Title: Restoration
Author: eeyore9990
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: bathing, silence, tears/crying
Other Warnings: Uh, there might be issues of consent here, but I'm not even sure in which way. It's sort of a weird fic.
Word Count: ~3k
Summary/Description: He just knew she shouldn't be here, shouldn't be staring down at her dead father with that look of complete detachment on her face while tears ran down her cheeks.
Author's Notes: Weird fic. From me. SO ODD, RIGHT?!

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By the time Harry made it to the bottom of the stairs from the Headmaster's office, his feet were literally dragging through the rubble that lay thick along the ground. He moved automatically, so tired he couldn't tell if his vision was going spotty or if his glasses were simply that badly smudged and filthy from the hours of battle.

He turned a corner and was about to carefully pick his way down the steps when his senses—still stuck on constant vigilance even as exhausted as he was—alerted him to the presence of another person. He searched the corridor and saw her.

She was standing perfectly still, her head bowed to the ground or… no. She was staring down at a body.

Harry winced and forced himself to move a bit faster. He didn't take care to muffle the sound of his footsteps, but still she didn't look up. When he drew even with her at the bottom of the steps, he could see tracks that tears had made—were currently making—through the dirt and blood on her face.

"Parkinson?" he said, gently taking her arm—her wand arm, because there was really no way for him to trust her. "Pansy?" he tried, when she didn't respond to her surname.

But she didn't react, just continued staring down at the body on the floor. Harry followed her gaze and looked down at a man. He was older, probably close to McGonagall's age, though the white in his hair could have been due to the plaster dust that continued to fall through the air. The dust that lay so thick upon the black robes the man wore that they looked almost grey. The black robes of a Death Eater.

Harry was tired straight down to his bones, and that was the excuse he gave himself for not realising right off who the man must be. Mr Parkinson. Pansy's father. He was still lying where he'd dropped because no one had bothered yet to clear up the bodies of the Death Eaters.

He looked back at Pansy and… and he had no idea what to do. He just knew she shouldn't be here, shouldn't be staring down at her dead father with that look of complete detachment on her face while tears ran down her cheeks.

Pansy Parkinson didn't cry.

Harry tugged on Pansy's arm then, pulling harder and harder until her feet stumbled toward him. Only then did she look away from her father and up to him. But there was something missing in her gaze, and Harry knew… She was still, in her head, seeing only the death mask that was Mr Parkinson's face.

Harry didn't stop, he didn't think, he simply let his feet lead them toward a place he knew would be private and quiet. A place he could fix this. Because if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Pansy was broken.

And it was his fault. He hadn't been the one to kill her father—he was almost certain of that—but somehow the fact that her father was dead… well, that was his fault.

The portrait guarding the Gryffindor dorms was completely missing, so Harry simply stepped through the entryway and into the total destruction of a place that had once been a cozy, cheerful common room. He stared around himself, at a loss. Where should he go? Where to bring Pansy?

"Master Harry?" The low croak was a welcome relief, and Harry turned to see Kreacher staring up at him. "You need me?"

Harry's lips quirked. "I didn't even call you, but you knew. How did you know?"

"I serve the Black family, Master Harry." That was all the explanation Kreacher gave, but it was oddly fitting. House elves did have their own brand of magic, after all.

"I need to find a place to have a bit of privacy. And… a clean bed."

"A bath as well," Kreacher added, sniffing pointedly. "Follow me."

Harry turned to Pansy to explain things to her, but she was still trapped inside herself. Her tears had slowed, but a find trembling shook her entire body, as if the tears had been all that kept her from flying over the edge. Harry took both her arms in his hands and made soothing sounds as he explained to her that he would take care of her.

Not that she heard him, but it did make him feel better.

"Master Harry," Kreacher said, his voice ringing with impatience, "follow!"

"Coming." Harry slid his hand into Pansy's lax one and tugged until she stumbled into step beside him. "Not much further now," he murmured, needing somehow to reassure her.

He had no idea why he cared. He shouldn't care, not really. She'd wanted to turn him over to Voldemort, wanted to let them kill him to save herself, but… well, he couldn't really blame her, could he? If he were honest with himself, he wondered how many lives would have been spared if he'd just gone directly to Voldemort. Taken the battle to him instead of letting Hogwarts and those she protected bear the brunt of the war.

"Your bath is ready, Master Harry. Give me your clothes for cleaning."

Harry blinked down at Kreacher. He honestly didn't remember the journey up the narrow stairs to this room, which was smaller than a dorm. Head boy, perhaps? Harry shook his head to clear the random thoughts from it. "Can you just find some for me? Or I'll do a cleaning charm on these. The bath isn't for me. Not yet, anyway." He wasn't making much sense, which Kreacher was kind enough to mention in a mutter on his way out the door.

"Towels on the chair," Kreacher said before slamming the door behind him.

The sound of the door caused Pansy's hand to spasm in his, drawing Harry's gaze. But she was still staring at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of her. Still seeing her father.

Slowly, with awkward fingers and an averted gaze, Harry moved around Pansy, removing her robes, shirt, and skirt before stiffly lowering himself to his knees to wrestle her shoes from her feet. It took longer than he'd expected, but finally she was down to her underthings—Harry tried not to notice them, or how white and girly they were. Undressing her further would probably make her bath more comfortable, but there was no way Harry was going to get caught alone in a room with a girl in Pansy's state and her completely naked.

Harry led Pansy to the side of the tub and tested the water—charmed to stay perfectly warm, thanks to Kreacher's magic—and then worked out how to get Pansy into it without hurting either himself or her. When she was finally settled, Harry stepped back and put his hands on his hips. Now what?

A flannel and some soap products were laid out on top of the towels. Harry grabbed them up and dumped them on the floor beside the tub before he knelt next to it. Dunking the flannel, he rubbed a bar of soap into it and then lifted Pansy's arm from the water. He started with her shoulder, swiping the cloth over and around it before lifting the strap of her bra and scrubbing the bit underneath it.

Pansy jerked, and he looked up, directly into her eyes. This time, she was looking back at him.

Harry's lips parted as he tried to think what to say, what could possibly make this situation all right. But she didn’t scream at him, didn't jump from the water shouting accusations. She just shook harder, the tears filling and overflowing her eyes faster than ever.

Pansy lifted her hand from the water where it'd fallen and held it out to him, a silent plea to continue. With a shaky breath, Harry nodded and took her hand in his as he ran the cloth down her bicep, around her elbow and then along her forearm. The skin that had been protected by her clothing and robes had been mostly clean when he started, but her hands… He winced. They were as caked with filth as his own were.

Harry spread her fingers and began gently cleaning around her cracked and broken nails, scrubbing the flannel into the creases of her joints where the dirt and grime was most stubborn. "Sorry," he whispered as, in his effort to get her clean, he rubbed a bit too hard.

In his peripheral vision, he watched her shake her head. Not much of a response, but still enough of a victory to make Harry's chest swell with relief. He fought back a smile as he reached for her other hand. She met him half-way, and he risked looking up at her again.

His gaze caught on her face and lingered there. Something had changed. Something about the set of her shoulders, or lines of her face, or maybe just the light. Or maybe it was the fact that she had come back. She was hiding still, but somewhere behind her eyes, the real, nasty bitch that was Pansy Parkinson was there. And Harry had never been so glad to see someone he disliked so much.

"All right?" he asked, swishing the flannel through the water to rinse it before applying more soap.

Her chin dipped and she looked down, breaking eye contact first, but still there. Still with Harry. Still… crying. It wasn't as obvious now, with her whole body moist from the steam that rose from the water, but tears were still slipping silently down her cheeks. And it was—Harry drew in a long, slow breath—beautiful.

The tears had been different before. She'd been different; not there, unaware. But she was back, and there was real grief in her eyes, not just that blank emptiness.

And Harry was a complete pervert because the sight of her then, like that, with tears building up on her spiky lashes and then spilling over them in a ceaseless flow, got him so aroused so quickly that he actually felt his head spin with the sudden southerly rush of blood. His breath left him in a whoosh, and he dropped the flannel completely. The water was milky with soap and suds swirled across the surface.

He realised as he stared at one clump of bursting bubbles that he was looking at the water in which she was sitting. Looking through the mostly-transparent stuff, right at the place where her thighs met the material of her knickers. Her white knickers. Which were plastered to her body beneath the surface of the water.

"Ahhh!" Harry fell backward on his arse, jerking his gaze upward. To her breasts, which pushed upward, held perfectly in place by the really thin—how had he not noticed before how thin the material was—bra she wore. The bra that was damp with steam. And becoming see-through enough that her nipples were extremely obvious.

Pansy reached into the water and retrieved the flannel, holding it out to him. Time marked itself off in the steady dripping of water from the flannel to the floor as Harry stared at it, wondering what to do. Wondering what was right in this situation.

Harry followed the line of Pansy's arm up to her shoulder, then to the graceful arch of her neck, and then up over her jaw to catch her eyes. Still wet with tears and dark with grief but also… something more. Not an invitation. Never that. But there was a need in her that was so stark it made him ache for her.

He reached for the flannel, knowing he was committed to this course. She needed him, and that was really all that mattered.

Harry knelt up again and reached across her body for her other hand. He placed it gently in the water, in her lap, and left it there to soak while he tended to the cloth. More soap, more suds, a necessary distraction.

He licked his lips, then left them parted because smelling her now, like this, would make this… uncontrollable. Insane. He lifted the flannel and marvelled at how his hand was shaking now, as if she'd transferred every bit of her emotional energy to him. A quick glance at her face showed her eyes closed, and he was able to breathe again.

The flannel could have been air for all the difference it made as he lightly drew it across her chest and down between her cloth-covered breasts. He cupped his other hand in the water and brought it up, allowing the water to trickle from his fingers to clear the soap from her skin. A pulse of arousal shook him when that action caused her nipples to pull tight under her bra.

Harry swallowed and slipped her bra strap from her shoulder to wash under it. When he went to replace it, her hand came up and grabbed his, stilling his movements. She tugged against his hand, pulling it down toward her abdomen, and he took the hint.

Stroking the flannel lightly over her stomach, he watched her face, watched her eyes move behind the thin skin of her lids, and saw the way the corners of her mouth tightened when his fingers brushed over her ribs.

She was ticklish. How odd.

In his moment of discovery, he forgot to pay attention to where he was washing until his hand dipped into the water near her groin. He jerked back, whispering an apology, but once again, she lifted her hand from the water and gripped his wrist, slowly tugging on it until his hand was back, fully immersed in the water.

The only thing between his knuckles and her—his mind shied away from even thinking the word because this was Pansy Parkinson—was the flannel in his hand and the transparent cloth of her knickers. Pansy's fingers tightened around his wrist, holding his hand against her as she slid down in the tub.

She lifted her legs from the water, bracing them against the edge of the tub, and began to slowly roll her hips under the water. He had no idea if she was watching him or not because his eyes were glued to his wrist, where her fingers were wrapped so tightly that his skin was white around them.

Harry rammed the heel of his other hand against his cock, not for pleasure but to stifle it for the moment. He'd tend to it later. Now… now he just wanted to see how this played out.

Pansy rocked in the tub, her movements subtle enough that only a few splashes of water lapped over the edges. Her head was tilted back over the rim of the tub, her throat arched as her breath began to grow ragged.

And still, the occasional tear slipped down her cheek.

Harry took his hand from his cock long enough to push his glasses back into place. The heat of the room and the sweat that had broken out all over his body had nearly caused them to slide completely off his nose.

Pansy's hold on him tightened even further, nearly bruising his wrist as she arched completely out of the water, a soft sound escaping her mouth. She splashed back into the water, and a wave of it drenched Harry as it escaped the tub, startling him.

He felt a blush rising in his cheeks, and he averted his eyes from her. A choked sob and a broken "Daddy" was his only warning before he found himself with an armful of dripping wet Pansy. Her forehead knocked against his shoulder and her arms wound so tightly around his neck that he wondered for a brief moment if she were trying to strangle him.

But that didn’t stop him from running his hands over her wet back soothingly. Her body shook against him, and though she'd been crying since he found her, it was more than apparent that her tears weren't nearly done. They sat like that for so long that she was dry by the time her sobs stopped wracking her body.

When she finally quieted, Harry gave her a few quick pats before letting his arms drop awkwardly to his sides. "It's going to be okay," he said.

And then he berated himself for being so stupid, because of course it wasn't going to be okay. Not for her, not for anyone. But she didn't say anything, simply pulled free of him and turned away, wiping at her face with her hands and crawling to the place where he'd dropped her clothing. He tried not to notice how her knickers were still wet and transparent down the crack of her arse.

He cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed at the fact that he was still aroused. He tried not to track her progress from the room, but when she stopped near the door and waited, he couldn't help turning to look at her.

She didn’t bother hiding her near-nudity from him and his cock leapt at the sight of her.

"You know I would have given you to him." Her voice was wrecked from her crying jag, but the anger was still there. Still burning. Still fully focused on him.

Harry thought about what she'd said for a moment. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten, after all, but she was waiting. Waiting for him to respond. To attack her, maybe?

But he was tired of fighting. And he couldn't really blame her.

In the end he just shrugged and said, "I did give me to him, so I guess we're square."