Triplicity

by psalmuel

Harry, Daphne and Pansy try to navigate their lives after the war.

12. Pyrotechnics

Pyrotechnics

---

Harry

Harry plodded back and forth in front of his closet, several different shirts and pairs of slacks already laid out on his bed, muttering indecisively under his breath. While he knew that – rationally speaking – he wasn't even likely to remain dressed for long, or even that his choice of outfit mattered all that much, he still felt the need to impress on at least some level.

After all, it was the first time in quite some time that he had plans with both Daphne and Pansy, and he'd happily admit that he was rather more excited to see both of them than he was about his typical evening activities ("read reports, write reports, maybe have a drink", of late). While he'd removed himself from the Parkinson-Rosier investigation, he found himself unsettled in a strange way ever since, the case having apparently re-ignited some part of his inquisitive mind and left him wanting more cases to sink his teeth into.

The Aurors, of course, had been happy to oblige him. He knew that, at some point, he'd have to sit down and actually think through his own status with their office: he definitely enjoyed the freedom and self-direction that his current vague "contractor" status allowed him, but at some point he'd probably have to quit putting it off and become an Auror officially.

Lately he'd found himself thinking more and more of the vague, uncertain "future" – which in turn led him to wonder whether this was a mark of maturity, or whether he was starting to panic a bit at the extent to which his relationship (relationships, plural?) with Pansy and Daphne was beginning to reshape itself.

Though Harry knew that he'd never be the most perceptive person in a room, even someone who could (admittedly) be as utterly dense as himself had managed to pick up on the fact that something had changed the last time he'd seen Pansy. Speaking for himself, he was no stranger to emotional displays including crying on someone's shoulder, but he knew that Pansy Parkinson did not cry… unless it was on his own shoulder, apparently.

He'd spent the last few days chasing his thoughts in circles over what this could mean. The simplest explanation would merely be that she was stressed out to the point where even someone as ferocious as Pansy broke down, and he could move past that easily, but it didn't really square with the mood when she'd started crying. Harry knew that "happy tears" were a thing for some people (he'd certainly seen evidence enough of this at Ron and Astoria's announcement), and what had happened with Pansy felt like half tragedy and half… something like that.

Daphne's presence, too, was something that had increasingly grown to baffle him. She'd definitely been correct in her own assumptions about why Pansy was upset, and her request (command?) that she'd delivered alongside a frankly spectacular blowjob was absolutely the right action to take. Repairing the ties between all three parties involved in this nebulous arrangement had been simple, easy, and above all felt natural.

Then there was the bombshell that Luna had dropped on him weeks ago… if he needed to pursue two wives in order to maintain the two lines which he'd publicly claimed, then wouldn't he be obligated to date two women at once? If that was the case, wouldn't Pansy and Daphne just make sense, considering that the two of them enthusiastically enjoyed each others' company as much as his own?

On the other hand, wasn't he also just getting overly-emotional and easily attached, just like Pansy had warned him not to?

Finally selecting what he thought was a suitable outfit (dark gray slacks, a deep crimson-ish button-up, skip the tie) for the evening, he sighed. When he'd reached out to the pair of them to make plans for tonight, he'd framed it as a casual "hey, let's fuck" invitation, but he was quickly realizing that he'd have to initiate some of these more serious conversations. Between Pansy actually showing her emotions to him (Pansy Parkinson, feeling things, he smirked) and Daphne saying "I like the both of you" as her rationale for pushing Harry and Pansy towards each other again… well, it was probably past time.

Harry's fireplace roared to life, spitting green flames, and he quirked an eyebrow. He wasn't expecting his guests for another few hours, and neither of the witches used firecalls that Harry had seen, preferring the more modern methods of enchanted notebooks and the like.

"Hello?" He spoke into the flames.

"Harry!" Tonks' familiar face appeared, "Suit up, we're moving on Rosier. Hurry!"

Fuck.

"What happened?" Harry felt himself shift automatically into a familiar mindset, while romance was nearly unknown to him, this was familiar if not comfortable.

"Rosier got spotted moving a Shrine of Sorrow. Authorization just came from King, we're hitting him in," Tonks seemed to look down, as if checking a timepiece, "fourty seven minutes. Meet me at the Minstry."

Double fuck.

"Yeah." Harry acknowledged her, nodding as he dismissed the firecall, and hurrying himself into a rarely-used room deep within Grimmauld Place. He quickly scanned over a variety of charmed objects and useful trinkets he'd collected, trying to assess what he'd need to carry out a raid on Rosier.

Rosier, apparently, being more seriously involved in Dark Magic than Harry had anticipated. A Shrine of Sorrow was some really fucking dark shite to have on hand, a ritual object that required the sacrifice of an orphan to create.

Maybe I'm taking it a bit personally, he thought, as he pulled his dragonhide cuirass over his chest. He inspected the matching pauldrons to the chestpiece (part of an entire bloody suit of armour made of dragonhide) before snorting and returning them to storage – for all that he might be moving serious shite, Rosier was a bloody accountant, right?

He thought about donning the Cloak of Invisibility, but that felt like overkill (as well as something that belonged more in the past), so he settled for a quick-draw wand holster and a much more ordinary cloak with some minor disillusionment charms before rushing back towards his fireplace.

Only one thing left to do, Harry thought, as he snatched his enchanted notebook from a tabletop.

"Hey, work emergency came up. Shouldn't take all night. I'll message you both after." He wrote in a hurry, in the restored three-person conversation between Daphne, Pansy, and himself. "Sorry."

Well, it's better than old times, he thought, tossing the notebook aside, throwing Floo powder into the fire, and authoritatively speaking "Ministry of Magic".

Rosier's residence couldn't be called a "mansion" properly, but it did its best to emulate one in terms of the ornate carvings and sculptures which decorated the gardens just past the main gate.

"He's got wards up," Auror Savage spoke – as he always did – dispassionately, "easy enough to knock down, but he'll know we're here."

I should probably have some words with you, Savage, Harry thought, but he pushed that particular idea away. Not the time, not the place.

"Right," Tonks muttered, "in that case, we're going loud and fast. I'm on point. Harry, you take second."

Harry nodded, understanding Tonks's orders. Though he probably shouldn't make a habit of it for his own sake, he simply fit into Auror strike teams, some combination of his previous experiences (including, maybe, Quidditch) serving to leave him fast to understand orders, fast to act, and effective in raids.

"Alright. Go on three." Tonks commanded.

Savage drew his wand, pointing it at the gate as Tonks held up three fingers, then two, then one.

"Rupturo!" Savage yelled, and a burst of sparkling red-blue magic splashed against the invisible shape of Rosier's wards, which shuddered in the air before breaking with a distinct crackling sound. Immediately, a wailing sound began to echo from Rosier's house, some enchanted object alerting him to the presence of intruders.

Harry moved quickly behind Tonks as she rushed to Rosier's entryway, her wand dancing in the air as she cast detection charms and prepared counter-jinxes if necessary. Luckily, Rosier's door seemed to be guarded by (strangely) conventional means – the heavy lockbolt falling to pieces around Tonks's hurried casting of the reductor curse.

The interior of Rosier's house practically screamed "I wish I was a Dark Wizard but I don't have the guts", it was festooned with carvings of sinister figures such as serpents or other magical beasts, lit mostly by candles, and the walls were literally painted black.

Following Tonks's choppy hand gestures, Harry swept past her into what he assumed was Rosier's kitchen, finding it almost entirely empty, dark cupboards looming over a table with a single seat at the head. Scanning the surroundings quickly, Harry spotted one particular statue of a cockatrice, which was what was shrieking the alarm. He silenced it, before turning to rejoin with Tonks and the rest of the team.

"Kitchen's clear," Harry reported.

"Lounge's clear," Savage added.

"There's a hallway that's sealed," The third member – an Auror that Harry wasn't familiar with named Jenkins – concluded, "past the main hall."

The quartet shuffled through Rosier's house to where Jenkins had discovered this exception, a short hallway that sent shivers up the back of Harry's neck. The far end was indeed barred with a nearly intimidating oaken door, but the hall itself was nearly pitch-black, not even lit by candle, the shadowy shapes of dragons and basilisks carved into the walls themselves.

"On me," Tonks ordered, striding into the hallway, Harry close behind her.

Perhaps it was his instincts alone, or perhaps he noticed a subtle hiss, the faint scent of sulfur, but they'd made no more than two steps into the hallway before Harry leapt into action, grabbing Tonks by her cloak and physically hurling her behind him, out of the hall. It was just in time, as the hall's guardians came to life, a pair of dragon statues with glowing red eyes and flame spewing from their carved maws.

Fuck! Harry swore to himself as he turned away from the fire, feeling the flames lick over his back and singe his cloak.

"Protego!" He cried, a shield springing into existence to block the fire, allowing him to see how the paired statues served to pressure intruders away from the door – not quite lethal in their literal firepower, but enough to buy time for Rosier to finish whatever he was doing behind his closed door.

Fuck that, Harry thought. Taking a breath, he dropped the shield, the flames kissing his skin once more as he bellowed "Finite!" with his wand pointed at the stone dragons: thankfully, the counter-spell succeeded, the red light fading from the statues' eyes and the flames disappearing from the air.

Grumbling, Harry took another step forwards – though it had been only seconds that he'd been exposed to the false dragon's fire (he still heard Tonks scrambling to her feet behind him), between the time to sweep the rest of the house and this delay, there was no telling how much evidence Rosier had had the chance to destroy.

Channeling his anger into his spell, he pointed his wand at the looming oak door and yelled "Reducto!" with all his might.

Oh, fucking bullshite, he realized, as the door exploded with much more force than it should have, fucking rebounding jinx.

With what little time he had to react, Harry shied away from the storm of splinters that the door had become, sheltering his face under his arm. He felt the pin-prick stabs of shrapnel dancing along his exposed skin, with the heavier, burning sensations in a couple spots indicating more substantial wounds. In particular, his right shoulder had flared with heat and then gone partially numb – should have worn the fucking pauldrons after all, fuck.

Too fucking slow, he chastised himself, as he clambered back to his feet and lurched to the end of the hallway, not clever enough, a fucking dark accountant outsmarted you. Unsteadily, he bulled through what fragments remained of the once-formidable door, crashing into the room beyond, still trailing a bit of smoke from the encounter he'd had with Rosier's dragon statues.

Inside the room, he was greeted to the sight of a nebbish, dirty-blonde man – Rosier – who was staring at him with shocked eyes and holding an armful of documents. A quick glance across the room revealed that Rosier's fireplace was absolutely crammed full of paper, presumably ledgers or other forms of evidence he was in the middle of destroying.

"Wesley Rosier," Harry's voice felt rougher than he'd expected, "you are under arrest for the suspicion of smuggling, transporting, and possessing Dark Artefacts."

Rosier's gaze flickered to the fireplace, back to Harry, dipping to Harry's hand before his calculating eyes met Harry's own gaze.

"Ah, Auror Potter," as it turned out, Rosier's voice was somewhere between "smooth" and "nasally", "You've caught me in the middle of some light house cleaning. Once I finish here, I'll gladly come to the Ministry to clear up any misunderstandings."

"Don't move." Harry ordered, as Rosier turned towards the fireplace, tossing the armful of documents he was carrying into it.

"I'm afraid," Rosier spoke, smugly, as he pointed his wand at his fireplace, "you've misplaced your wand, Potter."

Fuck. Harry realized that he must have dropped his wand when he'd caught a splinter to his shoulder.

Rosier flicked his wand, beginning an incantation.

"Incen-" Rosier began.

"Sectumsempra," Harry growled, slashing his empty hand through the air.

In short order, two things happened: Rosier's wand dropped from his hand (alongside a couple of smaller objects), and Rosier screamed.

"Well, that was a right fucking mess," Tonks assessed, as she and Harry stood outside of Rosier's grounds, a cigarette hanging out of Harry's mouth.

"Got him, didn't we?" Harry would have shrugged, but the motion felt painful. Frowning, he inspected his right shoulder – the so-called "splinter" he'd felt earlier turned out to be more like "a small spear", a piece of wood a few inches long still stuck in the flesh of his shoulder.

"Yes," Tonks admitted, "and as an Auror, I can say that you were brilliant. But as your friend, what the fuck was that, Harry?"

"Er," Harry didn't know how to answer this. I sure didn't bloody feel brilliant, he thought, recalling how he was too slow, too unprepared. "A raid?"

"You threw yourself into a fireball, blew up a door through a rebounding jinx and at yourself, then you nearly cut Rosier's bloody hand off. Harry," Tonks's voice dropped from "frustrated" to "concerned", "you doing alright, mate? That's not… healthy."

"Uh," Harry tsked as he searched for a change in topic, "you remember the blood-replenishing charm, yeah?"

"…yes?" Tonks replied, confused.

"Mm," Harry answered, reaching to grasp the piece of door stuck in his shoulder, then wrenching it loose. Thankfully, the numb feeling in his shoulder and fingertips vanished immediately, and as it turned out, the blood-replenishing charm was unnecessary.

"Harry…" Tonks admonished, "yeah, alright, you're very badass and all, but you're speaking to Proudfoot when we get back to the Ministry." Shaking her head in a way that seemed half exasperated, half impressed, Tonks muttered something that sounded like "hero complex" as she strode away.

Fair enough, Harry thought.

"We simply must stop meeting like this, Harry," Proudfoot – one of the many Aurors who preferred their last name - taunted, as he hung his jacket on the back of his office door. Proudfoot had become something along the lines of a field medic at some point in his Auror career, having just enough training to be useful as a healer without being bound by things like "duty to report" or "medical oaths" that the Aurors sometimes found inconvenient.

"You know me, Robert," Harry teased in reply, "anything for some attention, yeah?"

"And what does bring you here this time?" Proudfoot scrubbed his hands in his sink – a Muggle convention, but one that Harry agreed with – before walking to stand beside the makeshift medical bench where Harry was sat.

"Oh, the usual," Harry smirked, "I was on fire a little bit, a few stab wounds, there might be some pieces of a door left in me."

"Pfft," Proudfoot smirked in return, "you're just lucky that I managed to reattach Rosier's fingers. 'Dismemberment of the suspect' isn't covered in the terms of your contract, even if your own dismemberment is."

"I'm hardly dismembered," Harry protested, "just a bit impaled is all."

Chuckling under his breath, Proudfoot poked at Harry's shoulder, assessing the efficacy of the healing charms that Harry himself had cast, then shrugging and pulling Harry's arm out to its full extension. Harry definitely felt a twinge in his shoulder, but it hardly seemed fussing over.

"Well, luckily for you, you seem to be mostly in one piece," Proudfoot concluded, slumping into a chair beside his desk, "but that's not actually why Tonks wanted me to talk with you."

"Oh?" Harry was curious now – if not the splinters and minor burns, why else would Tonks send him to the Auror's private medic?

"Apparently you managed to blow up a rebounding jinx, if Tonks is right," Proudfoot explained, leaning forward so that his elbows were perched on his knees, his chin resting on the backs of his folded hands. "That takes some serious magical capacity, and the fact that your reductor curse then detonated a door only more so."

"Uh," Harry frowned, trying to puzzle this out, "thanks?"

"Don't thank me yet," Proudfoot muttered, "are you aware of some of the… subtler aspects of magical power?"

"I, er," Harry tried to recall various lectures that Hermione had given him, finding patience difficult to hold onto as he just wanted to leave the Ministry and get a hold of Pansy and Daphne, "no?"

"It's not exactly a science," Proudfoot explained, leaning back, casually, "but there's some little quirks about magical nature that become more evident the more juice you've got. You probably heal pretty quick, yeah?"

Harry nodded – he'd practically had a private bed in the medical wing at Hogwarts, to say nothing of the tender and loving care he'd experienced at the Dursley's, or the wounds he'd acquired in the Second Wizarding War, and yet he found that he was usually in pretty decent health despite all that.

"Yeah, that's part of it. You'll probably live longer than most witches and wizards," Proudfoot continued, "presuming, of course, that you don't manage to get yourself killed in some foolish way before then. But there's some more… insidious aspects."

Fuck, that doesn't sound promising.

"Such as?" Harry hesitantly inquired.

"Well, powerful magic users tend to attract… let's say 'allies'," Proudfoot shrugged, "a lot of people listened to Dumbledore just because he was Dumbledore, and I don't have to make mention of any darker comparisons. With that said, you're going to have to become more aware of this, especially if you're still getting stronger even now."

"I, uh, how's that?" Harry was baffled.

"It's not like it's the Imperius or even comparable to mood-altering potions, but you've got an aura of a sort around you, you're going to have to make sure that you maintain a healthy support network." Proudfoot stood, pulling a drawer of his desk open, and fishing a jar of some sort of salve from within, tossing it to Harry. "Magic has its own nature, but I'd personally feel more comfortable if your power finds expressions among your friends and loved ones, rather than, say, blowing things up and cutting people's hands off."

"Err," Harry frowned, "sorry?"

"You're already a great man, Harry," Proudfoot clapped him on the shoulder, "and I say that because of who you are, not what you've done – but magic doesn't necessarily distinguish things that way. You'll find yourself pushed in different directions, and I'm advising you now that you want to find healthy outlets for your power."

"Such as?" Harry felt… well, not uncomfortable, but vaguely put off: now that Proudfoot explained the concept he did remember Hermione explaining how powerful magic-users gained followers over time, which could be close friends, a network of allies, or something closer to servants depending on the witch or wizard in question.

"Well," Proudfoot smirked, "the salve I gave you is enchanted so that it draws on someone caring for you rather than your own magic. You'll have to get someone else to rub it into you."

"That's-" Harry started.

"A dirty trick? Absolutely!" Proudfoot's smirk became positively malicious at this point, "Robards isn't the only one who tries to rig the game in his favor, you know. Have no fear, I'm sure you can find a lovely young woman to give you a massage. Maybe more than one, since you're oh-so powerful and all."

That's why I'm trying to get out of here, Harry smirked.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Harry grumbled as he stood, exiting the room, "you're all very concerned about my love life."

"Just looking out for you," Proudfoot chuckled, "have a good night, Harry."

Hope I do, he thought.

"Yeah, you too, Proudfoot."

Harry sat in his dining room, wincing slightly as he reached for a glass of whiskey. After returning home, he'd found that many of the minor burns, scrapes, and splinters that he'd picked up had begun to ache, and he'd really been hoping that he'd put his body through an entirely different kind of challenge this evening.

Grumbling, he reached for his notebook, where he noted with a frown that neither Pansy or Daphne had replied to him. Worrying, he scrawled another message to the two of them.

"Hey, sorry, there was a raid. It went okay. If you two are still free and aren't mad at me, could I still see you?"

There was a delay of a few minutes (where Harry had begun to convince himself that the pair weren't going to speak to him any more) until a reply caused his notebook to vibrate.

He raised an eyebrow, recognizing Pansy's handwriting, but the message coming from Daphne's notebook:

"Sorry, we got… distracted. Didn't mean to ignore you. We'll be over in ten?"

Distracted, hey? Harry thought, a smirk breaking across his features. Think I'll want to hear all about that.

Underneath the idle fantasizing, a second feeling settled over his thoughts, a calm that came with a simple, yet reassuring thought: they understand.

---

Daphne

"Hey, work emergency came up. Shouldn't take all night. I'll message you both after."

"Sorry."

Daphne frowned. She'd already found herself finding things to do to pass the time until she was supposed to meet up with Harry and Pansy, so this latest development was particularly undesirable for her.

What kind of work emergency comes up after seven? She wondered, as she realized once again that for all she'd gained an understanding of him in recent months, there were significant parts of Harry's life that were a complete and utter mystery to her.

Then again, "work" was also something of a mystery: though none of the three in their peculiar little arrangement had schedules anywhere near "conventional", Daphne was particularly free from those sorts of commitments. The interest from various trusts paid for the rent for her flat, and the pieces of artwork she sold here and there covered the rest of her "as I feel like it" purchases, causing her to frown a bit further as she reflected on her particular station in life.

Ever since Ronald and Astoria's announcement, she'd noticed a subtle change to the content of her idle musings about her own life. Where a lot of the excitement and intrigue of her social circles had often revolved around "who's hooking up with whom", now the same kinds of conversations seemed to focus on "when are the so-and-so's getting married" or "do you think Mr. and Mrs. Etc. are getting pregnant?", which she found herself… not particularly interested in discussing.

Daphne had decided that it was partly rooted in the fact that, for fuck's sake, she was still too young to even be considering settling down, which in turn inspired a new surge of resentment against the expectations of Pureblood society to marry and begin a family as soon as it was realistically possible. On the other hand, she wasn't blind to the fact that a significant number of people her age had already paired off, and she was self-aware enough to understand that her frustration also carried a tinge of worry that she'd wind up left behind somehow.

Of course, the fact that Harry had basically swept in and utterly demolished her father in a way that was - somehow - "the noble knight rescues the distressed maiden" and not "I'm protecting you because I don't trust you to take care of yourself" damn well played a role in these thoughts.

Merlin, Daphne thought, he really is something special.

Was she? Daphne held herself in what she thought was a fairly reasonable level of esteem, she knew that she was intelligent, talented in her own specialties, and objectively attractive, but compared to Harry at his best, a Noble Lord whose mere presence commanded attention without even getting into the absurd list of achievements in his life... she nearly felt ordinary.

Then again, this whole thing was explicitly meant to be casual, under-the-table (heh, she thought, as she remembered that part of the dinner party fondly), and all, yeah? So why was she concerned about what kind of match Harry would be looking for? Besides, the answer to that was fairly obvious: he despised public attention from everything Daphne had seen, he tended to isolate himself and could be called "brooding", and there was a streak of something darker than she'd expected underneath the good-natured cheer and moments of awkwardness. Clearly, Harry would gravitate to someone like Pansy, who was much fiercer than him, didn't give a fuck about public perception, and was sharp enough to keep Harry on his toes.

Fuck. She grumbled. We actually need to figure out what all this is, or I'm going to drive myself mad worrying over what every little thing "means".

Taking matters back into her own hands, she flipped open her enchanted notebook, penning a message to Pansy.

"Are you as bored as I am right now?"

"MERLIN, yes," Daphne smirked at the immediate reply, "would you like to come over? Blaise is away for the weekend. Again."

That sounded substantially better than sitting around moping and getting caught in her own thoughts, Daphne decided.

"So, a 'work emergency', hmm?" Daphne mused, sitting beside Pansy on a couch and sipping a tea, "what do you figure that's about?"

"Hmm," Pansy tapped a finger against the side of her own mug, "emergency on a Saturday evening? He's on a raid, I figure."

"A what?" Daphne's heart skipped a bit – she was under the impression that Harry's work with the Aurors was considerably more bureaucratic than that.

"A raid? You know, Aurors show up, knock a door down, shout a bunch and wave their wands about," Pansy shrugged, "I guess that my family was probably on the receiving end of more than yours was."

"No, we," Daphne felt, again, like she was entirely unequipped to handle this information, "isn't that dangerous? Is he going to be okay?"

Pansy actually snorted – an outburst that really shouldn't have been as attractive as it certainly was – before explaining.

"You do know how many times Harry should have died already, yeah? I think a raid on some smugglers or whatever is well within his hands."

Daphne quirked an eyebrow, raising her mug to her lips, prompting Pansy to continue.

"I don't know what it is but it seems like my father's mixed up in some Dark Magic bullshite once again," Pansy shrugged, "I'm more than certain that Harry could handle my father if it came down to it, and I doubt that there's any particularly worrying Dark Wizards running about unchecked. He'll be fine."

"Mm," Daphne muttered a reply, "he 'handled' my father already, at that."

"Oh?"

"At Ronald and Astoria's announcement dinner," Daphne explained, "my father was being particularly… contentious. Harry may or may not have implied that he'd duel my father in a Lord's Feud if he didn't shut up."

Pansy practically cackled a laugh. "Fuck, I wish I had been there to see that! Cyrus must have been terrified."

"Not scared enough to stop himself from offering me up as a concubine," Daphne shrugged, "but I haven't heard a peep from him since, so whatever Harry did after that seems to have worked."

"Ugh," Pansy scowled, "fucking… Purebloods. Can you believe that we ever went along with all that shite, fucking 'blood purity' this, 'proper Pureblood lady' that, it's all fucking nonsense."

Understatement of the year, that, Daphne thought, as a puzzle piece clicked into place in her mind. She was keenly aware of the fact that Harry was the Lord of two Noble Houses, which meant that he'd be well within his rights to claim a second wife at some point… a position which had traditionally amounted to "a concubine with a fancy name" in Pureblood tradition.

Strangely, this realization made her feel better: while she certainly wasn't planning a wedding (or any kind of long-term future, really), the lingering doubt about her place in such a hypothetical arrangement started to dissipate. There was absolutely no way that Harry would treat his… wives in such a manner, no matter what the instincts imparted by her Pureblood upbringing were saying. Fucking Purebloods, indeed.

"I'll say," Daphne sipped her tea, which was almost empty, "I'm glad he was there."

"He is quite the hero, isn't he?" Pansy drawled, smirking, "the git sent me an entire bolt of dragonhide just to get me to pay attention to him. Honestly. He doesn't even know that he's doing it."

"Mm," Daphne agreed, "I imagine that it worked, though. Y'know, I did push him to reach out to you."

"Oh?" Pansy's smirk only grew more devious, "and how'd you convince him of that?"

"Well…" Daphne felt a bit of a flush growing on her cheeks, "I made a very persuasive argument," she sipped her tea, pausing for dramatic effect, "and I sucked his cock in my father's old study."

"Ha!" Pansy cried in laughter, throwing her head back, "then I also have to thank you for the make-up sex!"

"Oh?"

"Oh, fuck yes," Daphne noticed that Pansy had a bit of a flush of her own, "okay, maybe it wasn't really 'make-up' sex, I got all my yelling and emotional displays and all that out of the way before we actually got to it… but, yeah, fuck."

"Pans?" Daphne set her tea mug down.

"Yes," Pansy practically answered Daphne's question with the heat in her voice.

"Where's your bedroom?"

They'd crashed into Pansy's bed before Daphne could even take much account of Pansy's heretofore unseen bedroom, which she certainly wasn't complaining about.

"So, you're telling me," Pansy gasped, in between kisses and almost-frenzied gropes, "that you sucked Mister Hero off, and he didn't even return the favour?"

"Mm," Daphne writhed under Pansy's ministrations, "I was hardly complaining."

"Oh, this won't do," Pansy nipped at Daphne's earlobe, catching one of Daphne's earrings between her teeth, "it's been far too long since you've been fucked."

I agree, Daphne thought, a moan escaping her lips as Pansy trailed her teeth gently against the side of her neck. Daphne was already mostly-undressed, her blouse removed and thrown against the side of the bed, having been divested of her skirt even before they'd entered the bedroom, and she was beginning to protest the disparity in hers and Pansy's state of undress.

When she reached between Pansy's legs, trying to snake her hand under the band of Pansy's own skirt, only to be stopped by Pansy snatching her wrist and pressing it against her headboard, Daphne did whine in protest.

"Oh, no, no, sweet," Pansy silenced Daphne with a kiss, "this is about you. I can't leave that injustice unresolved."

"Sweet"? Daphne thought, musing on the first pet name she'd ever heard coming from Pansy. I can accept that.

"Turn over," Pansy ordered, her voice husky, and Daphne was all-too-happy to obey. She moaned when Pansy slapped her hands down on Daphne's arse, the panties she was wearing swiftly removed and thrown aside. Daphne bit her lip as she felt Pansy's breath over her sex, whimpering as Pansy slowly trailed her tongue over Daphne's other lips.

"Ah!" Daphne gasped as Pansy slapped her arse, the sting proving a very pleasurable accompaniment to the slow, gentle strokes of Pansy's tongue. When Pansy reached up to shove Daphne further into her mattress, Daphne was all too happy to oblige, raising her arse even further into the air.

"Mmff," Daphne groaned, her face pressed into Pansy's sheets, as Pansy's tongue trailed slowly upwards, dancing slowly around Daphne's arse cheeks, then flicking over the ring of her arsehole. Fuck, yes, Daphne thought, the new sensation definitely one she approved of. Pansy's hands trailed slowly up Daphne's thighs, her blunted nails scraping torturously against Daphne's over-sensitive flesh, before one of Pansy's fingers began to slowly tease Daphne's entrance.

"Don't fucking stop," Daphne slurred, though she wasn't even sure if her words were understandable. Her tone certainly fucking was.

One finger, then two, slid into Daphne's dripping pussy at an agonizingly slow pace, as Pansy began to press her tongue flat against Daphne's arsehole, the quick, side-to-side motion contrasting deliciously with the slow, languid pace at which Pansy was fucking Daphne with her fingers.

Just as Daphne felt an orgasm beginning to approach, Pansy withdrew (to a noise of protest from Daphne which was not a mewl), pulling her fingers free with an audible schlicking sound. Daphne yelped when Pansy slapped her arse again, rubbing her own thighs together.

"Mm," Pansy drawled, "your arse is spectacular. You're spectacular."

"Paaansy," Daphne whined, "I didn't cum."

Another slap on her arse stopped her protest momentarily, a gasp escaping Daphne's lips.

"Be a good girl," Pansy ordered, "stay like that for a second."

Daphne obeyed, writhing on her hands and knees as she heard Pansy rummaging in her bedside dresser.

"Turn over."

Huffing an excited breath, Daphne rolled over to her back, the sight of Pansy standing confidently in front of her sending a whole new jolt of arousal through her core. The brunette witch had stripped herself at some point, now gloriously naked – with the notable exception of a harness pulled over her groin, a plastic phallus jutting out.

"Fffuck," Daphne groaned, as she spread her legs open without needing to be told to.

"That's a good girl," Pansy smirked, crawling forwards, pulling Daphne's face to hers for a rough kiss, their tongues dancing against each other. As Pansy nipped Daphne's lower lip between her teeth, she pushed her hips forward, the strap-on sliding into Daphne slowly, easily.

"Fuck me," Daphne begged, and Pansy pushed one of her hands up under Daphne's chin, the dark-eyed gaze of lust in her eyes enough on its own to cause Daphne to tremble.

Pansy continued her agonizing pace until their hips met, and then Daphne was all hers. Pansy immediately began to set a frantic pace, soft slapping sounds marking each of her thrusts, as she trailed her hand around Daphne's jaw, gently squeezing at the sides of her neck.

Daphne couldn't help but think of a comparison between her two recent lovers: Harry was usually softer, his strokes slower but deep, whereas Pansy was rougher (which was excellent), the thrusts of the strap-on quick and shallow into Daphne's needy cunt.

When Pansy's grip tightened around Daphne's neck (though still soft enough that it didn't hurt), it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, Daphne came explosively under Pansy, her moans only slightly stifled by Pansy's hand on her throat.

"Fuck." Daphne's statement was certainly sufficient to describe her state, after she came down from that glorious peak.

"You liked that, I take it," Pansy teased, pressing a gentle kiss against Daphne's neck, "not too rough?"

"Fuck, that was perfect." Daphne basked in the afterglow, her mind swimming, finding it hard to come up with much of a thought about anything. Pansy chuckled, sliding the artificial phallus out of Daphne slowly, turning to lay against Daphne's side.

The buzzing of her notebook against Pansy's bedside table – don't even remember bringing that in here – was the first thing to break her reverie slightly.

"Mmmm," Daphne hummed contentedly, "can you get that? I don't trust that I can stand right now."

Pansy smirked, rising to turn to the table.

"Ah!" Pansy exclaimed, "looks like Harry's free now!"

I have no idea how long it's even been, Daphne thought, happily.

"Let him know that we'll be on our way," Daphne requested, "I need a minute or two. You blew my mind a bit, Pans."

"That," Pansy teased, leaning in to nip at Daphne's ear once again, "was only the warm-up, darling."

Daphne

"I'm in here," Harry's voice echoed from his lounge, as Daphne and Pansy walked out of his Floo.

Daphne was well aware of the pleasant ache between her legs as she followed Pansy, the lingering sensation of their activities only proving to be a prelude for what she anticipated to be a very pleasant evening.

When they entered the lounge, she was immediately struck by the image of Harry: sprawled across his chair, a glass of firewhiskey in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other, smoke billowing from his nostrils. A dragon in his lair, she thought, something about the sheer presence that he possessed in that stance sending a thrill down her spine.

"Well, you look like you've just gone a few rounds with a dragon," Pansy drawled, the taunt lacking any real venom behind it.

"Heh," Harry chuckled, his voice lower and coarser than usual, "you could say that."

"Rough night?" Pansy crossed the room to fill a glass of firewhiskey for herself. When Pansy looked over her shoulder to meet Daphne's eyes, Daphne nodded to the unspoken question, this definitely felt like a firewhiskey kind of night.

"Not particularly," Harry shrugged, still draped over his throne, though the motion looked a bit stiff, "I'm hoping that the raid will clear things up with you and the Auror's office, we should have retrieved sufficient evidence."

"Mm," Daphne mused, slinking into a seat of her own across from Harry, "it's nice when everything works out."

From her closer vantage point, she could see what Pansy had meant with her earlier jibe: Harry definitely looked… somewhat singed, there was a distinct scent of smoke about him that couldn't be explained by his cigarette, and his shirt was haphazardly unbuttoned halfway to his navel.

"And the new haircut?" Pansy probed.

"Ah," Harry answered – Daphne could now tell that his hair was shorter in the back than it had been, unevenly curling along his neck – he shrugged again, unconcerned despite the distinct way that he looked uncomfortable doing so, "I was on fire a bit."

"On fire. A bit." Pansy didn't sound very impressed.

"These things happen," Harry scratched at the back of his head, one of his nervous tics, "I've had worse. I put myself out after I finished the capture, at least."

Pansy turned to meet Daphne's gaze impassively as the brunette passed her a healthy serving of firewhiskey. Once again, it was as if they could communicate without speaking: "these things happen!?"

"Harry," Daphne spoke carefully, "are you alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Harry's answer didn't really inspire confidence, "like I said, I've had worse. I was slow, wasn't smart enough, but at least nobody else got hurt."

Ah, the self-sacrifice thing.

"Are you still hurt now?" Pansy asked, with what sounded remarkably like genuine concern in her voice, "other than, apparently, being slightly singed?"

"Mmh," Harry muttered, "I may have been slightly impaled. It's nothing serious, but my shoulder's bothering me a little, I suppose."

"Harry…" Pansy spoke admonishingly, "you can talk about it if you want."

"It's honestly not that important," Harry's brows knit in an expression somewhere between "confusion" and "consternation", "I'm not trying to do the 'hero thing', I swear, it was just a raid that went a little more clumsily than it should have."

Pansy looked to Daphne again, and the pair returned their gaze to Harry, waiting until he continued.

"I was too slow, like I said. Didn't catch a pair of enchanted statues fast enough, so I got lit on fire a little bit, then I didn't notice a rebounding jinx and wound up blowing a door up in my own face," He shrugged, his mouth turning into a slight frown as he did, "nothing happened that wasn't my own fault, really."

"Fuck, you're impossible," Pansy spoke, exasperated, "Harry, you said you caught the suspect, right? You're allowed to feel proud about doing the right thing and all."

"Well…" Harry stared deep into his glass, "I'm not so sure about that, really. I, uh, almost cut his hand off."

"Oh?" Daphne winced, asking him to elaborate despite herself.

"Yeah, er," Harry took a bracing swig of his whiskey, "I dropped my wand, he was about to incinerate some of the evidence, and, uh… I may have reacted a bit impulsively."

He took someone's hand off wandlessly? Daphne thought with a shock, just how powerful is he?

"Well," Pansy began, a smirk breaking across her features, "you were all about disarming people, from what I recall. Though I suppose this wasn't your usual Expelliarmus."

Harry groaned at the pun, though a smirk of his own finally made his expression a bit more hopeful.

"Yeah…" He trailed off, as if coming to a realization, "I suppose that wasn't my usual magic. Huh."

"So, you captured the villain, saved the evidence, and avoided permanent mutilation," Pansy summarized, "sounds like a win to me. What's got you down about it?"

Harry's expression darkened, though not in anger.

"It's just… if I was a bit slower, someone else might have been hurt. Killed, even. I need to be better than that." He answered.

"Would you," Daphne wet her lips, uncertain about this conversation, "like to talk about it? I know that this… thing we have going on is a bit confusing lately, but I figure that we know each other well enough by now that you can tell us if something's bothering you."

Harry sighed, before beginning to unbutton his shirt. Daphne and Pansy exchanged another glance, and Daphne saw the worry on Pansy's face – maybe it wasn't quite the time to bring up the uncertain status of their three-person "friends with benefits and maybe also feelings?" situation - but really when was the right time for that?

Daphne sucked in a breath despite herself as Harry finished divesting himself of his top, noticing an angry red welt in the muscle of his right shoulder, and beyond that, a new tattoo that she hadn't seen before: a black and red dragon, clearly a magical tattoo in the way that it prowled and snarled around Harry's midsection.

"Oh, hello," Pansy was the first to break the silence, "haven't seen him before," she pointed to the aforementioned dragon.

"Heh, yeah," Harry's chuckle seemed mirthless, "he doesn't come out a whole lot. He usually only shows his face when I've been blowing something up."

"What's his name?" Daphne asked.

"Goran," Harry answered, "It means 'mountain man', apparently. I figured it would be a fitting way of remembering the dragon I had to kill."

"Most of your others aren't magical," Pansy let her sentence hang unfinished, prompting Harry to continue.

"Yeah. Most of the rest," He paused, drinking from his firewhiskey again, "I wanted to be more permanent. Memorials."

"Are you…" Daphne took a swig of her own to calm her nerves, "are you remembering the war, right now?"

"Mmh," Harry made as if to shrug, before stopping with a wince, "I suppose it's hard not to."

Worried, Daphne turned to Pansy, whose own brows were knit together, her lips pursed in thought.

"Do you want me to leave?" Pansy spoke, "is… is me being here a bad reminder for you?"

"Oh, fuck," Harry's expression turned to surprise, "no, no Pans, it's not like that. That's in the past. Besides," he gave a weak chuckle, "if I didn't speak to anyone who ever fought against me, I wouldn't have some of my best friends."

"You and Draco did bury the hatchet remarkably well," Pansy seemed to settle herself back into her seat, as if she'd been ready to leap up and walk away, "he used to be terrified of you, you know."

"Ah, yeah," Harry paused, his tongue darting between his teeth, "I did, uh, almost kill him once."

"You what?" Daphne sputtered, cringing at her own lack of understanding. There's so much history here I never had the slightest idea about.

"Sixth year, then?" Pansy interrupted, "that was you?"

Harry just nodded in response, a frown crossing his features again.

"Heh," Pansy chuckled, "I suppose that makes the two of you even, yeah? Doesn't seem like there's bad blood that I can tell."

"He's a much better man now," Harry agreed, "especially since Lucius is out of the picture. And just so we're clear, no, Pansy, I'm not harbouring some secret grudge against you either."

"So," Daphne tried to recentre herself, struck by the strange realization that Harry and Pansy had somehow known each other for over a decade, a couple of years, and a couple of months all at the same time, "who's this one?" She pointed to a tattoo of an owl on Harry's left shoulder, "if you want to tell us."

"Her name was Hedwig," Harry answered, "she was, uh, I suppose she was my first friend, really."

This prompted another concerned glance shared by Daphne and Pansy.

"You were…?" Daphne ventured.

"Eleven," Harry continued, draining his glass of firewhiskey, "I didn't really have the most active social life before Hogwarts."

When he made to get up and pour himself another glass, Daphne intercepted him, reaching out to grip his forearm.

"Harry, I'm making an executive decision here," She spoke, as she hoped that this was the right call, "you smell like fire, you're still covered in soot, and it's really not helping. Let's go take a shower, yeah?"

"Hmm," Pansy made a noise of thought, as she drained her own glass, "yeah, I think that's a good call. Harry, let's show Daphne your shower."

The man made a grumbling noise as he nodded, turning to trudge upstairs, leading Daphne and Pansy to his master bathroom. Daphne had never really paid much attention to Harry's shower before, but she had to admit that she was impressed despite the somber tone of their present circumstances. It was almost ridiculously spacious, with a deep recess in the wall big enough to seat a person or two.

She stripped herself quickly – aided by the fact that Pansy had kept Daphne's panties to herself – as Harry and Pansy similarly divested themselves of clothing. When he was entirely undressed, Daphne could see patterns of bruises along Harry's torso, something that she'd have to be conscious of.

Daphne did, at least, feel that this was the right decision, as the worries that she'd begun to accumulate seemed to melt away a bit under the stream of hot water. Pansy retrieved a bottle, pouring the contents into her hands, before murmuring something to Harry, clambering so that she sat within the alcove of the shower. Harry sighed, almost in relief, as Pansy began to work shampoo into his hair.

"Sorry for being a bit of a buzzkill," he muttered, as Daphne spotted a bottle of soap and began to lather it against his chest, "not really the mood I was aiming for."

"It happens," Daphne answered, trailing her fingers carefully around Harry's ribcage, "not that I've gone through what you have, but I don't think any of us had the easiest upbringings."

"It wasn't as bad as I'm making it sound," Harry sighed, "I mean, yeah, my muggle relatives aren't going to be winning 'parent of the year' at any point, but… it's what it was. I still see my cousin for a pint now and then, but my aunt and uncle, well, I'm happy to write them off."

"I always assumed you'd grown up rich," Pansy spoke, as she guided Harry's head carefully under the water, rinsing the shampoo from his hair, "I suppose that's my own fucking Pureblood biases at play again."

"Heh," Harry let Daphne turn him around, so that she could begin washing his back, "far from it. Not to be all woe-is-Harry or all that, but I literally grew up in a cupboard."

"Uh," Daphne couldn't really put to words exactly what she felt, it wasn't pity but it was a close relative to that emotion, "you grew up in a cupboard?"

"My relatives weren't really the biggest fans of the idea of magic," Harry elaborated, "they'd rather pretend it didn't exist, and I suppose pretending that I didn't exist was easier for them."

"Fuck them," Pansy gave voice to the outrage growing in Daphne's mind, "you didn't deserve that."

Harry smirked. "Why, is that Pansy Parkinson being nice to me?"

"Never," Pansy answered, teasingly tweaking one of Harry's ears, "but, still, you're almost… shockingly well-adjusted, I have to say. You're alright, Potter."

"Better than alright," Daphne continued, reaching to pull Pansy into the stream of water, "I heard what you did for Pansy, as it turns out."

"Oh, uh," Harry actually blushed, "it wasn't a big deal. I just heard Tonks mention off-hand that Pansy was having a hard time finding materials, so I figured I could help."

"That's what I'd expect of you noble Gryffindors," Pansy teased, sighing contentedly as Daphne lathered soap across her chest, "and here I thought it was positively Slytherin of you, what with you finding out my needs and stepping in to fill them."

"Heh," Harry actually smiled, his mood evidently improving enough to appreciate innuendo, "y'know, I almost was a Slytherin."

"Really?" Daphne was completely unaware of this, but she supposed it made some sense of how… easily the three of them seemed to fit together, at least most of the time.

"Yeah," Harry answered, as he picked up the bottle of soap, stepping behind Daphne and working it into her back, "the Sorting Hat wanted to put me there, at first. I asked it not to."

"That's a true tragedy," Pansy teased, wiggling against Daphne's body as the blonde pinched her arse as a warning, "just think, what if the three of us had got together as wild little teenagers?"

"Pfft," Harry chuckled, nudging Daphne under the water to rinse her off, "I wouldn't have been able to handle the two of you then."

"And you think you can now?" Daphne joked, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Well," She felt Harry smile against her, "I think it's worth a shot, if you two are feeling up to it after all that sad-sack nonsense."

"Oh, I didn't tell you what Daph and I were busy with," Pansy drawled, as she turned around to face Daphne, a smoky expression on her face, "our little Ice Queen was a big fan of my skills with a strap-on, as it turns out."

"Is that so?" Harry asked, a hungry look in his eyes. "Well, I suppose I have something to live up to, don't I?"

As they exited the shower, hurriedly making a token effort to dry themselves, Daphne felt relief spread through her. The grim mood had certainly lifted, and she almost felt proud in some way at how she'd managed to divert Harry from his reminiscence.

"Speaking of living up to stories we've heard," Pansy continued as she took Harry and Daphne's hands in each of her own, guiding them towards Harry's bed, "Daphne told me about some scandalous actions in a certain Greengrass study." She pushed Harry into his bed first, seating him on the edge, then pulling Daphne towards him, seating her on Harry's lap. "It would appear that it's my turn to demonstrate my prowess."

Pansy knelt before the pair, gently pushing both of their legs apart, as Daphne leaned back to rest her head on Harry's shoulder. Daphne sighed contentedly as one of Harry's hands came to rest on her breast, the other on the junction of her leg and hip.

Between their legs, Pansy reached to grasp Harry's cock with both hands, slowly stroking him, making a show of extending her tongue to lick up the underside of his member. Daphne felt a rumble in Harry's chest, pressed tight against her back, as he groaned his approval.

As Harry's manhood swelled to its full hardness in Pansy's hands, she took his head into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing rapidly as she sucked him. Releasing his cock from her lips with an audible pop, she let her tongue drop from her mouth once more, tilting her head up to lick along Daphne's pussy, so conveniently positioned above Harry's cock.

"Fuck, that's hot," Harry murmured, sending shivers down Daphne's spine.

Daphne whole-heartedly agreed with his assessment, trembling as Harry grazed the shell of her ear with his teeth.

All too soon, Pansy returned her mouth to Harry's cock, though her hands left his member and trailed up the insides of Daphne's thighs. When Harry gently bit Daphne's ear at the same time as one of Pansy's fingers flicked over her clit, Daphne felt her legs twitch, still sensitive from Pansy's earlier ministrations.

Daphne moaned as she watched Pansy practically swallow Harry's cock, her head plunging to take him almost to the base, and she luxuriated in the way that Harry's grip on her breast tightened, his fingers rolling her nipple roughly between them.

Pansy pressed Harry's cock against Daphne's now positively dripping pussy, pushing her lips against the junction where their sexes met, loudly suckling and licking at both Harry's cockhead and Daphne's clit at once. The spasms in Daphne's legs amplified, and she tilted her hips forward desperately, trying to angle him inside of her.

"Mm," Harry spoke huskily, "don't think that angle will quite work."

Daphne was far too impatient to try and prove him wrong, so with a gentle tug at Pansy's hair, she removed the brunette from her delicious position, rolling off Harry's lap so that she lay back-down on his bed.

"This angle will," Daphne pleaded, "fuck me, Harry, please."

"She's a bit greedy, isn't she?" Pansy teased, crawling along the bed towards Daphne, as Harry turned around to line himself up between Daphne's legs.

I'll show you "greedy", Daphne thought, as she grabbed Pansy by one of her legs, pulling the other woman's shaved pussy towards her face. Daphne wasted no time in positively diving into her task, distracted only temporarily as she felt Harry push inside of her slowly, before she returned to running her tongue between Pansy's lower lips.

"I'd say so," Harry spoke, his voice muffled by Pansy's thighs around Daphne's head. Any further witticisms were put to a stop as Daphne heard Pansy and Harry begin kissing each other sloppily, a stimulus that sent yet another quake of pleasure through her.

This is the same position as when we first slept together, Daphne thought, hazily, as she tried to remain focused on her activities between Pansy's legs. She lost this battle in short order, as Harry's slow, torturous thrusts broke into a pleasurable explosion, her already-sensitive sex positively clenching around him, his cock slipping free wetly.

"I'mmabitsensitive," Daphne slurred, gasping for breath, "it's Pansy's turn."

Pansy made to remove herself from her perch, but Daphne had other plans: clutching the brunette's arse tightly, she kept the petite witch firmly seated on her face, her hands tilting Pansy's hips downwards, angling her so that her arse was up in the air, perfectly presented for Harry.

Not that Pansy took this laying – well, sitting – down: the way that Pansy's torso was pushed forwards by this action just so happened to leave her own head between Daphne's legs once more, where she almost casually bit at the inside of Daphne's thigh, before returning her mouth back to Daphne's pussy.

Daphne groaned in pleasure as she saw Harry step behind the top half of the sixty-nining duo, her perspective a novel one (but one she definitely wanted to see again) as she saw Harry's throbbing cock slide into Pansy's cunt mere inches from her face.

She tilted her head so that Harry had room to thrust, her chin angled up towards Pansy's hips, watching Harry piston in and out of the petite witch, his balls swinging enticingly as he fucked. Reaching up to slap one of Pansy's arsecheeks, Daphne felt her stiffen on top of her, Harry moaning "oh fuck" as he undoubtedly felt the tightness of Pansy's orgasm through his cock. As he pushed forward, plunging into the brunette, Daphne, emboldened, leaned up to run her tongue over his balls, mouthing gently at them, feeling them tighten under her lips as Harry pulsed, cumming inside of Pansy.

When he withdrew, she was practically transfixed by the sight of his cum barely trickling from Pansy's swollen pussy, and as if by instinct, pulled the witch down onto her face once again, Daphne's tongue plunging inside of her.

"Oh fuck!" Pansy cried, "you are fucking greedy, holy fuuuuck."

Daphne moaned in turn as Pansy – no doubt feeling competitive – began to thrust her fingers in and out of the blonde, as Daphne gripped Pansy's arse with both hands, absolutely devouring her.

Well, this is a new kink, she realized, as the tastes of Harry's salty cum and Pansy's slightly-bitter wetness mixed on her tongue.

It did not take long at all for Daphne to reach yet another orgasm, her scream muffled by the way that Pansy's sex laid overtop her mouth, as Harry flopped to the bed heavily beside her.

"Fuck, Daph," Pansy muttered, as she rolled to the side, "that's a new side of you."

"Mm," Daphne agreed, "too much?"

"Fuck no," Pansy reviewed, leaning over to kiss Daphne, their tongues dancing against each other, "I loved it."

"Seconded," Harry chuckled, "that was fucking great."

A much better end to the night, Daphne reviewed to herself, as the trio arranged themselves around each other, laying sprawled haphazardly. She stroked Pansy's hair with one hand, her other resting against Harry's arm (which had come to lay across both of the women in his bed), perfectly content with this arrangement.

"Morning," Harry's voice woke Daphne from her sleep, "I'm going to go fix some breakfast."

"Mm," Daphne replied, stretching. Pansy lay sprawled on her face beside them, making a distinctly unhappy grumbling noise as she awoke in turn, nuzzling her face further into the pillow.

Definitely a nice way to wake up, Daphne thought, as the memories of the previous night ran through her mind once again. Suppose that we should finish that whole… talk, though.

Sighing (but happily), Daphne rose from the bed, wandering down the stairs behind Harry after a couple moments. Locating her purse in his lounge, she fished out a camisole and a loose pair of shorts, sliding them on, as she went to join Harry in his kitchen.

Surprisingly, Pansy had managed to not only rouse herself, but had beaten Daphne to a seat at the table – though the fact that Pansy was only wearing a thong certainly explained her efficiency. There was a slightly-befuddled expression on the brunette's face, her hair an absolutely uncharacteristic mess, sticking up in odd directions.

Daphne crossed the kitchen to the cabinets, quickly finding where Harry kept his tea, when a booming sound echoed through his house.

Immediately, Harry launched into action, his wand in his hand before Daphne could even see him draw it, stepping forwards to place himself between the door and the two women in his kitchen, muttering "wards" tensely under his breath as he went perfectly still.

"Harry James Potter!" A familiar voice cried, "what were you thinking!?"

Harry relaxed immediately, sighing.

"Not a great time, Hermione," He called out, as Daphne put two and two together, "I'll talk to you later."

"Absolutely not!" Hermione's voice replied, growing closer, "I had to hear from Tonks that you practically blew yourself up and then slinked off, you can't just hide away every time this happens!"

"Hermione…" Harry looked back to Daphne, then to Pansy, his eyes wide with fear. Pansy, for her part, merely shrugged, turning her hand over to inspect her nails. Daphne felt a shock of nerves run through her – sure, Hermione had apparently caught Harry and her snogging at Astoria's dinner, but this was a bit more than that.

The kitchen door burst open, revealing an irate-looking Hermione Granger, who immediately froze in surprise.

"Granger," Pansy drawled, "so good to see you."

"Harry, you… Parkinson?" Hermione sputtered, turning a bright red, "Harry, what, what about Daphne?"

"I'm quite in favour," Daphne found herself replying, some of the old Ice Queen persona slipping loose.

Hermione turned, her face going even redder somehow as she noticed Daphne's presence for the first time, her eyes wide in shock as they flicked from Daphne, to Pansy, back to Daphne, then to Harry again.

"It's… a thing," Harry shrugged, "we'll talk later, yeah? Not a great time."

"Oh my god I'm so sorry," Hermione cried, spinning around and practically fleeing from the kitchen.

"Cat's out of the bag, then," Pansy smirked, as Harry brought two mugs of coffee to the table.

"Er, well," Harry glanced to Daphne, "Hermione already caught Daphne and me kissing once, I guess."

"Ooh, scandalous," Pansy was far too un-flustered by this development, "well, if it's any consolation, I'm fairly sure that Blaise has puzzled out that I'm seeing Daph."

"Oh?" Daphne hadn't heard of this, "and what has he said about that?"

"We don't, well, talk about those things," Pansy shrugged, "these things. Whatever. You know what I mean."

Daphne sighed, filling her mug of tea.

"I suppose we should talk about these things, yeah?" She ventured; a bit nervous about where this conversation might lead.

"Yeah." Harry muttered, sitting at the table. When Daphne had joined the pair, there was an awkward moment of silence, none of the three willing to be the first to broach the topic.

"So… getting a bit beyond the whole casual thing, isn't it?" Daphne finally spoke.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, rubbing at the back of his head, "kinda seems so."

Pansy, meanwhile, had busied herself with stirring an obscene amount of sugar into her coffee.

"I'm not opposed to that," Daphne continued, "we probably should have laid down some ground rules before now, anyways."

Harry murmured something that sounded like assent, while Pansy remained quiet.

"Pans," His voice was somewhat hesitant, "what're you thinking?"

The brunette slowly, carefully raised her mug of coffee to her lips, taking an entirely-too-long sip before putting the mug down with a sigh.

"Look, I'm… I'm having a lot of fun, I like this, alright? I'm just… I don't know how to do anything other than casual," Pansy finally spoke.

"Mm," Harry mumbled, "yeah. I'm not sure how to do this either."

"The two of you are, well, you're great," Pansy leaned back, tilting her head towards the ceiling of Harry's kitchen, "I can see that. It's just, at some point, you know, I'm going to fuck things up and the two of you will get sick of me," she sighed again, "so I don't want to pretend like I'm bringing something to this that I'm not. You're both nice, and I know that isn't me."

Daphne couldn't help but snort a laugh.

"I always assumed that you two would get bored of me," Daphne admitted, "I'm not used to the whole 'Auror raids' and 'a bit on fire' things like you both are, I'm just, well," she shrugged, "the Ice Queen."

This time, it was Harry's turn to chuckle.

"And here I thought that it was you two that were a natural pair," he spoke, "you both actually do things, you're creative, you're interesting, I'm a bit of a recluse at best."

The trio sat in silence for a minute, each of the three fidgeting nervously.

"We're all a bit fucked up, yeah?" Daphne was the first to break the silence once more, "but… that kind of works, doesn't it?"

"So," Harry replied, "where's that leave us? Sticking to the friends with benefits thing? Something else?"

"I'm going to be selfish," Pansy spoke with a groan, swigging her coffee, "I need some time. I need to think. I don't want to do labels or serious right now, but…" she stared at the table as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, "maybe I can. Eventually."

"Alright." Harry answered. "I think I can work with that."

"Yeah," Daphne agreed, "let's not rush anything, but maybe let's not try to force things to be strictly casual, alright?"

"Mm. Okay." Pansy muttered.

Well, that's a start, Daphne thought, smiling.

---

Pansy

A knock rapped against the door of Serpentine, where Pansy had been busying herself with finding odds-and-ends to occupy herself with. She sighed, marching towards the entrance, where she found Aurors Tonks and Savage standing outside.

"Hmm," Pansy appraised the two, where Tonks greeted her with a smirk, Savage looked as entirely deadpan as ever, "afternoon."

"Wotcher, Parkinson," Tonks replied, "stopped by to voice my appreciation in person, my coat is absolutely brilliant. As it happens, Savage has got something to say, as well!"

Pansy crossed her arms, just barely restraining herself from tapping her foot impatiently, as she waited for the Auror of Bureaucracy to explain himself.

"Recent developments in our investigation have…" Savage's gaze met her eyes, and she was struck at the absence of any kind of resignation or frustration in them, "led to the injunction issued against you being withdrawn." The man reached into his – appropriately – beige overcoat, passing a new letter marked with the seal of the Aurors' office to her.

"With that said," Tonks interjected, "I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk about someone who might wind up being someone the Aurors' Office takes interest in?"

Ah, Pansy thought, my father.

"Sure," Pansy shrugged, opening the door wider to allow the Aurors entrance to her shop, "I'm not sure how useful I'll be, though."

"We're really just crossing our 't's, dotting our 'i's," Tonks spoke cheerfully, "but if you happened to be aware of anywhere in particular that certain… materials might wind up stashed away, it would be particularly helpful for us."

"Mm," Pansy muttered, "I haven't spoken to my parents in years, now, so I'm sure that your office probably knows better than I do at this point."

Then again…

"I suppose," she continued, "that you might want to check some of the more far-flung Parkinson estates. My parents had a cottage in Wales," she shrugged, "for example."

Tonks turned to Savage, shrugging in a way as if she was saying "see?", then turned back to Pansy.

"Noted!" The Auror cheerfully said, "we appreciate it! Between you and I, you might want to consider laying low a bit longer. Nothing official, of course, but your last name might become somewhat… contentious, in the near future."

Fucking brilliant.

Pansy made a noncommittal sound, and that business taken care of, the Aurors departed her shop. Pansy sighed as she slumped into a chair, exasperated with the way that things had taken one step forwards, one step backwards. So, I can reopen Serpentine, she thought, great, but maybe I shouldn't so that I don't get caught up in the controversy around my father's stupid fucking crimes.

Some fifteen minutes later, she was distracted from her own distractions by an owl clawing at the window of her shop, screeching impatiently.

Don't recognize you, she mused, opening the window and grumbling back at the temperamental bird. Unravelling the scroll the owl clutched, she immediately recognized Blaise's immaculate handwriting. Quickly scanning his letter, she was surprised at how fortuitous the contents appeared to be: an invitation to join Blaise and Michel in France for a week, with a portkey (a muggle credit card, cute, Blaise) fastidiously taped to the back of the letter.

Well, Auror Tonks did just tell me I should lay low… she thought.

Fuck. I should probably talk about it with Daphne and Harry.

Not that she intended to ask their permission or anything so absurd with that, but after the (ugh) emotionally-charged conversation that the three had shared a few days prior, she felt like they somehow deserved to get a heads-up before she disappeared for a week. To make it clear that she wasn't running away or anything like that – she wasn't – just that it so happened that a vacation made itself available.

As it turned out, Pansy had nothing to worry about from Daphne or Harry, which didn't quite reassure her the way that she thought it might. Both of them had enthusiastically declared that it was a good idea for her to take some time away from Serpentine's half-closed state, with Harry even saying that – for some reason – he thought she'd enjoy France. She almost wished that they'd kicked up a fuss or demanded that she see them before she left.

Pansy did, in fact, enjoy France: she'd traveled some before, especially in the years during her suspension from using magic, but she'd somehow missed out on visiting England's closest neighbour in her (limited) travels.

The more relaxed environment was proving to be a suitable distraction for her (and the copious amounts of wine didn't hurt), as she mostly spent her days just going to shops, eating at expensive restaurants (surprisingly, on Michel's dime), or generally enjoying the company of her flatmate and his boyfriend.

The official status of that couple still surprised her a little bit, as she had never really pictured Blaise settling down, but she definitely found herself growing something like fond of the pretty little French wizard. The man was almost cloyingly cheerful, but his sunny disposition masked a razor-sharp wit, and (where Blaise had come to see it as immature) enjoyed gossip nearly as much as Pansy herself did.

On one evening, however, Pansy found herself confronted by the person whose gossip she was perhaps most curious about, though she'd never found the nerve to bring it up to Michel. When the blond man had announced that "ma cousin" would be joining them for wine at Michel's apartment, Pansy had not guessed that it would be Fleur fucking Delacour walking through the doors.

Which was how Pansy had found herself positively engrossed in Fleur, sitting casually sprawled out on the floor in a way that was still somehow regal, telling the story of what had led to her divorce from Bill Weasley.

"Non, I do not begrudge William for his choices," Fleur explained, "it is just so… frustrating that he gave in after we had spent years trying to better ourselves."

Pansy felt like she should find Fleur's accent annoying, the way she flipped between clear English pronunciation and almost-exaggerated "z's" replacing her "s's", but the end result was still appealing in a way that Pansy was doing her level best to ignore.

"Is it a Werewolf thing, then?" Blaise asked, an eyebrow quirked, "I thought he'd avoided that particular malediction."

"Oui et non," Fleur waved a hand airily, "he is not a werewolf as you say, but the wounds, they did affect him. They are calling themselves wolf-blood, and they appear to share some… instincts with each other."

"Ah," Michel mused, "you are not unfamiliar with that, ma cheirie."

Fleur smiled, and there was a flash of cruelty in her bared teeth that sent a shiver down Pansy's spine. Fucking idiot, she thought, internally lambasting Bill Weasley.

"Ha," Fleur's derisive laugh was musical, "no, I am not. That, I think, is what was the last straw. I don't begrudge William his," she twirled an elegant finger in the air, "dalliances, but he was entirely unwilling to permit me to amuse myself as I wished to."

"So, he did cheat on you, then," Michel's eyes darkened.

"Eh," Fleur casually drank from her wineglass, and Pansy watched a blood-red droplet trickle down the side of her full lips, "He came to me afterwards, practically begging me to be furious with him, but I cannot find it in myself to resent him for that. I know what it's like to live with such urges, and in the end, he simply wasn't as strong as I am. If anything, I pity him, I suppose."

"I'd say so. After all, I'm extraordinarily gay," Blaise chuckled at his own joke, prompting Michel to chuck him lightly in the shoulder, "and even I can tell that Lavender fucking Brown is a significant step down from you."

"That is… the result of his nature, mais c'est comme ça. His 'instincts' must have made her irresistible to him," Fleur shrugged, "he spoke to me of 'Alphas', of 'Omegas', and other things I didn't truly care to listen to, but at the end of the day he wishes to form his little 'pack', and I do not wish to merely be an afterthought."

"Ah, yes," Michel agreed, "it is not that he slept with someone else, it is that he was unfair about it, oui?"

"Just so," Fleur explained, "he said that an 'Alpha' could not share his mate, or some nonsense."

"I am glad we do not share that problem," Michel teased, nudging Blaise, who just chuckled. Huh, guess they aren't as "monogamous" as I had thought… Pansy realized. Fuck, she might actually have to ask Blaise for advice.

"That's a real thing?" Pansy found herself interjecting, changing topics from her own internal musing, "the whole 'Alpha' nonsense?"

"Not like you're thinking," Fleur explained, as her positively sapphire eyes met Pansy's, "it is not a violent power struggle, or anything like that, but the dominance, the submission, it is… something sexuelle. This Lavender, she is one of his 'omegas', from how he explained it, and he gave in to his base desires."

"Ah, nothing like Veelas," Blaise snarked, "I can see why you pity him, that's outright pathetic to say to you."

"It does not concern me," Fleur smirked, "but yes, a Veela does not submit to any but the most magnificent of suitors. Perhaps I will find one, now."

Pansy swore that the room was getting hotter, as she felt a bead of sweat drip between her shoulder blades, a flush creeping at the back of her neck. She took a healthy drink of wine, wetting her throat which had begun to feel strangely parched.

"Oh, yes, we do need to plan your return to society!" Michel spoke excitedly, "where do you think you'll settle down?"

"Who knows?" Fleur leaned back, exposing some of her neck, as Pansy was struck by how closely the woman resembled an absolute masterpiece of some sculptor, "there are some who have caught my fancy, but I always held back as I was loyal to William, but, well…"

Pansy breathed deeply, as the distance across the floor to Fleur began to feel smaller somehow.

"I think I need to get in touch with myself, oui? Let William have his little 'pack', I'll start living as a Veela can."

Pansy was dimly aware that others were speaking as she rolled herself on her knees, fully understanding what Fleur meant: her former husband, the not-quite-werewolf, supposed-Alpha, wouldn't have been able to worship Fleur in the way she clearly deserved. She imagined herself diving between Fleur's elegant legs, pressing her lips and tongue all over the blonde, imagining what it would feel like to make Fleur cum. Her empty wine glass bumped Pansy's leg as she began to crawl closer to Fleur, a dull heat permeating her entire being as she grew closer to her new goddess.

"Pans!" Blaise's voice cut through her fuzzy thoughts, as a feeling like a bucket of cold water being dumped over her shocked her back into reality.

"Merde!" Fleur swore, "I am sorry, Pansy, I did not realize my allure would affect you. I rather thought that it would be safe to, well, relax, in this company."

Oh.

"Heh," Pansy smirked, regaining her senses, "yeah, I'm an all-purpose threat to the chastity of innocent women and men alike," she felt herself blushing, but she refused to accept the embarrassment of being caught in Fleur's Veela allure.

"Still, I am sorry," Fleur was also blushing, which didn't do much to help Pansy drive the previous thoughts from her mind, "if it makes you feel better, there are not many who can resist the allure. Some," she gestured to Blaise and Michel, "are immune because they are… incompatible, but it is rare to find someone who can resist by will alone."

"Only the 'magnificent', I take it?" Blaise asked, smirking at Pansy. Fuck, I'm never living that down, she thought.

"Oui," Fleur sighed, "William, he came close, but even he was not as résilient as some. Really, it is only Harry Potter who has ever managed to withstand my allure without effect."

Pansy chuckled at that, which prompted looks of confusion from the other three.

"Of course the Gryffindor Golden Boy has rare magic powers to pull out of his arse," she shrugged, floating a weak explanation to the room, "it's unfair to the rest of us, really."

Luckily, this attempt at changing the topic appeared to have worked, as she slumped back into her seat and hurriedly drained the rest of her wine glass. Michel took her empty glass as an invitation, cheerily inviting Fleur to accompany him to select the next bottle of wine, a break from the Veela goddess that Pansy was all-too-grateful for.

"Hmm," Blaise's deep voice cut through her flustered embarrassment, "you know, normally I wouldn't talk about these things, but… be careful, Pans."

"I have no idea what you mean," Pansy replied, trying to remain unruffled.

"Look, I know you've been involved with Daphne somehow, and I'm not prying or anything… but if the two of you are sharing stories about Potter, you should know that she seems to be rather friendly with him, too."

Understatement of the year, Blaise.

"Mm," Pansy's lack of concern was genuine, this time, "that so? Doesn't really bother me."

"Pansy," Blaise, on the other hand, had actual concern in his expression, "I don't know if she's dumping you for him, or what, but I'd really caution you not to try and steal the fucking Chosen One's new girlfriend out from under him."

"Oh, Blaise," Pansy couldn't help but smirk, "you worry too much. It's fine."

"Your reputation isn't… the best, Pans, but I don't want to see you raked through the muck again."

"Blaise," she was more insistent this time, "it's actually fine. Don't worry."

"I trust you," Blaise trailed off, "but this seems like it could be one of your impulsive decisions that backfires."

"Maybe," Pansy admitted, "but it's not going to wind up surprising anyone."

"No, Pansy, it's not hopeless like that," Blaise must have been drunk for how caring he was being – either that or his time around Michel had actually made him soft, "you don't have to hurtle towards the big blow-ups and dramatic displays, you know."

"No, I don't mean it like that," Ugh, might as well, since bloody Granger's in on the secret now, Pansy thought, "it's just that, well, the last time Harry and Daphne fucked each other, I'd had his cock down my throat a minute before."

There was a moment of silence, as Pansy felt a grin overtake her features that was half-bashful, half-braggadocious.

"Ah." Blaise stared at her for a half moment longer, shaking his head, but smirking in turn. "Well, that'd take care of that, then."

"Indeed."

Thankfully, they'd settled back into a more suitable topic of conversation by the time that Fleur and Michel returned, and by the end of the evening Pansy was excitedly discussing the world of fashion with Fleur.

A couple of days later, the afternoon of the day before Pansy was set to return to London, Fleur had sent her an owl carrying a very intriguing proposition: Fleur wanted a new wardrobe, a capsule collection from Serpentine that would help announce her return to the single market. This would be an incredible opportunity for Pansy's brand, but as she entered Fleur's apartment to take her measurements, she couldn't help but feel the slightest trickle of nervousness winding around in her thoughts.

"Pansy!" Fleur greeted her, wearing a loose blouse and impossibly tight jeans, "welcome!" The quick exchange of cheek kisses left Pansy a little flustered, for all that she was fully in control of her own impulses, the fact was that Fleur was an unreasonably attractive woman even without her magical allure.

"So, yeah," Pansy explained as she fished in her purse for her measuring tape, "shouldn't take long to get your measurements, then we can discuss any other…"

She trailed off as she turned around, finding Fleur standing topless and already having divested herself of her jeans, completely and utterly unashamed of her partial nudity.

"Oh, don't be shy," Fleur admonished, pouncing on Pansy's moment of hesitation, "we are not so concerned with nudity in France."

I'd fucking say, Pansy swallowed, crossing behind Fleur to take the measurement across her shoulders.

"You know, you are not what I expected," the part-Veela continued, "I must say, I am surprised."

"How's that?" Pansy ventured cautiously, stepping away before she found herself tempted to run her fingers down Fleur's spine in a distinctly non-professional manner.

"I did not spend much time with the Slytherins, when I was at Hogwarts," Fleur explained, "but I must admit that your house seemed to collect the… how you say, stuck-up?"

Pansy chuckled, as she moved around to Fleur's front. Merlin, that's fucking unfair. Fleur's breasts were quite literally perfect, sitting high and firm and full on her chest, capped with delicate-looking rosy nipples. Fleur raised her arms, allowing Pansy to wrap the measuring tape around her ribcage, prompting another internal thought of "fucking unreasonable" as Pansy recorded her hourglass figure.

"You're not wrong. A lot of us had a lot to learn about the world, then. Some of us seem to have done okay."

"Oui," Fleur spoke, breathily, as Pansy met her eyes briefly, "I am quite impressed with Blaise, I did not think that anyone would ever manage to convince Michel to settle down. He was, you know, quite the man-eater."

"Blaise was too," Pansy admitted, as she caught a glint of something in Fleur's eyes.

Oh, you French bitch. This is a game you're playing, Pansy realized. Fleur's partial nudity, the mention of Slytherin's reputation, Michel's apparent promiscuity – all little ventures and feints meant to put Pansy on the spot and try to control her through those reactions.

Two can play at that game.

"Ah, and you?" Fleur floated the inquiry gently, trying to fish for details, "you said you were a threat to the chastity of the innocent, yes? Is that your preference?"

"Oh, well," Pansy stepped behind Fleur once again, cinching the measuring tape over the blonde's breasts, with a brief thought of "Morgana, fuck" as she read the numbers off the strip of fabric, "I don't like them too innocent, really. They've got to know what they're doing, at least."

There's a scenario here that leads to me shagging Fleur fucking Delacour, Pansy realized, but just as likely there's a way that leaves me looking pathetic for trying to make the move on her. Wait, can I even make a move on her? Am I committed to Harry and Daphne? Fuck.

"Mm," Fleur made a noise of agreement, "I think that I have a thing for the heroic type, the more I think of it. But not too heroic, tu sais?"

Yeah, I do know.

"Sometimes they surprise you," Pansy vaguely commented, "you never know what the good boys are capable of." She glanced down Fleur's back where she noted – somewhat vindictively – that while Fleur's arse was very nice, Daphne's was actually more to Pansy's preference.

"And the good girls?"

"Oh, they're even more dangerous," Pansy wrapped the measuring tape around Fleur's neck with just the slightest amount of additional force, just enough to let the French witch know that Pansy Parkinson was not so easily manipulated, "what, are you thinking of expanding your horizons?"

"Hmm, I just might." Fleur turned to face Pansy, and there was a moment of tension that dragged on for forever. Pansy's thoughts went wild. She considered leaning in to kiss the Veela, decided against it, thought about throwing Fleur against the wall and pushing her fingers between Fleur's legs, realized that Fleur was taller and stronger than her and would undoubtedly push her into the wall if things went that way, and finally landed on the decision that – while it would undoubtedly be the shag of a lifetime – she wasn't going to endanger the fucking relationship she was building with Daphne and Harry.

Fuck, Parkinson, you've gone soft, she realized.

The moment of tension ended, and Fleur smirked, walking back to retrieve her clothing.

"You have what you need, then?" The blonde asked.

"I imagine so," Pansy drawled, "I'll let you know if I require something more."

"Oh, we'll be in touch," Fleur agreed, "though I imagine you realized that. After all, I am not the only one with a taste for heroes, I think."

Fuck, I need a smoke.

Back in her hotel room, Pansy wasted absolutely no time in addressing the distraction that had been building up between her legs during the entire visit to Fleur's apartment. Her personal version of fantasizing tended to lean strongly towards imagery, brief scenes and vignettes of sexual acts that she could engage in rather than carefully-constructed narratives.

Fleur, pushed into the wall, Pansy's teeth on her throat, her fingers delving inside the witch as she muttered pleased noises in French.

Pansy unbuttoned her jeans, laying back on her bed and thrusting her hand down her pants.

Harry looming over her, his coarse hand wrapped around Pansy's throat as he fucked her, her nails digging into his back.

She increased her pace, pushing two of her fingers inside herself, grazing her own clit with the end of her thumb.

Daphne kneeling in front of her, making whining noises of desire as Pansy thrust her sex against the blonde's mouth.

A moan escaped her lips as she fucked herself desperately.

The scene at Fleur's apartment, except this time the Veela was the dominant one, pushing Pansy into her bed and showing her fangs as she leaned between her legs… except the image of Fleur shifted, her ivory blonde hair softening to a golden tone, her features changing to Daphne's more familiar ones. Harry, beside both of us, stroking my breasts.

"Fuck," Pansy came with a shudder, the fantasy – actually a reality – having pushed her over the brink.

Fucking Morgana, Merlin, and Nimue. Pansy panted for breath as she thought about these events, real and imagined alike. Fuck it. If I'm giving up a chance at shagging a Veela for them, I guess I'm going to have to give it a shot. Dating. A relationship.

The real deal.