Title: Choosing My Confessions
Author: snegurochka_lee
Pairing: Harry/Pansy
Rating: NC-17
Theme: Erotographomania: arousal from writing romantic or erotic letters or poems. Also, fingering.
Other Warnings: EWE for Harry. Possibly flippant discussions of stalking, which the author, if not the characters, is aware is a real and serious thing. :/
Word Count: ~8,900, gah
Summary: Someone is sending Pansy erotic letters. She's going to insist that no less than the Head Auror himself get to the bottom of it.
Notes: These are two of the themes that our generous help_japan winners picked. The letter-writing is a favourite device of mine anyway, so I was happy to take a stab at it this month. The fingering wasn't in the initial plan, but Pansy heard it was on the table and insisted. :) Thanks so much for your support, dear donors! I hope you enjoy this month's offerings. The title is from the R.E.M. song I've had stuck in my head all week, la.



Choosing My Confessions

by Snegurochka

*



"I am being stalked."

Harry bit back a sigh. He finished signing the parchment in front of him, transferred it to another pile, and wet his quill again before glancing towards the origins of this grand pronouncement. He didn't quite let himself do a double take, even though her robes were far too form fitting for a visit to the Ministry. "I see."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" He craned his neck. "How did you get past Janine, anyway? I told her to send a Howler if she saw you in the foyer." He couldn't help but grin a bit at the smoke that started coming out of her ears.

"This is serious, Potter."

"Stalked, you say?" He sat back in his chair, regarding her. "And last week you were being poisoned, Parkinson. You might want to stop crying wolf."

"And you might want to start doing your job, Auror Potter," she shot back, letting disdain drip off her tongue. "My vermouth was clearly contaminated – not that I'd expect you to understand an offence like that. Brutes like you hardly need to import their cans of beer all the way from Turin." She folded her arms across her chest, which only served to buoy her cleavage even more than usual, and wet her lips as she appraised him.

"That's true." He suppressed a tired smile. "I can get the highest quality cans of beer right in the East End. You're still alive, though," he added, puffing out his cheeks and exhaling in mock disappointment, "so that body of yours must have quite the resistance to the world's most dangerous poisons."

Her eyes narrowed.

Dammit, if Harry wasn't careful, he might find himself enjoying this little game Parkinson coerced him into every couple of weeks. She would show up at his office door whinging about some injustice or other and launching invective at him and his entire department for not dropping everything to jump to her aid; Harry would promise to look into it before promptly doing nothing of the sort; and she'd get bored of her own story in a day or two and bugger off... only to reappear with a new emergency as soon as she thought of one.

Last month, Harry had got so suspicious of her attempts to distract the Auror division from more pressing work that he'd actually gone and done a full investigation – not into her claims that her Gringotts account had been compromised, but into the activities of all her friends and acquaintances, certain as he was that her tactics were designed to keep Auror eyes off Malfoy's investments or Zabini's capital gains.

Nothing had turned up, though. Well, except Parkinson herself, her dark hair artfully swept off her face and her heels clacking on the tile floor as she stormed into Harry's office to give him a piece of her mind.

"This body of mine," she was saying now, her voice low and full of venom, "has all kinds of talents you've never dreamed of, Potter." She lifted her chin. "And if you don't want to find it in a gutter somewhere, you will wipe that smirk off your face and help me." As she spoke, her tone shrank from haughty to nervous. She looked away, one hand curled around Harry's doorframe as if it were holding her up. Her chest rose and fell, and she bit anxiously at her lip.

"I– all right." He cleared his throat, suddenly more concerned than he cared to be. This couldn't possibly be serious, but he was bored with his paperwork and could use some entertainment. "What have you got?" He nodded at the scrolls in her left hand.

She gingerly stepped forward, her eyes downcast, and dropped them on his desk. He watched this curious 180-degree turn in personality with interest, but didn't push her on it. All right, maybe she really was frightened this time. He unrolled one of the scrolls and started reading.

My beautiful Pansy,

Your breasts are exquisite. I want to touch them. So is your arse.

Harry frowned, but kept reading.

You should bend over more often. And show off your arse. You should get undressed with the shades open tomorrow night.
I'll be watching you, because your body is so beautiful. I'll wank myself SO HARD and think of you.

My deepest love,
XOXO

He glanced up at Parkinson.

"Well?" she demanded.

"It's..." He cleared his throat. Not that Harry had a great deal of experience with the genre, but this bloke didn't strike him as the best erotic writer out there. He had a bit of a crush, and his tactics weren't terribly smooth, but he didn't seem dangerous. Nothing was pinging Harry's radar, at least; someone who truly meant her harm would have phrased the threats differently. "When would 'tomorrow night' be?"

"I just got it this morning."

"Well," said Harry, rubbing his chin, "I'd close your shades and carry on." He rolled the parchment back up and handed it to her.

"I– but, what about the others?" Her coquettish façade was falling away, leaving her usual talon-edged self glaring at him. Harry sighed as he looked at the pile.

"Are they basically the same?"

"Well. Yes. I suppose they are. He really likes my tits." She said this in a challenging tone of voice, as if Harry would be mad to disagree. "And my arse."

"I can see that." Harry nodded at the one he'd returned to her.

"Don't I at least get a stakeout tomorrow night?" She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

"Can't spare the manpower, Parkinson. Sorry. Let me know if they get–" any better, he didn't say – "more threatening."

She looked furious, but pressing her lips together seemed to keep a lid on any tantrums. She gave Harry what he could only describe as a death glare before turning carefully – if emphatically – on one red heel and storming out.

***

Later that night, after a couple of pints with Ron and a row with a particularly assertive dartboard, Harry decided against Apparition and walked a circuitous route home.

He stopped in front of a posh building, a postmodern but slightly hideous mix of brick and glass, and counted storeys. One, two, three... yeah, she should be the fourth one in, there, on the floor just above the tree line. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around, trying to keep his interest casual in case anyone was watching him in return. It was a pleasant enough evening, and only a few pairs of joggers and dog-walkers passed him.

Parkinson's shades were open, damn her.

Just in case she was in danger, he told himself, it didn't hurt to check on her. She really should have closed them, though. He took another glance around, starting to feel a bit like a stalker himself.

When next he looked up, she passed in front of the window and paused, surveying the street below. Harry ducked behind a nearby tree, peeking out after a minute had passed. She was still there, visible only above the waist in a tiny white camisole, her dark hair spilling down over her shoulders. She looked nervous, compulsively tucking invisible strands behind her ear every few seconds as she gazed out into the night.

After a few minutes, she sat down in the cavernous windowsill, her back to one side and her knees pulled nearly to her chest, and opened a magazine from a nearby shelf. As she leafed through it, Harry caught sight of the cover and rolled his eyes; it was the one that had done a profile on him a few months earlier: The Chosen One, Ten Years Later! He hadn't sanctioned it, but he also couldn't help but have a look when it had come out. As predicted, it did what all those magazines did when he wouldn't grant them interviews: make things up. This one spent quite a few pages pondering why he'd split with Ginny (gay, most assuredly), whether he wore boxers or briefs (the accompanying poll had shown readers to be frighteningly in favour of the tightest, whitest briefs possible), and how the pressures of running the Auror department at such a young age had kept him from finding true love (with men, obviously).

Well, there was also an article in that issue about new ways of cooking with cod, so maybe Parkinson was reading that one instead. He could hope.

Harry leaned against the tree, keeping to the shadows as he watched her. She turned the pages slowly, as if she wasn't reading as much as staring absently, her fingers tracing light circles over the glossy pages. After a while she fumbled beside her hip for a quill and began to write against the magazine's pages. Finally, with a sigh, she rubbed at her eyes like a tired child. Harry had to grin at the unguarded gesture.

This stalker, if he did exist, had her all wrong. She had herself all wrong, too, come to think, the way she kept sauntering into his office with her tits and arse on display in those robes. She had assets, no doubt about it, but that wasn't all she had. He couldn't yet figure out what else there was to her, mostly because she wouldn't let him – or anyone – see, but he was certain there had to be more.

Pulling his collar up against the breeze, he set off down the street for home.

***

My beautiful Pansy,

I want to touch your body in all the ways that a man should touch a woman. You know what I mean.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, blindly shuffling the parchment to the next one.

Pansy,

Your arse looked so delicious in those violet robes on Tuesday. Wear them again so I can dream of hiking them up and pumping my cock into you.

"Well. This one's different." He threw it across the desk to her, where she turned it around and blinked at it. "You sure this is the same guy?"

She shrugged. "The handwriting looks the same. Don't you think?" Her big brown eyes looked at him with that practiced innocence she'd been using lately.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Do you– what do you think of that one?" She gave him a strange look.

"The cock pumping?" Harry ran his hand through his hair. "Crude, but it's still not as violent as some things I've seen over the years."

Her face fell.

"Oh. I mean, what do you think? Does that one scare you more?"

To his surprise, she laughed. "I can handle cocks, Potter," she said, and his mouth fell open a little bit. "Watching me at the window... that one bothered me more than a bit of cock pumping."

"Oh. Right."

She looked uncomfortable for a moment, but covered it by passing him new scrolls. "Here, try these. I mean, here are some more."

Glancing at the clock to make sure he wasn't late for the real meeting he had that afternoon, Harry sighed and took two more from her. More of the same. This guy really was a cad. He shuffled them with the others, but when he did, a new, smaller piece of parchment dropped free. Busy reading, Parkinson didn't seem to notice.

I look at you and see all my mistakes in the lines of your face.

Harry's lips parted as he read, his fingers cool against the worn parchment.

When will you see me as something other than a thing that hurts, a thorn that once made you bleed?
I am not that person anymore. I pretend to be, because I don't know how to stop, but you make me want to be better.
You make me want to stand before you and let you inspect, hold still for your approval.
You make me want to kneel before you.

Would you touch my hair if I did? Would I feel your hands across my cheek, down my neck, or even lower?
I would kneel, I would touch you, I would put my mouth on you.
I would do anything you asked.

But you don't see me. Perhaps I'm kneeling right now, too low to the ground, out of your line of sight.
Perhaps you will never see me even though I

It cut off, unfinished, and Harry could hear himself make a small noise in the back of his throat. He stared at the parchment until a movement across the desk jerked him away from it.

"Where did you get that?" Parkinson snapped, snatching it from him.

"It was in with the others." He pointed at it, his hand shaking. "Parkinson, that is not the same handwriting. That's something very different. That is..." He swallowed, trying to decide whether this man, if he existed, was more dangerous to her than the others, or just genuinely in love with her.

"What?" She tucked her hair behind her ear, giving him an uncertain look.

"Do you know this man?" said Harry softly. She looked so frightened all of a sudden; he was certain there was more going on here than she was letting on. "Look, Parkinson," he continued when she didn't say anything, "you've been coming in here with your stories for months now, so I wasn't exactly inclined to believe you about this stalking thing." He gestured at the stack of letters they'd amassed over the past few days. "And most of these don't really seem genuine, to be honest. But that one..."

Her guard shot up again in a flash. "Oh, fabulous. Thanks a lot, Potter." She tossed her hair over one shoulder. "Now you think I'm making things up? Why would I do that?"

"That's the part I don't know," he said honestly.

"But this, this piece of rubbish," she continued, her eyes blazing as she shook that last letter in her fist, "is the one that convinces you?" She forced a laugh, low and full of anger or hurt; Harry couldn't tell. "Isn't that just fucking fantastic?" she muttered under her breath as she turned away from him.

"That piece of rubbish," he shot back, "is too... too..." He pressed his lips together, trying to figure out why he was reacting this way. Why she was reacting this way.

"What, Potter?" she sneered.

"It's too beautiful not to be real, okay?"

She fell silent.

"Who is he, Parkinson? If he's hurt you, if he's scaring you, I can help."

She stared at him, her lips parted. In her fingers, the parchment crackled.

He took a step towards her as though she were a deer in the forest he was trying not to spook. "Pansy." His voice was low. "It's someone from your past, isn't it? Someone who thinks you can't forgive him for something." He paused. "Malfoy?"

She gazed up at him a moment longer before shaking her head. "No. Merlin."

"Tell me who it is," he said quietly. He took another step forward, watching the way her breath quickened the closer he came.

She shook her head again.

"Are you in trouble?"

She let out a quiet laugh. "Oh, definitely." She took a deep breath and turned back to him, but planted one palm against his chest. Holding him off. "Thanks, Potter," she drawled. "As always, your detective skills are second to none." With an exaggerated roll of her eyes and slight push of her hand, just enough to make him take a step back, she strode out of his office, crunching the last letter in her fist.

***

All right, this was plain stupid, he knew it was, but he found himself outside Parkinson's flat again that night. He stayed down the street this time, though, using a magnification charm to see closer to her window.

Not that close, mind; he didn't need to see how white her teeth were or anything. Just enough to make sure she was okay. At least, that was what he told himself.

With the shades open, Harry was surprised to discover just how mundane Pansy Parkinson's life really was. He had always imagined her – well, when he bothered to think of her at all, of course – moving between martini bars every night, or attending some sort of gala or other. Come to think, he didn't even know why she lived in a flat like this; didn't her parents still have money, an estate? She wasn't married and never had been, that he knew of, but that in itself wasn't strange; the war generation had tended towards one of two options: marry immediately, or not at all. That gave couples like Ron and Hermione a nine-year-old daughter already, while other people like Luna, Dean or Harry himself still cautiously weighed their options.

He furrowed his brow. But why hadn't Parkinson been in the first camp? Surely she'd had offers.

So did you, a voice piped up in the back of his head. He gazed down at his hands for a long moment.

When he looked up at her window again, he smiled faintly to see her once more wedging herself into the wide windowsill, pausing this time to prop a pillow at her back. Once settled, she reached to her side and wrapped her hands around a mug of some steaming liquid. So, not the martini bar sort after all. What did Pansy Parkinson do for fun, he wondered? Staying home at night with hot cocoa and a magazine didn't seem her style.

She fumbled for a cigarette, lighting it with a pass of her wand before leaning her head back against the windowsill and gazing down at the street. She alternated sipping from her mug and taking long, lazy drags, her face nearly up against the pane as she exhaled. Even though he couldn't see the smoke, Harry watched the way her lips rounded every time it passed through them. Unbidden, the words of that one letter floated through his mind.

I would kneel, I would touch you, I would put my mouth on you. I would do anything you asked.

He shivered in the night air. Who was he, this unlikely rival who saw her the same way Harry did?

***

Three days later, after getting up to stand at his office door and survey the rest of the floor for the hundredth time, Harry pressed a button on his desk.

"Janine?"

"No sign of her, boss."

"I– what?"

"Harry. Please. You never were very good at covert ops."

"Well, I–"

"Shall I put her on the Howler list again?"

He could almost hear the smirk in her voice. "No. Thank you." He grinned. "And sod off."

"Right away, boss." She laughed before the connection terminated. Harry sat back down at his desk, wondering why the absence of Parkinson and her awful letters in his day should disappoint him.

***

Potter,

I saw your assistant at Paolo's last night. Forgiving for a moment that she must have slept her way in, since you can't possibly pay her enough to afford it, she mentioned you'd been missing me. How sweet. You can safely direct your investigations elsewhere, though. The letters have stopped, and I don't need you.

PP

Harry sighed, crumpling the letter in his fist. Well, good, then. Fine. He had work to do anyway – real work, not this business of chasing Parkinson's whims until she got bored. And he would instruct Janine to put her back on the Howler list, dammit.

***

Except, it was odd, wasn't it, her disappearing like that? After a few pints with Ron, Harry got into such a vicious row with the dartboard (it was narrowing the target on him, he knew it was) that it turned every dart back on him.

"Uh, maybe you should just head home, mate," Ron helpfully supplied, clapping him on the back. "That bugger could take out an eye."

Harry sulked but agreed, waving Ron off and shoving his hands in his pockets as he took what had become his regular route home. When he reached Parkinson's building, he stood on the lane below and gazed up at her window, lost in thought. Her flat was dark, with no sign of movement inside. Just like it had been all week.

He watched for a few more minutes before convincing himself he was a bit drunk, a bit sad, more than a bit in need of a shag, and he should bloody pull himself together. This was Parkinson, after all. Either she was playing him, or she was off somewhere not giving him a second thought; those were the only two options with her. He knew that.

What he didn't know, however, was why he couldn't stop thinking about her.

***

After eight days and nights with no sign of her, Harry let himself into her building and stood outside the door of her flat late one night, shifting from one foot to the other and trying to decide whether he was an Auror with terrific instincts, or just a colossal fool. Probably the latter, but there was nothing for it. He knocked.

"Parkinson?" he called. "Come on. If you're in there, let me know you're okay so I can catch last call at Smitty's." He gave a half-hearted grin towards her door, imagining her retort.

It didn't come.

He knocked again. "Come on. Humour me. I'm actually worried about those stupid letters of yours," he admitted, his fingertips pressing into the ridges of her doorknocker.

No response.

"Pansy?" he said softly. With a sigh, he fumbled with his wand. "Shit," he muttered, already remorseful as he waved it over the door, unlocking it and pushing it open. He'd just take a quick peek.

The flat was dark and quiet. It was smaller than he might have expected, but strangely cosy. He cast a quick Lumos as he looked around, taking in the dark panelled furniture and the unexpected splashes of colour in throw pillows and kitchen tiles. Despite her usually immaculate appearance, her home showed a lazier side of her. A couple of unwashed teacups sat in the sink, and parchment littered her dining table. Harry smiled, thinking about what he'd seen of her through the window those nights: hair either loose around her shoulders or messily swept up; quills and old magazines stored in the windowsill; that pretty mouth of hers, lips full and natural without all the lipstick, closing around her cigarette...

He closed his eyes, steadying himself against the back of a chair. Christ, this was not helping. He'd just broken into her flat and was thinking about her like a complete pervert. Okay. Check quickly for signs of harm, and get the fuck out. He scanned the main rooms. The windowsill – there. He found a scattering of parchment and picked one up.

As he read, his mouth fell open.

I hate you for having a bravery I've never known, that no one around me has ever known either. Courage I never thought possible. Integrity I'd kill for.
I hate you for having the courage to fight, and then to retreat. To say NO when they try to make you into something you're not. To withhold your permission for them to slander you.
I hate you for having the courage to turn away someone who would have loved you and fucking clung to you for eternity, just because you didn't think you could do the same in return.

Who could you do that for? Maybe no one. No, maybe everyone, knowing you. When you've got the whole world to save, how can just one person ask you to love them like that?

I hate that I feel like I know everything about you, yet you know nothing about me.

Harry dropped the note, his mind stuck on the repetition of only one word.

Hate.

Okay, now this letter writer meant business. He had to find her.

***

He charged back downstairs and across the street, trying to think of what to do next. He should just owl her, of course, and see if the owl got through. If that didn't work, he supposed he could put on his big boy pants and go talk to Malfoy. Maybe he'd seen her in the past few days. And if that didn't work, Christ, maybe she really was in a gutter somewhere, and he hadn't taken her seriously, hadn't given her case the attention it deserved. It would be all his fault if something had happened to her, if he couldn't save her in time.

He paced back and forth, his hands folded over his mouth as his mind whirled with the names of old Slytherins from their year, anyone who might have meant her harm. There was Malfoy, obviously, and Zabini, or maybe it was a jealous girl? Bulstrode, or Davies, or –

All of a sudden, the light flickered on in her flat.

Harry's eyes widened, and he spent a long moment on the pavement just staring at it. Through the window, he saw her remove a bag from her shoulder and drop it to the table, her hair in a messy knot at the back of her neck and her face tired. Without thinking, Harry stormed back across the street and into her building. He was at her door in minutes, banging on it at a pace to match his heart rate.

"Parkinson!" he shouted.

She flung the door open and stared at him, wide-eyed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Harry pushed inside, immediately scanning the room for danger. "Was someone here? Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right, you lunatic. Put your bloody wand down!"

He turned and appraised her, his wand still clenched in his fist. "Your make-up's smeared." He pointed. "Are you hurt? Where have you been?"

She blinked, her mouth open. "Potter," she said at last, "as flattering as this sudden concern for my well-being is, you're off your nut." She put her hands on her hips. "I'm allowed to leave town, aren't I?"

Leave town. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Christ, he was a lunatic. "Where were you?" he asked again, taking a step towards her.

She puffed out her chest, her eyes blazing. "I went to see my aunt in France, for your information. Just to get away from all this. Is that a fucking crime?"

Anger and relief seared through him all at once. "We were in the middle of a stalking investigation, Parkinson, and you up and leave town without telling me?"

"I didn't exactly think you'd care."

"I thought you were dead!" he bellowed. In the quiet that followed, only his heaving breath echoed around the flat.

"I–" She took a tentative step towards him. "Oh. No. Not dead. I– I'm sorry, Potter."

He let out a strangled noise, burying his face in one palm. "Fuck."

"But honestly," she continued quietly, "I still didn't exactly think you'd care."

He dropped his hand and regarded her. Her hair was pulled back loosely, and apart from the smudged eye make-up, her skin appeared clear. She wasn't even wearing her customary lipstick. Even her skirt and blouse were casual. She was beautiful. Her big brown eyes held his gaze, and Harry couldn't take it anymore. He strode forward and cupped both hands around her face, kissing her soundly.

She let out a small gasp of surprise, to which he could only murmur, "Parkinson, Christ," against her lips, and then she was kissing him back. Her fingers bunched in the front of his t-shirt and pulled him closer. He felt her tongue against his lips and moaned, parting them to let her in. It was too rough and too insistent for a first kiss with someone he didn't exactly want to scare off, he knew that, but she was keeping up with him, and Christ, he couldn't get enough of her. "Of course I fucking care," he growled against her ear, relishing the little noises she made into his neck.

"Then prove it," she breathed, pulling back enough to let him see the glint in her eye and the tiny smirk on her face. He matched it as best he could, taking her hand and leading her back to her bedroom, where he released her with a small push. As expected, she picked up on the momentum and rather than stopping her fall or protesting the pushing, she dramatically fell back onto the bed, her arms above her head. Her blouse hitched up, revealing a smooth expanse of skin at her stomach.

Harry crawled onto the bed and straddled her, wasting no time. She arched up against him as he captured her mouth again. He grasped her hands, holding her down with her hands above her head and kissing her breathless. Christ, she was just about making him lose complete control. He sat up reluctantly and gazed down at her. He still had her hips pinned, but he raised himself up on his knees so she could move if she wanted to. "Sorry," he muttered, wiping one hand across his face. "I didn't mean to–" He gestured down at their positions. "Just, you drive me mad, looking like this. And I'm just, I'm glad you're okay, and–"

With an exasperated growl of her own, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, forcing him back down on top of her. "Did you just stop?" she screeched. "Get– back– down– here." She wrestled her blouse open and tugged at his t-shirt until, grinning in relief, he helped her haul it over his head. He pressed her down again, the lace of her bra scratching his chest, and kissed her – more slowly this time.

God, she was so responsive. His hands moved all over her – his thumb pushing back her bra to flick over her nipple, his fingers sliding under her skirt to nudge at her knickers – and with every touch, she arched up into him and moaned, her eyes fluttering closed. He skimmed his fingers down the inside of her thigh and back up, slowly teasing her until without warning, she dug her fingernails into his shoulder.

"Potter," she growled. "I don't do well with cautious." She gave him a warning glare.

He raised an eyebrow at her, holding his hand still, just outside her knickers. "Parkinson?" he shot back. She spread her legs wider, trying to urge him on, but still he didn't move. He leaned down close to her ear. "I don't do well with taking orders."

Her face melted into a mischievous grin. "That so?" she drawled. "I like a man who can take charge." She wiggled back against the pillows, pulling her skirt higher. "Go on, then."

"Well, now I think I'm going to take my time."

"Potter!"

He smiled, leaning down again to kiss her while his fingers inched slowly inside her knickers.

"Get them– out of the– way," she muttered, reaching down herself to shove the bit of lace down to her feet and kick them off. Then she wriggled again to unzip her skirt. He grasped the waist of it and pulled it off her, leaving her to unhook her bra. When she finally lay before him naked, he took a deep breath and bit his lip. Jesus, even though her robes never usually left much to the imagination, she was stunning. Except for the way she was glaring at him. "Your turn." She nodded at his jeans.

But Harry shook his head slowly. "Not yet," he murmured. He had Pansy Parkinson spread out underneath him like this; he wasn't going to rush it.

His fingers moved up her inner thigh again as he hovered over her, kissing up her stomach and chest. The thumb of his free hand pushed at her nipple until he closed his mouth over it. She immediately arched towards him with a gasp.

"Come on, Potter," she complained. "Go on and fuck me, would you?"

He shook his head again, moving his fingers up slowly but still keeping them from where she wanted them. He lowered his head again and kissed her. "Not till you come," he murmured against her lips.

"Oh, God," she moaned, and in response, she reached down to grab his wrist, shoving his hand up against her.

"Hey, no cheating."

"Touch me, you prick."

"Like this?" He let the tip of his index finger brush her wetness, coming back soaked, oh, Jesus.

"Harder. Fuck."

"This?" He swept two fingers over her this time, a slow, gentle slide over her clit before lifting them away again.

Her chest heaving, she held his gaze and gave him a dirty little smile. "Harder," she whispered again.

Okay, fuck the teasing. He plunged two fingers inside her then, pushing forward with steady pressure and gasping at how wet she was already, how beautifully she opened for him. She moaned again and threw her head back against the pillow, her hands pushing against the headboard above her.

"Yes, Merlin."

He withdrew slowly and swept his fingers down over her clit again, just briefly, before pushing back in. She tightened around him as he moved just the tips of his fingers, stroking her on the inside until she was grasping his wrist again and trying to get him in deeper. "Wait," he whispered in her ear as he stretched out beside her. She clutched at his shoulder and then up into his hair, moaning and spreading her legs wider. To see how much she could take, he pushed his two fingers apart a little bit, earning him another gasp. "Like that?"

She only nodded, her hips arching up.

"Can you take another?"

In response, she curled her hand around his neck and crushed his mouth to hers, biting at his lips and tangling her tongue against his. "Yes," she breathed. "Oh God, Harry."

He closed his eyes to steady himself before withdrawing. He unfolded his third finger from the rest of his fist and slid it over her, letting it get as wet as the other two. He paused to circle her clit, earning him another small gasp, before pushing against her entrance again. He took his time, working the three fingertips slowly inside her and then withdrawing them again. This was much tighter, but God, he wanted to feel her around him. His cock was pushing painfully against his pants, but somehow it was important to him that she not see him as the same kind of man who had surely taken her to bed who knew how many times – the kind of man who would fuck her for his own pleasure and leave before she fell asleep.

He pushed in again, his three thick fingers breaching her with a steady glide inside. He let his thumb rest against her thigh and folded his fourth finger into his palm, feeling his bicep tense as he began to fuck her with his hand.

"Oh, God," she began to whisper, over and over again. "Oh, God." The pressure around his fingers built as he pressed into her, moving them slowly once inside, then withdrawing and shoving them in again. He moved his thumb to press gently against her clit each time his fingers drove inside her, and before long she was gasping and clinging to his shoulder. "Like that," she breathed. "God, just like that."

Christ, he was going to come in his jeans from this. He kept up the rhythm as best he could, his arm flexing as he brought her slowly, steadily to orgasm. He felt her begin to clench around him, thick pulses that squeezed his knuckles as he stayed inside.

She was sobbing into his shoulder, her fingernails digging into him and her teeth nearly biting through his skin. Her hips lifted off the bed for a moment as she gasped his name, and then she settled back down, her legs falling to the side and her chest heaving.

He slid his hand out and fumbled with the zip of his jeans. "You are so fucking beautiful," he muttered. "You don't have to– but I'm just going to– myself–"

Her eyes slid back into focus in time for her to roll them at him. "You're not going to wank on my tits, you pervert." She grabbed her wand from the bedside table and got his jeans and pants off, then pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him. She wasted no time sheathing him inside her, and he had to close his eyes against the sudden sensation of her wet, clenching cunt around his prick. "Least I can do, after that," she added with a smile.

She ground herself down on him, riding him hard with one hand splayed over his chest. His hands clutched at her hips, her arse, up to slide over her breasts. Christ, he couldn't get enough of her, hovering over him like this and taking his cock in as hard as he needed it.

"Come on, Potter," she challenged. "Don't tell me you're too much of a gentleman to get a lady dirty."

That did it. With a helpless shout, his cock jerked inside her as a flash of light raced down his spine. "Get you so dirty," he muttered to her, panting, as he wrapped her tight in his arms and thrust his hips up. He could feel her clenching around him again as if holding him in, and his cock gave another pulse.

She kissed him fiercely as he came, her hands framing his face and her mouth hot against his. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead on his and slid her hands down over his shoulders, even as their hips continued to move in slow circles together.

Finally, she climbed off him and settled down beside him on her back. They both lay panting for a moment before glancing sideways at each other. Harry grinned, earning a small if guarded smile from Pansy.

"Well done," she offered.

"Thank you. You too."

She fought another smile.

After another moment, Harry rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows and regarding her. "All right. Tell me the truth. That first letter. Zabini?"

Pansy waved her hand, reaching over the side of the bed for a pack of fags and shuffling one out.

"Hm. Not Greengrass?"

She sighed, lighting up. She took a long drag and then aimed the smoke up at the ceiling. She couldn't hide the slight curve of her lips, though, and her attempt at impatience with him didn't quite align with the way the sex-rumpled sheets gathered at her thighs.

"Ah." Harry leaned over her, biting at her neck. "Malfoy."

She moved her free hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer and threading her fingers lazily up into his hair. "Obviously," she sighed. "He assured me he could do it believably, but I should have known. Draco hasn't believably ogled a pair of tits since he was thirteen." She shook her head sadly.

"And the poisoned vermouth?" He grabbed the fag from her, taking a drag of his own. She watched him with hooded eyes, leaning in to bite at his bottom lip as he exhaled.

"It tasted funny," she murmured into his jaw.

He laughed, pulling her close. "And the Gringotts account?"

"Oh, well, that wasn't about you; I was trying to get in Bill Weasley's pants that time." She made a purring noise. "I've a thing for scars, you see."

"Oh, you little–" He tackled her to the bed, their laughter turning to low moans as he kissed her, his hands sliding over her hip again and across her stomach. "You might've just asked me out for a drink," he murmured, and she sighed.

"Yes, I suppose I might've done." He moved his mouth over her collarbone as she took another drag. "You wouldn't have come, though. Admit it."

"I might have."

"No, Potter. You wouldn't have."

He raised his head at the sudden note of sadness in her voice. "I– yes," he insisted. "I might have. If you'd asked nicely."

She smiled briefly at him, but her eyes were distant. "Well. Anyway." She gently pushed him away, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I was already sweaty from the portkey and Floo, and now look at me." The attempted joviality in her voice didn't carry. "I'm having a shower."

He grasped her arm. "Pansy."

She paused, her back to him and, if he was reading her right, her guard up again. Dammit.

"That other letter," he said quietly; she didn't know he'd seen more than one. "I think you're still in danger."

She closed her eyes, letting out a quiet puff of laughter before shaking her head. "No, Potter." She reached out and squeezed his leg. "You are appallingly sweet to be concerned, but I promise you that the author of that letter has nothing but my best interests at heart." She tried to keep her tone light, but a shadow passed across her face. She rose from the bed. "You were never supposed to see it," she added, narrowing her eyes at him, "so please forget you ever did. All right?"

"I– okay. But–"

She waved her hand at him, a gesture of dismissal he was starting to find endearing from her, if incredibly frustrating, before disappearing into the bathroom. He heard the shower start a moment later, and he flopped back down on the bed.

He'd already made a right mess of this case, or any pseudo-case it might have been; his brain didn't seem to work quite right around her. He smiled to himself at the thought. Well, that was understandable. But there was something she wasn't telling him; he was certain of that. After a moment, he rose and grabbed his jeans from the floor, pulling them on and heading out to the living room.

Glancing back at the bathroom every few minutes, he sifted through some piles of parchment on her kitchen table and in her windowsill, where he'd found the last letter. He found some bills, what looked to be a postcard from France, and a few recipe clippings. He shook his head, wondering if she would ever let him see everything that made her tick. There was the magazine with his dorky face on the cover, Christ. It was worn at the edges, he noticed, and he immediately felt a pang of embarrassment. Surely Pansy didn't have the same goggle-eyes for him as young witches who didn't actually know him, hadn't been there during the war?

He put his hopes back on her potential interest in that cod recipe, and moved on.

Finally, he came upon a third piece of parchment that matched the first two letters. Like the others, it was ripped from a larger sheet, the edges ragged and the ink slightly blurred. As he sat down at the windowsill and began to read, his mind finally caught up enough to put two and two together.

I dream of walking into your office – just once – and seeing your face light up. I dream of stepping towards you and murmuring something in your ear that would make you moan. I dream of sliding my fingers through the buttons of your uniform, pushing it off your shoulders and climbing into your lap. I dream of how you would taste, how your hands would feel around my back. I dream of taking your glasses off and running my hands through that stupid hair of yours, kissing you until you can't breathe.

I dream of riding you. Merlin, I can't believe I'm writing this down, but there you have it. I dream of grabbing your hair, your mouth biting at my neck, and lowering myself onto you, letting all the good in you become part of me, if only for a little while.

But you don't fuck women like me, I'll bet. Women who have no inherent good in them, I mean.

"What are you doing?"

Harry dropped the letter as Pansy stormed across the room, her hair wet and a dressing gown tied loosely at her waist. She grabbed the letter out of his hand before he could hide it and scanned it quickly.

"Oh, sweet fucking Merlin," she muttered, closing her eyes. "Ninety-nine percent of the male population of the universe would have fallen dead asleep after that, and leave me to take a fucking shower in peace, but not you." She opened her eyes, glaring at him. "You have to get up and go snooping around at everything. Get the fuck out of here, Potter."

Her face was flushed as she turned away from him, and Harry struggled for the right words. "Not till you give me an explanation," he said at last. She whirled around.

"For what?" She threw her hands up. "You can read. There it is. Not so anonymous anymore, I guess. Even you can figure it out now."

"I didn't mean to pry."

She let out a strangled laugh, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, God. No, of course you didn't."

"Are there more?"

"Not that you're ever going to see," she shot back. "Look, Potter, it was cathartic, okay? I went off booze and had a lot of time on my hands, and then that fucking magazine came out, and, I don't fucking know, I turned into a sappy pile of shit for awhile there, all right? Can we never talk about this again?"

He took a cautious step towards her. "Why didn't you ever send them to me?" he asked quietly.

She stared at him for a long moment. "I– well, that's obvious, isn't it?"

"Not to me."

"Potter." She levelled him a look. "You would have been the one putting in for a stalking investigation if I had."

His mouth curved up. "Maybe. Or I would have had something honest to read about myself, for once." He took another step towards her and ran the edge of his thumb down her cheek. "Pansy," he murmured. "No one has ever said things like that to me before. I–"

"What, you liked it?" She ducked away from his touch, sheltering herself in the doorway to her bedroom. "That one's positively pornographic! Of course you liked it."

"No, it isn't!" He thought back. "Well."

"Potter." Her voice was quiet now, but with an edge he didn't dare question. "Go home."

"No, listen–"

"There it is." She gestured at the parchment. "I fucked you; I got you out of my system, all right? We're done. You need to go."

He looked down at his hands. "Pansy–"

"Harry, please."

When he looked up again, he saw something he'd never thought he'd see: Pansy Parkinson with all her masks faded away, her face fresh from her shower, her hair dripping in her eyes, and her shoulders shaking. On the verge of tears. "I– okay. But I–"

"Please," she whispered.

He headed for the door, gripping the doorknob too hard in his fist. When he looked back at her, she'd wrapped her arms around herself and had one hand over her face. "I'm sorry," he murmured, before heading out into the night.

***

For three days, Harry couldn't get her out of his mind. He couldn't get those bloody letters out of his mind.

She was embarrassed. Okay. He got that. He'd basically read the equivalent of her diary entries about him. But he couldn't get past the feeling that he'd finally seen the true Pansy, the one he'd known was in there somewhere, under all the cleavage and lip gloss. He'd seen her weaknesses, her insecurities, her... Christ, her heart, in a way.

Maybe he should be more afraid; maybe he should fear for his life, even. Maybe she was a stalker, obsessed with him. But there were no threats in those letters. There was just her, naked and honest for once in her life.

He needed to know more about that version of her, the Pansy Parkinson who curled up in her windowsill at night and wrote to him, and only him, about the thoughts and feelings she didn't let anyone else see.

***

Okay, so, I've been trying for an hour, but it seems I can't write anything close to the kinds of things you did. Not because I don't want to, but just because I don't know how. So instead, all I can do is try my best to tell you that you've never been invisible to me, and you never need to kneel before me (well, unless, you know, it's to... okay, how did you ever write this stuff down??) Anyway. What I mean is that you don't actually know everything about me, and I think I know more than nothing about you.

I know that you prefer a quiet night at home to one out with a bunch of booze and noise. I know that you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous or uncertain. I know that you'd rather be caught dead than without lipstick, yet you don't care about that with me. Or, at least, you didn't run off to get some after I barged into your flat, which I appreciated, because I had other things on my mind like kissing you until I couldn't breathe, and begging you to let me take you to bed.

Sorry about the barging in, by the way. I really did think something had happened to you, and the idea of that made me crazy, okay?

Look. I want to try, with you. I want to try this, whatever it is. Because the war was a long time ago, and none of us are the same anymore, especially you. There is good in you, Pansy. I've seen it. I want to see even more of it, if you'll let me.

Harry

***

Harry heard the clacking of her heels from down the hall and worked on hiding his smile before she reached his office.

"This is terrible, you know." Pansy waved a piece of parchment at him that could only be the letter he'd sent her.

"I know."

"No poetry to it. Completely clichéd. Honestly, were you drunk?"

"Little bit, actually."

"Not even a single reference to pumping your cock into me. Except for the part about the 'good in me.' You should have said something like, 'the only good in you comes from my cock.' That would have qualified as a genuine stalker letter."

"Oh." He rubbed at his chin. "I'd forgotten you liked the cock pumping line. I'll try to work it in next time."

"Please do." She smoothed her hair back, pausing for a moment with her eyes on the floor. "Still." She took a deep breath. "How horribly embarrassing for you, baring your soul like that to someone who hardly cares."

He nodded, regarding her. "So embarrassing. Except... I think someone did care. The intended recipients of both letters, in fact."

She gave him a dramatic sigh, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against his doorframe. Her robes and make-up were immaculate, he noticed. "I'm not so sure about that," she murmured.

"Pansy."

She pouted, but glanced up at him.

"I'm sure. Come over here."

The pout deepened. "You're going to arrest me for filing a false... something or other, aren't you?"

"No. Just come here."

"I'm not a stalker, you know."

He grinned. "I know."

"I was just–" she waved her hand – "working through some things."

"That's okay."

"Well. Good." An impish grin quirked at the corners of her mouth. "So... it seems my cat has... got stuck up a tree, Auror Potter."

Harry leaned back in his chair. "I see. You should come over here and tell me all about it. I'd better open an investigation."

"You'd better, yes." She sauntered forward, moving slowly around the side of his desk and pausing in front of him.

Giving her an appreciative once-over, he slid his hands up her hips and around to the small of her back. "Come here," he said again, low and insistent, until she gave a soft laugh.

But she hiked her robes up to her thighs and climbed into his lap without further protest. Her hands pushed up into his hair as he leaned in to kiss her collarbone, his hands still solid over her hips.

"Pansy," he breathed. Her fingers slid down into his collar, working at the buttons of his shirt and smoothing over his chest, and he –

"RED ALERT, SIR! PANSY PARKINSON IS ON HER WAY UP TO SEE YOU, AND SHE'S NOT TAKING NO FOR AN ANSWER. SUGGEST LOCKING DOOR IMMEDIATELY, SIR. TURN OUT LIGHTS."

The Howler paused, its cartoonish mouth fighting a grin even as Harry and Pansy tried not to jump a mile in the chair.

"MAYBE PUT ON SOME NICE MUSIC, SIR," it added. "I CAN BRING YOU SOME CHAMPAGNE IN HALF AN HOUR, OR MAYBE A CHANGE OF CLOTHES."

Harry jabbed his finger at the button on his desk. "Janine..."

Laughing and muttering a stream of curses against his ear, Pansy continued unbuttoning his shirt. "Let her," she murmured. She paused only to wipe away her lipstick, smiling almost shyly at him, before lowering her mouth to his neck.


-fin-


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