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Blankets of Pansies

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She smelt him first, actually, slowly becoming aware he was standing right behind her. Her hand froze outstretched, as she reached to pluck an especially enticing set of dress robes from one of the topmost racks in Madam Malkin's, as he quietly wafted back into her life. "Hello, Potter." She grasped the dressrobes, bringing them with her as she stepped down.


She turned; it had been two years since she had last seen him.

"You've had your nose fixed," he noted.

"No. I just finally grew into it."


Pansy shrugged. Turning back she managed to work a second set of robes free from the high rack and she added it to the growing pile on a nearby chaise.

"Just exactly where have you been?" she asked.

"On the periphery, I suppose. I traveled quite a bit. Even saw Corfu."

"And did you find whatever it was you were looking for?"

"You know . . . I think I did. Thanks." He was examining her face carefully, finally finding a comfortable familiarity there; he let his own features relax. She considered him with a bemused smirk, looking him up and down.

Same messy black hair, but somehow more aesthetic than it ever was at Hogwarts. Fashionable glasses, finally. Pansy let her eyes drop. Oh my, those are -nice- shoes . . . .

"Here," she said, moving forward, and stuffing his arms full of her enormous pile of robes; she swept past him. "Keep me company." The tags scuttled against one another as he obligingly followed her to the dressing room. Harry hung the collection of robes on a heavy pewter hook inside the stall she selected and then stood aside as Pansy marched in, shutting the door behind her with a resounding thwack. He sat in a chair laid with pink and white silken upholstery, appreciating the shadowy glimpses of her sihouette flashing teasingly at him through the slats of the door as she undressed.

"The periwinkle one, please."

Harry handed the periwinkle robes through the door when she cracked it. Thwack. The door closed again.

"That'll be a good colour on you," he commented.

"Won't it be?"

He watched her hands rise above the elegant white door of the dressing room, milky and delicate; as the robes fell over her head, a brilliant flash of light glinted as she lowered her arms, momentarily blinding him. Then it was gone.

Thwack. She paraded out in a flowing swath of dusky blue.

"You like?" she asked, in that unique way of hers -- hands on her hips, her head tilted coquettishly -- just as she used to speak when she was feeling particularly tolerant toward him during their Hogwarts years, when they had been unwillingly (at first) partnered for Muggle Studies.

"I do like."

She preened for a moment, turning to glance at her reflection over her shoulder before heading back into the changing room. "Me too." Thwack.

Harry waited patiently as Pansy tried on eighteen different styles of dress robes -- for a girl should be absolutely certain when it came to formal wear, she informed him -- before she finally opted for the original periwinkle set. He carried her package for her after the robes were wrapped and paid for.

"So . . . Where do you want to go?" she asked, fixing her dark eyes on him.

"Anywhere is fine. Just somewhere inconspicuous, I suppose." Harry actively avoided the spotlight.

"All right, then," she said, her lips curving upward in a sly grin. "Knockturn Alley it is!"

"Pansy." Harry shook his head in disbelief; he should have known. "Knockturn Alley is hardly inconspicuous. Especially for me."

"Don't be silly! You just don't know Knockturn Alley, that's all. Why, the very finest accoutrements can be found there."

"Your idea of 'finest accoutrements' has always been different than mine," Harry answered, remembering the Hand of Glory with a shiver.

"I see you're still hideously close-minded," she sniffed, turning from him and starting confidently down the narrow, cobbled offshoot.

He followed her, of course, all the way down Knockturn Alley, until she stopped in front of an intricately carved door with a single brass plate affixed to its front:

Pick Your Poison

Members Only

She opened the door; he held it and let her initiate their entrance.

"Ah, Ms. Parkinson!" A bulky wizard hurried forward immediately, his robes severely formal in that way servers preferred. "Welcome! Will you be requiring a table for three?" The mare d's eyes raked over Harry suspiciously. "Or shall I not assume Mr. Malfoy will be joining you?"

"Assume whatever you like," she said breezily, betraying nothing. "I'm not expecting him, though."

"Of course, of course," he demured, still eyeing Harry. "Your usual table, then?" Pansy nodded regally. "This way, if you please."

Harry immediately recognised a few faces in the room; subtly, he passed his hand across his face, and a discreet shimmer glowed for just a moment. A glamour, Pansy correctly deduced. Although he still looked the same to her, he was now met by neutral consideration from the surrounding club patrons.

He held her chair for her.

"May I bring you anything?" came the unctuous voice of the waiter, once they were seated. The service was certainly top notch.

"Vodka," she said. "Chilled."

"And might there be a preferred label?" the waiter inquired.

"Whatever's smoothest."


Pansy turned to Harry. "What will you have, Potter?"

He leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head, watching her. "Smooth is fine by me."


They knocked back some serious liquor.

"So," she said, swirling her umpteenth drink, her eyes shining, "here you are! Practically the new boy again."

"Yep. Someone will definitely have to show this stranger around," Harry drawled, eyeing her from beneath hooded lids, before stretching forward and resting his forearms on the table's top. He grinned. "Tell me, Pansy . . . where are all the good times? I'm sure you'd know."

At least he's not slurring. Pansy smirked. She was comfortably pissed. "Do you want me to show you the good times?"

He considered her lazily from his chair. "Yes."

The corner of Pansy's mouth quirked. "I always knew you'd be back for more," she said, "Harry Potter . . . ."

He leaned in and she actually shivered when his lips brushed against hers, for it had been so long; however, she stopped him. "No. Too many people here know me. As it is, they're already talking."

Harry settled the cheque -- quickly.

"I keep an apartment," she said. "Let's go. We can catch up there."


And catch up they did. He had her up against the wall the second the door clicked shut behind them, and currently, he was ravaging her neck.

"You always liked this at school," he whispered, his hands fumbling at her robes. "Remember, Pansy? Under the stairs…"

She kissed him long and hard and wet, and he groaned into her mouth.

"Of course I remember . . . those stairs, right by the Great Hall. You were such a typical Gryffindor -- snogging a Slytherin practically within full view of the entire school! You were brave. Or maybe you just liked the occasional walk on the wild side."

He looked away from her briefly, an atypically haughty look crossing his face.

Perhaps it was the alcohol.

He leaned in, planting his hands firmly against the wall on either side of her head, and Pansy felt his hair tickling at her cheek as he whispered to her. "You know, Pansy . . . I never told you this, but the Sorting Hat almost put me into Slytherin." He ran his left hand down the right side of her body, pausing to cup her breast through her robe. His mouth was still at her ear, and she couldn't supress a shiver. "In fact, it really wanted to put me in Slytherin . . . I had to do some pretty fast talking."

"You asked it not to?" She was both incredulous and inherently offended at the notion of anyone turning down a chance at Slytherin House.

He smiled slightly. "Aren't you clever? Ten points to Slytherin."

She snorted. "Yet, here you are, all these years later -- chasing the snake anyway."

"But, I'm not," he whispered huskily, nibbling perfectly at her earlobe as his hands slid into the folds of her robes, and then up and under her skirt. "I'm not chasing anything. I chose Gryffindor."

She shook her head as he sucked at the hollow of her throat. "No," she said, breathless. "What you did was not choose Slytherin. There's a difference . . . "

He was kissing her again, her shoulders this time, having managed to push her robes down and unbutton her blouse. He slipped both of the garments' sleeves free from her left arm, and lifted her palm up to his mouth, turning her hand over, examining it.

"Pansy, this ring is huge."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

It really was.

He wove his fingers through hers, obscuring the gem from both their views.

"Take off your blouse," he instructed.

She did.

After her robes and blouse were discarded in a rumpled heap on the floor, she let her head fall back, and her hands palmed the wall as he traced her nipple through the light fabric of her bra with his tongue.

"Oh, God . . . ." she said, as he clamped down.


"Harry?" a female's voice called out. "Harry, are you here? Where is this place? I just wanted--Oh my God!"

Harry lifted his head away from Pansy's breast, confused. "Hermione?"

"I see you still have horrific timing," Pansy said, rolling her eyes at the other woman; she pulled Harry's hips tightly against her pelvis for emphasis.

Hermione stood where she had just Apparated, agog. "Pansy? Pansy Parkinson? Harry . . . wha-what's going on?"

"Oh, honestly, Granger," Pansy said, mildly amused, "I'd hoped you might have finally read that particular book by now. We've been out of school for years!"

"I mean I know what's going on-- obviously," Hermione said, flushing, her eyes narrowing with distaste as she considered Pansy. "But what I mean is . . . Harry, what's going on?" She hissed the question at him through clenched teeth.

"Kindly explain what she's doing here, Potter?" Pansy asked, moving against him again and thoroughly enjoying his involuntary physical response, even in light of the audience factor.

"Oh, sod it all. I forgot the charm . . . . "

"What charm?"

"Well, I have this tracking charm on my key ring," he explained, pulling away slightly. "Hermione gave it to me sixth year so she could always find me -- to help keep me safe. You know, what with Voldemort and all. So, now she uses it to find me if she needs me. Ron has one, too. We all do, actually."

Hermione was now circling around them, her hands on her hips. "You're shagging Pansy Parkinson? Oh, Harry, how could you? An adolescent fling during school is one thing, but this--" She came closer, her eyes darting between the two of them before settling on Pansy's face. "Oh," she noted. "You've had your nose fixed."

"No," Pansy lied blithely. "My face just finally grew into it. And who he's shagging is hardly your concern."

Hermione was still closely scrutinising Pansy's face. "Well whoever fixed it did a really fabulous job. It's tonnes better."

Pansy shot her a withering look, stealthily reaching downward. "Granger, I'm really very sorry about this, and I'm sure you'll be able to imagine just exactly how heartbroken this will leave me; however, it's really for your own good." She trained her wand on the unsuspecting Gryffindor. "Petrificus Totalus!" Hermione stiffened instantly and toppled backward.

Breaking free from Pansy, Harry half lunged, half dove, for Hermione and caught her just before she clunked to the floor. "Pansy!" he scolded, lured easily into the familiar role of indignant hero. "That was terrible of you! What are you doing?" Hermione's eyes were darting frantically, her still-crazy hair floating around her face.

Smirking, Pansy twirled her wand. "Just put her over there -- you can lean her up against the wall." Harry carefully situated Hermione against the wall, like a log propped and ready for the fire, whispering frantic apologies to her before turning back to Pansy. "Now," she said, snaking her arms around his neck after he returned to her, "where were we?"

"I'm not -- I can't . . . not in front of Hermione!"

"Oh, come on! Surely you've fantasised about shagging someone in front of someone else, haven't you? What, you've never shagged someone with an audience? The great Harry Potter? Surely you must have! We sure came close . . . ."

"Isn't there a bedroom here?" he asked desperately, as her hands made their way down the front of his trousers; she wrapped her fingers around his semi-erect cock and stroked him with a practised hand. Hermione's eyes were saucers.

"Sorry, no bedroom. It's just an efficiency flat I keep for the nights I don't want to travel back to the manor, or for days I just need some time alone. No, there's no bedroom. There's just here."

Her fingers were very persuasive, and he was crazily pissed. With a hissing sound, he gave in and pushed her back against the wall, Hermione only inches away. Harry moved down Pansy's body, her hand slipping out from his trousers as he sank to his knees; he kissed the pale plane of her stomach, and began working at her skirt's zipper. Pansy could see Hermione's eyes straining toward them.

"You see," she said to Harry, "some people like to watch. I told you -- there's just something special about the audience factor." She cast a hard look at Harry's friend. "And who can say? Perhaps someone knows this is the only way she'll ever have any kind of sexual experience with her precious Boy Who Lived." Pansy threaded her fingers through Harry's hair, giving a squeak when he tongued her naval.

"Hermione," Harry whispered breathlessly, in between kisses to Pansy's belly, "Stop watching . . ." But Hermione's gaze was quite fixed -- sullenly so.

Pansy closed her eyes and smiled inwardly as she imagined the absolutely fabulous emotional tirade that was undoubtedly brewing in Hermione's mind, and she was struck by a sudden thought. Casually, Pansy flicked her wand toward Hermione once again. "Join in? Divesto!" And Hermione Granger's clothes were gone, just like that! Giggling, Pansy forcibly turned Harry's face toward his friend. His eyes bugged.

"Pansy!" he objected strenuously, horrified. "Where are Hermione's clothes? She'll fucking kill me. Kill me . . . ." Harry bolted, his voice trailing off as he frantically searching the small flat for any sign of Hermione's clothing.

"What-- that little spell?" Pansy asked innocently, sauntering to the refrigerator and removing a bottle of Gwertztraminer, three-quarters full, and popping its cork. "We used to use it all the time at school. Made for many a good joke down in the dungeons -- it was quite the motivator to keep in shape, don't you know. Especially after Flint cast it on Goyle." She turned to him, two wine glasses dangling from her fingers. "Do you mind your wine sweet, Potter?"

"For chrissakes, something needs to be sweet around here!" He was on his hands and knees now, pawing around under her couch. "Because you certainly aren't handling that job very effectively. For fucksakes, this is unbelievable . . ."

Pansy poured the wine, and then turned to consider her unexpected guest, raking her eyes up and down Hermione's figure. The other woman had a rather nicely lithe body. "I'd offer you a glass, love, but, well . . . perhaps a tea-towel might be more to your liking?" She smiled, glancing again at Harry. "And to think, Potter -- you always accused me of not knowing anything about your friends . . . . " Hermione's eyes narrowed angrily. Apparently, Pansy noted, it was possible for an entire body to blush -- Hermione's was wholly blooming with a deep, scarlet flush. She watched as a single tear slid from the corner of one of Hermione's big brown eyes before she turned away.

"Oh, do go on. You won't find her clothes. They'll be back on their own accord. It just takes a while. Here." Striding across the room, she pushed the glass of wine into Harry's hand; he drained it immediately, looking pale as he glanced over at one of his best mates. Pansy refilled his glass. He drained it again. Taking his hand, Pansy led him over to Hermione. She drank her own glass of wine and took his empty one, setting both down. He pulled her back toward him.

"Do you trust me?" she whispered silkily into his ear, using her tongue afterward.

"Absolutely not. Not even for a second."

She laughed. "I mean, do you trust I will fix this when it's all over? You know me."

"I don't even want to think about the means by which you'll--" But she was luring him in again, her hand back at his waistband, creeping lower.

"But I would fix it, and that's what matters in the long run, don't you think?"

"Christ, Pansy." Once again her fingers had found their goal. He closed his eyes and moved against her hand, swallowing. "Well, okay . . . ."

"Good show." Removing her hand abruptly from inside his trousers, she turned him toward Hermione and nudged him forward. "Touch her."

"What? No! I'm not--I couldn't--"

"Touch her. You know you've always wondered. So, now's your chance." Hermione's eyes darted frantically between her best friend and one of her two most-hated enemies. Eyes narrowing, Pansy spoke to Hermione. "Now's your chance, Granger. Enjoy it while you can."

Perhaps it was the alcohol.

Harry's hand snaked out tentatively, and his fingers brushed across Hermione's smooth, flat stomach.

"That's right. Now go on," Pansy whispered, "Touch her breast. There you go . . . ."

Harry was very gentle, for this was Hermione, but even so, there was no mistaking the shattered betrayal reflected in her dark eyes. The whole of her body bound, she had only her eyes with which to communicate, and that she did -- very effectively. Tears streamed silently down her face and eventually she closed her eyes as Harry's hands roamed across her body. He let them flutter over her hip, up her thigh, and across her springy midnight coils of hair down there. Hermione managed a squeak through the Petrificus. Harry finally brought his hand up to cup the back of Hermione's neck and he stared into her eyes.

"You know, I have always wondered," he murmured, gazing for a moment longer into her ruint brown eyes before turning away, and back to Pansy.

She'd turned from him and had removed her bra; now, unzipping her skirt, she let it fall and pool around her feet. Stepping out of it, she kicked it away, and then he was there behind her, reaching around, cupping her breasts, and languidly he moved against her. She turning back to him again and unbuckled his trousers deftly, kissing him deeply. He managed to get out of his (very nice) shoes and kick them toward the pile of discarded clothing. When he stepped out of his trousers, Pansy slid his shorts down over his hips and surveyed him, head to toe.

"Nice . . . socks," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. "Nice . . . knickers."

"Take them off," she ordered.

"Your knickers?"

"You're not wearing my knickers, Potter -- I was referring to your socks. But if it's my knickers you fancy, go ahead and take them off, too."

He did, tugging them down over her hips. Navigating at the cuffs with his big toes, alternately he pushed his socks down and worked them off, his hands attending to her breasts again.


"Pansy, where are you?" came the patrician drawl, followed by the familiar flash of blonde. "There's a problem with the caterer--"

Harry's speed was impressive. "Petrificus Totalus!" Pansy barely registered what he was doing before he was already laying his wand back on the side table where he had originally stashed it there while they were disrobing. He flicked his eyes toward his prey. "And I am not catching him."

Hermione's eyes widened as Draco Malfoy stiffened, wobbled, and fell to the floor at her feet, saucering head to toe several times before coming to rest fully laid out on the floor, staring up at her in petrified surprise. His eyes narrowed, and she knew instantly what he was thinking. Mudblood, she thought, correctly guessing at the sentiment reflecting from Malfoy's cold, grey eyes. Forever a Mudblood.

"Draco. I wasn't expecting you," Pansy smiled at the first -- and only other -- man she'd been intimate with, before returning her gaze appreciatively to Harry. "I'm impressed."

Harry sank to the floor, pulling her down with him. "You should be," he hissed.

Malfoy was clearly disgusted as he took in the situation; however, it was but a minute before an unmistakably lecherous glow replaced his distaste, as he fully registered Hermione's state of undress.

"Draco, by the way," Pansy said, pushing Harry onto his back on the floor, and climbing atop him, "Potter here was just telling me the most fascinating tale -- that the Sorting Hat had really wanted to put him in Slytherin. Can you imagine?"

Something rational dissolved in Malfoy's eyes as his ever-tenuous superiority complex was fully decimated. Harry could see, could revel in even, the hatred building in the prosaically grey orbs, which belonged to the one person Harry had utterly loathed since he was eleven years old. Harry knew that Malfoy, given the opportunity, would have liked nothing more at this moment than to let loose with the Mother of all Unforgivables.

Here he was, he realised -- the Boy who Lived, on his back, with his best friend, and worst enemy, watching as he shagged the latter's fiancée. Harry snorted out loud.

Boy, he sure did know how to live.

Fixing his gaze on Draco Malfoy's face, Harry smiled viciously and groaned as Pansy wiggled expertly against him -- there was nothing in their way now, their clothes having long been fully discarded. He held Malfoy's eyes as Pansy rocked back and forth, adjusting, before sinking down on him. "Oh God . . . ." she breathed.

Harry held her hips, helping to guide her as she moved; he was still looking at Malfoy. "Pansy's right, you know," he said, closing his eyes for just a moment as he rode out a particularly savoury sensation. "It's true. And you know what I said to the Hat? I said, 'Not Slytherin. Anything, but Slytherin' Naturally, that was after I had met you."

Pansy had to stop -- he was so hard and felt so good; she was already too close.

"Actually, I suppose I do owe you some thanks," Harry continued, after Pansy had regrouped and began picking up the pace again. "If it hadn't been for you -- and your typically poor impulse control -- there would have never been that duel during our fifth year. And there wouldn't have been any Muggle Studies requirement for you -- or, most importantly, for Pansy. There wouldn't have been even the remotest possibility of her and I being paired up for all those class projects . . . I wouldn't have ever known her at all -- no . . . not at all." Harry clenched his teeth and drew in a sharp breath, as he held his climax back. With a cool hand to his face, Pansy helped him to refocus his hazy green gaze; he glanced over at Malfoy one last time, triumphant. "But, you already know that . . . right, Malfoy?" And then Harry began touching Pansy -- everywhere, all over her smooth, pale body -- his eyes never leaving Malfoy's.

"Better make this good, Potter," Pansy said finally, breathless, folding herself over him so they were chest to chest, "because this is the closest you will ever get to fucking him . . . . "

Roughly, Harry flipped her over and wove his fingers tightly through her long hair, right at the nape of her neck, and buried his tongue in her mouth. One thrust. Two. Three. Then he absolutely had to keep going or he'd be risking a lousy orgasm -- and they could only take so much. Giving in fully to the sensations, Harry finally gurgled into Pansy's throat and filled her completely as he came; she cried out, and Malfoy watched with betrayed, watery eyes as he lay, petrified and utterly ignored, next to them.

Later, with Harry's dark head resting just above the swell of her breasts, both of them still breathless, Pansy finally turned her head and considered Draco, her eyebrow arching delicately.

"I didn't know you could cry . . . "


Later, lounging naked on the couch, Harry and Pansy downed the rest of the Gwertztraminer straight from the bottle before the inevitable need for Pepper-up potion overcame them. Harry had petulantly refused to help with Malfoy and had left it to Pansy to levitate him into an upright position and park him next to Hermione. Apparently bored and emotionally spent, the two horribly accidental tourists had fallen asleep -- just like that -- propped stiffly against the wall.

"You know, I've always wondered if Petrificus Totalus affects the internal organs as well as the muscles," Harry was saying, "And if it's simultaneous -- like, if we were to just leave them there, would they eventually end up pissing themselves?"

Pansy snorted. "Well, I'm not about to find out, as the carpet's wool. Besides, didn't Longbottom wet himself when he was petrified?"

"Yeah, but to be fair, it was just that one time, and I really can't say if that was just Neville being Neville, or if it was actually due to the spell. What do you say, Pans, should we Floo Professor Flitwick? 'Hello, Flitwick, Harry Potter here. Just wondering, sir, if I can make Malfoy piss his trousers with Petrificus Totalus'…"

"Potter," she said, laughing, straddling his lap and facing him, reaching up to rub his scar very gently with her thumb, "you would have done well in Slytherin."

His smile faded; he considered her. "And you can do better than Slytherin."

Pansy's midnight eyes drifted toward Draco; he looked so very boyish when he was sleeping -- so lovely. She brought her gaze back to Harry. "I've always loved him. Since I was a little girl -- ever since I can remember, really. He's the one. He's always been the one."

"How do you explain me, then?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Oh, Harry," she said ruefully, "don't you know by now that you're the exception to every rule?"

Harry smiled and pulled her closer, kissing her. "You know, I really liked your first nose better."

Pansy crinkled her new one at him daintily. "So, fancy something to eat, then? Thai chicken salad perhaps?" she asked.

"You know I can't eat peanuts."

"Oh, that's right. I always forget! Can defeat the Dark Lord, but eating peanuts gives him tatty spots . . ."

He rolled his eyes. "So, when's the wedding?"

"It's just about three weeks from now." She paused. "I'd invite you, but--"

He waved his hand. "Oh please. As if," he snorted, giving her a lopsided grin. "But do promise me you'll send a picture of you in your wedding robes, won't you? But, just you -- not him. I know you'll be absolutely stunning."

"Of course I will be!" she said cheekily. "Potter, stay in touch, all right? Draco knows you and I are, well, rather cordial."

"Cordial?" he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at her choice of adjective. "That was cordial? Merlin's Beard, please let me know when you're planning to demonstrate 'ecstatically happy' then, all right?" Pansy smiled at him, and reached over to rub his face lightly.

"You've already seen me like that. It's all up here, remember?" She tapped his temple, and then smoothed his dark hair back. "Just be discreet with your correspondence when you want to write."

"He'll accept that?"

"He doesn't have a choice. I'll know whomever I want. What else can I say? He knows we're cordial--" She paused, clearing her throat. "Well, okay, perhaps not exactly how cordial -- and he doesn't talk about it. Not ever. That's as good an acceptance as you'll ever get from him."

"Okay," he kissed her again, then again and again. "Oh, and Pansy, c'mon -- seriously. You know you're the only Slytherin I've ever wanted to . . . . " His voice trailed off.

"The word is fuck, Potter. And you are so lying . . . ." She felt him smile under her lips as she drew her words out in a whispered, silky singsong.

His hand crept upward -- to the hot juncture between her legs; sighing deeply, she moved against him. "Keep that up and you just might have to stay a little longer," she complained; he was looking at her, a painful expression darkening his face. He brought his other hand up to her cheek, cupping it, and then he let his fingers trail down her neck, pausing for a moment to brush her clavicle as he made his way to the curve of her breast once again; he ran his fingertips around her, before pulling her in for a kiss -- desperate and longing.

"Oh God, Pansy . . . ." Gently he toppled her sideways off his lap and onto the couch; moving over her, he settled perfectly between her thighs. She pulled him into her, her hands to his buttocks, and she groaned as she stretched around him. "Pansy, I--"

"Please don't say it." She kissed him deeply. "Don't . . . . "

He stared into her eyes as he moved with practised ease. "Just this once . . . ."


He closed his eyes and thrust against her, over and again, and when they both came, neither made a sound.


Finally, she pushed him up and stood, then padded leisurely across the carpet to rummage through her wardrobe. She had an exceptionally fine backside and she knew it. Harry watched as she pulled on a simple pair of sweatpants and a hooded jumper with a Slytherin emblem embroidered over the left breast. It made her look like a young, innocent schoolgirl, rather than the insufferable, posh princess she was.

Harry absolutely adored her.

"You said you'd take care of everything when we were finished," he reminded her, motioning toward Hermione and Malfoy. As Pansy had said they would, Hermione's clothes had, at some point, reappeared; he wasn't really sure when. Pansy whispered into Harry's ears. His eyes widened in surprise as she finished.

"You can't be serious," he protested.

"I'll end the spell, you do the rest."

"You said you'd do it!"

"I said I could fix it and now I've told you how we're going to do it. Ready?"

"Pansy, no wait--"


Both Hermione's and Malfoy's knees buckled, and they stumbled confused, slumping backward against the wall. Instantly Hermione's face clouded over and her mouth dropped open as she unleashed her fury. Malfoy's eyes were narrowing to predatory grey slits.

"Harry Potter! Of all the low-down, dirty, rotten, despicable . . . " Hermione was fuming. "Of all the . . . the disgusting, of all the Slytherin things you could have ever thought of . . . How dare you!" Harry cowered in the face of Hermione's onslaught, leaning back slightly against Pansy.

She sniggered merciless beside him. "Go ahead," she prompted him, giving him a light push.

"Oh fuck," Harry said desperately, as he raised his wand hurriedly toward his friend. "Obliviate!" Next he turned on Malfoy, who had shaken off his disorientation and was rushing forward. "Obliviate!"

"Okay, you've got about ten seconds while they're still disoriented. Take her with you. Do you have a Portkey with you?"

"Er . . . yeah. Yes. Here." Harry fished a small plastic card from his trousers and activated it. He gave her one last kiss, lingering for just a moment. "I'll be seeing you, Pansy."

"Ta, Potter." Arms crossed over her chest, she watched them -- Harry clutching Hermione's waist -- until they disappeared; as soon as the glow from the Portkey was gone, she streaked across her flat and leapt onto the couch, assuming what she hoped was a nonchalantly casual pose, and hurriedly grabbed a magazine. Opening it, she turned it right side up and feigned absorption.


"Pansy? Pansy, are you here? There's a problem with the caterer . . . ." Draco moved toward her, his fine robes rustling, and knelt beside her at the edge of the couch. "Hello there," he said, kissing her, and eyeing her adoringly. She patted his cheek, smiling, the light of the fire shimmered against her flawless engagement ring, casting random spots of rainbowed light throughout the room and onto the ceiling. She gave him her most beautiful smile.

"Hello there, darling. What's the problem with the caterer, then?" she inquired, not really caring, but listening dutifully as Draco launched into a complex story involving various foods and table linens -- Draco Malfoy adored a good party. "Don't you even worry yourself over it, Draco," she continued, after he was done regaling her. "I'll take care of everything tomorrow." Draco nuzzled her neck -- her favorite spot.

"Mmm. You smell good, " he said, inhaling deeply.

"You think?"

"Indeed, I do. New scent?"

"No. A perennial favourite, actually."

"You're right, of course -- I've definitely smelt this on you before. But not often, right? Just here and there over the years. It must be ridiculously expensive for you to use it so infrequently."

"It's priceless."


"Oh, I do mean really, Draco."