YUCK!

by thefrancakes

Summary:

Pansy’s pretty sure someone in Hell is laughing their arse off right now at this divine retribution. Like the final piece of the constant torture she’s had the last several years.

But being married to your childhood crush is what romance books are made of. So at least she’s got that going for her.

Pity Harry Potter hates her with his entire being.

Then again, she totally hates him too... right?

Notes:

• In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Pansy Fest 2023 collection.

Prompt: PP29 – Marriage Law

This fic is slightly inspired by Yuck - Charli XCX

Thank you to Meg (oceanxpoppy) and Little Miss Short Bee for beta reading and your helpful feedback!

Pansy steps through the doorway to the beautiful vacation villa with her new Ministry Mandated Husband and sneezes.

“Er–Bless you,” her husband says so awkwardly it makes her wonder if it was a question. He doesn’t offer a handkerchief. She wonders if he even has one. It doesn’t seem like his sort of thing.

“Portkeys always make me sneeze,” she explains like he’d care, even though she knows he doesn’t.

It might be five years since the last time she’s seen him in person, and he might have grown into a man– a very fit man that she would ask to buy her a drink at the pub were he anyone else– but he’s still the same Harry-fucking-Potter, wearing the same gold-rimmed glasses and hair that can’t be tamed.

For Merlin’s sake, he wore scuffed trainers to their bloody wedding. He could have shaved at least, but no, he had a five o’clock shadow that made him look even more rushed and haphazard.

And the damn beard rubbed against her cheek when she sealed their matrimony with a kiss and shot electricity straight down between her legs, where she wanted him to rub his stubble against even more.

Fucking Harry Potter.

Pansy fights the exasperated sigh she’s been holding for the past hour since Potter was fifteen minutes late to his wedding. From when she realized The Daily Profit had sent a reporter to cover this insane mismatch and would probably have some exaggerated story about how the Boy Who Lived marrying the Girl Who Tried to Kill Him was the actual end to the War, even if it was years ago.

And, of course, Potter played it up for the papers. He gave them a show with a kiss that looked like love that’ll probably make the front page.

Pansy still doesn’t know what came over her to kiss back in the same way. She’s not that sort of girl. She doesn’t fall for amazing kisses. She doesn’t have to hold back whines when she doesn’t get to taste a man like she wants. She doesn’t believe in sparks or soulmates. She loves a good romance book because it’s fiction, not because that’s how love works for her in real life.

They might be husband and wife, but Potter hates her. He has since before he even knew her name. And now he’s her husband.

And now she’s stuck with him in beautiful, sunny, hot Ibiza.

She’s pretty sure someone in Hell is laughing their arse off right now at this divine retribution. Like the final piece of the constant torture she’s had the last seven years. That she’s had since she was eleven and about to board the train to Hogwarts.

Potter stands next to her, flexing his shoulder blades like he’s trying to gather his wits about him. His back muscles are tense and sculpted. Pansy can’t read minds, but she doesn’t need to be able to know he wants nothing more than to escape her. That he would have married just about anyone else in the world and been happier.

Pansy isn’t hurt about it, though. She’s no idiot. She’s not naive and as dumb as the papers say she is. She knows who she is. Even when she tried to show she’s changed and prove she wanted to help people, the St. Mungos said fuck no to her application to be a Nursing Healer. She was so embarrassed by the apparent rejection she never told her soul, and now she’s just a Pureblood socialite-turned-recluse because of the things she did in the War.

Not even things: thing.

One single thing.

She made one fucked up mistake, and now she’s paying for it for the rest of her goddamn life because she’s married to that damn bloody mistake.

Because today she married Harry Potter, the boy she tried to turn over to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in front of the entirety of Hogwarts and the winning side of the War. She said it so loud and viciously; no one would ever think she was doing it for him, to help him win the War. No, she had to be doing it for Purebloods. For The Dark Lord. For herself. After You-Know-Who died, it solidified her as the greatest villain in the entire Wizarding World.

She is the greatest villain and never even tried to kill anyone. Tragic, honestly.

Dumb teenage girl never described her better than at that moment.

Pansy takes a deep breath and takes another step into the villa. She doesn’t check to see if Potter follows, too entranced by the beautiful, expensive white furniture and the glass wall of windows that looks out onto a beautiful, dark ocean. Little lights from boats dot the horizon, winking hello to the honeymooners.

“The Ministry really outdid itself,” she says, turning to look over her shoulder, back at Potter, who still stands at the entryway. He shifts on his feet. Bored or impatient, she’s not sure. She figured the Ministry would barely give them a night at The Leaky Cauldron, but then again, she forgot who she was marrying.

Only the best for Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World.

Except for bride, apparently.

The Sacred 28 Marriage Law was put into place a few months ago, trying to eradicate leftover Pureblood prejudices from the War. It stated that any single person from the Sacred 28 lineage would be forced to marry a partner of the Ministries choosing via matchmaking magic. Pansy isn't sure if the magic actually chose Potter as her spouse or if it was some government propaganda, but either way, neither of them seems happy about it- evident by how Potter closes his eyes like that will make her disappear.

It's obvious he thinks this is some sort of punishment for his sins. Whatever sins those are because he’s Harry Potter, the Wizarding World’s Chosen One, and can do nothing wrong even if he tries.

“I told them not to,” he sighs, annoyance leaking from every pore. “It’s excessive.”

Potter’s been like this since he walked into the Marriage Licensing Office, ruffled and still wearing his Auror Uniform because he just popped down after work. Pansy felt like a complete idiot for wearing her silk gown, attempting to give the ceremony some sort of matrimonial feel. It wasn’t a marriage but a prison sentence for both of them. Well, almost.

“It beats Azkaban,” she shrugs.

Potter looks at her momentarily before cracking the tiniest smile. It’s the most she’s ever gotten from him, but she’ll take it.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

Pansy tries her best not to let her smile take over her face. As much as she was joking, the statement holds some weight. As part of the Sacred 28, if Pansy had said no to being married via the new Marriage Law, she’d have been sent to Azkaban.

“I think the bedrooms are this way,” Potter says, disappearing down the hall. Pansy takes one last look out at the winking lights, feeling a bit of encouragement, before following Potter.

When she finally catches up, he steps out of a room to her right. “I had our things sent to separate rooms. This one’s yours.”

“Oh,” she squeaks. It’s not that she was excited and expecting to share a bed with Potter, but she had also not thought of there being any other way as Man and Wife now.

“I’m in this one. If you need anything.” He nods his head over at the door across the hall from her.

“Oh,” she squeaks again. She wets her lips, thinking of the best way to phrase Are we going to shag?

Her grandmother had lectured her about the importance of sealing the Marriage Vow with consummation. It’d gone along with the assumption that Pansy was a virgin, but she didn’t correct her grandmother about that.

Potter yawns, running his hand through his hair, messing it even worse than it already is. Instantly, her fingers itch. She wants to smooth it down for him, to run her hands through it to soothe his apparent nerves. She wants to tug on it while she–

He probably doesn’t want to fuck the woman that tried to send him to his death.

“Goodnight, then,” he says stiffly and heads to his room quickly before she can reply.

Yeah, he definitely does not want to fuck her.

Pansy watches his closed door for a few seconds before turning to look around the bedroom. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the villa. All the furniture is made of warm wood, and the bed is covered in white linens that fluff like clouds. The wall across from the bed is pure glass, looking out to the ocean.

She could cry. She really could.

But she doesn’t because, honestly, being married to your childhood crush is what romance books are made of. So at least she’s got that going for her.

Pity he hates her with his entire being.

!!!

Harry quickly closes the door to his room behind him and turns to lean against it. He presses his hands to his face and finally whispers what he’s been thinking all this time.

“Fuckkkkk,” he drags out. It feels so good he keeps going. “Fuck, fuck, bloody fucking, fuck.”

A sharp coolness presses against his cheek and shocks him like fireworks bursting on his skin. He pulls his hand away from his face to see his brand new Ministry administered goblin-made silver wedding on his left hand, glinting in the light.

“FUCK.”

He closes his eyes and tries to think about anything besides his wedding band. But that only gets him thinking about Parkinson in her white silk gown that hugged her curves and highlighted the pink blush of her skin when he took her hand and slid the ring that used to be his mother's on her finger. He remembers the flush on her cheeks as he bent to kiss her.

It was supposed to be soft and quick, a chaste kiss- longer than a peck but nothing noteworthy. It’s not like he wanted to kiss her. She’s Pansy Parkinson– bully, Slytherin girl who tried to have him murdered– kissing her is the last thing he wants to do. But the stupid reporter hollered, ‘kiss her like you mean it!’ And for some idiotic reason, Harry did.

He cupped her face and kissed her again– harder, deeper, longer. He felt her plush lips melt against his and her body soften to his touch. He pressed in more, wanting to consume her, to make a good kiss great.

He was so lost in whatever spell her white gown put on him, he bit her bottom lip and almost slid his tongue into her mouth to taste sweet sin.

He didn't, though. Thank Merlin Ron was there to give an awkward cough and jolt Harry out of whatever trance he was in.

Maybe it was some witchcraft brought on by Parkinson herself.

Or maybe Harry just needed to get laid. He hadn’t in… well, he’s embarrassed to say how long it’s been. But that explained why he was trying to shove his tongue down Pansy Parkinson’s throat, and he wasn’t going to think any harder about it.

He hates her. He absolutely hates her.

A knock vibrates through the door, making Harry jump. He opens the door too quickly. He knows it’s too fast because Parkinson’s eyes are so wide he can see that they aren’t just dark but a warm chocolate brown. Her eyelashes are dark and long, brushing the top of her cheeks, which are that rosy pink again. Her lips purse into a line.

Harry should have just offed himself when he got the letter about being matched by the new Ministry-Mandated Sacred 28 Marriage Law.

Actually, that’s being dramatic. He could have just said no.

The law wasn’t that he had to get married right away to someone chosen by the Department of Mysteries matchmakers. No, the law stated that all the single, of-age members of the Sacred 28 were to be magically matched and marry the best non-Pureblood option. If the option said no, then the second match would be contacted, and so on. 

Since the Potters weren't part of The Sacred 28, Harry didn't have to marry anyone, unlike the Weasleys. But by now only Ron and Ginny were unmarried (and Charlie but he just refused to return to the UK.) Ron fortunately matched with Hermione– which was probably for the best since, for the past six months, Hermione had been a bit antsy about why Ron hadn’t proposed yet.

When Harry joked Ron was just chicken shite, Hermione smacked him over the head and told him to bugger off– even if it were entirely accurate.

So, really, Harry only has himself to blame because when he skimmed the letter about being someone's match, he decided, sure, fine, what the hell, let’s do it.

It’s not like he’d dated anyone in years.

Except, Harry should have at least looked at who the match was with before signing the goddamn paper.

He can just hear Hermione’s voice echoing in his head. "What do you mean you didn’t look at the next page!”

Obviously, he thought his Love Match was Ginny Weasley. Duh. They were great together! Well, they were okay together. They fought more than they didn’t and decided being friends was smarter, but they could marry. Probably. Without killing each other, at least.

He can’t say that for him and Parkinson.

So that’s why he signed away without reading further. For Ginny.

It wasn’t how Witch Weekly had gone from calling him the most eligible bachelor to poor, single Potter.

It wasn’t the twinge of jealousy watching his best friends so in love that it almost made him sick.

It wasn’t complete loneliness overtaking him, making him feel like he was drowning in a sea of incubi or anything like that.

Merlin no. Nope. Not at all. Hermione, don’t you dare give him that look!

Parkinson, in front of him, takes a shuddery breath that rocks him back to reality with her in front of him in a beautiful wedding gown.

“Yes?” Harry coughs out, trying to get his wits about him. He’s not used to her being beautiful. He’s not even used to her, period. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen her in person. Honestly, it might even have been the Battle of Hogwarts when she was escorted out of the Great Hall with all the other Slytherins.

“Sorry, I’d use magic, but that always ruins the dress,” she says. Harry blinks a few times. He’s about to ask what she means when she turns around, and the small zipper to her dress taunts him with just a sliver of skin.

He feels spit start to pool in his mouth. It’s barely even a glimpse of skin, and he’s about to choke on his tongue.

“Could you…?” she asks when he takes too long.

Harry coughs again. “Yeah, sure, not a problem.”

His fingers feel too fat to be handling such a small zipper. Probably because he does his best to do it all without touching her. It seems safer that way.

But it’s about as safe as Hagrid’s newest pet (a kappa) when the dress falls away from her back, leaving the entire expanse of skin bare for his gaze. He notices a few dark moles across her pale skin and the softness of curves he wants to run his fingers over. The zipper exposes all the way down to her bum, and a small lacy triangle of fabric just covers the start of her arse. Which is round and lovely, and he wants to grab it so very badly.

She turns back around to face him. Her cheeks are still rosy and seem to grow darker under his gaze. He hates how much he likes it. How much it turns all her features into lively, bright, intoxicating beauty.

Was Parkinson always this beautiful?

Yes, he remembers; she’d just been nasty enough for him to dismiss it. He ignored how her dark hair against her pale skin made her gorgeous and fierce. He could look at her upturned nose and think of it as elitist bullshite instead of a cute button.

But her smiling softly with her dress strap falling down to reveal the skin of her chest is nothing close to nasty. It doesn’t let him think mean thoughts or ignore her beauty outright. His cock twitching in his pants could be considered nasty because, yes, that was happening, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge that.

“Thank you,” she smiles like she means it. He hates it. Hates it cause he wants to kiss it.

“Yup. Not a problem.”

He doesn’t wait for her to leave before closing the door. He needs the wooden barrier to stop him from doing something incredibly stupid, like pulling her into the room with him and not letting her leave until morning.

Harry leans against the door once more. He looks down at his ring again. He spins it on his finger in thought. It’s brand new. One of the Ministry supplied goblin-made rings that came with this ridiculous set-up. All expenses ceremony, ring, honeymoon, etc., just to prove they weren’t wholly heartless forcing people to get married.

It’s a nice ring, though. Bright and shiny. It’ll never get dirty, which is nice. Being Goblin made has its magical perks. Probably could absorb some healing spells to help out on the job. It could take in the magic and protect him like the Sword of Gryffindor.

That’s it. It has to be the Marriage Vow. He’s half-hard and thinking about shagging a woman who tried to have him murdered because of the stupid magical Vow they took. It must have leached into the ring. It makes perfect sense.

He hates her. He absolutely hates her, and it is the ring making him think all these completely out-of-his-mind thoughts about her looks. She still has a shite personality, and there is no chance she could actually be his match.

Harry removes the ring like it’s cursed and hides it in his night table drawer.

If it is the Vow, then with the ring tucked away, the magic can’t force him to do anything. He’ll stop thinking of her within minutes, and he’ll go back to seeing her as the evil, awful bully of his nightmares that she used to be.

Which is why it’s so confusing when he comes twenty minutes later while in the shower, his cock in his hand and Pansy Parkinson’s name on his lips.

It’s even more fucked when he does it again once in bed.

!!!

When Harry wakes the following day, the room is pitch black. It takes a few moments to remember where he is, and even then, he’s confused at how he can’t even see his hand in front of his face. He quickly tries to find his wand on the nightstand in case he’s been trapped in Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

He should have set wards. He should have made sure to lock the door and set alarms for any intruders. Attempts on his life aren’t as common as back at school, but he knows better than to fall asleep unprotected with a Death Eater in the same house. What the fuck was he thinking last night?

He was thinking with his dick, and what it would be like to have Parkinson riding him is what he was thinking.

“Idiot!” he swears at himself, then curses again when his hand knocks into something that splashes hot water onto his hand. Harry fumbles more, finally finding his wand and throwing light at the ceiling. He blinks a few times after putting on his glasses as everything becomes focused.

He’s not in a cloud of darkness; all the windows are covered with thick blackout curtains. With a flick of his wand, the curtains roll up, lighting the room with so much stunning sunshine he has to protect his eyes.

Once he finally adjusts to the light, he sees a half-spilled mug of steaming hot tea on the nightstand.

Harry blinks even more.

“The fuck?” he picks up the tea and smells it. Earl Grey with a splash of milk. Just the way he likes it.

With only one person in the villa, Harry knows that the tea must be from Parkinson, but nothing makes sense.

Unless, maybe, it’s poisoned. She could be trying to murder him to get out of this marriage and be able to marry whomever she wishes. See! He knew she was still evil! He knew she hated him, and this proves it!

He sets the mug down as if it might poison him through the porcelain.

Quickly, he gets out of bed and heads down the hall toward what he assumes is the kitchen. It’s his fault he didn’t set wards around his room last night, but he’s not about to let her get away with trying to murder him.

He barrels into the kitchen without warning, almost knocking right into Parkinson as she rounds the corner. A bowl of cut-up fruits launches out of her hands and sprinkles the floor.

“For Merlin’s sake Potter!” she gasps, clutching her heart over her navy dressing gown. He can see right down the front of her nightgown, but it doesn’t bother him. He knew it was the ring making him think those erotic thoughts!

She quickly bends to start cleaning up the melon chunks that splattered at her feet.

Harry doesn’t care about the melon. He grits his teeth and asks, “The tea– It’s poisoned, isn’t it?”

Parkinson doesn’t look up.

“I mean, probably, but I was told that’s how you prefer your tea,” she says with soft sassy laughter bubbling under her voice. It only confuses Harry.

Harry blinks several times. “What?”

This time, Parkinson looks up at him, brown eyes sparkling and mischievous. There’s laughter in her voice when she speaks again. “Milk in Earl Grey? I knew you were a heathen, but honestly.”

Harry notices she’s kneeling at his feet. Her face is at the exact right height for him to– No. He’s not wearing his ring, so he can’t be thinking things like that! Not about her!

Even though she looks so good on her knees, and if she just leaned forward, he could–

Stop. He needed to stop and focus on why he came in here in the first place. How he woke up to tea on his bedside table that might-have-but-probably-wasn’t poisoned. “How’d you get it in my room?”

“Magic. I’m a witch, didn’t you know?” she quips playfully. “I could show you a spell or two.”

The air tingles between them. Harry can’t tell if her voice just turned sultry or his hearing has gone as fucked as his eyesight. All Harry can think about is how much he wants to shift his hips forward and–

Harry closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He needs to get a hold of himself. It’s not the first time a gorgeous girl has been on her knees in front of him. Gorgeous? Fuck! He should not think she’s beautiful!

He tries a new tactic and swallows all the spit starting to pool in his mouth. “Who told you that’s how I like my tea?”

“Weasley. I asked him about you while we were waiting. Late to your own wedding,” She clicks her tongue. When she’s finished cleaning up the mess, she moves to wash her hands in the sink. Harry follows as if she’s a criminal and that if she gets too far, she might run away.

Really, that’s the only reason. The fact she smells like sweet, fresh strawberries has nothing to do with it.

Harry coughs to get a grip on his vocal cords so they don’t crack. “What else did you ask?”

“It was nothing important.” Parkinson rolls her eyes and turns off the water, waving him off. The movement of her hand flicks the water on her fingers in his face, making him flinch. Rude! Nasty! But, then again, it is just water, and beyond making his glasses a little blurry, it doesn’t hurt.

“You should have come to me, not gotten Ron involved.”

“Bloody hell, Potter,” she groans, throwing up her hands. “I asked dull shite like what you like to eat and watch on the telly. Favourite Quidditch team. It wasn’t that deep.”

“Why?” slips out before Harry can process that Pansy Parkinson wanted to know what television shows he likes to watch.

“Because I thought it’d be nice,” she says with a shrug that makes the thin strap of her nightgown slip. Harry keeps his arms crossed to stop himself from fixing it for her. Or from tugging it down and exposing her chest so that he can put his lips on her skin and take her nipple into–

For Merlin’s sake, get yourself together, man!

“But you’re not nice.” He says it simply because it’s true. She’s not nice. She’s never been friendly. There’s not one time in all of his years at Hogwarts that he can think of. To him, or anyone else for that matter. Her not being nice is the only thing he can trust.

Parkinson stares at him, her features cold and sharp as her fringe. Harry swallows hard, this time not out of lust but a prickle of fear. He almost wishes she were glaring daggers, that he could feel her anger. Her eyes don’t move; her lips stay in a flat line. It feels like hours when she finally gives a curt nod.

“Thank you for the reminder,” she says coldly before shoving past him, knocking her shoulder into his chest as she goes. “I won’t do it again.”

Potter sighs and runs his hand through his hair as he turns to watch her storm off towards the bedrooms. It’s not exactly how he wanted the conversation to go, but he at least set things straight. What he set straight, he’s not sure, but at least he stopped whatever game she was playing.

Being nice? She didn’t have a single nice bone in her body.

Harry jumps when the toast pops up on the other side of the room, and he only just realizes Parkinson is halfway through cooking fried eggs and bacon, the same as he likes.

And that maybe they have more in common than he thinks.

Bugger.

!!!

Thankfully, when packing for this idiotic sham of a honeymoon, Pansy thought to pack a few new books for something to do when trapped in this gorgeous hellhole. She knew that she and Potter wouldn’t be fucking like rabbits like most newly married couples do at places like this. She thought, maybe, that they would do something more than avoid each other for the entire day, but that was proven to be a stupid dream.

Ever since this morning when Potter came in with wands blazing, sure she was trying to murder him with bad tea and a nice breakfast, she’s done an excellent job at avoiding him. And even the few times they’ve run into each other, she’s been sure to keep her mouth shut and her glares cold.

Potter, at least, was smart enough to get the hint and leave her alone. Good. That’s exactly how she wants it.

She ends up in front of the infinity pool that looks right out onto the azure ocean on a chaise lounge with her new book. If she wasn’t getting laid, at least she would get a nice tan while reading about someone else getting laid.

That is until she hears footsteps approaching.

Pansy doesn't have to look up from her reading to know who it is, but she does anyway, making sure to tilt her head to look over the thick frames of her sunglasses.

Potter, to his credit, knows better than to pretend he wasn’t a dick and awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck.

Pansy keeps her eyes up, away from his broad chest that tempted her this morning in the kitchen to do something foolish: flirt.

The remnants of her embarrassment crawl under her skin, making her feel stupid all over again. She stopped crushing on him years ago, so why she thought to make a fool of herself while kneeling right in front of his cock is beyond her.

“Yes, Potter?”

“I, er– I wanted to say sorry, about this morning. I was a bit of a–”

“Arsehole? Yes, you were.”

Potter sighs and tugs at the hair at the back of his neck. She hates it because it makes the vein in his forearm flex. To avoid her eyes from wandering, Pansy pushes her sunglasses back up her nose and returns to her book.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel Potter move away from her side. He sits on the edge of the chaise next to her. Fucking great. He spreads his legs wide like all blokes do, and now she’s thinking about the outline of his cock she was yelling at herself not to memorize this morning in the kitchen.

Just like she used to when he was in his Quidditch gear at school because her crush was over by Third Year and for good reason! So she had no reason to be checking out his arse or any other bit of him then or now.

“This is all a little messed up, you know? It reminds me of how shite was during the War,” he explains shyly. “I guess I woke up thinking it had to be a trap.”

“A trap,” Pansy repeats skeptically but refuses to look away from her book, which she is not reading and has no idea what line she is at, but he doesn’t have to know that. His pathetic awkwardness makes her heart weaken just a touch.

But only a touch!

“Yeah, by Death Eaters or something.”

That makes Pansy move. She smacks her book closed and snaps her head towards him. She holds out her arm to him, bare from a Dark Mark or any other sort of ink for that matter.

“Is that proof enough or would you like to check the rest of my body?” she snaps at him.

She gets it. She really does. Why wouldn’t the greatest hero of the Wizarding World feel like the government set him up to prove a point by marrying her, the most villainized woman in the War, next to Umbridge? Fuck, half the time, people don’t think her any better than Bellatrix Lestrange.

It’s not like she’s done anything since to prove her allegiance to a side that never even had it. She was a bully, yes. She said some really horrible things about her classmates that she knows were incredibly wrong of her and will apologize if she ever sees them again. She did some stupid shite, like joining the Inquisitorial Squad, for a boyfriend she didn’t really love, but honestly, what teenage girl doesn’t?

But Pansy never picked a side of the War. She never even called out Granger being Muggleborn like Draco did on the regular with a much worse slur. She was just horrible the way teenage girls with no worldview are. She was not a dark, evil princess ready to take over the Wizarding World as everyone seemed to paint her.

Potter, just assuming she’s some Death Eater plant to murder him in a villa in Ibiza, is borderline offensive. She would never be able to get blood out of all the white in this villa.

It’s also proof that he hates her. That they are right back in the same spot they were at Hogwarts. And her cunt had no reason to pulse with the thought of his cock in her mouth like it did this morning!

Potter swallows hard, his eyes moving up her arm and across her body, almost bare because of her tiny bikini. His piercing eyes linger on her legs before he coughs and shakes his head.

For a moment, she thinks he’s blushing, but that’s impossible beyond the fact that Potter has an awful track record with women.

“No, no. I just– I woke up in darkness and then the tea. Sometimes I get a bit more fight than flight,” he tries, but Pansy returns to her book. She doesn’t want to hear it. She spent most of the morning with a Muggle cookbook trying to figure out how to fry an egg. She had broken three yokes before finally getting it right.

Fight or flight, War scars, trauma. She had it too. It completely fucked over her life, and she still pulled herself together enough to figure out how to flip a stupid egg– and she doesn’t even like fried eggs!

Whoever said Muggle cooking was easy was an idiot.

“And that’s my problem, how?”

“It’s not,” Potter says, pursing his lips together. He sits in silence next to her, baking in the sun, making her feel more and more self-conscious the longer he stays, looking at her like he’s studying her, researching her, trying to figure out what makes her tick.

“You’re annoying me, Potter,” she snaps, trying to get him to leave so the gooseflesh on her skin doesn’t betray her.

“Sorry,” he mutters and looks away toward the ocean. “I was just thinking.”

“Impressive. Didn’t know you knew how.”

He snorts. “Do you want to swim?”

“No.”

Potter nods and stands, finally. He pulls his shirt from the back of his neck over his head and throws it on his seat. He places his glasses atop the shirt before stretching his arms over his head. Pansy does her best to keep her eyes cemented on her book.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

She sees Potter shrug out of the corner of her eye before he finally moves away.

Just when she thinks she’s finally safe from his annoying, breathtaking presence, a cold shock of water splashes her legs as he jumps into the pool.

!!!

If you asked Pansy, she’d never admit she felt the butterflies in her stomach the very first time she ever saw Potter, with that beautiful white owl and a jumper three sizes too big. They were both standing alone on Platform 9 ¾ and he looked at her for just a moment, but it was enough.

She hadn’t known who he was at that moment. She only noticed he looked exactly how she felt. That he wore his fear on his sleeve. And how he also was determined to push right past that fear. That he refused to let it control him and stop him from something new and wonderful.

Sometimes, late at night during her Hogwarts years, Pansy regretted not going over to Potter that day. She’d think that if she pushed past her fear and said hello to him before Draco wreaked everything with his Daddy issues, maybe Potter would have been her friend. Maybe he’d at least given her a chance, not even at romance, but just to exist.

Because, besides that one moment on the train platform when his eyes lingered on hers for a quick moment as he waited for the Weasley’s, she’s pretty sure Potter never looked at her without hate again.

Maybe, of course, Pansy was to blame for some of that as well. Maybe she shouldn’t have teased Longbottom that day in flying lessons, but she didn’t realize at the time that it would solidify her as a bully for the rest of her school career. She was eleven, for Merlin’s sake.

She tried in her second year to be less of a bully, but by then, she was already invisible to Potter. He didn’t see her in the halls or notice her in the library. She would try to catch his eye to give him a smile, and he would see right through her. When she learned he was friends with Moaning Myrtle, an actual see-through ghost, she knew she didn’t even exist to him.

Maybe that was her villain origin story.

Merlin, she hoped not. Jealous of a ghost? Pathetic.

She vowed the summer before Third Year that she would no longer like Harry Potter. For her thirteenth birthday, she blew out her candles, wishing that she’d never think about Potter again. The butterflies he gave her were stupid and immature, and she was a woman now. She had no time for silly crushes. She’d focus on dating Draco, having a Pureblood family, and just living the life that was expected of her.

Too bad she never fell in love with Draco. Great shag, but they were just friends now and he laughed himself silly when she told him she was to marry Potter, like it was some cosmic joke.

And he’s right. She is a joke because she’s applying makeup for a man that will ignore her for the rest of the night as he did all afternoon, proving her initial thought that his offer to swim was out of boredom.

Pansy finishes getting dressed in soft, buttery cream cashmere pants and a matching jumper before heading to the kitchen to figure out how to cook something decent for dinner. She wonders if it was Potter’s request that they be sent somewhere without House Elves.

Instead, she finds Potter in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with a pot on the stove and something that looks like chicken frying in a pan.

“Should be ready in fifteen,” Potter says when he notices her, moving his chopped vegetables into the pan with the chicken.

Pansy chews on her bottom lip. She can’t deny that it smells wonderful– like summer, fresh and savory. She hates how good he looks, chopping and preparing food with a towel over his shoulder like he’s a professional. But she has no feelings for him. She hasn’t had any for over a decade and she’s not about to start again now.

“You know how to cook?”

Potter nods. “Learned as a child.”

Pansy supposes that makes sense. She knows he grew up with Muggles, so House Elves probably weren’t a thing.

“It smells good,” she hums.

“Thanks,” he replies, a smile spreading wide across his face. It makes his eyes sparkle in a way Pansy never imagined, especially not at her.

Then she remembers she’s supposed to be mad at him, along with the whole not being attracted to him thing too.

“It’s just the statement of a fact,” she clarifies.

Potter doesn’t drop his smile. In fact, he chuckles to himself and smiles a bit wider as he goes back to pushing the vegetables and chicken around the pan so it doesn’t burn.

Pansy busies herself by setting the table. At least she knows how that goes because of years of Pureblood cotillion classes. Not to set the table, of course, but to check the House Elves did it correctly. She snorts at the thought of what her tutor would think of her setting down plates with paper napkins. And by hand.

But she left her wand in her room, and taking a few extra steps isn’t going to kill her. She finishes before Potter and the food even, so she pours herself a glass of wine and sips at it while watching Potter’s hands as he works. It’s intoxicating how his fingers grip the knife and move gracefully. His hands aren’t delicate by any means, but firm with thick fingers that could probably make her–

Pansy feels a blush crawl up her chest and takes a gulp of her wine to wash away that unwanted thought. Because there was no way she was purposely thinking of Potter’s fingers between her legs, snaking into her knickers, pressing inside of her and—

“Are you almost done?” she snaps because he needs to stop right now for her sanity.

“Almost,” he answers, clearly not taking the hint. “Can you take the garlic bread out of the oven?”

Pansy nods because it's at least something to do. She grabs a towel from the counter without thinking and busies herself, taking the bread out.

But what she doesn’t realize is the towel is damp, and as soon as she has the pan in her hands, the heat sinks through quickly.

“Fucking shite,” she swears, dropping the pan onto the counter. At least it doesn’t hit the ground like her breakfast did. But the searing in her fingertips distracts her again quickly.

Pansy barely has a moment to look at her hands before Potter’s are closing over hers and bringing them up to his face to inspect.

“I’m fine,” she says begrudgingly because despite the stinging burn still seeping in, she knows it’ll be gone in a moment.

“I’ll say when you’re fine,” Potter says so boldly it shoots a spark of electricity through her hands and all the way between her legs.

Just when she forgot about his fingers– now she can’t look anywhere else. The way he grips her hands, firmly but tender. The way he sees every bit of her and bites his lips as the pad of his thumb moves delicately over the tip of her finger. She dares for a moment to think about that touch across her clit.

Her breath catches at the thought, but he doesn’t notice. Instead, he tugs her to the sink and pulls her hands under the cool water. He could tell her to stay there, to keep her hands under the water until the pain subsides, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t let go. He holds her hands in his, soothing the skin with his fingertips.

She can’t help but fall into the warmth of his body with her back pressed against his chest. His sunshine smell of spice and saltwater clouds her vision and takes up every bit of space in her lungs. It’s like he’s consuming her, overtaking her, being so kind that she can’t do anything but melt into him until she feels his heartbeat against her body.

What in Merlin’s name is she doing?

She gasps, opening her eyes; she didn’t even realize she’d closed them. She pushes against the sink, and him, to quickly escape across the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” she repeats cause it’s the only thing she can say as she dries her hands off on the towel that caused all this in the first place.

A quick pout crosses his mouth before disappearing into a thin-pressed line. “Right. Then go sit, I’ll bring the food over.”

Pansy debates saying she’s not too good to serve her own dinner, but the look in his eyes silences hers. She imagines that look as he climbs atop her and tells her she’s not allowed to come until he says so.

She should have packed her vibrator.

No! She should not be having these sorts of thoughts about Harry Potter. That crush is long dead.

Then again, how was she supposed to know that Harry bloody Potter had such lovely hands that would make her mind go to awful places? Or that he could be caring and make her feel things. Gross. Disgusting. Who was she?

Pansy sits at the table and waits, though she debates saying she’s not hungry and escaping to her room. She cannot feel things like this for Potter. She can’t. Because if she’s stuck with him for the rest of her life, wanting him, yearning for him, while he would never feel the same for her is sentencing herself to hell.

“Can we try to be friends?” Potter asks as he sets down a plate of primavera pasta and chicken in front of her. The garlic bread comes next in a basket, cut and smelling divine. Potter sits with his own plate and looks at her expectantly before eating. Like her answer is more important.

“Friends?”

“Yeah, like. I messed up this morning. And I’m sorry about that, honestly, so maybe tomorrow we can start fresh, try to be friends,” he shrugs and picks up his fork.

Pansy notices he’s left-handed, a fact she forgot from school. She also notices he’s not wearing the wedding ring she slipped onto his finger. She tries not to let it hurt as much as it does.

“Okay,” Pansy decides, “friends it is.”

She tells the crushed part of her heart to fuck off.

!!!

Harry has no idea why he suggested that he and Parkinson be friends.

They have nothing in common, as far as he can tell. She’s still posh as ever in soft fabrics and fancy swimsuits. Even covered up, he couldn’t stop thinking about the cashmere of her jumper against the skin of his arms, smooth like butter, like she was melting into him. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight for hours. He wanted to do things that he will not think about again because his swim trunks do not allow for those sorts of thoughts.

Harry squints from his spot in the pool at Parkinson in her lounge chair once again with a different book in her hands. He’s never really enjoyed reading all that much. It’s a thing he did in the summers because there was nothing else to do, and during school, even as fascinated as he was with magic, he wanted to do it, not read about it.

Harry looks at the Villa. While gorgeous and probably the most expensive place Harry’s ever been, barring whatever Hogwarts probably costs, it’s a bit boring. The building itself is white and square, almost blinding in the hot sun. It’s secluded from the tourists, probably best for Wizards and the privacy of a newly married couple. He supposes he could walk to the beach, but even that sounds a bit boring alone.

Then again, he does have Parkinson to keep him company. Despite agreeing to be friendly and start over again today, they’d still been relatively quiet towards each other. He’d still put money on her hating him.

But it has to change. Especially if this is the start of their life together. They can’t live in hate for the rest of their lives. Friendship couldn’t be that hard, could it?

From Harry’s spot in the pool, if he smacks the water just right…

“Oi!” Parkinson quacks as cold water attacks her legs from his splash. It makes Harry chuckle softly.

“Come swim with me.” He almost begs because he’s so bored. He gives her a puppy dog pout and sad eyes, trying to get her to budge.

“No.”

Harry expected that, so he doesn’t give up. He continues to pout, “I thought we were going to try to be friends today.”

“I said thank you for breakfast,” she chimes, not looking up from her book.

“You barely touched it.”

Parkinson turns the page of her book though Harry is positive she’s no longer reading it. “I wasn’t that hungry.”

“Seemed it to me,” he calls her out. She ate the fruit and toast, the bacon and hashbrowns. She had two cups of the fresh orange juice he squeezed. Magically, but still tasted the same.

Parkison looks over her glasses at him, her dark brown eyes glaring daggers. He stares right back, daring her to say what she wants, telling her he can take it.

“I don’t like runny eggs,” she confesses like it might break his heart.

“You don’t?”

She shakes her head, making her black bob spin with her head. “Hate them.”

It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together after that. She really was being nice yesterday morning, making his favorite breakfast instead of her own. And he really was the jerk that told her she wasn’t. Fuck.

“Then what do you like?” he asks, swimming over to the side of the pool and resting his arms on the cement as he looks up at her. She sighs and sets her book down in her lap, finger trapped within the pages to keep her spot. He bets she’s the sort to go mental if you fold a page to mark it.

“Omelets and yogurt with fruit.”

Harry chuckles a little.

“What?”

He can see her eyebrow arch behind her dark sunglasses. He thinks about asking her to take them off, so he can see the rich brown in the bright sun, but he thinks better of it.

“It’s a very posh order,” he explains with a playful smirk so she knows he’s teasing and not accusing.

Thankfully, her defensive eyebrow hides back behind the dark glasses, and he assumes she’s just rolled her eyes at him. “I’m a posh girl, if you haven’t noticed.”

Harry barks a laugh and pushes off the wall, floating atop the water of the pool. The coolness around him feels fantastic against the hot sun baking his dark skin.

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he chuckles, watching her as he speaks low and sultry. It’s just a test. It doesn’t mean anything. It has nothing to do with wanting to make her blush like he did last night at the sink. She was probably just flustered from the burn, anyways.

She doesn’t look up, but the corners of her mouth turn upward in the tiniest smile he’s ever seen. It’s beautiful and magical, and all he can think of is making her real smile come out. He can’t remember seeing it before, but something tells him it’ll be worth the wait.

Which is normal to think about a friend. Completely and totally normal.

“So what’s your favourite candy then?” he asks, squinting up at her. He doesn't know why he’s asking. He went to school with her, he knows all he needs to know, but if she’s supposed to be his wife, then he should probably know something.

“Fizzing Whizzbees; I like fruity flavors,” she reveals. Harry pockets it away for later.

“Quidditch Team?”

“Slytherin,” she smirks.

Harry laughs hard. He wishes he knew she was this funny sooner. He feels like they would have gotten along if the whole hating her guts thing never happened.

“What have you been doing since Hogwarts?” he asks, actually curious. He hasn’t heard her name a lot in the circle of his friends. He had actually assumed she had moved out of the country or something.

Pansy bites her bottom lip and looks back down at her book. Harry knows he must have misstepped there, but he wants to know. It feels like something significant about her that he’s missing.

She must feel his stare on her because eventually, she cuts the silence with a sing-song, “I’m trying to read, Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrects her.

That makes her look up, tilting her glasses so that he sees gold flecks in her dark eyes. He preens at the accomplishment. He doesn’t know what’s come over him to insist on his name, but suddenly it’s all he wants to hear on her lips.

“Pardon?”

Harry grins the way he does when he wins at chess against Ron. Which isn’t often, so it makes victory feel much more significant.

“Friends don’t use surnames,” he explains casually.

“Says you,” she snarks at him, but the hidden smirk tells Harry that he made a bit of a dent.

Even if it’s a small one.

!!!

Eventually, sometime in the afternoon, Pansy’s book gets boring.

Another miscommunication trope ruining a perfectly fine relationship. Pansy nearly throws the book into the pool, but she saves it for the massive sex scene that will probably come once the couple resolves their stupid shite.

She’s too annoyed to keep reading, though, so she decides to save the smut for later tonight when she can’t fall asleep and maybe, maybe, thinking of Potter lying in the chair next to her, drops of water drying on his skin, his body making every bit of her cunt vibrate with need.

Yeah, she definitely should not be reading smut right now.

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” she says, breaking their silence.

“Yeah? Do you want company?” Potter asks like a puppy, sitting up quickly and excitedly. Unlike her, he doesn’t seem able to understand relaxing. It’s like he constantly buzzes with energy and the need to move.

“No,” Pansy says quickly. Potter’s smile drops. She’s unsure if it's his disappointment or that she doesn’t want to go alone that makes her add, “but I can’t stop you from coming along.”

The smile on Potter’s face snaps back like a rubber band. It’s too much, and she can’t wait to do it again.

Pansy rolls her eyes at him and herself. She’s not soft. She’s never been soft. So her wanting to keep making him smile is ridiculous. The way she wants to make him laugh again? Almost revolting if you ask her.

She stands and pulls on the linen shirt she wore down to the pool as a cover-up, but only buttons the two middle buttons. Potter pulls his shirt back on and finds his sandals before giving her an expectant look.

They head down toward the beach with a wide berth between them. It’s normal, and the caution of making sure she doesn’t accidentally touch the back of her hand with his is perfectly logical.

Potter walks with a bounce in his step. His green eyes get distracted by every bird or leaf waving in the breeze. Pansy keeps trying to pay attention to the scenery, but she can’t help watching him. Can’t help but think of all the times she watched him with the same curious look in his eyes, taking in something new, falling in love with it, and making it his favorite memory.

She used to wish he’d look at her like that, but she knows better than that now.

“Harry,” she says shyly.

Potter nearly trips in his steps on the sand. “Yeah?”

Pansy shakes her head. “Nothing. Just wanted to see how it’d feel.”

“Oh. And? What’d you think?”

“Awful,” she lies perfectly.

Potter, bless his soul, grins again. Right at her. A glowing warmth shoots through every vein of Pansy’s body directly into her heart. She feels her stomach burst with dragons. It’s so stupid she has to look away.

“Pansy?” she hears from her side. Gentle. Close. Too close. Right in her ear like a whisper that sends shivers down her spine.

“Hmm?” she mumbles, unable to process actual words.

She glances up from her feet, and he’s right there with his green eyes and tanned skin. With his dark stubble and stupid smile. With his way of making her feel like she could slip so easily into the center of his universe and that she’d like it. Damn him.

“Just wanted to see how it’d feel.”

Pansy doesn’t ask for his thoughts. She doesn’t want to know. If he hated it, it might murder the dragons swooping in her stomach. And if he–

“I liked it,” he answers for her as he passes to put his feet in the ocean, making the dragons burn her alive.

!!!

After dinner, Harry plops onto the couch in front of the large television. He’s not expecting Pansy to join him. The night before, she magicked the dishes clean and was out of the kitchen before he could say thank you.

Things are going better tonight. After returning from the beach, they worked on preparing and cooking dinner together. Or Harry did most of it while Pansy watched with a glass of wine. He wasn’t going to hold it against her, though. She attempted to help, but it became clear that not only does Pansy not know how to cook, but she’s also rather clumsy.

Beyond the spilled fruit and dropped garlic bread, tonight she almost cut off a finger when he tried to teach her chopping, broke a hot serving platter by setting it on the cold marble counter, and fell flat on her arse when she got her dress tie caught in the fridge door. Harry did his best not to laugh when she was on the floor pouting, but it was pretty fucking funny as he helped her up from the floor.

From there, she stayed seated at the counter while he worked and peppered him with questions about cooking, leading to questions about his childhood. He answered plainly at first, but as they kept talking, he revealed more and more. Before he knew it, he told her about his cupboard and being expected to make meals for his relatives to earn his keep.

Pansy didn’t make any rude comments, but he could feel from her stiff coldness that she wanted to. Harry didn't blame her. Hermione still got that way when the Dursleys came up in conversation. But Harry had forgiven them and moved on for himself.

During dinner, Harry returned the favor of questioning Pansy about her childhood. It was mostly what he expected– a big Manor in the middle of the countryside, Wizarding Pureblood values taught to her at a young age. What he didn’t expect, what he didn’t know, was that she had been raised by her grandparents.

“My father was killed by an Auror before I was born,” she explained simply, with only a hint of sadness. “I didn’t take his surname because my grandparents thought it’d be safer but then my mum passed shortly after so I’m not sure it mattered really in the end.”

Harry didn’t ask what that meant exactly, but he figured out from her tone enough to know. He didn’t say sorry to hear about your parents’ passing because he hates hearing it himself. He had a feeling she’d hate it too.

Instead, he focused on the other thing that made him feel incredibly shitty about his job.

“An Auror?”

“Yeah. Mad-Eye Moody, in fact. Made Fourth Year a bit hard to get through; I was surprised Dumbledore made me Prefect the next year with how badly my grades dropped.”

Harry hadn’t expected that, but it rocked him harder than he realized. He had been so stubbornly single-minded he never thought about the other students affected by the War. That someone else could have lost their parents like he did.

Maybe it wasn’t Moody in the end, but Pansy hadn’t known that the whole year. Just like he didn’t know that Sirius Black wasn’t trying to murder him at all.

He remembered when returning to Hogwarts for their Fifth Year, Hermione called Pansy a concussed troll. He didn’t question why Dumbledore would make someone with low grades a Prefect. He just assumed Hermione was right and Pansy was stupid. He just followed his friends so blindly.

But despite the clumsiness in the kitchen, Pansy is anything but stupid. She might even read more than Hermione; he’s noticed she’s on her third book already. He somehow finds her sassy remarks and attempts at being mean, endearing, and even laughable. Maybe because he can sense she doesn’t really mean it.

Even her posh, too-good-for-work attitude doesn’t bother him because it doesn’t exist. Not anymore at least. She tried to make him breakfast, for fuck’s sake. Before he gave her any reason to be nice. He knows he fucked up by being late to the wedding or not even trying with his wardrobe, but she had tried. Even made him his favorite tea.

He’s still thinking about what a headstrong idiot he was back at school– and maybe even a little still– when Pansy joins him on the couch. She sits next to him, tucking her legs under her, not touching, but her presence still snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Are you sure that dishwasher contraption really gets everything as clean as magic?” she asks curiously.

“Honestly, I think it’s cleaner,” Harry says with a shrug. He doesn’t have scientific evidence, but it feels cleaner to him in a logical sense. “Is there something you want to watch?”

Pansy looks from him to the large television screen. “I’ve never watched anything before.”

“Nothing?” he balks. It still surprises him sometimes how anti-Muggle some of the Wizarding World is. “Didn’t you ask Ron what I liked to watch?”

“I did,” she hums and plays with a thread on the hem of her dress sleeve. “He said ‘just about everything’ which sort of ruined my plan to impress you.”

Harry chuckles a little, imagining Ron saying that exactly. He also hones in on something else that she said. “You wanted to impress me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Pansy snorts and rolls her eyes. He sort of loves it.

“What are your books about?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Action-Adventure? Mystery? Horror?”

“Oh,” she shrugs and plays with the thread again. Harry can almost make out a blush on her cheeks but can’t figure out why. “Action, I guess. Sometimes, at least.”

“Brilliant, you’re going to be amazed,” he gushes as he fiddles with the remote to pull up toe movies. He finds one he saw in the cinema with Ron and presses play. “The stunts and explosions feel so real.”

“Sounds trustworthy,” Pansy chews her lip as it starts.

They watch the film mostly in silence. Ron always peppers questions about how the movie itself works and how the actors did something, but Pansy stays rapt and quiet, watching the story unfold.

Sometime near the middle, Harry notices she’s nodded off. Not even nodded off, but dead asleep with her head tucked onto his chest. He doesn’t remember moving his arm around her and tugging her close, but he’s not mad about it.

He pulls a blanket over her and continues to watch to the end of the movie, thinking maybe she’ll wake up, and then he won’t have to awkwardly slide out from under her. It's not because he likes her body pressed to his or his soft smell of her strawberry shampoo. And it's definitely not because he might be catching feelings for her, even with their tumultuous past.

Hell, if it weren’t for her attempt at turning him over to Voldemort, he might already be head over heels for her.

When the movie is over, Pansy doesn’t wake. Harry tucks her into his arms and carries her through the villa to her bedroom. He tries not to think about how much he likes her in his arms or how in her sleep, she makes a soft, content noise once settled against his chest. He refuses to admit how she fits perfectly against him, and he wouldn’t mind doing this again.

He hates how he doesn’t hate that this could be the rest of his life.

So maybe he ought to do something about it.

!!!

Pansy wakes to bright sunshine streaming into her room.

“Bugger,” she mutters, pulling the pillow over her head and trying to sleep another fifteen minutes. She forgot to draw the blackout curtains, and she possibly drank a bit too much wine at dinner. Maybe way too much since she doesn’t remember returning to her room. The last thing she remembered was that stupid, boring, way too-loud film.

Sure, the whole moving picture that spoke was rather intriguing, but the plot? Hell, she wasn’t even sure there was a plot, and it made no sense why the female was both completely helpless and running along, trailing after the man like he was some God to try to keep him safe.

Dumb. Honestly. She hoped Potter had better taste than that.

But it must have been Potter that brought her to bed.

Pansy gasps and pulls her covers above her head. Nope, still dressed in last night's clothing. He didn’t change her, just put her to bed. Good. That’s fine. Bit too chivalrous if you ask her. The flips of her stomach are just rumblings from being hungry and have nothing to do with how he’s got her feeling.

Pansy quickly goes to find Harry to give him a piece of her mind. No, she’s upset, so he’s Potter again.

What’s she upset about? Well, he was nice. And he told her that she wasn’t nice, so he had no right to go be nice back and make her feel smitten with him. Again. He was a dumb, stupid childhood crush. She’s an adult now. She stopped liking him almost a decade ago. She cannot be crushing on Harry Potter like every other Witch and some Wizards.

Pansy storms into the kitchen to find it empty. A yogurt parfait with her favorite berries– of course he remembered she likes fruits– and a vase of beautiful wildflowers waits on the counter with her with a note.

Went for a run. Be back soon - H.

H. Just H. Not even his full name. It’s so stupid. There is nothing about the note that should have her blushing the way she is. She didn’t tell him to do that! This isn’t who she is. Merlin, she was going to strangle him for cooking and doing nice things.

And flowers! Who does he think he is!

Pansy brings her breakfast to the pool and sets up in her usual chair. She keeps telling herself she’s not hungry, but she eats everything anyway. She doesn’t touch the tea he’s made her; she’s still not convinced that milk in tea shouldn’t be classified as poison. They could fix that, though. She’ll train him out of it eventually.

No. Merlin. Why did she think he was hers? That they were some old married couple? Because they were a married couple. Not old, but married. She glances down at the ring she’s never taken off. The diamond is small but lovely. It holds a weight of love despite their wedding being arranged.

Pansy sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She needs to stop thinking about this. She needs to stop feeling things. It’s gross thinking all lovey-dovey like this. All he did was carry her to bed for Merlin’s sake.

To distract herself, Pansy cracks open her novel and focuses on reading. It's easier to read than to think about talking to Potter about how she’s feeling. What would he even say? Probably get the fuck away from me. Probably bring up all the times she was an awful human being that tortured his friends and probably caused years of trauma that they need to sort through with a Head Healer.

Pansy snorts. Like hell she’s going to admit to these feelings aloud. What a stupid thought.

She’s just gotten back into the story– mainly because the smut is that good and not because she’s stopped thinking about Potter– when someone plucks her book right out of her hands.

“Excuse me but I was reading that!” she snaps at Potter and reaches to steal the book back.

He holds it out of her reach and bloody reads it.

“‘Are you ready for me? Are you certain?’ he whispered. ‘Are you–”

Oh, bloody hell. Not now. Not that part.

“Potter, don’t you dare keep reading,” Pansy gasps.

“I will if you keep calling me Potter,” he grins torturously. “Where was I? Lost my spot.”

Potter– Harry– The most infuriating man she has ever met– flips the pages and finds a new spot. He wets his lips and starts again, “His fingers slid out, and his hands found her again, guiding her down…down… Until she could feel the tip of him–”

“HARRY BLOODY POTTER, STOP!” Pansy squeals and launches up to get the book from his hands. It barely does any good. He wraps his arm around her body and pulls her close to him. Between her swimsuit and his running shorts, there’s more skin touching than material, and it’s worse than she ever imagined.

Worse because she’s already hot and bothered, and his sweaty, slick skin is not helping.

“Was this the sort of Action you meant as your favourite?” he grins, eyes twinkling so mischievously she debates blinding him with her nails.

“No! I just– I didn’t–” Pansy fumbles about trying to figure out how to cover that she completely lied about what sort of books she liked because she was not about to admit she liked historical romances that bordered on pornographic.

“Think you did.”

Pansy scoffs and pushes herself off Harry because any longer with his body pressed against hers, she’s unsure what she will do. Sink to her knees and take him in her mouth sounds about right.

“The movie was fine. I liked it. A lot,” she speaks plainly, bored like he hasn’t just rattled her to her core, and she’s not thinking of what his fingers could be doing on her thighs.

“Liar.”

“How dare–”

“You fell asleep at the climax!”

Pansy blushes. She doesn’t even remember what the movie was about, and she usually remembers all her climaxes. Fuck, she needs to get her mind out of the loo. She’s pretty sure she fell asleep before the credits even finished, but correcting him would only prove his point further.

“I did not.”

“I’m going to keep reading this until you stop lying.”

“Potter.”

“Harry,” he reminds her. She nearly growls as he steps away from her and starts walking as he reads. “He forced her to work for her pleasure, to hold on tight, to move with him, against him, and then… is this how you like it?”

Pansy almost faints from the embarrassment that floods her. Reading aloud from one of her books is one thing, but discussing her likes? She knows she’s a bright shade of red as she follows after him to try to steal the book back. But Harry dodges every attempt. Stupid Seeker reflexes.

“You’re so obnoxious,” she threatens. He stops walking, allowing her to get right up in his face. “Give it back,” she demands.

“This is rather filthy, Pansy,” he taunts, a cheeky smile on his lips. He tucks the book in the band of his shorts behind him.

Pansy feels her cheeks turn to molten lava. She wants to tell him that he’s wrong. That she had no idea what the book was about, but then his hand is cupping her cheek, and she feels all the lava from her body drip down to pool between her legs.

His usual bright gaze turns dark like a forest full of monsters ready to devour her. His touch is soft against her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over her skin and tracing over her lips. Unconsciously she parts them, and he slips his thumb into her mouth.

Softly, timidly, Pansy sucks on his thumb, pulling a groan from the man in front of her.

And then she bites hard.

“Fuck, you’re evil!” he gasps, letting go of her quickly, but the mischief and laughter stay in his voice.

Pansy preens with a victorious smirk. “That’s what they say.”

She stalks two steps forward, back into his space, and leans on her toes. She doesn’t have to tug him to her; his head bends to meet her halfway without prompting. His eyes flutter closed with dark eyelashes. She feels the warmth of his breath on her lips and presses her body against his just enough.

She could kiss him, and part of her screams at her to, but instead, she plants her hands on his chest and shoves him.

Right into the pool.

His splash is anything but elegant. It douses her with water, but Pansy doesn’t care. She cackles into laughter as he sputters when he gets to the surface. He throws his hair back out of his eyes.

“Oi!” he curses as he stands and looks at the water around him.

“That’s what you get.”

He shakes his head to get the water from his hair out like a dog, causing her to squeal as he splashes her yet again. It causes his hair to stick up all funny in a way that makes it all that much harder for her to look away from his boyish charm. But she does because she should not be looking at him like that. Or thinking about his finger in her mouth. Or the way the water drips down his chest.

“Do you see my glasses?” he asks, bringing her attention back to him. Pansy glares because ignoring him was hard enough without him speaking.

Pansy scans the water, deciding she might as well help since she did sort of blind him. She notices a flash of gold by the edge of the pool where she stands. “There.”

“Where? I can’t see them.”

She points with a roll of her eyes as Potter wades closer. She didn’t realize he was that blind. He must be incredibly stubborn to not have his eyesight magically fixed by now– which honestly isn’t that surprising even if it is annoying.

“They’re right–” and before she knows it, his large hand is tugging on hers, pulling her right into the water with him.

Pansy hits the water with a squeal and splashes around. She loses her hat and gasps when she breaches the water. Harry laughs so hard he clutches his stomach; he’s found his glasses and put them back on quickly without her help just fine.

“You are such a child! I don’t know why I ever–”

Pansy stops mid-sentence. There’s no way she will admit she had a crush on him when she was younger.

“Why you what?” he asks, low and sultry, approaching her again.

“Nothing,” Pansy snaps.

“Why you… like me?” he almost demands as he invades her space again. Her breath catches in her throat. No, it was why she liked him, past tense. She doesn’t like him now. She can’t. She just can’t. Because then- then-

Fuck. She does like him.

She likes him so much she wants to climb him like a tree right here in the pool.

But she hates the effect he has on her! That he keeps having on her. She needs to leave before she does something stupid, like actually kiss him.

“I’m not that filthy,” she lies, giving him a splash before heading back into the house to escape him.

!!!

Maybe Harry should heed her unspoken warning, but he’s always been rather poor at that. If he had listened to the rules, he wouldn’t have done all the stupid shite that got him where he is today. If he had heeded the warnings in his first year, he’d never have tried to see what Fluffy was guarding. He wouldn’t have jumped down a sink basin into the Chamber of Secrets. He’d never have met his godfather. Probably never lost him either, but that wasn't the point.

The point was, most times, not listening to warnings worked out for Harry, so Pansy was out of her mind to think he wouldn't follow.

Not when she had his heart beating out of his chest and his cock half-hard. Not when she stood in barely anything, water dripping from every curve, looking at him with so much emotion her eyes turned gold.

“You forgot your book,” he says quietly, entering the room slowly like she might attack. He wonders if he might break whatever magic is pulsing between them if he moves too quickly.

“It’s ruined,” she frowns slightly, glancing at the waterlogged book in his hands. It’s true. Even if it dries out, it’ll be cumbersome to hold it all wrinkled and puffy.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. The way she freezes is enough to tell him she’s just as fucked as he is. That they aren’t friends anymore. Maybe they never were. That maybe the matchmakers had something right because all he wants is to– well, actually, all he wants is her.

“Don’t worry about it. I have others,” she dismisses him with a shoulder.

Harry can’t help himself. He wants her attention back. He wants her sharp sass and sexy smirks. “Yeah? Pornographic ones?”

“Will you go away?” she snaps at him harshly. Harry loves it, and he wants more of it all the time.

He tosses the book onto the dresser and moves closer to her. He lowers his voice not to spook her. It’s like approaching a Thestral. A bit intimidating but completely wondrous and life-changing.

“Is that what you really want?”

She purses her lips together. He’s seen her do it before, multiple times. Her tells aren’t in her eyes where he first looked but in her mouth. A mouth he’s been obsessing over just as much and not even noticing. A mouth he wants nothing more than to kiss and claim as his.

“Answer me one thing, and I’ll go away,” he says, stopping in front of her. Pansy only stares at him, studying to see if he’s lying. She bites her lip. She chews on it even. How had he never noticed that before? He wants to trace it with his thumb again. To soothe away the worry. To bring her lips to his.

“Fine,” she finally says.

“Why did you try to give me up to Voldemort?”

It's the one thing he’s been wondering for the past seven years of his life. It’s what he wonders now as he learns her alliance with Purebloods isn’t as cut and dry as he thought. It’s what he thought about last night after putting her to bed and hearing her murmur for him, Harry, to stay.

He didn’t stay. He couldn’t. She wouldn’t remember it, and he knew she’d awake confused and pissed. But it left him so confused he needed to expel his anxious energy with a run along the beach while he figured out things. He didn’t figure out shite, to be honest, but he knew one thing.

He wanted to stay. Last night and right now. He wants to stay with her.

He just needs to make sure it’s really what she wants from him too.

Pansy rolls her eyes and picks up a towel to dry her hair. “Everyone knows that.”

“I want to hear your version,” Harry says, tugging away the towel so she can’t keep trying to distract herself from telling the truth.

She chews on her lip again, looking anywhere but at him. He’s tempted to step closer, to wrap his arms around her, and promise she’s safe, no matter what she says. She looks so cold and lost standing there alone in her swimsuit. He wants to be there for her.

She deflates and surrenders to the truth he knows no one else has ever been told. It's a confession to the universe she planned to die with. She trusts him enough to give him her soul.

“I thought you would win,” she whispers.

Harry blinks as it sinks in.

It’s not the answer he expected, but it’s better.

It’s more than he could want. Because if she thought he would win – not just wanted him to win so her life would change but thought he would– it meant she had faith in him. That she trusted him. That she saw him and put all her hope for a new and safe life into him. The trust and hope she couldn’t voice aloud because no matter how she did, no one would believe it.

He doesn’t just want to be there for her. He wants to be everything for her. Maybe they hated each other once, but there’s not an ounce of hate left. He’s known that every time the gold in her eyes sparkles right at him.

Harry doesn’t think twice. He takes Pansy’s face in his hands and kisses her harder than he’s kissed anyone before.

!!!

Pansy swallows hard, waiting for Potter’s reaction to her biggest secret. She’s hidden it for so long that it almost feels like a lie. She buried it so deep within her heart she had to crack it open, and now she’s bleeding out onto the floor.

She’s two seconds from regret when he moves closer.

She doesn’t flinch when he takes her face in his hands.

She almost cries when his lips touch hers.

She could cry, she really could, but she throws her arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him instead. He’s Harry again because this kiss has earned it. He’s Harry because he gathers her up in his arms and repairs the crack her secret made by holding her so tight it puts the pieces back together.

Harry deepens the kiss without hesitation. Pansy responds just as seamlessly, opening her mouth to his, letting him devour her. His hands move down over her body, caressing and memorizing every curve before wrapping around her and picking her right off the floor. Pansy wastes no time locking her legs around his waist and pressing her hips against his.

It doesn’t help that they’re already practically naked. Every bit of skin that touches vibrates with a heated need that can’t be extinguished. The entire world feels on fire with his lips on hers.

She doesn’t have to ask to know if he feels the same. His hard length presses right against her core with only skimpy fabric to keep them chaste. To hell with that.

“Bed,” Pansy whines before sinking her teeth into his bottom lip, making his groan vibrate against her.

Thank Merlin, he listens. Harry throws her onto the fluffy pillows on the bed behind her. She scoots up further onto the bed, taking a moment to watch Harry as he stands at the end of the bed, looking at her with emerald eyes that smolder with a burning need. He chucks his glasses on the nightstand before he climbs onto the bed after her. He crawls up her body with his lips touching every bit of skin it can, starting on her thighs and up towards her center.

Pansy whines as he trails his tongue up the soft skin of her inner thigh, so desperately close to her soaked cunt. She wants him there with that tongue, but he smirks into her skin, teasing with sharp nips up to her hip bone, where he bites.

“Fuck me,” she gasps.

“I plan to,” he chuckles.

Pansy shakes her head and puts on her best posh, pouty voice. “No, now. I want you, now.”

“Yeah? Are you ready for me?” he chuckles, mirroring the book that got her in this mess in the first place.

“You’re an arse,” she mutters, causing him to bark laughter against her skin before tugging her swimsuit top to the side for her breast to spill out. He captures her nipple in his mouth, still smiling as he sucks.

“Are you certain?” he asks again with less laughter and more heat before moving to her other breast, running his tongue over her nipple again and again.

“That you’re an arse? Absolutely positive,” she says despite her squirming and arching her body for him.

She doesn’t want to give into his game, to let him think that he can tease her like this, but she can’t feel her limbs, and her will to fight has gone to mush with the rest of her brain. Her hips roll, wanting him to touch her.

“Are you wet?” he says so hungrily that Pansy whimpers. His lips attach to her neck, and she nearly screams with need.

Then Harry’s hand is on her, cupping and pressing her entire core to his palm. He rubs softly, teasingly, touching nothing and everything all at once. He moves the fabric of her bottoms aside for his fingertips to tease her slick opening again and again, making her pant with need until he slips a thick finger inside her.

“Oh Merlin, fuck,” Pansy gasps, her back arching off the bed at the welcoming intrusion.

He curls his finger as he leans down to kiss her again, consuming the slow groan he pulls out of her with his teasing light touches inside her. It’s like he has a map to her body; he finds her g-spot so quickly she has no idea how no other man’s ever found it.

“You’re soaked, Pansy,” he says into her ear.

Pansy can’t disagree. Instead, she holds onto him, clutching his shoulder blade as hard as she can to press her body up against his and get more of a hold before her legs shake so violently the bed vibrates. Her nails must bite into his skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

When he adds a second finger, she nearly combusts. “Harry, please.”

“Please?” he repeats, smirking, teasing.

Pansy nods. She knows she’s a mess, but she doesn’t care. She’s never said please for a cock in her life, and here she is, begging for Harry’s.

He makes it even worse by pressing his hand to his cock to relieve some pressure. It’s large and heavy, pushing against the fabric of his swim trunks like it might rip through.

Harry undoes the laces, and his cock escapes its prison. Her imagination didn’t have to work that hard because he’s as big as his gray joggers made him out to be.

“Didn’t know you knew the word please,” he teases her, hovering over her again, pushing his body up and away every time she rolls her hips to get him between her legs. His arms holding him up bulge with thick veins that fry her brain. She doesn’t care if she’s begging, showing that she wants every bit of him.

“Please what?” Harry asks, finally dropping his hips to hers, his cock settling between her legs.

“Please fuck me,” she says so breathlessly she’s sure she’s floating. She leans up and kisses him, hard and needy. She kisses him again and again, peppering in “Please, please please” whenever she can.

She’s so consumed by him that she doesn’t even notice when his will snaps, and he wraps her leg around his hip. She’s gone so disgustingly stupid with her need that when he finally thrusts deep into her, she’s attached to his lips, and they swallow each other’s moans.

Pansy throws her head back, thrusting her hips against his, pushing him even deeper. He fills every single bit of her. He lights every nerve on fire. He makes every limb feel too heavy to move while making her entire body float off the bed.

Just when she thinks she can’t get any more consumed by lust and him, her mind goes blank. It becomes just them, breathing together, moving together, chasing their mutual desire of needing the other closer and closer even still.

They move together like they’ve done this before. They rock their bodies at the right time, making each thrust long and deep. They pull noises from each other that should be impossible.

Pansy whimpers and whines. She begs and says please more times than she ever has in her life. She holds onto his thick back muscles to keep him close, to never let him go again.

He tells her things that she barely registers. He groans about how good she feels. That he wants to live in her cunt. That she’s his new home.

Harry’s heartbeat pounds against Pansy’s and then with hers. She feels as each beat pounds into complete synchronicity. There’s one heart between them, just like it should be.

Pansy screams as she comes hard. It sneaks up on her, unsuspecting, and then shakes her core so hard her muscles spasm, and her entire body clutches around him. She sees every cliche– stars, hearts, unicorns, thestrals, dragons, butterflies, heaven.

Fuck, she’s died and gone to heaven because of a man’s cock.

She hates it, but then he thrusts so hard he hits her cervix and comes hard, making her scream as he fills her so fully that she’s certain she’s found her soulmate. At least her vagina’s soulmate when she comes again, her hips rolling with pleasure that she can’t control. She digs her nails into his back to keep herself from melting into the bed.

Harry slows his thrusts before collapsing atop her, boneless and sated. He doesn’t pull out, but she wouldn’t let him if he tried. She always wants him close like this. He’s hers now.

Pansy loosens her grip on Harry as her body finally returns to Earth. He doesn’t move as he catches his breath with his face pressed into her neck. Pansy plays with his sweat-matted hair tenderly. She kisses the top of his head.

It feels so right. It feels like they’ve done this part before too.

!!!

Harry isn’t sure when he drifts off to sleep, but he’s not surprised when he feels Pansy wiggle out from under him. He doesn’t like that, though; he throws an arm around her middle and pulls her to him again.

“I have to pee,” she whispers.

“Fine,” he grunts with eyes still closed. “but come back.”

She laughs softly, and then he feels her fingers in his hair again, soft and reassuring. “I’ll come back.”

Pansy takes her time in the bathroom. After using the loo, she washes her face and inspects herself in the mirror. She looks the same, but she feels so different. It’s not just a weight gone, but the click of happiness when it falls into place. Finally, after so many years, she feels some sort of happiness.

But as she takes in her blunt bob and dark eyes, she knows it can’t last. She’s still the girl that hurt him all those years ago. She’s still the snake, and he’s the lion. It was good sex, not a combination of their souls. It’s harder than that. She knows that. She’s not this lovey-dovey sort of girl to just go smitten this easily.

When she leaves the bathroom, she doesn’t have the will to get back into bed. She wants to run.

“Get in, it’s cold.” Harry opens one eye, and though she’s blurry without his glasses, he can sense her hesitation. He refuses to let her run.

“It’s not even close to cold,” she laughs. Which, yeah, she’s right, but she’s also naked, and he wants her body pressed against his.

“Then, get back in bed so I can fuck you again,” he says because it’s the truth. He imagines her blush traveling up from her core all the way to her cheeks. He’ll never forget that when she blushes, it starts from her beautiful, tight, ridiculously heavenly cunt.

Pansy sighs and, despite her better judgment, gets back into bed. She leans against the pillows instead of sliding down next to Harry and looks out the windows. The afternoon sun is gone now, replaced with a dimming sky bursting with oranges and pinks. It’s the sort of sunset that doesn’t feel real.

None of this feels real. Which is why it can’t be.

Harry rolls over, half atop Pansy, so his chin rests on her stomach as he looks up at her. He folds his hands under his chin and squints up at her. “What are you thinking?”

She looks down at him, squinting with one eye, and laughs. She does him the favor of finding his glasses on the nightstand and slipping them into place.

“Thank you,” he hums, kissing her soft stomach, making the butterflies that live in it flutter. It’s too sweet and just the perfect amount at the same time. “What’s wrong?”

Pansy sighs. “This is the point we fight because we assume things about each other and it all goes to shite.”

“Like in your novels?”

“Like in everything,” she shrugs defensively.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Alright, then let’s not do that.”

Pansy glares at him. “We can’t not do that.”

“Sure we can,” Harry tells her. He doesn’t care how things are supposed to go. He’s over being told how to live his life and won’t stand for it. “Ask me anything, say whatever. Let’s get it out now.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Pansy groans.

“Like I said, I’d like to fuck you again, multiple times, maybe even out by the pool, so I rather things not go to shite,” he says, so matter of factly that Pansy’s grateful she’s in bed because her knees have gone weak. Not to mention, her pussy’s soaked all over again.

She swallows hard and tries to focus. “Why’d you say yes to matching with me?”

Harry blushes and cringes as he thinks. “Funny story. I didn’t read who my match was. Skipped the page completely.”

“You just signed?” Pansy’s eyes go wide. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Hermione said the same thing,” he chuckles and scratches the back of his neck. “But I dunno. I was annoyed at first, but magic saw something I couldn’t,” he glances up at her and smiles gently, tucking some hair behind her ear. “I’m not mad about it.”

Pansy bites her lip, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away. She tries to ignore how she feels the same.

“So you’re still close with Granger?” She changes the subject.

“Her and Ron; they got married too,” he says with a smile. He notices her pursed lips. “You don’t like her do you?”

“She’s fine,” Pansy shrugs. “A bit of a know it all, but I mostly didn’t like her for other reasons.”

“Because she’s Muggleborn?” he wonders aloud before he can stop himself. She gives him one of her harsh glares, but he knows he deserves it. He’s been trying to do better at not jumping to Pureblood stereotypes, but he knows it’ll be a process. At least she doesn’t completely shut him out.

“No. I don’t give a unicorn’s arse about that,” Pansy snaps at him. His deep stare makes her annoyance falter. “I was just jealous.”

He waits for her to say more, but this time she holds firm. She’s not about to break down and explain she was jealous of how Granger had his attention from day one, even when she was bossy and rude. How she assumed they were an item during school, and that jealousy turned into a dragon more giant than Harry’s Triwizard task that year.

Okay, maybe she still had a crush on him after third year, but there is no way she will ever admit that aloud.

Harry realizes that she won’t expand, but he doesn’t mind. He’s not stupid when it comes to women. Well, he is stupid, but not Ron-level stupid. “I’m sure when you talk, you’ll hash out the past and become friends.”

“Just like you and Draco,” she points out almost too optimistically.

Harry’s face cringes at the thought, making her burst into giggles. Well, at least he’s making her laugh. He buries his face into her soft stomach and kisses and nips at the skin, tickling her to make her laugh louder and try to push him away.

Pansy settles her giggles at the thought of Draco and Harry being friends one day. Fat chance but then again, she thought the same about her and Harry even getting along, let alone being naked in the same bed. She hums, reaching out to play with his hair and distractedly looking past him out at the ocean. The happy sailboats drift along the horizon, stopping her from closing herself off again.

“So you’re not planning for this to be annulled?” she asks; it’s been on her mind since they arrived.

Harry snorts laughter and shakes his head. His finger draws circles around her belly button. “I’m mostly planning to eat your cunt till you scream my name.”

“Shut up,” her head snaps to look at him. He’s proud of himself at her reaction. She wets her lip and cautiously explains, “I meant you don’t wear your ring.”

“Ah, that,” he says and kisses her skin. “I didn’t want the ring to influence me.”

“Influence you,” she repeats, and Harry knows he sounds as mad as he feels. But it’s good to know that the magic didn’t make him want her. That it’s her whiplash smiles and sassy laughter that reels him in every time and nothing else.

“It’s goblin made so I thought the magic of the Vow–”

“No it’s not,” she stops him, “I bought it myself from a Muggle store,” she explains quickly.

“You bought it?” he asks. The look of confusion on his face only gets worse.

She sighs and keeps going, “All my family heirlooms belonged to the sort that would have loved you dead and I thought you might not enjoy that, but the Ministry ring seemed impersonal. So. Yeah. I bought you a ring.”

He smiles at her. Soft and gooey. The sort that she would usually never give the time of day, but now she wants more and more of. She hates it, so she keeps talking, trying to bypass the fact she picked out and bought a ring just for him because her family's jewels were tied to a past that hurt him.

“Also, the Vow doesn’t do that. Not anymore, at least. It used to be, but now it’s just for show. The only thing it does is add each other's names to our emergency contact when Healers cast identification cards,” she explains.

“How do you know that?” Harry asks though he’s still a little stuck on the fact she bought him a new Muggle ring. It’s more thoughtful than she realizes, seeing as they weren’t even sure they’d make it through this week. Hell, he put money on them killing each other way before they’d ever fuck.

“I trained to be a Nursing Healer,” she explains, reaching out to curl some of the hair by his ear around her finger. “That’s what I did after Hogwarts. I got my Nursing license and then, um, no one would hire me so I’ve just been a private nurse for Pureblood families..”

“What? No one would hire you?”

“I was the girl that wanted you dead.” She bites her lip and looks more defeated than he’s seen her.

“I’ll write to the Head of the Hospital. It’ll be different now.” A defensive fire Harry’s only felt for his friends ignites so violently he’s shocked he hasn’t jumped out of bed to head right to the Ministry this very second. It’s utterly disgusting that shite like that is still happening. And it’s not like Pansy was reported for Unforgivables or anything.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that,” she asks skeptically.

“Well, for starters, you’re my wife and I’m kinda a big deal,” he finishes for her with a cocky grin that makes her shut up. She was just a scared girl that hoped he would win; she wanted him to save her. He’s happy he can do that as her husband. “Now, may I have your cunt for dinner or do you want to keep talking still?”

Pansy looks at him with wide eyes that show off every bit of gold hidden in the depths. Her blush creeps up her stomach and chest before painting her cheeks like the sunrise. Harry knows it's not love, but he’s gone pretty love drunk regardless.

“I’m done talking,” she whispers.

“Good girl,” he grins, making her moan before he can even get his mouth on her.

!!!

They talk again sometime around midnight when they wake again, actually hungry this time. They discuss what things will be like when they return to London while Harry cooks stir fry and Pansy makes tea. Harry tells Pansy about the Black Family home he inherited but doesn’t inhabit due to its resistance to cleanliness and Mrs. Black’s rude and bigoted portrait.

“It’s cursed,” she explains simply.

“It’s not. I’ve tried everything. Hermione did too,” he says stubbornly.

“Because it can only be lifted by a Pureblood from the Sacred 28. Probably one that hasn’t been labeled a blood traitor as well,” she adds before he mentions Sirius or Tonks.

“So someone like you?” he teases.

She shrugs. “Maybe. It’d be nice to make it into our home.”

Harry bites his lip to keep his smile from getting too wide. He didn’t ask for this, but it’s everything he’s ever wanted. She’s still a bit stubborn and guarded. He knows she keeps waiting for something to slip. For that cliche of miscommunication to ruin the afterglow. So he keeps saying everything he can to make nothing a surprise.

“I want a family. A big one,” he tells her as they catch their breath on the couch, with her collapsed atop him, his cock still buried deep inside her. Movie watching didn’t work out again, but he doesn’t mind.

“I’m on the potion so it might have to wait,” she asks, wiggling her hips as if he couldn’t feel the sticky mess leaking out of her onto his lap.

“Not now, but one day.” He groans softly at her movement and reaches out to still her hips.

“Me too,” she agrees while pressing kisses into his neck. “Growing up alone hurts.”

Harry doesn’t know how to explain that he agrees with every bit of his soul, so he kisses her with it instead and then suggests they go back to bed.

!!!

The husband and wife desecrate almost every room of the villa. They fuck on her favorite lounge by the pool and then later in it when the sun sets again. Even in the moments that they aren’t fucking, he always finds a way to keep a calming, reassuring hand on her, as if to remind her that it's not just lusting and the magic of this villa but something deeper brewing that could last for a long time.

Maybe even forever.

“All packed?” Harry asks from the doorway of her bedroom though she hasn’t slept there in two nights. She’s not sure she ever wants to sleep alone again.

“Almost,” she says over her shoulder. He tosses something small and white into the air. Pansy reaches out to catch it, but it sails by her fingertips and onto the bed. She examines the little package of tissues with a curious look.

“What are these for?”

Harry shrugs. “For when we land later. You said portkeys make you sneeze.”

The butterfly-dragons burst through her heart and devour her stomach. He’s so full of thoughtful mush that one day it might kill her but in the best way.

“There's one thing I never asked you,” Harry says, moving into the room to circle his arms around her waist.

“Hm?” Pansy says, turning to continue packing so he can’t distract her, but his hot breath on her neck is damaging her concentration all on its own.

“What were you going to say, out by the pool? You don’t know why you–” he trails off to let her finish.

Pansy feels her limbs go rigid. She does her best to shake it off. “Oh. nothing.”

“Tell me. We decided not to have cliche fights.”

She almost tells him no, but then his lips are on her neck, nipping and sucking at the spot that drives her crazy. It’s unfair and dirty.

“This won’t cause a fight, just my death by mortification,” she grumbles though her body melts back into him. She presses her arse against his cock in retribution.

“Tell me.” He pushes his hips against her, his cock hard, and she realizes she made a mistake, and he’s winning this whether she likes it or not.

Pansy sighs. “I don’t know why I ever had a crush on you.”

“You did?” he freezes for a moment, “When? At school?”

“First year,” she gives in ‘cause she might as well. He’s bringing her to hell one way or another.

“Shut up.”

“We should get going,” she tries to pull away, but he keeps her locked in his arms.

“No, I need to hear everything,” Harry says, spinning her around in his arms and forcing her to look at him. She tries to push him away, but he’s gotten smarter since the pool and doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs her closer so their hips line up, and his thigh pushes between her legs.

“You’ve heard enough,” she tries so hard to deny what she wants. Harry finds it adorable. He loves her sassy quips and how she thinks she’s putting him in his place. But he knows how to put her in her place now with a good spanking and begging for his cock.

“Should I go back to wearing knitted jumpers?” he teases, back to kissing her neck. He has all Remus’ jumpers saved in a trunk back at home if that’s really her thing. Maybe he could convince her to wear a Weasley sweater with him at Christmas.

“I hate this,” she grumbles but doesn’t shove him away. It only eggs him on.

“Shave my face?” he wiggles his eyebrows to taunt her even more.

“NO!” She says so quickly and loudly, that he laughs harder than he has all week.

“No? Not the babyface?” he teases, tickling her skin with the scruff of his beard. He hasn’t found a moment to shave in the past few days of their relentless shagging.

“Absolutely not.” He feels her knees go weak as her center presses down on his thigh. They shouldn’t be doing this; they have a portkey to catch.

“Is it a glasses kink? I keep wondering if I should get new frames.” He keeps teasing her despite the looming portkey.

“If I kiss you, will you stop talking?” she sighs like she’s giving up so much when he knows it's all she wants.

“You should give it a try.”

Pansy sighs again, loud and completely fake. All she wants to do is throw her arms around and kiss him. Stupid and all sorts of childhood crush dreams coming true. She hates it only because she loves it so much.

She thinks she could love him, maybe one day soon. Disgusting.

She kisses him quick and silly. Barely a moment on his lips, so he’s left frustrated and playfully annoyed. He gives her a squeeze to let her know she’s toeing the line of being a brat– which is a fun game they’ve discovered, but not when they have a time limit.

“A quickie before the portkey?” she offers to make those lovey-dovey thoughts go out of her head.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Harry jokes as he lifts her in his arms and kisses her hard.

Then again, maybe he’s not really joking at all.

Yuck.

Notes:

Pansy is reading, and quotes are taken from: When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn

Thank you to all my cheerleaders for this fest, I’m incredibly grateful!

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