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Pansy stops in front of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and gives the seam of her stocking one last adjustment as she waits for the house to appear. She has spent hours putting together her look: a couture frock in emerald green, matching shiny patent leather stiletto heeled shoes which had cost more than a week's wages, lacy satin lingerie and seamed silk stockings, and simple, but brilliant jewellery — emerald studs set in silver in her ears, another emerald dangling from a delicate silver chain around her neck to draw attention to her cleavage. Her makeup is flawless, and her dark hair twisted into an intricate up-'do. She takes care as she walks up the stairs to the front door; He wants her to be perfect for him, and she does not want to disappoint. If she does, there will be consequences.
The front door swings open, revealing the horrible little Kreacher who greets her with a deep bow. He is always pleased to see her – Harry doesn't get much Pureblood company that the House-Elf considers to be worthy. "Miss Parkinson," he announces as he leads her into the hallway, then upstairs to the drawing room.
The party is already in full swing. Pansy gives a haughty nod to Potter's friends and colleagues from the Ministry, including Minister Shacklebolt, Longbottom, Granger, and a seemingly never-ending collection of Weasleys. Some of them look surprised by her presence at the party, but Pansy works in the Aurors' Office alongside Potter. Why shouldn't she be here?
"Parkinson." Harry's voice makes her turn to face him, his eyes immediately roving over her body, taking in all of her. His expression is impassive, unreadable, but there is fire in those green eyes of his, and Pansy finds her toes curling inside her expensive shoes.
However, she will play the same game as he does in public. "Potter," she replies, the epitome of icy cool.
"I've got something to discuss with you. Do you have a moment?" Harry beckons her to follow him out of the drawing room and up to the second floor. Now well out of sight from his other guests and his odious little House-Elf, Harry grabs Pansy by the wrist and yanks her into one of the many bedrooms.
Harry kicks at the door as he pulls Pansy into his arms; it slams shut with a loud bang. Pansy has no time to comment on the noise before Harry has shoved her hard against the wall, his mouth hot on hers as he kisses her fiercely. His hands are already under her skirt, groping and squeezing her arse through her satin knickers.
Pansy arches up towards him, moaning softly against his lips until Harry pulls away, panting.
"You look so bloody fuckable," he rasps. Pansy feels the bulge of his erection pressing into her thigh. "Especially that incredible arse of yours."
She lowers her eyes demurely, doing her best not to smirk. "It's here just for you."
"It had better be just for me." Harry kisses her again, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arse.
"Always," Pansy murmurs. "I'm all yours."
They'd been lovers for a few months now, their relationship a secret from everyone except for Kreacher. Most wizards and witches in the Ministry didn't trust Pansy in the least, still questioning her loyalties, and Harry's reputation as the Saviour of the Wizarding World would've been tarnished if they'd had any inkling that he was fucking her. Pansy found the clandestine nature of their relationship a huge turn on. No doubt Harry did, too.
Rather than being sent to Azkaban, Pansy had landed on her feet, switching sides to work for the Ministry and hunt for Dark Wizards, many of whom she'd known intimately. As Head Auror, Harry also seemed to understand that the best spies were made from turncloaks, and Pansy had no qualms about going after her former allies once Voldemort had been defeated. She would do anything to keep herself on top.
Harry breaks off their kiss, continuing to hold her fast. He peers at her through his glasses, and says sternly, "You were late to the party, you know."
"I was getting ready," Pansy insists. "I wanted to look good for you."
"That's no excuse," he replies with a frown. "I think you need a reminder about being on time, Pansy."
"But—" she starts, knowing that he likes to hear her protest. At least a little.
Harry shakes his head, cutting her off. "You've been told about that before, Parkinson. Clearly you need a reminder. A sharp one."
Pansy shivers at the thought. "Harry, there are people downstairs," she reminds him.
"You ought to have considered that before you showed up nearly an hour late," he says. "Besides, I've got Muffling Spells on all the rooms. No one can hear a thing unless I want them to." There is a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "I want you bent over the bed. Now."
She complies, leaning over the mattress, her palms flat against the duvet and her back arched so her arse is up in the air. Harry lets out a noise of approval, coming behind her quickly. He pulls up the hem of her dress, exposing her knickers and skimming his hands over the curves of her arse and between her legs.
Pansy stifles a moan as Harry rubs his hand along her crotch, doing her best not to move. She feels his fingers hooking beneath the elastic band of her panties, then tugging them down around her thighs. There is the rustle of fabric as her knickers slide down around her ankles, then the jingle of a belt buckle followed by the hiss of Harry's leather belt being pulled out of his trousers. Pansy trembles when she hears Harry snap the belt into the air.
He leans over her, and growls into her ear, "Five strokes should cover it. Assuming you can behave yourself for the rest of the evening."
Mutely, she nods, bracing herself for the inevitable. Harry draws back and pats her arse one final time and then it begins. Pain explodes as the thick leather belt lands on her arse. Clutching at the duvet, Pansy bites her lip, determined not to make a sound.
She wonders what the guests downstairs would think if they knew what was transpiring in here right now. What would they think about their beloved Potter if any of them had any clue about his proclivities? Pansy hadn't either until one particularly intense session of Auror training.
It had been a role playing exercise involving a duel. Harry had disarmed her, attempting to get some vital information out of her. Resisting, Pansy had wound up bound with an Incarcerous spell, Harry's hands wound in her loose hair pulling at it while he demanded to know what she and her fictional cohorts were up to.
Something had snapped at that moment, the sexual tension so thick Pansy could taste it. As soon as Harry had released her from the spell, they'd immediately run to Harry's office , the nearest place that afforded them any privacy. Panting and moaning, they'd torn each other's clothes off, and shagged furiously for the next several hours.
That had ignited the spark between them, both of them discovering their mutual need for bondage and dominance, pleasure and pain. There was nothing Pansy enjoyed more than to be at Harry's mercy, and he seemed to be more than happy to be the one put her there. It was a most mutually satisfying affair.
Smack.
The fifth blow lands on Pansy's bottom, shaking her from her reverie. Finally, thankfully, the ordeal is over. Pansy lies on her stomach relishing the pain followed by the rush of endorphins in its wake, the cool cotton of the duvet on her bare skin.
Dipping his hand back between her thighs, Harry laughs. "You are so fucking wet, Pansy. I love it when you're wet for me."
"Only for you," she tells him, knowing how much he loves to hear it. Harry is a possessive bastard. Pansy thinks it's because of his horrible childhood, and the awful Muggles who raised him, who never gave him anything of his own. She'd never tell him that, of course.
He presses his lips to the back of her neck, fingers brushing lightly against her sore buttocks before sliding his hands down to tug at her knickers, pulling them off entirely. "I think I'll hang on to these for the rest of the evening. I really like the thought of you not having anything on under that dress," he says. "Especially knowing your cunt is all hot and wet, all ready for me to fuck you at a moment's notice."
Pansy whimpers, knowing better than to argue with him. She does not want to endure any more discipline. At least not now. As it is, between her sore, stinging arse, and her lack-of-knickers, sitting will be quite a trial.
Harry moves back, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. "Let's get back to the party. I don't want anyone wondering where we've wandered off to."
She won't say it, but she suspects Harry would have got off on the idea of someone walking in on them, especially while he was strapping her arse. "I must look a fright," she says, smoothing down her skirt. "Give me a few minutes to freshen up."
Harry gives her a looking over, then shakes his head. "You'll go back down there looking exactly the way you do. Not quite 'freshly fucked' but certainly like you've been up to something you oughtn't have." He smiles. "Think of it as additional penance for not arriving on time."
Pansy puts on her most fetching pout, but lets him have his way — or at least lets him think he does. She suspects her hair is a mess, and her lipstick smeared. Hopefully she can find the time to at least fix her makeup when Harry's not looking.
*
The party drags on and on, and Pansy is incredibly bored. She loathes small talk, especially with people she really has absolutely no interest in. Looney Lovegood is one of the worst, wittering on about some ridiculous creature or other that she has been searching for on her travels until Pansy wants to scream. She has no clue how Harry puts up with Lovegood's nonsense, but he seems rather fond of the little twit.
Being trapped by Weasley's father in the kitchen is just as awful. He spends the time marvelling over Harry's Muggle appliances, as if she ought to know what they were. Pansy wonders whether Harry had purposefully set it up as some subtle form of torment for her.
Of course, none of Harry's guests have a clue about Pansy's true feelings toward them. She is a Pureblood Witch, brought up to be the perfect society hostess, to smile and nod and look oh-so-very interested, no matter what her guests are droning on about.
Harry's guests also are oblivious to the overtures Harry makes towards her when he can get away with it: random filthy suggestions growled into her ear, a stray hand up her skirt to grab her bare arse or to cup her breast through her easily-wrinkled gown. That strategy is most definitely torturous. Pansy has to try very hard to keep her breathing even, her cheeks from getting too flushed, and to keep herself under control rather than give anything away.
The last of the guests finally departs around midnight. Pansy has never been so pleased to see the back of the Minister of Magic and his current paramour in her life.
She looks for Harry, who was just saying goodnight to Shacklebolt moments before, but he isn't anywhere to be found. Suddenly, there is a loud "pop" and a handwritten note appears in front of her, dangling and jerking in the air like a fish on a line.
Come upstairs at once," it reads.
Pansy shivers and smoothes down her skirt, letting her fingers linger over her crotch, savouring the feel of the soft silk against her skin. Her cunt is dripping wet, has been all night, and she hopes Harry won't drag out her suffering too long. She wants him, and she wants him now. With shaking hands, she pulls her wand out of her purse, and Apparates to Harry's bedroom.
He's waiting for her, already divested of his shirt and outer robes, wearing only tight trousers and boots. Without a word, he pulls her to him, his mouth crushing hers. His skin is warm beneath her fingertips, his kisses cruel and eager.
Before Pansy can stop him, Harry yanks at her dress. It gives way, and Pansy hears the fragile fabric tear. She doesn't protest as he pulls it off, crumples it up, and throws it somewhere onto the floor.
"Bed. Now." Harry rasps, pushing her back against the mattress as she sits on the edge. Her arse still stings from her earlier strapping, throbbing painfully against the duvet. There is an equally painful, but far sweeter, throbbing between her legs. Dropping to his knees, Harry tosses his glasses on the night stand, then kneels in front of her, jerks her knees apart, and buries his face between her thighs.
He drags his tongue over her soft, slick skin, leaving cool, wet trails in his wake. Pansy gasps as she feels his lips on her, his breath hot as it ghosts along her inner thighs. She drapes her legs over his shoulders to give him better access, clutching at the bedding as Harry's kisses grow rougher. He nips and licks and sucks his way to her cunt before drawing her clit into his mouth.
Pansy lets out a loud scream, her arse bouncing against the mattress, her hips snapping upwards. Harry's assault is relentless, licking and sucking with abandon, his hands clamped around her thighs in an iron grip. She writhes frantically beneath him, her back arching up as she presses her pussy against his face, her hips bucking wildly.
Her hands twist into the duvet and she throws her head back, keening and howling like a banshee. Her climax hits her like an explosion, and she sees stars as her body begins to shudder in paroxysms of pleasure. Wave after wave washes over her until she's utterly spent, falling limply onto the bed. Finally Harry stops, raising his head up to grin triumphantly.
"Do you know how hard you've made me?" he asks, sliding down the length of her legs. He gets to his feet, already beginning to unbutton his trousers. "Thinking about you without your knickers all bloody night, knowing how wet and ready you were..."
Pansy lets out a satisfied purr, stretching like a cat. She sticks out a foot, brushing Harry's crotch with her stockinged toe, feeling his erection through the rough fabric.
"Merlin, I need to shag you," he continues, moving her foot away before shucking his trousers and his boxers. Pansy likes the way his cock curves up to his belly, jutting out from coarse black hair, the way the head is glistening with a drop of pre-come.
He crawls onto the bed, his eyes roving over her body, his mouth curving up into a predatory smile. Sometimes it's hard to fathom that this is the same man who she loathed so much back at school, the one she thought was beneath her contempt.
But times have changed since then.
"Turn over," Harry orders, giving her a playful shove followed by a quick smack on the arse.
Pansy complies, scrambling to her hands and knees, and wiggles her arse in enticement.
"So beautiful," Harry murmurs, running a finger from the nape of her neck, along her spine to her arse. He presses his lips to the starting point, then plants kisses along the same line. His fingers brush her arse, then down to her sopping wet cunt to traces along the edges of her swollen lips. Finally, Harry positions himself behind her, guiding himself in.
Pansy moans, hips swaying, and she pushes back against him. Harry groans, leaning forward to wrap his arms around her waist. He rests his cheek against her back, holding her tightly for just a moment, then rises up again, and begins to move in slow, shallow thrusts.
He begins to pick up pace, the slap, slap, slap of her arse against his hips growing louder as his thrusts grow in intensity. Pansy moves with him, tightening around him when she can, loving the sound of his moans as she does. It feels so good to feel him inside her, filling her to the core as he pushes in, then pulls out again.
Harry relaxes his hold on one side, reaching up to grab a loose section of her hair spilling down over her shoulder. Pansy moans again as he wraps it around his hand and yanks hard. A few more strokes and he's coming, shuddering violently against her. Harry collapses on top of her, pushing Pansy down with his weight so that she's flush with the mattress. She finds the feeling of being pinned by him oddly comforting.
Finally, he lets her go, carefully pulling out and rolling onto his back. Pansy wriggles up and shifts to her side, draping herself around Harry. She kisses him thoroughly, burrowing her fingers into his already mussed hair, making it worse.
Breathing heavily, Harry breaks it off. "Do you want to stay the night, Pansy?" he asks. For all his posturing at being dominant, there's still a considerate man underneath the swagger.
"Would you like me to?" Pansy laughs softly, already knowing the answer. Harry seems to like having someone to hold him in the night, to keep the nightmares at bay.
"Please." And then he kisses her again.
*
Pansy is awoken by the sound of a distant alarm clock, and the pale morning light filtering in through the bedroom window. "Bugger all," she grumbles, hiding her head in her arms.
Harry groans in agreement.
"I ought to go," she says with a grimace, forcing herself into an upright position. "I've got an utter bastard of a boss who'll go spare on me if I show up late to work."
"I hear his favourite form of punishment is a good hard spanking. At least on lovely girls with delectable arses." Harry reaches over and gives her bum a quick, playful squeeze. Pansy swats his hand away, doing her best to get out of bed and hunt for her clothing which is scattered all over the room. To her dismay, her dress is in tatters, her stockings torn and laddered, and her knickers are nowhere to be found.
"This was bloody expensive," she grouses, holding it up for Harry's inspection. He pushes his glasses up his nose, peering at it sleepily.
"If you can't fix it, I'll buy you a new one," he promises with a nod.
Pansy purses her lips in annoyance. "And where are my knickers?"
His face splits into a huge grin. "You're not getting those back, Parkinson. I'm keeping them as a souvenir of last night."
She makes a mental note to buy less expensive underwear — if she's going to lose her knickers to Harry, they might as well be cheap — and to formulate a plan to steal the good ones back. "Bastard."
"Ah, ah, language," Harry admonishes. "Keep that up, and your bastard of a boss will smack your bottom as soon as you get into work." He pauses, then adds, "In front of the entire office."
"You wouldn't dare!"
He raises an eyebrow, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. "Care to make that a bet?"
Pansy snorts, then wriggles into her ruined dress, doing her best to pull it closed. She thinks it will hold up at least until she Apparates home. Hopefully no one will see her when she goes out of the house and onto the street. She knows she must look a mess: smeared makeup, hair in disarray, an assortment of bruises on her arms and hips, and her clothing in tatters. Holding her dress closed with one hand, her shoes and wand in the other, Pansy prepares to leave.
"Make sure you look presentable when you come in to the office," Harry calls as she exits the room and heads for the stairs.
She stops and turns, then blows him a kiss. "And what if I don't, Potter?"
He folds his arms behind his head, leans back and replies, "Oh, I'm certain I'll think of something."
Pansy can hardly wait to find out what he has in store for her.