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Best Behaviour

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                “Be on your best behaviour, alright?” Ron said, waving his hand to interrupt the beginning of Harry’s sputtered response, “yeah, yeah, I know, but Stori would have my head if I didn’t at least say something. We care about you mate, just don’t wanna see things go bad again, yeah?”

                “Ron, it’s fine. I’m fine. It’ll be fine,” Harry responded, caught somewhere between being frustrated and amused.

                “Yeah, just…” Ron trailed off, trying, then failing to find the words to be subtle. “It’s Ginny, y’know? We don’t really know how that affects you.”

                “It’s been years, mate,” Harry said, “I’m gonna be fine. Really.”

                He was a bit surprised to realize that he actually meant it. As Ron stumbled through his remaining warnings and reminders that everyone still loved Harry and cared about him, Harry found himself thinking back on the last several years of his life, reminiscing about the events which had led to the wedding being held later that day.

                If anything, Harry thought, It’s practically my fault. Befriending Draco fucking Malfoy, who would have thought?

                In the days, weeks, and then months following the Battle of Hogwarts, things had come to a mostly-stable equilibrium – both sides had buried their dead, those more flagrant Death Eaters were sent off to Azkaban or to receive the Dementor’s Kiss, and life had moved on.

                It had been one of the many, many trials held for former Death Eaters where Harry had spoken in favour of leniency for Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, arguing that their attempts to deceive Voldemort had turned the tide of the war, and that neither had actually directly committed any of the worse crimes that others had been charged with. Lucius, of course, had not been so “lucky”, having a few cases of Cruciatus or Imperius pinned to him, though no actual murders. Draco and his mother had been among the Slytherins placed on a probationary period, allowed to remain free of Azkaban, and it may well have been Harry’s testimony of the truth behind Dumbledore’s death which had saved Draco from the Kiss.

                Imagine his surprise when, months later, Draco had shuffled up to Harry’s table at one of the insufferable ministry socials after the war, and proceeded to (of all things) attempt to swear a Life Debt to Harry.

                He’d turned Draco down, of course, not wishing to take responsibility for the rest of the Slytherin’s life. Harry, already rather on his way to drunkenness, had suggested that a bottle of expensive whisky would be a fine substitute if Draco still felt indebted to him somehow. After all, all he’d done was tell the truth, nothing worth commending when others had given up so much more.

                The blond had returned with an unpronounceable bottle of something very expensive indeed, and Harry had not missed the gesture while considering that the Malfoy vaults had been mostly emptied. As the head of the Malfoy house (following Lucius’ lifetime sentence, of course) had turned to depart, Harry had found himself seized with, perhaps, drunken magnanimity, and had called to him to at least have a drink or two of the bottle Draco had purchased.

                That’s where it began, really, he thought, as Harry made the usual efforts to calm Ron down and ensure him that everything was going to be alright, sending him on his way with a grin and a solid slap to the back. On that night years ago, drunk and already fed up with the Ministry of Magic’s utter insistence that the war had been nothing but a temporary political struggle, that the underpinnings of Wizarding society were still stable and safe, he’d found himself engaged in conversation with Malfoy.

                Draco had been quiet, reserved, clearly afraid that Harry was going to turn on him, that he might take revenge for the years of school bullying that Draco had enacted. Harry, in his own opinion, couldn’t possibly have given less of a shit about what had happened when they were children. They’d fought a war, and Draco had wound up choosing the same side as Harry after Voldemort himself had graced the Malfoys with his protracted presence.

                By the time that half the bottle was gone, Harry was good-and-proper drunk, with Malfoy not far behind him. The Ministry’s party had drawn to a close by then, leaving only the younger wizards and witches (or more committed drinkers) behind when Harry had finally spoken the question sticking in his thoughts:

                “You’re not nearly as much of a prat as you were in school, Malfoy,” He’d said, or something close enough to the same meaning, “So why were you such a good little snake for so long?”

                The mood had chilled with this sentence, Draco (who had begun – barely – to converse openly with Harry) flinching and looking over his shoulder. He stumbled over the words a couple times, the combination of expensive and dangerously potent whisky serving to both loosen his tongue and to make these revelations more difficult, before finally blurting out his answer.

                “I was nine the first time I felt the Cruciatus curse, Potter.” He’d explained.

                Harry found himself – again, who would have thought? – empathizing with Malfoy as they’d discussed the various traumas and tortures which made up each of their childhoods. Where Harry’s upbringing had been marked with neglect, the elder Malfoy had been strictly insistent on being involved in Draco’s life. The first time Draco was tortured, he’d explained, wasn’t done out of anger or even as a punishment, but because he was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy would be resilient, dutiful, and above all a proper Pure-blood man. Pain was merely another form of weakness, which would not be shown to anyone.

                His opinion had only solidified when, as Malfoy was leaving the ballroom, throwing his robes back over his shirt, Harry had caught the briefest glimpse of a red, angry scar on Draco’s left forearm. The next month, when the ministry insisted, once more, to demonstrate how nice it was that everyone was on the same side, Harry had called across the room to the lost-looking Draco, inviting Malfoy to join him and his friends at their table.

                It wasn’t smooth at first, Ron had been particularly opposed (of course), but Harry’s opinion carried weight among the gathered Gryffindors (and some from other houses – excepting Slytherin) which went beyond his social role as the “Man-Who-Won”. Hermione had taken to Draco more quickly than the others once he had sufficiently apologized for his past insults, finding they shared a keen interest in alchemical history. Draco had proved to maintain his love of Quidditch (something that had become more of an idle pastime than anything to Harry) which slowly brought Ron around, and from that point onwards he was fully accepted into the gathered survivors of the last eight years.

                That was when things were the easiest, really, Harry recollected.

                He and Ginny had moved in together, of course, as that was what Harry expected couples should do after they left school, but things had not turned out nearly as idyllic as he’d hoped for. Gin, bless her, had been patient, had tolerated his moments of doubt and self-loathing, but he hadn’t been limited to mere angst.

                By the point that she had attained a backup position on the Harpies’ roster, Harry had become what he thought of, then, as “slightly reclusive.” He’d regularly tell himself that he wasn’t actually feeling sorry for himself, that he just needed a bit more time, but as the months dragged on where he steadfastly refused to leave Grimmauld Place (unless it was to go get drunk) and found himself less and less interested in doing much but sleeping, he came to realize then (and definitely understood now) that he was on a path of utter self-destruction.  

                As it turned out, going straight from under the Dursley’s stairs into the middle of a clandestine, magical war and not picking up several deep-seated traumas was a challenge that was beyond even Harry Potter.

                The end of him and Ginny had come not with any dramatic blow-out fight or betrayal, but with the slow death that came from the realization that a schoolyard crush and a deep involvement with her family were not, in themselves, sufficient to maintain a healthy relationship. When she had come home one day, excited to announce that she had been promoted to the Harpies’ starting roster, he’d reacted not with excitement, but by asking “So you’ll be away more now, then?”

                Looking back on it, he couldn’t even understand why he’d asked that. At that time, he’d been growing to enjoy his solitude far too much, as it seemed that a boy who grew up under the stairs came to enjoy large, empty, and most importantly lonely places as a man. They had talked, cried, and reassured each other, but by the end of the conversation Harry and Ginny had broken up.

                It was then that he began to put more effort into his bad habits, spending entire nights at bars across the Wizard and Muggle worlds both, blowing through galleons as if they would never run out, showing up to his friends’ events either hungover beyond function or (more likely) hours late and still a little drunk.

                Once again in a situation where he’d never imagined finding himself, it was Draco who had first showed up to push past his doorway, to force himself into Harry’s lair. Those former members of Slytherin house seemed unanimously observant of social dynamics as a rule, but Draco’s concern was one borne of genuine friendship. When Hermione, then Ron, then Neville all made their appearances, it was to reiterate that Harry was their friend, and not one of them was willing to see him slowly retreat into a bottle.

                They’d all helped in their own ways; Draco sat with Harry, even drank with him, and they discussed how the war had very nearly ruined their entire generation. Draco had rolled up his sleeve, showing Harry the ugly scar (the one he’d barely caught sight of that first night at the party) where Draco had burned off his own Dark Mark, as if a physical reminder of the ways that they’d been used as children to fight a war they never asked for.

Hermione, meanwhile, came over to insist that Harry cleaned up the place, that he would actually be productive, and forced him to talk to a Muggle-born psychologist. Ron had been gentle, understanding, listening to Harry bitch, complain, and rant without judgment. When Harry had found out that Ron and Hermione had broken up months ago, he was shocked to find himself looking to Ronald Weasley as the one who, between Harry and himself, had been mature and rational. Neville had been simpler, the subtle strength that he’d cultivated over the years plainly evident when he’d bluntly told Harry “if you keep this up, then that means that Voldemort won after all.”

                He’d figured his own shit out at this point, spending many hours with Hermione’s psychologist, getting himself back into shape both physically and otherwise, and consulting with the Aurors when their cases weren’t too familiar for him. When he came out the other side of his fugue, he realized that he was in his twenties, single, rich, and famous, and spent some time enjoying the benefits of this status – there were witches that came and went (more than once, if he could help it), he traveled Europe, slew a dragon, and generally felt that he’d managed to make a mostly-decent man out of himself by the time he returned to England.

                At first, he’d found it strange that his friends seemed to have become hesitant around him, before Draco had pulled him aside, told Harry that he had something important to tell him, and then seemingly steeled himself to be attacked.

                Draco and Ginny had a “thing” going on, he remembered. For the briefest of moments, he’d considered punching Draco as his worst impulses told him to, before realizing that he was actually, genuinely happy for them.

                He spent time around the now-expanded social circles his friends traveled in, including more Slytherins who’d come to hold views similar to the rest of “modern Magical society” (as Hermione put it). He saw the way that Draco and Ginny lit up around each other, even as they took their own romance cautiously and slowly, especially when compared to Ron and Astoria Greengrass, who had both dived right into the sappiest ends of romance in their own (brief) courtship leading up to their wedding.

                As Harry began dressing himself for the ceremony, he mused that there seemed to be two distinct groups within those survivors of the last war: those, like Ron and Astoria, who had immediately found their partner and paired off, and those, like himself, who seemed to be taking a long, long road to ever settling down.



                “I expect you to be on your best behaviour, okay? I don’t want to see any of your… scenes.”

                Daphne rolled her eyes, turning to face her younger sister.

                “Astoria,” She firmly stated, “Why on earth would I cause a scene at Draco’s wedding? What, do you expect me to jump up and shag the bride right there on the altar?”

                Astoria sighed, rolling her own eyes in return.

                “Daph, I’m not going to say that the way father treated you was right, but you have to admit, you have been known to act somewhat… erratic. All I ask is that I can get through this wedding without having to apologize to anyone on your behalf.”

                Daphne snorted, though she had to admit that Astoria wasn’t entirely wrong. Since her sister was one of the bridesmaids for Ginny Weasley, she certainly had enough on her plate to concern herself with without Daphne causing one of her so-called “scenes”.

                “Yes, yes, fine,” Daphne replied, “I promise, I will be the picture of a perfect pureblood princess.”

                Astoria giggled lightly at the reference to one of their childhood jokes, one of the means by which they’d dealt with the expectations that their parents had placed on them.

                “That’s all I’d expect. I love you, Daph. You can still have a good time. Mom and dad will be there, but I’ve already spoken to them.”

                “Of course,” Daphne answered, imagining how that conversation had gone. Her sister was, perhaps, one of the most fearsome and stubborn women she knew of. “I expect I can find some kind of amusement. Maybe one of those French Veelas…”

                Astoria pinched her shoulder, though playfully.

                “Alright. I’d best be off. I’ll see you soon, but I’ll be watching you, Daph.”

                “Ta,” Daphne replied, turning back to her easel. As Astoria let herself out of Daphne’s flat, Daphne idly considered the strokes and lines before her, the painting less than complete and, were she to be honest about it, not turning out the way she had planned. “Reminiscence”, she had titled it, the sort of pretentious fluff that those who passed as art critics in the Magical world still adored.

                Not that the past few years had provided much to reminisce over. After the war against the Dark Lord, she – and by extension, her family – had been positioned above nearly the rest of the entire pureblood community, thanks partly to her father’s carefully-maintained neutrality during the war, and due in significant portion to her own actions during the Battle of Hogwarts, attacking a Death Eater from behind when he’d threatened a group of students.

                That credit was in itself largely due to the fact that Astoria was one of the students threatened, among a group of her own friends who came from different houses and not just Slytherin, but this detail didn’t make it to the press.

                This left Daphne Greengrass, eldest daughter to one of the houses of the sacred twenty-eight, on the correct side of the war, and by extension the most desirable marriage match for any of the pureblood houses wishing to repair their own reputations.

                She’d scuttled her father’s hopes when the fucking Daily Prophet had uncovered her ongoing fling with Millicent Bulstrode, who was neither pure-blooded nor, critically, an eligible male heir. At first, her father hadn’t truly cared, explaining that she was welcome to her “dalliances”, but that they simply must be kept from the public eye. It was unladylike for a witch of her status to be caught “engaging in sapphism”, which her father certainly thought was a fair and generous stance.

                Daphne, of course, had not responded well. Before she’d ever heard the term “bisexual”, she had still understood that some people liked witches, some liked wizards, and others such as herself liked both, and she was infuriated by the Prophets article implying that she was doing something wrong, by her father’s insistence that he would decide her marriage, and by the general everything of it all.

                The former “Slytherin Ice Queen” had always possessed a somewhat mercurial nature, her schoolyard reputation coming from her ongoing efforts to reign in these tendencies (at the behest of her family and Head of House alike). She’d chosen to throw this reputation aside in an admittedly dramatic fashion, proposing publicly – and rather dramatically, were she to be honest – to Millicent the very next day.

                Millicent, of course, had turned her down in equally-public fashion. “Daph.” She’d said, “you and I both know that what we’re doing isn’t like that. You aren’t even asking me because I’m who you want to be with, you’re just saying this because you’re scared.”

                Millie had always been sharper than she’d been given credit for, and she’d seen right through Daphne’s motivations behind the gesture. Their sort-of relationship had come to a conclusive end at that point, and if her father’s previous reaction had been “nonchalant”, his next reaction had been absolutely apoplectic. She’d embarrassed their house (he insisted), embarrassed him (good, she thought), and had behaved in a manner most unsuited to a Pure-blood lady.

                When she’d replied “Fuck being a ‘pureblood lady’, honestly” to him, he’d followed it up by semi-officially disowning her, stopping just short of stripping her family name, but going ahead and casting her from his household. She hadn’t particularly minded, taking the opportunity to visit Tracey and Theo in New York City, returning to England in time to link back up with Draco and his newfound group of mixed-house friends. She had generally found herself idly enjoying her time outside of pureblood society, and dabbling in interests here and there as they came up.

                One of the interests that she had seemed to develop was a hobby of finding herself in relationships which landed just short of “mutually assured destruction”: primarily engaging in short-lived flings that burned far too brightly to be sustainable. Draco had been one of them, though at least neither of them had found much to be upset about after that one-time event.

Presumably, that extremely limited-time fling was what Astoria was concerned about, though Daphne wished that she’d at least earned enough credit that she wouldn’t be assumed to fly into a rage over the marriage of a past partner of a sloppy snogging session (that turned into some drunken fumbling below the belt) when they were teens, for Merlin’s sake.

Nevertheless. She stood from her easel, stretching, strolling over to her record player to pick something of an appropriate mood to match her own. Smirking, she selected Billy Idol, setting it to play as she strode to her wardrobe. I’ll find some kind of amusement, alright, she thought, as she selected her outfit.



                “Be on your best behaviour tonight, alright love?”

                 Pansy snorted, looking in her mirror at the perfectly manicured eyebrow arched high above one of Blaise’s eyes.

                “Of course, lover, I’ll make sure to only start a few fights before I inevitably get thrown out, maybe threaten to kill an Auror or two, yeah?” She answered, the sarcasm practically dripping from her voice.

                Blaise chuckled in that rich, warm tone that he remorselessly exploited to get what he wanted, taking a sip of his wine.

                “But really, though,” he continued, “you are my plus-one, after all. Any of your outbursts would reflect poorly upon me.”

                “Oh, I am in your everlasting debt,” Pansy sneered, “to think that you bestowed the honour of your invitation on me, the World’s Worst Witch, when there’s any number of naïve boys that would have literally sucked your cock to be in my place.”

                “Always the charmer,” her flatmate answered, unoffended. It was true, after all. “The Malfoy-Weasley wedding, can you imagine? The social event of the year. Still, good for Draco, he’s managed to slither his way into the good graces of society once again.”

                “As I recall, Blaise,” Pansy paused to take a sip – okay, several sips – of her own wine. “You were slithering directly behind him, crawling along the same path into his friendship with Potter and his gang.”
                “We are snakes, love,” Pansy watched Blaise’s eyes drop to her bare back in the mirror, where they lingered briefly despite his own avid disinterest in the female form. “Speaking of which, you’ll be wearing something halfway decent, yes?”

                “Oh, I figured that this gives the correct impression,” She replied, turning to him and cupping her breasts. He chuckled, no stranger to her more outgoing moments. “If I didn’t dress well, I may as well just hang myself,” She continued, turning back to her vanity, pulling a cigarette from her pack. This statement was actually somewhat closer to genuine, since she owned and operated Serpentine, which was the foremost fashion house of the Magical world.

                Not, she knew, that this was as grand an achievement as she’d have liked. Wizarding fashion was depressingly medieval in its style, and wearing the more daring fashions of McQueen or Westwood to this wedding would have sent shockwaves through society in ways which would be distinctly harmful to what remained of her reputation.

                After Voldemort’s defeat, Pansy had crashed to the lowest point imaginable in Wizard society outside of Azkaban itself, being seen as the absolute guiltiest witch who hadn’t actually committed any crimes that she could be sentenced for. In the public eye, her panicked call to “grab him” was a mark against her reputation nearly as black as one of the literal Dark Marks. Her parents had publicly distanced themselves (not that she noticed the difference), and she was among the number who the Ministry of Magic had barred from magic for years.

                It was one of the greatest ironies, she thought, that those Slytherins who had been particularly fervent pure-blood followers had wound up immersing themselves most deeply in the Muggle world following the restrictions which had been enforced after the war. She’d latched on to fashion and design as her new passions, and her eventual return to magical society revealed the utter void just waiting to be filled.

                With time, her reputation had been somewhat rehabilitated, but she held no illusions that she was actually well-liked among many people. She’d spent some time in the company of Potter and his merry band of worshippers, now that they seemed all too happy to accept Slytherins among them, and the fact that Potter had accepted her apology (what’s a little “I tried to hand you over to the Dark Lord” between acquaintances, after all) granted her entrance to these circles, if not acceptance.

                Though she’d scoff out loud if anyone tried to suggest that she and Potter were “friends”, she had to admit that she did enjoy the verbal war they continued to wage against each other, the man’s positively venomous talent with insults making her question whether he should have been a Slytherin after all.

                Still, it wouldn’t be perceived well if she were to overtly insult the saviour of the Magical World in front of all his friends, at the wedding of his ex-girlfriend and former enemy, at that. Perhaps that was what concerned Blaise, as he oh-so-subtly tried to imply that he didn’t care how she behaved, but also cared so very much.

                “You want me to keep my mouth shut, yeah?” She asked, blowing smoke against her own reflection.

                “Not shut, darling,” Blaise answered, turning to walk out of her room, “Merlin himself couldn’t manage that. Just keep the teeth away tonight, love.”

                Pansy made a noncommittal noise, staring into her reflection, looking to her own mouth. If the teeth stay hidden, she thought, then I’ll have to use my lips, as she fished for a particularly striking shade of lipstick.

Chapter Text


                The wedding was lovely. Really. It was.

                While not as lavish as many of the more traditional purebloods in attendance may have preferred, the outdoor ceremony on the grounds of Malfoy Manor still conveyed a sense of pastoral charm. Not quite active in matters of politics, Draco had still taken definite and concrete steps to distance his house from their dark history, the marriage held in the light of day (rather than an altar-bearing hall) serving as a subtle indicator of this focus.  

                Ginny was, of course, radiant in her dress, and Draco had actually cried when she walked the cobblestone-laid aisle. The ceremony was emotional, personal, and loving, the couple’s vows were almost heart-wrenchingly sweet. Of the weddings which Harry had attended, he’d honestly have placed this one near the top of his list.

                Which is why he began to grit his teeth at the reception, where those who had dropped by the table he was sat at had seemed to treat him with caution, as if his presence were either a vague insult to the now-married couple (as Cassius Greengrass had oh-so-subtly suggested with his “surprise” at seeing Lord Potter-Black in attendance), or if he were in danger of falling into a deep sadness (as Molly Weasley outright stated, amidst Harry’s reassurances that he’d still attend the Burrow Christmas party).

                He’d enjoyed the company of the others at his table, even as Remus laughed behind his back while Harry clumsily navigated the various jabs and concerns which the wedding guests seemed insistent upon sharing with him. Harry had happily sat with Teddy as Remus and Tonks shared their first dance of the evening, a smile coming to Harry’s face as he watched his old friend manage a waltz despite his cane.

                Neville and Hannah were lovely, of course, even if their use of pet names for each other (“Starthistle, really) tempted Harry to roll his eyes. He’d briefly considered resenting Neville’s inquiry as to why he didn’t make use of his plus-one, but thankfully Tonks’ crass rejoinder of “too many options, right, kid?” had spared Harry from having to explain that he just didn’t know anyone he’d consider inviting who wasn’t already in attendance.

                As a brief surge of jealousy surfaced when he saw Draco and Ginny unsubtly stealing a kiss beside the dance floor, he realized that he was not jealous that Draco had married Ginny, but that he was attending yet another wedding with no real romantic prospects of his own. The night wore on and many of the married couples said their goodnights, leaving Harry finding himself at the bar, where he’d have to enjoy a (responsible) amount of liquor if he was going to find the liquid courage to strike out on the dance floor. He’d make a token effort to solve his own quandary, at least.  

                He ordered a short pour of Beetle Berry, a nice, easy start to a several-course drinking meal, when his introspection was interrupted by a smoky voice:

                “And here I thought your one redeeming quality, Potter, was that you knew your whisky. It’s almost disappointing to see you drinking like a teenage witch.”


                The wedding was nice and all, but by and large helped mostly to serve as a reminder that Pansy was distinctly not one of the more popular witches in the room. Whoever had planned the seating arrangements had placed her and Blaise with two old couples that Pansy had never met before, she’d politely introduced herself and all, but was met with mumbled names in response and promptly ignored the rest of the night.

                Blaise was charming, of course, if there was a social situation in which the man couldn’t somehow promote himself, she’d yet to discover it. Draco had stopped by to say hello, which was also nice, but he’d quickly sauntered off to talk to other, more important people. By the time that the dances started, and Blaise left to go show off his oh-so-perfect waltz, Pansy found herself seated alone, beginning to sulk.

                Sulking had its upsides (her pout was particularly effective), but she had not come to this wedding, dressed as she was, to sit alone. She retreated to the ladies’ room, taking stock of herself despite the fact she knew that her appearance was impeccable.

                Lipstick? Black, glossy, and perfect. Hair? Also black, glossy, and perfect, the sleek bob falling just so. Dress? A slim, satin piece in a green just shy of “venomous.” Heels? Black patent, high enough to be dangerous for the less experienced. Dress robe? Black, silky, and draped to show off. Tits? Noticeable.

                She was not desperate, far from it. Despite some of the more unflattering nicknames from her time at Hogwarts, she was choosy with her lovers, sticking to the particularly attractive or skilled (both, ideally), and the fact that she was quick to discard those she grew bored of (whether they were muggles or magical) was simply a matter of good taste. This didn’t preclude her from enjoying the attention that she received, she wouldn’t put half as much effort into her looks as she did if they weren’t mean to be appreciated, after all.

                Strolling from the washroom, her heels clicking satisfyingly as she put an extra roll (subtle, mind) into her hips, she surveyed the wedding guests to decide upon her target. It was truly depressing how many of her generation had already settled down and started families, narrowing the field of those available significantly.

                There was a beautiful blond wizard she didn’t know, seated near the Weasley tables, but nearly as soon as she spotted him Blaise had turned up beside the stranger, two glasses in his hands. That’d take him out of the running, then. The younger Delacour sister (as she realized the family resemblance to Blaise’s blond) was certainly striking, but too young for Pansy, even if she was of legal age now.

                While Pansy didn’t overly care whether or not her partners were attached or single, she knew that she’d best be cautious on this evening at least, as she didn’t want the “Slag of Slytherin” reputation resurfacing due to flirting with someone whose spouse was not in favour. That ruled out Dean Thomas, as well as Terry Boot and Cho Chang (unless, of course, they felt like sharing).

                 The Lovegood girl certainly grew to be an attractive witch, but no. Out of the entire host of Weasleys and their relatives, only the older one with the earring caught her eye, but she’d heard enough rumors about him turning down offers from other witches that she decided not to bother. Talking with Astoria Greengrass-Weasley, her sister Daphne – now that had some potential. Pansy, as well as the entire Magical world, knew that Daphne enjoyed the company of other witches, a trait which Pansy shared (more covertly, of course). Pansy would circle back once Astoria was otherwise occupied, she decided, not wishing to experience that sort of tongue-lashing.

                As she made her way to the bar, content to pass some time over a drink, she spotted, of course, the most notable bachelor in the wizarding world: Harry fucking Potter. She’d give him a go, if she were to be honest about it, but she harboured doubts that the sex would be worth the inevitable weepy feelings that he was sure to carry on about afterwards.

                Still, it had been some time since she’d matched wits against anyone other than Blaise, and it was simply unfair that she couldn’t even distract him with her cleavage. Potter, to the best of her knowledge, was vulnerable to such tactics, and was always good for a barb or two exchanged. She may as well entertain herself while she waited to pounce on Greengrass.

                As she sidled towards the countertop, she overheard Potter’s order, a mediocre whisky that may as well have been pumpkin juice compared to her taste in drinks.

                “And here I thought your one redeeming quality, Potter, was that you knew your whisky. It’s almost disappointing to see you drinking like a teenage witch.” She sneered, leaning against the bar, enough distance between them that it was clear they were not ordering drinks together.

                “Ah, that would explain it,” He replied, toasting her mockingly before draining his glass in one pull. “If you were drunk through your teens, your decision-making skills would actually make some sense, Parkinson.”

                “Martini,” She instructed the bartender, “Buckthorn’s Genuine.” An expensive gin, but why shouldn’t it be?

                “Two Dragonsbreath,” Potter spoke, stepping closer to her, “and a measure of Campbell’s Finest.”

                As the bartender busied himself preparing the drinks, Pansy turned to face Potter. He’s fit, she had to admit, having overcome the awkward features that he’d possessed in his youth. Where his hair had been awful, it was now long-ish and slightly messy in a very fashionable state, his glasses actually remarkably stylish compared to his infamous frames during Hogwarts. He still wasn’t very tall, but he carried himself with confidence and was lithe in a way that suggested strength, a body type she’d familiarized herself with among the models of the Muggle world.

                “Trying to impress me, Potter?” Pansy asked, accepting the shot glass the bartender proffered her, lifting it to inhale the aroma. Whew, she thought, almost regretting her decision to belittle Potter’s previous choice of drink. This was clearly a magical beverage, and not one that seemed like it should be taken lightly. “It won’t work,” she continued, “even if your choice of drink has just graduated from its training bras.”

                “Oh, this?” Potter asked, slinging back the drink, “it’s just a warm-up, really. But don’t worry, it won’t make your knickers fall off, unlike, say, every other kind of drink in the world.”

                Pansy returned his earlier toast with the exact same level of sincerity, draining her own shot. It was aggressive, smoky, but deep, whatever spells were worked into the liquor warming her as it sat in her belly, the hairs on the back of her neck raising the slightest bit as the pleasant warm feeling continued to spread lower.

                “Oh, not bad,” She answered, “crude, but I wouldn’t expect much else. Is this what you prefer to drown your sorrows?”

                “I know it’s an unusual experience for you,” Potter responded, “having a bloke buy you a drink without getting into your knickers, but then again I suppose that you’re giving a free show anyways.”

                “This old thing?” She asked coquettishly, imitating some old muggle film, “it’s just a dress, Potter, not my fault if you can’t control yourself.”

                “Ah, yes, such a change from your school robes. Still in Slytherin colours, after all this time?”

                “Oh, not like you have such a strong case, yourself,” she poked his eye-catchingly red tie, letting her finger linger against his chest only barely past the point where it stopped being a “poke” and becoming something else. Still, she gave him a quick once-over just to ensure that her jibes remained on target, and found herself surprised: when did Harry Potter become a man who could pull off dragonskin? “I must say, I do appreciate your shoes, Potter. That’s a fine imitation.”

                “Ah, Parkinson,” He shrugged, reaching into his blazer and withdrawing a silver flask lined with, again, black dragonskin, then taking a swig from it. “It’s the genuine article, I’m afraid.”

                “You must tell me who your tailor is,” She continued, restraining herself from reacting to the fact that at some point Potter had learned to show off, “it’s simply dreadful finding the real stuff to import.”

                “Oh, these were a gift from a lovely old man in a little Romanian village,” Harry answered, unhelpfully, “it turns out that when you kill a dragon, you get the rights to import its materials.”

                Thankfully, Pansy was saved from reacting with an entirely inappropriate level of admiration by an announcement coming from the stage, with the lead singer of the band taking to the microphone between songs.

                “Witches, wizards, what a wedding!” The singer announced. Droll. “Since it’s just hit the witching hour, we’ve got one more song for you, an old one of ours! Salazar’s Bones!”

                While Pansy didn’t recognize the song, or for that matter, the band, apparently someone did, as a delighted shriek ran out across the hall as Ginny Weasley – well, Ginny Malfoy – ran to the dancefloor with her new husband in tow. The band launched into a spirited, high-energy song, suitable for the few remaining young witches and wizards in attendance.

                Pansy had actually missed how quickly the hall had emptied – being midnight, she supposed that it was the hour where a traditional event would end, with this additional closing song likely standing as Draco’s small, small rebellion against the expectations of polite society. She quickly scanned the dancing crowd, and was delighted to spot Daphne still in attendance, and oh Merlin what a vision she was.

                Daphne was outfitted in a royal blue dress with white accessories, a particularly striking combination with her blonde hair. Her accessories were silver, and bouncing all over the place as Greengrass seamlessly switched between leaping about with wild abandon and writhing sensuously as the song demanded.

                Yes, Pansy decided, watching the blue dress cling to Daphne’s arse damn-near perfectly, this is happening. Though she hadn’t maintained any kind of close friendship with Daphne, Pansy figured that their shared status as outcasts from Slytherin and appreciators of the female form would provide enough of a common ground for her to take the former “ice queen” to bed at least once.

                Realizing she might get caught staring if she continued to – let’s be fair – stare any longer, she glanced back to Potter, fortunately finding him also watching the dance floor. Where she expected that he’d be staring at his ex-girlfriend, or maybe her new husband, she felt a little thrill to realize that he was also checking out Greengrass. The added benefit of swooping in on a girl that Potter was interested in was delightful.

                All too quickly, the song ended, and before Pansy could even come up with her plan to separate herself from Potter and make her way to Daphne, Draco had leapt up onto the stage and seized the magical microphone:

                “I’m… I’m the happiest man alive, right now, I think,” Draco slurred, “I love you all. I love my wife.” Ugh.  “But it’s getting late, so let’s get another drink, then let’s all go hooooome!” He called, as if it were something to celebrate. A whoop or two from the dance floor indicated that for some, it was.

                The wheels span quickly in Pansy’s head as the gathered crowd that had been dancing made their way to the bar, including, at the front, the deliciously “flushed-and-slightly-out-of-breath” Daphne.


                The wedding was fine. It may even have been nice if Daphne were in a better mood, but she’d surprised herself with just how much actually laying eyes on her father again had frustrated her. Thank Merlin, her parents hadn’t actually attempted to talk to her (thanks, Astoria), but even watching her father mill about and laugh with those old wizards and witches he talked to rankled her.

                Sure, it was even nice to see her friends and some faces that she hadn’t in a while, but even that began to turn into a nuisance when every conversation started following similar tracks: “Oh, how are you? Still doing that art thing? That’s nice! Seeing anyone? No? Too bad! Me and my partner/spouse/etc. are doing great!”

                It’s not even that Daphne was lonely or anything like that, she just didn’t care to be so frequently reminded about her own single status, no matter how benign the intention. As was typical when Daphne became frustrated, she began to feel somewhat impulsive. There were benefits to being single! For example, she was going to find someone particularly attractive and fuck their brains out.

                By the time that the dancing started, Daphne started scanning those who weren’t dancing to find any particular candidates. Luna Lovegood was radiant, but they’d never particularly gotten along, and she had no idea if that witch was into women or not. A distressing number of people had already paired off into relationships, let alone on the dance floor, which – briefly – worried Daphne that she might wind up going home alone.

                She spotted Pansy Parkinson’s tits – Merlin – and then Pansy herself. She was seated with Blaise Zabini and stuck somewhere in a middle ground between scowling, pouting, and giving fuck-me eyes to the entire world, which was a particular accomplishment all on its own. The slinky little dress she was wearing (generously cut to expose exactly the right amount of skin) was also an accomplishment, or at least how she looked in it was.

                They hadn’t exactly maintained a friendship over the years, but they were still on speaking terms, so Daphne figured that yes, she was going to be amused later in the night if she could play her cards right. She guessed that Pansy was single considering that Blaise was her date (a fantastic date, of course, but one who was very much not interested in women), and the roll of Pansy’s eyes when Blaise sashayed past the dance floor and towards one of the Delacour cousins all but confirmed that.

                Her thoughts were interrupted by her sister sitting down beside her, unannounced.

                “Stori,” Daphne greeted her, “how was the ceremony? The maiden bride’s honour is intact, I presume?”

                Her sister snorted, leaning back against the chair. “I’ve been on my feet all day, Daph, I’m dying. The whole ‘maid of honour’ thing was nice and all, but you would not believe how difficult it can be to keep Ginny focused on something.”

                “I think I can, actually,” Daphne smiled, spotting Ron making his way over to his wife, only slightly stumbling on the way.

                “Daph!” Ron cried, exuberantly drunk. “Lovely to see you!” He made his way behind Astoria, gently putting his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to kiss the top of her head. Though Daphne generally found displays of romance to be annoying at best, she had to admit that Ron and her sister were a nigh-perfect pair; Ronald Weasley clearly needed someone who was not only capable, but actively interested in helping him to manage his own life, and Astoria was more than up to that task.

                As Ron murmured something into his wife’s ear, Daphne once again took stock of the room, trying to find Pansy. Her earlier theory of Pansy’s single status picked up a small inkling of doubt from the way that Pansy strode to the bar – she walked up to Harry Potter (oh, now there’s another candidate) with a distinctly exaggerated roll in her hips, and from what little Daphne oversaw they definitely seemed familiar with each other.

                “How’s things, Daph?” Ron interrupted her observation, “you been seeing anyone?”

                Daphne glowered, but only slightly – Ron, at least, meant well – as she measured her response: the Weasley man was sharper than others gave him credit for, and he may well have noticed her checking out Pansy and Harry.

                “Not particularly, Ron,” she answered, carefully, “why do you ask?”

                “You should talk to Harry,” Ron answered, patting Astoria’s shoulders as she started to launch into a lecture, “I’m not saying ‘go marry him’ or anything like that, but he’s a good bloke, and he could use a good woman in his life. Go for a drink or something, that’s all.”

                She re-adjusted her own estimates again – if Harry and Pansy were an item, it was a secret, and that was even more interesting. “Noted, Ron, thanks for the advice,” she answered, only slightly sarcastic.

                “Just keep it in mind,” Ron answered, kissing Astoria on the lips, “not saying anything else!” He left their table. Daphne looked to Astoria and pointedly rolled her eyes, which was met with a gentle laugh.

                “You know he means well, even if he’s being clumsy about it,” her sister spoke, “but I think a part of him does want him and his best mate to also be family, and marrying sisters is the next best way to do that.”

                “Ah, yes, you know me,” Daphne answered, draining her wine glass, “I’m just aching to get married. My ring finger feels so naked…”

                “Psh, what you’re aching for isn’t marriage,” Astoria giggled, “but I do see you looking over at the bar where a certain bachelor is, apparently, being chatted up by Pansy Parkinson at this moment. Missing your chance?”

                “Hardly,” Daphne answered, “I’m missing a drink. What do you want?”

                “Oh, I’m fine,” Astoria replied.

                “No, I haven’t seen you have a drink all night, and it’s a wedding,” Daphne protested, “what are you drinking?”

                “No, Daph,” Her sister insisted, “I’m fine without a drink. Seriously.”

                Oh. Oh! Daphne realized what Astoria was implying.

                “Congratulations!” She whispered, excited despite her own “ice queen” persona she was trying to enforce, “how far along are you? Do mom and dad know? Anyone else?”

                “Ssh!” Astoria hushed her. “It’s early, no, and no. Keep it to yourself, or I swear the consequences will be… dire.”

                This pleasant surprise was followed by the band onstage announcing their last song: it wasn’t one of Daphne’s favourites, but it was one she wanted to dance to. She pulled her sister up with her, dancing around half in celebration and half simply because she enjoyed it, losing herself to the music.

                By the time the song ended and Draco announced the end of the evening, she realized she’d nearly forgotten her recent pursuit, to get another drink, and then if things worked out, to get laid. Walking at the head of the group of wedding-goers in various levels of inebriation, she was equally pleased and somewhat vexed to notice (from the corner of her eye, of course, she wasn’t going to be obvious about it) both Harry and Pansy checking her out.

                Interesting, she thought. As the flurry of greetings and calls for drinks went on around her, she made sure to greet both Harry and Pansy with a little extra focus, but not so much as to draw attention to herself. Pansy was drawn away by Blaise, and Daphne caught the briefest hints of that conversation:

                “Michel has run into some trouble, you see,” She overheard Blaise explaining, “and he needs a place to stay tonight. I’ve offered our spare room, of course.”

                Not obvious at all, Zabini, she thought, as it was obvious why he was taking the French man home. Still, Pansy’s response would be illuminating, and Daphne noted that Pansy didn’t look to Harry first, but to Daphne herself. Even more interesting.

                For his part, Harry was caught up in a conversation with Ron, and Daphne swore that she heard her own name come up in it. Harry didn’t look over at her, which was almost disappointing, but then again she had come to realize that the so-called “Man-Who-Won” kept his emotions very well concealed these days.

                As the gathered crowd did shots, had drinks, and then began to say their goodbyes, Daphne made sure to keep track of where each of Harry and Pansy were going after. Neither had – publicly, at least – made any indication that they had plans other than going home, which fit neatly into Daphne’s theory about a secret fling, or perhaps even a relationship. She wondered, then, why both had been staring at her with open interest.

                Pansy announced that she was going for a smoke, and left the crowd. Not long afterwards, Harry finished his own goodbyes and goodnights, and walked in the same direction. Very, very interesting. Daphne waited a couple minutes, then said her own goodnights, and followed.

                Outside Malfoy manor, Harry and Pansy were sitting on a stone bench, each with a lit cigarette in their hands. They did not sit side-by-side, with enough space between them to comfortably fit another person, where Daphne promptly did just that.


                Harry had not missed the fact that something very curious was developing. He’d picked up on Pansy checking out Daphne Greengrass, of course (not that he blamed her, Daphne was gorgeous), and wasn’t exactly offended or anything, since the flirtatious yet hostile banter that he’d been sharing with Pansy wasn’t intended to lead to anything.

                And yet, at the end of the night, when Pansy announced her intention to go for a smoke (loudly, clearly for someone’s benefit), Harry found himself following after her shortly after. True, he could really go for a smoke, but he caught himself thinking idly of Pansy’s particularly interesting choice of outfit for the evening as he walked.

                Outside, she met him with a brusque “Potter,” he replied with a typical “Parkinson,” then fished into his blazer for his pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he also pulled his half-empty flask out, taking a healthy swig before offering it to Pansy, who did the same.

                He was further intrigued when Daphne appeared shortly afterwards, seating herself between him and Pansy.

                “Well, here we are, the leftovers, right?” Daphne announced, leaning back against the bench, “and how are you two doing tonight?”

                “Not drunk enough,” Harry replied, without thinking.

                “Hah. I agree with that,” Pansy answered.

                “Makes three of us,” Daphne continued, “hey, Harry, you aren’t actually an Auror, right?”

                Weird, he thought, but answered anyways: “No, just a consultant. Why?”

                Daphne fished in her clutch without replying, muttering a quiet Liberare into it. Fishing around, she pulled out a small glass vial.

                “Good, because I am entirely too sober right now.” She tipped the vial, pouring some of its contents – a white powder with glittering pieces of green and gold throughout – into the cap, before bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply.

                “What’ve you got?” Pansy asked from across her.

                “Cocaine, cut with some euphoria elixir and a bit of pepperup potion. Want some?”

                “Sure,” Harry answered, interrupting. Pansy looked at him with surprise, but seriously, you didn’t go on a long journey of youth through the continent without encountering some drugs now and then. He took his own bump as Daphne offered, enjoying how the standard coke tingle fell into a pleasant humming sensation in his head. He’d always been surprised that there weren’t more people abusing magical drugs, compared to the muggle world with their own inferior versions.

                Pansy took one of her own, pulling a cigarette from her pack to offer Daphne, which the blonde happily accepted. Harry took a glance out of the corner of his eye, inspecting the older Greengrass sister, and definitely understood why Pansy had been so invested in staring at her; she was tall, her hair a perfectly-curled wave of gold, eyes a shining bright blue, and her nose and ears set with just enough silver piercings to add something non-classical to her beauty. He’d never been particularly close with her at any point, but Ron had pulled him aside not minutes ago to mention that maybe Harry should consider striking up a conversation with her.

                “I’ve got more at my flat, if either of you are interested,” Daphne spoke, leaning her head back and showing her elegant neck (and a not-inconsiderable amount of cleavage) as she exhaled smoke.

                “I’m down,” Pansy answered, perhaps slightly more quickly than she should have.

                “Yeah,” Harry replied, “sounds good.”


                A brief portkey trip, a couple of hours, a fair quantity of drinks and a little bit of drugs had left Harry feeling delightfully inebriated. Not so fucked up that he was incoherent or unsteady, but definitely in a state he preferred over the cautious sobriety of the wedding.

                He’d come to find that Daphne was actually delightful to spend time around, with a deep interest in muggle culture as well as a keen grasp of pureblood politics. He enjoyed spending time with Pansy, too, which came as somewhat of a shock – though he knew that her insults didn’t really carry much weight to them, he was actually thoroughly enjoying their running battle of wits.

                The fact that she, too, was gorgeous certainly didn’t hurt. At this moment, Harry was leaning back on Daphne’s couch, a drink in his hand, as Pansy leaned against a windowsill while she smoked. His eyes trailed up her legs, to where her dress curved around her arse (not large, but incredibly shaped) before it disappeared over her back, revealing a large, intricately-designed tattoo of a black-and-green serpent.

                “Done staring at my arse, Potter?” Pansy drawled, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray.

                “Your ink, actually,” He answered, to which she snorted.

                “Ah, yes, I’m sure you’re a tattoo aficionado,” Pansy replied, as she strutted back into the centre of the room.

                Harry, in place of a reply, unbuttoned a couple of his shirt’s buttons, pulling it aside to reveal the black tattoo of a Grim that sat on the left of his chest.

                “Ooh,” Daphne interjected, “I like it! Does it mean something?”

                “Someone I lost,” Harry answered, shrugging, “I’ve got more, but they’re not all as important.”

                Pansy started to reply, then the words died in her throat as Daphne suddenly reached behind her back, unzipped her dress, and let it drop to the floor. Merlin, Harry thought. If she’d been beautiful with the dress on, the reveal of what was underneath had actually left him speechless – her body was exquisite, lines of muscle just visible beneath her curves, her powerful thighs swelling into an incredible arse which itself tapered into a thin waist, all of which was draped in white and very lacy undergarments.

                “I got this one,” Daphne spoke, pointing to a tattoo that looked like stylized bars of music, “a couple years ago. It’s the Moonlight Sonata, my favourite.”

                Neither Harry nor Pansy responded, staying silent for longer than was appropriate.

                “Merlin, Daph,” Pansy spoke, her voice husky, “I think you just made Potter cum in his trousers.”

                “Ah, Parkinson,” Harry replied, tearing his eyes reluctantly away from Daphne, “I don’t blame you, you’re just used to shite men with no stamina.”

                “Oh, I’m quite particular, Potter,” She answered, her tone practically dripping with sarcasm, “which I’m sure comes as a great disappointment to you.”

                “Of course,” Harry’s own tone was no better, “all the best of the Death Eaters, drunks, and desperate.”

                Pansy snorted. “Death Eaters? Are you bitter about Draco, of all people? I’ll have you know, Potter, he and I never slept together, I wasn’t so easy as whatever went on in Gryffindor.”

                “If there’s one thing that’s changed,” Harry answered, “it’s that his taste has certainly improved.”

                “Fuck,” Daphne interrupted, “are you two going to fuck already, or what?”


                She wasn’t frustrated, per se, but she was exasperated, that much was certain. Seriously, she thought, as she rifled through her record collection, seeking out something to dance to, settling on Joy Division – it seemed to suit the self-enforced melancholy of both Harry and Pansy.

                The lengths to which she’d gone should have been incredibly obvious, getting both of them into her flat, all three of them a nice and even level of uninhibited, and it was not by accident that she’d dropped her dress, revealing the particularly nice set of lingerie underneath, and the two of them had immediately returned to their strange form of flirting.

                For fuck’s sake, she’d turned purposefully, flexing her leg just right to show off her arse, which (in her own measure) was her sexiest feature, and while the they’d both shut up for long enough to be appropriately awestruck, they hadn’t even noticed her walking away to change the record.

                Her earlier theory, she realized, was clearly wrong. Harry and Pansy were definitely not in a fling, and with absolute certainty they were not in a relationship, but it seemed like the two of them were either being purposely obtuse or were genuinely unaware of the positively electric tension that flowed between the two of them.   

                She’d sort that out, one way or the other.

                “Fuck,” She vented her frustration, “are you two going to fuck already, or what?”

                The bluntness of her question seemed to catch the two of them by surprise, as they stared first at her, then glanced at each other, then back to Daphne.

                “As if I would,” Pansy replied, only the slightest hitch in her voice, “but if you get him out of here, I’ll show you what I can do, Daph.”

                “Or,” Harry answered, pointedly not looking at Pansy, “once Parkinson gets bored and leaves, maybe we should see where things go, Daphne.”

                “Seriously,” Daphne answered, as she stormed towards Pansy. The black-haired woman was standing in the center of her living room, with Harry sprawled out over her couch. “If the two of you are going to be so frustrating, I’m going to change things up a bit: us three, we’re going to play a game.” She shoved Pansy into the couch, not hard enough to be violent, but enough to leave her leaning against Harry as her balance failed.

                “I’m pretty sure that you both want to see me naked,” she announced, “so that’s your prize if you’re both brave enough to play along. Here’s the rules,” she continued:

                “First, you two need to sit closer together than that. Get your arms behind each other;”

                “Second, I’m the one who’s most undressed here. I’m going to keep dancing, but the more undressed you get, the more I’ll take off too;”

                “Third, you absolutely can’t undress yourselves.”

Chapter Text


                Pansy found herself practically wrapped around Harry fucking Potter, of all people, her heart pounding in her chest in a way that she couldn’t excuse with the stimulants they’d dabbled in earlier. With Daphne’s pronouncement, she’d looked to him, expecting to see a matching look of surprise, but was instead met with an infuriating quirked eyebrow and a shrug.

                That’s why she now sat with his arm wrapped behind her, her own reaching behind his back, practically crushed against his chest as in front of them, Daphne smirked and wriggled her body in an entirely-too-enticing manner. The blonde witch was practically a work of art, wreathed in layers of white silk and lace, the bustier and garter belt included in her outfit not appearing at all outdated on the stunning woman.

                Pansy would have cursed her own lack of foresight if she was actually upset at this turn of events, but she’d honestly never expected the night to develop into a potential threeway of all things. Sure, she’d come to Daphne’s flat fully intending to fuck her brains out, and teasing Potter was just a little thrilling, but to think of both? At once?

                The degree to which this idea flustered her was distinctly un-Slytherin of her, and she immediately came to the conclusion that she would need to seize control back of this situation, not sit there gawking at Daphne while Potter was looking spectacularly un-bothered by this development.

                Without words, she reached with her free arm to Potter’s chest, prying at the buttons keeping his shirt on. Daphne had promised to match her guests’ state of undress, after all, and while her lingerie was jaw-dropping, the lines of soft muscle and curves that it contained were Pansy’s next target.

                “Mmm,” Daphne observed, “that’s more like it.”

                Harry didn’t overtly react, though Pansy felt his chest rise as he took a deep breath, her slender fingers dancing over his shirt and laying his chest bare. Merlin, she thought, as she took stock of his toned muscles and the faint shadows of as-yet-unseen tattoos, he’s grown up well. Pulling the tails of his shirt from his pants, she quickly grew frustrated at Daphne’s stupid limitations, unable to remove his shirt entirely with only one hand free to use.

                “Oh, eager, are we?” Daphne asked, walking closer to the pair on the couch, her hips rolling and legs flexing in absolutely fascinating ways.

                “To get you undressed,” Pansy answered, more brusquely than she’d even intended, “absolutely. Now help me get this shirt off so we can get to you.”

                Daphne laughed, a high, musical sound which immediately brought to mind several different ways that she could use her mouth instead which Pansy would have greatly preferred. Still, as she closed the gap, she leaned over Potter, her long blonde hair falling in a waterfall over his face, as she gently trailed her fingertips up his bare chest on their way to his shoulders, where she helped Pansy to finally remove his shirt.

                Pansy could feel his hitching breath against her side, and her own small gasp went (hopefully) unnoticed as his torso was revealed, a patchwork medley of scars marked with occasional tattoos across his back and chest. He was pale, but not in a sickly way, a respectably-groomed dusting of dark hair at the center of his chest diminishing as it trailed down his abdomen and under his belt.

                Fine, she thought, Harry fucking Potter is absolutely fuckable.

                “Of course,” Daphne continued, her hips still swaying as it took damn near every last bit of Pansy’s willpower not to reach out and slap her across her full arse, “the two of you are a team in this little game, it only counts if it’s both of you.”

                “Can’t say I’m complaining,” Harry said, with only the slightest waver in his voice, damn it, turning his head to look at Pansy. While Harry wasn’t the tallest man, Pansy was quite far from the tallest woman, and seated beside each other in this manner she had to raise her eyes slightly to meet his, which almost fucking sparkled with mirth.

                She couldn’t help the way that her skin tingled as his own fingers brushed against her side, finding the zipper at the top of her dress almost immediately. The only sound in the room, other than the driving bassline coming from Daphne’s record player, was the torturously slow zzziiiipppp as her dress was opened.

                Then Daphne perched over her, not quite sitting on Pansy’s lap, but the lack of substantial contact only served to heighten the sensation as Daphne’s own fingers just barely grazed the sides of Pansy’s neck, dipping behind her ears as Pansy craned her head up despite her own intentions. Daphne’s lips were quirked in a delicious smirk as she reached to the back of Pansy’s neck, bringing the loop of satin which held her dress up over her head.

                Pansy knew that her breasts were, objectively, not the largest, but she was damn proud of how they sat on her slender frame. When it came to her physical assets, she had considered herself to be blessed with quality over quantity, both her arse and her tits of a medium size but perfectly shaped, in her own not-so-humble opinion.

                An opinion which, if their reactions were any indicator, Daphne and Potter shared.  Potter didn’t even bother to hide his leering, the cups of her bra just managing to restrain her tits, the edges dipping low enough to stop barely above her nipples. Daphne smiled, and slowly stroked her fingers across the top of Pansy’s chest, stopping at the point just below her collar bone where her breasts swelled from her chest.

                “The first move is yours,” Daphne drawled, her voice taking on a smokier tone given their activities. “What am I removing, then?”

                “Bustier,” Pansy answered, immediately. Daphne may have been the one in charge of this little game, but Pansy would not let Potter be responsible for making decisions, if he even knew what the articles of Daphne’s apparel were called.

                Daphne’s grin was vulpine, as she stood straight, spinning slowly around to face away from Pansy and Harry, and the two layers of fabric over her arse did absolutely nothing to hide its form from her observers. Her thighs were thick in the way that only a difficult-to-attain mix of muscle and softness could be, her calves similarly round but strong, but Pansy was fairly sure that she could spend literal hours just kneading, slapping, and otherwise appreciating Daphne’s backside.

                “Fuck,” Harry breathed beside her, and for once Pansy was not inclined to offer a rebuke. Daphne continued her writhing display, making a show of reaching behind her back to begin undoing the ties of her bustier, each knot coming undone just a bit more quickly than the one before it. As the garment dropped to the floor, Daphne turned with her arms raised above her head, revealing her own bra-clad breasts.

                Merlin, what breasts they were. If Pansy were to be completely objective, she probably had Daphne beat in that particular department, but she’d seen few other women who would have competed favourably against either of them. Daphne’s bra was a mix of lace and nearly transparent silk, offering glimpses of barely-hidden flesh beneath the swirling design of the fabric.

                Words were becoming rapidly unnecessary, as Daphne approached the couch again, putting a hand on the inside of the knee of each of Potter and Pansy, pushing their legs slightly apart while they remained in very close contact with one another. As Daphne perched so that she had one of her own knees between the legs of each of her guests, she leaned forwards, offering an unimpaired view down the front of her bra. Pansy caught the briefest (too fucking brief) glimpse of pink areolae before Daphne straightened, leaning back in a way that showcased the lines of her abdominal muscles and the exceptional structure of her hips.

                “That’s all?” Daphne asked, a mocking pout in the tone of her voice. “Just your shirts, then?”  

                Pansy did not wait to ask him before her hand snaked between Daphne’s knee and Potter, going for his belt.


                Well, this is turning out better than I expected, Harry thought, as Daphne swayed above him while Pansy fished as his belt. He’d found himself at a loss for words a while ago, and was thankful to whatever forces had conspired to put him in this situation that these two stunningly beautiful witches seemed perfectly content to continue Daphne’s game on their own volition without requiring his input.

                In truth, he suspected that he was likely to run out of the blood required to keep his brain running pretty soon, his cock already halfway to hardness without actually being touched yet, despite his own (ridiculous, even to him) efforts to keep his body under control. He bit down on his tongue to stifle a moan as the back of Pansy’s hand grazed against his developing erection as she undid the zipper of his pants, thrusting his hips forwards without any further encouragement required as Daphne helped to pull his pants the rest of the way down.

                “Very nice, Harry,” Daphne drawled, as she moved to a kneeling position in front of him, her arms placed perfectly to push her breasts forward towards her audience. “Still only counts if it’s both of you.”

                He didn’t wait for further instruction, gripping the side of Pansy’s dress and yanking it downwards, a brief yelp escaping her lips as he used the hand he had behind her back to lift her hips up and allow him to slide the dress off her entirely. Her tits bounced as she returned to leaning against him, sending another thrill through his body that terminated between his legs.

                While he hadn’t exactly been chaste in recent times, it had been a while since he’d had sex, and he’d never managed to find his way into a threesome before. It wasn’t like he’d ever considered Pansy to be bad-looking or anything like that, but he’d never seriously considered what it would be like to fuck her before this night.

                Not that he was the focus of her attention, a fact that he didn’t blame Pansy for in the slightest: Daphne was long known as one of the most beautiful witches at Hogwarts even when they were teens, and she’d somehow become more attractive as she’d grown into an adult. The actual, literal strip-tease she was performing only added to her appeal.

                “My stockings, maybe?” Daphne asked, continuing her game.

                “No,” Harry interrupted whatever Pansy was going to say, surprising himself with how rough his voice sounded, “your garter belt. I want to see your arse.”

                “Best idea you’ve had all night, Potter,” Pansy interjected, speaking directly to him for the first time in the last few minutes. Harry became a little more consciously aware of how warm she felt against his side, the bare skin of their torsos touching at the waist, their legs pressed together, his hand resting at her back just above the curve of her ass.

                Daphne stood smoothly, wriggling her hips as she slowly, methodically undid the clasps attached to her stockings. Harry and Pansy let out groans together as Daphne bent at the waist, pulling the garter belt over her incredible legs, revealing the lacy set of butterfly-styled underwear that disappeared between her luscious ass cheeks.

                Harry believed, honestly and truly, that Daphne Greengrass may have had the finest arse he’d ever laid his eyes on. The prospect of laying something more than eyes on her was the last straw for what remained of his self-control, as he felt blood pumping into his cock, his erection beginning to strain against his underwear.

                “Mmh,” Daphne muttered, her eyes sliding over her guests, lingering at Harry’s waist, then glancing downwards, “you get a freebie, wearing just socks would look ridiculous, Harry.”

                She actually crawled towards him as she knelt, her hands running down the inside of his thighs, as she pulled his socks off. Harry was left speechless as she stood, exaggeratedly raising her arse above her shoulders before the rest of her body followed.

                “Potter,” Pansy gasped, “front clasp.”

                As Harry grasped her meaning, Daphne sat fully on Pansy’s lap, her legs straddling both Harry and Pansy as she rocked her hips towards the other woman. Not wasting any time, Harry’s hand went to the front of Pansy’s bra, briefly roaming over her own lacy apparel before he found the clasp.

                Pansy’s bra fell open, revealing her outright incredible breasts – were it not for a barely-noticeable trail of freckles at the top of her chest, Harry would have suspected that Pansy’s chest had been crafted by magic to be perfect, her tits were so round, full, and firm. Small, dark nipples drew his eye, small bits of glittering silver indicating the piercing in each one.

                Harry sucked in breath in awe as Daphne leaned forwards, planting her hands firmly on Pansy’s tits, and pressing her face forward into Pansy’s to snare one of Pansy’s lips between her own. This sight marked another first for Harry’s sexual adventures, as he’d never been privy to witness two women going at each other with quite the intensity or sheer eroticism that Pansy and Daphne were now putting on display.

                He was almost too awe-struck to move, until Daphne pulled back from Pansy, her chest heaving with breath, pupils wide with lust. She glanced towards Harry, made a small “tch” sound, then removed one of her hands from Pansy in order to take Harry’s free hand and plant it firmly on her arse. The first squeeze that Harry took fulfilled all his expectations, and the feel of Pansy’s fingers digging into his hip as it was her turn to take a shuddering breath only enhanced the sensation.

                As quickly as one of the snakes of her former house, Daphne moved seamlessly from Pansy to Harry, pressing her lips against his and gently seeking his mouth with her tongue. On top of everything else, she was an excellent kisser, her tongue dancing against his with skill and her lips moving to capture his at any time they had to pause for breath.

                “Daph,” Pansy almost whined, “We took more clothes off, it’s your turn.”

                Harry could feel Daphne’s lips quirk into a smile against his, and without hesitation shifted her position to reach behind herself, unclasping her bra. Once more, Pansy and Harry moaned in concert – while not quite as large or as round as Pansy’s breasts, Daphne’s tits were definitely at least a handful in size, slightly fuller at the bottom in a way that imparted a very slight up-turn to the rosy nipples surrounded by faint, pink areolae which capped her breasts.

                He scarcely had time to appreciate the sight fully before Daphne reached behind his head, pulling his face against her chest, and he felt Pansy receive the same treatment beside him, their faces pressed side-by-side as each began to lavish Daphne’s breasts with attention. Harry gripped Daphne’s ass firmly, pulling her closer to the pair on the couch, her knees sliding easily between each of her guest’s parted legs to push against their respective sexes.

                All too quickly, Daphne withdrew from her guests, standing from the couch, and sashaying to the other end of it.

                “Enough games.” She stated, confidently.

                Daphne leaned back, extending her legs fully into the air as she slid her panties off, displaying her pink, lustrous pussy with the slightest strip of fine blonde hair above it.

                “Come over here.” She commanded.


                 Fuck. Daphne had never taken two partners at once before, and was finding herself enjoying this experience more than she had imagined when she’d first made the impulsive choice to insert herself into the sexual tension going on between Harry and Pansy. Fucking… wow.

                Though she didn’t object to taking the more authoritative role she’d just been playing, Daphne usually found that she preferred to be the one who was, if not quite submissive, following the other person’s lead. With the two in front of her, who both stared at her with naked lust in their eyes as Pansy untangled herself from Harry, prowling towards Daphne on all fours, she was very, very curious to see what form their desires would take.

                She would not complain if it wound up that she was the object of both of their attention, but what she really wanted to see was the first moment where the two of them actually started acknowledging each other.

                There was time to worry about that later, she knew, as her thoughts were instead consumed by the fact that Pansy had crawled over top of her, their breasts crushing together as Pansy seized Daphne’s mouth in a fierce kiss. Pansy was the more aggressive of the two, with teeth nipping and her tongue thrusting as if she were claiming ownership of Daphne’s mouth.

                A second set of hands trailed down her body, gently tweaking a nipple, before continuing downwards, avoiding her pussy (Daphne would have been disappointed, were it not for Pansy’s actions more than compensating) and trailing up her legs. Harry’s hands, stronger and rougher than she would have expected, exerted the subtlest amount of pressure to push her legs apart.

                 “Ohh,” she moaned, as she felt his tongue graze against the junction of her leg and her hip. Her attention was immediately refocused on Pansy, who had pinched one of her nipples, peppering kisses and bites against the side of Daphne’s neck. Not to be outdone, Harry deftly brushed along her slit with the very tip of his tongue, his approach light and teasing where Pansy was hot and heavy in her affection.

                The contrast only added to Daphne’s enjoyment, her nerves practically sparking with anticipation as her two newest lovers set about their worship of her body: Pansy squeezing Daphne’s breasts together and rolling her nipples between her fingers in one moment, Harry’s hands pushing underneath her arse to lift her pussy against his mouth the next.

                 “How’s she taste, Potter,” Pansy hissed, not sounding like a question but more like a command.

                 “Incredible,” Harry answered, before resuming his ministrations.

                 “Shove off,” Pansy continued, sliding down the couch towards where Harry was crouched. “I want a turn.”
                Harry did not reply, merely pursing his lips against Daphne’s clit in a way that drew a choked moan from her. Daphne saw Pansy frown in a way that looked distinctly like a pout, and reached out to try and draw the woman back into another kiss, but Pansy was not to be deterred.

                “Not that you even know what you’re doing,” Pansy sneered, grabbing one of Daphne’s legs and swinging it up and then over herself. “Here, watch this.”

                Daphne could have died in that very moment and been content with her sexual history – when Harry paused to look up in curiosity, Pansy had lunged forwards, her tongue pressing inside Daphne, flicking and rolling expertly.

                “Fuck!” Daphne cried as a slender finger entered her, her next cry becoming wordless and insensible as Pansy’s digit was pressed upwards by the entrance of a second, thicker finger. Her hands thrashed around her head, out of her conscious control, finally settling on the backs of the heads of the two people knelt between her legs, both seemingly devoted to proving their own talents at eating her pussy.

                If this was the form their competition took, Daphne had no complaints, bucking and writhing, their two tongues dancing along her sex, at times Pansy pressing roughly forwards, at others Harry delicately teasing her with light touches.

                “FuckfuckfuckFUCK” Daphne screamed, as both of them looked up at her, two pairs of green eyes under black hair staring at her with abject hunger as their fingers curled into her g-spot, their tongues dancing together over her clit. The orgasm left her legs twitching, her pelvis pushing up towards the ceiling.

                As thought returned to her through the orgasmic haze, she saw Harry and Pansy, sitting side by side, staring at each other with a look that was between a challenge and desire.


                He practically throbbed with excitement, looking into Pansy’s eyes, both of them panting for breath despite not being the target of their shared activity. Does that count as snogging? Harry wondered, almost laughing at the oddness of the situation, to wonder whether or not going down on a woman together had counted as kissing Pansy fucking Parkinson.

                “I want,” Pansy gasped, turning from Harry, “I want you to repay the favour now, Daph.” She crawled back towards Daphne, who was sprawled out, her skin flushed and an unfocused smile on her face. “Potter, I expect you can amuse yourself.”

                Harry did, in fact, have an idea of how to do that, glancing towards Daphne, who nodded and muttered something like the word “potion” under her breath, assuaging his concerns about protection before he even needed to ask.

                In an evening filled with many of the more erotic sights he’d ever witnessed, Pansy pulling her underwear down, swinging a leg over Daphne’s head, and planting her pussy firmly against the other woman’s mouth had to rank near the top. Hurriedly removing his own underwear, Harry crouched forward, running his hands softly against the insides of Daphne’s thighs, who eagerly spread her legs at his hint.

                Harry pushed forwards, sliding his cock inside her slowly, an excruciatingly pleasurable sensation as the slick warmth surrounded him. One of his hands went to Daphne’s breasts as if by instinct, the other gripping her hip, pulling her against him as he gradually began to thrust in earnest.

                Across from him, Pansy moaned, clutching her own breasts, as she rode Daphne’s face. Apparently, the blonde could give as well as she got, judging by the flush creeping up Pansy’s neck and the satisfied expression on her face, eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open.

                 Harry was struck by one of the more absurd thoughts he’d never considered before: was it rude to stare at the other participant of a threesome? Pansy and him hadn’t really done anything with each other, technically, was he supposed to focus entirely on Daphne?

                Thankfully, Pansy helped to answer this question for him without it needing to be asked, as her eyes fluttered open and her gaze swept over Harry down to where his cock was pistoning in and out of Daphne’s sex.

                “Not bad, Potter” Pansy started, her smug tone undercut by the tiny gasp in the middle of her words, “but you aren’t using it right.”

                “I don’t get many complaints, Parkinson,” Harry answered, leaning forwards to increase the depth of his thrusts despite his confident statement.

                “Here,” Pansy continued, “This is how it's done. Merlin's sake, you won't break her.”

                She leaned forwards, grabbing Daphne’s legs behind the knee, pulling them towards herself and changing the angle of Harry’s penetration to one that, judging by the muffled moans coming from between Pansy’s legs, was very enjoyable for Daphne. It also brought Harry and Pansy closer together, turning the position into something vaguely resembling a triangle with Daphne at the base, and Harry and Pansy at either side.

                “Honestly, you’re helpless, aren’t you,” Pansy breathed, the blush reaching her face. Fuck, she’s beautiful.

                Impulsively, Harry chose not to answer with words, instead breaching the distance between the two of them, seizing one of her nipple piercings in his hand and twisting, not hard enough to hurt, but too firmly to be ignored.

                At the same time as he realized that he could have just made a grave misstep of Pansy’s boundaries, Pansy froze – not in fear or surprise, but with a nearly-silent moan as her mouth formed a perfect “o” shape as she came. Harry’s fleeting worries disappeared entirely as her orgasm abated, Pansy leaning forwards, lifting off of Daphne’s face (whose legs fell onto Harry’s shoulders), crushing her face into his and pushing her tongue into his mouth.

                Harry was amazed that he still registered the muttered “oh, fuck that’s hot” coming from Daphne as he and Pansy attacked each other’s faces, gripping her breasts as he began to thrust wildly into Daphne, Pansy’s hand trailing down his body and between Daphne’s legs where she began to rub at Daphne’s clit.

                Daphne’s second orgasm of the night pushed Harry’s cock out of her entirely, her legs falling from his shoulders. She muttered something, her words indistinct and mostly consisting of vaguely pleasurable sounds. Pansy detached from Harry, sidling along Daphne, stroking the other woman’s breasts and kissing (surprisingly gently, for Pansy’s approach so far) the side of her face and neck.

                His cock still bobbed hard between his legs as if in protest, but Harry was content to just watch the scene of surprising tenderness as he caught his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. Daphne gently pulled Pansy against her, then overtop of her, Pansy’s back arching, her serpent tattoo writhing as her ass wiggled from side to side.  

                It was, surprisingly, Daphne who first broke the reprieve, her hands coming down hard over Pansy and onto her ass, firmly gripping a cheek in each hand. Daphne proceeded to spread Pansy open, pulling the globes of her ass apart and revealing her shining, entirely-shaved sex and small, pink arsehole.

                “Harry.” Daphne said, and he understood, moving towards the pair of women. He worried, momentarily, that Pansy hadn’t been the one to tell him to come fuck her, but since she seemed to favour action over words, he tried to put this concern out of mind as he slid the head of his cock against her soaking pussy. When Pansy pushed back against him, hard, sheathing him entirely inside her in one strong thrust, he stopped worrying and started to fully enjoy himself.  


                Pansy was dying. Or dead.

                She was sure of it.

                This had to be one of the more unusual variations of heaven.

                Nothing else could explain the madness of this situation, with Daphne Greengrass pressed against her chest, sucking on her ear, and Harry fucking Potter, well, fucking her. His cock filled her very, very well, and a stray thought in the back of her head told her that she’d been missing out on being fucked like this for Merlin knows how long.

                She pressed her fingers into Daphne, curling upwards, fucking the blonde woman with her fingers as Harry fucked Pansy herself from behind, her motions rough, needful. Harry leaned over her to kiss Daphne as Pansy took the opportunity to bite at Daphne’s neck, then her other hand somehow found its way into Harry’s black hair, pulling his mouth away from Daphne to her own.

                Things continued like this, for how long Pansy could never say, as rational thought and the ability to keep track of time disappeared in the press of the three bodies rocking against each other on Daphne’s couch, Pansy rapidly discovering the benefits of having a beautiful woman underneath her and an admittedly fit man overtop her.

                As their bodies collided, a trio connected through sex, their kisses grew desperate, sloppy. Sometimes she’d kiss Daphne, sometimes Harry would. Sometimes Harry would bite at the side of her neck or nibble at her ear, other times it was Daphne doing so as her and Harry danced their tongues together. At one point, the three of them had all pressed their faces together, a messy, wet, three-person kiss where each of them kissed the other two at once.

                It was Daphne who broke first, crying out a moan, her hips jerking and pussy spasming around Pansy’s fingers, who was not going to take it easy on Greengrass; her efforts were rewarded as Daphne screamed, a gush of fluid splashing against Pansy’s waist, a moan escaping both hers and Harry’s lips as Harry began thrusting more wildly, less timed, striking deep spots inside of her that sent waves crashing through her pussy.

                “Fuck. Fuck. Daph!.. Harry!” Pansy moaned as her orgasm overtook her, her entire body going rigid, dimly aware that Daphne had hooked her legs around both her and Harry, holding Harry’s hips against Pansy, ensuring that as his own breaths grew ragged and he came with a growled “Fuck!” that he filled her with his cum, setting off a secondary, smaller orgasm in Pansy, moaning her approval out loud.

                Pansy lost track of how many minutes the trio spent laying atop of each other, eventually rolling apart but laying side-by-side on Daphne’s couch, Pansy arranged between Harry and Daphne and all three idly playing with each others’ hair, or stroking skin, or gently gripping different parts of each others’ bodies.

                Eventually, Daphne disentangled herself from the other two, standing, stretching in a way that reminded Pansy of a tiger at rest.

                “I’m going to bed,” Daphne announced, her tone only slightly imperious. “You’re both coming.”

                Mm. Pansy thought. I’ll bet. Her and Harry languidly arose, exchanging a couple of glances that promised some kind of discussion to happen later, but at this point, Pansy was perfectly content to enjoy the rest of the night (and perhaps morning) and leave that conversation for another day.

                There’s always another chance to be on their best behaviour, after all.

Chapter Text


                She trailed behind Harry, shamelessly checking out his arse as they followed Daphne into her bedroom, once again quietly nursing the thought that she’d missed out by not taking advantage of this opportunity sooner. Though she’d nursed a pleasant buzz for most of the evening, she definitely couldn’t – not that Pansy Parkinson needs to make excuses, thank you – blame her attraction to him on anything she’d had drink.

                In this intermission between the sex and, hopefully, round two, Pansy felt something that wasn’t a worry, per se, but wasn’t the most confident feeling either. Entering Daphne’s bedroom, where she reclined on her large bed – if she painted herself in that pose, it might well be my favourite piece of art, she thoughtPansy took the opportunity to duck into the ensuite loo.

                As she cleaned herself up, she cycled through the possible origins of this… feeling. Jealousy? No, she wasn’t jealous of Daphne (considering how attracted she was to the blonde), and her and Harry had basically shared the witch between them. Insecurity? Hardly. Regret? Considering that the thought of returning to the pair in bed sent a thrill down her spine, not that either.

                Ah. She realized, as she reminisced briefly about the course of the night’s activities. It had been Harry who had first made a move on her, then Daphne who had encouraged him to come over and fuck her already. That was the source of this… restlessness. If pressed to answer, Pansy would probably identify herself as a switch, and she certainly had no complaints if the sex had gotten a little rougher, but no matter whether she was the one taking it or dishing it out, she enjoyed control.

                Pansy dried her hands, putting an extra sway into her hips as she returned to the bedroom. Harry and Daphne lay entwined on the bed, not actively doing anything, but clearly not that far from starting up again. Well, Pansy thought, this won’t do. She tsked as she approached the bed, crawling over top of the pair, quite pleased with the way they looked staring up at her.

                 “Hm,” She said, idly toying with a lock of Daphne’s hair. “Why aren’t you two fucking?”

                 “Er,” Harry replied, clearly not expecting her bluntness, “you were in the other room…”

                 “Mm,” Pansy didn’t wait for him to continue, gripping his cock as she met Daphne’s gaze. The blonde’s blue eyes sparkled with interest: she, at least, was picking up on Pansy’s overture. Not that Harry was exactly unresponsive, as she felt his cock beginning to stiffen in her grasp. With her free hand, she grabbed Daphne behind the knee, pulling to direct her on top of Harry.

                Momentarily releasing him, Pansy licked her palm lasciviously, moistening her hand, then beginning to jerk his cock in earnest. Harry moaned, a sound quickly cut off by Daphne’s lips, as Pansy appreciated the sight of the two pressed together chest-to-chest, Daphne’s legs spread over Harry’s hips. She slapped one of Daphne’s arse cheeks, repaying her for earlier, feeling Harry throb in her hand.

                He does have a gorgeous cock, she thought: long enough to stop just short of “intimidating”, thick enough that while she could fit one hand around his girth, it was a near thing. Pansy ran her fingertips along Daphne’s pussy, finding the other witch to be deliciously wet, which Pansy supposed made sense given her recent, squirting orgasm.

                Finding Harry to have reached full stiffness, she pressed his erection alongside Daphne’s sex, the remainder of his length nearly enveloped by the blonde’s luscious arse. A muffled moan from Daphne was met by a twitch of her hips, which in turn brought a moan from Harry as his cock slid against Daphne, stimulating, but not yet penetrating.

                Pansy luxuriated in this sight, thoroughly enjoying the lewd image of her two most recent lovers’ most intimate parts pressed against each other, yet not able to fully join together until Pansy decided it was time. A fact not lost on her partners.

                 “Fuck…” Harry grunted, after a particularly vigorous thrust from Daphne brought them so close that her pussy lips had actually slid over either side of his shaft.

                 “Oh, not yet,” Pansy drawled, “personally, I’m enjoying this.”

                 “Pansy…” Daphne interjected, her voice strained with lust.

                 “What’s that, Greengrass?” Pansy inquired, gripping Harry by the base and slapping his cock against Daphne’s wet pussy, delighting in the positively smutty sound that resulted. “Want something?”

                 “Put him inside me…” Daphne whined. “Please?”

                 “Well, since you asked nicely…” Pansy responded, pushing Daphne’s hips forward with one hand, and slowly, torturously dragging the head of Harry’s cock towards her entrance. She noted Daphne shiver as the head passed over her arsehole – intriguing, but not right now – and the blonde outright shuddered when she pressed Harry’s member against Daphne’s soaked pussy.

                Both of her partners moaned as Pansy guided Harry’s cock into Daphne, keeping a firm grip on Daphne’s hip as Pansy ensured that this penetration took as long as possible to complete. When Harry bottomed out inside the blonde (a process which took a substantial amount of time, given his length), Pansy moved her hand to meet the other one on either side of Daphne’s arse, clutching two spectacular handfuls of her cheeks.

                Pansy continued to control the pace of their fucking, at times forcing Daphne down against Harry’s hips with force, at others dragging her slowly along his member with patience that - judging by her plaintive moans - the blonde witch lacked herself. Pansy shifted her own position, moving behind Daphne, close enough to thrust her own hips against the woman’s incredible arse.

                This arrangement did not provide much in the way of physical stimulation, but Pansy found the sight absolutely satisfying, as if she were fucking both Daphne and Harry each time she thrusted forwards, driving the blonde against Harry’s cock. Definitely have to bring my strap-on next time, she thought.

                She moved one of her hands from Daphne’s hips to her hair, carefully knotting her fingers into the blonde tresses and pulling Daphne’s head back, pulling her upright so that her back was now pressed against Pansy’s chest. This angle allowed Pansy even more control over her partners’ pace, Daphne’s hips nestled neatly into her own. She also enjoyed the clear view of both of their faces, Daphne with a slight blush, unfocused, and Harry’s eyes practically glazed over with lust.

                 “Pansy,” Harry moaned. She kissed Daphne instead of replying, pretending as if she hadn’t heard him. “C’mere.”

                 “Afraid I’ve got my hands full right now,” Pansy answered, gripping Daphne’s tits for emphasis.

                 “I wanna touch you,” Harry argued, his words cut off as Pansy thrust aggressively against Daphne, pushing Harry deep inside her. Well, she supposed that was a fair point. Pansy moved – as gracefully as was possible, given her current position – around Daphne, remaining lip-locked with the other woman as she did so.

                Wasting no time, Harry reached between her legs, his fingertips brushing against Pansy’s pussy. Okay, she thought, this is better. No longer directly in contact with Pansy, save for their continuing snogging session and mutual groping of each other’s breasts, Daphne began to move at her own rhythm, rocking her hips against Harry, who – not bad, Potter – began to thrust his fingers inside Pansy at a matching pace.

                The pace of all three began to speed up, Pansy rocking herself against Harry’s hand, as Daphne began to bounce up and down in her own gyrations, which had a positively delightful effect on her breasts. Pansy’s orgasm came upon her almost by surprise, Harry’s fingers pressing against her g-spot as his thumb wrapped around to brush against her clit, her breath escaping her lungs in an unexpected moan.

                Her body practically collapsed underneath her as her orgasm abated, her limbs delightfully jelly-like in her blissful daze. She wound up laying beside Harry, watching Daphne squeezing one of her own breasts as she rode his cock.

                 “You’d better not finish until she does, Potter,” Pansy whispered in his ear, extending her tongue for the briefest instant to lick delicately along his earlobe.

                Harry grunted a reply, his hands coming down firmly on Daphne’s hips, as he began to thrust up into her, taking control of the pace. Daphne seemed quite pleased with this development, falling forwards onto Harry’s chest once more, and Pansy idly extended her own hand to join one of Harry’s on Daphne’s arse.

                The blonde didn’t last long under this stimulation, crying out as her orgasm took her, though Harry’s grasp kept his cock buried within her even as she tensed and spasmed.

                 “Good boy,” Pansy whispered to Harry, pressing a soft kiss under his jawline. “Now, cum for us. Cum.”

                He did, gloriously, his muscles standing out along his torso as he made one, final, powerful thrust into Daphne. The blonde lay bonelessly atop him, a dreamy, spaced-out look on her face, as all three members of this trio caught their breaths.

                 “Mmm,” Daphne finally spoke, “that was amazing. I’m gonna wash up, then let’s get a bit of rest.”

                Harry made a noise that was something like agreement, as he remained sprawled on her bed while Daphne got up, and Pansy didn’t even bother finding a snarky comment to say as she basked in the afterglow, feeling sleep approaching.



                Harry awoke to, of all things, the chiming of an alarm clock. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Daphne and Pansy cuddled up together, their blonde and black hair mingling together against the pillow they were sharing. He was also conscious of the small jolt this sight sent through his groin, apparently still not quite sated despite the evening’s considerable efforts.

                “Mmm,” Daphne awoke next, stretching. “Good morning, you two.”

                Pansy’s response wasn’t quite in English, muttering something and nestling against the pillow.

                “That was lovely,” Daphne continued, “but I’m supposed to meet my sister for lunch today. I’m afraid I am going to need to kick you two out pretty soon.”

                Pansy made another grumbling noise, but sat up, blinking her eyes. Harry started to stand from the bed, finding his glasses and putting them on. He made his way back to Daphne’s living room, tracking down the various discarded pieces of his outfit from the night before, beginning to dress himself and pointedly ignoring the different thoughts that threatened to become “worries” beginning to pop into his head.

                Pansy was next into the living room, followed close behind by Daphne, who now wore a bathing robe. Pansy took a bit longer than Harry had to track down her own discarded garments, evidently not a morning person by any stretch.

                “Sorry to be so abrupt about this,” Daphne spoke, “but I simply hadn’t planned ahead when I told Astoria I’d meet her this afternoon.”

                “S’all good,” Harry answered, finishing the buttons on his shirt. He threw his jacket over his shoulders, but didn’t bother with his tie or unrolling the sleves of his shirt.  

                Pansy groaned something like “Murgh,” then became somewhat more eloquent when she asked “Time is it, anyways?”

                “Half past nine,” Daphne answered, entirely too chipper for how early it was on a Sunday.

                “Fuck,” Pansy continued, “No way Blaise will be done with his friend yet.”

                There was a moment of silence, as Daphne glanced towards Harry, quirking an eyebrow.

                “Er,” Harry started, “I was thinking of making some breakfast, if you want.”

                “Merlin, yes,” Pansy replied, fastening her bra. She hadn’t come close to bothering with putting her dress back on.

                “Mm,” Daphne interjected, “sounds lovely. I wish I could join, but I’m off to the shower.”

                She stepped between Harry and Pansy, throwing her arms around either one. Daphne kissed Pansy first, then Harry – lips closed, but definitely not chaste – before turning to stride to her bathroom.

                “You both have LetterBooks, yes?” Daphne asked, referring to the recently-popular magical creations which allowed Witches and Wizards to exchange written messages with each other. Harry knew that both still lagged far behind the muggle inventions of e-mail or mobile phones, but it was a start.  Harry and Pansy both nodded in response.

                “Good! These,” Daphne continued, passing each a pen, “are bound to my book. Send me a note, yeah? I want to do this again, once you two have sorted out what you’re doing with each other, of course.”

                Harry gawped and was about to protest this unspoken assumption, but Daphne had, in a flurry, whirled around and left him and Pansy to their own devices. Looking at the confused Slytherin, Harry shrugged, extending the crook of his arm towards her. Pansy shrugged in response, accepting his arm, and with a crack, Harry apparated them to 12 Grimmauld Place.



                “You live in a fucking mansion?” Pansy nearly shrieked in surprise after catching her bearings.

                “Er,” Harry began to answer, “kinda? I guess?”

                “It’s bigger than Malfoy Manor! What the fuck, Harry!”

                “It was the Black family manse,” He elaborated, shrugging. “Ugh, which reminds me…”

                As he spoke, the very figure that he was about to warn Pansy about made his own presence known: “Master!” Shrieked Kreacher, “Kreacher was very confused! It is not like Master to stay out! Oh,” the House Elf’s rant was interrupted as he finally seemed to notice Pansy standing beside Harry. Right. Harry remembered. She’s still in her knickers and not much else.  “Master has a guest. What is this one?”

                “Pansy Parkinson,” Pansy answered, an amused smirk turning her lips.

                “Parkinson… Parkinson…” Kreacher muttered, thinking, “Oh! A proper pureblood house! Kreacher is happy, Master! Kreacher approves, much better than the other ones you’ve brought around!”

                “Ah, er,” Harry interrupted the ancient creature before he could continue spouting off, “I will be entertaining for breakfast, Kreacher, I trust the kitchen is clean?”

                “Oh, yes, Master, of course,” Kreacher replied with odious obedience, “Kreacher has run out of things to clean!”

                “Very good,” Harry grumbled – giving the old elf time to be idle was not in anyone’s best interests. “Please await my next commands, Kreacher, but amuse yourself in the mean time.”

                The elderly elf bowed, then disappeared, presumably to go engage in his usual, not at all unsettling rituals in the attic.

                “Didn’t figure you for the House Elf type,” Pansy observed, her smirk even wider than before, “what with what Granger spews on about and all.”

                “Kreacher… came with the house,” Harry explained, “He’s ancient, and half-demented, I suspect. It would be cruel both to him and to everyone else to release him at this point. Anyways, breakfast.”

                He led Pansy to the kitchen, but kept it to himself that it was Harry himself who had made sure to clean the room before he’d left for the weekend – Kreacher meant well enough and all, but his own grasp of where pots or knives were meant to be stored was “baffling” at best, “terrifying” at worst. Harry cracked the kitchen windows, fishing his ash tray out of the sink. Accio cigarettes he thought, casting a wordless and wandless spell, the pack of Dunhills slapping into his hand.

                “How d’you take your eggs?” Harry asked, as he took a pan out from the cupboard. “Coffee? Tea?” He was not babbling.

                “Mm,” Pansy answered, “I was actually thinking of going for a shower. What, your elf doesn’t cook?”

                “He wouldn’t poison us on purpose,” Harry chuckled, “Accidentally? That’s another matter.”

                “Hmm.” A thought ran through Pansy’s head, but Harry couldn’t guess what it was. “Runny, and coffee, please. You don’t mind if I shower alone? I could kill for one.”

                “Help yourself,” Harry answered, “Upstairs, to the right. There should be a spare towel.”

                Pansy made a pleased sound, and turned to follow Harry’s directions. He did not stare at her arse as she climbed the stairs, his sustained glance in that direction was surely just to make sure she had the correct room in mind.

                Okay, he thought, maybe I’m a bit rattled. Daphne’s parting comment echoed in his mind, and Harry – as he so frequently did – began to worry. Was Pansy expecting something… more? He wondered, or was it just a shag? Fuck me, he realized, we’re going to have to talk about it.


                “So,” Astoria said, leaning over her cup of tea conspiratorially, “Did you have a chance to talk to Harry?”

                “Stori!” Daphne cried, purposefully banishing the events of the previous night from her thoughts, “I should have known that Ronald wouldn’t have brought it up without asking you first!”

                “Oh, you can’t blame me,” Astoria replied, “you know I always want what’s best for you. I just happen to think you’d make a good pair.”

                “And why’s that,” Daphne inquired, “because he’s rich, and the head of at least two noble houses?”

                “Daph!” Astoria rebuked, “I’m not always political. If you must know, it’s not, it’s because he’s a kind man, he’s smart, and most importantly, he’s a strong man.”

                Daphne quirked an eyebrow, sipping her tea and letting Astoria continue.

                “I know you can be temperamental – no, don’t try and argue it – and from everything Ron has shared with me I know that Harry can be the same way. Despite this, he’s come to find some kind of peace, and I find that admirable.” Astoria sipped her own tea. “If you were being… dramatic, and you needed help to calm down? I think he’d be good at that. If you were angry with cause? Merlin, I think that people might be more afraid of him than they would be of me.”

                “You do have a fearsome reputation,” Daphne agreed.

                “That’s really what I’m getting at, Daph,” Astoria kept going, apparently full of praise for Harry. “I love you, and I will always support you, but Ron and I are about to begin our own family, and there are going to be times where I simply can’t be there for you. I’m not asking you to promise anything, I’m just putting my own opinion out there. I’d approve, is all.”

                “No doubt that our parents would, as well,” Daphne bitterly opined.

                “Do you know why I married Ron?” Astoria asked. Daphne found this question surprisingly difficult to answer, while she’d always liked the Weasley man well enough, she’d never quite grasped why Astoria had fallen so quickly and deeply in love with him. “He’s funny. He’s got a wit that he keeps well-hidden. He’s kind and passionate, and he’s a family man.” Astoria dropped her voice, leaning across the table. “He’s got a considerable todger.” Daphne could have spat her tea out. “Those are some of the reasons I love him. But, yes, I must be honest with you: the fact that he’s from a good house, but is far enough down the line that our own children will be Greengrass heirs who won’t challenge for any Weasley inheritance does make it easier.”

                “But it wasn’t about his house, was it?” Daphne inquired.

                “Of course not.” Astoria leaned back into her seat, Daphne noticing how she moved more cautiously than was typical of her. “But we do have to consider these matters, as this is what drives an unsettling amount of the politics in our world. The fact that there weren’t any problems was the most important thing, because while Love is a fantastic and wonderful thing, it is not itself in enough to build a life around:  you need shared goals, a common cause, and if you decide to overlook any roadblocks that might occur?” She slapped her hands together, miming a collision. “It gets a lot harder.”

                “So of course,” Daphne snarked, “the Lord Potter-Black…”

                “All I’m saying, Daph,” Astoria cut her off, “I want to see my sister happy, with a good partner, one who can take care of her and support her, I want the best for you. The fact that he’s probably the most powerful individual wizard in our society means that he might very well be the best. I’m not going to leave that unspoken.”

                “Mm,” Daphne answered, noncommittal. “I see your point, I suppose.”

                “So, when I sit you and him together at our next dinner,” Astoria raised her cup to her mouth, “where Ron and I are announcing our child…  you won’t kick up a fuss?”

                Any remaining snark disappeared as Daphne was instead filled with a thrill for her sister, she’d long known how important a family was to Astoria.

                “Anyways, if it turns out you just want to shag him,” Astoria smirked, “then I don’t think that’s a problem either.”

“Stori!” Daphne chastised, “I don’t just shag anyone who’s fit and I run across!”

“Oh, you think he’s fit?” Astoria’s smirk was infuriating. “I’ve heard he’s a good lay, at that.” Daphne could have gasped. “What? Witches talk.” Astoria sipped her tea, seemingly tranquil despite having thoroughly flustered Daphne. Well, Daphne thought, she doesn’t know that he is one half of a hell of a duo, at least.

“To be political,” Astoria continued, “did you speak to Pansy Parkinson?”

                What. Daphne prayed that her reaction wasn’t obvious. “A little, why?”

                “She isn’t yet,” Astoria began to explain, “But she’s due for quite the resurgence in our circles. She’s having a party in two weeks, at her store, and I think you should go. It’ll be good if you can get your art displayed at what is due to become the place for fashionable young witches to shop.”

                Hmm, Daphne thought, that depends on what her and Harry are doing. Still, Potter and Parkinson as the allies Astoria wants me to build, if only she knew.


                Harry’s fucking mansion was decorated in a style that would have considered “spartan” décor to be frivolously luxurious, but she still detected hints here and there of Harry’s personal touch; it was not simply that he had decided not to decorate, but had clearly made a conscious decision to strip his (again, fucking huge) mansion down to the bare essentials.

                His master bathroom, at least, had more elements of luxury than what she’d seen of the rest of the house: a standing shower with a tiled bench built into the wall, and a separate claw-foot tub. While Pansy could easily have performed a quick cleaning charm, she found a certain appeal in rinsing what remained of her makeup off under the flowing water.

                Drying, she grabbed the bathrobe that was hanging from the back of the door, pleasantly surprised to find it plush and soft, not at all threadbare or “barely sufficient”. She drew it over her shoulders, it was substantially too long for her, but considering she hadn’t put on anything else, it would do.

                She returned to the kitchen just as Harry was plating their breakfast, wordlessly accepting the cup of coffee her offered to her, taking a seat at the central table as he sat across from her. They ate in silence, and she had to admit he certainly wasn’t a bad cook – not that eggs and toast were a particular culinary accomplishment, but he hadn’t made a burned mess out of the eggs as she was prone to doing.

                “Hair of the dog?” Harry was the first to speak, standing from the table and retrieving a bottle of whisky from his counter.

                “Please,” Pansy answered, extending her coffee mug towards him. He poured a generous helping, taking her empty plate away without needing to be asked.

                “Think I’m gonna shower too,” He spoke again, less wordy than he’d been the night before. “You can smoke by the window, if you want.”

                “Ta,” Pansy’s reply was equally brief, walking towards the window as she took advantage of his offer. As Harry disappeared upstairs, Pansy was left with her thoughts.

                She’d had one-night stands before, of course, and she’d had a couple ongoing arrangements that still remained within the boundaries of “casual”, but she was concerned that this didn’t seem quite like that.

                It wasn’t even that she was actively avoiding a relationship or anything, it just didn’t rank among her priorities at this point. Even if she were looking for one, she didn’t know if Harry fucking Potter was the person who might provide this kind of fit.

                Daphne, too, provided an additional complication. She’d thoroughly enjoyed shagging the witch, and Harry’s participation had been excellent as well, but the blonde had left her and Harry on a strange, confusing statement. Fucking Slytherins, she thought.

                All too quickly, Harry returned downstairs, and Pansy absolutely did not feel a surge of arousal at the way his t-shirt clung to his frame. His hair was still a bit damp, and he’d taken the opportunity to change into lounge pants and out of his somewhat-disheveled suit, but Pansy found that this look worked just as well.

                “So.” Harry said, letting the words hang in the air.

                “So.” Pansy replied, unwilling to budge.

                “Daphne seems to think we need to talk about something.”

                “We shagged,” Pansy stubbed out her cigarrete, “it doesn’t seem overly complicated.”

                “Mm,” Harry replied, a grunt that didn’t elaborate anything.

                “It’s sex, Potter,” Pansy continued. “I’m really not the kind of woman you want to get overly attached to. If you want to call it there, I understand.”

                Harry quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you really think I’ve never had casual sex, Parkinson?”

                “Well, I… I don’t know, really.” Pansy bit down on her lip, frustrated at herself for showing this uncertainty. “I thought you might get strange about it.”

                Harry chuckled, which only slightly frustrated her and slightly aroused her to realize that he was maintaining the edge that their conversations took.

                “I won’t get strange if you don’t,” He said, “if it happens again, you know.”

                “Oh?” Pansy questioned, “you think it will happen again, do you?”

                “Well,” Harry leaned against the counter, “I’m not doing anything the rest of the day.”

                If pressed, she’d admit that she was the first one to move towards him, but he reacted immediately as well, their bodies crushing together in the middle of his kitchen. She immediately wrapped her legs around him as they kissed, pleasantly surprised with the ease at which he carried her over his hips.

                As he turned to walk up the stairs towards his bedroom, she felt his cock hardening underneath her, beginning to press against her pussy through his robe she wore. Well, she thought, this will have to come off. Wouldn't want to get his robes all wet as a guest, after all.


                They’d fucked hard, and fast. As he crashed into his bed, Pansy beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, she divested herself immediately from his bathrobe, more quickly than he was able to pull his own t-shirt off. Her hands flew to his waistband, pushing his pants down, not even allowing him the time to kick them entirely free of his legs before she’d urged him forwards, sliding into her in one smooth, quick motion.

                Harry usually enjoyed some level of foreplay, but he was not going to complain about this turn of events. He immediately began to thrust hard, substantially enjoying the effect this had on her tits, as she lay half-propped against one of his pillows.

                “Harry,” She moaned, running one of her hands into his hair. Her fingers tightened, pulling his hair just short of it being painful. “Harder.

                Well, since she asked nicely… he began to throw more of his weight into his thrusts, their hips slapping together in an audibly erotic way. Pansy pulled his head down, but not to kiss – Harry felt a sting across his cheek as she had slapped him, again not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a surge of fire through his blood.

                “I said harder,” she snapped, the hitch in the middle of her words apparent, “fuck me like you hate me.”

                Harry didn’t answer, instead returning her slap: measuring his strength, making sure that he wouldn’t hurt her or even mark her skin, but making sure she knew that he was not going to be submissive to her right now.

He felt the briefest worry that this may have been wrong, having never actually slapped a woman across the face before, but the way her eyes dilated and her mouth hung open erased his fears. He imitated her, running his fingers into her hair, then pulling her head back by the roots of her hair.

                “Fuck you, Parkinson,” He spat, putting as much venom into the words as he could, at the same time pounding himself into her harder than he’d done yet.

                “Fuck yes, Potter,” She sneered back, her hips beginning to rise to meet his own thrusts, her tits bouncing wildly beneath him.

                It didn’t last much longer – not that it needed to, as mere seconds later Pansy stiffened, her neck going red in the way that Harry now knew meant she was reaching her orgasm. He continued as if he were unaffected, fucking her as hard as he was able to. His own peak rapidly approached, and when Pansy cried “onmytits Harry cumonmytits” in a desperate voice, it was the last stimulus he needed, pulling out to obey her request and cumming substantially across her breasts with a load groan.

                They collapsed together, Harry catching his breath, Pansy laying on her back, her hands tracing little patterns over her own skin. She nudged herself against him as she turned to her side, snuggling her arse against his hips (where his sensitive cock gave a little jump in response – apparently, he still wasn’t tapped out).

                “Harry?” She spoke, her voice dreamy, distant, “I don’t cuddle, okay?”

                He began to move his arm from its place around her, somewhat confused as she instead grabbed it to drape it more tightly over herself.

                “This is just too comfortable.”

                “Mm.” He grunted his response, sleep returning to him.


                It was just before dinner when Daphne’s LetterBook vibrated against her tabletop, its way of indicating that someone had written to her.

                Harry Potter, the words at the top read, then continued: “Hey, Daph. It’s Harry. Talked it out with Pansy, it sounds like ‘Friends with Benefits’, yeah?”

                “Harry!” Daphne wrote, “Good to hear! I like the sounds of that, too, if you’re interested?”

                “Obviously,” came the immediate response. Daphne smiled. While she wasn’t sure exactly what situation the three of them were beginning to navigate, this seemed like a nice, easy starting point.

                “So, is Pansy still there?” Daphne asked.

                “No, she’s left,” was the response.

                “And you shagged her again, right?” Daphne was hoping the bluntness surprised Harry a little.

                “Yeah,” he answered, “twice. Once in the bed, once in the shower.”

                “I want details, Harry,” Daphne wrote, “tell me all of it, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing right now.” Not one to create false impressions, she proceeded to slide her hand down the front of her panties, lightly toying with herself as Harry began to write about his morning, then afternoon with Pansy.

                Yes, she thought, this arrangement works.