness carried on her normally-cheerful voice.

"House Bones recognizes this oath," Susan intoned, her voice practically booming with magic despite the actual volume not being that frightening, "So mote it be."

A moment passed, and Harry practically felt something take effect, but if any of the others involved in this vow had noticed, they were being subtle about it.

"Yay, Hermione!" Luna cheerfully cried, leaning across the bench (her hips thankfully leaving Harry's legs – he didn't want to have to keep wrestling with those thoughts any longer) to hug Hermione, "now you can finally do something with all the power Harry's just left sitting around!"

What.

"I, er," Harry scratched the back of his head, "I didn't know you cared about that stuff, Luna,"

"Oh, I don't," Luna replied, just as cheerful while apparently admonishing Harry, "but as Lady Lovegood? I kinda have to, yeah?"

"Politics aren't as kind to women as they are to men of your stature, Harry," Susan explained, practically chugging the rest of her ale, "if either Luna or myself were to sit idle and assume that we could get away with it… we'd wind up with the power stripped away from our houses themselves."

"That's… utterly unfair." Harry was surprised, he knew that it was harder for female heads of house, but not to that extent.

"Yep!" Luna agreed, "there's a whole bunch unfair about the whole thing! Getting married is going to be a real challenge for Susan and I both, for example!"

"Why?" Hermione questioned, and Harry recognized the look on her face as she discovered a new Thing that she could fight against.

"Well," Susan began, "whoever Luna or I marry is going to have to give up their own claims to their own house, like Ron did when he married Astoria, yeah? Not a lot of men are willing to do that, and there's many more that would rather try and claim House Bones for themselves, right?"

"So don't marry a man like that," Hermione replied, aghast.

"I dunno if you've noticed, but there isn't exactly a catalogue of bachelors available," Susan elaborated, "Lord Potter-Black here is the most notable one, for sure, but even if I married Harry I'd have to choose between giving up my own house, or letting him take control over it."

"I wouldn't-" Harry started, before catching himself – it seemed foolish to discuss what he might or might not do if he married Susan. Not that I'd mind, he thought, but I don't think I'm her type – the Lady Bones was generally speculated to enjoy the company of other witches to the exclusion of wizards.

"So, yeah," Susan waved her hand, as if dismissing the implications at the same time, "we're stuck with finding the scions of a minor house who don't mind being the Consort of Bones, or Lovegood, or otherwise letting our houses wither away."

"What about," Hermione scrunched her face, "marrying a muggleborn? I mean, I certainly didn't know about all these expectations!"

"Oh, Hermione," Luna explained, a sad note in her voice, "marrying a muggleborn man means that we'd surrender our house entirely, you know how sexist Magical society is."

Yup, this is the new Thing, Harry realized, as he saw a determined look of anger settle into Hermione's expression. Not that he blamed her – he hadn't realized just how unfair this "Lordship" and "heirs" thing was, either.

"Then there's men like Harry," Luna continued, "who have the opposite problem entirely: you'll have to find yourself two wives, of course!"

What.

What.

"Er, Luna," Harry tried to find the words, flabbergasted, "what?"

"It's common sense, Harry," Susan explained, as if he should have already known this, "You're the Lord of two lines, so you'll need two wives, to produce two separate lineages. Unless you intend to condense your lines into House Potter-Black, but then you'd be giving up some of your Wizengamot votes, of course."

Two wives for two lines? Harry thought, Wait, Two lines? Fuck.

"Uh, heh," Harry was struck wordless, trying to chuckle to disperse the awkward tension causing his heartrate to skyrocket, "you're messing with me, right? How has nobody ever mentioned this before?"

"Harry… everyone who's an heir learns about this when we're children," Luna patted his arm as if to reassure him, "I sure assumed that you knew what you were doing when you publicly claimed your heirship to House Black…"

Harry Potter and Knowing What he's Doing, Harry thought, as if his life were a book that he could give title to, that's the unlikeliest fucking thing I've ever heard.

Still.

Two wives, hey? Might come in handy if they already get along with each other this well…

Harry brushed off the worries of his future marriages with a laugh, the return of a spectacularly drunk Ronald Weasley (though given the recent conversation, Harry supposed that "Ronald Greengrass-Weasely" was technically more accurate) to the table, and vague thoughts of a head of blonde hair and one of black hair resting against his chest.

Come Monday, Harry had almost entirely succeeded at drowning out all memory of the whole "two wives" thing (two, right, yeah), embedding himself back in his work in a way that was completely and totally normal, not at all "manic" or "an obvious means of ignoring your worries", yeah?

Not that this means of approaching his work was unsuccessful: he was fairly certain that he'd managed to untangle the actual trail of galleons that Robards had half-heartedly asked him to chase down, this particular investigation not rising to the level of an "official Auror matter" yet, but… if Harry was right, it would become so as soon as he met with the Head Auror the next day.

For all their brilliance in many aspects of law enforcement, the Aurors didn't seem to have the slightest fucking idea on how to deal with financial crimes, a weakness that Harry knew generally extended throughout Wizarding society in general. There were definitely upsides to leaving banking (as an industry) in the hands of the Goblins – magically talented at sums and security alike that they were – but the downside to this reliance was that Goblins didn't give the slightest shite where galleons came from, so long as their vaults were full and their payments on-time.

This, of course, left absolutely gaping holes in the magical world's financial sector, where money laundering, various schemes, and generally immoral-to-illegal means of generating wealth were all available as options that Gringotts wouldn't step in to prevent, leaving it in the apparently-unprepared hands of the aurors.

For example, the current case: Dung Fletcher was running around, selling off minor artifacts or trinkets once again, but Harry had come to believe that he was actually advertising instead of working as a black market dealer himself – the real sums of money being exchanged seemed to travel in roads that led back to one Mr. Wesley Rosier, a cousin of the ones who had lost their lives in service to Dark Magic during the various Wizarding Wars.

Harry was reasonably certain that this Mr. Rosier was stockpiling and selling dark artifacts, and that various forms of scum like Dung were merely useful pawns, rather than anyone who could actually lead back to this ringleader. For all the obvious flaws in their economic system, the DMLE had at least picked up that something was unusual about how wealthy Rosier had become in short order, but there was no means of trying to get him to provide income statements or tax returns as the Muggle world might – everything was in the hands of Gringotts.

Hmm, I could probably get those records… Harry thought, before deciding against it – the title of "Friend of the Goblin Nation" was one that had come at a fairly steep cost to begin with, and he suspected that "friend" or not, they wouldn't look favorably on Harry digging into the vaults of one of their clients.

No, he'd have to track down a means of getting at Rosier's records through a collaborator of some sort, so Harry had focused his attention on various deeds and rental contracts throughout Diagon and Knockturn alleys alike, finding some names that seemed to repeat themselves - including one he tried to ignore - but the more he delved, the more he found that he couldn't ignore the name which kept showing up.

Parkinson.

The next day, Harry paced from once side of Robard's office to the other, the man sitting behind his desk, poring over Harry's reports, before glancing up with an amused expression on his face.

"Sit down, Harry, for Merlin's sake. You're going to wear a path in my floor."

"Right. Sorry," Harry collapsed into the desk chair, "er, Sir."

"Enough of that," Robards set Harry's report – hand-written, on ensorcelled parchment – on his desk, "I think you're onto something. We're going to put eyes on Rosier and Parkinson, but for now I think that this case would be best served if you kept investigating along these lines."

"I, er," Harry swallowed, his voice catching in his throat due to nerves. "I can't. I'm removing myself from this case, Sir."

Gawain Robards stared Harry down impassively, the silence stretching out and fraying Harry's nerves worse than he'd felt when he first made the decision to include his suspicion that one Penrose Parkinson II was working as Rosier's financier in a conspiracy to distribute dark artifacts.

Penrose was also the father of Pansy, of course.

"Oh?" Robards finally broke the silence, an eyebrow arched in curiosity.

"I'm familiar with one of the families involved in my report," Harry stared at the desk, feeling a flush creeping up his neck, "I don't want to bring any bias in."

"Harry, most everyone in our society knows each other to some degree or another, you're very noble and all but this sounds like an over-reaction to me," Robards replied, shutting him down, "unless you've started carrying on with the Parkinsons, then I don't think there's a problem."

Harry didn't answer, the flush spreading from his neck to his ears.

"Oh. You are involved with the Parkinsons, then? Surely," Robards was being infuriatingly dense for someone who was supposed to be the best that the Aurors had to offer, "your occasional interactions with Pansy Parkinson at social events don't warrant you removing yourself. The casual acquaintance you have with their daughter doesn't impact this case, the way I see it."

"I know her better than that," Harry mumbled.

"Eh?" Harry was considering how feasible it was to transfigure Robards into some kind of rodent, escape Britain, and never have to deal with the awkwardness of this conversation. Realizing that he couldn't escape the trap he'd set for himself, Harry finally answered.

"…I know her intimately."

There was a moment that stretched out into an agonizingly long wait as Harry's heart beat in his ears, before Robards shocked him with an outburst of laughter.

"Ha! Won me five galleons, you have!"

"I, er, what?" Harry was too stunned to think.

"Harry, all of magical society has seen you and Parkinson flirting with each other at different events over the last couple years. It's not exactly a shock, but I do appreciate that you were up-front about this. I suppose I will have to accept that you're off this case," the Head Auror continued, "but if we get to the point where we're raiding Rosier, I want you there, right?"

"Uh, yeah, f'sure," Harry muttered, his mind whirling.

Pansy and I were "flirting"? He thought to himself, still off-kilter. How long has she even been interested in me? Did I miss out on something obvious? Am I missing out on something obvious even now?

Either the ongoing "relationship" with Pansy was one that carried more weight than Harry had realized or he was ascribing more seriousness to it than he should be, but either way, Harry was left with the distinct feeling that he was in over his head – without even thinking of how Daphne was added to the mix.

Still, even if I'm in over my head, there's worse ways to drown, he thought, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. Two wives, yeah?

Daphne

Sunday Evening

[Your Conversation with Harry]

You: Hey

You: How was the rest of your weekend?

Harry: Hey Daph

Harry: It was good. Went for some drinks on Saturday, got some work done, pretty decent all around.

Harry: You?

You: That sounds nice! What was the occasion?

You: I saw Pans on Saturday ;) Too bad you were busy!

Harry: Yeah, it was a short notice kind of thing, really.

Harry: It was my birthday party, I guess.

You: …

You: Were you planning on letting us know that it was your birthday?

Harry: Uh

Harry: I didn't think it was a big deal, really.

[Your Conversation with Pansy]

You: Did you know that it was Harry's birthday this weekend??

Pansy: Hello. No, I wasn't aware. Is he mad that I made plans with you that didn't involve him?

You: No, nothing like that – he's saying it's not a big deal.

Pansy: Oh. Yes. That makes sense for Harry.

You: ???

You: I think I'm missing something here, how is a birthday not a big deal?

Pansy: Do you think Harry would expect it to be?

Pansy: He's all "oh no don't make a fuss about me."

Pansy: Makes sense. That he wouldn't want a big celebration. Or wouldn't think to tell us.

[Your Group Conversation with Harry and Pansy]

You: Harry Potter

You: You git

You: We JUST had that whole conversation about fantasies and all You: And you didn't think to tell us.

You: That it was your birthday coming up.

You: We have to fix that :)

Harry: Uh, well.

Harry: I wasn't thinking about it, I guess?

Harry: …I've never really had birthday sex as its own special thing, I suppose.

Pansy: Shocking.

Pansy: I bet you even tried to stop people buying you drinks.

Harry: Uh Harry: Yeah, I guess.

Harry: How did you know that?

Pansy: Because you're an entirely too-noble prat.

You: It's not hard to figure out because you're being WAY too self-effacing, what with the whole "oh no don't bother about me" thing.

You: Yeah, that too, Pans.

You: Anyways, it's not a "pile on Harry" moment or anything, but I DO want to know what you'd like for your birthday present ;)

Harry: I mean.

Harry: …

Harry: I hadn't really thought about it? You're both great, I like everything we've been doing?

Pansy: We don't want to always be the ones coming up with every scenario. Use your imagination, Potter.

Pansy: I'm not free until Friday. Not that I mind, if you two see each other without me. Just in case. If you were planning on me being there, Daph.

Harry: I'm free Tuesday?

Harry: And Saturday, actually.

You: Okay

You: I'm coming over Tuesday, Harry

You: Then we'll make plans for Saturday including Pansy ;)

You: Pans, I'll see if I can coax some imagination out of this lummox

Harry: Hey

Harry: That's entirely too accurate.

You: :)

Tuesday Evening

"So," Daphne spoke, "I just wanted to be clear, I'm not trying to push you into anything."

"Yeah, I know," Harry answered, as he looked at her with an expression that was somewhere between "confused" and "amused".

"It's just… I'm really not as experienced as you or Pansy, so I don't know what I'm doing as much as you two."

"Experienced?" Harry's expression now shifted much closer to "confusion", "Daph, I'm hardly an expert either here, I've been with… maybe a dozen women?"

Oh, she thought, that is actually much lower than I expected.

"It's not that I'm not interested, y'know," Harry continued, "it's just that I never really had many particularly… detailed fantasies, yeah?"

"Well, that's what I want to help with, Harry," Daphne answered, shrugging her coat off her shoulders. She was very pleased that Harry openly gawked at her as he took in the bright-red set of lingerie she was wearing underneath. "I'm not expecting anything from you, but if you want to do something, just tell me, okay?"

"I, uh, yeah, uh," Harry stammered, his gaze still focused on her body, which brought a smirk to Daphne's lips.

"For now, I think you should unwrap your birthday present," she told him, as she sauntered towards him.

"Or," Harry started, running his tongue over his lips, "actually, I think you should unwrap yourself."

"Oh?" Daphne asked, smiling, slowly sliding one of the straps of her bra down her shoulder, "then you should put some music on."

Harry's taste in "music to give a striptease to", was, as it turned out, kind of straightforward: after some mumbled excuses he scampered off to start a Led Zeppelin record playing, which wouldn't have been Daphne's first choice, but it worked.

Harry

Tuesday Evening

A noise started and died in the back of Harry's throat as Daphne gripped him by the front of his shirt, leaned in to kiss him, then just as suddenly began to push him backwards towards his bed. She shoved him hard enough against the frame that he flopped into a half-sprawled, half-seated position at the foot of the bed, any protests that he could imagine quickly put to rest by the fact that she had also begun her striptease.

"Fuck…" He muttered under his breath, his hand going to his neck to loosen the tie he'd still been wearing when Daphne had greeted him.

Daphne was hypnotic to watch. Harry almost regretted his choice of background soundtrack (he was far from an expert in the world of music, whether it was magical or muggle bands) but if Daphne didn't have any cause to complain, he certainly didn't. His eyes were locked to her hips, which she was writhing back and forth sensually, the strips of red fabric she was wearing just barely serving to cover her.

As she approached him and ran her fingertips down the front of his chest, Harry couldn't help but shudder.

"Mm, enjoying the show that much?" Daphne teased, leaning forward to press his face between her breasts. Harry reached around her waist to grab her arse with both hands, which produced a very appealing squeal from the blonde standing above him. She shoved him away from her once more – though playfully – reaching behind herself to undo her bra.

Nearly as soon as the garment fell away from her, Harry pulled her into himself again, repeating their earlier positioning except thoroughly taking advantage of the absence of any barrier between them. He lavished kisses across her chest, at times taking a nipple into his mouth, at others lightly biting Daphne's sensitive flesh.

"Lost your patience already?" She asked, and he made a noise of agreement around one of her breasts. The short-lived striptease had been fun and all, but she had told him that she wanted him to take more charge this night, and right now he was much more interested in "touch" than he was in "sight".

She giggled as he gripped her by the back of her thighs, standing so that he could turn them around and deposit her on his bed. Harry brought his face to hers, and Daphne kissed him gently, letting a soft moan of her own escape her lips as he pressed between her legs.

Without words, the pair both began divesting themselves of what remained of their clothing, Harry struggling only slightly to remove his trousers as he balanced on one leg. He managed to parlay the brief stumble into something that he was hoping looked almost intentional, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed, gently pushing Daphne's legs open.

"Y'know, it's supposed to be about you tonight," She began to protest (though lightly).

"I know," Harry answered, "and right now I want to eat your pussy."

Daphne made a pleased little sound that was lost in a moan as he leaned forward to run his tongue slowly up the length of her slit, groaning on his own as he realized how wet she already was. Harry had never really understood the protests that some of his mates had made when they talked about women who wanted to receive oral sex – in his own opinion, it was one of his very favourite acts to perform.

Harry was more than happy to take "perform" literally, at that – he made a show out of locking his eyes to Daphne's as she propped herself up on her elbows, her breasts heaving as she muttered words of encouragement and ran her fingers through his hair. When Harry pushed two fingers inside of her, he could tell she was already close, and closing his lips around her clit, sucking gently, was enough to finish her.

"Fuck!" Daphne cried, sitting upright as she panted for breath.

"That's the idea," Harry drawled, smirking as he crawled up towards her, where she took his face in her hands and brought him unhesitatingly towards her lips to kiss him. Daphne made a quiet, pleased sound as she reached between their bodies to grasp his manhood, stroking it idly, and Harry broke their kiss to whisper into her ear.

"Turn around," He ordered, as he reached past her to grab a pillow.

Daphne obeyed, planting herself on hands and knees, yelping as Harry pushed her forwards so that she lay belly-down on his bed, her hips lifted into the air by the support of the pillow he'd surreptitiously placed underneath her.

He pushed into her without any warning or hesitation, leaning forward so that his chest pressed against her back, allowing her to hear the muttered stream of profanities spilling from his lips. She was apparently also a fan of this position, judging by the way that she turned to nip at his jawline and whisper "don't stop".

Harry began to pick up his pace, the sound of his hips smashing against her arse beginning to echo through his bedroom, as he ensured that he plunged as deeply inside of her as he could. He gripped her hip firmly with one hand, digging his thumb firmly into her arse cheek. Leaning back to appreciate the sight, he withdrew his hand briefly, bringing it back down with a slap.

"Mmmm," Daphne voiced her approval, "want to spank me, do you?"

"Can't blame me," Harry muttered, bringing his other hand down in the same way, kneading and squeezing her arse as he began to rock his hips again, "you do have a spectacular arse."

She made a noise that was half-giggle and half-moan, rocking her hips from side to side, wiggling said spectacular arse at Harry. He shifted his grip, so that his fingertips dug into the space between her legs and her hipbones, pulling her towards himself with each thrust that he pushed forwards.

"Fffuck," Daphne moaned, and Harry felt her sex spasm around him, as she reached a second climax – normally, he would give her time to recover from this, but tonight, he felt that she was enjoying the slightly rougher treatment, so if anything he increased the speed of his thrusts. This approach was a double-edged sword, drawing a whole new string of moans from Daphne, but also bringing him rapidly to his own finish.

"Turn around," Harry grunted, as he pulled out of her wetly, and Daphne hurried to do just that – just in time, as he groaned, stroking himself to completion, his cum spraying to land on her breasts, one rope landing on her face nose to chin. She giggled, dramatically extending her tongue to lick her lips clean, and he chuckled in return.

"That was hot," Daphne reviewed.

"Mmh," Harry replied, a noise of contentment sufficient to convey his feelings, as he slumped into the bed and ran his fingers down Daphne's spine.

The Daily Prophet has learned that William "Bill" Weasley and Fleur Isabelle Delacour (once Weasley) have filed for divorce, a scenario only made possible by the fact that both are registered as semi-human Magical Beings. From the information that the Prophet has been able to uncover, the paperwork was filed under cause of "Mutually Incompatible Magical Natures", which of course, dear readers, is a clause which can not apply to those of fully human stock.

"Seems a bit unfair, doesn't it?" asks a person of notable social stature who agreed to speak with the Prophet of this situation, "Those of us who are pure of blood are trapped in our marriages no matter what goes wrong – unless our dear [spouses] get themselves sent to Azkaban, of course – whereas Muggleborns and fraction-breeds can apparently exercise greater freedom in this area."

"It's just as we expected," says another source, "and really, it's for the best. If these so-called 'magical beings' can't control themselves and obey the bonds of matrimony, then it's better for society at large if they aren't allowed to continue their sham marriages. I, for one, wonder if we should allow them to marry at all."

The Prophet cannot confirm or deny any allegations that the cause of this divorce is rooted in the speculated dalliances carried out by William Weasley, nor can it comment on the oft-repeated accusations that Mrs. Delacour-Weasley utilized the so-called "gifts" of her magical nature to pursue this failed marriage in the first place.

Attempts to obtain comments from either Mr. Weasley or Mrs. Delacour-Weasley have been met with rebuttals of a crude and disrespectful nature which, dear readers, will not be re-printed in this publication.

Regardless of the cause of this event, it is clear that this marks a momentous occasion, as despite their personal flaws and failures, both of the parties in this former marriage are among the most notable figures in Wizarding society.

With this in mind, The Prophet has entered William Weasley at #3 on our list of Most Eligible Bachelors (behind Blaise Zabini and Harry Potter-Black), and Fleur Delacour at #5 on our list of Most Eligible Bachelorettes, displacing Daphne Greengrass.

Harry

Wednesday Morning

Well, that explains that, Harry mused. He'd definitely picked up that something was going on in the wider Weasley clan, but… yeesh. What was Bill thinking? Not only was Fleur an intelligent, driven, and formidable woman, but she was also, well, a fucking part-Veela. Not that Harry would sit around fantasizing about one of his friends (who was married to his best mate's older brother, at that), but if he were to do so, then Fleur surely would have made the top of the list.

Fuck. He'd have to owl Ron, who was undoubtedly apoplectic over yet another Prophet article attacking someone who he cared about. He wasn't really close enough to Bill to worry about contacting him directly, but he supposed that when he saw him next, he'd nod solemnly, mutter "rough go, mate", and cheers their drinks together.

Unless, of course, he'd actually cheated on Fleur – not that Harry put stock into the Prophet as anything but an insight into the more persnickety elements of Wizarding society, but they had certainly alluded to it more directly than most of the not-quite-libel that they printed. If it came down to it, Harry knew that he'd take Fleur's side in that particular sort of dispute. Fuck.

He lit a cigarette, setting a pot of water to boil, and muttering under his breath in frustration.

"You're looking cheerful this morning," Daphne teased as she made her way into the kitchen, "what's up?"

Harry gestured vaguely at the copy of the Prophet in response, mumbling and muttering sounds of discontent.

"I mean, I don't have to say that the Prophet is utter trash," Daphne grimaced at the paper, "but… yeah, makes sense."

Harry leaned back against the windowsill, quirking an eyebrow at her in lieu of a proper response.

"Well, Ronald had been upset about something or other that Bill had done, and, well," She put the paper down without much care, "this would certainly make sense of that, yeah?"

"Yeah." Harry agreed. He'd almost forgotten at times that Daphne was so close with Ron, a perfectly logical outcome of Ron marrying Astoria, but… fuck. Was this still a casual, undefined thing when he was waking up with his best mate's sister-in-law with some regularity? When Ron himself had oh-so-subtly mentioned a few times that he thought Harry and Daphne would work well together?

We kind of do, he thought.

Fuck.

"So," He changed the topic, "looks like you've been bumped out of the top five, hey?"

Daphne snorted a laugh, which was somehow attractive coming from her.

"You're just showing off because you have number one locked down for the foreseeable future," She teased back.

Until I stop being a "bachelor", I guess, yeah.

Pansy

Thursday Afternoon

Pansy stomped around Serpentine, in something of a mood. She was frustrated for reasons that even she knew were contradictory: first, her shop wasn't doing as well as she'd expected. Secondly, her shop was doing much better than anticipated.

This paradoxical state of affairs related to her foolish decision to take on private commissions as well as selling prefabricated pieces in-shop. The latter category was lagging behind where she'd hoped, while the former was surging well ahead of what she had dreamed of, leaving her in a strange position where her actual shop seemed to serve more as an advertisement for her tailoring services than as an actual retail location itself.

Infuriating. Sure, it kept her busy (even busier than she'd like), and it paid very well, but this was kind of the opposite of what she'd pictured. Sure, sewing a custom dress for Narcissa Black was something she was happy to do, and coming up with a set of stretchable and flexible training uniforms for Ginny Malfoy and her team (after the fitness trousers had proved a hit) had funneled a staggering amount of money into her accounts (the Harpies paid well), but her first and arguably biggest commission was hanging half-finished in the back room.

It wasn't even that she didn't want to finish the coat or didn't have ideas on how to do so, it's that she couldn't get her hands on any fucking dragonskin to do so. Despite Auror Tonks' reassurances, she still hadn't managed to obtain import rights for dragonskin and other partially-restricted materials, and dealing with the Ministry seemed to grow more and more infuriating each time she stopped by to check on the status of her latest application.

She sighed, flipping the sign on the front door of her shop to "Be Back in 5 minutes" (not that she had any fucking customers right now), and stomped out front to have a fucking cigarette.

Exhaling, Pansy thought about how she'd have to have Harry and Daphne help burn off this frustration of hers come the weekend - she might even enlist Daphne's services individually again as soon as tomorrow, at this rate.

Grinding the butt of her cigarette into the pavement with the tip of her heel, she wheeled to return to her shop when a voice interrupted her.

"Miss Parkinson?" The voice - a man's - inquired.

"Yes?" She replied snappily, turning to face the stranger. He was a plain-looking sort, uninteresting features wrapped in an uninspired beige-ish suit that fit between "poorly" and "acceptably", only notable for the Ministry badge pinned to his lapel.

"I'm afraid you'll have to close shop for a bit longer than five minutes," The man continued, his voice absent of any inflection, "we need you to come in to the Ministry immediately."

Daphne

Thursday Evening

[Your Group Conversation with Harry and Pansy]

Pansy: Fucking SERIOUSLY, Potter?

[Pansy has left your Group Conversation]

[Your Group Conversation has closed]

Wait, what? Daphne thought. What the fuck happened?