Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: silvernatasha
From: snegurochka_lee

Title: The Pickle Jar
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Pansy, Albus Severus/Pansy (not really), blink-and-you-miss-it Teddy/James and Ginny/Oliver. Hermione in a boring but key cameo.
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: as per request: UST, hate sex, frottage, and a bit of dominance
Other Warnings/Content: None
Word Count: ~8,800
Summary: When Pansy Parkinson shows up to dinner one night as Albus's date, Harry knows she's up to something. It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out what.
Author's Notes: This plot idea is totally absurd and wanted to be 30K of Potter family genfic, with Pansy swanning around inciting UST wherever she went. This is a much dirtier, condensed version of that fic. Thank you, DD mods, for your patience and encouragement. Happy Kinky Kristmas, prompter!




Look, don't blame me, okay? It's not like it was my idea. I mean, yes, I am interested in women, it's James who'd rather go to a sausage party, not me, but that doesn't mean I'm interested in old women. Like, as old as Mum, for God's sake. She has got these great tits, though, I'll give her that. No, not Mum, God!

Pansy Parkinson, I mean. My date for the night. The lady sitting next to me at dinner right now with her hand on my thigh and her cleavage basically spilling into the mashed potatoes while Aunt Hermione glares daggers at her, James and Teddy try to outdo each other with attempts at awkwardness-covering but dead fucking boring stories about Quidditch equipment, Lily asks dumb questions about art, and Dad –

Yeah, about that.

I knew when I agreed to all this that it had something to do with Dad, but no one told me he was going to spend the whole meal alternately stabbing his chicken like it was Voldemort and staring at my date like she was the most amazing and terrifying creature he'd ever met.

I didn't find out until a lot later that, well, maybe she was.

***

"Pass the salt, please, Potter."

Harry leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her. "What are you doing here, Parkinson?" he asked quietly, ignoring the others at the table.

She gave him a small smile, shaking her hair off her shoulders. "I'm eating my dinner. It could use a bit more salt, though."

"Here you go, Ms Parkinson," Lily piped up, handing over the shaker and winking at her brother. Harry sighed. "How's your gallery, by the way? It must be so glamorous to get to sit around with artists all the time." She leaned forward, her voice mischievous. "What's Netty Potswap really like? I mean, I love Burnt Porridge on Tin Face, who doesn't, but I don't really get why she took that turn to all the vagina art last year."

Harry coughed.

"She's a right pain in the arse, like all artists," said Pansy, taking a sip of wine. Harry grimaced. That was true enough, at least where Pansy was concerned.

"You haven't answered my question, Parkinson," said Harry, glancing up from his plate again. She held his gaze, those big brown eyes of her boring into him.

"Parkinson?" she murmured. "Haven't heard you call me that for a long time." But her words were swallowed up in the ongoing chatter around the table.

"Wait, is Potswap the one who did Hole and Pole, that mural outside the Quidditch stadium?" James asked, and Lily nodded. "That was wicked. Mum and Oliver took a bunch of pictures of themselves flying past it with their broomsticks at obscene angles before the cleaners painted over it."

"That was not your mother's finest moment," Hermione muttered from the other end of the table. Thank Christ she'd agreed to come to this absurd dinner while Ron was up north with the trainees. Harry couldn't have faced it alone.

"Did she, now?" Pansy drawled, swirling her wine and giving James a smile. "Get me those prints, young Potter, and I'll cut you in when they sell for a fortune."

James's eyes widened in glee, but Harry pointed his fork. "No prints." He turned to Lily. "No more vag– you know. That kind of art. And you." He turned to Albus, who was–

Harry exhaled. Al was leaning over and whispering in Pansy's ear, his arm casually slung around her chair and his fingers drifting through her dark hair. She laughed at whatever he'd said, squeezing his thigh and leaning into him. "Oh, you naughty thing," she whispered to him, turning at that moment to catch Harry's eye. She wet her bottom lip.

"That's enough." Harry's voice was quiet but firm. "I'm going to ask you one more time, Parkinson. What are you doing here?"

"I was invited," she answered innocently.

"What he means is," Hermione cut in, bless her, "what are you doing here with Albus, embarrassing yourself and us by pawing at him like that–" Here she grimaced and jerked her head towards the place where Pansy's left hand was stroking lightly up Al's thigh under the table – "when you're old enough to be his–"

"Careful, Granger. If you say 'mother,' I will hex your tits into triangles." Pansy moistened her lips, brushed her dark hair off her forehead and turned to Al, her expression melting into a predatory grin. Harry put his fork down, hating himself for the way he couldn't take his eyes off her. "Albus," she murmured, reaching out to brush her thumb over his cheek, then letting her hand trail around to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. "Are you going to let them talk to me that way?"

Al swallowed audibly, and Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Course not." Al grinned, leaning his forehead into hers as Teddy, James, and Lily stared across the table. "What do you think will shut them up?"

"Well," breathed Pansy, "we could tell them what we got up to last night, but that's not really any of their business, is it?"

Harry crushed his napkin into his fist under the table.

"Oh, honestly, Parkinson," Hermione sighed, but Pansy cut her off.

"Or, I could just climb into your lap right here." Their lips were nearly brushing now, Pansy's hand threading up Al's neck and into his hair, and Harry could almost feel the way her fingers would tug at his messy strands as she pulled his mouth closer to hers. "Show them what it means to be–"

"Enough." The word echoed around the room and Harry found himself standing, his chair knocked backwards and his chest heaving. Pansy and Al broke apart, turning to stare at him expectantly and both of their expressions, if momentarily surprised by the noise, now melting into grins. Bloody Slytherins. He flung his napkin down and leaned over, his arms locked and his fists on the table. "Get out of my house, Parkinson," he spat. "And Albus, I want a word."

To his surprise, Pansy didn't fight him. She only folded her own napkin slowly, pushed her chair back without a sound, and rose to her feet. Her deep blue robes hugged her hips and breasts, the scooped neck showing off her smooth expanse of collarbone under the waves of thick hair that cascaded down her shoulders, loose but regal. Harry swallowed. She glanced down at Al one more time, taking his chin in between her thumb and forefinger and letting the dark silver nail polish over her thumb glisten on his bottom lip as she swiped it lightly across. Al, the bloody brat, peeked the tip of his tongue out to lick at her thumb before she moved it away.

She turned to Harry, her gaze heavy. "As you wish, Potter," she murmured. Her gaze dropped to his mouth – or was he imagining it? – then back up.

"Uh, nice to meet you, Ms Parkinson," James began to babble, Teddy and Lily joining in like a pack of socially awkward Snorkacks.

"Yes! So great. Great dinner."

"I love your robe. Don't mind my Dad. He was raised by wolves."

"Let's do this again sometime."

"Super fun. Thanks for bringing the pudding. I'm sure it's really great."

Hermione massaged her temples. "Shut it, you lot." She caught Pansy's eye and held it, though, Harry noticed, and as well as he knew Hermione, he couldn't read that look.

Finally, with a grand huff, Pansy turned and sauntered out of the dining room and down the front hall, her heels clacking on the tiles.

***

"Dad!" Al leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "That was rude."

"You're lucky your Uncle Ron is out of town, young man," Hermione said, giving Al her classic schoolmistress glare. "He'd have said a lot worse to that woman than your father did. What were you thinking, bringing her here?"

Harry glanced between them, waiting for Al to answer. He wasn't proud of his actions, or reactions, to seeing Pansy Parkinson nestled against Al's side like that, but surely she should have known she wouldn't be welcomed with open arms. Even twenty-five years later, they still had too much history for that.

More history than anyone but them even knew.

Al was giving Hermione a cold glare. "Really?" he muttered to her. "You're going to have a go at me right now?"

She flushed and dismissed him with a wave, rising quickly and beginning to stack the plates by hand before carrying them to the kitchen.

"Well, I think this is all very romantic," Lily piped up, pushing her oversized glasses up her nose and leaning her cheek into her palm, her high ponytail swinging behind her. "A forbidden romance! Even if it's about Al, which is gross," she added, "it's still far more excitement than we've seen 'round here in ages. And he's almost twenty-one, Dad! You really can't tell him who to date."

"Yeah, well, she's pushing, what, forty-six?" Teddy grimaced, shaking his head. "I don't know, Al. She still looks great, but…"

"What do you mean, she looks great?" said James.

Teddy shifted in his seat. "Well, you know." He made a vague gesture with his hands.

James folded his arms across his chest. "No. I don't know. Since when are you charmed by cleavage and a nice arse?"

"So you can see it was nice."

"That's not what I said."

"That cleavage was amazing, Jamie, come on. Even you have to admit that."

"Hey! That's my new girlfriend you're talking about!" Al finally hollered across the table, banging the palm of his hand down.

"All of you, cut it out," said Harry. The table fell silent. "Al." He turned, considering his next words. "Answer me honestly, please. Are you doing this just to annoy me?"

Al's eyes widened and his mouth fell open a little. "No, Dad. That's not… no." He shook his head vehemently.

"Then why?" Harry dreaded the answer. If his son honestly told him that he was attracted to this woman, that he loved her, even, that she was going to be part of their lives now, Harry didn't know how he was going to deal with that. She had haunted his dreams for years. How could she possibly have chosen his son?

Al was staring at him helplessly, as if… Christ, as if he somehow actually knew all of this. But that was impossible. He opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione charged back in, her wand pointed at the teapot floating in front of her.

"Oh, who knows why boys his age do anything, Harry?" she tutted. "She's just opportunistic enough to take advantage, though, isn't she? You should be talking to Parkinson about it, not Al. In fact, um, why don't you go see her tomorrow?"

Al and Hermione exchanged a quick look that Harry couldn't read. He rubbed his eyes and nodded.

"Yeah," he sighed. "All right."

***

"What do you want, Parkinson?" Harry stood in the doorway of Pansy's small gallery, his arms folded over his chest and his deep red robes billowing.

Well, well, well. Harry Potter, Head Annoyed Auror. She looked up from behind the counter and wet her lips, appraising him. That hadn't taken long. She'd been promised that he wouldn't easily put that dinner behind him, but she hadn't guessed that he would come barging in the very next morning, that delicious stubble he'd been sporting around town recently still making him look like some kind of burly mountain man. His eyes blazed at her with an intensity she hadn't seen in years. Merlin, she'd better be careful or he'd have her on her back in the storeroom before lunch.

"You want money to go away? Or are you getting off on the basic rush of embarrassing me?"

Her eyes narrowed and the storeroom image collapsed. She put her hands on her hips. "Money?" she growled.

Harry held his ground. "Then I'm right about embarrassing me."

She paused, lifting her chin and watching him carefully. "And are you embarrassed?" she asked. "How awful for you that a doyenne of high society and the wizarding world's most sought-after artist would be interested in your unemployed, raggedy son. You should be thanking me. Before we met, he couldn't even use a salad fork."

Harry stalked towards the counter, his chest heaving. She swallowed, forcing herself to stop looking at his chest, dammit, and meet his eyes. "He doesn't need you to teach him how to use a salad fork." He clenched his jaw.

"No? Oh, I suppose you're right." She moved out from behind the counter. "I've been too busy teaching him much more useful skills." She tilted her head to the side, dropping her voice. "Did you know, he had no idea how to properly use his tongue on a woman? Honestly, Potter, you try to raise a well-behaved boy, but–" she raised her hands – "sometimes they just won't–"

He grasped her wrists and held them in front of her chest. "Don't."

A frisson of electricity shot through her. But she shook him off, and suddenly she was sick of this game, angry with herself for even agreeing to play it. You didn't play with Harry bloody Potter like this. It was insane. She should have told them that when they came to her with this plan. Obviously, he was going to protect his son like a lion. They all should have seen that coming. "Don't manhandle me," she bit out. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to come in here and insult me, lecture me about who I'm allowed to date, who you'll let me date."

She paused, lifted her chin and went for the kill:

"You gave up that right twenty-five years ago."

Harry took a step back. His mouth opened and closed before a terrifying weariness came over his face. "Parkinson, look–"

"Don't Parkinson, me, you condescending fucking prick."

His eyes widened.

"You didn't want me then, so you don't get to control my life now."

Harry stared at her. "I– wait a minute. You weren't– I didn't– Pansy." He searched out her gaze, holding it when she finally looked up at him. He took a chance and stepped closer. "Is that what you think?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm with Albus now."

"The thought of you with anyone else makes me crazy," whispered Harry. He took a step towards her. "It always has."

"Look at all the fucks I give."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Tell me you're not really with him. Tell me this is all some grand joke, even if it's at my expense. I don't care. Just tell me it isn't real. It can't be real."

With every fibre of her being, Pansy wanted to reach out and haul him towards her, crashing their mouths together and telling him everything. No. Not yet. Instead, she closed the space between them and touched his jawline with her fingertips, watching him exhale a shaky breath. Her fingers trailed down the side of his neck and around the back of his head, threading up into his thick hair. The memory of touching him like this lit something inside her, but her anger won out over her arousal. For now. She tilted her head up, whispering in his ear, "Oh, it's real. Your son fucks me better than you ever did."

She felt Harry's entire body stiffen underneath her, and before she knew it, he'd grasped both sides of her face with his big hands, their foreheads nearly touching. "Watch your mouth," he whispered fiercely. His body pressed her against the gallery counter and she felt him harden under his robes. Her cunt throbbed, deep and sudden.

She reached down and cupped him, rubbing the palm of her hand over the bulge in his robes. "He's younger than you," she goaded, "and gets hard faster, and he takes direction oh so nicely." She leaned in and bit at Harry's lower lip. "Nothing like you."

Harry pressed himself into her hand, groaning low against her mouth. "I don't remember you having much time for men who need direction." His fingers found the small zipper at the front collar of her robes and began to pull, the teeth making a quiet whoosh sound as the fabric fell away from her bra and cool air hit her breasts, her stomach, and lower. "In fact, I seem to remember that it's you who likes to be handled." The zipper stopped just below her belly button, and Harry's fingertips ventured in and down, moving past the lace of her panties. She nearly sobbed, she was so wet and aching.

"Well, you're wrong," she gasped, and he gave her a sly grin.

"Little boys don't know how to handle you, Pans." He let the thumb of his free hand drift down over her collarbone while his other fingers dipped lower into her panties, her wetness seeping over them.

Oh God, she should just let him rip the damn robe right off and bend her over this counter, but no, not yet. She looked up at him again, narrowing her eyes. "Yours does."

There were five long, silent seconds where they stared at each other, and Pansy could see the fury and arousal building behind Harry's eyes. Then she cried out, throwing her head back as he drove two fingers inside her, deep and hard. "I thought I told you to watch your mouth," he growled against her ear. She clung to the desk behind her for support.

"Fuck, Potter. You fucking… oh God… don't stop."

There was nothing gentle about this, and Pansy couldn't help but flash back to the way it used to be between them, when the war had left them enraged and marriage hadn't tamed him yet. Harry withdrew his fingers, swept through the wetness of her folds and over her clit, then drove in deep again, rough and perfect. She pulled him down to crash their mouths together, her hand still half-heartedly rubbing him over his robes, but it was impossible to focus. She wanted to hike her leg up and arch her back and ride his hand until she came.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time before she stilled, his fingers still deep inside her and his thumb working in steady circles. Her cunt squeezed him and he gasped into her mouth.

"Pansy, Jesus," he breathed. He pulled his hand out but kept her pinned to the desk, his lips wet and his cock hard under his robes. Her robe was still open, and he pressed up against her belly.

She caught her breath, but barely. "Are you going to rub up against me like a teenager, Potter? I thought real men were more finessed than that." She cupped the outline of his cock, letting him rub against her hand anyway.

"Shut up," he grumbled, biting at her neck.

"A real man would know how to handle me," she continued, rather enjoying herself now. "Would know how to fuck me properly, would understand actual foreplay–" She dragged out the word, her thumbnail catching over the head of his cock under the fabric. She grasped the back of his head with her free hand and brought her mouth to his ear. "He'd come inside me, deep and hard," she whispered. "Make sure I was his."

With a low, rumbling moan, Harry collapsed against her, his cock jerking in her hand and come spreading through the fabric. She could feel his heart pounding.

After a few moments, she gently pushed him off and gave him an irritated look before fumbling for her wand and righting her clothes with it.

He took a step back, looking lost all of a sudden. "Tell me you're not really with him," he whispered, now more desperate than before.

She glanced up. "Or else you're going to lose your father of the year nomination?"

"This isn't funny, Pansy."

"No, Potter. It isn't." She felt the old anger rise inside her again. "You know what else isn't funny? Being your dirty little secret again."

His lips parted, and he looked up from where he was spelling his robes clean.

"What if I told you this was all a joke, that of course I'm not shagging your bloody son." She folded her arms over her chest. "Would you rush to take me on a double date with Granger and Weasley?"

He stared at her. Even though she'd known the answer, it still hurt.

"Thought so. Get out of my gallery, Potter." She glanced around, sighing. "I didn't even lock the fucking door. Who knows how many scandalised customers have already fled."

"Pans–"

"I said, get out."

He shook his head. "I never thought of you as my dirty little secret."

"No? Who have you told, then? I know nobody knew about us back then, so tell me: who have you bothered to mention it to since?"

"Look, it's not about–"

"Harry."

He stopped at the name, running his hand through his hair.

They had never talked about this, and Merlin, it was a hell of a time to start. Pansy couldn't do it. Her body still ached but now her heart was clenching too, and this was not what she had signed on for. She pushed her hair off her face, suddenly exhausted. "Please. Just go."

He stared at her for another long moment before nodding. She swallowed her disappointment as his boots sounded his retreat, echoing on the tiles of the gallery floor before pausing at the door. Outside, the sound disappeared down the street.

***

"I really don't see what the big deal is, Harry."

"You're joking, right? This is our son, Gin. Why don't we go see if Draco Malfoy is available for Lily, while we're at it?"

Ginny finished straightening his tie and took a step back, then leaned back in to sweep some lint off the boxy cut of his uniform shoulder. "I suppose you'll do." She glanced back at Harry's office door. "And can't your assistant do this? I can't be coming in early to tie your damned tie every time you have to give a speech. Anyway. From what I've heard, Malfoy would be a better fit for James, not Lily." She grinned when Harry sighed. "Oh, come on. If Al's happy, then who cares?"

"I cannot believe I'm hearing this. What happened to that fierce Gryffindor warrior I married? And no, Janine barely tolerates bringing me coffee in the morning." He paused. "Malfoy, really?"

"Yep, really. And what happened to two-and-a-half decades of 'interhouse cooperation' by official Ministry decree? Honestly, you and Hermione are such hypocrites."

"Hey!"

"You are!" Ginny put her hands on her hips. "I don't care what Pansy Parkinson might have done all those years ago, and I didn't think you did, either, not anymore. And she is a beautiful woman, Harry." She glanced up at him, a coy smile on her face. "I suppose you've been too busy being outraged to notice, but that body of hers is killer."

He felt his face heat. Oh no, he hadn't noticed that at all. "I am not having this conversation with you."

Ginny leaned against Harry's desk and folded her arms, still smirking. "Do you think they've slept together yet?"

"Ginny!"

"What? Don't be such a prude."

The blood rushed through Harry's body, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. If he ever saw Pansy again, be it on Al's arm or not, prudish was not going to be his reaction.

She sighed. "What is it, Harry?" she asked quietly. "I haven't seen you so riled up about a woman in years. Not even me," she added with a rueful smile. "This can't just be about who's appropriate for Al, or you would have put up more of a fuss about that awful Carlotta Nielson in his sixth year."

Harry joined her in front of the desk, leaning against it and nudging her hip with his. He didn't say anything.

"I'm going to go ahead and guess," she continued, "that it's because you weren't interested in shagging Carlotta yourself."

"Gin!"

"Well!" She elbowed him in the ribs, and he made a show of falling over. She rolled her eyes. When he still didn't say anything, she pushed herself off the desk again and headed for the door. "Okay. You don't have to tell me. But if you do have a thing for Parkinson – and I don't care if you do. Merlin, Harry, Oliver and I have been married for three years now, you do have to move on sometime – if you do, you might want to ask yourself why you never did anything about it until it looked like your own bloody son was going to take her away from you. Or however your little pea brain has imagined this scenario." She gave him a pointed look.

"You're horrible, you know that?" But he gave her a sad smile in return. "And completely wrong. About everything. As usual."

She opened his office door, waving him off and winking. "Yeah, yeah. Your tie looks like shit, by the way."

***

Pansy stared at the canvas, a pencil shoved behind her ear and the detail brush twirling between her thumb and forefinger. The blasted painting wasn't speaking to her. The gravel path was the wrong hue; it made the edge of the water look like a long turd instead of the gently crashing waves she was going for. Bollocks.

She sighed, getting up from the easel and reaching for her pack of cigarettes on the nearby desk. Lighting one with her wand, she inhaled deeply and scratched at her forehead, brushing strands of hair out of her face as they fell from her messy up-do.

Her body still burned with the memory of what Harry had made her feel the other day. She hadn't let herself think of him in years, not like that. She hadn't let herself remember how quickly he could unravel her, tearing past her masks and making her come so intensely she could barely move or think afterward. There was no point in remembering that. It wasn't like either of them had spent twenty-five years pining for each other; she was sure he'd agree with that. They'd both lived full lives. She'd heard him say in the press after his divorce that he never regretted marrying Ginny Weasley, and how could he, when she'd given him those bloody children he was so fond of. All right, he hadn't said it quite like that.

Pansy hadn't married and hadn't regretted it. She'd built a career, a business, and a solid life for herself after the war, and that hadn't been easy. Not after her turn as such a stupid twat in that war. But there was healing. People forgave her. She forgave herself. She'd had friends, relationships over the years. She had sex – a lot of sex, honestly. It was good. She was happy.

But in the back of her mind, there was always that year. It was impossible to forget it, no matter what else happened in her life.

It was never supposed to be more than a one off, a rough, dirty fuck against the wall of an alley that night after the third anniversary of the final battle, the two of them with their packs of friends spilling out of the bar together and hurling insults. The others left them behind to fight, laughing it off and never imagining that the slurs would melt into moans and that Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson, the most unlikely of couples, would start something in those fifteen minutes that still wasn't finished.

It was never supposed to be more than just that one night, then, Harry Apparating them back to Grimmauld Place and pushing her down, sinking deep inside her again right in the front foyer. Her elbows scraped the welcome mat and his fingers bruised her hips as she begged him to fuck her harder. She was twenty years old and didn't know sex could be like that, so all-consuming. Until the other day in her gallery, she might have chalked it up to being young and impressionable, when everything you do seems earth-shattering just because it's the first time. By forty-six, it was harder to be impressed. Except with Harry.

It was never supposed to be more than a passionate weekend, after that. But God, sex with Harry was the filthiest of Pansy's life, up to then and since, and that was saying something. She quickly learned that first night that they brought out something wicked in each other, a mix of childhood House rivalries and everything that had happened in the war, fusing with something raw and desperate that came from having hated each other for so long. She was completely uninhibited with him – up against the front windows of Grimmauld Place, her breasts pressed against the cold glass as he entered her from behind, daring the passersby to look up and be scandalised; or handcuffed to his bed, dripping wet and aching while he took his time finishing in her mouth before he grinned and teasingly began to touch her; or breaking out in a cool sweat that time he folded three, no, four of his fingers inside her, moving them so deep and slow she couldn't stop shaking when she came.

The cigarette burned her fingers, and she dropped it with a start. She sighed, gazing out the window of her studio.

One weekend turned into a summer, and that summer turned into an entire year – sneaking around behind their friends' backs, renting Muggle hotel rooms when they could, or creating secret tents in open fields with magic, just for a few hours alone together. He wasn't committed to Ginny Weasley yet, Pansy was certain of that or she wouldn't have spread her legs for him so easily, but he wasn't exactly committed to her, either.

She didn't even realise she wanted him to be, until it ended. She went to Paris to paint. He went to Edinburgh to train. She didn't exactly wait for him, but she also assumed they'd pick up where they left off whenever they both got back to London. But two months later, he sent her an owl. He was engaged, he said. He missed her. She was amazing. He'd loved being with her. But he was engaged now. Would she mind not mentioning their affair to anyone? The press would have a field day.

Pansy pulled another fag out of the pack and lit it, exhaling and watching the smoke dance up around the rafters.

She'd sent a postcard back, one of her own. An oversized jar of pickles on a tiny table in the centre of a bare room, the light from a high window hitting the jar and revealing that the pickle on the right side was masturbating. Congratulations, she wrote on the back. I wouldn't dream of saying a word. In fact, I've already forgotten what you look like.

The only other correspondence they had for twenty-five years was his brief reply, also by owl: Thanks, Pans. Nice pickle.

She took another drag and smiled.

The larger version of that damn piece had sold for a hundred thousand Galleons a year later in Spain. It was her first major sale.

***

A week after their… incident… at the gallery, Harry stood at the door to Pansy's private studio, staring at it and willing himself to knock. He had to pull some strings in the Magical Real Estate department to even find out where it was, and he wasn't sure she didn't have wards up that would hex him where he stood in about four more seconds, but he had to try to see her again. Her gallery was closed, which meant she was painting. He'd always wanted to watch her paint.

But a woman like Pansy didn't give up that kind of privacy easily. A few months after they'd started sleeping together all those years ago, he'd awoken one morning in a Muggle hotel room to find her curled up in his shirt in an armchair by the window, sketching. Stupidly, he'd asked if he could see it. She'd raised her head to stare at him and without looking down again, she ripped the page into a dozen pieces, dropped them over the side of the chair and told him to fuck off. Then she'd sauntered back over to the bed, crawled towards him, and gone down on him until he'd nearly cracked the headboard with his fist when he came.

"What do you want, Potter?" Her irritated voice floated out over the entrance, and Harry cursed himself. Head Auror, indeed. But before he could answer, he saw that the door had unlatched itself and began swaying inward. He pushed it open the rest of the way and entered.

Like the gallery, her studio was one big space, but messy and cluttered where the gallery was sparse and pristine. He stopped as she glanced up from where she sat in the corner of the room on a stool, sketching at her desk with an unused paintbrush behind her ear. She wore wide-legged trousers cinched with a drawstring and a black vest too tight for her large breasts. Her hair was piled high on her head and she wore no make-up, her face smooth and her big brown eyes slightly crinkled at the edges. She looked stunning.

She took the brush from behind her ear and placed it on the table beside her. "I'm busy."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"What do you want?"

Harry walked towards her. "To show you something." He placed the frame he'd been holding in front of her on the desk.

She frowned, reaching her hand out to run her fingers over the edge. Her lips parted. For a long, agonizing moment, he feared he'd made a huge mistake. Finally, she looked up at him. "My agent said this sold in Spain," she murmured. "How did you…?"

He shrugged. "Seemed easier. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry I… kept you a secret. But this has been hanging in my office for over twenty years. Just so you know. And I know it's not the same, but most people do know it's yours." He scratched his chin. "I mean, it's kind of famous."

She rose from her stool, still gazing at him with her mouth open. God, her mouth was so beautiful. He wanted to reach out and trace her bottom lip with his thumb, then take it between his teeth, but he was desperate not to break this moment. She was finally looking at him the way she used to, the way he never thought he'd see again. Her mouth curved up. "It's a bit pervy for an office, Potter."

He stepped closer to her and let his thumb brush over her bare shoulder, pushing just barely under the strap of her vest. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh. "Yeah. But, I mean, it's possible the pickle's doing something else."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And if not, well, I'm Harry Potter. No one's going to tell me to take it down." He grinned, but it faded as Pansy laid her hand flat on his chest, her fingers scratching at his t-shirt. He took a shuddering breath.

"You've had it all this time."

"Yeah. Is that weird?" He moved his fingers up from her shoulder around the back of her neck, playing with the strands of hair falling loose there.

"A bit." She paused. "I assume you've spoken to Albus?" Her fingers were down at the hem of his shirt now, slowly pushing it up and touching his skin.

"Oh. Yeah. God, Pansy," he groaned as her fingernails scraped lightly over his abdomen. "I should have started with that."

"Mm. And am I still dating him?"

Harry laughed. "No. He came clean. Wouldn't tell me who put you two up to it, but I don't care. As long as it wasn't true." He suddenly reached down to grasp her wrist to stop her before her hand ventured past the waist of his jeans. "You didn't really teach him… with his tongue…" Harry frowned, trailing off, and Pansy swatted his arm.

"No, I did not actually sleep with your son. Merlin."

"So, you were just trying to…?"

"You," she murmured. "You daft fool. I was trying to get to you." She sighed, looking away. "I don't want your son. He's still got spots, for pity's sake."

"Me." He reached out to tilt her face towards him.

"Yeah."

He swallowed. "You did have me, you know. Once upon a time."

"I know, you idiot."

"You…" He took a deep breath. "You went to Paris like it was nothing."

She glared at him. "Oh, I'm sorry. Were you going to propose if I hadn't?"

He gave a bitter laugh. "I might have. But you wouldn't have said yes."

"You didn't want to marry me, Potter." She folded her arms across her chest, which only accentuated her cleavage in the tight vest. She gave him a knowing glare when his gaze dropped to her breasts. "You wanted to fuck me. There's a difference."

Yeah, there was, but Harry didn't care at that moment. Hearing her say those words sent a jolt through him. He kept looking, his gaze dropping down her body before coming back up and fixing on her mouth. He closed the distance between them and reached out, running his fingertips over her collarbone, from the middle of her chest to her shoulder. "Yeah." He leaned in close, his mouth brushing her ear, his other hand on her hip. "I wanted to fuck you. We were amazing together, Pansy. Don't tell me you've forgotten how good it was." He moved his hand down to let his thumb brush over her nipple through her vest, and he felt a surge of arousal as her face crumpled.

"Of course I haven't fucking forgotten," she growled, winding her arms around his neck and capturing his mouth, her lips soft and fierce against his. God, her mouth was incredible. He pulled her in close, cupping the back of her head. She pulled back only long enough to yank at his shirt, letting him rip it over his head and fling it to the floor. She flattened her palms against his bare chest and kissed him again, wet and dirty. Moving her hands down, she fumbled with his belt, opening his jeans and pulling his bottom lip between her teeth before dropping to her knees.

"Fuck," he breathed, his hands in her hair.

His cock was so hard it hurt. She pulled it out and ran the tip of her tongue up his length, glancing up at him with a dirty smile playing at her lips. "You actually had The Pickle Jar hanging in your office for twenty-five years?"

"Yeah."

She laughed, deep and slow, then wet her lips and curled her hand around the base of his shaft, guiding him into her mouth.

He let out a long, shuddering breath as he sank between her lips, her tongue wet and heavy against the underside of his cock. God, she'd always looked like such a fallen angel when he fucked her, whether she was sucking his cock or taking it inside her body. She was so gorgeous and pristine but with his cock pressing inside her, his every filthy fantasy came true. And now here he was, reliving his youth like they'd never been apart. Except it was better now, because he knew what he'd been missing. He knew how difficult it was to achieve what he'd taken for granted with her before. It wasn't just about the sex, if it ever had been. It was about her.

She pulled off of him and rose to her feet, her mouth swollen. Without a word, she grasped his arm and steered him towards the sofa against the far wall, shoving him lightly until he collapsed onto it. She stood before him, pulling her vest over her head and loosening the drawstring of her trousers until they fell to the ground and she could step out of them. She wore nothing else.

"Come here," he growled, leaning forward to run his hands over her hips and around to her arse. She fell on top of him, straddling his thighs and kissing him breathless. She pressed her breasts into his chest and moaned as he moved his thumb over one nipple, scratching it lightly with his nail.

She reached between his legs and into his open jeans, taking hold of his cock and guiding it up. When the tip brushed her wetness, Harry groaned and grasped at her hips, his mouth on her neck. "What do you want, Potter?" she murmured, still moving the tip of his cock slowly through her folds.

"Inside you." He moved his mouth down to take her nipple between his teeth. "God, Pansy. Ride me. Come on."

She moaned at the words, taking her hand away and beginning to sink down on him. She took her time, her face melting as she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, looking like she wanted to remember the feel of every inch of him pushing into her. When she'd finally taken him all in, her thighs settled on his, she wound her arms around his neck and forced his gaze. Their eyes locked, her mouth close to his and her body tight around him. She didn't say anything or move for a long moment, until finally, with a small smile, she said one word that meant everything.

"Ready?"

It was barely a whisper, but Harry understood what she meant. Ready for this, but also for more. For everything. For her.

He nodded, pressing his forehead to hers as they both looked down at their joined bodies. "Yes," he whispered. "Always."

She pulled back and smiled, her lips parting as she rose up on her thighs and then dropped down again, taking him in hard and deep. His hands clawed up her back, holding her as she worked herself on his cock. She rode him slowly at first, establishing a deep, methodical rhythm that had Harry aching to flip her over and drive in harder. She kissed him, her tongue tangling with his as his fingers slid down her belly to her clit.

But she brushed his hand away and replaced it with her own, moving her hips in slow circles on his cock while she touched herself, her manicured fingers catching the light. He let his hands fall to her thighs, settling back on the sofa just to watch her find her own pleasure. He reached up only to undo her hair, letting it cascade around her shoulders while she worked herself over.

"Don't come yet," she whispered, a sly smile on her face even as she began to clench around his cock. Her cheeks flushed and her fingers sped up, and Harry felt her thighs stiffen. "Oh," she murmured. "Oh, God, Harry. Fuck. You're not even doing anything, how is this so good." She let out a brief laugh before grinding down harder.

He groaned. "Come on, Pans. I can't come until you do, and I want to do it so fucking badly." He swept his thumb over her nipple again, then planted both hands on her hips, holding her steady as she came undone.

Her release washed over him, the waves of it squeezing his cock and making him crazy. She collapsed on top of him, her mouth on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. "Harry," she panted.

He couldn't stand it. Holding her tight, he dislodged his cock from her body and pushed them off the sofa, down onto the rug in front of it. He laid her down on her back as she looked up at him with an O of surprise, and then challenge, on her face. He kicked his jeans and pants aside and then crawled on top of her. "What was that you said about a man making sure you were his?" he whispered fiercely, and she tilted her head back and moaned as he drove in deep.

"I don't know," she gasped, tugging at the fibres of the rug as her legs fell open. "I don't think you have it in you."

With a low roar, he withdrew entirely and then pressed back in, his cock as deep as he could get it. "You have a poor memory, then. Going to have to remind you."

"Yeah?" She grasped his arse and hauled him in harder. "You're not twenty-one anymore. Seems like you're having trouble getting it up. Oh. Christ." She turned her face to the side, nearly sobbing as he increased his pace. "Fuck, Harry. Harder. Please."

How had he ever given this up? He didn't regret his life, Ginny or the kids, but God, the chance to have Pansy again – like this but also so much more, to really have her by his side, in his life, was almost too incredible to consider. He slowed down.

"No, fuck, Potter, what are you doing?" she opened her eyes and glared at him, her fingernails digging into his biceps.

"Pans."

"What? God, why are you talking?"

He leaned down, his mouth brushing her neck and moving up to the shell of her ear. "Want to come inside you. Hard."

Her face was a mess. "Yes. Oh my God." She pulled him in close, her arms around his back and her hands in his hair. "Harry."

He moved his hips again, feeling the tight wetness of her cunt pulling him in, her thighs squeezing around his. He drove in deep, his cock beginning to release as heat flew down his spine. He was consumed by the thought of filling her, making sure she knew how incredible she was, how easily she could undo him like this. He felt the come crowd the head of his dick and seep down the sides, wet and filthy. She moaned, holding him inside of her as he finished, and then kissed him deep and slow.

He let his tongue tangle with hers, light and dirty, a smile curving her lips as she licked at him. He pulled out slowly, watching his dick slide free and the come seep out of her. She took in a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed.

"I've never done that before. Not in here," she murmured after a long silence. She opened her eyes. "This place is for me."

He lay down on his side beside her, tracing his fingers over her stomach. He didn't say anything but eventually leaned over to kiss her again.

"So you'd better appreciate it."

He nodded. "I do," he said softly.

They lay quietly on the rug for another moment, Harry waving his hand to create a Heating charm and Pansy curling up at his side.

"So," he ventured, "are you going to tell me how this harebrained plan about Al came about? There's no way it was your idea. Too crude. A true Slytherin would have been much smoother about it."

She opened her eyes and rolled onto her stomach, pushing herself up on her elbows. "Of course it wasn't my idea, and of course I would have been smoother about it." Her mouth curved up. "But you have to admit, the idea did have a certain rustic charm."

"Pretending to seduce my son?"

She shrugged.

"Insane." But he grinned, leaning in to kiss her neck and up to her earlobe. She arched her neck and gave a little moan, then turned her head to capture his mouth. "So… mmm… are you going to tell me whose idea it was?"

After she whispered it in his ear, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes wide. "Are you angry?" she asked.

He shook his head and blinked, processing this information. Then, he began to laugh.

***

"Oh, you awful old cows."

Pansy swatted both Hermione and Ginny on the shoulder before collapsing into a free chair, signalling the waiter.

"Double espresso, darling," she said when he appeared, "and something chocolate but dignified that I don't have to eat with my hands." She fluttered her fingers, a glistening new coat of deep red polish catching the light. He winked at her and nodded, withdrawing to the bar. She sighed. "So." She turned to them. "Happy?"

Ginny grinned, sipping from her mug. "Deliriously." She drew the word out, starting to laugh.

"I have to hand it to you, Parkinson," said Hermione, putting down her teacup and leaning back in her chair. She crossed her arms. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Of course I had it in me. Slytherin colours don't run. And for a Potter child, Albus is quite a talented schemer himself."

"He's half Weasley, that's why," Ginny pointed out.

"You should be glad you didn't have to go to the dinner where they were practically making out on the table," grumbled Hermione, and Ginny turned to glare at Pansy, who spread her hands.

"Did you want the job done or not?"

"Ugh. That's my son, Parkinson."

"This was your bloody idea!"

"No, it was Hermione's bloody idea, but fine, I didn't exactly object." Ginny rested her cheek in her fist, her elbow on the table and a grin spreading over her face. "That man won't make a single move unless he's all fired up by jealousy. Christ, just before we got divorced, he asked me for sex for the first time in literally a year, only because he saw Oliver flirting with me at a Ministry thing."

Pansy made a face, downing her espresso and standing up. "Spare me the details of his past, unsatisfying sex life." She took an easy step to the side as Ginny's swipe missed her.

"There was one little detail you conveniently left out when we met before, Parkinson." Hermione tilted her head to the side.

Pansy turned back to the table and narrowed her eyes. He couldn't possibly have–

"I knew he was interested in you," continued Hermione, her face a bit flushed, "from the way he talked about your gallery even when the topic hadn't remotely come up. I thought you'd be good for him, might be able to light a bit of a spark."

"But you failed to mention," Ginny piped up as Hermione sat back in her chair with her teacup and a smile at her lips, "that you two had already spent half the years between school and my bloody wedding shagging like Hippogriphs."

Pansy lifted her chin, but her breath was shaky. He'd actually told them about that? Well, then. She was overcome by a more intense urge than usual to stop by his office on her way back to work and climb right into his lap.

She put on her sunglasses and brushed her hair off her face, as Ginny broke into laughter. "So it's true! I guess I should be jealous, but have you seen my new husband?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Parkinson," continued Ginny, "and I say this with all the affection of a woman who never, ever wants to have to sleep with that man again – bless you."

Pansy only shrugged, heading for the door. "Pleasure doing business with you, Gryffindors."

***

See? I told you it wasn't my idea. I didn't know Aunt Hermione could be such a Slytherin. She could have gone a bit easier on me at that dinner, though, honestly! Making me out to be some groping pervert when she's the one who told me to do it in the first place, for pete's sake. Pansy did smell really nice, though, and I almost got to kiss her when she leaned into me like that at dinner, which was pretty great. But also, ew, I have to bleach my brain about all that now that she's my dad's girlfriend. Not to mention trying to forget that my own mum and aunt basically pimped me out just to get my dad to stop pining for the lady he used to shag when he was my age. I'm kind of proud of them, though. It was a super dumb idea, but in a pretty great way.

Also, I can't really be mad about it, because you haven't seen the body on Carlotta Nielson. If she shows up when I'm fifty years old and pretends to date my kid to make me jealous, listen, I'm pretty sure I'll make a total arse of myself just like Dad did trying to get with her again, so, rocks and glass houses, right?


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