Title: Spite Like a Spark
Author: snegurochka_lee
Pairings: Harry/Pansy, each of whom would rather be with Draco. Sort of. Lalala.
Rating: NC-17
Theme Chosen: Pyrophilia (attraction to fire)
Warnings/Content: Probably EWE, in that Draco is married but Harry is not. Non-angst about all the implied bisexuality, but plenty of angst about other things.
Word Count: ~5,500
Summary: "I know I'm not your first choice" – she almost sounded sentimental about it, damn her – "but you can pull my hair, you can ride me like a broom, you can–" she paused, her lips lingering near his ear. "You can call me Malfoy if you want."
Notes: Oh hi there, Pansy, how nice of you to randomly show up in my brain. o_O. The title is from Mary Chapin Carpenter, Walking Through Fire. Many thanks to entrenous88 and marguerite_26 for the winning beta work.



Spite Like a Spark

by Snegurochka

*

"So, Potter. Is it just too scary for you in there?"

Harry's foot hit the marble floor, the sound of it echoing down the empty corridor. He stopped.

"All that fire, flames burning everywhere, a thousand candles for a thousand dead." The deep, throaty voice was coated in cigarettes and maybe a bit of brandy. It sounded far too amused for the gravity of the ceremony they had both just left.

He turned.

Clacking heels moved slowly towards him. "You can tell me," she said coolly, as if it didn't actually matter to her whether he told her a damned thing or kept walking. It was the nonchalance that piqued his curiosity. That, and the flare off her cigarette. She brought it to her lips and inhaled, her gaze never leaving him.

His gaze never left the burn, the ash, that smoke.

She lowered her fag and tapped it against a nearby railing, watching the ash flutter to the floor.

"What do you suppose there is to tell, Parkinson?" asked Harry at last, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger pushed up under his glasses. "Fire bothers me. Not many people who were there that night are surprised to hear that."

"Fire bothers you, or this manor bothers you?" She tilted her head to the side, the paragon of innocence, and took another drag. "You don't even know how to get out of here, do you?" A hint of a smile curved her lips. "Never been invited over before?"

He took three deep breaths before speaking. "Not as such," he said as calmly as he could, adding a shrug as an afterthought. "Malfoy and I aren't exactly mates." He swallowed, hoping that damn twitch wasn't showing in his jaw.

"No." She did smile at that, cool and calculated. "Not exactly."

"What do you want, Parkinson?"

"I want you to tell me where you're going," she said, spreading her hands. "Not every day a girl gets to watch the war hero pitch a fit and storm out of a ceremony in his honour, after all." Her eyes danced.

"I didn't pitch a fit. And I didn't storm out."

She ignored him. "I give Draco four more minutes before he comes looking for us."

"Us?"

"You know." She continued sauntering forward, one pointed toe carefully hitting the floor in front of the other. Her hips swayed as she walked, and her cleavage peeked out from the low collar of her robes. "You. Me. Can't have a pair like us wandering around his house unsupervised, can he?" She regarded him. "Who knows what sort of mischief we might get up to."

Harry shook his head. "Okay, look, Parkinson. I've got to go. Good luck in there." He paused, considering, and then decided she deserved it. "Must be tough to sit through this kind of thing, what with all the reminders that you were busy selling me out that night while I was saving your boyfriend's arse from a fucking magical inferno."

Her eyes narrowed, but that was the only sign his words had struck her. Behind them, he could hear the speeches continuing in the Malfoys' ballroom. One more bloody anniversary of the battle. Five years on, he was already sick of celebrating it. This one didn't help, either, with Malfoy of all people stepping up to host it. Christ. Slytherins and their guilt complexes.

And Parkinson had been right, damn her: all the fucking candles flying around the room to honour the dead were driving him mad.

She clucked her tongue. "My boyfriend's arse," she sighed, ignoring the first jibe. "Now there's a topic of conversation, isn't it?" She paused to take another drag, the smoke swirling up into the vaulted ceilings of the hallway. "It's stunning, as I'm sure you'll agree." She shook her head sadly, and then picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue. She gave Harry an impish grin. "Do you think that twat of a wife he's got himself now appreciates his arse the way we did?" She blew a stream of smoke upwards. "The way we do."

Steeling his jaw, Harry levelled a glare at her, ignoring her insinuation. "I'm trying to sneak out without being noticed," he told her instead. "If you don't mind."

"Maybe I do mind." She was right in front of him now, her breasts inches from his chest and her head turned only slightly away to blow out another stream of smoke. She tossed the cigarette in the air, snapped the fingers of the hand that had held it, and allowed herself a small smile as it vanished into thin air.

Harry watched it, and then turned his gaze back to her. "Nice trick."

"Isn't it, though?" She snapped again, and a new, unlit fag appeared. She held it out to him, watching carefully.

"Uh, no, thanks."

"Hm," was all she said before throwing it over her shoulder. With her hands free, she gave him a calculating smile and smoothed her palms up his chest. He let her do it for a moment out of sheer curiosity.

"Parkinson," he said at last, putting his hands in his pockets and glancing down at her. "What are you doing?"

She pushed him backwards until she had him crowded against the wall, her fingers splayed just under his collarbones. Her fire-red nails pressed against the deep tones of his robes, her thumbs sweeping downward over his nipples. He had seen – and usually denied – his fair share of assertive women trying to pull the famous Harry Potter since the war, but he hadn't expected it from Parkinson of all people. She leaned in close, and her smoky breath floated across his cheek. "I'm getting back at him," she murmured. "Do you want in or not?"

The words were so faint he barely heard them, but the hair on the back of his neck rose. His hands reached up and closed around each of her wrists, holding her in place. With her cheek still gently brushing against his, he leaned into her as a lover might, letting the tip of his nose tickle her earlobe. She sucked in a breath, and he swallowed. With his head ducked down like this, he tried to scan the corridor behind them for movement.

Her fingernails dug into his chest. "Don't look," she breathed. "We can't having him thinking it's all for his benefit, can we?"

Harry swallowed a laugh. "Isn't it?"

In reply, her tongue snatched at his earlobe and she pulled it between her teeth.

The gasp was out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Parkinson," he groaned as a warning, his fingers tightening around her wrists.

"Like that?" She laughed. "Come on." She tugged her wrists free and grasped his bicep, steering them down the hall and around a corner. "Unless you want your friends and half the Ministry to catch you balls deep inside the slut of Slytherin instead of lighting another bloody candle."

He stopped at that, shoving her away. She tottered on her heels for a moment at the sudden halt, one hand flying out to catch the wall before she fell. When she righted herself, she glared daggers at him.

"Potter," she spat, her lips barely moving. "You think too much. Don't tell me you don't want to fuck me." She moved closer to him again. "Don't tell me you'd rather stand here and argue with me than rip my blouse off and scratch your fingers down my back."

Harry stared at her, his breath quickening despite himself. God, it really had been too long, and if she actually wanted to play on all his anger at her, at Slytherins in general, at – well. At everyone. Then she'd better be careful what she wished for.

"I know this house," she purred as she pressed herself against him again. "I can take you right to Draco's study, you know. Don't tell me that you don't want to bend me over his desk, snap my knickers over your fingers, and fuck me absolutely blind."

He blinked at her. "Christ, Parkinson," he muttered at last, wiping a hand over his face.

But she wasn't deterred. Instead, a sly smile stole over her face, her ruby lips curling up and her dark eyes flashing. She might not have been conventionally beautiful, but she had confidence in spades, that was for certain. Harry couldn't seem to look away. She unbuttoned her robes and stepped out of them, letting them pool at her feet before kicking them aside, abandoned in the quiet hallway. Underneath, she wore a sheer white blouse and short skirt. With the heels, her legs seemed to go on for miles. He felt his gaze travel down.

Her smile only deepened. She backed away from him, one delicate clack after another, beckoning him with one crooked finger. "Come with me, Potter," she sang, her lips pouting over the P. "I'll make it worth your while."

He didn't move, a hundred thoughts clashing in his mind at once. He should get out before this went any further. Parkinson clearly wasn't the type to take no for an answer, and the way her body moved now that her robes were off, he wasn't sure he'd be able to give her a solid no anyway, if he actually followed where she was leading.

She paused, tilting her head to the side. "Oh, I see. You need a bit more incentive. Some mood lighting, perhaps?" She pulled her wand out of a slim pocket in her skirt and pointed it at the nearest doorway. He didn't hear the words she spoke, but the room began to glow a dull orange, the light spilling out into the hallway. "More your style?" she asked innocently.

Alarmed, he rushed into the room, barely noticing when she slipped in after him. His mouth fell open as he stood in the doorway.

It was on fire.

"Parkinson, Jesus." He reached for his wand and strode fully into the room, but before he could think of a spell to extinguish the strange flames, she closed her fingers over his hand.

"And here I thought you said you had experience with this sort of thing." She gave an exasperated sigh. "Look at the flames, Potter. Look."

It was Malfoy's study, from the looks of all the leather-bound books and mahogany furniture. Flames danced up the walls, curling into curtains and papers and heating the entire space, but beyond that, there was no smoke, no searing heat, and the flames only licked at the ceiling and floor, not spreading past where she'd cast the spell. He glanced at her. "Bluebell flames?"

She leaned back against the desk, extending her long legs. "You'd prefer Fiendfyre, I know."

He folded his arms over his chest, glaring, and she laughed.

"Oh, Gryffindors. No sense of humour."

As he blinked at the sheer fucking insanity of it, of her, she strode towards him again and shoved her fingers in his hair, her thumbs framing his face. Pulling him down to meet her, she kissed him fiercely, biting at his lips and pressing her breasts into his chest. Her fingers brushed down over his earlobes again, and he moaned into her mouth before he could stop himself.

"Oh, yeah," she breathed against his mouth. "I knew the fire would do it for you, you delicious pervert."

He kissed her again to shut her up, manoeuvring her back against Malfoy's broad desk, just a metre or two from the nearest flames. His heart thudded, and he pulled back to look at her. Her lipstick was smeared but her plump lips underneath were full and gorgeous and still fucking smirking at him. She knew. Somehow, and Christ, he had no idea how, she knew.

"Quit thinking so much," she chided again, "and rip my fucking blouse off before I do it myself."

He stared at her for one second, two, three, and then –

"Fuck. Yes, that's it. I knew you'd be an absolute brute. All that damned Gryffindor reserve, it's just for show. You lot are complete animals in the sack, I knew it."

He balled the thin material in his fist, his mouth clamping down over her bare shoulder.

"I bet you're used to asking first, aren't you?" she continued, laughing, her fingers tight at the back of his head as she shoved his mouth towards her breast. "Slytherins take what they want, don't they? Well, except for one, I suppose. Tell me, how many years have you dreamed of fucking Draco in a room filled with fire – did it start straightaway after the war, or did it take a few years before that particular dirty fantasy broke through all your irritating politeness?"

He pushed the cup of her bra down and dragged his teeth over the pale skin of her breast, just above her nipple, and she gasped. "Shut the fuck up, Parkinson. I don't know what you think you know, but just shut it."

"Oh, no," she breathed. "No, no, no. I don't think I will. Because you need to be pissed off before you'll handle me like a gentleman should handle a lady, don't you?" She laughed, even as her hands made quick work of opening his robes and pushing them off his shoulders. She'd slid her palm over his erection through his trousers, her fingertips pressing into his balls, before he'd even realized he was fully hard. "Draco was always absolutely terrible at taking what he wanted," she continued sadly, as Harry bit back a groan, his head dropping to her shoulder.

He shoved her skirt up. "Shut up." The flames on the wall behind her danced across his vision, and Christ, the entire study even smelled like Malfoy. Images flashed in Harry's mind of a broom racing through an inferno, Malfoy's arms tight around Harry's waist. When Parkinson's hands slid under his shirt and over his stomach, her nails scratching just enough to make him want more, he swore, grabbed at the fabric, and hauled his shirt over his head.

She bit her bottom lip and moaned, throwing her head back. "He wanted you, you know." She unzipped his trousers just enough to keep them on his hips, and then she hopped up onto the desk behind her, legs spread. Her skirt sat rucked up her hips, and Harry couldn't quite make himself stop staring at the tiny piece of lace that was not actually covering her cunt. He closed his eyes. She was quiet for a moment then, and Harry chanced a look at her. She was regarding him intently. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh. I see. Well, then. I didn't actually know that. So, he wasn't a mad fool like I'd thought." She wet her bottom lip. "Interesting." She cleared her throat. "No matter. We'll do it this way, then."

Without preamble, she slid her fist down his cock, murmuring a cool lubrication charm as she went. Harry groaned at the sensation, his dick responding traitorously to her firm strokes accentuated by a hint of fingernail. She adjusted herself on the desk and guided the head of his cock to her knickers, letting it trace the edge of the fabric. Her wetness seeped against his slit, and a wave of pleasure pulsed up into his belly. "No. Christ, Parkinson, I'm not fucking you. This is–" He bit down over his words and stepped back, pulling his trousers up and wiping his brow with the back of one hand. The flames leapt in the background, a steady reminder of everything he'd been trying to forget.

"Potter," she murmured, grasping one of the belt loops dangling over his hip and pulling him back. "I know I'm not your first choice" – she almost sounded sentimental about it, damn her – "but you can pull my hair, you can ride me like a broom, you can–" she paused, her hand sliding over his prick again as she leaned in and kissed his cheek, her lips lingering near his ear. "You can call me Malfoy if you want."

He choked back a laugh. God, if only. The sound of that name, in Parkinson's smoky voice, with his cock already hard, was doing more than enough as it was. He shoved his hands through her hair, pushing it off her face and leaning down until his lips were a breath away from hers. Their foreheads brushed, and Harry slid his hands down further, over her shoulders and down to her breasts.

Take what he wanted? Oh, she'd be sorry she'd ever given him that option. He swatted her hand away from his dick and took over himself, pressing it up against her cunt. She shifted her legs to hitch one knee higher, watching him carefully. He pushed the head of his cock inside her, just an experiment, waiting for her reaction. She tensed for a moment, slick but tight, her eyes boring into him. When she gave him another sly grin, as if challenging him to do better, he pulled out, held her gaze, and thrust in all the way, one smooth, steady slide.

For a moment, she crumpled. Her head fell forward, and a moan fell from her lips that seemed far more genuine that she'd probably wanted to reveal. He smiled. "What about you, Parkinson?" he muttered, his lips at her ear. "I think the only person wanting to use that name in here is you, isn't that right? Did he ever take you out for dinner first, or did he just fuck you and leave you with your arse in the air in a back alley somewhere, waiting for that wedding ring?" He pushed forward, burying his cock inside her.

"Oh, darling, you won't beat me at this game," she murmured. "Don't embarrass yourself by trying. Merlin, yes. Harder, you fucking poof."

He slid out all the way, glancing down at his glistening cock and the way the hem of her knickers hugged the ridges of it, and then he shoved back in. He settled into a slow but harsh rhythm, giving her the full extent of his thrusts each time, letting the desk begin to thump gradually as he battered her against it. "Or maybe you're still fucking him, is that it?" panted Harry, his fingers gripping her hips. "Does he take you to seedy motel rooms when his wife won't know, throw you a few Galleons when it's over?"

He wasn't prepared for her hand to dart forward and give his balls a warning squeeze.

With a curse and a grunt, he stopped thrusting and glared at her. In the firelight, her smooth skin glowed, like flames licking at her cleavage.

"I said," she whispered fiercely, "you won't beat me at that."

"Hit a nerve?" he managed.

"Hardly. First, there's nothing that bitch doesn't know about where he goes and who he sees, and second–" she curled her free hand over his arse and hauled him closer, releasing her grip on his sac – "I might do seedy, but I don't do motel rooms." She pulled his earlobe into her mouth again, pressing her hand against her arse to get him moving again. "But you still haven't told me about your fire thing, Potter," she added, her voice sliding over the words half-amused, half-aroused.

He sucked in a breath as she clenched her cunt around him.

"I can see that fire gets you hard," she murmured with a laugh, her breath warm over his neck, "so tell me: was it that very night of the battle, after you had a sandwich and a shower? Did you seek him out right then, shove him down and wait for him to ignite?"

Harry tried to cut off her teasing laughter with another rough thrust, and she moaned.

"Ah, fuck, Potter. Yes, please. I'll take that as a yes."

It wasn't one. Harry remembered every second of that day and night, and the last thing he'd wanted to do after the battle was fuck anyone. Christ. It was months later, a chance meeting that maybe wasn't, an argument that had grown too personal, a rough, angry fuck in the loo of a pub with visions of Fiendfyre lapping at the edges of Harry's consciousness. Two days later, he'd had Malfoy spread out on his own bed for an entire night, arching and gasping and begging for Harry's cock.

Parkinson clenched around him again, and Harry closed his eyes, faltering. Her grip on his arse softened, and as if everything had wound down to slow motion, she let him sag against her, unfulfilled, his forehead warm against her shoulder.

"Fuck you," he managed weakly, his hands falling free of her and landing on either side of her on the desk. "You have no fucking clue what you're talking about. What am I– Christ. I don't know what I'm even doing." His erection wilted inside her, just a little bit, and he could feel her moisture slip between their thighs. To his surprise, she didn't have a sharp retort. She only smoothed her hands up his back and murmured gently in his ear.

"You're getting back at him. Remember? This isn't about me, and it isn't about you. I could fuck any bloke in that sodding ballroom." She sighed, her breath quiet against his hair. She sounded like the fire had been knocked out of her and the fight along with it. She sounded defeated. Harry lifted his head. "But I'm not. I'm fucking you." She gave him a pointed look. "Now why don't you quit the pity act and finish what you started?" The look turned even more pointed, the glare more loaded, and Harry's mouth fell open.

Oh. Christ. He almost laughed, it was so ridiculous. But tempting, oh yes. Malfoy would bloody well deserve it. Harry started to glance back at the door, but she stopped him with a firm grip on his jaw.

His decision must have showed on his face, because she matched his grin. "That's better," she drawled. "Now. I have it on good authority, Potter, that you can do much better than that. Don't tell me those witches' magazines have got it all wrong." She looked down pitifully at his prick as it slid out of her. She hopped off the desk, leaning close to him again. "You can pretend I'm him, you know," she whispered, her fingers moving up his chest. "I don't mind."

With that, she turned herself around and bent over the desk, holding herself up on her elbows and glancing back over her shoulder. Her bra strap fell down one shoulder, her breasts spilling out and her skirt still rucked up around her hips. The thin fabric of her knickers was visibly soaked, clinging to her arse. She wasn't entirely his type, for quite a few reasons, but Harry couldn't deny that the woman knew how to present a bloody alluring picture.

He glanced back at the door, then around at the fire still leaping harmlessly up the walls, and made his decision. Fuck it. It wasn't as if that marriage was heading for annulment anytime soon. The bastard.

He reached forward, wound his fingers around Parkinson's string-knickers, and snapped them free. "First," he growled, "I'm going to need those off."

She gave a delighted laugh, her head falling forward and her fingers curling around the edge of the desk.

Next, he let his fingers trail down the curve of her arse, dipping gently into her cleft and following it down, down, until his fingertips were soaked. A thrill shot down his spine, and his prick thickened again. Parkinson moaned softly as Harry's fingers moved over her cunt, pausing to slip inside before continuing up to sweep over her clit. She sucked in a breath, and he smiled, leaning down so that his lips brushed over her bare back. "Don't tell me you Slytherins don't know how a gentleman should treat a lady," he murmured, even as his fingers continued to rub slowly, consistently, over her clit.

She shoved back on his hand, arching her back and moaning shamelessly. "Didn't know you cared, Potter."

He laughed, increasing his pace and feeling her wetness press against his palm while his fingers worked her. She began to tremble, her back tensing and her thighs moving further apart to allow him room. Her breathing sped up, and he could see her knuckles whiten against the edge of the desk. "Come on, Parkinson," he whispered. "I'm going to fuck you raw in a minute, but not till you come first."

She groaned, cursing him and shooting a death glare over her shoulder. "Then do it fucking harder. No woman could come from a kitten rub like tha– oh, Christ. Oh."

He pressed in hard, working in steady motions with twice as much pressure as before, and had to rein in his own arousal at the sight of her coming apart underneath him. When she began to spasm under his hand, he barely let her come down from the first shudder before he lifted his hand away, grabbed his cock, and pressed it inside her. Her pulses slithered over him instantly, and they both gasped. She was even tighter than before, egging him on and clenching in waves around his prick, and he wasn't sure he'd hold on more than a few thrusts.

The desk thumped underneath him, and Harry grabbed her hips and shoved himself into her roughly. She pounded her fist on the surface and clawed at the edges, groaning and making the most delicious sounds. He knew the chances were high that she was embellishing his prowess, but he barely cared. If those sounds carried to the hallway, and he couldn't imagine they didn't, it would be enough.

"That's it, Potter," she muttered. "I knew you'd fuck like a wild animal. Come on, fill me up." She paused, her voice dropping. "Show me what he saw in you."

A new wave of anger welled up in him, and suddenly the light of the ever-present flames was too much. He planted one hand over her back, holding her down and watching the orange light dance in between his spread fingers to pinken her skin. She pressed her hips back to meet him, and he closed his eyes.

Show me what he saw in you.

He couldn't pretend she wasn't exactly who she was, bent over that desk for him and throwing insults over her shoulder, but if he closed his eyes and let the flames flicker over the darkness behind his lids, he might be able to recreate the feel of Malfoy's lithe body taking him in like this, pushing back like this, coming apart like this. He might be able to feel the slick, hot pulses of a Slytherin with one eye on the prize, a war traitor looking for redemption, a rich kid slumming it with a half-blood.

He squeezed his eyes shut even further as his balls drew up, his prick stiff and aching and pausing, tensing, for that split second before he came hard inside her. His fingers buzzed and his spine melted a little bit, but he dug his fingers into her skin and poured out his orgasm, letting her feel every pulse of his prick. Semen crowded the head of his cock and slid down the edges, and he moaned with her at the sensation they shared. He collapsed over her back and finally opened his eyes, breathing her in and trying not to regret this entire bloody thing too quickly.

When he caught his breath, he pulled out of her, pausing with his hand at her lower back to whisper a cleaning and protection charm, and hauled his trousers back up his hips. She was uncharacteristically quiet, breathing evenly, and with a wince, he reached out to tug her short skirt down over her arse. She turned at that, arching an eyebrow, if wearily.

"Always a gentleman." She pushed herself up from the desk, stretched her back, and turned to face him with pink cheeks and sad eyes. "Thanks, Potter," she said brusquely. "Pleasure's mine."

He caught her wrist. "Pansy."

She blinked up at him, her mouth open.

"I–"

She shook her head. "Don't. I hardly need your sympathy."

"I wasn't offering it."

She smiled. "Yes, you were." Standing up straight, she shrugged off his hand, tugged her bra back up over her breasts, Summoned her robe from the hallway, and donned it without the blouse or knickers. "Now," she whispered when she was ready, heading for the door. "Watch this."

She sauntered out. Harry stood still for a moment, but he didn't have to wait long. Low voices arguing furiously floated up the corridor. He heard something that sounded like, "Potter? Are you joking?" in Malfoy's clipped voice, followed by Parkinson's dramatic laugh. "Of course I'm not joking. I'm the best offer he's had in years."

He could just picture the knowing look that would have accompanied that one, and despite himself, Harry ran a hand over his face and grinned. A cold stone in his stomach quickly quashed his amusement, though. Fucking Malfoy. Well, he might as well follow her lead, he decided. Taking a deep breath, Harry glanced around the room at the dying fire, timed, he now realised, to crackle as mere embers when Parkinson left. The walls were blackened and seared, the occasional orange spark shooting up to the ceiling before sizzling to a slow demise.

Harry gathered his clothes and left the study, walking slowly down the corridor. When he turned back towards the ballroom, he found Malfoy outside the doors, his pretty blonde wife at his side.

When he saw Harry, the colour drained from Malfoy's face. "What do you want with her, Potter?" he snapped.

Harry stopped in front of them, glancing down to right his clothing. His robes, thrown on in a rush, were still unfastened and his shirt was untucked. His trousers were fastened at the top, but – ah. He reached for the zip, slowly making a show of sliding it closed. "Nothing. Not anymore."

Malfoy went for his wand, but Harry was quicker. He knocked it free and grabbed Malfoy's wand arm, steering him away from his wife.

Her eyes widened. "Mother!" she shrieked, scuttling off back to the ballroom, and Harry almost laughed, because Christ.

Malfoy barely glanced after her. "Stay away from Pansy," he whispered fiercely.

"Jealous?"

Malfoy dropped his gaze, shaking his head. "You never change, do you?"

"I asked if you were jealous, you miserable bastard." Harry dug his fingers into Malfoy's arm, the old anger burning again.

"Of course I'm fucking jealous," spat Malfoy, furious despite his lowered voice. He glanced over his shoulder. "My family, Potter," he began, for the hundredth time. "You know I couldn't–"

"Yeah." Harry dropped Malfoy's arm as though burned. "I know. You couldn't." Over Malfoy's shoulder, Harry saw Parkinson step out of the shadows. She watched them carefully. Her eye makeup was smeared a bit, smoky at the edges of her lids, and her lipstick had entirely rubbed off, leaving her full lips a vulnerable, neutral colour. Her trademark smirk was nowhere to be found. It occurred to Harry that this was what her mouth could look like in the morning, first thing, before she painted on her mask for the day. He liked the idea of that.

Malfoy turned to follow his gaze.

"Fancy a drink, Potter?" she called, and the moment vanished as the mask reappeared. She pulled a tube of lipstick out of her pocket and dotted her lips absently.

"Are you buying?"

"Of course not."

Harry grinned, faltering when he turned back to Malfoy. He paused, searching Malfoy's face for that old sign of a spark, a stray ember, even the full-blown flame behind his eyes. Without thinking about it, he brought his hand up to cup Malfoy's face, his fingers light in the bastard's hair and his thumb resting gently over his cheek. "Do you remember that fire?" he said quietly, his gaze lingering on Malfoy's mouth.

For a few seconds, everything else melted away – Malfoy's wife, the guests, the ballroom behind them, and it was just the two of them again, igniting at the end of the world. "Of course I do," he murmured, not pulling away from Harry's touch.

Harry nodded. "Do you want me to save you again?"

Malfoy closed his eyes, and when he did, Harry found himself looking past him at Parkinson. She was leaning against a far wall, tastefully averting her eyes and letting the edge of her cigarette flare with each drag.

Malfoy pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "Harry," he said quietly, "you know I can't just–"

Harry pulled his hand away at last, shoving it in his pocket. "Yeah. I know. You can't just." He gave Malfoy a gentle smile before dropping his eyes and walking away.

Drawn to the thin stream of smoke trailing up to the ceiling, he joined Parkinson across the corridor. Pausing only briefly to give him a sideways grin, she looped her arm in his and squeezed his bicep. They made their way to the front foyer and out the main doors, and together, they faded out into the twilight.



-fin-


Feedback is always appreciated. You can leave a comment on Livejournal if you don't have an IJ account. :)