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Pansy stared across the pub at Oliver Wood while she waited for Abbott to fulfil the drink orders. His relaxed, easy smile was a far cry from the stressed, exhausted person she used to see during her late study sessions in Flourish & Blotts. Marcus had his arm flung over his shoulders, smirking even as the table of Catapults teased him about destroying him the next time they faced the Magpies.
All it had taken was a few months of rent paid, a terrible contract bought out, and Oliver was a new person. Granted, there was the whole embarrassment of having everyone in Magical Britain aware that he was looking for a Sugardaddy, but it had paid off in the end. Quite literally.
Perhaps just because it was Marcus, who was sweet as could be underneath all his gruff and less likely to take advantage of someone than anyone she knew.
Maybe that was the answer.
“I need to get my own Marcus Flint,” she muttered.
Next to her, someone choked on their drink.
Whirling, she found herself face-to-face with none other than the Chosen Scarhead himself. She cleared her throat, hoping that the choke was a coincidence and that he hadn’t heard what she said. “Potter.”
Shortly around the time Oliver had signed with the Catapults, Potter had taken their starting Seeker role. Anytime she wanted to see her two friends when they were with the Catapults—her teenage self’s wildest dream come true—she had to deal with Potter watching her. At first, she’d given him all of the attention of a pesky fly but eventually when they’d found themselves in a brief moment alone, she’d mumbled her way through an apology about school and the whole trying to give him up to Voldemort thing.
To her surprise, he’d only laughed and told her she was ahead of the curve that night. Then he’d asked if getting that off her chest would make her stop acting so weird around him. She’d insulted his jumper and walked off to the sound of more laughter from him.
Since then, it had been easier to be around him in some ways, but more difficult in others. It was unfair how attractive he’d gotten since school. His green eyes were as piercing as ever, but now that he’d filled out his gangly teenage frame with professional Quidditch player muscles it was even more difficult to focus in his vicinity. She’d caught herself lingering on his solid broom thighs on more than one occasion.
“What did you just say about Flint?” Potter asked.
Well, that was mortifying. The last thing she needed was him getting the upper hand in any of their interactions. Being teased for her circumstances by one of the wealthiest wizards in Britain would make her wish she had successfully handed him over to Voldemort that night.
The thought of him of all people judging her made her blood boil. “As if you could ever begin to understand what it’s like,” she said. “Do you have any idea how much trainee healers make?”
His eyebrows knit. “Er…no?”
Right. Why would someone like him think about that? Maybe this would help her go back to not caring what he thought of her. “Knuts, Potter, we make knuts,” she said. “On top of that, we have to live close enough to the hospital so we can run there in an emergency if the Floo’s are blocked or full and we can’t apparate because doing so in a crowded place will only result in more injuries that we would have to heal.”
Not to mention the splinching risk.
“You can’t use portkeys?”
“Do you have any idea the time and cost it would take to maintain portkeys for every trainee healer?” she demanded. “They’re reserved for the full healers, not us.”
His frown deepened.
“But all the landlords in the area know how much we make and that they’re the only choice so they charge us obscene amounts of rent and do fuck all to upkeep them,” she said. “Do you have any idea how many extra shifts I have to pick up just to afford my shitty flat?”
“Er, no.”
Of course he wouldn’t. “Almost all my free time is spent working anyway, and I still have barely enough money to cover a night out with friends, let alone treat myself to a Madame Beauchêne dress.”
The latest one was breathtaking and would be perfect for Pansy…if it wasn’t three months worth of rent.
“Honestly, if I’m going to have mediocre sex anyway, why not have my rent paid while I’m at it?” She knew she was getting worked up, but the more she thought about it, the better of an idea it seemed. Especially if whoever it was only wanted something a few times a week. Maybe it wouldn’t even have to be full sex each time. “I’d give a reluctant blowjob once a week if it meant I could trade my extra shifts at the hospital for nights off with friends or regularly attend Quidditch matches again.”
Especially if they were good seats.
Abbott came over with a tray of drinks. She gave Pansy a friendly smile. “Tell Susan it’s on me.”
Thank Merlin for soft-hearted Hufflepuffs. “Thank you.” Levitating the tray, she nodded to Potter, who had a half-stunned, half-horrified look on his face. As if she needed his judgement. “Enjoy the professional quidditch salary to accompany your family fortune, Black Family fortune, and war reparations, Potter.”
“I gave as much of the Black fortune to Andromeda as I could,” he mumbled.
Snorting, she strode off towards the rest of her cohort to deliver the drinks.
Harry watched Pansy march away with the tray, guilt churning through him. What had she meant? Was she actually considering selling her body in order to make ends meet? And all trainee healers were in that same position?
“What can I get you, Harry?” Hannah asked.
“Can you put the rest of their drinks on my tab tonight?” he asked. “Without saying it’s me?”
“I can, but that was their second round and they usually don’t have more than that,” she said. “If they have tonight off, they have to be up early in the morning.”
“Okay, well, charge me for that round anyway.”
“Thanks, Harry, that’s sweet.”
Nodding, he dropped a couple galleons in the tip jar when her back was turned and made his way back over to his team’s table.
He kept glancing across the room at where Pansy laughed with her table. She looked so different than the scathing looks she’d given him at the bar. At ease, carefree.
Only she actually wasn’t.
He still remembered his days with the Dursleys. Watching Dudley be spoiled with anything he wanted while he got table scraps. The fact that Pansy—and apparently all trainee healers—felt that way was obscene. It was no wonder Hermione told him there was a healer shortage.
People who were dedicating their lives to help other people shouldn’t have to struggle to make ends meet. While they were doing that, he was sitting on more money than he could spend in a lifetime.
Bloody hell. He’d gone over to talk to Pansy, hoping to ask her out. Between Flint and Oliver dating—something he still struggled to wrap his mind around—and his new job with the Catapults, he kept running into her.
At first, he hadn’t known how to act around her, but it hadn’t taken long for him to see the new sides of her. Especially when she wore those short muggle skirts. He rubbed his head, trying to clear those thoughts before he got carried away.
From the sounds of it, she wouldn’t even have time to say yes even if she was interested in a date. What she was considering as an alternative was unthinkable.
Maybe if he found a way to solve that and do something good with all his money, he could convince her to give him a chance.
Pansy groaned when she left her flat and saw a notice from the landlord pinned to it. “How much is it going up this time?” she asked Finch, unable to bear to read it.
He looked pained. “New ownership,” he said. “Apparently they’re going to start renovations too, starting with the empty flats and then move us into the updated ones so every flat gets redone.”
“Fuck,” she mumbled. She really was going to need a Sugardaddy to afford this.
Even with his parents’ money to fall back on, Finch was still sympathetic to those of them who didn’t have any. “You can always stay with me,” he said.
It was a kind offer, but it would be rough for both of them. It meant giving up his study area and cramming everything into his bedroom, not to mention how difficult it was to have a roommate on opposite schedules anytime theirs didn’t align.
Still, she couldn’t quite rule it out. Not until she knew how much the new landlord was going to charge for all the renovations.
“I appreciate it,” she said. “Let’s just see how bad it gets first.”
They walked to Mungo’s together. Even when they could Floo, it was nice to get some time in the fresh air before they did a twelve hour shift in the hospital and didn’t step outside again until dark.
Susan, looking remarkably bright-eyed for having just finished an overnight shift, practically squealed when she saw them. “Did you hear the news?”
Maybe something good would help balance out the bad.
“Harry bought out all the landlords in the area and is turning the buildings over to a trust,” she said. “All healer trainees get to live there for free!”
A sinking feeling filled her gut. She’d been mortified when she woke up Saturday morning and remembered her rant to Potter, but the fact that he’d taken it as an offer …
He was Harry fucking Potter. The man had more choices in sexual partners than anyone else in magical Britain.
It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have taken him up on the offer if he’d just asked first but if he demanded one thing for her out of pure entitlement, he would have another thing coming his way.
She was a healer. She knew the best hexes and the best ways to land them to cause the most agony.
With a huff, she marched off to take the most obnoxious accident she could find rather than stand there and think about Harry Potter for one more second.
Harry examined the bouquet of pink peonies one last time, ensuring that they all were perfect. He’d gotten them from Neville so they would be, but it didn’t hurt to double check. Finally, he saw an exhausted-looking Pansy walking towards the Floo with Justin.
Justin grinned and waved at him.
Pansy looked up and her eyes immediately narrowed.
Bloody hell. What had he done now?
“Finch, I’m going to walk home after all,” Pansy said.
Justin glanced between them and then nodded. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “And, by the way, thanks, Harry!”
“Yeah, sure.” What was he talking about? Walking Pansy home? He turned to her and gave her a nervous smile. He held out the bouquet. “These are for you.”
She went from irritated to absolutely enraged. “Fuck you too, Potter,” she spat. “And just in case it wasn’t clear, I did not mean that literally.”
She spun on her heel and stormed towards the front doors.
Harry stared at her retreating back for several heartbeats. What the bloody hell had he done? He strode after her, catching up to her just as she shoved the doors open.
“Pansy, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure what I did, but whatever it was, I didn’t mean it.”
She rounded on him. “Oh?” she asked. “You just became my new landlord by accident ?”
Shit. “How did you find out that was me?”
“Sorry to ruin your big surprise, but it’s literally all anyone has been able to talk about today.”
“How did they find out?” he demanded. “It was supposed to be anonymous.”
A little bit of her rage started to ebb into confusion. “What?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t think they’d say anything.”
She snorted. “The Harry James Potter Trust was a bit of a giveaway.”
Bloody fucking hell. “I didn’t ask for it to be named that.”
She arched an eyebrow. “If you didn’t explicitly tell them it was anonymous, of course they slapped your name on it.”
He groaned. Well that just about ruined everything. Pansy’s earlier words came back to him.
Fuck you too, Potter. And just in case it wasn’t clear, I did not mean that literally.
He looked down in horror at the bouquet and then up at her. Had she thought he was trying to buy her?
“Pansy, I didn’t, this isn’t…” He groaned again. How was it this difficult to ask out a pretty witch?
She crossed her arms and threw a meaningful look at the bouquet.
There had to be a way to salvage this. “I didn’t know about all that stuff about being a trainee healer and I have all this money now that I never know what to do with—”
Her eyes narrowed again and he tried to change tactics.
“I want to give back as much as I can and this seemed like a really worthwhile cause,” he said, shifting gears. “It wasn’t about you.”
Her eyebrows shot up again.
“I mean, it was about you, but also about everyone else because everyone deserves a nice place to live, especially if they’re working so hard to help so many people.”
A hint of a smirk tugged her lips. “And the flowers?”
“Oh, uhm, it seemed like you’d had a hard week so I asked Neville if he could make me a bouquet for a friend.”
Dammit. He was never going to be able to ask her out now.
“Did he tell you what pink peonies mean?”
He glanced at them. “What do you mean? Flowers are supposed to mean something?”
“Yes, there’s a whole language of flowers,” Pansy said. “Pink peonies in particular mean ‘prosperity and good luck.’ You literally showed up with a bouquet that said, ‘good luck making money.’”
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled. Definitely never getting a date with her. He’d be lucky if she ever talked to him again. “I just thought they were pretty.”
She was now smirking fully at him. “Somehow I believe you.”
Well, that was a start. He looked at the blooms and then back at her. “Do you still want them?”
After a few agonising heartbeats of deliberation, she stepped forward and accepted the bouquet.
“Want me to walk you back to your flat?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said. “You can examine your property to your heart’s content.”
“That’s not what I…” He trailed off as she started laughing at him. He dug his hand through his hair, wondering how much worse it was going to get.
Regardless of how many more times he was going to put his foot into his mouth, he fell into step with her. The night was quiet and peaceful, a rare clear sky. Not that they could see many stars in the city, but it was still pleasant to be out.
“So you really just brought me flowers for no reason?” Pansy asked.
He wondered if he could get away with asking her out for a drink. Probably not worth the risk. Still, there was one other thing she’d said she wanted time for that he could easily make happen.
“Well, I remembered what you said about quidditch games and I was wondering if you’d like some box seats for any Catapults games.”
She stopped in her tracks. “What? Why?”
“I don’t have any family and most of my friends have their own teams or don’t care about quidditch so I’m usually alone.”
She was still staring at him, her face impossible to read.
Maybe she had her own team too. “You wouldn’t have to do anything like cheer for me,” he said. “But you could come to the after parties if you wanted. Just to have fun, not to spend time with me, you can spend time with whoever you want.”
“Potter, I’ve never cheered against the Catapults a single day in my life, I’m hardly going to do so from box seats,” she said.
He brightened. “Oh, yeah? That’s great!” he said. “So you’ll come, then?”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “I would never say no to that offer.”
He felt his excitement dim a bit at her words. So it didn’t have anything to do with him. That was fine. Time with Pansy was time with Pansy. He’d just have to play the long game instead.
“Great,” he said. “Can’t wait.”
She was absolutely beaming. “Me neither.”
Pansy tapped her foot, staring at her closet. What was the expected dress code for box seats at a Catapults game? She couldn’t wear her Dai Llewellyn kit if she was there as Harry’s guest. Or could she? He’d made it very clear he was just inviting her as a friend.
Pecking from the living room drew her attention. Walking over, she saw two owls holding up a long box. It took her a few tries to crank the jammed window open. By the time both owls could carry the package through, they looked rather irritated with her. They flew off the moment she untied them.
Pansy stared at the long white box and then saw the logo.
Impossible.
She untied the ribbon and opened it to find layers of tissue paper and a note on top.
I didn’t know which one you wanted but this was the right colour.
Postage is covered if you want/need to return/exchange it for any reason.
HP
Potter
Harry
Harry Potter
Lifting up the tissue paper, she found the exact Madame Beauchêne dress she’d been salivating over since the first photo she’d seen. The light mint green was ideal for her complexion, and had the added benefit of being one of the Catapults’s colours. She lifted the dress, letting the acromantula silk flow over her fingers. Classy, elegant, yet a perfect way to showcase her Catapult pride.
She looked back at Harry’s note, more confused than ever. He’d bought her flat and given her free rent. Brought her flowers. Gifted her box seats to all of his quidditch games. Granted, he got those for free, but, still. And now bought her an incredibly expensive dress.
And he just wanted to be friends?
Carefully putting the dress back in the box, she replaced the lid and marched toward the Floo.
Daphne was outside, lounging in the shade of a cherry blossom tree in her perfectly manicured gardens. “Oh, Pansy! I thought you were going to the match today.”
“I am,” she said. “Or I was. Potter just sent me this.”
Daphne saw the logo right away and sat up. “Is that what I think it is?!”
“Yes,” she said. “What is going on?”
“Is he trying to date you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s been a whole thing. I was at the Leaky last week and saw how relaxed and happy Oliver Wood is these days and I made the mistake of saying out loud that I needed to find my own Marcus Flint.”
“Oh, sweetie, no,” Daphne said. “Becoming a beard for a wealthy gay man was our plan if You-Know-Who won. He lost, we can marry whoever we want now.”
She rolled her eyes at her friend. “I meant that I wished I had a Sugardaddy,” she said. “I just wasn’t as foolish as Oliver to announce it to a crowded pub.”
Daphne smirked. “Clever. Continue.”
“Anyway, Potter overheard me say that and since then, he bought my flat, made it so none of the healer trainees have to pay rent, brought me flowers, given me box seats to all his matches, and now bought me this,” she said. “Supposedly all as friends?”
“Do you want to be his friend?” Daphne asked. “You’ve always had a thing for professional quidditch players and Potter is fit.”
And rich. And sweet. And kind. And funny.
The whole package, if she was honest.
“Wear the dress, test the waters at the afterparty tonight,” Daphne said. “Most men don’t buy a dress for someone unless they plan on taking it off of them.”
It took her all of about two seconds to decide she very much wanted Harry to take the dress off of her. If things got that far, she would be willing to give an extremely enthusiastic blowjob to show her appreciation. Honestly, though, she’d date the man in a heartbeat with or without all the gifts.
Daphne laughed. “I can see you’re already enjoying the thought,” she said. “Before you go…could I just try that on—”
Pansy yanked the box away from her. Madame Beauchêne had special tailoring charms on her clothing. The dress would automatically size to her anytime she wore it, but it became attuned to the very first person to try it on. If Daphne tried it on first, it would never fit Pansy perfectly.
“Get your boyfriend to buy things for you.” From the looks of things, Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes was doing more than well enough, surely Ron could afford something for her. She marched back to the Floo to return home and finish getting ready.
She’d been to a number of Catapults matches over the years, but nothing could have prepared her for the box seat treatment. She had a special apparation location, near the top so she only had to climb one flight of stairs despite the dizzying height of the box seats. A waiter immediately offered her a flute of champagne upon entry.
Merlin, she could get used to this. In addition to the rows of seats facing the giant window that overlooked the middle of the pitch, there was a full bar at the back. Plates with various hors d’oeuvres hovered about the space. The space buzzed with the familiar pre-match excitement as everyone mingled in small groups. There didn’t seem to be a standard dress code, some were as fancy as Pansy and others wore kits or more casual clothing.
A hulking figure in a Catapults kit with “Wood” emblazoned on the back caught her eye.
Smirking to herself, she walked over to Marcus. “The Magpies really let you wear that?” At least he’d forgone the hat with a literal catapult on top.
He flashed her a bright grin. “I’m just here to support my partner.”
It made for a semi-decent excuse, but Marcus was an even bigger Catapults fan than she was. She wondered if the Magpies had to offer him a bonus if they beat the Catapults so he wouldn’t throw games in their favour. He was too competitive to actually do it, and had too much professional pride, but he would always be a Catapults fan at heart.
“What are you doing here?” Marcus asked.
“Potter invited me.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re here for that wanker?”
One of the women standing nearby turned around. “Did you say you’re Harry’s date?”
“I’m getting a beer,” Marcus announced, even though the pint in his hand was still more than half full.
The entire group of women had already moved over, bringing Pansy into their circle. She offered them all a small smile. “Not date, we’re just friends but he knew what a big Catapults fan I am.”
Several of them exchanged looks that she wasn’t quite certain how to interpret but she wasn’t sure many of them believed her.
“Who do you all know on the team?” she asked.
A flurry of introductions began. Each one of them were either the wife or long-term partner of someone on the team.
Everyone was friendly, but many of the questions they asked were ones she didn’t have the answers to either. She couldn’t get back over to Marcus quickly enough once the teams flew out onto the pitch.
He smirked at her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “They gave me the same treatment at my first match.”
“You’re a starting chaser for the Magpies, no one should trust you,” she said. “Traitor to your home team for an extra bit of gold.”
“Gotta make sacrifices when your partner has expensive tastes.”
She snorted. Making a decent living without working three jobs while training as a professional athlete hardly counted as expensive tastes.
“Nice dress, by the way,” Marcus said. “Is it new?”
“Piss off,” she snapped, but he only chuckled as the game began.
Aside from short snippets in the Game and Sports section of the Prophet , she hadn’t seen Potter on a broom since Sixth Year. He was easily the best flyer on the team, performing stunt after stunt that took her breath away. The Wigtown Wanderers’ seeker was getting more and more frustrated by each of his antics, and their chasers kept getting distracted by what he was doing, leading to a number of forced turnovers.
“He’s such a shit,” Marcus muttered.
“You thought he had the snitch that time too, don’t deny it.” In fairness, so had she, but she wasn’t about to admit it.
He just grumbled into his beer.
Half an hour later, when the Catapults were ninety points ahead, Potter shot across the pitch.
“Fucking again,” Marcus said.
When she saw a flicker of gold, Pansy shot to her feet. “This time he has it!”
The Wigtown Wanderers’ beater screamed at their seeker, smacking the bludger towards them. They took off after Potter but by then it was far too late.
Everyone in the box erupted into cheers as Potter’s hand wrapped around the snitch.
One of the WAGs clapped Marcus on the back. “Two-hundred and forty point margin moves us a ranking higher!”
He grinned, trying to play it cool but obviously insufferably smug about the win.
“Still think Potter is a tosser?” Pansy asked.
“Wanker,” he said. “And always.”
Harry wrapped an arm around Pansy’s waist, holding her close as the reporters tried to snap photos of the team entering the club.
He’d already spent half an hour after the match doing interviews for all of the major publications, making him the last on the team to hit the showers and last to leave the locker room. Normally that never mattered, until he stepped outside and found Pansy waiting for him.
She looked absolutely stunning. He had half a mind to owl the designer and order one of those dresses in every colour. He still didn’t know if he’d overstepped by sending it in the first place. Surely the fact that she wore it was a good sign. Part of him had worried if he’d even remembered the right designer, let alone the right dress.
The fabric was silky underneath his hand and for the first time in his life he found himself thankful for the reporters, if only for the excuse to touch her.
After every home game, the Catapults rented out a local club. While ownership and the interior had changed quite a few times over the decades, apparently it had been a tradition since Dai Llewellyn’s days on the team.
Hermione had been very stern with him when he signed with the Catapults not to see Llewellyn as an inspiration. While he had absolutely no intentions to go chimera hunting anytime soon—or ever—the support from both fans and management to do as many trick plays as he wanted made him feel right at home.
He didn’t care how many times Flint called him a shit or an unserious player. He wasn’t playing in the House league anymore, managing the points differential while performing a Wronski Feint was no simple task. For what felt like the first time in his life, however, he was having fun. Doing something entirely for the joy of it.
Pansy led them straight to Flint and Oliver’s table. The music amplified through the room was loud, but not so much that they couldn’t hear each other talk. From Oliver’s red cheeks, he was already several drinks in, but it didn’t stop him or Pansy from going through a play by play of the game highlights, including each of the times Flint had thought Harry had found the snitch.
“Yeah, keep smirking,” Flint snapped at Harry at one point. “None of that is going to work against a disciplined team like the Magpies.”
Harry sipped his beer. “We have our own strategy for the Magpies, don’t worry.”
“Good,” Flint said. “You’ll need it.”
“You could always dress up as a dementor again to try to scare me off my broom,” Harry said.
Flint’s eyes narrowed. “If we’re going to go over all the stupid shit we did as teenagers, it’s going to be a long night, Potter.”
Harry drained his beer. “Didn’t you set a new record for number of fouls committed in one match?”
Pansy rolled her eyes and hopped down from her stool. “I’ll grab us another round but I want you two to find something else to talk about by the time I get back.”
Harry couldn’t help but grin as she strode towards the bar. When he turned his attention back to the table, Flint and Oliver were both watching him. Oliver was smirking but Flint looked like he wanted a beater bat.
“Listen, Potter,” Flint began. “Pansy has been through enough in the past few years. I don’t know what your intentions are—”
Great. Not this from Flint of all people. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to really like her,” he snapped.
“As long as you’re not demanding anything in return for all those things you’ve been buying her.”
That was the most hypocritical thing to come out of that wankers mouth he’d ever heard. From the smirk Oliver shot him, he agreed. “I would never, I want a real relationship with her. I just haven’t, you know, figured out how to do it.” He let out a breath as he ran his hands through his hair. He hadn’t meant to confess that much, especially to Flint of all people.
“You ask,” Flint drawled. “Respectfully.”
Easier said than done.
“And if she says yes, you better take care of her.”
That was an easy promise to make. “Of course,” he said. “I want to do that.”
“Then why is she fetching your bloody drinks while you sit on your arse?”
Flint was a complete wanker, but he had a point. Harry flipped him two fingers before he hopped off his stool and made his way towards Pansy.
“Don’t tell me that Marcus scared you off already,” Pansy said.
“Nah, just came to help you with the drinks.”
“You know I have magic, right?”
“Yeah, and since I do too, why don’t you sit and I’ll bring them when they’re ready?”
The corner of her mouth quirked in a small smile, as if she was trying to hold it back but couldn’t stop it entirely. “Alright.” With a swish of the silky dress he desperately wanted to get his hands on again, she swept back to the table.
“Smooth, Potter.”
He turned and grinned at Portia. Her wife had been one of the Catapults chasers for years. “Trying my best,” he admitted.
“We all like her,” Portia said. “When new people come, it’s pretty easy to tell if they’re just there to rub shoulders or for the perks or because they like quidditch or the person who invited them.”
He’d learned several painful lessons about the allure of fame over the years as he tried to date. Pansy settled back onto her stool and said something that made both Flint and Oliver laugh. “Yeah, she’s a big Catapults fan.”
“She’s a pretty big fan of you, too.”
His gaze snapped back to Portia. “What do you mean?”
She smirked. “I mean, stop letting her talk Quidditch with Flint and Wood and take her to dance.” She strode back off towards her table, but Harry was too busy watching Pansy to say anything anyway.
Was Portia right? Was Pansy there for more than just Quidditch?
He supposed there was only one way to find out.
Levitating their finished drinks—whatever elaborate concoction Oliver had ordered was clearly what had taken so long for them to be finished in the first place—he strode back towards the table.
He passed the drinks to their owners, ignoring Flint’s grunt and Oliver’s thanks, and turned to Pansy before she could even take a sip. “Want to dance?”
For a moment, she looked surprised, then she grinned. “Sure.”
Taking her hand, he led her towards the dance floor. It was at that moment he realised that he’d just taken Portia’s advice blindly and forgotten the fact that he had absolutely no idea how to dance. That didn’t seem to matter to Pansy, who took both his hands and moved them to her hips as she began to sway to the beat.
Her hands slid up his arms and over his shoulders to hook behind his neck, stepping close enough that she could guide his moves. Falling into the rhythm of the pulsing beat, he focused on the press of Pansy’s body, the feel of the silky fabric, the way her hips moved.
As the songs changed, she continued to guide him, seemingly content even with his limited prowess when it came to dancing. Just being this close, holding her in his arms was enough for now.
He’d never been the tallest in the room—especially when that room was full of professional athletes—but he towered over Pansy. Even in her heels, she still had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes.
All he could think about was lowering his head to press his lips against hers. To kiss her like he’d been dreaming about for weeks. Months. To slide his lips lower, to taste the skin of her neck, kiss along her collarbone, to slide his lips lower and—
He was standing far too close to her to be thinking thoughts like that. Not without her realising exactly how much he wanted her. Still, he couldn’t help but grip her a little tighter, relishing the feel of her hipbones beneath his thumbs, wishing he was holding onto her for a different reason. One with far less people.
She smirked up at him, her brown eyes filled with a quiet sort of laughter, but when her gaze dropped to his lips he wondered if he was imagining her pupils dilate.
He’d done what Portia said. He’d asked her to dance. Now he needed to do what Flint said. “Can I take you out for real sometime?”
Pansy frowned. “What did you say?”
Damn music. He leaned in, nearly brushing her ear with his lips. A small shudder went through her. “Do you want to get out of here?” Dammit. That wasn’t exactly what he was going for, although he would be very happy to take her anywhere she wanted, preferably his bedroom—
Pansy pulled back to look at him. Whatever she saw in his expression must have convinced her because she nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
Well, that was a start. Maybe it would be better to talk in private. Actually tell her how he felt. See if she was interested in anything further. Wasting no time, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her towards the back of the club. Flint and Oliver were long gone, so at least he wouldn’t have to put up with the wanker commenting on his sudden departure.
Not that it was anyone’s damn business but Harry and Pansy’s where they went or what they did next.
Even though the pumping of the bass was still heard from the back alley—which was blessedly free of reporters—it was quiet enough that his ears rang a little bit.
“Your place or mine?” Harry asked, hoping she picked one of them and not anywhere else.
Pansy gave him a sly smirk. “Seeing as you own my place as well—”
Rolling his eyes before she really got going, Harry wrapped an arm tightly around her waist, tugged her close, and apparated back to his flat.
Pansy held tightly to Harry as they spun through space before landing in the centre of a large living room. It took a moment to stabilise herself. When she finally looked around, she almost gasped.
To her right was a stunning fireplace—which lit immediately upon their arrival—built from pale grey slate. Shelves set back into the wall were made out of the same pale hardwood that covered the floors. To her left was a staircase stretching up the wall towards the loft above, both with railings made entirely out of glass.
But what truly took her breath away was the entire two-story wall of windows in front of her, overlooking the city below. Right now, all she could see were the lights of the other buildings but during the day, Harry could probably see for miles.
Despite the sleek modern design of the flat itself, the furnishings managed to give it a warm and cosy feel. A plush rug under the large maroon couch that faced the fireplace. Leather armchairs that looked buttery-soft. Throws and blankets were draped over each piece. Most of them looked as luxurious as the rest of the apartment, but several looked homemade.
Seeing Harry’s home was more intimate than she’d expected. It offered a rare glimpse into his life, the things he valued, that he normally tried to keep private. The blend of luxury and homemade, cosy yet extravagance…it all seemed so…Harry.
She stepped closer to get a better look at the oddities Harry kept on his shelves. It looked like he’d kept nearly every spellbook from school—with notable absences of those assigned by Lockhart and Umbridge. There were magical instruments she didn’t recognize, and a random galleon next to a photograph of the entire DA.
Most of the shelves were full of photographs. Ones of Harry, Hermione, and Ron over the years. Harry with Fred and George outside their shop. A photograph from every single quidditch team he’d ever flown on. A drawing of Harry holding the snitch while flying, clearly done by a small child. The oversized glasses and lightning scar were the only indicators of who it was. “TEDDY” was written in blocky handwriting along the bottom edge.
“That’s adorable,” she said.
“He loves making them.” Harry walked over with a huge grin. He grabbed the stack and began flipping through. “These are all my favourites. This was me after I signed with the Catapults.”
She laughed at the atrocious rendering of the uniforms.
He flipped through the rest of them, somehow remembering what each one was supposed to be even though many of them were little more than glorified scribbles, especially as he got to the older ones. When he’d gone through them, he neatly stacked them and started to put them back on the shelf.
Pansy grabbed his wrist. “Is that your Order of Merlin?”
He blushed. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I like showing off Teddy’s art better.”
Somehow, she believed him.
“Want a drink or a tour?” he asked. “Or both? Or neither?” He ran his hand through his hair, mussing it in the way she wanted to.
Was he nervous? When they’d danced together, the way he’d held her, gazed down at her, made her think he did want her. Now that they were alone and at his flat, she wasn’t sure again.
“Tour,” she said, hoping that it would include the bedroom. She’d had enough to drink. She wanted something else.
Harry grinned. “Okay.”
He led her through the rest of the downstairs, which included a large open concept kitchen that connected straight to the dining room—another room with floor-to-ceiling windows, even if those were only one story tall.
Upstairs was a guest room and what she would guess was supposed to be a study that was just filled with Harry’s quidditch paraphernalia.
Harry cleared his throat. “And my room.” He opened the door and stepped back, as if to let her decide.
Even if she wasn’t going to get what she wanted out of the night, she would never turn down an opportunity to snoop.
He had a large four poster bed made up with a thick navy bedspread and at least a dozen decorative pillows. There was another hand knit throw at the end of the bed, and one more draped across the leather reading chair in the corner.
As much as she wanted to inspect the shelves—while odd choices, a stag and wolf stuffed animal seemed like a normal thing to keep from childhood, but the stuffed Grim next to them was what truly left her with questions—it was the floor to ceiling windows that drew her once more.
She crossed the room and gazed outside. “This view is incredible.”
“Yeah, it really is.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw Harry leaning against the doorframe. Instead of looking outside, he was staring directly at her.
Pushing off the wall, he took a few careful steps towards her. “Can I ask why you agreed to come back here with me tonight?” he asked. “I don’t want to misread any signals but having you in my bedroom is making me feel things.”
Bloody well took him long enough. She gave him a coy smile. “What sorts of things?”
His gaze slid down her body, slowly drinking her in. “All sorts of them.”
“Tell me.”
His eyes finally flicked back up to hers, a determined glint in them. “I’d rather show you.”
“Go on, then.”
All she managed to register was a flicker of triumph in his gaze before he pulled her into his arms. One hand gripped her waist as the other slid into her hair to grip the back of her head.
He kissed her like a man starved. Like she was something he’d been denying himself for far too long, and now that he finally had a taste he wasn’t going to stop until he feasted his full.
A hint of warm skin met her hands as she slid them around his waist. Grabbing the hem of his jumper, she tried to yank it up and over his head.
Harry broke the kiss to help her, but the knit snagged on his glasses.
Pansy couldn’t do anything but giggle as Harry tried to wrestle out of the jumper. He finally yanked it off, red faced.
“Hasn’t bloody happened in years and of course tonight of all nights,” he muttered to himself, digging his glasses out. Once freed, he chucked them towards one of the bedside tables, where they landed perfectly in the middle.
Pansy glanced back at him, and all of her laughter died in her throat as her mouth went dry at the sight of a shirtless Harry.
Knowing he was fit was one thing. Seeing it for herself was something else entirely.
His tan skin glinted in the moonlight, shadows accentuating every dip and swell of his toned body. As a seeker, he was more lithe than professional beaters who built up their arms and shoulders, but he still looked strong enough to be able to throw her around or pin her to the bed. Or whatever other surface he wanted.
The trail of dark hair that dipped from his abdomen into his trousers distracted her from the defined muscles of his stomach and waist. All she wanted to do was get down on her knees and find exactly where that trail led.
Before she could get carried away with that fantasy, Harry pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again. His skin was warm and smooth under her hands. She could feel the flex of his muscles as she explored his body, while he slid his hands up and down her back.
“Where is the bloody zip…” he muttered. “Fuck it, I’ll just—”
She grabbed his wrists as he reached for the neckline of the dress. “Do not rip my dress!”
He shot her a look of pure exacerbation. “I will buy you a new one—”
She tried to scamper back, but landed on his bed. “If you want to buy me dresses just to rip them off, that’s fine, but not a Madame Beauchêne!” She had almost made it to the middle of the bed but Harry followed after her.
“Pansy…” His voice was a low, warning growl.
She slid off the other side and stood up, holding her hand out while her other reached for the hidden zipper. “Are you always this impatient?”
His gaze darkened as the dress slid off her body to pool on his bedroom floor. “When I’m waiting for something like that, yes.”
As soon as she got one knee back on the bed, he pulled her back into his arms and flipped her beneath him.
She’d been right about him being strong enough to pin her down. Once he had her on her back, he seemed determined to never let her go.
He played her body the same way he flew, with a daring, reckless, expert confidence that left her speechless. Panting. In complete awe.
He also was as much of a complete shit in the bedroom as he was on the pitch, teasing her over and over again. He brought her right to the brink—only to back off right before she came—once with his fingers, then twice with his mouth, until she was pleading with him.
He grinned up at her from between her thighs, emerald eyes alight with wicked delight, before he began methodically coaxing further pleasure from her.
She shut her eyes as her back arched, drowning in the sensation.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered.
Desperate for the teasing to stop, to be able to finally get what she so desperately needed from him, she obeyed.
He looked so proud, so triumphant, like he had her exactly where he wanted her. Held captive by his sharp gaze, she felt her pleasure begin to build higher and higher.
Sliding her hand into his hair, she gripped a fistful to hold him exactly where she needed him, working herself against him in tandem with his tongue and fingers until the pressure he’d spent so long building finally crested and sent waves of ecstasy through her veins.
Harry guided her through every last aftershock until she dropped back onto the bed, gasping and panting for breath.
Salazar fucking Slytherin.
She had never come that hard in her entire life.
Harry smirked up at her with a wickedly satisfied gleam in his eyes. He laid next to her, propping his head up with his elbow resting on the bed, and grinned down at her.
She wanted to repay the favour. To make him come absolutely undone, to watch him fall apart from her touch.
As soon as she started to slide her hand down his abdomen, he caught her wrist. “It’s okay,” he said. “I just wanted to do that for you.”
“Well, what if I want to do something for you in return?” After an orgasm like that, she certainly owed him.
“I don’t need anything.”
A cold wave of humiliation went through her when she realised he was serious. He didn’t want her to touch him.
He didn’t need it.
Sitting up, she grabbed one of the blankets on the mess of a bed and pulled it up over her body. “Right,” she said. “You already have everything you need, don’t you?”
Fuck. How many other people was he seeing? Was he getting what he needed from one of them?
It wasn’t as if she’d never had a one-night stand before. Or gotten involved with someone who wasn’t exclusive.
Just the first time she hadn’t known that going into it.
And the first time she’d wanted more.
Time to slip out before she completely lost face.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked.
She slid off the bed and wrapped the blanket around her torso as she started to look around for her clothes. Her dress was on the floor where she’d left it but her bra was halfway across the room. There was no sign of her knickers.
“Where are you going?” Harry asked, sitting up with a hint of panic in his voice.
“My place,” she said. “Well, technically I suppose it’s your place, too—”
“Will you stop bringing that up?” Harry demanded. “Why is this constantly an issue with every single person I—where the bloody hell are my glasses?” He lunged across the bed and reached for his nightstand.
“Every person you what?” she snapped. “Try to buy off?”
“Care about!” he said, nearly yelling as he turned to face her. “I don’t get it! I have a lot of money! I like to spend it on the people that matter to me! Why is it such a bad thing?!”
Heart thundering in her chest, she stared at him as he shoved himself off the bed and started pacing. Had he just said he cared about her? That she mattered to him?
“I didn’t have anything from the time my aunt and uncle took me in until I was eleven except for broken and worn-out cast-offs from my cousin,” he said. “Then, suddenly I had more money than I knew what to do with and was finally in a spot to help people and no one would let me!”
Her head was still spinning from the swift change in conversation. Apparently, she’d hit a nerve, though she wasn’t quite sure what or how.
“The Weasleys never took money, never let me pay for anything,” he said. “Sure, okay, I guess I was a child and they were looking out for me but still! I would have been happy to help and I still would but it’s like a stubborn pride thing.”
Now that he’d started going, he didn’t seem capable of stopping. “And they passed it on to Ron who has to make sure that anytime we exchange gifts, it’s always equal, so whenever I buy him a present I have to make sure it’s something he could afford to give to me and it’s stupid! If I want to buy my friend a Firebolt, I should be able to buy him a Firebolt!”
Pansy watched him pace and rant, awkwardly clutching her dress, bra, and one shoe as she struggled to keep the throw wrapped around her body.
“Did you know that I had to scour all the inheritance laws to find a legal loophole to give Andromeda part of the Black Family fortune? And Remus won’t take a single knut, no matter how badly he needs it! I would have given them the whole thing but Andromeda refused because Sirius left it to me so I had to find a way to force her to take money that should have been hers to begin with!”
She felt a twinge of guilt for mocking him for being proud of the fact that he’d split the fortune with her.
“And don’t even get me started on Hermione!” he snapped. “For a while, I could buy her as many rare books as I wanted and it always made her so happy, but then she married Draco and he gave her all the rare books she could ever want. Even now that they’re divorced, I can’t give her nice things because it just makes her think of all the expensive presents Draco bought her whenever they fought!”
The prat had always tried to buy his way out of his problems.
“And Fred and George! I didn’t want the winnings from the Triwizard Tournament—bloody thing should have been cancelled—and Amos Diggory refused to take the money so I gave it to Fred and George to start their business and now they act like they owe me something!”
He gave them a thousand bloody galleons and didn’t expect anything in return?
“I just don’t understand why people take it so personally anytime I try to spend money on them,” he said. “I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything in return tonight just because I tried to do a couple nice things for you.” He dropped onto his bed and slid his hands up his face to rub his eyes under his glasses.
She was beginning to suspect that there was some sort of misunderstanding going on at the moment. Setting down her shoe and clothes, she tightened her grip on the blanket and walked over. “Why?”
He glanced up. “What?”
“Why do you want to do nice things for me?”
His cheeks darkened. “I like you,” he said. “A lot. And I keep trying to ask you out but you’re always busy or it’s not the right moment. Last Friday I thought I finally found it but then you were talking about how hard it is to be a trainee healer to the point that you thought you’d have to, you know, to pay your rent—”
“Wait, what?!” she demanded. “You thought I was actually considering whoring myself out to afford rent?!”
He threw his hands up. “No,” he snapped. “I mean, I guess—”
She practically screeched his name. “Harry!”
“I’m sorry!” he said. “I don’t know what else to call giving blow jobs for money.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to smack him or die of embarrassment. “Salazar fucking Slytherin.”
“That’s not what I was trying to do to you!” Harry said swiftly. “I only thought that if you didn’t have to work so many extra shifts to pay for rent you might have a chance to say yes to a date with me—only if you wanted one—but I didn’t do it so you’d owe me anything. I’m friends with Susan and Justin and some of the other trainees too so it’s something I was happy to do anyway and it’s all in Trust now so it won’t go away no matter what you say to me.”
The look of utter mortification on his face made a little bit of hers abate. “Potter, do you know what a Sugardaddy is?”
His eyebrows knit in confusion. “A dentist’s villain origin story?”
She blinked. “What?”
He shook his head. “Muggle joke,” he said. “Er, no.”
“It’s when a wealthy person pays for the lifestyle of someone else, generally in exchange for company or sexual favours.”
He frowned. “Oh,” he said. “So like how Flint and Oliver started out.”
“Yeah, how did you not learn about this when all that stuff got published last year?”
He shrugged. “I don’t read any news,” he said. “Hermione tells me the important stuff and I hear all the quidditch stats at training.”
“Oliver announced to the entire Leaky Cauldron when he was a little too tipsy that he wanted a Sugardaddy and it got published.”
“So Flint applied for the job?”
“More or less, but then they fell in love,” she said. “That’s why I said I needed to find myself a Marcus Flint, not a Sugardaddy. First, because I’m not stupid enough to announce something like that in public, but mainly because I don’t actually want a Sugardaddy. What I would like is a boyfriend who cares about me and happens to be conveniently rich and enjoys spending money on me.”
The corner of his mouth curled up. “I, uhm, like you and happen to be conveniently rich.”
She smirked. “Is that so?”
“And as you can tell, I kind of have a thing about spending money on people I like.”
“That’s very convenient because I kind of have a thing about people I like spending money on me.”
His grin spread. “Can I be your boyfriend, then?”
She couldn’t help but giggle at how juvenile it was. “If you’re asking if I want an exclusive, committed relationship, then yes, I do.”
“Like I said,” he told her, “boyfriend.”
Still, she had to be sure. “There’s no one else?”
“No.” He frowned. “Why? Is there for you?”
“No, but I’m not the one who just said that I didn’t need you.”
He groaned and rubbed his face again. “That’s not what I…I meant I didn’t want you to feel obligated to do anything for me.”
“It wasn’t out of obligation,” she drawled.
The corner of his mouth rose in a small smile. “Okay.”
She tugged up the throw she still held in her grip. “You don’t think I’m being selfish or vain for liking gifts and to have things paid for?” Did part of him still think she was the girl he knew at school?
His gaze softened. “Pansy, I’ve been there before,” he said. “Just because I have money now doesn’t mean I forgot what it was like to have none. It’s part of why I like taking care of the people close to me whenever I can.”
Not to mention all the others. He hadn’t just improved her living situation. He’d done it for every single trainee healer. It was just what he did. He cared. Even if he had nothing, she suspected he wouldn’t be any different.
She cupped his face. “It’s important to me that you know I’d say yes even if you were as broke as I am.”
Something in his gaze softened and she suspected she’d hit on another vulnerability.
“If what just happened is any indication,” she said, “we’d have a lot of fun even in my shitty flat.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I think we would.”
Hiking up the throw, she moved to straddle him and watched with satisfaction as his pupils blew wide. “So,” she began, “does being your girlfriend come with any special privileges?”
His hands pushed the blanket higher so he could grip her thighs. “What do you mean?” he asked, slightly breathless.
She released her grip on the blanket. Harry’s eyes dropped to watch it fall and his throat bobbed. Pansy slid her hands up over his chest. “Do I get to touch you?”
He inhaled a shaky breath. “Yes.”
Leaning forward so her chest brushed against his, she trailed a row of kisses up his throat towards his ear. “Taste you?”
His grip on her thighs tightened. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want,” he said. “I heard what you said about reluctant—” His words broke off with a gasp as she caught his earlobe gently with her teeth.
She pulled back, enjoying the sight of a breathless Harry. “So no to reluctant blowjobs, then.”
He nodded.
She slid her hands back down his chest and lower. “How about very, very enthusiastic ones?”
His hands curled into fists. “Pansy…”
“Let’s make a deal,” she said. “I can do whatever I want to you, and if you like it, you let me keep going as long as I like.”
He let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, alright.”
She pulled away and slowly lowered herself to her knees between his thighs. “Of course, even if you do like it but decide you want to do something else entirely, you are welcome to take over and do whatever you want to me.”
His eyes glinted.
She began moving her hands slowly up his thighs. “And then tomorrow morning, you can take me out to brunch,” she said. “A nice place, where they don’t use cheap champagne in the mimosas.”
He nodded frantically as her hands reached the placard of his trousers. “Yes, mimosas,” he said. “As many as you want.”
She smirked up at him. “You’re going to make this very easy for me, aren’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. “I can turn the tables on you anytime I want.”
Her smirk spread. “Do your worst,” she said, before she lowered her head and proceeded to show him her very best.
Get on your brooms and let love bloom! Quidditch Heartthrobs Flint and Wood are heading towards the Cup. more on the Sugardaddy Season on page 17.
Oliver scoffed at the new headline as he forked over the galleons from Marcus’s wallet. They just couldn’t let it go. He had to admit though, heading into the finals against Marcus? It did make for a good story. Especially considering Marcus’s inner battle on wanting his favourite team to win versus wanting his own team to succeed, and even more wanting to beat Oliver. Grinning to himself, he levitated the tray of pints and shots over to their table. The Leaky was packed as always, so he squeezed onto the bench next to Marcus, elbowing his partner in the kidneys until he made enough room.
The pub was buzzing with excitement, and Oliver couldn’t help but feel happy for his friends. Fred had his arm wrapped around his new fiancé and listened indulgently as Hermione and Harry chatted away about some Muggle television show none of them knew. A simple pear-shaped diamond ring sparkled on Hermione’s finger. Oliver smiled to himself. He was glad his friends were happy.
Marcus’s arm wrapped around his middle, before whispering in Oliver’s ear. “Don’t tell me you’re picking out one too. I’m not sure my vault can handle it.”
A shiver ran down Oliver’s spine, and he smirked in response. Even after the months they’d been together Marcus could still catch him off guard. “Eh, not yet. You’ll be the first to know though.”
Grinning, Marcus brushed his lips against the corners of Oliver’s mouth. “I better be.”
“Could the two of you stop making kissy faces at each other for two seconds? We have important gossip to talk about.” Pansy said as she twirled the spoon in her spiced wine. Oliver was pretty sure he’d heard her mumble something about horny teenagers and winked at her teasingly.
She lowered her voice, not that Hermione or Harry would have heard anything over the pub noise. “So, anyway, Draco mentioned when they got married that there was some trouble with the registrar's office. Apparently, some of Hermione’s paperwork was still mixed up.”
“Wait, that would make Fred husband number three.” Oliver’s eyes widened, and he glanced at the newly engaged pair. They seemed happy enough. He wondered if Fred knew.
“Welcome slowpoke, you’ve made it into the circle of knowing.” The smug smile on Pansy’s face at least told him that this was not uncertain gossip. It was fact. Oliver’s eyes swivelled over to where Draco was leaning against the bar deep in conversation with the Magpie’s new Keeper Orpheus “Figgy” Pudds, Ron and Daphne. The separated couple had remained friends. He hadn’t thought it strange in the beginning, they split on good terms – why not remain friends? Draco was a decent chap, he presumed, a bit of a haughty idiot though.
“Do we know who husband number one was?” Marcus asked, poking Oliver in the ribs in an effort to make his partner less obvious. Silly Gryffindors and their lack of subtlety.
“Draco never mentioned anything.” Pansy sipped her wine. “I’m not sure he knows anything.”
Pansy smiled into her glass. She was slowly getting used to Hermione. She still grated on Pansy’s nerves with her prim and proper little antics, but she had been significantly worse while dating Draco. They brought out the most stuck-up version of themselves in each other, and it was a lot less fun than Pansy had first imagined. At least Weasley was bound to give Granger a run for her … her ex-husband’s money.
Hermione Granger had made an excellent play on the marriage mart and Pansy could only imagine the conservative Pureblood mothers grinding their teeth in irritation. It really was delightful to watch.
But something was up. Pansy knew it was and despite her digging, she hadn’t come up yet with a proper answer to why Granger was on husband number three. Harry and Draco were both tight-lipped about the witch’s relationships. Three marriages in six years should be something to stop and think about.
A soft kiss to her cheek drew her out of her musings, and Harry grinned at her, his arm around the back of her seat. “What are you thinking about so intently?”
“Nothing,” Pansy sighed and smiled at him. Even if she did say what she’d been thinking about, Harry was the last person to get why Pansy thought the things she did. Sweet, oblivious, Harry. “Where’s Hermione? Have you two set the world right?”
“She said something about going to the loo. I think the stress of preparations is slowly getting to her, especially as Molly really wants them to have a big wedding. Pretty sure, if we leave Hermione and Fred alone for more than five minutes they’ll elope just to escape.” Harry chuckled to himself at his friends’ antics.
Gryffindors.
Ugh, she should probably make an effort to be nice to Granger to avoid any run-away brides or other scandals. Standing up carefully, she nudged Harry to move. “I’ll just check on Hermione. If she’s really stressed out then someone who knows how to navigate overbearing Mothers might help.”
The bright smile on Harry’s lips told her it had been the right move. So, Pansy shuffled over to the back of the pub where the loos were located. A part of her hoped that Granger would wave her off and get on with it, but she had the feeling the witch might be in over her head.
Pansy rounded the corner and nearly ran into Angelina Johnson, who was lips locked with some frizzy-haired - Oh no. Oh no. Pansy backed away slowly, but Angelina drew back suddenly and Pansy could see splotches of red on Hermione’s face, tracks of tears running down her cheeks. Oh god, she couldn’t get involved with whatever this was. Muttering a quick apology, Pansy retreated another step before crashing into a solid body behind her.
When Pansy closed her eyes for a brief second - please let it be Harry - but the angry shaking of the person behind her was not a sign of her boyfriend. As she glanced up, she recognised Fred Weasley standing behind her, fists shaking at his sides and a confused, pained expression etched on his face. Any cheerful feelings Pansy associated with the Weasley were replaced by a sudden hardness in his eyes, his voice oddly cool as he spoke, “Care to explain why you’re making out with my brother’s wife, fiancé of mine?”