Fic: The Way She Loves Him by foggybythebay
Title: The Way She Loves Him
Username: foggybythebay
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Type: Het
Prompt: #131 - "Just Friends" by Amy Winehouse
Rating: R
Word Count:10,000
Warnings/content: angst, infidelity
Summary: Primed to make Harry Potter's life a living hell when he appoints himself her personal babysitter, Pansy discovers that being the conniving other woman means making sacrifices, too.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters/references are property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement is intended.
The Way She Loves Him
His breath ran ragged against her ear. Harry could feel the press of her perspiration slicked forehead against his recently bared shoulder. He still wore his trousers, open and hung low on his hips, despite their frantic coupling against a wall in her modest Muggle flat. Pansy’s leg slid down against the outside of his thigh. It had earlier been wrapped around his waist, but now her toes, still encased in three-inch, dragon-skin heels, touched to the ground. At her movement, Harry let out a soft groan as he slipped from her.
With callused fingers still tangled in her dark locks, he felt the rapid pounding of her heart thudding against his bare chest. Harry inhaled deeply, staring first at the ceiling before moving his gaze to rest on his left hand, the one that he’d pressed, open-palmed, against the wall as he’d shagged Parkinson to mind-blowing, simultaneous orgasm. His gold wedding band caught the glow of firelight, and Harry was reminded, yet again, why he should have listened to the cautionary voice in his head that had urged him to send a lower level Auror instead of taking on the task of paying this final visit to Parkinson’s Muggle flat.
After all, this thing with Pansy was no longer a singular lapse in judgement, it had become a difficult habit to break.
Pansy groaned inwardly, knowing not to speak as he sorted through the tumble of self-flagellating thoughts plaguing his overactive conscience. Her fingertips swept through the light spray of crisp dark hair on his pale, well-defined chest. Her lips pressed against Harry's left collarbone. Long gone was her ruby red lipstick. The color was smudged between his lips and jaw, trailing down his body, leaving a temporary mark he would surely Scourgify before he returned to his wife.
His wife.
Pansy hid her scowl with a head toss that had her hair curtaining her face from view. Potter's ever annoying guilt over his extramarital activities, in Pansy’s experience, tended to flare at the most inopportune times, namely the moment post-climax. Reality invaded their forbidden space all too soon for her. It was hardly a wonder, then, that she purposely drew out their unique brand of foreplay to keep him from such irritatingly predictable behavior.
The petite brunette didn’t understand what his fussing was about. In her estimation, infidelity was a necessity, an escape from mundane married life and one’s less than attractive, nagging spouse. She could attest to the truth that affairs made for happier husbands. After all, the married men with whom she’d come into contact were perfectly jovial sorts. But, what did anyone care of her opinion? Pansy Parkinson had never married. If anyone bothered to ask, however, she would readily cite how affairs were a commonplace, if not expected, practice among the pureblood families well-acquainted with hers. Not that the Parkinsons and Malfoys of their world were models of family morals and values, but it was what it was. And this thing with Potter was... well... she found herself quite unable to complete the sentence in her head.
Besides, why ever was he worried? Wasn't she just the perfect little dalliance for him?Pansy thought, pouting, as she slipped from his embrace, adjusting her skirt and re-buttoning her light spaghetti strap blouse. She’d lost her knickers to his hasty Evanesco! Fifth one in two weeks, she sighed to herself, letting out a quiet obscenity. She rather liked that lacy pair.
Everyone back home thought she was among the missing dead, a causality of war, when in reality she was under the Ministry's top tier protection program for her espionage work during the Ministry's post-war attempts to round up Death Eater loyalists. But she had been a spy too-soon discovered by those still pledging allegiance to a dead lord and master. It had been Potter who'd found her, tortured to an inch of her life, left to rot in the deep confines of Parkinson Manor by the Death Eaters she'd double-crossed. The masked criminals, her parents among them, had flown at the first sign of Ministry agents darkening the front door of the great manse.
Now, months later, she was stuck wandless, in the middle of Muggle nowhere, which was a borough of London called, Wandsworth. And if truth be told, not an entirely terrible place to be.
"She won’t find out, Potter," Pansy finally sighed, unable to bear another moment of his tortured silence. "Just like she hasn’t found out about all of the other times. I still hate you, you still hate me and this long-simmering despise has given rise to this insatiable, unspeakable lust that, for whatever twisted reason, needs to be slaked every time we lay eyes on one other."
Newly aching from their earlier sexual escapade, Pansy moved gingerly to her forest green velvet sofa. She’d purchased this first piece of furniture less for her allegiance to her former House, than for the memories the color evoked of the first time the currently fretting Harry Potter had stared at her with raw desire evident in his verdant gaze.
Her flirty full skirt fell against the tops of her thigh as she slid into a languid lounge. Her neck rested against the cushioned arm. Lolling her head to look at him, Pansy watched Harry pace along the outside of her fluffy sheepskin rug, doing up his fly and tucking in his wrinkled Auror’s oxford with sharp deliberate movements. His crisply starched uniform jacket hung over the sofa’s back. It was where he’d placed it before launching into his earlier tirade that had her spitting back at him for his high-handed commands that gave little thought to her Muggle life while he was off playing hard-working Auror, loving husband, and doting father. Not that she gave a damn what he did when he left her, she thought bitterly. She hated him. It was her mantra, one she clung to for pure sanity’s sake. Pansy rolled her eyes at herself, and him, making a rude noise as she shifted slightly to give herself a better, but covert, view of the hero of the Wizarding world looking properly mussed, and more than a little bit proud to have been the cause of it.
"It is just sex, Potter. Get over yourself."
Sex that increased her hunger for him and made her ache for days, in all the right, yet worst places, mostly in the center of her chest. But whatever her purposeful unexamined feelings might be toward The Chosen One, Pansy knew she had to be practical. She was the other woman, yes, but she was not about to become a home wrecker, nor would she allow Potter to believe she was his whore. Pansy simply held to the truths she knew. Potter needed his reality of a perfect traditional family. She knew the Weaselette happily provided that little fantasy for him. And, Pansy was not about to start kidding herself. She knew she’d make a horrid housewitch and mum, besides, she rather enjoyed her job of regularly dressing down the great Harry Potter, in more ways than one.
Inhaling deeply and closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to her brows, listening to him move about the room. She was silently working on convincing herself that she was satisfied with the little bit of himself he did give her. That was enough. And when they weren’t attacking one another in a desperate need to consummate, she could live in her happy house of denial without a thought to her mental and emotional state because as far as Potter was concerned, she didn’t posses a heart and was completely devoid of feelings. Heartless bitch, he’d called her once during a more heated row. That argument had led to some of the best sex they’d ever had, if memory served her well.
Harry watched a myriad of emotions cross her unguarded features before the trademark scowl slid its way back onto Pansy’s face, a face Harry no longer found quite as unattractive as he had back at school. He wondered what she was thinking as he'd been mulling about his utter lack of self-control when in her provocative presence. Parkinson was right, Harry tried to convince himself. It had been just sex... rough, punishing sex. But as much as they each convinced themselves of this easy out, this thing between them hadn’t started out that way. And Harry knew it.
His affair with Pansy had been going on for three months and he was more than aware that the excuses he was using for his continued infidelity were flimsy at best. Yet, for a man renown for his intrepid courage, Harry’s gonads curled up into themselves at the very thought of facing Ginny’s reaction if she were to ever discover just exactly what he did in the Muggle world whenever he had Auror business to attend to. Besides, he couldn’t risk the loss of the normality of his real life for the fantasy of one sultry Miss Parkinson who seemed to only need him for one sordid thing. The former Slytherin didn’t seem to give a whit about him outside the bedroom, so why should he spare a thought for her?
The problem was, he did. Harry spared far too many a thought for her, particularly whenever she was out of sight, which was a lot. He huffed irritably at himself and glared at her. He hated Pansy for making him feel this way. How could she possibly think she hadn’t marked him indelibly? He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The intake of breath was a mistake, as his senses filled with the scent of her. The spicy, slightly exotic fragrance was one Harry couldn't quite get enough of, or ever truly place. He only knew that when it hit him, his senses reeled, and he went rock hard, unable to rid himself of the most lurid thoughts of the unforgettable Miss Pansy Parkinson.
You see, for Harry, the beginning of the end of his simple and picture-perfect, post-battle epilogue with Gin was when he’d discovered Parkinson in the dungeons of her family home. She’d been unconscious, bloody, beaten, and broken. She'd needed him in a most desperate way. And with all that had occurred before, Harry had needed to save her, or possibly lose himself over the grief of yet another death. One he knew came from a decision he’d helped the Wizengamot make, a decision made during Parkinson’s trial.
Overwrought with guilt, Harry had believed he was carrying her corpse to the Ministry’s high security hospital, only to discover later that the intrepid Parkinson had managed to retain a fragile heartbeat, barely clinging to life. One would think she’d have softened toward him upon discovering how he’d saved her. But once the dark-haired shrew of a witch pulled from her coma, unable yet to speak, she’d become an instant complication. She'd glared at him, irritated by his mere existence, roughly shoving a parchment in his face when he’d come in for his regular visit:
You should have let me die! It would have been the more heroic, far more merciful thing to do, you self-righteous git!
Upon reading the parchment, Harry had ensured she was placed under constant suicide watch. And when he found the hospital’s measures lacking, still blaming himself for too many deaths, Harry took on the business himself. He did so to Pansy’s chagrin and to the dismay of Ginevra Weasley Potter, who was simply told Harry was conducting a prolonged investigation, requiring his absence from home in the late evenings.
"Go away, Potter, I’m not going to kill myself tonight."
Those were the words Pansy had snarled at him every night after he'd begun his nightly vigils. She looked so small in her hospital-sanctioned gown. He’d retort, "Shut it and rest, Parkinson." With a glare, she'd turned away and ignored him until the morning shift arrived. It had been the same every night, except on the Monday, a week before her release. On that night, Pansy pulled herself to sitting and swung her infuriated self to face him.
"I SAID, GET OUT, POTTER!"
Alarmed by her vehemence, Harry had pulled himself to standing and moved toward her, hand outstretched in an effort to calm.
"Pansy, you’ll hurt yourself. Merlin, just lay back, or you’ll force me to restrain you."
They’d broken script and it was the first time he’d said anything besides a variation of, "Shut it. Rest, Parkinson." He believed she’d hurl a biting retort, but instead, her dark eyes had widened and he’d caught the flash of fear in her expression when he’d threatened to cast a binding curse. Her fingers had curled into her bedclothes and she visibly cringed at his approach. Harry halted mid-stride, suddenly all too aware of her recent imprisonment and what she’d gone through to find her version of redemption.
"Hey, I won’t hurt you, Pansy."
The promise and her name from his lips seemed to snap her out of her instinctive cowering. Straightening her shoulders, Pansy defiantly lifted her chin, shooting him a hateful look and turned away.
"Go away, Potter."
Harry pressed his lips together, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, noticing her bed head. He found it endearing, this non-put together Parkinson. "No."
"Where’s my wand?" The crack in her voice didn’t escape him.
"Broken, but you won’t be needing it. We’ve a plan to keep you safe."
"Like the plan that landed me here?"
It was Harry's turn to cringe. "A better plan than that."
"Sod off, Potter! I can take care of myself." She’d whirled to face him, the sharp-tongued witch returned, and Harry was shocked to find that despite her hardened words, her eyes glistened, cheeks wet with silent tears. She was mourning the loss of her wand and her once uncomplicated, pureblood socialite life, Harry had supposed, shaking his head.
"No, Pansy. I can’t let you. It’s..." And Harry wasn’t about to send her out to fend for herself while Death Eater loyalists still were on the loose, "...procedure." He stubbornly refused to have her death on his hands, too. At his words, the air crackled and he knew her magic was getting away from her. "Pansy. You have my word. You’ll be kept safe."
"Stop calling me that."
"It’s your name."
"And I haven’t given you permission to use it, Auror Potter." She scowled, anger and frustration more than evident. "I hate you."
He nodded. "Yes. I know. I sort of hate you, too." With growing interest, Harry watched her shoulders sag at his words, but assumed Parkinson was simply growing tired of arguing. "But I need to make sure you don’t die. It’s..."
"... procedure," Pansy sneered contemptuously.
Harry had been about to say, important to me, but he let her presumption stand. "Whatever you want to believe, Parkinson. It’s late. Get some rest."
She’d owlishly blinked at him, suddenly realizing what she’d known all along but refused to acknowledge. The Chosen One, despite all his familial responsibilities, had been there for her every moment since he’d found her barely clinging to life in her parents’ home. Each time she’d woken from a night terror, the mere sight of his silhouette, and him keeping uncomplaining watch, had eased her worst fears and soothed away the thoughts of death that constantly plagued her. Pansy despised Potter for giving rise to such a powerful dependency on him. She didn’t want to need him. But there he was, despite her demands otherwise. With a weary sigh, she’d tried again to break this enchantment, one of the more ancient and unexplainable spells, he’d unwittingly cast over her. She laid back on the bed, turning away from him once more.
"Go away, Potter, I’m not going to kill myself tonight."
He let go of a breath he’d been subconsciously holding and moved to sit back in his chair.
"Shut it, Parkinson, and get some rest."
And that was how it had begun for Harry. Not with the world-tilting argument that had ensued five days following, in the Ministry conference room when Pansy was informed of the plan Harry had mentioned several nights before. The beginning of his end was with a quiet acceptance of her of in his life and the complications that might ensue.
True to her contrary form, Pansy refused to remember their beginning that way. In her memories she began this thing with Potter on the day she strode from the Ministry Hospital into the aforementioned conference room. She'd been dressed to the nines and more than pleased at the obvious expressions of masculine interest and approval aimed at her. It had been a rather long time since she’d garnered any sort of visceral male reaction other than worry, pity or despise. She’d tried to avoid glancing Potter’s way, but it had been unavoidable. His slightly gaping mouth and huge green eyes almost brought a tilt of a smile to her lips, almost but not quite.
She'd been refused exit from the classified area of the Ministry's campus and given access only to clothes she'd used on the job, which were, fortunately, quite stylish. After she was dressed at the hospital, she'd been placed under Disillusionment Charm without explanation. Pansy was in a right snit when she’d arrived, but only wore a barely there scowl.
With feline grace, she’d slipped into her seat at the end of the rectangular glass table, in the chair closest to the door. Around the room, men had scrambled to standing. She’d crossed one slim knee over the other, amused by the show of uncharacteristic gallantry. Her dress robe rode higher up her thigh and she relished the weight of their stares even as she adjusted so her shapely legs slid beneath the table. It had struck her as odd that they would have bothered with the gentleman's courtesy, but Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, at the head of the table, had moved to his feet at her entrance. And like a rising tide, so did the others. Longbottom, Weasley, Thomas, Zabini, Nott, other men she recognized but could not name. The last to his feet, a surprise since she’d expected the Weasel to dawdle, was Potter. He was to the right of Shacklebolt, his usually unreadable expression no longer fishlike, but carefully neutral.
The meeting began with Shacklebolt’s praise of her efforts to help capture Voldemort’s Loyalists, moved on to an expression of deep apology for how long it took them to release her from captivity, and capped off with a lecture about how important it was that she be kept out of harm’s way while the search for the remaining Voldemort Loyalists continued. He’d then had the audacity to give Longbottom and Weasley the responsibility of watching over her while she was to be placed in the Muggle world for her own protection. At that, Pansy had shot to her feet in loud protest.
"Those two would rather see me dead than act as my bodyguards. The moment he is alone with me, Longarse will forget what he’s doing," she accused, pointing a perfectly-manicured finger at Neville. Then, she turned her focus onto the sole ginger in the room. "And he’d be so easily distracted by the sight of food, or a well-endowed witch, to do his job with a modicum of professionalism." There had been a round of smothered guffaws at her summation of the two newest Aurors, punctuated by outraged protests from Ron and Neville. Scowling, Pansy crossed her arms and in what could only be described as gracefully flopping, returned to her seat.
"You’re asking me to live as a Muggle in a world that is completely foreign to me, Minister, saddling me with two bumbling pureblood wizards, who wouldn’t know a Muggle anything if it hit either of them in the face. It is a sentencing that Draco hasn’t even been given. With the-" she paused, swallowing and averting her eyes,"-torture I endured and with my near death, I believe I’ve paid my restitution for my role in the battle, a role which was miniscule compared to others. Might I remind you that I am the only one of my Slytherin peers who has been able to supply you with accurate and invaluable intelligence that led to a number of arrests. The least I can be given is a proper say in how I am to live the remainder of my life. The Ministry needn’t be bothered with me," she’d insisted, her hands pressed lightly against the cool glass of the conference room table. Lifting a shoulder and sending the lot of meddling men a sultry smile. "Grant me the casting of an Obliviate. Give me a new name and I promise, Minister, that I will simply fade into anonymity somewhere on the Continent."
She’d been cool in her counterargument, but Potter had, apparently, taken umbrage at her unbothered tone and what he termed her extreme naïveté. He’d argued that she was being short-sighted in believing that there would be no danger to her without two highly effective Aurors’ constantly on guard. She snorted indelicately at his far too generous characterization of Longbottom and Weasley, frowning at his over dramatization of her current situation. Honestly, hardly anyone cared about her. At the time, Pansy had wondered at his irritation and insistence that she listen to his reasoning. The way he'd been carrying on, she'd have thought he might actually care about her and not just about his personal death count. But there had been something brewing in his hot glare, had she cared enough to look. All she remembered, however, was her flash of temper as she pressed her hands to her knees, noting the quiver in her fingers as she returned his fearsome, reproachful look with one of her own.
"The Ministry does not own me, Potter!" she’d cried, voice raised, trying to stave off the panic that suddenly consumed her. They were deciding her life without her say and Pansy had been determined to fight tooth and nail to keep something like that from happening. They were a bunch of inept Muggle-loving morons playing at magical law enforcement. "I am done here! This is done!"
With a disgusted huff, Pansy stood and strode toward the door. The silence that ensued was not one of shock at her theatrics. She sensed something else in the air, something she knew she would not like. And like small prey wary of what lurked, Pansy froze before slowly turning to face the roomful of Aurors.
"Tell me the rest of it."
The sound of shifting bodies at her demand made it very clear that she was the only one in the room who didn't know something very important about her own life. Pansy scowled, disliking being in such a position. "Tell me."
"Miss Parkinson, everyone outside of this room believes you are... dead."
It was her turn to gape. The Minister had spoken without prologue and the ironic death knell that sounded in her head had her knees buckling. With a soft cry that she hoped no one heard, she gripped the back of the chair she’d recently occupied to keep from falling over.
"Surely Draco and Daphne don’t think I’m..." she whispered.
"They were the ones who planned the funeral," Harry replied curtly from across the room, his quill tapping against the glass tabletop. She narrowed her eyes at the man with the dark unruly hair.
"... While you were recovering in the hospital," Ron added, in what sounded to be a kinder tone, but wincing as he felt his best mate’s cold glare on him for that last bit of information shared.
"YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?! AND YOU DIDN’T BOTHER TO TELL ME?! IT'S BEEN WEEKS!" she shrieked, utterly beside herself, nearly jumping onto the table, ready to claw Potter’s forest green eyes out for his meddling and over concern. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! STOP PLAYING THE HERO WHERE YOU ARE UNWANTED! GET OUT OF MY SODDING LIFE, POTTER!"
In her scramble to get at The Chosen One, Zabini had snagged Pansy around the waist. Without her wand, she'd did the second best thing. She reached down to grasp onto one of her heels, hurling it at Potter’s head.
"Whoa, Pans, easy!" Theo cautioned, taking hold of her wrist before she could find more ammunition.
"Big hands, like your father," she hissed, turning on Nott, her eyes slitted, partially hiding the tortured look accompanying her words. Her throat clenched at Theo's strangled response. Good. He and Blaise needed to know the heinous crimes committed against her and how they both had utterly failed to protect her from their own. Promises among Slytherins, she'd discovered, were ones not to be relied upon.
"Honestly, Pansy, Theo isn't his fath--"
"Don't, Blaise, darling," she smiled icily, holding up her free hand, palm open toward her former best mate’s face. Her glacial gaze met his sorrowful one. "Sentiment doesn't become you, my dearest, That is why I never held on to any hope that you would come to talk some sense into your lovely mother, her perverted husband, and her myriad of equally deranged admirers. You've no bloody idea what I went through for this wretched, incompetent organization. I wish our parents had managed to kill me, but perhaps living with the memories of what I was forced to endure is exactly the sort of torture they'd intended." Pansy, nearly lost the ability to speak as she lambasted Blaise. She missed his pained wince when she turned again on Theo, a challenge in her glare. "Get your hands off me and prove you aren't like your father, Nott."
Theo dropped her wrist as if her skin scorched him and he stormed out of the conference room. Blaise let go of her waist, shot Pansy a look somewhere between apology and admonishment, and silently followed Theo out. Pansy sneered at their departure, then turned on the rest of the men now in defensive stances. She spied her shoe on the floor behind Potter with nary a scratch on her intended target. Merlin, she was rusty. She turned to Shacklebolt.
"Considering the circumstances, Minister, I need a word with Potter. Without an audience. I am owed the granting of at least one request before my exile, I hope I haven't been completely stripped of all my rights." Pansy was pleased to see Potter's hand inch toward his wand, even though the lightning scarred moron knew full well she was unarmed. "I promise I won't hurt him," she added, with a derisive smirk, which faded as soon as she caught the hooded look that passed between The Chosen One and the leader of Wizarding England.
While the others filed out at Shackelbolt's command, Pansy stood with arms crossed, attempting to appear as dignified as she possibly could while wearing only one stiletto. When at last the room had emptied, she strode over to the dark-haired hero, poking a sharp fingernail into the center of his chest. "Lock the door and cast a Silencing charm, Potter. What I have to say is for your ears only."
She moved to the curtain at the two-way mirror on the opposing wall, pulling the material over the glass. Her trained eye found every bug in the room and she had him disengage each and every one.
"You're rather good, Pansy," he'd commented appraisingly, turning off the last surveillance device.
"You haven't a clue how good I am, Potter." She noted again his use of her first name and frowned. Feeling the weight of his gaze rake down the curves of her back, she turned. Smiling inwardly at his predictability, Pansy lifted herself onto the table, thinking another tactic might work in her favor. After all, a girl had to be blind not to have noticed the spark of interest. She sat, knee crossed over the other, facing him. She leaned back slightly, pressing the backs of her shoulders together, her eye rested on her shoe near the wall, just over his shoulder. "Call them off. Tell them I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself without your precious Aurors babysitting me. Call them off and I'll make it worth your while. How long has it been since you’ve had a proper shag, Potter?"
Out of pure self-preservation, he ignored her audacious offer. He was married with children and his morals kept him from entertaining the thought, no matter how tempting. "You know they're still out there. I can't in good conscience put you in harm's way, Pansy." Harry's eyes itched to more openly admire the picture she was presenting of herself, perched on the table before him, looking healthy and self-assured, the exact opposite of the vulnerable damsel in distress he'd watched over in the hospital. The impulse to ogle was strong, but now that she was watching him, Harry dutifully fixed his gaze to her face. He proceeded to ignore the heat crawling up his neck at the sound of her offer. "I told you already, Pansy, it's too dangerous. And you're too valuable. I'm following..."
Even as her face formed a proper snarl, Pansy's traitorous heart secretly clenched in longing at his words- too valuable.
"Shut it, Potter. I distinctly remember telling you not to use my name and, furthermore, I don't give a rat's arse about your hallowed procedures. It was your bloody procedures that had me teetering on the brink of death! So stop patronizing me, Chosen One. I know you break rules when it suits you. Make it suit you now! You and I know one word from you, their blessed savior, would swing the vote my way. I've already won Theo and Blaise over. They don't want to be responsible for my well being, not while I have few qualms about airing their dirty family laundry, sniveling cowards that they are. Aurors my glorious arse!"
Pansy watched his gaze dart lower, toward aforementioned derrière, and smirked internally. How very easy this was going to be.
"Zabini and Nott have been separated from their families since the start of the second battle, Pan-arkinson. They had no feasible way to assist you without being captured and tortured as blood traitors by your captors. You're being unfair as well as unreasonable."
"I'm being unreasonable?! Potter! I’ve paid my debts to you and to wizarding society a million times over. My only crime was having been so terrorized I made the appalling mistake of speaking before thinking and ended up offering you up as a sacrificial lamb. I never tortured a soul under the Carrows that last year, but my Wizengamot sentencing amounted to far more than the ones given to those who practiced Unforgivables while you were off, what was it, having a romp in the woods with Granger and the Weasel? All I'm asking your bloody Ministry for is my freedom, my unalienable right to live my life in the manner I see fit. Living as a Muggle because you dimwits believe that some far fetched harm may come my way is ludicrous! They will not beat me into hiding." Her eyes flashed dangerously. Leaning toward him, she bit out her words. "And you will not order me about! I owe your lot nothing, not anymore!"
She watched the muscles twitch in the angle of his square jaw. Pansy scowled at the sight of it. She was more than miffed that he had the audacity to be irritated with her. He seemed to visibly ease, however, after a moment's pause. He surprised her by moving closer, placing a hand on the table, near her hip. Behind his spectacles, Potter's eyes dilated once his green gaze met hers.
"You are quite right about that, Pansy," he said in quiet acquiescence. "The fact of the matter is, we owe you. It is my duty to ensure that you live long enough through this very dangerous period of rounding up Voldemort Loyalists to be able to live the life you desire."
She tensed at the gentleness of his voice, her muscles growing taut with each word. She'd seen healers, for her spiritual and physical well-being, but the darkness of her time spent in her father's dungeons had left permanent scars, ones that marred both body and mind. Part of her still strongly resented the Ministry's interference in what surely would have been a welcome, steady slip into unconsciousness and eventual death. There were still moments in her day that the idea of non-existence outweighed that of being alive.
"Step away, Potter," she managed to breathe. It was difficult to think with the scent of him assailing her senses and the power of his powerful magic swirling about them, intertwining with the off-kilter sparks of hers. She watched him shake his head. "I won't leave the magical world, Chosen One. They won't drive me out."
"There's no other choice, Parkinson." He stepped even closer, invading her space. "I can't allow you to die. And you will, if one of them finds you."
She squared her own jaw, eyes blazing.
"Then, let me die."
He blinked, unable to comprehend her bull-headedness. Harry's eyes narrowed.
"No. Not under my watch."
Pansy scoffed. "Don't you mean under Weasley and Longbottom's watch?"
"No."
Pansy shook her head, scowling. Her dismissive gesture seemed to intensify the swirl of magic around them. She would not be babysat by Potter. It was bad enough she still woke up screaming through a nightmare, searching for his silhouette at her bedside. "I'm sure the Weaselette will knock some sense into you. You can't be serious about this."
"If my taking up your case is the only way to convince you how dire the situation is concerning your life, then, yes, Parkinson, I'm very serious about this."
"Why? Why help me, Potter? Why do you even care? I'm the one who was ready to trot you off to Voldemort."
A small smile twitched at his lips. Had he not been so near, Pansy wouldn't have noticed. Impulsively, she reached out to poke the corner of his mouth. It was as if she'd pressed a button that had his gaze snapping back to search her face. She dropped her hand to clasp the other now in her lap and ducked her head. Clearing her throat, she stared at his leather shoes. "I fail to see how any of this is the least bit amusing."
Harry, knowing that he should step back from playing with fire, chucked her chin up with a curled finger. "I can't allow you to come to any harm, Pansy. There should be more witches willing to hurl their shoes at the sainted Potter. For that alone I forbid you to die so long as I live. No one ever fights me. And I find it refreshing that you've no issue with doing so - and quite regularly. I failed to protect you from the sentencing I had a hand in creating, but I can protect you now and I will. Let me help you. Let me be your friend."
Pansy moved her face away from the distracting touch of his hand. Her own fingers reached out to grasp the lapel of his Auror's uniform jacket. "I don't need a friend and I certainly don't need saving!"
Harry shifted so his broader, callused hand moved to cover hers. "On the contrary, Pansy, I think you need both."
She scowled, tugging at him so his face was millimeters from hers. "I do hate you, with every fibre of my being. Your unchecked hero's complex is one of your most irritating characteristics."
Pulled off balance, Harry had instinctively placed both hands against the table on either side of her hips. From this position, he knew if he shifted his gaze, he'd get an eyeful of cleavage, so he trained his glare to meet hers. "If that hate gets me a step further in convincing you to go into hiding for the time being and keeping you safe, then, I'll take it. And one day, Pansy, you'll thank me for my insistence."
He should have been placed in Slytherin, she thought absently. Now, it was her turn to offer him a wry smile as her fingers twisted into his jacket. "Highly doubtful, Potter, and if you do proceed with this imbecilic plan, I will see to it that your life while watching me is a living hell."
She stilled as he moved to place his mouth against her ear. "Who says it isn't already?" It was the merest of touches, but the graze of his stubbled jaw against her cheek and the rasp of his deep voice ghosting against the whorls of her ear had sent shivers through her. So stunned was she that she'd flattened her palm against his chest and shoved him away- hard.
He stumbled backwards, catching his hip against a chair. He had a curious, almost triumphant look on his face that made her want to slap him. "So, it's decided. I'll watch over you as you transition into your new Muggle life."
"Sod off, Potter."
"You already know I won't."
"If I must go into hiding, I'll take Weasley and Longbottom over you."
"So you can manipulate them into doing exactly as you wish? No, Pansy, I think I know exactly what you're up to and you should know that I am a formidable force. I won't be swayed by your feminine wiles."
She rolled her eyes. "I hate you."
"So you've said."
"Aren't you going to claim the same of me?"
"Why should I when it so clearly infuriates you that I don't respond in kind?"
She huffed at his response. "FINE! But you've no idea what you are getting yourself into. I want to be a part of every detail, starting with the place I am to live to the last sentence on my dossier. Cheat me out of any of the planning and I swear to you I will step off Ministry property and live my life outside, exposing your department as irreparably inept. I have hardly a care as to how short my existence might be."
"And why is that, exactly?"
Pansy paused at his question, slipping off the table to retrieve her shoe. With her back to him, she stared out the window. "Don't you know the answer to that by now, Chosen One?" She let out a light, dry laugh. "There's not a thing left for me to live for."
From behind, she heard his approach. In two heartbeats, she felt the foreign weight of his hand on her shoulder. It was an odd gesture, as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity to touch her again, to comfort her. Sodding Gryffindor. Resisting the impulse to sway into him, she stiffened. He moved so he faced her. She took a step backwards, just out of his reach.
"You're out of your depths with me, Scarhead." She smiled sadly up at him, a rare moment of honesty dragged out of her by his earnest compassion. "I'm beyond saving."
Something unreadable flashed in the depths of his gaze. "Call me, Harry."
"No."
"Why ever not, Pansy?"
Because it would make you real, a person I could care about and I can't, she'd thought forlornly. "Stop calling me that."
He lifted his hand to rake through his tumble of dark hair. "You're not making this easy, Parkinson."
"I already told you I wouldn’t," she snapped. "Are you deaf as well as blind, Potter?" She reached out to sharply tap the rim of his glasses. Swiftly, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. A sharp cry ripped from her throat at the feel of the slight binding sensation of his grip. She scowled at him, yanking her arm from his hold. "Ready to stop playing my knight in shining armor and return to your castle filled with gingers?"
"I'm not doing anything that Ginny wouldn't approve."
Back in her heels, Pansy cocked her head, a cunning gleam shone in her gaze at his insistence. "Is that so?"
It was a moment too late that Harry realized his miscalculation. She was up against him within moments, all tempting curves and all-enveloping spicy scents. Her fingers moved possessively in his hair as her other hand caressed his jaw. From beneath lowered lashes, she gazed up at him, former recalcitrant turned instant seductress. And Harry, caught completely off guard, responded as any sex-starved husband and father of two might to her illicit snake's song - he searched frantically for escape, eyes darting left and right as her fingernails brushed against the sensitive skin at his throat. He bit back a sensuous groan. How long had it been? he wondered as her lithe curvaceous body moved deliciously against him, reawakening a long dormant masculine instinct to protect and lay claim on a headstrong, willing, yet somewhat broken witch.
"W-what are you doing, Parkinson?" His hands had shot up between them to stop her, but now were pressed up against her two soft mounds that marked the differences in their genders. He groaned inwardly.
"If you need to ask," she chuckled huskily, performing a sensual grind, "you need this more than I do, Potter." She lifted a brow, darting her tongue out to lick her lower lip. The movement captured his befuddled gaze. She would have cackled if she hadn't been so determined to prove a point. She lifted her chin slightly, her mouth nearly brushing against his as she slid a foot against his calf.
"S-stop this, Pansy," he choked out, bucking against her in a shoddy effort to heave her off.
She let out a delighted laugh. "And why should I when you so blithely ignore my insistences of the same?" She ran a hand down his side, feeling every glorious muscled plane. "Why should I stop when I'm working so hard to earn your wife's disapproval?"
With that, Harry found the strength to move his hands, ignoring the luscious weight of her in his palms. Carefully, knowing she was sensitive to certain, more dominant holds, he cradled her jaw, his other hand gently smoothed against her arm, drawing it away from himself, back to her side. "My wife thinks you are dead, as does the rest of the Wizarding world. There's no one left to judge you except the men you saw in this room earlier." Harry moved his hand around her waist as she seemed to sway when he reminded her of the earlier news claiming her non-existence.
An infuriated tear welled in the corner of her eye, threatening to fall as she stared blankly at him, devastated all over again by the news of her orchestrated death. She breathed out a soft curse and with a pained whisper claimed again her utter despise of him. "I hate you, Potter."
"I know, Parkinson. And that's alright, so long as you let me keep you alive."
"What's the point when I'm already dead in everyone else's eyes?"
"I don’t want to count you among the dead."
She searched his face. "And what about what I want, Potter?"
He softened his gaze. "What is it that you want, Parkinson?"
She didn’t speak, only lifted to her toes to press her mouth against his in a rash, desperate act that had sparks of unchecked magic skittering around the room. She tilted her head, keeping her mouth on his, drawing his lower lip between her teeth and biting down, punishing him for making her feel... anything... when all she wanted was the bliss of nothingness.
Her hands returned to his shoulders, anchoring him as her fingernails pressed half-moons into his skin despite the cover of his uniform. He didn’t move. His only response besides a satisfying, responsive nip to her own lips, was a deep hungry growl that he’d managed to nearly bite back. She’d felt Potter tighten his hold on her only moments before he forcefully shoved her away. Unashamed, Pansy stood before him, casually finger combing her hair, mouth red from the all too-brief, rough kiss he’d bestowed on her.
"I want that." She could feel the heat radiate from him at her blithe response and she sent him a sly smile. "Judging from the sparks, we’d be good together and I’m dead, remember? It hardly matters what you do with me."
"I’m married and it counts, Parkinson," he snarled, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You’d better begin learning to accept that we don’t always get what we want."
She’d wanted to scream at him then, but knew it would do little good. So, instead, she pulled on her ice-queen exterior and barely glanced at him. "I’ll have my file outlining the details of my Muggle life on your desk in the morning. I’ll be the one to work with your people on exactly where I will stay and what my life will be like in the Muggle world. I’ll even deign to speak to that half-blood, Dean Thomas, who, I gather, will be the point person in arranging my exile -- ah, apologies, I forgot that you rather like to live under the misguidance of euphemisms... my protective custody. He is the only one who was part of that meeting who truly knows anything about Muggle life. Well, besides you, though your knowledge is rather confined to Little Winging and the cupboards you slept in." She gave him a dismissive wave. "We’re through here, Potter. Lift the wards. I’m ready to go."
"Parkinson."
She paused taking in his weary expression. "Look, Chosen One, you got what you wanted. Bully for you. I’ve agreed to your asinine plan, but I’m doing things my way, within the confines of the boundaries you’ve set. You’d better start to accept, Potter, that you don’t always get what you want, just the way you want it." She lifted a brow, waiting for him to cast the Finite, and when he did so, albeit reluctantly, Pansy strode out of the room, leaving Harry hot and bothered, and quite reluctant to more closely examine just what he’d gotten himself into.
-----
"The last of Voldemort's Loyalists will be formally charged today and then sent off to Azkaban, there’s hardly a need for me to continue living in Wandsworth."
Harry met Pansy’s shrewd gaze, wondering if he was kidding himself that he’d seen a hint of sadness in her eyes. Harry knew this parting was going to happen eventually and he’d been avoiding the conversation. He rather liked the way things were now. Selfish wants, he knew, but it was inevitable that this thing with Parkinson would come to an end.
"I want my wand back, Potter. I want a life in the Wizarding world."
Without me, he thought bitterly as he stared silently at her, shrugging on his Auror’s jacket. "Call me Harry. I’ve earned at least that."
"No," she sighed, turning away, still lying on the dark green chaise. "You haven’t."
-----
She’d been good on her word, her entire Muggle existence had been outlined in carefully quilled print the following morning, placed on his desk, waiting his acceptance before being passed through the Ministry’s top strategists. By no later than 3 p.m. the file had been returned to him with a glowing Ministry stamp of approval. There had been only one change. Atop the file was a wedding band and engagement ring and their masculine counterpart. Apparently, since she could hardly explain away his presence, she was to be his wife in the Muggle world. Harry knew he should have been a bit nicer to the powers that be. Surely, the cruel joke was Shackelbolt’s doing.
It took five days of ducking her innuendos, cold showers, and self-care in the dead of night to keep Harry focused on the task of preparation and less on Parkisnon's ability to arouse his basest of instincts. At last the day arrived and he’d escorted her and her things to her new, partly-furnished Muggle flat. In Harry's eyes, it was a rather decent place, one he hadn’t imagined she’d pick for herself, since it was modest in both size and style. Harry hadn’t yet told her about the slight change in her dossier. She nearly threw the rings at him as soon as he’d shown them to her.
"That’s not funny, Potter."
"I never said I thought it was."
"So, I’m to live my life here as either a nun or an adulteress, is that it?"
He ignored her outrage. "Be happy that your name wasn’t switched to Esther. Shackelbolt must really like you. Look, you can remove the rings when I’m gone and call me whatever names you like to excuse your conduct with other men. I don’t care."
She narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms against her chest. "And what if I care?"
He gave her a skeptical look.
"I’m not a slag, Potter. These rings will immediately label me. I won’t wear them."
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"That is what I said."
"Merlin, you’re impossible."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. "I’ll sleep on the couch."
"Why do you have to stay at all?"
"Parkinson, my staying is sort of the point."
"Don’t you have some bloody protection spell you can cast so you can leave me be and go back to your lovely little family?"
"Leave my family out of your whining, Parkinson. I’ve got it worked out and it’s none of your concern. What you need to do is practice living out your dossier and work on honing your work-related skills so you can, at least, find something to do to amuse yourself. The Ministry will provide for all your basic needs. A job is something you’ll have to land on your own if you want to purchase extra luxuries."
"Oh, is that all? How very thoughtful or you, Potter, to think of my overall well-being as you ship me off to nowhere land." She rolled her eyes, tidying her things, all the while grumbling about being wandless, subject to having to perform house elf work in this godforsaken place. In the throes of her tantrum, she slammed cupboard and wardrobe doors, shooting him hateful glares along the way. Harry, feeling rather useless, stooped to pick something up to hand to her. She scowled at him, snatching her large comforter from his arms as she stomped into her bedroom, the fluffy blanket dragging behind her.
"I don’t have extra bedding, so maybe you can get your job to give you that extra luxury, Scarhead."
"It’s Harry," he called out, starting to find some amusement in her snit. "And how convenient it must be to be able to blame your current situation on me when you’re the one who picked this place. You also seem to have forgotten I have a wand, Parkinson. Such a shame you’re being such a right bitch. Otherwise, I might be open to the idea of assisting you with your moving in."
He heard the rustle in the adjoining room and then she was there, in front of him, enraged, as usual. "You do not get to poke fun! Nor are you allowed to tease, or otherwise make this out to be some sort of holiday for me... Or yourself, for that matter! You are making me leave everything I know and love to hate about being magical and dumping me off here. I hate it here. AND I HATE YOU!"
Having quite gotten used to her proclamations of her unqualified loathing of him, Harry simply nodded. "Some tea, then, Pansy?"
She landed a punch to the center of his chest. He hadn’t expected it and while it packed a wallop, it only had him taking two steps backwards. "Stop trivializing this, Potter!"
He caught her fist before she could land another hit. "I’ll let you continue punching me, if you’ll stop for a minute to eat. You haven’t eaten all day."
"I’m not hungry."
Petulant witch, he thought. "Are you always this contrary?"
"No," she pouted, scowling at him.
"Ah, worse then," he smirked, softening the tease with a quiet laugh before letting go of her hand. His soft low chuckle brought a twinkle to his already attractive eyes. The unexpected smile had Pansy blinking in astonishment. It was unnerving how significantly an upward crescent shape of lips transformed his usually dark and brooding face. He was handsome and she hated herself for the attraction, so she responded by sending him a snide look.
"I'll have that tea now, Potter."
He nodded, making his way into the kitchen, leaving Pansy fuming in the sitting room surrounded by her unpacked boxes. The mere sight of such massive disarray would normally have had her in a temper that would lead to helpless tears, but Potter's undesired presence had her dismay mutating into a godawful sort of unbridled infuriation that needed some sort of release. Usually, she took great pride in her self discipline, but every passing moment in the company of the green-eyed savior seemed to sap that power of dispassion away. She wondered bitterly if his Gryffindor was rubbing off on her. She shuddered at the thought.
"Cream or sugar?"
"Neither," she replied testily. "And you won't find any for yourself if you take it."
"They were on the list."
Pansy sent a quizzical look toward the kitchen. There was a list? She heard his sound of triumphant discovery and realized that if the Ministry was providing for her needs, surely they were providing for his. She rolled her eyes. How typical.
She moved to sit at the small table, which the landlady had earlier identified as Pansy's dining table. She should have been given an award for not laughing out loud. Potter had shot her a look, raising a brow when Pansy hadn't kicked up a fuss at the simplicity of the furnishings. She murmured a barely audible thanks when the spot of tea was placed in front of her by his masculine hand. She noted how casually he'd taken the open chair across from her.
Taking a sip, she peered at him over the rim of her teacup. His glasses had fogged with steam and she noted he liked quite a lot of cream with his tea.
She cleared her throat. "So, why don't you let me borrow your wand so I can finish my unpacking?" Her voice seemed nearly neutral, pleasant, even.
"What's the magic word, Pansy?"
She frowned, thinking as she ran a fingertip over the cup's handle. "Accio?"
Harry threw his head back and laughed as she knit her brow at his reaction. "That wasn't a joke, Potter." It occurred to her that she'd never seen him wear a genuine smile, much less hear hear his carefree laugh back at the office. She'd already heard two from him. She thought, perhaps, despite her protestations otherwise, that this time in Muggle land might actually be a holiday for the great Harry Potter. She cocked her head at him.
"How long have you been married, Potter?"
"It's coming on seven years."
She watched him shift uncomfortably in his seat. She cocked a brow.
"Happy?"
"... Yes."
Pansy found herself unable to read his expression. While he answered in the affirmative, his body told an entirely different story. She eyed him curiously. "What does she think you're doing now?"
Harry stared at his empty teacup before looking up to address the question. The silence elongated and she wondered if he'd forgotten the query. His adam's apple bobbed and she found herself mesmerized by the movement. "She's stopped asking," he replied quietly, his gaze averted. "She's rejoining the Harpies in a month. We didn't want to argue."
"And where will your children stay? Your in-laws?"
His entire being sagged at the question. He nodded. "There's no one else, really."
Pansy frowned. She'd thought his life would be different somehow-- better. "You shouldn't be here, Potter."
He poured another round from the teapot he'd brought out to the table. He looked as though he wished it was something stronger. It wasn't until after Harry had taken several prolonged sips that he caught her eye again.
"I know." His verdant gaze darkened slightly as the rest of his answer seemed to be wrenched from his lips, "but here I am."
"So you are." Pansy raised a brow, "And for all intensive purposes, everyone we know thinks I'm dead. Think a bit about that won't you?" She let the thought hang between them as she bared a leg and caught him looking. "How about satisfying a curiosity, Chosen One? And... you did say the Ministry would be taking care of my basic needs"
Chancing a look at him, she was given an eyeful of his barely leashed desire for her. So encouraged, and long celibate, she took bold hold of his hand and glided it up her thigh toward the part of her that had started to throb at the yearning she discovered in his gaze.
"Hell."
She heard him mutter the word before he rounded the table, gripped her shirt and yanked her against him, hungrily claiming her mouth with his.
"As promised, Potter," she smirked up at him, her fingers tangled in his hair, as she came up for breath.
"Shut it, Parkinson," he growled low and dangerously, his green eyes darkening with desire to match the shade of the couch she would buy a week later.
"Make me, Scarhead"
It was his turn to smirk. "Gladly, Pugface." He dipped his head once more and proceeded to take her breath away.
-----
Her movement on the chaise had Pansy effectively closing herself off from him and he found it odd that he was so bothered. It wasn't as if they ever cuddled after they'd had a go of it. Parkinson, in fact, seemed to prefer the lack of soft touches from him. He'd learned to hide that part away from Pansy, who encouraged the rise of his more aggressive urges, the very ones he'd worked hard to hide from Ginny,
His attempt at comfort by taking a seat at her hip and cupping her bare shoulder, therefore, was more than just unusual, it was downright foreign. He felt her go still beneath his touch.
"Go back to your wife, Potter."
It was Harry's turn to tense. His fingers traced the graceful line of her throat, caressing her cheek, silently entreating her to look at him. And when she did, he replied quietly, desperately, "I'm not entirely sure I can. I lov-"
Swiftly, her fingers moving to his lips, quieting him.
"Oh, Harry," she breathed, allowing herself a momentary lapse, a minute to dream of what ifs. In turn, she gifted him with a moment of pleasure and hope as he discovered the undeniable love and need for him gleaming in her unabashed gaze. With a regretful sigh, Pansy nuzzled into his touch, reaching her hand out to smooth the despair etched in his brow. A soft smile touched her lips and was gone.
No.
Her silent rejection passed between them as she firmly slipped on her mask of indifference. She wasn't a home wrecker and she wasn’t his whore. She was simply and irrevocably in love with him. Despite the impossibilities, she loved... loved him enough to give Harry Potter his much needed post-battle, fairytale epilogue.
"I hate you, Potter, with every fibre of my being."
She witnessed the exact moment he accepted their fate. Her heart broke with his single dejected nod. She blinked back emotion, pressing his wand into his palm. She patted his cheek affectionately, "Go home."
And for the first time since Pansy had first ordered him to leave her, Harry heeded and disapparated away.
-----
For the Love of Pansy (Round 1) Masterlist
Username: foggybythebay
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Type: Het
Prompt: #131 - "Just Friends" by Amy Winehouse
Rating: R
Word Count:10,000
Warnings/content: angst, infidelity
Summary: Primed to make Harry Potter's life a living hell when he appoints himself her personal babysitter, Pansy discovers that being the conniving other woman means making sacrifices, too.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters/references are property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement is intended.
The Way She Loves Him
His breath ran ragged against her ear. Harry could feel the press of her perspiration slicked forehead against his recently bared shoulder. He still wore his trousers, open and hung low on his hips, despite their frantic coupling against a wall in her modest Muggle flat. Pansy’s leg slid down against the outside of his thigh. It had earlier been wrapped around his waist, but now her toes, still encased in three-inch, dragon-skin heels, touched to the ground. At her movement, Harry let out a soft groan as he slipped from her.
With callused fingers still tangled in her dark locks, he felt the rapid pounding of her heart thudding against his bare chest. Harry inhaled deeply, staring first at the ceiling before moving his gaze to rest on his left hand, the one that he’d pressed, open-palmed, against the wall as he’d shagged Parkinson to mind-blowing, simultaneous orgasm. His gold wedding band caught the glow of firelight, and Harry was reminded, yet again, why he should have listened to the cautionary voice in his head that had urged him to send a lower level Auror instead of taking on the task of paying this final visit to Parkinson’s Muggle flat.
After all, this thing with Pansy was no longer a singular lapse in judgement, it had become a difficult habit to break.
Pansy groaned inwardly, knowing not to speak as he sorted through the tumble of self-flagellating thoughts plaguing his overactive conscience. Her fingertips swept through the light spray of crisp dark hair on his pale, well-defined chest. Her lips pressed against Harry's left collarbone. Long gone was her ruby red lipstick. The color was smudged between his lips and jaw, trailing down his body, leaving a temporary mark he would surely Scourgify before he returned to his wife.
His wife.
Pansy hid her scowl with a head toss that had her hair curtaining her face from view. Potter's ever annoying guilt over his extramarital activities, in Pansy’s experience, tended to flare at the most inopportune times, namely the moment post-climax. Reality invaded their forbidden space all too soon for her. It was hardly a wonder, then, that she purposely drew out their unique brand of foreplay to keep him from such irritatingly predictable behavior.
The petite brunette didn’t understand what his fussing was about. In her estimation, infidelity was a necessity, an escape from mundane married life and one’s less than attractive, nagging spouse. She could attest to the truth that affairs made for happier husbands. After all, the married men with whom she’d come into contact were perfectly jovial sorts. But, what did anyone care of her opinion? Pansy Parkinson had never married. If anyone bothered to ask, however, she would readily cite how affairs were a commonplace, if not expected, practice among the pureblood families well-acquainted with hers. Not that the Parkinsons and Malfoys of their world were models of family morals and values, but it was what it was. And this thing with Potter was... well... she found herself quite unable to complete the sentence in her head.
Besides, why ever was he worried? Wasn't she just the perfect little dalliance for him?Pansy thought, pouting, as she slipped from his embrace, adjusting her skirt and re-buttoning her light spaghetti strap blouse. She’d lost her knickers to his hasty Evanesco! Fifth one in two weeks, she sighed to herself, letting out a quiet obscenity. She rather liked that lacy pair.
Everyone back home thought she was among the missing dead, a causality of war, when in reality she was under the Ministry's top tier protection program for her espionage work during the Ministry's post-war attempts to round up Death Eater loyalists. But she had been a spy too-soon discovered by those still pledging allegiance to a dead lord and master. It had been Potter who'd found her, tortured to an inch of her life, left to rot in the deep confines of Parkinson Manor by the Death Eaters she'd double-crossed. The masked criminals, her parents among them, had flown at the first sign of Ministry agents darkening the front door of the great manse.
Now, months later, she was stuck wandless, in the middle of Muggle nowhere, which was a borough of London called, Wandsworth. And if truth be told, not an entirely terrible place to be.
"She won’t find out, Potter," Pansy finally sighed, unable to bear another moment of his tortured silence. "Just like she hasn’t found out about all of the other times. I still hate you, you still hate me and this long-simmering despise has given rise to this insatiable, unspeakable lust that, for whatever twisted reason, needs to be slaked every time we lay eyes on one other."
Newly aching from their earlier sexual escapade, Pansy moved gingerly to her forest green velvet sofa. She’d purchased this first piece of furniture less for her allegiance to her former House, than for the memories the color evoked of the first time the currently fretting Harry Potter had stared at her with raw desire evident in his verdant gaze.
Her flirty full skirt fell against the tops of her thigh as she slid into a languid lounge. Her neck rested against the cushioned arm. Lolling her head to look at him, Pansy watched Harry pace along the outside of her fluffy sheepskin rug, doing up his fly and tucking in his wrinkled Auror’s oxford with sharp deliberate movements. His crisply starched uniform jacket hung over the sofa’s back. It was where he’d placed it before launching into his earlier tirade that had her spitting back at him for his high-handed commands that gave little thought to her Muggle life while he was off playing hard-working Auror, loving husband, and doting father. Not that she gave a damn what he did when he left her, she thought bitterly. She hated him. It was her mantra, one she clung to for pure sanity’s sake. Pansy rolled her eyes at herself, and him, making a rude noise as she shifted slightly to give herself a better, but covert, view of the hero of the Wizarding world looking properly mussed, and more than a little bit proud to have been the cause of it.
"It is just sex, Potter. Get over yourself."
Sex that increased her hunger for him and made her ache for days, in all the right, yet worst places, mostly in the center of her chest. But whatever her purposeful unexamined feelings might be toward The Chosen One, Pansy knew she had to be practical. She was the other woman, yes, but she was not about to become a home wrecker, nor would she allow Potter to believe she was his whore. Pansy simply held to the truths she knew. Potter needed his reality of a perfect traditional family. She knew the Weaselette happily provided that little fantasy for him. And, Pansy was not about to start kidding herself. She knew she’d make a horrid housewitch and mum, besides, she rather enjoyed her job of regularly dressing down the great Harry Potter, in more ways than one.
Inhaling deeply and closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to her brows, listening to him move about the room. She was silently working on convincing herself that she was satisfied with the little bit of himself he did give her. That was enough. And when they weren’t attacking one another in a desperate need to consummate, she could live in her happy house of denial without a thought to her mental and emotional state because as far as Potter was concerned, she didn’t posses a heart and was completely devoid of feelings. Heartless bitch, he’d called her once during a more heated row. That argument had led to some of the best sex they’d ever had, if memory served her well.
Harry watched a myriad of emotions cross her unguarded features before the trademark scowl slid its way back onto Pansy’s face, a face Harry no longer found quite as unattractive as he had back at school. He wondered what she was thinking as he'd been mulling about his utter lack of self-control when in her provocative presence. Parkinson was right, Harry tried to convince himself. It had been just sex... rough, punishing sex. But as much as they each convinced themselves of this easy out, this thing between them hadn’t started out that way. And Harry knew it.
His affair with Pansy had been going on for three months and he was more than aware that the excuses he was using for his continued infidelity were flimsy at best. Yet, for a man renown for his intrepid courage, Harry’s gonads curled up into themselves at the very thought of facing Ginny’s reaction if she were to ever discover just exactly what he did in the Muggle world whenever he had Auror business to attend to. Besides, he couldn’t risk the loss of the normality of his real life for the fantasy of one sultry Miss Parkinson who seemed to only need him for one sordid thing. The former Slytherin didn’t seem to give a whit about him outside the bedroom, so why should he spare a thought for her?
The problem was, he did. Harry spared far too many a thought for her, particularly whenever she was out of sight, which was a lot. He huffed irritably at himself and glared at her. He hated Pansy for making him feel this way. How could she possibly think she hadn’t marked him indelibly? He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The intake of breath was a mistake, as his senses filled with the scent of her. The spicy, slightly exotic fragrance was one Harry couldn't quite get enough of, or ever truly place. He only knew that when it hit him, his senses reeled, and he went rock hard, unable to rid himself of the most lurid thoughts of the unforgettable Miss Pansy Parkinson.
You see, for Harry, the beginning of the end of his simple and picture-perfect, post-battle epilogue with Gin was when he’d discovered Parkinson in the dungeons of her family home. She’d been unconscious, bloody, beaten, and broken. She'd needed him in a most desperate way. And with all that had occurred before, Harry had needed to save her, or possibly lose himself over the grief of yet another death. One he knew came from a decision he’d helped the Wizengamot make, a decision made during Parkinson’s trial.
Overwrought with guilt, Harry had believed he was carrying her corpse to the Ministry’s high security hospital, only to discover later that the intrepid Parkinson had managed to retain a fragile heartbeat, barely clinging to life. One would think she’d have softened toward him upon discovering how he’d saved her. But once the dark-haired shrew of a witch pulled from her coma, unable yet to speak, she’d become an instant complication. She'd glared at him, irritated by his mere existence, roughly shoving a parchment in his face when he’d come in for his regular visit:
You should have let me die! It would have been the more heroic, far more merciful thing to do, you self-righteous git!
Upon reading the parchment, Harry had ensured she was placed under constant suicide watch. And when he found the hospital’s measures lacking, still blaming himself for too many deaths, Harry took on the business himself. He did so to Pansy’s chagrin and to the dismay of Ginevra Weasley Potter, who was simply told Harry was conducting a prolonged investigation, requiring his absence from home in the late evenings.
"Go away, Potter, I’m not going to kill myself tonight."
Those were the words Pansy had snarled at him every night after he'd begun his nightly vigils. She looked so small in her hospital-sanctioned gown. He’d retort, "Shut it and rest, Parkinson." With a glare, she'd turned away and ignored him until the morning shift arrived. It had been the same every night, except on the Monday, a week before her release. On that night, Pansy pulled herself to sitting and swung her infuriated self to face him.
"I SAID, GET OUT, POTTER!"
Alarmed by her vehemence, Harry had pulled himself to standing and moved toward her, hand outstretched in an effort to calm.
"Pansy, you’ll hurt yourself. Merlin, just lay back, or you’ll force me to restrain you."
They’d broken script and it was the first time he’d said anything besides a variation of, "Shut it. Rest, Parkinson." He believed she’d hurl a biting retort, but instead, her dark eyes had widened and he’d caught the flash of fear in her expression when he’d threatened to cast a binding curse. Her fingers had curled into her bedclothes and she visibly cringed at his approach. Harry halted mid-stride, suddenly all too aware of her recent imprisonment and what she’d gone through to find her version of redemption.
"Hey, I won’t hurt you, Pansy."
The promise and her name from his lips seemed to snap her out of her instinctive cowering. Straightening her shoulders, Pansy defiantly lifted her chin, shooting him a hateful look and turned away.
"Go away, Potter."
Harry pressed his lips together, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, noticing her bed head. He found it endearing, this non-put together Parkinson. "No."
"Where’s my wand?" The crack in her voice didn’t escape him.
"Broken, but you won’t be needing it. We’ve a plan to keep you safe."
"Like the plan that landed me here?"
It was Harry's turn to cringe. "A better plan than that."
"Sod off, Potter! I can take care of myself." She’d whirled to face him, the sharp-tongued witch returned, and Harry was shocked to find that despite her hardened words, her eyes glistened, cheeks wet with silent tears. She was mourning the loss of her wand and her once uncomplicated, pureblood socialite life, Harry had supposed, shaking his head.
"No, Pansy. I can’t let you. It’s..." And Harry wasn’t about to send her out to fend for herself while Death Eater loyalists still were on the loose, "...procedure." He stubbornly refused to have her death on his hands, too. At his words, the air crackled and he knew her magic was getting away from her. "Pansy. You have my word. You’ll be kept safe."
"Stop calling me that."
"It’s your name."
"And I haven’t given you permission to use it, Auror Potter." She scowled, anger and frustration more than evident. "I hate you."
He nodded. "Yes. I know. I sort of hate you, too." With growing interest, Harry watched her shoulders sag at his words, but assumed Parkinson was simply growing tired of arguing. "But I need to make sure you don’t die. It’s..."
"... procedure," Pansy sneered contemptuously.
Harry had been about to say, important to me, but he let her presumption stand. "Whatever you want to believe, Parkinson. It’s late. Get some rest."
She’d owlishly blinked at him, suddenly realizing what she’d known all along but refused to acknowledge. The Chosen One, despite all his familial responsibilities, had been there for her every moment since he’d found her barely clinging to life in her parents’ home. Each time she’d woken from a night terror, the mere sight of his silhouette, and him keeping uncomplaining watch, had eased her worst fears and soothed away the thoughts of death that constantly plagued her. Pansy despised Potter for giving rise to such a powerful dependency on him. She didn’t want to need him. But there he was, despite her demands otherwise. With a weary sigh, she’d tried again to break this enchantment, one of the more ancient and unexplainable spells, he’d unwittingly cast over her. She laid back on the bed, turning away from him once more.
"Go away, Potter, I’m not going to kill myself tonight."
He let go of a breath he’d been subconsciously holding and moved to sit back in his chair.
"Shut it, Parkinson, and get some rest."
And that was how it had begun for Harry. Not with the world-tilting argument that had ensued five days following, in the Ministry conference room when Pansy was informed of the plan Harry had mentioned several nights before. The beginning of his end was with a quiet acceptance of her of in his life and the complications that might ensue.
True to her contrary form, Pansy refused to remember their beginning that way. In her memories she began this thing with Potter on the day she strode from the Ministry Hospital into the aforementioned conference room. She'd been dressed to the nines and more than pleased at the obvious expressions of masculine interest and approval aimed at her. It had been a rather long time since she’d garnered any sort of visceral male reaction other than worry, pity or despise. She’d tried to avoid glancing Potter’s way, but it had been unavoidable. His slightly gaping mouth and huge green eyes almost brought a tilt of a smile to her lips, almost but not quite.
She'd been refused exit from the classified area of the Ministry's campus and given access only to clothes she'd used on the job, which were, fortunately, quite stylish. After she was dressed at the hospital, she'd been placed under Disillusionment Charm without explanation. Pansy was in a right snit when she’d arrived, but only wore a barely there scowl.
With feline grace, she’d slipped into her seat at the end of the rectangular glass table, in the chair closest to the door. Around the room, men had scrambled to standing. She’d crossed one slim knee over the other, amused by the show of uncharacteristic gallantry. Her dress robe rode higher up her thigh and she relished the weight of their stares even as she adjusted so her shapely legs slid beneath the table. It had struck her as odd that they would have bothered with the gentleman's courtesy, but Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, at the head of the table, had moved to his feet at her entrance. And like a rising tide, so did the others. Longbottom, Weasley, Thomas, Zabini, Nott, other men she recognized but could not name. The last to his feet, a surprise since she’d expected the Weasel to dawdle, was Potter. He was to the right of Shacklebolt, his usually unreadable expression no longer fishlike, but carefully neutral.
The meeting began with Shacklebolt’s praise of her efforts to help capture Voldemort’s Loyalists, moved on to an expression of deep apology for how long it took them to release her from captivity, and capped off with a lecture about how important it was that she be kept out of harm’s way while the search for the remaining Voldemort Loyalists continued. He’d then had the audacity to give Longbottom and Weasley the responsibility of watching over her while she was to be placed in the Muggle world for her own protection. At that, Pansy had shot to her feet in loud protest.
"Those two would rather see me dead than act as my bodyguards. The moment he is alone with me, Longarse will forget what he’s doing," she accused, pointing a perfectly-manicured finger at Neville. Then, she turned her focus onto the sole ginger in the room. "And he’d be so easily distracted by the sight of food, or a well-endowed witch, to do his job with a modicum of professionalism." There had been a round of smothered guffaws at her summation of the two newest Aurors, punctuated by outraged protests from Ron and Neville. Scowling, Pansy crossed her arms and in what could only be described as gracefully flopping, returned to her seat.
"You’re asking me to live as a Muggle in a world that is completely foreign to me, Minister, saddling me with two bumbling pureblood wizards, who wouldn’t know a Muggle anything if it hit either of them in the face. It is a sentencing that Draco hasn’t even been given. With the-" she paused, swallowing and averting her eyes,"-torture I endured and with my near death, I believe I’ve paid my restitution for my role in the battle, a role which was miniscule compared to others. Might I remind you that I am the only one of my Slytherin peers who has been able to supply you with accurate and invaluable intelligence that led to a number of arrests. The least I can be given is a proper say in how I am to live the remainder of my life. The Ministry needn’t be bothered with me," she’d insisted, her hands pressed lightly against the cool glass of the conference room table. Lifting a shoulder and sending the lot of meddling men a sultry smile. "Grant me the casting of an Obliviate. Give me a new name and I promise, Minister, that I will simply fade into anonymity somewhere on the Continent."
She’d been cool in her counterargument, but Potter had, apparently, taken umbrage at her unbothered tone and what he termed her extreme naïveté. He’d argued that she was being short-sighted in believing that there would be no danger to her without two highly effective Aurors’ constantly on guard. She snorted indelicately at his far too generous characterization of Longbottom and Weasley, frowning at his over dramatization of her current situation. Honestly, hardly anyone cared about her. At the time, Pansy had wondered at his irritation and insistence that she listen to his reasoning. The way he'd been carrying on, she'd have thought he might actually care about her and not just about his personal death count. But there had been something brewing in his hot glare, had she cared enough to look. All she remembered, however, was her flash of temper as she pressed her hands to her knees, noting the quiver in her fingers as she returned his fearsome, reproachful look with one of her own.
"The Ministry does not own me, Potter!" she’d cried, voice raised, trying to stave off the panic that suddenly consumed her. They were deciding her life without her say and Pansy had been determined to fight tooth and nail to keep something like that from happening. They were a bunch of inept Muggle-loving morons playing at magical law enforcement. "I am done here! This is done!"
With a disgusted huff, Pansy stood and strode toward the door. The silence that ensued was not one of shock at her theatrics. She sensed something else in the air, something she knew she would not like. And like small prey wary of what lurked, Pansy froze before slowly turning to face the roomful of Aurors.
"Tell me the rest of it."
The sound of shifting bodies at her demand made it very clear that she was the only one in the room who didn't know something very important about her own life. Pansy scowled, disliking being in such a position. "Tell me."
"Miss Parkinson, everyone outside of this room believes you are... dead."
It was her turn to gape. The Minister had spoken without prologue and the ironic death knell that sounded in her head had her knees buckling. With a soft cry that she hoped no one heard, she gripped the back of the chair she’d recently occupied to keep from falling over.
"Surely Draco and Daphne don’t think I’m..." she whispered.
"They were the ones who planned the funeral," Harry replied curtly from across the room, his quill tapping against the glass tabletop. She narrowed her eyes at the man with the dark unruly hair.
"... While you were recovering in the hospital," Ron added, in what sounded to be a kinder tone, but wincing as he felt his best mate’s cold glare on him for that last bit of information shared.
"YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?! AND YOU DIDN’T BOTHER TO TELL ME?! IT'S BEEN WEEKS!" she shrieked, utterly beside herself, nearly jumping onto the table, ready to claw Potter’s forest green eyes out for his meddling and over concern. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! STOP PLAYING THE HERO WHERE YOU ARE UNWANTED! GET OUT OF MY SODDING LIFE, POTTER!"
In her scramble to get at The Chosen One, Zabini had snagged Pansy around the waist. Without her wand, she'd did the second best thing. She reached down to grasp onto one of her heels, hurling it at Potter’s head.
"Whoa, Pans, easy!" Theo cautioned, taking hold of her wrist before she could find more ammunition.
"Big hands, like your father," she hissed, turning on Nott, her eyes slitted, partially hiding the tortured look accompanying her words. Her throat clenched at Theo's strangled response. Good. He and Blaise needed to know the heinous crimes committed against her and how they both had utterly failed to protect her from their own. Promises among Slytherins, she'd discovered, were ones not to be relied upon.
"Honestly, Pansy, Theo isn't his fath--"
"Don't, Blaise, darling," she smiled icily, holding up her free hand, palm open toward her former best mate’s face. Her glacial gaze met his sorrowful one. "Sentiment doesn't become you, my dearest, That is why I never held on to any hope that you would come to talk some sense into your lovely mother, her perverted husband, and her myriad of equally deranged admirers. You've no bloody idea what I went through for this wretched, incompetent organization. I wish our parents had managed to kill me, but perhaps living with the memories of what I was forced to endure is exactly the sort of torture they'd intended." Pansy, nearly lost the ability to speak as she lambasted Blaise. She missed his pained wince when she turned again on Theo, a challenge in her glare. "Get your hands off me and prove you aren't like your father, Nott."
Theo dropped her wrist as if her skin scorched him and he stormed out of the conference room. Blaise let go of her waist, shot Pansy a look somewhere between apology and admonishment, and silently followed Theo out. Pansy sneered at their departure, then turned on the rest of the men now in defensive stances. She spied her shoe on the floor behind Potter with nary a scratch on her intended target. Merlin, she was rusty. She turned to Shacklebolt.
"Considering the circumstances, Minister, I need a word with Potter. Without an audience. I am owed the granting of at least one request before my exile, I hope I haven't been completely stripped of all my rights." Pansy was pleased to see Potter's hand inch toward his wand, even though the lightning scarred moron knew full well she was unarmed. "I promise I won't hurt him," she added, with a derisive smirk, which faded as soon as she caught the hooded look that passed between The Chosen One and the leader of Wizarding England.
While the others filed out at Shackelbolt's command, Pansy stood with arms crossed, attempting to appear as dignified as she possibly could while wearing only one stiletto. When at last the room had emptied, she strode over to the dark-haired hero, poking a sharp fingernail into the center of his chest. "Lock the door and cast a Silencing charm, Potter. What I have to say is for your ears only."
She moved to the curtain at the two-way mirror on the opposing wall, pulling the material over the glass. Her trained eye found every bug in the room and she had him disengage each and every one.
"You're rather good, Pansy," he'd commented appraisingly, turning off the last surveillance device.
"You haven't a clue how good I am, Potter." She noted again his use of her first name and frowned. Feeling the weight of his gaze rake down the curves of her back, she turned. Smiling inwardly at his predictability, Pansy lifted herself onto the table, thinking another tactic might work in her favor. After all, a girl had to be blind not to have noticed the spark of interest. She sat, knee crossed over the other, facing him. She leaned back slightly, pressing the backs of her shoulders together, her eye rested on her shoe near the wall, just over his shoulder. "Call them off. Tell them I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself without your precious Aurors babysitting me. Call them off and I'll make it worth your while. How long has it been since you’ve had a proper shag, Potter?"
Out of pure self-preservation, he ignored her audacious offer. He was married with children and his morals kept him from entertaining the thought, no matter how tempting. "You know they're still out there. I can't in good conscience put you in harm's way, Pansy." Harry's eyes itched to more openly admire the picture she was presenting of herself, perched on the table before him, looking healthy and self-assured, the exact opposite of the vulnerable damsel in distress he'd watched over in the hospital. The impulse to ogle was strong, but now that she was watching him, Harry dutifully fixed his gaze to her face. He proceeded to ignore the heat crawling up his neck at the sound of her offer. "I told you already, Pansy, it's too dangerous. And you're too valuable. I'm following..."
Even as her face formed a proper snarl, Pansy's traitorous heart secretly clenched in longing at his words- too valuable.
"Shut it, Potter. I distinctly remember telling you not to use my name and, furthermore, I don't give a rat's arse about your hallowed procedures. It was your bloody procedures that had me teetering on the brink of death! So stop patronizing me, Chosen One. I know you break rules when it suits you. Make it suit you now! You and I know one word from you, their blessed savior, would swing the vote my way. I've already won Theo and Blaise over. They don't want to be responsible for my well being, not while I have few qualms about airing their dirty family laundry, sniveling cowards that they are. Aurors my glorious arse!"
Pansy watched his gaze dart lower, toward aforementioned derrière, and smirked internally. How very easy this was going to be.
"Zabini and Nott have been separated from their families since the start of the second battle, Pan-arkinson. They had no feasible way to assist you without being captured and tortured as blood traitors by your captors. You're being unfair as well as unreasonable."
"I'm being unreasonable?! Potter! I’ve paid my debts to you and to wizarding society a million times over. My only crime was having been so terrorized I made the appalling mistake of speaking before thinking and ended up offering you up as a sacrificial lamb. I never tortured a soul under the Carrows that last year, but my Wizengamot sentencing amounted to far more than the ones given to those who practiced Unforgivables while you were off, what was it, having a romp in the woods with Granger and the Weasel? All I'm asking your bloody Ministry for is my freedom, my unalienable right to live my life in the manner I see fit. Living as a Muggle because you dimwits believe that some far fetched harm may come my way is ludicrous! They will not beat me into hiding." Her eyes flashed dangerously. Leaning toward him, she bit out her words. "And you will not order me about! I owe your lot nothing, not anymore!"
She watched the muscles twitch in the angle of his square jaw. Pansy scowled at the sight of it. She was more than miffed that he had the audacity to be irritated with her. He seemed to visibly ease, however, after a moment's pause. He surprised her by moving closer, placing a hand on the table, near her hip. Behind his spectacles, Potter's eyes dilated once his green gaze met hers.
"You are quite right about that, Pansy," he said in quiet acquiescence. "The fact of the matter is, we owe you. It is my duty to ensure that you live long enough through this very dangerous period of rounding up Voldemort Loyalists to be able to live the life you desire."
She tensed at the gentleness of his voice, her muscles growing taut with each word. She'd seen healers, for her spiritual and physical well-being, but the darkness of her time spent in her father's dungeons had left permanent scars, ones that marred both body and mind. Part of her still strongly resented the Ministry's interference in what surely would have been a welcome, steady slip into unconsciousness and eventual death. There were still moments in her day that the idea of non-existence outweighed that of being alive.
"Step away, Potter," she managed to breathe. It was difficult to think with the scent of him assailing her senses and the power of his powerful magic swirling about them, intertwining with the off-kilter sparks of hers. She watched him shake his head. "I won't leave the magical world, Chosen One. They won't drive me out."
"There's no other choice, Parkinson." He stepped even closer, invading her space. "I can't allow you to die. And you will, if one of them finds you."
She squared her own jaw, eyes blazing.
"Then, let me die."
He blinked, unable to comprehend her bull-headedness. Harry's eyes narrowed.
"No. Not under my watch."
Pansy scoffed. "Don't you mean under Weasley and Longbottom's watch?"
"No."
Pansy shook her head, scowling. Her dismissive gesture seemed to intensify the swirl of magic around them. She would not be babysat by Potter. It was bad enough she still woke up screaming through a nightmare, searching for his silhouette at her bedside. "I'm sure the Weaselette will knock some sense into you. You can't be serious about this."
"If my taking up your case is the only way to convince you how dire the situation is concerning your life, then, yes, Parkinson, I'm very serious about this."
"Why? Why help me, Potter? Why do you even care? I'm the one who was ready to trot you off to Voldemort."
A small smile twitched at his lips. Had he not been so near, Pansy wouldn't have noticed. Impulsively, she reached out to poke the corner of his mouth. It was as if she'd pressed a button that had his gaze snapping back to search her face. She dropped her hand to clasp the other now in her lap and ducked her head. Clearing her throat, she stared at his leather shoes. "I fail to see how any of this is the least bit amusing."
Harry, knowing that he should step back from playing with fire, chucked her chin up with a curled finger. "I can't allow you to come to any harm, Pansy. There should be more witches willing to hurl their shoes at the sainted Potter. For that alone I forbid you to die so long as I live. No one ever fights me. And I find it refreshing that you've no issue with doing so - and quite regularly. I failed to protect you from the sentencing I had a hand in creating, but I can protect you now and I will. Let me help you. Let me be your friend."
Pansy moved her face away from the distracting touch of his hand. Her own fingers reached out to grasp the lapel of his Auror's uniform jacket. "I don't need a friend and I certainly don't need saving!"
Harry shifted so his broader, callused hand moved to cover hers. "On the contrary, Pansy, I think you need both."
She scowled, tugging at him so his face was millimeters from hers. "I do hate you, with every fibre of my being. Your unchecked hero's complex is one of your most irritating characteristics."
Pulled off balance, Harry had instinctively placed both hands against the table on either side of her hips. From this position, he knew if he shifted his gaze, he'd get an eyeful of cleavage, so he trained his glare to meet hers. "If that hate gets me a step further in convincing you to go into hiding for the time being and keeping you safe, then, I'll take it. And one day, Pansy, you'll thank me for my insistence."
He should have been placed in Slytherin, she thought absently. Now, it was her turn to offer him a wry smile as her fingers twisted into his jacket. "Highly doubtful, Potter, and if you do proceed with this imbecilic plan, I will see to it that your life while watching me is a living hell."
She stilled as he moved to place his mouth against her ear. "Who says it isn't already?" It was the merest of touches, but the graze of his stubbled jaw against her cheek and the rasp of his deep voice ghosting against the whorls of her ear had sent shivers through her. So stunned was she that she'd flattened her palm against his chest and shoved him away- hard.
He stumbled backwards, catching his hip against a chair. He had a curious, almost triumphant look on his face that made her want to slap him. "So, it's decided. I'll watch over you as you transition into your new Muggle life."
"Sod off, Potter."
"You already know I won't."
"If I must go into hiding, I'll take Weasley and Longbottom over you."
"So you can manipulate them into doing exactly as you wish? No, Pansy, I think I know exactly what you're up to and you should know that I am a formidable force. I won't be swayed by your feminine wiles."
She rolled her eyes. "I hate you."
"So you've said."
"Aren't you going to claim the same of me?"
"Why should I when it so clearly infuriates you that I don't respond in kind?"
She huffed at his response. "FINE! But you've no idea what you are getting yourself into. I want to be a part of every detail, starting with the place I am to live to the last sentence on my dossier. Cheat me out of any of the planning and I swear to you I will step off Ministry property and live my life outside, exposing your department as irreparably inept. I have hardly a care as to how short my existence might be."
"And why is that, exactly?"
Pansy paused at his question, slipping off the table to retrieve her shoe. With her back to him, she stared out the window. "Don't you know the answer to that by now, Chosen One?" She let out a light, dry laugh. "There's not a thing left for me to live for."
From behind, she heard his approach. In two heartbeats, she felt the foreign weight of his hand on her shoulder. It was an odd gesture, as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity to touch her again, to comfort her. Sodding Gryffindor. Resisting the impulse to sway into him, she stiffened. He moved so he faced her. She took a step backwards, just out of his reach.
"You're out of your depths with me, Scarhead." She smiled sadly up at him, a rare moment of honesty dragged out of her by his earnest compassion. "I'm beyond saving."
Something unreadable flashed in the depths of his gaze. "Call me, Harry."
"No."
"Why ever not, Pansy?"
Because it would make you real, a person I could care about and I can't, she'd thought forlornly. "Stop calling me that."
He lifted his hand to rake through his tumble of dark hair. "You're not making this easy, Parkinson."
"I already told you I wouldn’t," she snapped. "Are you deaf as well as blind, Potter?" She reached out to sharply tap the rim of his glasses. Swiftly, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. A sharp cry ripped from her throat at the feel of the slight binding sensation of his grip. She scowled at him, yanking her arm from his hold. "Ready to stop playing my knight in shining armor and return to your castle filled with gingers?"
"I'm not doing anything that Ginny wouldn't approve."
Back in her heels, Pansy cocked her head, a cunning gleam shone in her gaze at his insistence. "Is that so?"
It was a moment too late that Harry realized his miscalculation. She was up against him within moments, all tempting curves and all-enveloping spicy scents. Her fingers moved possessively in his hair as her other hand caressed his jaw. From beneath lowered lashes, she gazed up at him, former recalcitrant turned instant seductress. And Harry, caught completely off guard, responded as any sex-starved husband and father of two might to her illicit snake's song - he searched frantically for escape, eyes darting left and right as her fingernails brushed against the sensitive skin at his throat. He bit back a sensuous groan. How long had it been? he wondered as her lithe curvaceous body moved deliciously against him, reawakening a long dormant masculine instinct to protect and lay claim on a headstrong, willing, yet somewhat broken witch.
"W-what are you doing, Parkinson?" His hands had shot up between them to stop her, but now were pressed up against her two soft mounds that marked the differences in their genders. He groaned inwardly.
"If you need to ask," she chuckled huskily, performing a sensual grind, "you need this more than I do, Potter." She lifted a brow, darting her tongue out to lick her lower lip. The movement captured his befuddled gaze. She would have cackled if she hadn't been so determined to prove a point. She lifted her chin slightly, her mouth nearly brushing against his as she slid a foot against his calf.
"S-stop this, Pansy," he choked out, bucking against her in a shoddy effort to heave her off.
She let out a delighted laugh. "And why should I when you so blithely ignore my insistences of the same?" She ran a hand down his side, feeling every glorious muscled plane. "Why should I stop when I'm working so hard to earn your wife's disapproval?"
With that, Harry found the strength to move his hands, ignoring the luscious weight of her in his palms. Carefully, knowing she was sensitive to certain, more dominant holds, he cradled her jaw, his other hand gently smoothed against her arm, drawing it away from himself, back to her side. "My wife thinks you are dead, as does the rest of the Wizarding world. There's no one left to judge you except the men you saw in this room earlier." Harry moved his hand around her waist as she seemed to sway when he reminded her of the earlier news claiming her non-existence.
An infuriated tear welled in the corner of her eye, threatening to fall as she stared blankly at him, devastated all over again by the news of her orchestrated death. She breathed out a soft curse and with a pained whisper claimed again her utter despise of him. "I hate you, Potter."
"I know, Parkinson. And that's alright, so long as you let me keep you alive."
"What's the point when I'm already dead in everyone else's eyes?"
"I don’t want to count you among the dead."
She searched his face. "And what about what I want, Potter?"
He softened his gaze. "What is it that you want, Parkinson?"
She didn’t speak, only lifted to her toes to press her mouth against his in a rash, desperate act that had sparks of unchecked magic skittering around the room. She tilted her head, keeping her mouth on his, drawing his lower lip between her teeth and biting down, punishing him for making her feel... anything... when all she wanted was the bliss of nothingness.
Her hands returned to his shoulders, anchoring him as her fingernails pressed half-moons into his skin despite the cover of his uniform. He didn’t move. His only response besides a satisfying, responsive nip to her own lips, was a deep hungry growl that he’d managed to nearly bite back. She’d felt Potter tighten his hold on her only moments before he forcefully shoved her away. Unashamed, Pansy stood before him, casually finger combing her hair, mouth red from the all too-brief, rough kiss he’d bestowed on her.
"I want that." She could feel the heat radiate from him at her blithe response and she sent him a sly smile. "Judging from the sparks, we’d be good together and I’m dead, remember? It hardly matters what you do with me."
"I’m married and it counts, Parkinson," he snarled, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You’d better begin learning to accept that we don’t always get what we want."
She’d wanted to scream at him then, but knew it would do little good. So, instead, she pulled on her ice-queen exterior and barely glanced at him. "I’ll have my file outlining the details of my Muggle life on your desk in the morning. I’ll be the one to work with your people on exactly where I will stay and what my life will be like in the Muggle world. I’ll even deign to speak to that half-blood, Dean Thomas, who, I gather, will be the point person in arranging my exile -- ah, apologies, I forgot that you rather like to live under the misguidance of euphemisms... my protective custody. He is the only one who was part of that meeting who truly knows anything about Muggle life. Well, besides you, though your knowledge is rather confined to Little Winging and the cupboards you slept in." She gave him a dismissive wave. "We’re through here, Potter. Lift the wards. I’m ready to go."
"Parkinson."
She paused taking in his weary expression. "Look, Chosen One, you got what you wanted. Bully for you. I’ve agreed to your asinine plan, but I’m doing things my way, within the confines of the boundaries you’ve set. You’d better start to accept, Potter, that you don’t always get what you want, just the way you want it." She lifted a brow, waiting for him to cast the Finite, and when he did so, albeit reluctantly, Pansy strode out of the room, leaving Harry hot and bothered, and quite reluctant to more closely examine just what he’d gotten himself into.
-----
"The last of Voldemort's Loyalists will be formally charged today and then sent off to Azkaban, there’s hardly a need for me to continue living in Wandsworth."
Harry met Pansy’s shrewd gaze, wondering if he was kidding himself that he’d seen a hint of sadness in her eyes. Harry knew this parting was going to happen eventually and he’d been avoiding the conversation. He rather liked the way things were now. Selfish wants, he knew, but it was inevitable that this thing with Parkinson would come to an end.
"I want my wand back, Potter. I want a life in the Wizarding world."
Without me, he thought bitterly as he stared silently at her, shrugging on his Auror’s jacket. "Call me Harry. I’ve earned at least that."
"No," she sighed, turning away, still lying on the dark green chaise. "You haven’t."
-----
She’d been good on her word, her entire Muggle existence had been outlined in carefully quilled print the following morning, placed on his desk, waiting his acceptance before being passed through the Ministry’s top strategists. By no later than 3 p.m. the file had been returned to him with a glowing Ministry stamp of approval. There had been only one change. Atop the file was a wedding band and engagement ring and their masculine counterpart. Apparently, since she could hardly explain away his presence, she was to be his wife in the Muggle world. Harry knew he should have been a bit nicer to the powers that be. Surely, the cruel joke was Shackelbolt’s doing.
It took five days of ducking her innuendos, cold showers, and self-care in the dead of night to keep Harry focused on the task of preparation and less on Parkisnon's ability to arouse his basest of instincts. At last the day arrived and he’d escorted her and her things to her new, partly-furnished Muggle flat. In Harry's eyes, it was a rather decent place, one he hadn’t imagined she’d pick for herself, since it was modest in both size and style. Harry hadn’t yet told her about the slight change in her dossier. She nearly threw the rings at him as soon as he’d shown them to her.
"That’s not funny, Potter."
"I never said I thought it was."
"So, I’m to live my life here as either a nun or an adulteress, is that it?"
He ignored her outrage. "Be happy that your name wasn’t switched to Esther. Shackelbolt must really like you. Look, you can remove the rings when I’m gone and call me whatever names you like to excuse your conduct with other men. I don’t care."
She narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms against her chest. "And what if I care?"
He gave her a skeptical look.
"I’m not a slag, Potter. These rings will immediately label me. I won’t wear them."
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"That is what I said."
"Merlin, you’re impossible."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. "I’ll sleep on the couch."
"Why do you have to stay at all?"
"Parkinson, my staying is sort of the point."
"Don’t you have some bloody protection spell you can cast so you can leave me be and go back to your lovely little family?"
"Leave my family out of your whining, Parkinson. I’ve got it worked out and it’s none of your concern. What you need to do is practice living out your dossier and work on honing your work-related skills so you can, at least, find something to do to amuse yourself. The Ministry will provide for all your basic needs. A job is something you’ll have to land on your own if you want to purchase extra luxuries."
"Oh, is that all? How very thoughtful or you, Potter, to think of my overall well-being as you ship me off to nowhere land." She rolled her eyes, tidying her things, all the while grumbling about being wandless, subject to having to perform house elf work in this godforsaken place. In the throes of her tantrum, she slammed cupboard and wardrobe doors, shooting him hateful glares along the way. Harry, feeling rather useless, stooped to pick something up to hand to her. She scowled at him, snatching her large comforter from his arms as she stomped into her bedroom, the fluffy blanket dragging behind her.
"I don’t have extra bedding, so maybe you can get your job to give you that extra luxury, Scarhead."
"It’s Harry," he called out, starting to find some amusement in her snit. "And how convenient it must be to be able to blame your current situation on me when you’re the one who picked this place. You also seem to have forgotten I have a wand, Parkinson. Such a shame you’re being such a right bitch. Otherwise, I might be open to the idea of assisting you with your moving in."
He heard the rustle in the adjoining room and then she was there, in front of him, enraged, as usual. "You do not get to poke fun! Nor are you allowed to tease, or otherwise make this out to be some sort of holiday for me... Or yourself, for that matter! You are making me leave everything I know and love to hate about being magical and dumping me off here. I hate it here. AND I HATE YOU!"
Having quite gotten used to her proclamations of her unqualified loathing of him, Harry simply nodded. "Some tea, then, Pansy?"
She landed a punch to the center of his chest. He hadn’t expected it and while it packed a wallop, it only had him taking two steps backwards. "Stop trivializing this, Potter!"
He caught her fist before she could land another hit. "I’ll let you continue punching me, if you’ll stop for a minute to eat. You haven’t eaten all day."
"I’m not hungry."
Petulant witch, he thought. "Are you always this contrary?"
"No," she pouted, scowling at him.
"Ah, worse then," he smirked, softening the tease with a quiet laugh before letting go of her hand. His soft low chuckle brought a twinkle to his already attractive eyes. The unexpected smile had Pansy blinking in astonishment. It was unnerving how significantly an upward crescent shape of lips transformed his usually dark and brooding face. He was handsome and she hated herself for the attraction, so she responded by sending him a snide look.
"I'll have that tea now, Potter."
He nodded, making his way into the kitchen, leaving Pansy fuming in the sitting room surrounded by her unpacked boxes. The mere sight of such massive disarray would normally have had her in a temper that would lead to helpless tears, but Potter's undesired presence had her dismay mutating into a godawful sort of unbridled infuriation that needed some sort of release. Usually, she took great pride in her self discipline, but every passing moment in the company of the green-eyed savior seemed to sap that power of dispassion away. She wondered bitterly if his Gryffindor was rubbing off on her. She shuddered at the thought.
"Cream or sugar?"
"Neither," she replied testily. "And you won't find any for yourself if you take it."
"They were on the list."
Pansy sent a quizzical look toward the kitchen. There was a list? She heard his sound of triumphant discovery and realized that if the Ministry was providing for her needs, surely they were providing for his. She rolled her eyes. How typical.
She moved to sit at the small table, which the landlady had earlier identified as Pansy's dining table. She should have been given an award for not laughing out loud. Potter had shot her a look, raising a brow when Pansy hadn't kicked up a fuss at the simplicity of the furnishings. She murmured a barely audible thanks when the spot of tea was placed in front of her by his masculine hand. She noted how casually he'd taken the open chair across from her.
Taking a sip, she peered at him over the rim of her teacup. His glasses had fogged with steam and she noted he liked quite a lot of cream with his tea.
She cleared her throat. "So, why don't you let me borrow your wand so I can finish my unpacking?" Her voice seemed nearly neutral, pleasant, even.
"What's the magic word, Pansy?"
She frowned, thinking as she ran a fingertip over the cup's handle. "Accio?"
Harry threw his head back and laughed as she knit her brow at his reaction. "That wasn't a joke, Potter." It occurred to her that she'd never seen him wear a genuine smile, much less hear hear his carefree laugh back at the office. She'd already heard two from him. She thought, perhaps, despite her protestations otherwise, that this time in Muggle land might actually be a holiday for the great Harry Potter. She cocked her head at him.
"How long have you been married, Potter?"
"It's coming on seven years."
She watched him shift uncomfortably in his seat. She cocked a brow.
"Happy?"
"... Yes."
Pansy found herself unable to read his expression. While he answered in the affirmative, his body told an entirely different story. She eyed him curiously. "What does she think you're doing now?"
Harry stared at his empty teacup before looking up to address the question. The silence elongated and she wondered if he'd forgotten the query. His adam's apple bobbed and she found herself mesmerized by the movement. "She's stopped asking," he replied quietly, his gaze averted. "She's rejoining the Harpies in a month. We didn't want to argue."
"And where will your children stay? Your in-laws?"
His entire being sagged at the question. He nodded. "There's no one else, really."
Pansy frowned. She'd thought his life would be different somehow-- better. "You shouldn't be here, Potter."
He poured another round from the teapot he'd brought out to the table. He looked as though he wished it was something stronger. It wasn't until after Harry had taken several prolonged sips that he caught her eye again.
"I know." His verdant gaze darkened slightly as the rest of his answer seemed to be wrenched from his lips, "but here I am."
"So you are." Pansy raised a brow, "And for all intensive purposes, everyone we know thinks I'm dead. Think a bit about that won't you?" She let the thought hang between them as she bared a leg and caught him looking. "How about satisfying a curiosity, Chosen One? And... you did say the Ministry would be taking care of my basic needs"
Chancing a look at him, she was given an eyeful of his barely leashed desire for her. So encouraged, and long celibate, she took bold hold of his hand and glided it up her thigh toward the part of her that had started to throb at the yearning she discovered in his gaze.
"Hell."
She heard him mutter the word before he rounded the table, gripped her shirt and yanked her against him, hungrily claiming her mouth with his.
"As promised, Potter," she smirked up at him, her fingers tangled in his hair, as she came up for breath.
"Shut it, Parkinson," he growled low and dangerously, his green eyes darkening with desire to match the shade of the couch she would buy a week later.
"Make me, Scarhead"
It was his turn to smirk. "Gladly, Pugface." He dipped his head once more and proceeded to take her breath away.
-----
Her movement on the chaise had Pansy effectively closing herself off from him and he found it odd that he was so bothered. It wasn't as if they ever cuddled after they'd had a go of it. Parkinson, in fact, seemed to prefer the lack of soft touches from him. He'd learned to hide that part away from Pansy, who encouraged the rise of his more aggressive urges, the very ones he'd worked hard to hide from Ginny,
His attempt at comfort by taking a seat at her hip and cupping her bare shoulder, therefore, was more than just unusual, it was downright foreign. He felt her go still beneath his touch.
"Go back to your wife, Potter."
It was Harry's turn to tense. His fingers traced the graceful line of her throat, caressing her cheek, silently entreating her to look at him. And when she did, he replied quietly, desperately, "I'm not entirely sure I can. I lov-"
Swiftly, her fingers moving to his lips, quieting him.
"Oh, Harry," she breathed, allowing herself a momentary lapse, a minute to dream of what ifs. In turn, she gifted him with a moment of pleasure and hope as he discovered the undeniable love and need for him gleaming in her unabashed gaze. With a regretful sigh, Pansy nuzzled into his touch, reaching her hand out to smooth the despair etched in his brow. A soft smile touched her lips and was gone.
No.
Her silent rejection passed between them as she firmly slipped on her mask of indifference. She wasn't a home wrecker and she wasn’t his whore. She was simply and irrevocably in love with him. Despite the impossibilities, she loved... loved him enough to give Harry Potter his much needed post-battle, fairytale epilogue.
"I hate you, Potter, with every fibre of my being."
She witnessed the exact moment he accepted their fate. Her heart broke with his single dejected nod. She blinked back emotion, pressing his wand into his palm. She patted his cheek affectionately, "Go home."
And for the first time since Pansy had first ordered him to leave her, Harry heeded and disapparated away.
-----
For the Love of Pansy (Round 1) Masterlist