Summary: After a confrontation with Harry at the Ministry, Pansy plans to ruin him.
Pansy has changed in the past five years. This is a strange thing for the daughter of a pureblood family rooted in tradition, but as of late her family's star has fallen, and even Pansy understands the necessity to blend in, to pander to the desires of Mudbloods and blood traitors so as to seem really, truly apologetic for siding with the wrong side in that pathetic excuse of a war. Now she works like a commoner – all the better to fit in nicely with proper society, my dear – and she works damn hard, too, despite her tendency to slack off at Hogwarts (a nice way of saying, despite her tendency to cheat on papers and seduce her fellow classmates into doing her homework). After all, it's up to her to raise her family's status, and she's willing to do anything for that. Even if it means sitting here staring across a desk at snobby Percy Weasley in a badly-lit office in the bowels of the Ministry, practically begging on her knees for a promotion.
He peruses her file for much longer than necessary; Pansy impatiently drums her long nails against her leg as she waits. Were he any other man, Pansy would smile seductively and uncross her legs while his eyes are on her, allow her fashionable Muggle skirt to ride up and expose one smooth white thigh – but this is Percy Weasley. The likelihood he'd even notice is slim.
He sets her file on the desk and peers at her over his spectacles.
"Well?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest. "Can I have the job or not?"
He sighs.
"I have my doubts about you, Miss Parkinson," he says, "not in the least because of your familial proclivities, but you've got a perfect track record here at the Ministry, and while the position you're applying for may involve some…security issues which you do not have clearance to concern yourself with, your skills speak for themselves, and I believe you will be exceedingly useful in this department – "
"So I have the job," Pansy summarizes, cutting him off mid-speech. Percy gives a tight-lipped nod and hands her the file.
"Congratulations, Miss Parkinson," he says. "I hope you do well in your endeavors."
She says nothing as she walks out of his office, but as she glances back to wave farewell, she can tell from the way his eyes follow the sway of her hips that he's not so oblivious to her feminine charms after all.
. . .
Harry did not expect to dislike his job, but then, he didn't expect his job to be anything like this, either. Being an Auror should be about heroism, fighting crime like someone from a comic book (except real), the kind of job that he can come home from and say to Ginny (when she's home – another thing he sort of resents but really shouldn't), "I did something worthwhile today." Instead, it's this stifling, never-ending drudge of paperwork and training and dealing with the bureaucracy, all the jobs given to low-level Aurors like him and Ron. Fame hasn't made being an Auror any easier, contrary to what The Daily Prophet and half the wizarding population of Great Britain seems to believe (not that he would want it like that, anyway – although just a bit of a boost would be nice).
"Two months until a promotion, mate," Ron says to him wearily. Harry jolts himself back into reality and takes the feather end of his quill out of his mouth.
"Was I dozing off again?" he asks Ron, who snorts softly and nods yes. "Merlin, I'm sick of paperwork. They didn't mention this at the Auror's Academy."
"I dunno how Dad did it," Ron muses, idly doodling on a scrap of parchment. "I'd probably kill myself if I was stuck doing this for a lifetime."
"You'd be sacked before you had the chance to kill yourself," Harry points out. "You're horrible with anything involving writing."
"Yeah, well – " Ron says, preparing a devastating retort, but then a petite, slim woman dressed in unbelted clerk's robes over stylish Muggle clothes strides into their office and snaps, "Which of you is handling the Doyle case?"
"Me," says Harry, not noticing Ron's gawping expression (or at least attributing it to the female clerk's figure), until she turns to slap the file on his desk.
"Parkinson?" he asks incredulously, and she scowls at him. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here, Potter," she snaps. "Will that be a problem?"
"Just give me the file," he retorts, and snatches it from the desktop.
"Why are you working?" asks Ron snidely. "Malfoy's money not good enough for you?"
Her eyes blaze.
"Fuck you, Weasley," she says, and spins on her heel, stalking out the door like an offended Skrewt.
"Bit sensitive, isn't she?" comments Ron, going back to his work. "How is the Doyle case going, anyway?"
"Yeah, taking away the I'm-better-than-you swagger does a lot for a girl."
Harry bites his lip, because that's not quite what he meant, and because five years ago Pansy looked like a scrawny self-obsessed teenager and now she's grown up and flaunts it too, and Harry can't stop looking. Wanting.
He looks down at his paperwork, reshuffles the parchment on the Doyle case. He misses Ginny.
. . .
Pansy's face feels hot and her chest is flushed in anger. She hates that she lets them get to her like this – ignorant blood traitors and halfwits with no concept of pride or dignity – Merlin, she hates Harry fucking Potter and his ilk. Thinking themselves so superior while they ogle her backside – don't think she didn't notice, Potter, you were staring, she saw you – she wishes there was a way to get back at him that didn't involve nasty spells that would most likely get her sacked (and possibly prosecuted).
The ugly tinge of disgust stays with her the rest of the day, even as she clocks out and Apparates to her flat, changing out of her chic Muggle skirt into somber eggplant robes. They feel better on her skin, formal, the kind of robes that designate class. She rubs her palms across the soft fabric, relishing the texture, before tossing a handful of Floo powder into her tiny fireplace and stepping through.
Her family's old mansion is dark and dimly lit, more due to the need to disguise the crumbling wood and mortar and hide the peeling wallpaper than any aesthetic whim on her parents' part. As she walks down the corridor to greet her parents in the receiving room, she trails a hand along the wall; dust and mildew coat her fingers, but she doesn't mind. It's familiar. It's home.
"Pansy," her mother acknowledges as her daughter enters the room, sitting stiff-backed in her chair. Pansy's father is gazing sightlessly across the room, a dribble of drool leaking down his chin. Neither Pansy nor her mother will wipe it off unless he asks them to; they'll let him keep his dignity as long as his mind is functional.
"How are you, Mother, Father?" she asks, sliding into an overstuffed loveseat and curling up comfortably, a sharp contrast to her mother.
"We are well, Pansy. And you?"
"I'm fine. My job is going well." She watches her mother flinch at the reminder of Pansy's decline. "I was transferred to the Auror Department."
Her father tilts his head slightly as if he wants to hear this news. Mother sniffs in disdain.
"The Auror Department? Why, doesn't that Potter creature work there now? Or is he out feigning heroics for press again?"
"Potter works there." Pansy's lip curls into a sneer. "I have to talk to him sometimes."
"You need to leave," Mother begins, but Pansy cuts her off by saying, "The pay is better here, though, and that's the whole point, isn't it?"
"I suppose." The distaste is clear in her mother's voice. They gaze down at their tea mugs; her mother probably brewed the leaves herself. It's painful to think about.
"I hate him," Pansy says suddenly, a hint of a whine in her words. "I really do, and I always have, and I can't stand looking at his smug little face! I wish – "
"Has he said anything to you?" asks Mother sharply. "Anything that you could use – " She doesn't finish the sentence, but Pansy knows what she's thinking. They are both Slytherins, after all.
"No," says Pansy, "I haven't had many run-ins with him, yet. But he looks at me, the sleazebag. Should I – "
"Don't you dare," snaps Mother, "don't lower yourself to his level, Pansy! That's disgusting, I forbid you from consorting with men like that!"
Her father groans in agreement, the only sound he can make anymore.
"I didn't say I was going to do it, did I?" Pansy retorts, and changes the subject. "How is Draco? Have you talked to any of the Malfoys?" But the idea – deliciously dirty, and just the thing to bring down such a moral person like Potter – it hovers in her mind. She likes the thought of it.
. . .
It's a delicate game she's playing, one where the playing pieces are tight dresses, lascivious smirks complete with licks of her lips, and insinuative comments. Weasley cannot take his eyes off her whenever she slinks into his office (or past him in the corridor, or by him in the mess hall), and though Potter is harder to read, she can tell he wants her, too, from the way his lips press tightly together whenever she's in the room and how he averts his eyes from her insolent gaze. He's so predictable it's almost laughable.
She strides into his office, ignoring Weasley's gawping maw, and slides a sheet of parchment to Potter.
"Legal needs your signature for this," she says. He doesn't look at her as he takes it.
"Couldn't they send it over the way they do most memos?" he asks, scribbling his name sloppily on the line provided.
"Oh, perhaps, but it's better to trust such an important document to someone more…experienced, shall I say?"
He glances up at her, malachite eyes over thin wire frames. She forgets, sometimes, how striking their color is.
"Are you experienced?" he asks in a low voice. His eyes flick to Weasley, who's staring at them avidly, then back to her face. His gaze is probing, unsettlingly so, but she curls her lips in a smirk and whispers, "Want to find out?"
He says nothing, but she reads the answer in his face. Gossip says his wife's been gone for months, playing with the Harpies. He's weak, like most men, and Pansy knows it.
"Meet me in the spare office on the fourth floor," she whispers, tapping his desk gently with her nails, and spins around in a swirl of perfume, shooting a blank look at Weasley, and leaves.
On the steps to the fourth floor, she fancies she can hear his footsteps one flight behind her. Her blood sings, bubbles under her skin, makes her flushed and flustered but she loves this, the knowledge she's caught another one. Delicious; she'll savor the expression on his face when their messy dance is done, the realization of his guilt, the dawning horror of his shame. Try explaining this to your pretty little wife when your nerves get the better of you, she thinks wickedly.
The office is small, sterile, cramped, a desk in the corner with a small rickety chair and half-hearted lighting that's probably too expensive to replace. There is a fine layer of dust in the corners where the quick cleaning spells don't reach. Pansy has only surveyed this for a moment when hurried footsteps outside the door signal Potter's arrival. The door slams open and shut quickly, then she and her rival are close together in the tight office, face to face, hip to hip. Her breasts press against his chest, and she slides a hand around the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his messy hair. His entire body tenses; his eyes burn with either anger or arousal. She can never tell the difference.
"What the fuck are you doing, Parkinson?" he hisses heatedly. "Are you trying to destroy my marriage?"
"No," she shoots back, and nips at his throat; he gives a little gasp and she can feel him rise though his trousers. "I think you're doing a pretty good job of that yourself."
"I hate you, you stupid whore," he whispers, and suddenly shoves her against the desk, hands rough around her waist, kissing her like he wants to bite her tongue out, violent and bloody.
"Don't call me that," she snaps, and he's twisted and shoved her onto the desktop, rucking her skirt up about her waist, and when she struggles to get out of the uncomfortable position he grabs a handful of her hair and yanks. She yelps, and a pang of anger shoots through her; this isn't how it's supposed to go, he's supposed to be the passive one, the one afraid of the consequences –
"I'll stop calling you that when you stop being one," he hisses, and even though he's pinning her to the desk by her wrists (she can feel the bruises rising under the pressure) she laughs at him, at his fury.
"Just fuck me, Potter, and get it over with," she tells him, tossing her head back, and he nips at her neck, her collarbone, grinding his hips against the juncture of her thighs and she bucks her hips, rubbing hard against his cock; he gives a thready moan and releases her wrists, reaching to unbuckle, unbutton, shoving her knickers aside with a fumbling hand and thrusting into her hard, hurriedly, panting and groaning at her slickness. She gasps, flings her head back, digging her nails into his neck and leaving half-moon cuts; his grip on her hips will leave bruises in an hour, but she doesn't care; he's out of control and drunk on her cunt and she – she's brought him down, the famous Harry Potter, adulterer and liar, the way it should be – oh Merlin, she thinks, or maybe she says it out loud, don't stop, please Harry don't –
"Ginny," he whimpers, shaking as he climaxes, and steps back and falls to his knees the moment he's finished. Pansy touches herself, fingers gliding on the slick of her folds, catching the bundle of nerves and rubbing until she comes with a gasp, one arm thrown over her face as her orgasm wracks her body. When she's returned to reality, she lolls her head to look at Potter on his knees.
He's nearly crying, she can see, and as she observes he looks up at her, face contorted in rage or sorrow.
"You ugly fucking bitch," he whispers, and stands shakily. "I hope you got what you wanted."
She allows a lazy smirk to crawl across her face. It feels hollow, somehow. "I did."
He fumbles for the door handle and nearly falls out of the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the dying lights flicker. Pansy slides off the desk and smoothes down her skirt, fusses with her hair. She should feel dirty, guilty, disgusted, but instead she's coldly, maliciously proud.
It's not enough, though, not for a Slytherin. She searches through the desk drawers on a whim, a sliver of an idea that could almost be too cruel, if she were a nicer person, but as it is…well. There's parchment, and there's a nub of a pencil, and that's enough of an omen to vindicate Pansy Parkinson.
Standing in a deserted, cluttered office, with Harry Potter's come dripping down her leg, Pansy sighs with malevolent pleasure. Get into character, she thinks – noble, with the best of intentions, a wronged woman (and perhaps a bit sanctimonious) – totally unlike the real Pansy, but she's always been a good actress. She licks the tip of the pencil with a smirk, sets it to parchment and writes, Dear Ginny.