Dramaturgy
Pansy
Thursday, Late Afternoon
Somewhere in the basement of the Ministry of Magic, Pansy sat at a table, drumming her lacquered nails against its surface. They'd been "kind" enough to get her a styrofoam cup of what passed for "coffee" at the Aurors' offices, but not even her customary practice of dumping as much sugar into the black sludge as it could absorb could manage to salvage this swill.
The nondescript, beige-suited man (Auror Savage, as he'd finally introduced himself) had left her in this room at least ten minutes ago, not that there was a clock on the wall for her to allow her to judge for herself.
This was far from her first interrogation, but it was already one of the most annoying ones she'd experienced. Sure, she'd understood why she had immediately been hauled into various forms of custody following the end of the Second Wizarding War, but she also understood that she'd been through that whole process and come out of the other side – bringing her back in now felt vindictive more than anything else.
Finally, after an excruciating wait, the door to the cloistering room swung open, and Auror Savage made his return, carrying a thick manila folder in his hands. He sat across the table from Pansy and opened the folder, beginning to peruse through the documents contained within. After he continued to read through these files with no apparent intention of actually interacting with Pansy, she couldn't help but clear her throat in an obviously attention-catching way.
"Hmm," the plain-looking man uttered, closing the folder and looking across the table at her impassively, "are you aware of why we've brought you here today, Miss Parkinson?"
"Look, I'm trying, but you all aren't exactly making it easy on me," Pansy snapped, rolling her eyes in annoyance, "I'll have Auror Tonks' commission finished as soon as I can actually get my hands on some fucking dragonhide, yeah?"
"Ah," Auror Savage responded, before falling silent once more. Pansy fidgeted, clicking her nails against the tabletop, taking another swig of coffee, anything to distract herself from the absolutely vacant presence of the man across the table. "No," the living embodiment of beige finally continued, "I'm afraid that the clothing commissioned by Auror Tonks is unrelated to your presence here today."
Auror Savage opened his folder once again, methodically leafing through the documents within until he made his selection, sliding it across the table to Pansy after yet another infuriating and unnecessary delay. She snatched the paper up, quickly skimming it: a history of rental payments made for the building where she was operating Serpentine, transfers that she was well aware of.
"So, you've hauled me into a Ministry interrogation room to talk about my rent?" She asked, incredulously.
"Just so, Miss Parkinson," Auror Savage answered, "we just want to be absolutely certain that the funds you used to launch your business were obtained legally."
Pansy felt heat rising at the back of her neck as her outrage and indignation quickly flared: Fuck this, she thought, we already went through this whole fucking show.
"I've already went through this with you lot," she reiterated out loud, "I worked at Madam Primpernelle's for two years, I saved every damn knut that I made, and it all went into Serpentine. I've already provided the paystubs for that."
"Hmm," Auror Savage replied, unmoved, "Yes, this is supported by your documentation. However, as your current business is your only known means of income, we wanted to ascertain that your profits are in accordance with your actual sales."
"I can get you the fucking inventories," Pansy snapped, exasperated, "the rest of my sales are in commissions. Including to one of your fellow Aurors, if it wasn't fucking clear enough that this is above-board."
"Who else have you taken commissions from?" The anthropomorphic manifestation of bureaucracy across from her asked, producing a notebook and pen from inside his beige jacket.
"The Holyhead Harpies, Narcissa Black, Lisel Yaxley-Smith…" Pansy began, "Auror Nymphadora fucking Tonks, and Flora Carrow."
"Hmm," The infuriating Auror made the exact same fucking response, "an incorporated sports team, three witches who have previously been investigated or charged with associating with Dark Magic, and a former parole officer of yours."
Fuck, Pansy realized, that could actually look bad.
"I trust that your inventories account for the cost of materiel and labour, yes?" Auror Savage asked, and Pansy just now realized the effectiveness of his interrogation technique.
"There's a markup on fashionable clothing," She grumbled, "expensive pieces sell better."
She was spared from having to explain how she wasn't actually laundering money, merely charging a premium for the sake of exclusivity by the room's door crashing open with a bang, revealing the aforementioned Auror Tonks.
"Auror Savage," Tonks spoke tersely, "a moment?"
Wordlessly, the nondescript man took the invoice of rental payments back from Pansy, returned it to his folder, and stood stiffly from his seat, closing the door behind himself as he departed the room.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Pansy thought, beginning to worry. This might actually fucking look bad for me, what the fuck is going on?
The money she had used to open Serpentine had been entirely her own, but she knew how her parents operated, and their constant, amoral pursuit of galleons was one that… wasn't unreasonable to assume might have infected her, if she were being objective about it.
Fuck.
The next time the door opened, it was Auror Tonks who made her way into the room, rather than the apex of averageness that was Auror Savage.
"Miss Parkinson," Tonks started, "Pansy, let's get you out of here."
"Yeah?" Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Auror Savage is… methodical, yeah?" Tonks began to explain, "you're not being charged with anything, and I'm sure we'll get this sorted right quick, but he's the sort to hunt down every last sickle and knut until he's content with his investigation."
Tonks produced an envelope, handing it to Pansy as she stood.
"Look, I know it doesn't count for much, but for what it's worth, I know that this doesn't involve you," Tonks spoke, slightly cryptically, "but the higher-ups aren't on board, so we're going to have to shut you down for a bit."
No.
"What do you mean, 'shut me down'!?" Pansy practically shrieked.
"It's not my bloody call, but until Savage signs off on your invoices… you can't have Serpentine open."
I'm ruined.
"But!" Tonks interjected, the Auror actually looking angry, surprisingly, "I pulled some strings. Included in that envelope," she explained, gesturing, "is a license to work with dragonhide. Not to import it, mind, but I managed to get that fuckin' far at least. Between you and I, you should announce publicly that you're closing temporarily because of an exclusive commission you've received – that should help salvage the worst of this situation."
"Fuck." Pansy spoke, her voice catching in her throat, "well, I suppose I should pay thanks? What the fuck is this about, anyways?"
As Tonks guided her outside into the hallway, the Auror sighed.
"Can't say. Wish I could, but it's still an open case."
Clear as fucking mud, that, Pansy thought.
Thursday Evening
Back at the flat that her and Blaise shared, Pansy finally brought herself to open the envelope that Tonks had given her. As promised, it contained a laminated "LICENSE TO POSSESS SEMI-RESTRICTED MAGICAL MATERIALS", as well as a Ministry injunction mandating that Serpentine close its doors until further notice, a heavily-redacted report attached to said injunction.
She skimmed this report for the sake of her curiosity more than anything.
Pansy scowled, not being able to make heads nor tails of whatever the fuck this report was getting at, was nonetheless struck by an unpleasant realization: she recognized the spidery, looping hand that this report was written in.
What the fuck, Harry?
Furiously, she reached for her enchanted notebook, scrawling her anger directly onto the page.
"Fucking SERIOUSLY, Potter?", she wrote. Snarling, she tore the page out of the notebook, removing herself from the little group chat that Daphne, Potter, and herself had been sharing until now.
Almost immediately, the notebook vibrated, a message from fucking Potter appearing: "What? What's wrong?"
Pansy threw the notebook across the room with a shriek of frustration, stomping over to the fireplace. Hurling a fistful of floo powder into the fire, she spoke the words for Potter's residence with a snarl, hurling herself through the magical connection and into his living room.
"What the absolute FUCK, Potter!?" She cried, on arrival, as the man himself entered his own living room with a look of stupid confusion on his face.
"What the fuck is right, Pans!" He cried, pathetically plaintive, "I don't know what you're talking about!"
"I just spent the whole fucking afternoon," Pansy growled, "at the Ministry of fucking Magic, trying to explain where my fucking money comes from, and they fucking closed my fucking shop." She stomped towards him, driving her finger into his chest, "No thanks," she turned away, "to you."
"Oh." Potter deflated, "Look, I would have given you a heads up if I could have, but I didn't think you'd wind up looped into this…"
"Fuck what you think." She snarled, "I should have fucking known that you still weren't over fucking Hogwarts. I'm better than this, and if you can't fucking see that then you're a bigger idiot than I thought."
"I…" Potter started.
"Go fuck yourself, Potter," She concluded, producing another handful of floo powder from her pocket, stepping into the fire, and disappearing from his home and his life.
Thursday Night, Late
By the time she'd finished her second bottle of wine, Pansy's rage had entirely failed to cool down.
Fuck him, fuck the Aurors, fuck everyone, she thought, if I can never be seen as anything other than the fucking "Slag of Slytherin", then what does it fucking matter how hard I've been trying?
Her parents had spent her entire damn childhood pushing her towards Draco Malfoy, towards "good pureblood families", filling her head with absolute fucking bullshite and garbage about "blood status" and "purity", and then when it came to a head and she publicly took the wrong side during the Second Wizarding War, they'd abandoned her.
Fuck them too.
She didn't even care that her parents had cut ties with her, they were both thoroughly monstrous fucking people, but to still be damned by her association with them? To, even now, be thought of as a potentially-dark witch who can't be trusted? Why was it even worth all the effort that she put in to stay legitimate, to obtain her funds through work rather than from the numerous old Pureblood men who had sent barely-disguised missives to her after the war; oh what a tragedy it is for a beautiful young Pureblood woman like yourself to be left alone, surely I can help, as if she could be bought so easily.
But coming from Potter, of all people? It hurt.
Shrieking, she hurled the empty wine bottle across the bedroom, where it shattered against the wall. Blaise was out somewhere or another, leaving her to stew alone in her emotions.
Fuck this, she thought, stripping and beginning to don a dress that was very tight and extremely short. I'm better than this.
She wound up at "The Asp", something that passed as a nightclub in Pureblood society, deep in the guts of Knockturn Alley. By the time she arrived she was already swaying on her feet, but the way her tits looked in this dress got her past the bouncer with no struggle, and the throbbing music inside helped match the throbbing blood inside her head.
By the time she lost track of time, she was dancing with… some man, not that she remembered his name. She vaguely recalled that he'd been a Slytherin in her year, and he seemed pleased to see her, but more importantly he had an excellent selection of alcohol and cocaine alike at his table. Maybe she should have been surprised that Pureblood What's-his-name would dabble in Muggle drugs, but she couldn't find it in herself to care at this point.
When he pulled her tight against him, trying to press a kiss to her lips, she considered it, but turned her head away. Something didn't feel right, and anyways, with the way her vision was spinning, she was in no condition to go home with Mr. Rich Pureblood.
"Mmmit's beenfun," she slurred, her words running together, "but I'mmmm leavingnow."
"So soon?" The man sneered, not a particularly attractive expression on his pinched face, "but the fun's just getting started, love!"
She was dimly aware that he was pulling her back towards his table, and struggled to push him away from her, but he had a solid grip on her arm and she wasn't in the most coordinated state.
"No, I wanna go hoooome," she protested.
The man pulled her into himself, pressing his groin against her belly.
"I know what I paid for, Parkinson," his voice came out in a hiss, "you're not leaving yet."
Fear began to take her, at the same time as a dark thought of "guess I deserve this" echoed in the back of her mind.
"Ah, Pansy, there you are! Let's get going." A smooth, deep voice cut through the din of the music in the background.
Blaise. Thank Merlin.
"This doesn't concern you, Zabini," the man clutching her snarled, though his grip on her loosened, "why don't you go bother some little fairy somewhere else?"
"Ah, Pritchard, I hadn't noticed you there," Blaise replied, unruffled, "you ready to leave, Pansy?"
The man – Pritchard – let her go, stepping in front of her to puff himself up at Blaise.
"Fuck off, Zabini. Last chance."
Pansy noticed that Pritchard's friends had begun climbing from their seats at his table, scowls on their faces visible despite her blurring vision.
"Pritchard," Blaise answered smoothly, "not one of you or your boys can handle me. Before you do something stupid, I truly, sincerely recommend that you fuck off."
Pritchard lunged forward, a clumsy punch swiping across Blaise's face. Blaise rocked, but stayed standing, his own punch smacking into Pritchard's face with a solid crunch, knocking the man backwards and onto his arse.
"Like I said," Blaise tucked an arm around Pansy, as she heard the bouncers yelling in the background, "fuck off."
Nobody else accosted them as Blaise led her away from the bar, and apparated them back to their flat.
Friday Morning
Pansy's head was killing her, and one of her knees was skinned from where she must have fallen at some point in the night before, but she found that her memories were distressingly clear.
"Sorry about that." She muttered, when she walked into the kitchen and found Blaise already awake, seated at the table.
"Oh, trust me, I would never pass up the opportunity to punch Graham fucking Pritchard in the face," Blaise drawled, smirking, "but, well, I hate to ask, but are you alright?"
Pansy shrugged, noncommittally waving a hand through the air.
"The fucking Aurors shut me down, Blaise," she explained, "I can't reopen Serpentine until they clear me in some fucking investigation, and it's probably something to do with my goddamn father."
"Mm," Blaise sipped his tea, "yeah, right, I get that. Still, I don't want to be unseemly or anything, but I might be… somewhat concerned."
"I overreacted," she admitted. I overreacted to Potter, too, didn't I…
"I'd say. It's a good thing you stick to the same haunts when you're feeling particularly rambunctious."
"How'd you know, anyways?" Pansy started brewing a coffee, even though her stomach still roiled from the night before.
"Funny enough, that. Daphne firecalled me, quite panicked. Strange how she knew you were upset, isn't it?" His smirk and raised eyebrow suggested that he'd already formed his own opinion on what that meant.
I don't need to be fucking taken care of, Pansy thought, but… that is nice. She's nice.
Fuck, I've fucked this up, haven't I?
Report from Investigator Harry Potter to the desk of Head Auror Robards
According to rental invoices and property deeds, Lord Penrose Parkinson II is known to be owner or part owner of twenty-six different properties in Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley within London, England. As owner or part owner, this represents an estimated monthly income of approximately seventeen thousand galleons, which is heretofore unaccounted for in the Parkinson Estate's attributed wealth, whether by self-report, Ministry documentation, or journalistic speculation.
It is the opinion of this investigator that the income from Lord Parkinson's property ownership is being funneled to one Mr. Wesley Rosier, cousin to deceased Death Eater Evan Rosier, and suspected smuggler and seller of Dark Magic artefacts. As many rental agreements are operated by means of "handshake agreements" or "under the table" payments, Lord Parkinson's distributed ownership of property represents an opportunity to engage in money laundering, disguising both the source of this income and its destination.
Further to these potential allegations, this investigator recommends that surveillance of Mr. Rosier and Lord Parkinson alike be initiated, with particular focus on the properties owned in full or in part by Lord Parkinson, as well as surveillance or investigation of known associates of both Mr. Rosier and Lord Parkinson. While it cannot be stated conclusively, the public condemnation of the Heir of house Parkinson, Miss Pansy Parkinson, leaves reason to believe that the recently-opened apparel store "Serpentine" is not among the list of properties under suspicion.
Harry
Harry ground his cigarette into the curb, grimacing. It wasn't that he was upset or anything like that, but he'd found himself feeling distinctly un-social in the last couple of weeks, and Ron and Astoria's announcement party was something he'd have skipped if it was any less of a momentous occasion.
Ron had let him in on the reason for the announcement – Astoria's pregnancy – just a week ago, and Harry was (honestly) thrilled for the couple, but the extent to which he was happy for them didn't seem to do much to make him happier for himself.
It wasn't even as if his present circumstances were unforeseen or anything like that, Pansy had been pretty up-front about the usual nature of her relationships (short, fast, and temporary), but the way in which things had gone from "good" to "over" had blindsided Harry and left him reeling to an extent.
Not sure what she expected, he grumbled internally, as he made his way up the steps to Ron and Astoria's house, it's not like I could have told her that her dad was under investigation. It had surprised him that the Aurors had seen fit to shut down her shop as well (despite his own recommendations), but he wasn't exactly in a place to give orders to the Aurors, yeah?
He rapped on the door, the present he had brought for the two of them slung under one arm, fussing with his hair to make sure that he was at least appropriately presentable for an occasion like this. Harry had bothered to dress himself respectably and even shaved before heading out, but while he'd fallen back into some old anti-social habits, he'd also been neglecting his grooming in general.
"Mate!" Ron practically bellowed, as soon as he opened the door, "thank Merlin you're here! You'd best hurry inside, before Hermione kills 'Stori's dad!"
Oh, bollocks. Harry didn't exactly enjoy the company of Cyrus Greengrass, but he also supposed that what little he knew of the man was also tinged by the bias that Daphne had left him with – that's gonna be another thing to deal with, he realized, as he hadn't exactly been the most outgoing when it came to Daphne recently.
"What's the battle?" Harry smirked, shrugging off his coat and handing Ron the wrapped gift – a pair of charmed "sleeping caps" which were recommended for new parents – before making his way into their house. He knew that the property itself was one of the Greengrass plots, but the couple had been making it their own for years now, and the way that it bustled inside from the gathered crowd left a distinctly "Weasley" impression.
It didn't take Harry long for him to spot Hermione – fuming – sat at one of the several tables which had been semi-haphazardly pushed together.
"Hey sunshine," He teased as he sat next to her, "how're you?'
"Harry," Hermione practically growled, "good of you to make an appearance. I just spent ten minutes dealing with insinuations and implications from fucking Greengrass."
If Hermione's cursing, old Cyrus must have really been out of line.
"What did he say?"
"He didn't say anything," Hermione grumbled, "just, you know, standard Pureblood refrains, oh-so-subtly implying that I'm a concubine of yours or something ridiculous like that, expressing his surprise that a Muggleborn would understand politics, let alone a woman, you know."
"Want me to kill him?" Harry asked, an eyebrow quirked.
Thankfully, Hermione snorted at his joke – though it wouldn't exactly be the first time he'd taken a life, Harry didn't really want to open the door to killing his enemies which were merely political ones.
"No, thank you for offering, though," She acquiesced, taking a drink from her wineglass, "I think that his daughter might beat you to the punch, anyways," Hermione gestured with her head, making Harry notice that Cyrus Greengrass was currently seated beside Daphne, his arms folded across his chest.
Fuck. It's not like she'd want me to go save her or anything like that, but… no, I'm not letting this go.
"I think I'll have words with him anyways," Harry muttered, patting Hermione on the shoulder, "seems like he needs reminding of the fact that we live in a new world."
"Just don't light anything on fire," Hermione teased.
Harry tried not to stomp on his way over, but neither did he overly restrain his mood from appearing on his face: if Cyrus Greengrass wanted to try and hurt the feelings of his best friend and a woman that Harry found himself growing rather fond of in the same afternoon, Harry didn't exactly have many compunctions about demonstrating his displeasure.
He sat heavily at the table, a couple seats down from Daphne, and idly reached to pour himself a glass of port.
"Ah. Lord Potter-Black," the surly Greengrass sneered, "how kind of you to join us in person rather than sending a representative."
"Mm," Harry replied, swirling the glass in front of himself, inspecting the way that the liquor coated the sides of the vessel, before taking a deep swig. He allowed the moment to stretch – for all that Draco could still be an absolute git at times, Harry was thankful that he'd learned how to convey "pissed off" in pureblood language thanks to the blond.
"I have just spoken with Miss Granger, as it turns out," Harry started, not making eye contact with Cyrus, "Miss Greengrass, it appears I owe you my thanks for putting an end to that conversation." He turned to her, raising his glass as if in cheer.
Daphne, for her part, didn't reply, but Harry saw the faintest hint of a blush creeping up her ears. Their… relationship? "Arrangement"? was decidedly not public knowledge, so he had to measure his own actions somewhat carefully, but it was well within the bounds of propriety for a Lord of his age and marital status to engage in a little flirting.
Not that he was here to flirt with Daphne – that would be a lot nicer – but to excoriate her father.
"Well, Lord Potter-Black, you must admit it is unprecedented," the elder Greengrass muttered, "many Lords have sent their retainers to court on their behalf, but to send your… companion in your place, after avoiding the Wizengamot for months? It sends a message, does it not?"
"Lord Greengrass," Harry answered, "Miss Granger is one of my very closest allies, a fully capable and competent Witch in her own right, and a sworn vassal of both Houses Black and Potter alike. If you wish to continue making arguments of this manner, I'll be well within my rights to consider your speculation an insult to both of those houses."
He saw Cyrus clench up, his arms wrapping tighter about his chest, but apparently the stubborn man was undeterred.
"You should know well that houses such as mine are ones you'll need as allies, Lord Potter-Black, especially if your… representative's pursuits of greater rights for Muggleborns and Half-Breeds is one that originates from your desk. Consider that, before you shut doors that you cannot reopen."
"Ah, Cyrus," Harry continued, "your daughter is a friend of mine, wedded to one of my closest allies, I have no concerns whatsoever that Houses Greengrass and Potter-Black will find themselves aligned while she is the Head of House." He leaned forward over the table, refilling his glass, but also looming somewhat closer to Lord Greengrass. "Let's all hope that day is a long time in the future, yeah?"
The threat did not go unnoticed by either Greengrass seated at the table: Cyrus blanched, while a smirk broke across Daphne's features.
"Well said, Lord Potter-Black," the former grumbled, "though I must say, if you wish to make a display of putting your women in public, why not take my other progeny as a concubine or such? Sure, she hasn't amounted to much, but she's at least of good stock and has adequate birthing hips."
He didn't.
Daphne rose from the table with a burst, looking as if she were about to tear into her father, before grumbling loudly and turning to stomp away.
"Lord Greengrass," Harry continued, trying not to let his own anger show too transparently, "I must reiterate myself, as it appears you failed to understand me earlier: I do not engage in your ancient customs of 'concubines' or 'consorts' as a barely-disguised excuse for slavery, and my relationship with Miss Granger is nothing other than that of Lord and Vassal, as far as your traditions would see it." Harry rose from the table, draining the rest of his glass while maintaining eye contact with the seated man. "I trust that you can understand that a single further implication coming from your lips will raise my ire," the glass popped with an explosion of glass – fuck, didn't actually mean to do that – "ask House Dolohov how that ends."
Daphne
The… the fucking gall of the man, I'd say I can't believe he'd say that about me except that I absolutely fucking can believe it.
Daphne had stormed off into one of the numerous side hallways of this particular residence, one which she'd been well-acquainted with as a child. Her father's words hadn't hurt, really, she already knew that the man was a loathsome and antiquated sexist, but for some reason they stung worse having been in front of Harry.
The contrast between the two Lords couldn't have been any more dramatic: though she wasn't even sure if Harry had fully understood the significance of that horrible little conversation, he had basically stopped just short of declaring his intent to kill her father for his vile words, and that had an effect on her which wasn't entirely unexpected, she supposed.
If she had been the "Ice Queen" as a teenager, she was all but fracturing now as a variety of different emotions worked their way through her mind: rage at her father, outright lust for Harry, but tinged with a substantial degree of frustration that he and Pansy had apparently fucked up some part of their three-person arrangement, wistfulness at the idea of having that relationship become something more, and an angry sadness at the fact that she had no idea how to process these competing feelings.
Over the past couple of weeks, neither Harry nor Pansy had been very talkative to her, though neither had exactly cut contact following the falling-out between the two of them, which only seemed to frustrate Daphne even further. She hadn't managed to pry the full story out of either of them, though Pansy had explained that the Aurors had shut the doors of her shop, and Harry had briefly insisted that it wasn't his fault, and that was all she knew.
"Hey," the voice of the man himself broke through her introspection, "you alright?"
In lieu of a response Daphne simply turned to him, grabbing Harry by the lapels of his jacket, and crushing him against herself.
"You… I don't know whether to kiss you or slap you," she admitted, feeling a chuckle rumble through his chest in response, "you were magnificent, but that's the first I've seen of you in weeks? What do you think?"
"Well," Harry drawled, "I'd prefer not to be slapped, yeah?"
Fair enough for me, she decided, lifting her face to his and pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.
"Harry, where-oh!" A female voice interrupted.
"Hermione," Harry grumbled, "a bit of privacy, yeah?"
"I-of course! Uh, sorry!" Hermione stuttered, disappearing back into the rest of the party.
"Hmm," Daphne muttered, "our secret's out, then?"
"Nah," Harry smirked, "Hermione's not one for gossip, but I do expect an uncomfortable conversation at some point in my future, I guess I'll have to explain friends with benefits to her."
Right, "friends".
"I should get back to the party, though," Harry admitted, "I'll talk to you later, yeah?"
"Please do," Daphne smiled, watching him depart.
I know how to fix this, she realized.
Harry
He'd meandered through the party, said much more pleasant hellos to various people – friends and nearly-strangers alike – and had now settled himself in to a nice little corner away from the bulk of the gathered guests, watching Draco and Ginny setting up a magical projector to start showing the pictures from their honeymoon.
The newlyweds had vacationed through parts of Europe – nowhere too far-flung, as the Malfoy coffers definitely weren't what they once were, though Harry's own wedding present of a couple thousand galleons probably helped there – and in each and every picture the couple's sheer adoration for each other was evident.
Harry smirked, thinking of how odd it was that the relationships which had seemed so preordained during Hogwarts – himself and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, Seamus and anyone that moved, Draco and his own hair – had seemed to lead to better outcomes for most of the people involved once the original assumptions had fallen apart.
When he'd dated Gin, Harry had found himself unable to keep up with her highly social, outgoing nature, finding it more of a source of frustration than something which encouraged him to get out of the house. Draco, for his own slightly-withdrawn tendencies, embraced and thrived in this type of relationship, on the other hand.
Hermione and Ron… well, Harry was at a loss these days as to how he'd ever thought the two of them would work together. Ron was great and all, still Harry's best mate by a wide margin, but he needed to be guided by his partner, a task which had grown to frustrate Hermione instead of giving her an opportunity to be bossy. Astoria, on the other hand, took to that substantial process like a fish to water, more than happy to be the "boss" of their relationship, just as Ron was a source of stable, steadfast support for the former Slytherin.
Not that he was privy to her secrets or whether it even counted as a "relationship" yet, but Harry had definitely picked up on something happening between Hermione and Viktor Krum, and he was all for it: despite the fact that the giant of a man seemed cold and foreboding, he knew Viktor was one of the most loyal people he'd ever met (Viktor Krum: Hufflepuff, Harry thought with a smirk), and he had a ravenous hunger to learn as much as Hermione was willing to teach him, the man's intellect nearly as sharp and fierce as Hermione's own.
Which, of course, left Harry himself. He'd found himself getting on well with Daphne, and – perhaps in spite of – the little nudges and hints that Ron and Astoria had passed his way, he had genuinely started to think that perhaps she might work with him as something substantially more than "friends with benefits".
The problem there being, of course, a snarling serpent that was not in attendance at the party. He had no idea what the fuck Pansy had blown her lid over, but he wasn't going to apologize to her for something that he wasn't at fault for, and if that was the end of the time he spent with her, so be it. He wasn't so jealous as to ask Daphne to stop seeing Pansy, but if the two of them ever considered something more… that would have to be dealt with.
Lost in his introspection, Harry saw photos of Draco and Ginny in Paris, a beret ridiculously perched off the side of Malfoy's head, and he cracked a smile at the same time as he thought Pansy would love it there, which immediately chased the smile from his face and sent a dark mood spiraling through his mind.
Grumbling to himself internally, he delicately removed himself from the party, meandering outside and sparking a cigarette, fishing in his jacket for the flask of firewhiskey he'd brought with him. The double-sided burn in his throat helped distract him from his own thoughts, unwilling to delve any deeper into how he'd transitioned from trying to resent Pansy directly into thinking of things she'd like.
"Potter," A silky voice interrupted his contemplation.
"Malfoy," He replied, offering Draco his flask, who accepted it with a gesture of cheers.
"You alright? You took off all of a sudden, there."
"Yeah, I'm fine," Harry grumbled, "just thinking about some stuff that I'd rather not. Nothing to worry about."
"Sorry, mate," Draco apologized for some reason, "I should have realized, it's probably a sore spot for you?"
Harry mulled this over, trying to figure out what Draco was getting at. Oh, shite.
"Draco, no," Harry rubbed the back of his head, "it's nothing about you and Ginny, trust me! I'm still happy for the two of you, and I'll continue to be happy as long as you treat her right, yeah?"
This half-hearted attempt at intimidation didn't work on Malfoy, sadly.
"Then what is it?" It was infuriating how Draco was actually a kind and caring person once he got out from his father's clutches, "surely you don't have that much resentment against the French? I know you're a proper English bloke and all, but…"
"Hah, no, the French are fine," Harry shrugged, lighting a second cigarette, "I guess it's something like 'girl troubles', but I dunno if that's even the right way to put it."
"Oh?" Draco made for Harry to continue, a gesture which also doubled as a request for a cigarette – fucking Slytherin charms – which Harry provided him.
"Not much to talk about, I'm afraid. There was something happening, now it's not, and I guess I'm still having a hard time getting used to that."
"Why is it… 'not'?"
"Well, uh," Harry fidgeted with his hair again, "I'm not sure, that's the thing. She blew up on me, won't talk to me since, and I'm not even sure what I've done."
"Hmm," Draco took a drag, exhaling smoke, "is this lucky lady at the party tonight?"
"No," Harry muttered, taking a swig of his whiskey. That would have complicated things significantly. "I've no idea what she's doing. Probably getting drunk somewhere."
"Ah, a lady after your own heart, then," Draco drawled, "do I know this witch?"
Unfortunately, you know her well, Harry thought. "Eh," he shrugged, instead, "maybe, but who doesn't know damn near everyone at this point."
He cursed himself, seeing the wheels turning in Draco's head. These goddamn Slytherins were too good at ferreting these details out of him.
"Well, if it's a particularly sharp-tongued sort of woman who likes her whiskey," Draco trailed off, "then I could imagine that a woman like that would be hurt if she felt like you were keeping secrets from her, and I'd imagine that whatever it is you have going on with Daph might be cause for that upset."
"It's not that," Harry answered, panicking as he tried to pivot, "and 'what I have going on with Daph'? I wasn't aware there was a going on?"
"Bullshite left over from Hogwarts, then?"
"Fuck, maybe," Harry was at a loss as to how Draco fucking Malfoy was giving him advice on courting his former girlfriend-for-the-purposes-of-public-knowledge.
"Look, mate, I'm no mind reader," Draco quirked an eyebrow dramatically, the topic of occlumency and legilimency being an old joke between the two men, "but if it's what I think it is… then this woman might not even be mad at you, she might be mad because she felt like she should be mad, then got upset once she realized that you're actually the entirely-too-noble dickhead that people think you're pretending to be."
"That's…" That makes a lot of sense, "fucking idiotic. How's it my fault if someone feels like they should be mad at me but can't be?"
"Women are terribly mysterious," Draco wiggled his fingers in the air, "almost as if someone who's used to only having themselves to count on might get angry at themselves when they realize they've come to count on you, then push you away to try and reassert that status quo. We're a terribly well-adjusted bunch, us Hogwarts War survivors."
Fuck.
"Draco!" Ginny's voice called from the doorway, "there you are!"
"Had to have a chat with Potter," Draco drawled, surreptitiously throwing his cigarette butt to the ground, "the lad's got himself all a-twitter over some unfortunate woman."
"Oh, Harry," Ginny chuckled, "who's the lucky girl?"
"He won't say," Draco interrupted, shrugging, "terribly mysterious," he joked for the second time.
"Hey, Gin," Harry smiled, despite his previous mood, "how're you?"
"I'm good, Harry!" She replied cheerfully, "but both of you brooding conspirators are needed inside, dinner's about to start."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there," Harry waved the couple off, returning to his cigarette. Watching the pair walk back inside, he shook his head mirthfully when Ginny chucked her fist against Draco's shoulder, before weaving her arm through his. They've got something nice.
Daphne
The dinner was lovely, and the announcement from Astoria and Ronald that their family was set to grow within a few months had been almost heart-wrenchingly well received, she'd caught more than a few of the guests with tears in their eyes (and if pressed, may have admitted that she was among that number).
The reception which continued afterwards was… still nice, but she felt an anxious energy beginning to grow inside her as endless guests circled around her table, where she was (naturally, Astoria) sat directly beside the man who she was eager to get alone.
Eventually, she decided to take matters into her own hand, among other things.
Slyly reaching beneath the tablecloth, she trailed fingers up Harry's thigh, and was pleased at how the man stiffened momentarily but didn't make any move to stop her action. Slowly walking her digits up his leg, she continued her actions despite outwardly glancing about the room.
At one table, Remus Lupin was pointedly glaring across the room at William Weasley, who was sticking mostly to himself, a blonde that Daphne recognized (who was not Fleur Delacour) but couldn't place at his side. At another, Luna Lovegood was practically draped over Susan Bones, a display which probably would have caused questions, raised eyebrows, or even cruel insults if it were not for the facts that Luna's eccentricity was well known, and that Susan might well duel anyone who saw fit to insult her on grounds of her (what her father would undoubtedly refer to as) sapphism.
Gripping Harry's member over his trousers, she felt him beginning to grow hard under her ministrations, a brief thought of I've missed this being – ridiculously – directed towards his cock. She didn't quite go so far as to begin pumping him in earnest (as not even she was subtle enough to disguise that successfully), but she did relish in how he swelled under her touch, his own gaze locked somewhere between the table and absolute nothingness.
"Hi, Harry!" A cheerful voice interjected, and Daphne almost jumped – which could have been disastrous, revealing her actions – apparently, Luna had made her way over to their table without her notice.
"Hey, Lu," Harry grunted, his voice slightly strained, "how're you?"
"Oh, very good! I'm having a nice time with Susan, have you ever sat on her lap? She's very comfortable," the short blonde answered dreamily, "she has very nice breasts, after all."
"Er," Harry mumbled, and Daphne did not miss how his cock twitched in her hand at this statement, "I, uh, um…"
"I wasn't aware the two of you were an item," Daphne interjected, saving him from his own brain, "but I'm happy to see it. The wizarding world could use more reason to expand its horizons."
"Oh," Luna giggled, "We aren't an item! Not that I'd be opposed, like I said, she has very nice breasts, but we're just friends!"
Hmm.
"You look good, too, Harry!" Luna continued, "your wrackspurt infestation is clearing up nicely!"
"Uh?" Harry answered, the poor man clearly didn't have enough blood left in his brain to answer intelligently.
"Oh, yes! Wrackspurts," Luna turned her attention to Daphne, her giant blue eyes open with interest, "are a tricky little beast: they feed on angst and sexual frustration, but they're oh-so-contagious – the cure carries a risk of transmission, you know!"
Uh-oh.
"Oh?" Daphne tried to keep her tone something like "politely disinterested", "and what does that have to do with Lord Potter-Black?"
"Oh, Harry spent far too long bemoaning his singledom," Luna cheerfully answered, "but it's clear he's finally getting some action, you know? Anyways, I'll leave you two to your… conversation!"
Both Harry and Daphne's mouths opened in shock as Luna happily flounced away, and Daphne did not miss how Harry's gaze tracked the blonde's – admittedly, very nice – legs and arse as she went.
"So, you and Lovegood, eh?" She teased.
"Uh, no, I, er," Harry stammered, "I haven't done anything with Luna. I need a smoke."
Unfortunately for Harry, Astoria had been passing by close enough to overhear this last statement, one which fit into her dear sister's own machinations.
"Oh, Harry, don't you try and run off out the front door again!" Astoria chastised, "there's a balcony off of the study, Daph, you remember dad's old study, yeah? Why don't you show Harry where that is?"
Why don't I, indeed?
Harry
His mind swam as Daphne bustled him down a hallway into a quiet room, shoving him inside and nearly slamming the door shut, pointedly turning the lock.
"Daph…" He started, not even sure what he was going to say. He was all kinds of confused, turned on, and confused about why he was turned on, between Daphne's teasing, Luna's… Luna (flirting?), and the interplay between those two scenarios.
"Mister Potter-Black," Daphne announced, imperiously, "welcome to the Greengrass family study. I spent many hours in here during my childhood, until my father decided that my time would be best spent learning how to be the perfect wife."
Merlin. Cyrus's comments earlier must be why Daph was so against talking about pregnancy – the man saw her as a bloody broodmare…
"Nevertheless," she continued, drawing Harry deeper into the room, "have yourself a seat." Crossing the room to a bar stand, she poured a healthy glass of what looked like scotch – or the Wizarding equivalent. "You and I, Mister Potter-Black, have two very important things to talk about."
"Yeah?" Harry replied, not at his most eloquent.
"First, and most relevant to our locale," Daphne strolled back towards him, placing the glass on the desk beside Harry's seat, then leaning over him, "I'm going to suck your cock."
Fuck.
"Secondly," as she kneeled down before him, "well, that can wait."
Harry couldn't find it in himself to question her, as she pulled his belt free of its buckle, lightly slapping his hands away as he tried to help her undo his trousers. When she pulled his half-hard member free, he swore that he heard a small moan escape her lips, but he couldn't quite tell as she immediately wrapped said lips around his head.
"Fuck, Daph," he began, but she was clearly in no mood for conversation, gripping him tightly about the base with two fingers and her thumb, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked on him, her head bobbing up and down over his member.
"Later," she gasped, pulling free of his cock to lean down, practically nuzzling into his balls. Her tongue lavished attention over him, her hands busying themselves with jerking his cock as she left trails of saliva over his testicles, apparently on a mission to blow him.
His suspicions were proven correct as her attention returned to his cock, her head bobbing in time with the grip of one hand, the other gently fondling his balls – this was no occasion for teasing or foreplay, she was obviously trying to get him off, and quickly, at that.
"Fffuck," He groaned, quietly, which encouraged her. Her head stopped moving, replaced by a frantic pace of her hand, as she sucked and licked at the head of his dick. He reached to run a hand through her hair, which she didn't object to, and when he pulled her tighter against himself, she was all-too-happy to accommodate him.
In fact, she took the lead, pushing forward and taking him into her throat as her hand gently smacked against her own lips, a sight which was enough to unmake Harry, with a quiet moan, he came, Daphne remaining attached to his cock, licking at the tiny slit at the head of his cock well after she'd drained the cum from him.
Standing, she reached for the glass of scotch, draining it in a single pull.
"Secondly, you have a message to send. I know she's being irrational, but you're going to reach out to Pansy, and you're going to explain why she doesn't have to be embarrassed about acting out in front of you. I've been thinking, and this whole thing we have going on is a lot of fun, but I'm not doing it unless it's all three of us involved, you understand?"
His head still fuzzy, Harry could only nod.
"Now, Mister Potter-Black, you should have your cigarette."
"Daph?" He asked.
"Yeah?"
"Did you just give me a blowjob to convince me to talk to Pansy?"
"Not at all, Harry," She smirked, thankfully picking up on his joking tone, "I gave you a blowjob because I want you, and because it would undoubtedly infuriate my father to imagine his daughter 'debasing' herself in his former study. I told you to talk to Pansy because, fuck me, I like the two of you, but I'm not putting myself in the middle. Now, have your smoke, and let me know when you've sorted that out."
Watching her arse swaying as Daphne left him behind, Harry did his trousers up, fishing a cigarette from his jacket as he opened the balcony, and helping himself to a glass of scotch of his own. Between Draco's earlier advice and Daphne's demand, he had begun to realize that he'd badly misunderstood why Pansy was so hurt by his actions – it wasn't about the Aurors, or that he didn't warn her, it was that she'd expected that he'd warn her about such things, then got mad at herself for expecting that and took it out on him so that he couldn't realize she… expected him to care about her.
Fuck.
Well.
I guess I have a letter to send.
Pansy
Pansy lay on her back, her feet dangling off the end of the table, staring at the ceiling of Serpentine. It was safe to say that she was in a Mood-with-a-capital-'M', having completed the last of her commissions (save for the fucking dragonskin coat) days ago, finding herself stranded in a void of being both too broke and too paranoid about the Aurors keeping tabs on her to do anything fun.
She'd even spent some time kicking herself over the fact that she could be shagging Daphne's brains out to occupy herself, but that just didn't feel right, somehow. Pansy had carefully weighed the pros and cons of exploring that particular feeling in further depth, before emphatically deciding against any sort of introspection.
Even more emphatically, she avoided any thoughts of that man, because she really didn't want to find herself in a situation where she'd have to admit that she was completely, utterly, and embarrassingly in the wrong.
Blaise wasn't even around to distract her, having left for the week to go to fucking France, to visit his boyfriend – you've gone soft, Zabini – in a sickening display of moral support and caring that was thoroughly unbefitting of a Slytherin. From what she'd seen in the papers and heard from Blaise, it wasn't even as if Miss Delacour (then Weasley, then Delacour again) was all that torn up, and Pansy found it hard to summon much sympathy for the Veela-blooded witch.
After all, it was her fault for managing to marry the one man on the entire fucking planet who would be stupid enough to cheat on a fucking Veela in favour of Lavender fucking Brown, such abject idiocy must have been readily apparent the entire time.
Groaning, she brought herself to a sitting position, grumbling and generally voicing her mood to her empty shop, the door still marked with a falsely cheerful "The designer has received an exclusive commission and will be unavailable until it is completed" note to explain herself to whatever potential customers might possibly still exist.
Pansy knew that things were well and truly dire when she didn't even feel like getting drunk. With the way that things had been going, that just sounded like being bored and clumsy, rather than finding any sort of entertainment (or even self-satisfied inquietude) in a bottle.
When she heard a sharp tapping at one of her shop's windows, she nearly leapt to a standing position, equally surprised and desperate for any kind of stimulation whatsoever. An official-looking owl perched impatiently at her windowsill against the miserably gray and rainy-looking sky outside, and Pansy practically cooed with delight as she hurried to receive her avian visitor. With luck, it would be bringing her a letter from the Auror's office, granting her permission to re-open Serpentine. With bad luck, it would bring a letter from the same, telling her she was under arrest, but even that would at least be a change from this status quo.
"Yes, yes, quiet down, thank you," she grumbled at the impatient bird, taking the scroll from its talons. The parchment was bound with a gold-and-brass seal which she snipped through with one of her own talons (okay, so her black-painted nails were short and fairly blunt, but she wanted to keep her aesthetic intact in her own mind).
Huh.
Rather than from the Aurors as she had anticipated, the letter was from Gringotts. She skimmed through the overly-byzantine language that started the letter (the Goblins loved to hear themselves talk, even in written form), getting to the main point without further delay.
Pansy Gwendolen Parkinson, please indicate a time of your earliest convenience that you will be prepared and organized to receive a sworn delivery of: ONE CRATE at the location where you have received and acknowledged receipt of this binding and committal form, GRINGOTTS LONDON BRANCH.
She blinked, confused.
I don't recall withdrawing anything… she mused, unsure of what could have prompted this letter, but at least it wasn't a notice that she'd overdrawn her account or something like that.
Fishing her wand from her purse, she muttered tempus to figure out what time it even was (a bit past half three, as it turned out), then marked quarter to four on the boldly underlined space, returning the scroll to the disdainful-looking owl, which seemed to turn up its nose at her as it took wing.
Well, no point waiting, right?
As she paced around the shop, trying to unravel the mystery before this mysterious package arrived, she continued to find herself at a loss. Gringotts wasn't exactly a mail delivery service, so whatever she had been sent was either too valuable to be entrusted to others, or coming from someone with considerable pull among the Goblins. Either way, she found herself growing apprehensive: the suspicions that the Aurors had about her really weren't that hard to decipher, it was clear that her father was up to some sort of vague not-quite-crimes once again, and she found herself growing antsy at the thought that he might have sent something to purposefully implicate her.
She was shaken from her spiraling anxiety by a heavy, official sounding knock (just one) at the front door of her shop, and she absolutely did not make a little "eep" of surprise as she jumped to her feet to go greet the delivery she was anticipating.
No less than three goblins stood on the front stoop, one wearing a suit of blood armour of all things, the other two standing protectively on either side of a large wooden crate stamped with the Gringotts seal.
"You are Miss Pansy Gwendolen Parkinson?" The armoured one spoke, brusquely.
"I am," she began, about to ask who had sent this package before the goblin interrupted her.
"Sign here," The goblin shoved another letter towards her, "using your wand."
Confused, she went along with this direction, the goblin snatching the parchment away from her and staring at it mistrustingly as soon as she'd put her signature down. He (at least, she thought the being was a "he") nodded once, then turned to the two at his side, grunting something in Gobbledegook and stabbing a finger in the air at the interior of her shop. Wordlessly, the… assistants lifted the crate, shuffling it through her door almost too quickly for her to get out of the way, setting it down heavily just inside the entryway.
Smashing customer service, really, she thought, dryly.
As politely as they had arrived, the head goblin muttered "As I witness, you have received this delivery," then the three all turned on their heels and stomped away at once. Baffling.
Her curiosity immediately getting the best of her, Pansy went to the crate, looking for any kind of opening. Pondering the whole "sworn delivery" and "magical contract" nature of this unexpected development, she hazarded a guess and tapped the tip of her wand against the Gringotts seal on top of the box.
The top of the crate vanished, revealing a bolt of a dark material, black tinged with streaks of red, shiny scales overlapping on top of a dark leather that she recognized on sight.
Dragonhide, she realized with a gasp.
Her heart hammered in her chest, confusion and elation warring inside her at this – frankly – miraculous appearance of the one material that she'd been pursuing for months now. The sheer size of the bolt of dragonhide would be more than enough to complete the coat that Auror Tonks had commissioned, and if she had her estimates right, was probably worth hundreds, if not thousands of Galleons even in its raw state.
Tucked underneath the first layer of the precious material, she noticed a little piece of paper: an entirely-mundane looking envelope. With almost-shaking hands, she fished the envelope out, opening it.
The piece of paper within had a short message scrawled in a familiar hand.
We should talk. – H
He…
What?
How did…
What is…
The rapid-fire string of questions she was asking of herself fell away into a white-hot feeling: she couldn't even tell what it was, some thrilling and yet painful sensation that boiled through her entire body and filled her with an energy that she was not entirely sure she'd ever experienced before.
After she hurriedly cast security charms on the crate of dragonskin, muttering to herself well after her spellcasting had completed, she slammed the door of Serpentine shut, storming off into the streets of Knockturn Alley. Maybe if she hadn't torn Potter's page out of her notebook, she could talk to him by those means, but that avenue was shut. Neither would she be content sending an owl in this state she found herself, and didn't want to subject herself to the embarrassment of discovering he'd removed her from his Floo wards.
No, she could make her way to Potter's fucking mansion the old-fashioned way, on foot.
It didn't take her long to regret her decision.
Not because she had changed her mind on the destination: no, she still trod resolutely onwards, realizing that London was substantially larger than she pictured when she didn't have magical means of transportation to rely on.
Instead she regretted her choice not to bring a fucking umbrella, as the gray-looking sky had darkened into an absolute downpour, and the neighbourhoods that she was stomping through were unfortunately Muggle in their populations, preventing her from casting water-repelling charms.
After what felt like hours, she found herself standing outside 12 fucking Grimmauld Place, steeling herself by taking a deep, shuddering breath.
Pushing her chin forwards, she strode to the door, pounding on it repeatedly, and if nothing else glad to be out of the rain beneath the portico at Potter's front door.
The door practically flung itself open, revealing the man himself: he looked slightly bedraggled in a way that… wasn't unappealing, a thick curtain of stubble across his jaw, his eyes marked with the slightest hints of dark circles.
"Fucking merlin, Pansy, you're drenched. Come inside." Potter spoke, reaching out to physically drag her through his entryway.
"Y-y-you!" She cried indignantly, realizing that she mustn't look as intimidating as she'd have hoped while her teeth were chattering, "what-t-t's the idea?"
"Later," Harry spoke, his voice coming out deep, rougher than she remembered. Or maybe I'd tried to forget? "You get warmed up, then we'll talk."
Normally, she'd protest this assumption that he could tell her what to do.
Normally, she'd have turned on her heel and walked back outside, it took more than a bit of rain to affect Pansy fucking Parkinson.
Normally… well, she could find ways to take advantage of most circumstances, and, well, the idea of getting some warmth back into her body was something she didn't care to turn down. Without any further exchange of words, Potter had somehow bustled her up his stairs, into his master bathroom.
"Have a hot shower," he muttered, "I'll lay a set of dry clothes out for you," then he disappeared before she could even indignantly protest that she didn't need his help, and that she was fully capable of casting warming and drying charms herself.
There was something to be said, however, for the entirely-mundane charm of the hot shower seeping into her skin, chasing away the shivers and prickles of gooseflesh that had begun to make up (what felt like) her entire body.
It was almost enough to make her forget her anger at the man whose shower she was standing in, which… okay, might be a bit absurd, she realized. Still.
Toweling herself dry, she pulled Potter's bathrobe from the back of the door, walking outside to see a set of poorly-transfigured pajamas laid out on a chair beside the bathroom. She snorted derisively – she still had some standards to maintain, didn't she?
She stomped down the stairs into the kitchen, where Potter sat at the table, a mug of coffee in front of him, and a second in front of the empty seat that was pulled out. She slumped into the chair, looking down her nose at him, as she watched his gaze crawl from the table top to her eyes, somehow skipping over the expanses of skin that must have been revealed by his half-done bathrobe she was wearing.
"So." He spoke, the word a sentence in itself.
"So," She answered, intending to let him stew in silence, then finding that words began to spill from her anyways, "so what are you fucking thinking? Do you have any idea how much that dragonhide is worth? What's your big idea, to buy me off with some fucking leather?"
She swore that he almost sneered at her as if he were the image of a pureblood Slytherin, somehow, before the expression dropped from his face as quickly as it had ghosted across his features, replaced by something… soft.
"I figured it would get your attention," Potter shrugged, "and it looks like I was right, yeah?"
"How dare you," Pansy snarled, leaning forwards, "don't fucking play games with me, Potter, after you get me shut down, then you try and purchase my attention? What the fuck?"
He blinked, his head jerking back.
"Shut you down?" He asked, clearly baffled, "Pansy, I, uh-" Potter scratched the back of his head, that infuriating habit of his that he did whenever he wasn't sure what to say, or whenever he was feeling shy, "I can't talk about all of it, but I specifically reported that you weren't suspicious. What are you even talking about?"
Fuck.
"I, you, you," she wasn't stammering, "I read your report, Potter. 'Serpentine', then some blacked-out bullshite, 'under suspicion'".
Harry just stared at her impassively, and she swore she could see gears slowly turning inside his stupid fucking green eyes.
"Pansy…" Potter practically groaned, "who was the Auror that shut you down?"
"One of your friends, I expect," she snapped, "Auror Savage."
Potter did let a groan out at that, throwing his head back against the chair he was seated in, showing how the stubble covering his jaw extended well below his Adam's apple, practically to his chest.
"Fuck me…" Potter rolled his head back upright, fixing her with his gaze, "Pansy, Savage is… well… he's an arsehole."
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Like I said," she sneered at him, "a friend of yours."
"Look, I won't say that I know him, I don't think anyone can actually say that," Harry took a sip from his coffee, and she watched his ridiculous hairy neck bob as he swallowed, "but I know of him, and, well… he's a bloody nightmare."
"Mm." She grunted, unwilling to let Potter off the hook that easily, while also realizing just how badly she had… misunderstood.
"He's a fucking brilliant Auror," Harry continued, "but there's just… he's like the Ministry bureaucracy gave birth to a child on its own, and that progeny decided that he was going to dedicate his entire life to hunting down the slightest hint of Dark Magic. He was a Slytherin, you know."
"I fail to see the relevance." She looked down at her hands, inspecting her nails.
"He's Muggleborn. He was in Slytherin, in the Eighties."
Oh, fuck. Pansy found herself in the awkward position of feeling bad for Auror Beige-man.
"And this explains what?"
"Fuck," Harry exhaled heavily, "I actually understand, now. I don't blame you," what gives him the right to forgive me for anything? Pansy's thoughts shrieked, "he wields paperwork more effectively than any Hit-wizard wields their wand. In his eyes, he probably saw the chance to turn the pressure up on you, and he would have done that no matter what I said in my reports, Pans."
That strange emotion that Pansy had felt earlier returned with a vengeance, and she found herself entirely confused and uncertain about what to do with it, snapping a response at Potter just to get him to stop talking.
"You could've fucking given me a heads up."
"No, I couldn't've," Harry replied, sadly, "but you know that, and now I understand why you were so mad at me. It was a misunderstanding, yeah?"
What the fuck do you understand about me, she thought, scowling, as she finally reached forward to take a sip from her own coffee. It was black, almost sickeningly sweet, just the way she liked it.
He remembered how I take my coffee.
Of all fucking things, that was what caused the strange feeling coiling in her chest to snap, and she felt heat rising in her face, her eyes stinging.
"Fine!" She yelled, standing from the table in a jolt that caused Harry to jump in his seat. "I fucked up! It's what I do, you should have fucking known!" She grabbed the bathrobe she was wearing with both hands, tearing it off herself. "I'll fucking make it up to you, come fuck me!"
"Pansy…" Harry spoke, his voice low, coarse.
"Do whatever you fucking want to me," she cried, as Harry stood up from his seat, slowly. "Just… fucking fuck me, slap me around if you want, you can fucking hurt me," she felt something hot running down her face, "it's all I'm fucking good for."
"Pansy." Harry closed the distance between them, his hands sliding up her sides, closing the bathrobe over her. "Shut up."
She lunged towards him, pressing her face into his shoulder, as her hands weakly beat against his chest. She felt unfamiliar spasms go through her chest as she heard someone weeping in the middle of Harry's kitchen. Pansy knew that it was herself, but… what am I doing.
Harry just stood there, some kind of immovable fucking object, one of his hands gently rubbing over her back, over the bathrobe he'd re-dressed her in after she'd displayed herself before him. She was aware that he guided her into his lounge, that he sat her on his couch, and just… sat beside her, not touching her anywhere but her back, not taking her like she had thought he might.
She didn't know how long it took for her to calm down, but for some fucking foolish reason, he didn't leave her to be a fucking disaster on his couch alone, remaining beside her the entire time.
"Sorry." She spoke, the word a sentence in itself.
"It's alright," he answered, that coarse edge missing from his voice.
"No, it's, I," Pansy grumbled, "I do actually need to apologize. I'm a fucking mess."
"Heh," Harry smirked, "yeah, I know the feeling. But, seriously, it's alright."
Fucking infuriating noble prat.
She leaned into him, nestling her face into his shoulder again.
"I wasn't crying because of you," Pansy insisted, "it's just… it's been a lot. I thought that I was done for before I even had a chance. Getting shut down and all."
"Yeah, I've got that now," Harry replied, "but I should apologize too, I figure. I'm not really good with the whole," she felt him shrug, "subtleties thing. I didn't think of what was going on, and I made assumptions I shouldn't have."
"Mm." She replied, and they stayed quiet for a few minutes.
"So." Pansy began, turning up to look at him. She knew that she must have looked like a fucking half-drowned rat at this point, but when she met Harry's eyes, it didn't seem like he minded.
"I think we have some lost time to make up for," She drawled, and she felt Harry take a breath.
"Pansy… is that a good idea? I don't want you to, y'know…" He trailed off.
She reached up with both hands, running her palms over the coarse stubble on his face, then pulling him down towards her own face. She kissed him softly, not pushing her tongue into his mouth, not yanking on his hair.
"Look, Harry, I'm… I've had some fucking shite men in my life, yeah? But I promise, I'm not trying to use sex to apologize or to hurt myself or anything like that," the admission actually stung her, in a sweet way, "I… I actually want to. If you want."
He kissed her again, allowing her to push him backwards onto the couch, as she crawled on top of him. He let her deepen the kiss, her tongue sweeping over his (which tasted vaguely like whiskey and cigarettes, in a way that she did not mind in the slightest), his hands hesitantly coming to rest on her arse.
"You'll have to get used to this," She drawled, as she sat upright, shrugging his bathrobe off her once more. This time, he didn't try to put it back on her. "I'm tempestuous. I can swing from one end of the pendulum to the other in a heartbeat."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And you," she trailed her hands down his chest, sliding them under the hem of his t-shirt, "are overdressed."
Harry smirked, pushing himself upright as he shuffled out of his shirt, Pansy untangling herself from him and laying back on his couch as he undressed himself, spread open in a way which – somehow – didn't feel exposed.
When he lowered himself over her, she reached between his legs, finding his manhood already stiffening. She took his lips in hers once more, pumping him with one hand as her other hand moved to tangle itself in his hair – though she didn't even tug at it – rubbing the head of his cock against her entrance.
"You, uh," Harry muttered, before she stopped him before he could get to worrying.
"I'm ready, Harry, fuck me." And she was – she wasn't even sure when she had become turned on enough to take him inside herself, it wasn't like they'd really done much foreplay, but somehow… she was more than ready. Impatient, even.
They both hissed out quiet breaths as he slid inside her, and she made a pathetic sound, tilting her hips up towards him when he had fully sheathed himself, his cock absolutely fucking filling her. She pulled his face against hers again, this kiss nowhere near "slow" or "gentle", pulling his lower lip between her teeth as his hips rocked against her. Her hands danced over his hair, against his throat, as she trailed her fingertips over the tiny, sharp hairs covering his neck.
Fuck.
She knew that neither of them was going to last long, and she was fine with that – even though she was usually one for marathon sex. Her fingers tightened over his neck, just enough to make him notice, as his pace began to increase. Her legs, which she'd somehow managed to forget about until this instant, came to wrap around his hips, as if she was trying to pull him even deeper inside herself (not that there's any fucking room to go deeper), and that motion was enough to plunge her over the edge, her orgasm hitting her like a thunderclap.
Instead of leaning back to cry out, or any of the usual way she expressed her pleasure, her hands went around the back of his neck, pulling his face even tighter against hers, the moan she made almost entirely muffled by his tongue. It wasn't long before she felt him stiffen, felt his cock twitch inside of her, as Harry reached his own orgasm.
Fuck.
In the moments that passed, before they untangled themselves from each other, Pansy felt almost light-headed, unsure if her display earlier, the sex itself, or somehow both were responsible.
"We're gonna have to talk to Daph," Harry muttered.
"Yeah," Pansy agreed, "we definitely need to let her know that threeways are back on the table."
She knew that there was more than that to talk about, but she wasn't going to admit that to herself.
Not yet.