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depressedacadamia · 3 years

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De Humani Corporis Fabrica

Chapter II: Experience

Word count: 6.9K

Summary: Pjo dancer AU! Drama, drama and more drama. Old relationships and new ones continue to bear the weight of the upcoming auditions all while a special person makes a guest appearance.

A/N: I didn’t mention it before but they are aged up in this series! I picture them to be in their pretty early 20s but I like to think that they’ve known each other for a long time and other characters joined during their teen years. Make sure you enjoy, comment, like, share, reblog- yall know the drill. <3 from moi!

Taglist: no one :( [send a message and get on my taglissstt]

Read Chapter One here!

Le Studio Royal Jupiter was becoming competitive again. The members were still getting used to hearing that. To Nico, it was like a miracle; he had trained since the petit age of 2, waiting for this moment and now he was finally getting it. He wished his sister was here to celebrate such a moment but he knew that if she was here, the studio would have never stopped competing in the first place. The tragic incident had occured at the studio years ago and it had forced them to temporarily stop competing.

Everything seemed better- the sky (which was always a depressing sight) seemed brighter, the studio mirrors were cleaner and Dionysus was less lazy and more salsa-y. Studio 2 was empty on a Monday afternoon- as always because Dionysus would never schedule his lessons on a Monday as he saw it to be ’too drab’. Hazel and Leo however, who were dedicated to the studio, were almost always in on a Monday.

Hazel- in her De Luca heels- was practising a spin that she hadn’t been able to get down for ages while Leo was practising his ballet technique. While he was normally a salsa dancer, every dancer in LSRJ, including himself, was relatively well versed in ballet; Leo knew that working with Calypso would mean a lot of technical work. He was trying to get at least 3 turns in a row without feeling like he was going to fall- one more thing, Leo hated pointe shoes.

“Leo, what on earth are you doing?” Hazel's voice cut through Leo’s thoughts.

“I’m working with Satan, take a wild guess.”

“Yikes,” Hazel cringed. “How’s that going for you?”

“She walks out at the beginning of rehearsal, refuses to talk or work cooperatively and insults me as well as Salsa itself at every chance she gets- so Hazel, you tell me. How do you think it’s going?”

“Leo I’m sor-”

“-And it’s not even the fact that she insults me, it’s the way she treats me and salsa. Like all of a sudden, I’m inferior because salsa has no ‘proper technique’. Like wow, ballet is so sophisticated and you’re so cool. Congratulations, you and your pretty arms and pretty legs and fancy, snazzy vocabulary!” Leo ranted. Hazel, who was more used to the more creative and funnier side of her partner, frowned; she was slightly worried about him.

“Maybe consider dropping out on her?” Hazel offered.

“What will I do though? We both know that I can’t get on the team with a solo. Salsa works best with a partner. Besides, sure Calypso is the devil spawn, but that does not mean I don’t appreciate good technique.”

Hazel raised her eyebrow. “Didn’t you say that Luke, Annabeth and Nico all had better technique than she did?”

Leo, who was smiling smugly and had both his eyes closed, cracked one open and let his smile grow across his face.

“A small lie never hurt her nor anybody else.”

Hazel, who seemed quite unconvinced, nodded as Leo continued.

“What about you?” Leo asked. “How’s things coming up with the B-boy?”

Immediately, Hazel lit up. “It’s pretty good actually. I think Frank and I actually have a good chance of making the team!”

Leo noticed how Hazel had seemed so keen to talk about Frank and took this as an opportunity to tease her.

“So does that mean you won’t need me to fake being your boyfriend again?”

“What?” Hazel took a glance at Leo’s smirk. “No! No, we’re just friends. Friends, yes, yes. Just friends. He’s just a friend.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me.”

“I’m. Not. Crushing. On. Frank,” She gritted out with her fists clenched.

“Okay,” Leo said in a sing-song sort of tune.

“I’m not!” She shouted before lowering her voice to a small whisper. “ Not after Sammy.”

Leo’s features immediately softened at the mention of his older brother. Hazel talking about Sammy had opened up old wounds that Leo thought had healed- he thought he was over this!

“After all this time Hazel? Still Sammy?”

Leo half expected her to say ‘always’ as if they were re-enacting Harry Potter. Secretly, he hoped that she didn’t. What had happened with Sammy was long ago and Leo never wanted to see Hazel in such pain again. They weren’t just dancer partners like himself and Calypso, they were friends. Hazel, to Leo’s avail did not respond; they remained silent the entire rehearsal.

In Studio A... Nico had never wanted to punch someone in the face as much as he wanted to punch Jason in this very moment. Afterall, it was Jason’s fault that Nico was partnering with Will. It wasn’t that Nico didn’t like Will, it was just that working with someone who was annoyingly attractive (Nico’s exact words were a hot piece of ass) often resulted in not working as well as one should.

It also meant Nico had to wear his tap shoes.

“Will, do I have to wear these?” Nico complained.

“We’re testing out ideas. We start with tap and then we’ll do ballet.”

“So that means I will see you in pointe shoes then?” Nico inquired, his voice suspiciously innocent and his eyes battering too fast. Will, in response, grimaced and nodded reluctantly.

“Perfect!” Nico hummed happily. The pain of tap shoes was nothing compared to pointe shoes. As Will laughed slightly at Nico’s taunting, they began going over the basics. Nico watched as naturally the corners of Will’s lips twitched upwards as he danced and taught. His smile was perfect, his moves in sync with the music blaring in the background- practically flawless.

Nico however, struggled a bit with certain parts that Will taught- not that he was surprised; he expected tap to be overly energetic. While they both took their break, Nico began spinning round and round on his tap shoes. He couldn’t really help it- they were so easy to spin on- it was like they were just begging him to turn.

“Nico, stop spinning like that, you’ll fall and get hurt,” Will warned as he sat in a corner, sipping at his water bottle. Nico ignored him and continued mucking about- only stopping to stick his tongue out at Will who on countless occasions, continued to attempt to warn Nico. Will could feel his own heart fluttering at the thought of an injury.

“Fuck!”

Will’s head snapped in towards Nico who lay on his butt, clutching his ankle. The ballet dancer was hunched over his foot, cradling his ankle with both hands.

“Shit! Nico I warned you! Where does it hurt?” Will asked with a thick layer of concern in his voice as he ran over. Slowly, Nico began shuddering, his body almost shivering as he made whimper-like noises. He refused to meet Will’s eyes as he continued shaking.

‘Shit, he probably injured himself really badly if he’s crying’ was the first thought to cross Will’s mind.

“Oh my God,” Nico said shakily. Will gently rested his hand on Nico’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Nico, it’s going to be okay. It’s probably a minor fracture at the most. You will be fine.”

Unexpectedly and out of nowhere, Nico threw his head back and began laughing.

“Holy moly, I can’t believe you actually fell for it!” Nico wheezed as he clutched his stomach. “And your face!”

Will in utter disbelief, took about 30 seconds to fully understand the situation and yet these were the first 5 words.

“You were lying to me?”

“It was a joke! I was just trying to prove that Ballet dancer’s aren’t as uptight as everyone thinks we are!” Nico laughed. Will could not believe this. He should have never partnered with Nico especially considering he was friends with Percy and Jason of all people. He started packing up, aggressively shoving his stuff into his sports bag. Nico’s laughter died down as he turned to Will, confusion growing on his face.

“Hey, where are you going?”

Viciously, Will turned on him. “I’m going to go dance. I’m not going to hang about with an immature and undedicated dancer.”

“Surely a small prank doesn’t change anything. I mean, there’s a reason you chose me-”

“- I chose you because I wanted a hardworking and professional partner, not some bumbling idiot who walks around like they own the place and does what they want!” With that, Will left and Nico sat on the floor.

Welp, Nico was never socialising with Will again.

In Rehearsal room 4... “Turn, turn, push back and drop!” Piper yelled over the loud music. Jason and Piper had been working hard- taking turns in choreographing different parts of the routine. They held their freeze for 5 seconds before relaxing and agreeing to take a break.

“So what was that earlier with Nico, huh?” Piper started.

“What d’ya mean?” Jason innocently responded. “ He needed a partner.”

“So I was imagining the look you guys had?”

“What look?” Jason sounded shocked.

“You guys had a look.”

“Like you and Annabeth?”

Piper could feel the immediate blush rising to her cheeks. She couldn’t help the way she felt- was it her fault that he best friend had gorgeous curly blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes? She turned her head slightly away so Jason couldn’t see her face.

“Nico and I go way back- we trust each other,” Jason chose his wording very carefully.

“Well… So do Annabeth and I…”

“Good… wanna go over the Hip hip section again?” Jason offered, desperate to change the awkward tension that had suddenly appeared in the air. Piper eagerly nodded.

In the Cafe... “What do you mean she’s with Leo? Frank, they’re just dance partners, nothing more,” Annabeth re-assured. She sat in the elegant armchair opposite Frank with Percy on her left. They were in the cafe that was underneath the studio- it was custom for the dancers to meet up here during lunch.

“But… are you sure?” Frank asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

“I give you my word Frank- they’re just good friends.”

At these words, Frank relaxed. That was until Leo and Hazel both walked in silently; their bodies close to each other but their faces catatonic. As they came to sit down, they both moved towards the same seat and exchanged a series of bumps, ‘ouches’ and ‘errms’ until they managed to sit down. Annabeth and Percy exchanged a wary look as the awkward silence between the two stretched out.

Nico stormed in, his face scrunched up as he ordered a coffee and plopped himself on the armrest of the chair that his ballet partner, Annabeth, was sitting in. He had a dark, raging and violent aura around him and carried on sulking until Annabeth spoke up.

“Nico, is that coffee?” Her voice had a hint of worry.

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “What’s up with you two? Lovers quarrel?” Nico pointed to Leo and Hazel who both immediately froze up. Leo, who was mid- sip, choked and began wheezing for air while Hazel gently patted him on the back. Frank, subconsciously, flinched.

“Dancers quarrel,” Hazel sighed after Leo had stopped choking before turning towards her brother.

“Wait, you’re drinking coffee? Again?” Hazel raised her eyebrows at Nico. The last time she recalled him drinking coffee… Well family tensions had been higher than ever, Nico was a literal caffeine addict and Hazel had been helping the ‘love of her life’. Nico had gotten over the caffeine addiction, well at least, she hadn’t seen him touch the substance in years so the sudden appearance of it alarmed her- What had happened to him that drove him back to coffee? Nico on the other hand, simply batted his hand signalling ‘later’.

“Does anybody want to break the awkward silence?” Percy murmured out of the corner of his mouth, looking down at his fidgeting hands.

“I heard an awkward silence needs breaking?” Jason appeared before them. “ Guess what?”

Almost immediately, the entire crowd perked up and asked ‘what?’

“Nu uh, I actually want you guys to guess.”

“Did your new pointe shoes break in?” Annabeth suggested.

“Please get to the pointe,” Leo tutted. Jason shot his roommate, a playful scowl, as he was used to the terrible jokes. Everyone else (except Percy) groaned, throwing their heads back and Hazel face palmed at the terrible jokes- sometimes she asked herself why they were friends.

“You guys are pathetic,” Jason hummed, his arms folded smugly.

“Bro, just tell us!” Percy pleaded, sick of the timely wait.

Jason took a deep breath, holding the tension out for as long as possible. “Well… Chiron’s returning!”

“Like returning returning or just visiting returning?” Annabeth immediately cut in, stopping all the whoops that had erupted from the happy news. Well mainly happy. After the incident, Chiron was left without half a leg which stopped his dance career. It had been hard for him and the dancers around him- tensions had never been worse within the studio and so for the sake of the dancers, Chiron had left to teach dance theory. He had visited every once in a while but if he was ever going to come back- since he was the owner of the studio- no one really knew.

“He didn’t really specify…”

“On the plus side, he’s probably gotten like what 14 new stories about the wheelchair?” Annabeth exclaimed. Percy, who knew about the wheelchair, threw his head back laughing as he remembered the previous stories of it. As they fell into a conversation recalling all the previous stories about the wheelchair, Leo had to clutch his stomach while laughing.

“I love that dude- he’s the only one who doesn’t take Calypso’s bullshit.”

A piercing voice came out from behind them. “Well, Calypso had been looking for you this past week. Where have you been?”

Outraged, Leo retorted, “Where have I been, where have you been?”

As the two started shouting their heads off at each other, the group of people fell silent and everyone agreed to leave them to it. Before Hazel left, she noticed the darker undertones of Calypso’s normally flawless skin as well as her red rimmed eyes.

“So, where have you been?” Leo repeated, almost drawling. Calypso ignored the question and instead told Leo to meet her in Studio A (Leo rolled his eyes at the choice of studio) in a half hour. Leo had to clench his hands to stop himself from making some sort of witty smart- alec response; he wanted to try his best to get along with Calypso because the sooner they finished the routine, the quicker he’d be able to get on the team and avoid her.

Back in Rehearsal room 4... Jason was very lucky to have Piper as a partner- mainly due to her great ability to adapt to new styles. Having a famous father who could easily (and would happily) pay for anything she asked, Piper was gifted. From her good looks, her various talents and her sparkling personality, one could say that Piper Mclean had it all.

Oh, how wrong one could be.

They had agreed to perform a musical theatre routine focusing on hip hop and tap- the styles which moulded together best. They were doing well with their choreography and had finished their routine and were now going over it- making sure everything was clean and worked.

“Hey, let's take a break here,” Piper panted lightly with her hands resting on her thighs. Jason nodded with a brief smile on his face- could you blame him? He had managed to improve his tap by miles compared to the small amount of improvement he would have made with any other person. He jogged towards their bags and pulled out both of their water bottles;he threw Piper’s bottle at her. Perfectly, she caught it .

“Our routine is great, we totally have a chance at making the team,” Piper told Jason as she took a sip of water and plopped herself on the bean bag in the corner of the room by their bags.

“Percy and Annabeth’s chemistry may blow everyone out of the water,” Jason said mindlessly as he sipped water. Piper visibly flinched at the statement- it was small but noticeable for Jason.

“What? What’s wrong? If it’s those two, trust me- they’ll be too busy fooling around to perfect their routine.”

Again, Piper seemed a tad uncomfortable. She had tried to not cringe at the mention of Annabeth but it was quite hard when Jason kept on mentioning it like it was simply nothing. Her face had momentarily scrunched up before she quickly attempted to smooth it out. Jason frowned with an expression that simply read ‘What’s wrong?’

“Well… uh, Annie,” Piper hesitantly started, trying to find an easier way to explain. “I have really short nails.”

“Okay…?” Jason, utterly confused by the random fact, frowned again. Piper sighed at his innocent persona and tried to emphasize what she was implying.

“There’s a reason I have short nails…”

“Because you don’t like long nails?”

Piper, impatient, facepalmed and decided to find a better explanation. She turned to his sister as an easier topic.

“Why does your sister have short nails?”

Jason’s face scrunched up for a few seconds, looking up towards the ceiling before his eyes bugged a bit and his lips pursed into an ‘o’ shape.

“Oh! Oh… so like lesbian or-”

“Bi.”

Jason took a deep breath. “ Well, I'm happy you felt comfortable enough to tell me and I’m proud of you...and I hope you’re happy Pipes.”

She nodded, more confident and happy that Jason hadn’t made too much a deal of it- he was a dear friend whose opinion she cared about dearly. She felt she could truly trust him.

“Soo… Annabeth huh?” Jason wiggled his eyebrows. Piper smacked his arm before retorting back.

“I’ve seen how you look at Percy- looks like a budding bromance to me.”

Jason choked on his water, sputtering everywhere and was left absolutely speechless.

In Rehearsal room 1... “5, 6, 7, 8!” Calypso calles as they started the sectioned choreography again. Leo internally groaned as they started again with practically no enthusiasm behind his moves. While the dance wasn’t bad, Leo wasn’t afraid to call out the dance so far was bland. It was all classical ballet and no spice. It was too boring for him and if he were an audience member he would take away points for lack of creativity. After what seemed like 4 days but was actually 40 seconds, they finished.

“Make sure your turns are in time with mine,” Calypso pointed out as she paused the music. Leo had to physically hold in the urge to make a remark. He glanced at his watch and his eyes almost bugged out of his skull. It was 4pm? Already? He knew he had to leave now or else he was going to be late. He grabbed his bag and started changing his shoes ino more suitable footwear. He snacthed his jacket, slipped it on in a rush and almost walked into the door due to the rush he was in.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Calypso’s voice coming from behind made Leo freeze. Shit. What was he going to say? Where were his excuses?

Breathe Leo, make a simple lie- can’t be too hard.

“Uh.. just grabbing something from the cafe. I think I left something there.” He jutted his thumb towards the door before slipping out to avoid Calypso’s questions. He had one more stop to make before he left.

In Studio B... Frank was learning a lot from working with Hazel. Other than the obvious (like her beauty being even greater up close), he also learnt more about salsa than he ever had in his entire life. Their routine was finally complete but they were trying to find the perfect place to insert a lift. The timing for it had to be perfect. Too slow and Frank gets injured. Too fast and Hazel falls.

As they rehearsed the routine and approached the final move, Hazel slipped- effectively pushing Frank on his back and Hazel falling right on top with her body pressed against him; practically straddling him. Frank’s head made a loud ‘thud’ sound on making contact with the solid floor- clearly it had won this battle between head and floor.

“Oh my goodness! Are you okay?” Hazel rushed out, still unaware of the compromising position. Frank nodded meekly, not wanting to further aggravate the pain in his head and reached his hand to rub the back of his head. It was only then did their eyes meet, Hazel’s eyes widening at the realisation of the position. Just as she was going to scramble off, Leo busted through the door. Frantically, Leo sputtered,

“Oh, sorry… er am I interrupting something?” Hazel almost flew off Frank and quickly made her way to Leo who now bore a small smile on his face,

“Just friends huh?” Leo mumbled. Hazel ignored the comment and instead asked what Leo was doing here.

“I gotta leave for work and Calypso is on my ass. Do me a favour- if she asks where I went say I had an appointment or something,” he whispered, his mood changing rapidly. Hazel nodded, loyal to her friend and ran to her sports bag. She whipped out her purse before waddling back to Leo, her fingers mindlessly rifling through the notes in her purse as if it was worth nothing more than paper.

“How much do you need for the bus fare?”

Leo’s hand immediately pushed back at Hazel’s purse, who again, ignored it. He was not about to take her money- not again at least, not until he paid her back for the previous times. It was hard though, because Hazel always insisted everything be on her and refused to allow him to pay her back in any way.

“Hazel, I’ve told you. I don’t want to take your money,” Leo pleaded, his face seemingly uncomfortable. Sure, he didn’t want Hazel’s money but he did want money.

“Ridiculous.” Hazel shook her head as if the mere idea of her caring whether he paid her back or not was utter ludicrous. She pulled out a thick wad of cash. “I don’t care. Here. Should be enough for the bus fares, lunch and other stuff.”

Leo hesitated. He needed this money. Bus fares, food expenses, new dance clothes and his share of the rent along with other things. But the idea of taking Hazel’s money always left a bitter taste afterwards- he hated feeling guilty over her money. Hazel on the other hand, was not going to let Leo refuse and shoved the cash into Leo’s pocket before pulling him in a tight and surprising hug. Her arms were wrapped around Leo’s back and in return, he closed his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. She smelt like flowers- no doubt from the expensive products she could easily afford along with the fact that her step-mother, Persophone, owned a fragrance line among other things.

“Gracias,” he muttered, squeezing her shoulder in an affectionate manner.

With the short knowledge of spanish she knew from her best friend, Hazel replied, “De nada.”

Confused, Frank watched the entire interaction.

Back in Studio A... Annabeth and Percy were not practising. While every dancer, perhaps excluding Nico, were nervously practicing every beat of a move they performed, Annabeth and Percy were not really stressing. In fact, they hadn’t worked much on their routine in general. Annabeth was lying on her stomach with her face in her hands and her legs dangling back and forth. Percy sat next to her, with his arms around his legs. They were both listening to their ex-mentor who was in a wheelchair. Chiron was simply talking about something that had recently happened with his two favourite students.

“He did what!” Percy and Annabeth shouted in sync.

“I told him that if he performed, he would have been scouted, but alas- Luke refused. He came with me but it was a true shame I didn’t get to see him perform. He’s been with the studio for so long now, I do find it odd that he has yet to move to a professional career,” Chiron sighed- slumping slightly in his wheelchair.

“How’s the leg doing?” Annabeth asked, hoping the subject was no longer sore.

“Which one?” Chiron smiled mischievously as he pulled the blanket off his legs- showing both legs seemed present. Normally, the bottom half of the left leg would seem empty unlike what they were seeing now. Percy looked a bit confused for a few seconds.

“But… but Chiron, you only have one leg.”

Annabeth slapped her head before breaking into fits of laughter. Both her and Chiron were laughing their heads off until Annabeth kindly explained.

“Prosthetics Percy! Prosthetics!”

Chiron flexed his left foot, showing off his new leg. The dancers were awe-struck. As far as they had known- Chiron had refused prosthetics since the accident. They felt an insurmountable amount of pride swell inside of them- This was good right? Chiron was moving on! He wasn’t being stuck in the past anymore. It wasn’t that fact that he got a prosthetic, it was the reason he used to refuse it. Annabeth and Percy knew that he didn’t want a prosthetic at first because if he couldn’t dance using it, he’d consider himself a failure and after the accident, he did not want to face any more failure than he had to- he wanted to protect himself.

And for a while, that was okay! The studio was supportive- they truly wanted him to heal. But Chiron was stubborn. He was -what one may dare even say- traumatised. But no one could truly blame him- Nico, someone who was barely conscious during the accident, suffered. No one could blame Chiron for what had happened but there looks. People who weren’t even relatively involved whatsoever casted glances. Gave their fair share of judgemental looks- despite not even knowing the truth. However, Chiron learnt better than to acknowledge said glances.

“Woah, Chiron, when did you get it fitted?” Percy asked in awe.

“A while ago. I wanted to manage a few steps in it before showing you all.”

Annabeth and Percy looked at eachother, the same thoughts, concerns and hopes crossing their minds.

“Can you take a few steps in it?” Annabeth said tentatively. Much to the students' hopes, Chiron nodded and both dancers ran to his side to help him stand. He held both of them as he heaved himself up and momentarily wobbled. He then pushed away their arms as he slowly made a few steps across the dance floor. He made his way towards the ballet bar, his hand stretching towards it. At this moment, Nico walked in, his jaw dropping before immediately resuming to a neutral facade.

“Nice leg,” Nico commented before making his way to the bar. Percy and Annabeth, once again, made eye contact thinking ‘what's up with him?’.

“ You ask him,” Annabeth hissed.

“No you ask him,”Percy mouthed as he nodded his head towards Nico.

“No, you!”

“I’m not asking him. Besides, he’s your dance partner,” Percy whispered. At this, Annabeth knew that Percy made a valid point. If there was anybody Nico trusted, besides Hazel for some apparent reason, it was Annabeth. The two danced together their entire lives, Nico couldn’t hide anything from her- not even his crush on Percy which many other people had seen as a crush on Annabeth herself. Annabeth on the other hand, could clearly tell the difference between jealousy and having a crush. Other than Annabeth and Jason, Nico refused for anyone else to know.

Annabeth sighed, shooting daggers at Percy as she got up and walked towards Nico. For the next 5 minutes, Nico and Annabeth stretched side by side in silence while Chiron and Percy chatted on the other side of the room.

“Soo.. how are things going with your routine?” Annabeth started as she leaned over her leg at the bar. Nico grunted something incomprehensible as he tried to avoid her by doing a plié. Annabeth joined him, asking him to speak up.

“Will walked out.”

“Why?”

“I played a dumb prank on him about getting injured.” Annabeth had to pinch herself to prevent herself from gasping. Nico? Her lifelong dance partner made… a joke? Pranked someone? Was this actually Nico?

“Well, why did you do it?”

“I was tryin to prove that Ballet dancers aren’t so uptight.”

“What exactly did you do?” Annabeth’s tone dipped and sounded slightly suspicious but either way, Nico did not notice.

“...Pretended to get injured… but that isn’t even the problem. My problem is that my chicken of a partner called me a bumbling, incompetent, priveleged idiot and then, then… they just bailed on me!”

Later, when Annabeth, Percy and Jason were in the cafe, Annabeth retold Percy and Jason about her earlier conversation with Nico- not sparing a single detail about the clear distress the situation was causing him.

“Happy now Jason? Paired Nico up with a damned jerk,” Percy said aggressively.

“I didn’t think he was such a big a bitch as you did!” Jason argued. Annabeth could sense the tension between the two men and decided to push them apart. She stood between them with her hands resting on her hips.

“I told you two so we could help fix what happened; not just argue over it and point fingers.”

“I never liked the damned sunflower anway,” Percy huffed. Annabeth resisted a giggle from Percy’s terrible insult.

“Anyway, someone needs to talk to him- see his point of view, try and get them over the petty argument.”

“Petty? Will insulted him over nothing!” Jason almost shouted, his aggressive and protective side shining through.

“Which we can all agree was wrong. But.” She glared at the men. “We also know that Nico can and will hold grudges over anything as long as time lasts.”

In agreement, they decided to all visit Will because there was no way in hell that Annabeth was letting Percy and Jason talk to Will alone.

Somewhere in the Dance studio... Calypso was pissed. It seemed that most days, she was thinking more about Leo than she’d prefer to. Sure, he was gorgeous- naturally gifted in the looks (and don’t tell him this but also the personality department) with his lucious brown curls that framed his face perfectly and the beautiful glint he’d have in his eye when he danced and they way his teeth would glimmer when he smiled like the true definition of pearly whites. But, she was also wondering about his whereabouts, more and more frequently.

She had checked the cafe, Studio 2 and Dionysus’s office (she did not know what to think of him) with no sign of Leo whatsoever. She knew that there would be only one person who would know where Leo was- Hazel. However, it seemed that Leo and Hazel both had something in common- the inability to be found anywhere.

Finally, she found her about to head out for the day entirely.

“Hey, Hazel.” Calypso tapped her on the shoulder, pulling her away from her conversation with Frank. “Have you seen Leo anywhere?”

With no tact whatsoever, Hazel stuttered out a ‘no’ that had Calypso raising her eyebrow in suspicion at her- clearly not believing the lie. Internally, Hazel forced herself to calm down and think. What had Leo mentioned, what could she use, what could she lie about?

Think Hazel, think!

Leo had mentioned saying something about an appointment- yes! Hazel mentally prepared herself and the words came magically stumbling out of her mouth- rolling off her tongue as if she lied on a daily basis.

“Well… you can’t tell anyone okay?” Hazel whispered convincingly, drawing Calypso's attention in. “ You can’t let Leo know that I told you this but he’s at an appointment, for his knee. He injured some time ago when we attempted a lift badly and well, you know…”

Calypso immediately felt regretful. It was like she was truly the villain half of the dancers here thought her to be. No wonder he was barely putting any effort into the dance! Not only was he injured but he was injured and doing ballet- a style he wasn’t so regularly familiar with. And she had been treating him like shit about it as well! She could feel the guilt slowly creeping into her.

“Oh my, Hazel.... I’m so, so sorry,” she managed to say. Hazel, also overwhelmed with guilt, wanted to take back the lie and just say the truth. Leo was at work to pay for his dance fees- why was he so ashamed of it! Hazel offered to pay for him but he would refuse everytime. She wished that he’d let her pay for him- her father had more money than he cared for and oftentimes, Nico and Hazel found themselves paying for everything they and their friends could truly desire- not that they minded. This was the one thing she could do for Sammy but not Leo and for it, her thoughts taunted her.

At least Sammy accepted her money, her help. Gods, don’t think like that Hazel. Money can’t save everyone, you know that Hazel.

Hazel glanced back up to see Frank waving at her and could only manage a small sullen smile.

On the way to Studio A... Calypso needed to get back to Studio A and perhaps find some edits for their routine- maybe lighten the ballet on Leo. Maybe Leo preferred Salsa because it was easier on his knee? It didn’t make sense to Calypso but despite not wanting to admit it, she had seen how happy it had made him. She’d have to ask Hazel or Dionysus about the technique of it but she had taken a few classes in it before and so she tried a few steps she’d seen Leo do before.

She soon realised that he made it look a lot easier than it actually was- she remembered how she had insulted salsa and it’s supposed ‘lack of technique’. But then, she also remembered how he’d insulted her by saying she wasn’t the ‘best ballet dancer’. What did that even mean? Her- not the best? Impossible. She had worked too hard her entire life for that to be possible.

For the sake of Leo and his knee (and reliving some of her guilt), Calypso persevered and tried to teach herself some basic salsa moves. The basics weren’t too hard, it was simply that trying to com[pletely abandon her ballet technique wasn’t very easy and subsequently, she found herself looking very stiff.

“What are you… doing?” a seemingly alarmed voice, that belonged to none other than her rival, called out. Flawless teeth, truffles of soft hair and glass like eyes- Luke Castellan walked in, his lips pulled into a smug smile that truly tempted Calypso to smack him.

“None of your business, Castellan,” Calypso quickly snapped.

“Castellan?” He turned towards her with an innocent look that quickly turned malicious. “That’s not what you were moaning under me whe-”

“-Shut up. That’s over, we’re over. We were over ages ago. It’s not happening again. Not after you lied to me.”

Luke frowned, his features seemingly cute but Calypso knew better than to trust what he portrayed on his face. When it came to Luke, the quote ‘there is no art to find the mind's construction in face’ should really be taken seriously. He moved himself so that he was working at the bar that was in front of the very mirror that Calypso was using. Calypso ignored him, going over the routine over and over again. However, Luke seemed determined to get in her way so he continued to stretch in front of the mirror until Calypso completely snapped.

“What?” Her hands were on her hips in a threating manner and face looked like she was ready to commit murder.

“Oh nothing.” Luke shrugged before quickly speaking again. “It’s just, I’d never imagine you’d actually partner with such… scum I guess.”

“A, why do you care who I partner with? B, Leo isn’t that bad,” Calypso reluctantly defended him. Leo to her definitely was that bad, but she sure as hell was not letting Luke know that.

“It’s a bit sad how you really downgraded after me… and I doubt that your nachos boy will be able to guarantee you a spot on the team…” Luke trailed.

Calypso had to admit that the name ‘nachos boy’ was hilarious and she definitely intended on calling Leo that some time.

“Are you okay?” Calypso’s concerned voice immediately threw off Luke. “Or have you just not seen a mirror in a while? Because anything could be considered an upgrade after you. Leo? That’s like what? A Triple upgrade in the least- Let it be known, when it comes to how good looking people at this studio are, you are like basically the last person.”

“And yet, you dated me. No, you pursued me even,” Luke teased, his voice with undertones of malice like a poison laced apple- sweet talking with a bitter aftertaste.

“People make mistakes.”Calypso shrugged casually as she grabbed her bag and left the room.

In the musical theatre office... “We just… wanted to make sure you and Nico were doing well with your routine,” Annabeth urged Will who refused to talk to Percy or Jason.

“So Nico sends other dancers to talk for him now?” Will frowned, relatively upset that Nico didn’t come to him. Sure, he had been really harsh and Nico did deserve an apology from him but he was hoping that Nico would come to him, not his three older and more experienced friends who seemed very threatening.

“He um, well Nico didn’t send us..” Jason said, slowly realising their mistake.

“So you decided to come and talk to me about our problem on his behalf without his permission or his acknowledgement? Did he even directly tell any of you what happened?”

“He told Annabeth!” Percy defended.

“And you wonder why we don’t get along,” Will sighed and facepalmed. “ Well, if it makes you feel any better, me and Nico are perfectly fine.”

“You guys… have talked?” Annabeth asked warily.

“We will.” And with that, Will waved them off.

9PM- Rehearsal room A Nico’s turns were consistent and his warm breath was forced out of his chest and he heavily breathed. The lights of the studio were all turned off except for the rehearsal room he was occupying. He could feel his leg muscles burning, telling him to stop but he ignored it, forcing his body into a state of pure divinity- his arms spread like a black swan, ethereal and elegant. His olive skin was shiny, a thin layer of sweat across his body and beads of perspiration forming on his forehead as he carried on moving. His feet pranced, hopped, turned, kicked, swept and jumped. In the lighting he looked like a god with his onyx eyes, framed by his dark eyelashes and messy hair that moved with his every step.

Click clack. Click Clack.

Immediately, Nico stopped, recognising the sound. He turned down the classical music and took a few bows, the sarcasm in his movement clear.

“Thank you, thank you,” Nico drawled, clearly slightly pissed.

“I didn’t even get to clap.” Will pouted. “Did my shoes give a good reminder?”

Nico nodded but refused to continue speaking to him. He refused to speak to Will until he felt like talking to him again- he wanted a decent apology which should include Mcdonalds and wine. Speaking of wine, Nico definitely wanted some after the day he’d had. He knew Hazel always had something delicious but she lived near their parents and that always presented the possibility of his father popping in- not that he really hated his father, it was his wife, Persephone (who had given Nico a perfume that had a flower that he was allergic to).

“Are you not gonna talk to me?” Will asked, his hands in his pocket and with a slightly disappointed tone.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I overreacted to something that was seemingly innocent and I shouldn’t have been such a…”

“Bitch?” Nico filled in.

Will let out a whole hearted laugh. “ Yeah, I guess bitch is the right word. Anyway, I’m really sorry that I called you that…I shouldn’t have judged you based on your friends.”

“Being forgiven will not be so easy.”

“Do you need a Happy meal?” Will teased until Nico’s silence filled the room. “Wait, seriously, just a happy meal? Deal.”

“Well, now that you mention it, some wine would be nice. Maybe a day away from the studio,” Nico mused as he stuffed his stuff into his bag carelessly. He’d hate himslef when he had to organise it at home but it was really late and Nico was hungry as fuck.

“I hear that Chiron is taking out some students to the beach this week. I’m pretty sure Calypso is coming, she’ll let me tag along and I’m sure Annabeth will drag you there anyway. We can have our… reunion then,” Will decided as they walked out of the studio. Nico stopped as he fished out the studio keys and locked up the font doors. Nico wasn’t truly fond of the beach but it was free food and a chance to hang around his friends.

“Sure.” Nico nodded. “It’s a date.”

Will watched as Nico got into his car. For some reason, Will felt himself blush at those very words- It’s a date.

Those words ended up replaying in Will’s head until they met again on Saturday.

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shamelesslypoetic · 4 years

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Not Today

Wordcount: 1.5k

Pairings: Blink and you’ll miss it dukexiety. Logince, could be read as one-sided but I think of it as returned ;)

Warnings: Embarassment, some self-deprecating thoughts, vague ending, Roman being a gay train wreck you can't look away from

-----------------

‘Fashionably late’ was Roman’s latest statement these days and though Logan didn’t necessarily like it Roman thought he must still have some sense of agency against the increasingly hindering crush he’d developed in the past few months.

Right now, however, he couldn’t help but agree as he ran out of theatre practice to the cafeteria, desperately trying to catch some time with Logan before his next class. His heart pounded in his chest, skin prickling with nerves as he glanced down at his wrist and promptly disregarded the clock, it was all gibberish and he only wore it because Logan had got it for him anyway.

The bustling cafeteria pulled the theatre loving geek in with all its colorful chatter and smiling faces, the laughs behind them bubbly and inviting.

This school was his home, and had been for as long as he could remember.

Still, in favor of finding some random group to hang out with, his eyes scanned around the crowded spaces for one person in particular, bumping shoulders good-naturedly and ignoring a scowl here, a biting retort there until he finally found his target.

The impossibly cute and endearingly rambly Logan, sitting alone in a far table with his closed fist propping his cheek up and a book open in front of him, had his eyes closed. Roman’s heart swelled at the sight, workaholic stupor having forced the object of his affection into an unplanned nap. Logan always pushed himself to such states and then some. That determination and sharp intelligence etched itself across the bruised quality of his amor’s eyelids and it was enough to knock Roman off his balance. He sank into the bench and started yammering away to quell the force of the longing inside him.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty!” Roman trilled loudly, the arm sliding against the table pushing a food tray away as he bumped the other sophomore’s shoulder.

Logan started, letting out a very dignified yelp as his eyes snapped open and his shoulders rose in alarm.

“Hold on, your glasses are smudged,” Roman noted, squinting. “Lemme just...” He raised his hands up as Logan barely had time to turn and took the glasses off his face. He delicately held it between his hands, words pushing out of him in a flurry far too passionate for the present situation, especially seeing as one of the would-be participants of the conversation had yet to manage a word in the wake of his crazed Chemistry partner.

“Ro-Roman?”

Roman blabbed on, acutely aware of his companion and trying not to show it with every ounce of his Disney adoring being, going off, piling on the words blocking his ‘I love you’ from exploding out of him. “Classy guys such as yourself can’t be seen like that, no siree.” Roman trained his gaze on the thick-rimmed square frames in his hands rather than the strong tea brown that typically looked through them.

“Roman?” Logan said again, impatience trickling into his voice of elegant fountain pens on parchment paper.

“But don’t worry I gotcha,” Roman continued a train of thought from earlier that he was sure his chemistry partner hadn’t quite caught as he cleaned the lenses, but the glittering sing-song coming out of him just wouldn’t stop. “Nerds gotta look out for each other, right Lo? Of course I’m right who would you possibly sacrifice this ravishing company for--”

Logan persisted, “Roman!”

Roman turned his head as he let go of the edge of his shirt, “Whaaaat?” His drawl broke off into a flustered noise between confusion and awe as he fully alighted on the bare face and the slightly skewed necktie. “Whoa-uh...”

“Roman you startled me!” Logan said but Roman wasn’t listening, too lost in sharp edges and a jawline spawned from a knight’s sword, accented by arching, sweeping eyebrows and perfect, dark eyes. The wannabe actor’s breath caught in his throat as his mouth fell open and an itching blush quickly creeped up his nose. His hand trembled in pure gay disaster style as he took in the exasperated face in front of him once more, eyes hungrily tracing every dimension as if he could learn all the edges, as if he could fold the memory into his brain to call it whenever he wanted if he stared long enough. And yet, he was afraid if he got any closer like he so wanted to that wherever his skin touched the other’s it would come away hot and colored bright crimson. Just like the blush across his face.

Logan gave Roman a weird look as he felt his face redden, wordless in stark contrast to the way he’d just been chatting away with all the conviction of a hummingbird that somehow managed to learn human dialect.

“Why are you staring?” he asked, a hand cautiously coming to Roman’s arm. “Is there something on my face?”

Roman didn’t answer, far too transfixed and a note of worry knotted the other’s words, the elegant, incredibly sophisticated voice all Roman could now hear. Everything else, the chatter, the bustle, fell muffled under Logan’s melodic words, all but white sound to the theatre enthusiast.

“Roman?” Logan said again and tightened his hold on the boy’s arm, the feverish skin underneath poking out from the cuff of his letterman jacket’s sleeve.

Logan slid his hand down to check Roman’s roaring pulse and a rolling shiver coursed through Roman the way the cool assured hands felt holding him. It was too much. The press of skin without any space to spare, the absent sweeping of Logan’s thumb, the way it fit so perfectly on Roman’s vien as if it were already carving out a place there. Too much for Roman’s frail gay heart.

Before the older of the two sophomores could say anything more, his glasses shot across the air and Roman slapped them onto his face with a force that had Logan reeling backwards, hold on the other faltering as he sputtered, “Ah!” he gave a sharp cry, blinking rapidly.

“Roman, what the fuck!?”

The word Logan would normally never use for its rudeness escaped him by his temper and Roman finally stirred which was arguably worse than the state of frozen horror as his mind chanted shit shit shit shit! and the frantic, uneven thu-thump carried on against his ribcage.

“I, I gotta go!” he stammered, grabbing his bag from the bench and neglecting the unicorn notebook falling from it.

Logan stared at him, a purple blossom appearing on the slope of that perfect pointed nose, hitching Roman’s breath as he held onto his bag’s strap.

“Sorry, Specs, I’d love to stay but I’m gonna be late for my next class at this rate, and not even fashionably so!”

Shut up, shut up! The last of his common sense hissed as he backed away, bumping his hip against the table and wincing more at Logan’s incredulous face than the impact. “Love these get-togethers, babe!” OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

Roman could see it now, the hole he’d dug himself, gaping wide in the middle of a graveyard where he’d soon be put out of his ineloquent misery and then buried, never to be seen embarrassing himself again. “O-Okay, see you around, bye!”

He ran, because really what else could Roman have done, when all compliments and flattery drifted from him every time he found himself in front of someone so damnably handsome, when he was confronted by feelings he normally only mimicked?

So, blind and deaf to all around him, his feet carried him to the Chemistry lab, early for once. The Chemistry lab!

Roman mentally prepared his will, his plushies would go to Princess and his writings would be published with not an extra edit and he’d have to tell someone to apologize on his behalf for teasing the emo in seventh period about his crush on his twin: Remus. Who would have nothing, because he’s a stinky bastard.

Roman steeled himself with little more than sheer pride as he took a seat. But then he ended up folding his arms on the metal desk and putting his head down. He pretended to sleep for the whole period.

Which is not to say that his skin didn’t warm as Logan took his place beside him, that he didn’t want to apologize for such stupid behaviour, that when Logan told him -- “Sorry, for, for yelling at you back there, I can have the worst temper and you...you tend to...exaserbate that.” -- he didn’t sheepishly smile but none of it mattered, not even when Logan slid the notebook toward him with a whispered, “You forgot this.”

Why? Because he was a coward. For all his bravado and pomp, he was an utter fool for Logan and a coward on top of it.

He’d tell him in time. He’d tell him pretty poetry and have flowers in his hands, he’d scour the shops for Logan’s outlandish favourite of gladiolus and preferably also take him out somewhere nice, that new diner perhaps or stargazing in that meadow on the outskirts of town. He’d tenderly hold his face and ask if that’s okay and then he’d lean in and kiss him, slow and sweet, chaste and gentle. A bit far reaching and maybe even presumptuous. But feigning sleep gave plenty of time to daydream.

One day Roman would tell Logan that it was his own otherworldly looks that turned his dramatic classmate into a bumbling, savage mess. But not today.

Today, Roman would apologize. And that would have to be enough somehow.

-----------------

A/N: Another one based on art by @sleepy-starling because I'm unoriginal. Hope you like it and that the words are treating you well whether you're reading or writing them! ^^

#ts roman #ts logan #roman sanders #logan sanders #logince #fluff #friends to lovers #highschool sweethearts #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #implied logince #og post #my writing #art inspired fic #dried ink

49 notes · View notes

reader-fics · 4 years

Text

Ward (Part One)

Requested by Anon

Warnings: minor character death

Summary: Imagine being the ward of a powerful Queen who was invited to peace talks with Camelot’s new king, Arthur, after Uther’s death. After an attack by a magic user, you find your destiny on a dramatically different path.

A/N: I have been working on this FOREVER and it ended up stretching so long that I split it up into a few parts. Never fear! I’ll post them soon. A/N written in the year of our lord 2020: hey y’all! It’s been a WHILE. I was feeling a little nostalgic and logged back into tumblr for the first time in a Long time to find that this little blog is still around. Holy shit. There were 500 of you when I left and now there’s more than 1k? That blows my mind. Anyway, I found this in my drafts and I never posted it. I can’t say I write with too much frequency anymore, but you never know what’ll happen. Much love XO -B

The day the herald arrived with the news of King Uther’s death you could have sang for joy. Not that you actually did, of course, as that would have been highly insensitive and also improper. As the queen’s ward you were expected to behave with a certain decorum at all times. You weren’t quite at the status of a princess, so you weren’t immune to legal hazards by all means, but common folk wouldn’t dare to challenge your authority either way. Needless to say, you were still excited.

As soon as the herald had delivered his message, plans were drawn up for a grand caravan to Camelot in order to cement new peace treaties with the new king, son of the old. You’d heard wonderful things about the boy, but only hoped he wouldn’t share the same views has his father. Magic was tolerated in your aunt’s kingdom, which made the horrid stories you’d heard about Uther persecuting those with magic all the more awful.

You had expected to stay home and look after the affairs of the court while your aunt was away, being queen and doing important royal things. You had no true power, but Lysa trusted you to get things done all the same. When your aunt informed you to instruct the servants to pack a trunk of your clothes and belongings, you were rightfully confused.

“Aunt Lysa, I don’t understand. Why must I come too?” You asked her, holding the servants from leaving with a gentle gesture of your hand. Lysa sighed and smiled tiredly at you.

“One day you’ll take my place as queen, Y/N. I cannot bear children–frankly, I have no desire to–and you are the only one I could bear to give my kingdom to.”

“But isn’t your cousin supposed to be your heir? Not me, surely!”

“I won’t let my dear cousin Albert within a mile of this crown if I can help it. No, I have had you proclaimed as my heir since your mother passed. I simply never told you because I did not want that burden upon you. As my ward you would receive the same education and knowledge of running a kingdom, so why change your title?” Aunt Lysa’s crow’s feet crinkled as she smiled again.

Your heart nearly stopped. Sure, all your life you knew that you had to grow into your responsibility to lead your aunt’s kingdom, but you’d always assumed that your role would be more behind-the-scenes. You’d assumed you were to be an advisor, standing silently among the wings and disappearing into the background. You’d never imagined having to bear the weight of your Aunt’s crown.

“Me?” You sobbed. “But, auntie–”

“Hush,” she soothed, wrapping her arms around your shoulders in a warm hug, “as of yet I am still young enough. You won’t have to take my place for years to come.”

“For years and years.” You nodded firmly, resting your head on her shoulder.

“While we’re in Camelot, my love, you just remember one thing.” She warned as she stroked your hair.

“What’s that?” You asked.

“No magic.” She said seriously, her voice taking on a somber tone. You nodded sadly. Your education as the queen’s ward had covered everything from maths and sciences, to interrelationships between kingdoms, and, yes, magic too. You weren’t very good at it, but you often found it convenient to light candles with only a wave of your hand.

How stern could a king be to forbid such time-saving devices?

—

Aunt Lysa wasted no time in preparing travel plans for herself and you in order to reach Camelot as soon as possible. She’d assumed that many other kingdoms would be trying to do the same and renew their treaties as well, so the earlier the better. She sent the herald back on his way to make sure Camelot’s new King knew you were coming.

Your trunk had been packed and loaded onto the carriage and you and your aunt disembarked. It was a comfortable journey to Camelot; only a few days in the slow bumbling carriage. It was capable in a day or so on horseback. You soon grew accustomed to the lazy rocking and jostling of the carriage. You and your aunt spent most of the trip in silence; you figured that she had a lot on her mind and thought it best not to disturb her.

As soon as you arrived, you threw back the curtains to look out the window, admiring Camelot’s citadel and it’s tall spires caressing the clouds. Much of the court was outside to celebrate your arrival. You looked to your aunt and found that she was at ease, relaxed into her chair. Right before she was to step out of the carriage and greet the people, she pulled her crown out from her bag and placed it carefully atop her curls. You always marveled at how she was very nearly a completely different person with her crown on than without. You were able to watch the transformation right in front of your eyes.

She stepped out of the carriage and you heard a smattering of cheers, and perhaps a trumpet or two. You lingered in the carriage as you knew your job was not to be seen nor heard. Tugging lightly at a loose thread on the curtain, you watched out the window as Camelot’s king, a young fair-haired man you recalled being named Arthur, kissed her hand. He was very graceful and poised for one you knew was an adept warrior. You were just musing on how fighting was actually a very graceful skill when you heard your aunt’s voice floating over towards you.

“Let me introduce my ward and heir, Y/N…” she told the king, gesturing back towards the carriage. You jumped up, terribly surprised, treading momentarily on your gown and cursing under your breath.

“Hello.” You said breathlessly as your toes hit the ground. Aunt Lysa shot you a chastising look as you forgot your decorum. “Your highness.” You added hastily.

Arthur reached to kiss your hand as well and you blushed. How did your aunt do this? All of the propriety and rules made you want to rip your fancy dress off and waltz off onto the woods somewhere and become a hermit. You’d heard rather fond stories of one who lived completely isolated from all human contact.

That sounded divine.

You could feel the eyes of the court boring holes into you, and you kept your eyes demurely on the floor. Quick! Say something witty!

“Thank you for welcoming us to your lovely home–kingdom!” You sputtered, wincing as it came out. That was awkward. Arthur seemed to be watching you with a mixture of curiosity and pity. Your face flushed and you refocused your gaze onto the toes of your boots. They were slightly scuffed, as one might expect from actually walking and running in shoes, rather than sitting still all day like your aunt had hoped you would.

After more formal introductions and a whole lot of dignified compliments, a servant led you to your chambers. He said to merely notify the guard outside in the hall of you needed anything at all. You smiled and thanked him, turning on your heel to explore your rooms. They were very comfortably furnished and you were surprised to find that your belongings had already been brought up.

The elegantly plush four poster bed called to you. Oh, how you longed to dive into the soft blankets and pillows and ignore the world outside! You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, running your hands over the soft comforter. Later. Yes, you would sleep later.

A knock on the door disturbed you from your thoughts. It was just a serving girl, who let herself in quietly. She was carrying an armful of goods, which she quickly deposited on the table.

“Good day, my lady.” She smiled politely. “The Queen Lysa has sent me to prepare you for the feast tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary–”

“The queen has insisted.” She smiled apologetically, almost as if she knew you were going to say that. “Sit.” She commanded gently, and you moved to the chair that she’d set out.

The serving girl was certainly experienced in her ways. It didn’t take very long at all before you hair was tied back in an elegant and sweeping updo, your face was painted with all sorts of sweet-smelling cosmetics, and you were nearly ready to put on your gown.

The serving girl seemed to produce one out of thin air. You had never seen it before, but it was certainly gorgeous and fit you well. From what you could surmise, it seemed like it was a gift from King Arthur. How he’d known your measurements was beyond you. Once you were laced in and nearly couldn’t breath, you were dismissed to go and find your aunt.

You ran into her in the hallway. She was dressed very much the same as you, just in a different color. Without saying a word, she smiled and took your arm with an air of motherly comfort she always seemed to exude around you. Arm in arm, you entered the ballroom to waves of applause. Your breath was nearly ripped from your chest.

You’d never seen so much splendor and magnificence together in one room. Richly decorated tapestries draped the walls, shining tiles on the floors. The people, too, were spectacularly dressed, whirling around and preening like birds of paradise. The buzz of laughter and gossip filled the room like a haze on a humid summer afternoon, languid and sticky. Lysa’s fuss all made sense now. You fit right in among them with your jeweled hair and flowing gown.

When Arthur swept in to the hall, his red cape swinging mightily behind him, a silence dropped into every mouth. He smiled at your Aunt, once more welcoming her and thanking her for coming. Your eyes wandered around the room, your mind traveling with it.

Arthur continued speaking for what felt like eons, but not a single word registered in your mind. When the audience began applauding, you did too, mimicking their excitement. It was simply all too overwhelming. Lysa’s kingdom was a small one; you rarely found yourself surrounded by such a large and diverse group of people. It was all so interesting.

Lysa was seated at Arthur’s right hand. You, along with much of the rest of the upper court, took the table to the side where you could overlook both the royals there and the rest of the ballroom. Unfortunately, the gentleman next to you was far too chatty for your liking, talking your ear off and taking your hand in his when he mentioned his lack of wife. You politely excused yourself from the table, saying you needed some air.

That was definitely true.

Upon your return, you were relieved to see that said gentleman was entertaining some poor man on his other side with stories of what you could only guess to be battle glory. Based off of his portly figure and sunken-in features, they must have been ancient stories. You giggled a little to yourself and took your seat quickly to make sure not to disturb him from his story.

The night dragged on and you picked at the food on your plate. It was all delicious and expertly served, of course, but you simply had no desire to eat it. Being in a strange place so far from home made you uncomfortable, and your appetite was affected.

Taking your fork and nudging a piece of potato around your plate, allowing your mind to wander far and wide. You entertained yourself with thoughts of returning home. You pondered what you’d do first. Perhaps you’d head down to the stables and go riding into the meadows and thickets, with nothing but the breeze as your guide and fortune as your master. The thought of being in the warm open air rather than this drafty ballroom entranced you greatly. You could nearly feel the sun on your face and the winds whipping your hair around as a plaything.

Abrupt screaming broke you from your daydream. You looked up to see a hooded, shadowy figure scream something in a sharp, guttural tongue and gesture its hands towards your aunt. She recoiled as if struck by a sword. Her chair was flung backwards and she was thrown like a ragdoll across the ballroom. Your heart nearly stopped and you jumped to your feet, pushing a table out of the way to make it to her side.

“Aunt Lysa!” You screeched, trying to fling yourself forward to protect her, to save her, to cover her frail body with your own. Strong arms held you back, corded around your waist and entrapping your arms by your side. You thrashed against them; Aunt Lysa needed you! Your eyes blurred with tears and your throat burned from the ragged sobs that escaped your lips.

The same arms that held you back slowly drew you backwards. You turned to see a black haired servant pulling you away from the fray without taking his eyes off of your aunt. His eyes glinted golden in the firelight. Armored guards surrounded your aunt and hurried her away. You screamed after them. Lysa shouldn’t be taken anywhere without you! You needed her! How were you supposed to do anything without her there? The once peaceful banquet hall had turned into a madhouse. Servants and guests alike raced about, seemingly searching for safety and comfort.

In the chaos, you trod again on the hem of your gown and tripped, legs becoming tangled in the layers of fabric. Your head cracked sharply along a table and the world faded out, pain blossoming until it had taken over and become everything. Physical pain, yes, but also emotional pain. Aunt Lysa was… Was…

Find Part Two here!

#merlin x reader #Merlin #BBC Merlin #Merlin imagine #imagine #reader #reader insert #Merlin reader insert #reader fic #reader fanfiction #you

85 notes · View notes

agnesacacia · 4 years

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Hansy Holidays

Pansy Parkinson hated these things. These insufferable fundraiser galas her mother insisted on throwing every few months, where they would honor some wizarding organization or another and all prominent members of wizarding society were invited to donate toward the cause. Because Pansy's mother, like all good pure blood witches, was a philanthropist. Honest to Merlin, that's what the woman called herself, like it was her career. A position that had been drilled into Pansy so hard that even at Hogwarts when she'd had to discuss her future career plans, she'd insisted on 'philanthropist' like it was a job title. She'd never forget the way Professor Snape had rolled his eyes at her and dismissed her as a silly, idiot girl with no real ambition. Which, to be fair, back then that's exactly what she was.

Sure she did well in school. Well enough to be at the top of her house. Not as smart as Hermione Granger (the twat) but she did alright. But a career just wasn't what someone like her did. She was a Parkinson and Parkinsons lived off of their investments and old family money. They contributed to the wizarding world through fancy parties and donations to politicians. And they married other pure blood members and continued to make pure blood children who would carry on that legacy.

But now.

Now Pansy was twenty two, still living with her parents, and woefully and completely single without any sort of career option to speak of. Her days were spent planning these horrible gala events with her mother and becoming increasingly aware that she would rather be doing anything else in the world.

Especially when these galas involved them. The Golden Trio. Harry bloody Potter and his two little minions were always at the top of the guest list and any event that was hosted had to have at least one of the three to be considered a success.

So here she was, glowering across the room as she watched Hermione Granger, looking absolutely fab in a chic new designer robe, her bushy hair tamed into an elegant bun. Weasley stood at her side, looking just as fab in a dark purple robe that made him look distinguished and important, which she guessed he was now. Both of them. Weasley was an auror for Merlin's sake. And Granger was already a top ranking official at the ministry of magic, working in magical creatures rights or some such shit. It only made Pansy feel even more inadequate. Why yes, I'm a philanthropist. The phrase made her stomach turn.

Potter was no where to be found, but that was nothing new. He had probably been roped into some horrid discussion about goblin rights or some such rubbish by all the diplomats here tonight. Sometimes Pansy actually felt sorry for him.

Across the room Pansy's eye caught that unmistakable white blond hair. Draco bobbed into view, looking miserable as always. He caught her eye and nodded in her direction. She forced a smile back, but made no move toward him. There was nothing left to be said between them.

Draco's parents sent him to these things in their steed because they were both too traumatized to leave their manor. They'd been mysteriously and inexplicably pardoned for their war crimes at the insistence of Harry Potter himself, and for that the Malfoys donated to every cause Potter endorsed. It made very little sense, especially to Pansy, but it was why it was so important that Potter be seen at these events. Potter meant money. Money meant success and success meant that the Parkinson family upheld their status as wizarding royalty.

Pansy rolled her eyes and gulped down the last of her elf-made sparkling wine. It was sweet and gritty on her tongue and her stomach rolled for a moment. She hadn't eaten much that day and her head suddenly swam. She needed some fresh air. It's not as if she'd be missed. No one was talking to her anyway. People rarely did.

She exited the party off the main floor out into a secluded courtyard garden. It was a cool November night and the air felt good on her skin. The smell of jasmine surrounded her and she relished the quiet, the calm.

A small sound made her turn around. It was then that she realized she wasn't alone. A figure stood hunched against the garden wall. Pansy lit her wand and drew closer. As her eyes adjusted to the night, she found herself face to face with none other than Harry Potter.

He still looked the same as he did when they were in school even though someone had clearly tried to tame him. He still had that same messy black hair, same glasses that sat a little too crooked on his face (why didn't he get a new pair for Merlin's sake?) and upon closer inspection, Pansy soon realized he was wearing the same bottle green dress robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Her eyes swept the hem at his feet and wrists and she was little surprised to find it had been altered rather poorly with a growth charm to adjust to his height.

She resisted the urge to scoff. The man was the savior of the entire wizarding world, had endless funds from his own family name, as well as that of the Blacks which was no small fortune, not to mention the fact that any robe maker would happily have him wear any of their designs free of charge (simply for the publicity...it's how Granger remained so well dressed) and yet here he was, at one of the most posh galas of the year, still wearing the same dress robes from Hogwarts.

How did he even exist?

"Pansy Parkinson," he said her name as a statement and a rather slurred one.

"You're smashed, Potter," she answered and sure enough he brought a flask of fire whiskey to his lips and took a swig. He cheers to her, then took another longer drag.

"You best be careful," Pansy said, wrinkling her nose. The man reeked of the stuff. She was surprised she didn't smell him the moment she went outside. "About a dozen reporters are here, and whatever truce you have with Rita Skeeter will doubtfully apply to the rest of them. No one would ignore the Chosen One being completely pissed at the gala for the benefit of war orphans."

"S'pose not," he said. He pocketed the flask and pushed away from the wall. He took a tottering step and promptly stumbled into a bush. He landed hard on his knees, then rolled to the ground before settling on his back giggling.

Merlin.

Pansy pursed her lips. She should just leave him here. It's not like she and Potter were friendly after all. In fact, other than a few cordial greetings over the years, she hadn't actually spoken to him since Hogwarts. And of course back then, could that really be considered speaking? It was more like jeering. She was such a shit back then.

She did sort of owe him. There was that whole thing where she tried to turn him into You-Know-Who.

Pansy sighed and pocketed her wand. "Oh go on," she grumbled as she pulled Potter's arm over her shoulder so she could haul him to his feet.

He leaned on her heavily, and Pansy steered him toward the staircase that led up to her personal terrace. She cast a concealment charm as they climbed the steps. Best not to be spotted leading a drunken Potter up to her bedroom. Imagine the scandal.

She led him through her ornate French doors and into her suite to the adjoining bathroom. Waving her wand, she lit the room and deposited the now hiccuping Potter onto the toilet and began rummaging through her medicine cupboard.

"I was saving this for a special occasion," she said as she thrust a vial of pearly pink potion in Harry's direction. "But I guess your needs are greater than mine, so bottoms up."

Potter studied the concoction with eyes that were very nearly crossed. "Wha izzit?" he slurred.

Pansy raised her eyebrows. "You don't get sloshed often enough, do you Potter? It's a sobering potion."

"Who sayz I wanna be sober?" Potter asked her.

Pansy shrugged as she settled herself on the vanity, her legs crossed under her black silk robe. "Fine," she said, "piss your pants in front of half of the Daily Prophet. Be my guest, but don't say I never tried to help. Besides, as smashed as you are, it probably won't make you completely sober. You'll still be a bumbling idiot...don't worry."

Harry glared at her a brief moment before uncorking the vial and tossing the potion back. It took about ten seconds before Pansy could see the effects. His eyes cleared and his pink face faded back to its normal swarthy tan. It was another thirty before he was vomiting.

Pansy couldn't help but smirk. "Forgot to mention that part," she said as Harry glared up at her from the toilet.

When he'd finished he sat back down heavily, took off his glasses and rubbed at his face vigorously. Pansy watch him impassively with her arms and her legs crossed. She summoned a glass and filled it with water. She handed it to him and he muttered a thanks before gulping it down.

Pansy watched as Potter buried his head in his hands, and for the first time since she saw his drunken arse in the courtyard, she wondered just what had driven the Boy Who Lived to get uncontrollably smashed. She thought about just asking him. It's what she would have done if it were anyone else sitting before her. But this was Harry Potter. And she was… well. She was Pansy Parkinson and while she and her family hadn't technically been death eaters, they weren't not death eaters. No matter what her mother pretended to be these days, she and Pansy's father, her aunts and uncles and cousins, they were all happy to sit the sidelines during the war and favor whoever won. To be fair, that's what most pureblood families did. They weren't really all that different than the Prewetts and the Greengrasses and even the Fawleys who never officially declared sides and didn't have any prominent family members representing them as death eaters. But they didn't fight either.

Pansy didn't fight. She didn't fight. That horrid seventh year at Hogwarts...the things those Carrows wanted them to do. What Amycus made her do...the things he did to her. And she'd survived it all by hiding behind her pretty face and her blood status and her last name. No one cared. Not even Snape and McGonnagal, not even the Weasley girl and Longbottom and all those pitiful DA members who fancied themselves saviors. They had new injuries every other day and Pansy thought they were insane, the lot of them. To resist was the die, didn't they see that? And many of them did die. They did.

Even Harry had died.

The Boy Who Lived had died, then lived again. A miracle many still didn't understand, Pansy included. But here he was. The boy wonder. Vomiting in her toilet.

He finally looked up at her and Pansy had a momentary shock that Harry Potter wasn't actually bad looking. Without his glasses, Pansy could clearly see those green eyes everyone always talked about. She realized with a jolt that she'd never actually been close enough to him to actually see. See the way they sort of glowed. Like emeralds, like actual jewels.

Her heart fluttered. And it made her angry. It made her feel vulnerable. And she was so done feeling vulnerable.

"So, Chosen One," Pansy said snidely as she studied her fingernails. "What's with the fire whiskey anyway? Felt like livening up the party out there? I admit it is rather dull."

Harry shook his head. "I've just been going through some things."

Pansy scoffed. "Going through some things? I suppose having thousands of admirers falling at your feet isn't enough for you? Now you've got things?"

Harry glared at her. "You haven't changed a bit, have you, Pansy Parkinson?"

Pansy laughed meanly. "No more than you. Still feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Still fancying yourself the poor little orphan? That's why you're here tonight, right? To help war orphans like yourself? Some job you're doing of it, getting pissed and hiding in a courtyard."

Harry stood up. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

"You don't. All you know is parties and jewels and money and Merlin why am I even talking to you?" He turned to leave. "Thanks for the potion. I'll be going now."

Pansy stood up now. "You think you're the only one who's suffered? You think you're the only one who's got things? We've all got things, Potter. You're the just the only one who's allowed to wallow in them, is that it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry snarled. "I put on a happy face and smile for the bloody cameras and I come to these parties with people who would have stabbed me in the back five years ago, and I do it all because I was there, Pansy. I am the one who saw the dead bodies and the kids crying and I have a godson who will never know his parents, and yes, I was bloody one of them. And where were you that night? Fleeing. Just like the coward you always were. Now if you'll excuse me." He turned to leave again and in a rage Pansy waved her wand with such viciousness that the bathroom door slammed shut.

"Coward, you think I am?" Pansy said softly and her voice was low, dangerous. "Do you have any idea what it was like at Hogwarts that year? Do you have any idea what we all went through, what I went through. Of course not. All you've heard is what your precious girlfriend told you. The blood traitor that the Carrows all but ignored unless she was making trouble. But me? Did they ignore me? Did they let me just be? Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Potter? To be Amycus's little plaything? Because he liked me Potter! He liked me, and it didn't matter that I was a student, that I was a young girl, or that I said no. All that mattered was that he liked me, and he wanted me, and I was pure blood and the Dark Lord promised him pure blood. And no one could protect me. All I could do was endure it all. You think me a coward, do you? For fleeing? You don't know anything, Potter!"

She was crying now and her hands trembled on her wand. She didn't know why she was telling him this. She'd never told anyone, not really. Draco knew, but only because Amycus used to brag to him about it. How he'd stolen his girlfriend. Another way to rub it in Draco's face that he and his father had fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord. Amycus used to whisper things in Draco's ear. Filthy things. The filthy things he'd done to Pansy, and he'd laugh and lick his lips and Draco could do nothing. Nothing except look at her guiltily, pityingly.

Sort of the way Potter was looking at her right now.

She didn't want his pity. She didn't want his guilt. She just wanted him to understand. To understand why she did what she did that night. Why she wanted it all to just...end.

"You're right," Harry said, and he looked like he might vomit again. "I don't know anything. I didn't know. And...I'm sorry. That's...horrible."

Pansy seemed to deflate. She collapsed on the toilet seat, and buried her face in her hands. Potter handed her a wad of toilet paper and she took it, carefully dabbing at her kohl lined eyes.

"I shouldn't have told you that," she muttered. "It's not something I want people...knowing."

Potter sighed and sat down opposite her on the edge of her immaculate bathtub. He sat there quietly for a moment.

"Ginny's chucked me," he said finally.

"What?" Pansy was still drying her eyes, still trying to calm her racing heart.

"It's the things I've been dealing with. Ginny. She's chucked me for some Bulgarian beater, Boris Vulchanov."

"You're kidding," Pansy said.

"I know. I'm being an idiot...I know it doesn't compare to what-"

"That twat!"

"What?"

"That unbelievable twat. I never did like her, no matter what Blaise always said. What a bloody idiot. Chucking the Boy Who Lived for some daft quidditch player. And a foreign one at that."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "What do you c-?"

"I suppose she thinks she's all high and mighty now that she plays for the Harpies."

"I really didn't think you'd-"

"I mean, honestly. Boris Vulchanov? He's not even good looking. And he talks like he's taken one too many bludgers to the head. The bloody idiot."

Potter cocked his head to side. "I don't know what's more strange. Your outrage or the fact that you know who Boris Vulchanov is."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows who Boris Vulchanov is. And if you ask me, he'll never live up to his father's stats. He's too thick."

Potter's mouth was hanging open.

"Ginny bloody Weasley chucks Harry bloody Potter…" Pansy shook her head in disbelief.

Harry frowned. "Well I'd rather her chuck me than stay with me just because I am...who I am."

Pansy leveled him with a glare. "That's not what I meant," she said. "It's just that the two of you… well Merlin if Harry Potter and Ginny bloody Weasley can't make it work, then what's that say for the rest of us?"

"That we're just as fucked as everyone else?"

Pansy surprised herself by laughing.

And Harry cracked a smile.

And Pansy's heart fluttered again.

She heaved a sigh. "Well I take back what I said before. You totally deserve to get smashed." Taking out her wand again, she summoned in a bottle of Scotch, the good kind, the kind she saved for special occasions.

"Whatever they say about muggles," Pansy said as she poured out two glasses. "They know how to make their liquor. Here." She handed him a glass and raised her own. "To Ginny bloody Weasley and Boris Vulchanov. May they both fall off their brooms."

Their glasses clinked and they both took a healthy sip. "Good, eh?"

Potter smacked his lips and nodded. "You know, my uncle used to drink this stuff like it was liquid gold. I always thought he was exaggerating."

"Was it awful? Being raised by muggles?"

Harry snorted. "It was awful being raised by the Dursleys, yes. Because they were muggles? Nah."

They sat in silence a bit longer, each sipping their Scotch, each lost in their own haunted memories.

"I'm sorry," Pansy said. "About what I said earlier. And about...well. You know. When I wanted to hand you over. I thank god every day that no one listened to me."

Harry drained his glass and poured them both another.

And they sat there. Together in Pansy's oversized bathroom, sipping muggle Scotch and silently forgiving each other.

Harry saw Pansy again about a month and a half later. She was standing in line at a shop in Diagon Alley, her arms filled with brightly wrapped parcels. She wore gray robes, stylishly cinched at the waist with a long matching cloak that was buttoned to her throat. A light pink scarf circled her neck and her black hair was windswept, her fringe a bit mussed and her cheeks a bit pink.

Harry caught himself staring before he realized it.

If he was completely honest with himself, he'd thought of Pansy Parkinson more than he'd have liked in the past weeks. It was a bit...annoying really. He often wondered what she was doing, who she was with, what she was wearing that day. It was absurd.

And then there was that trip to Azkaban.

After arresting Corban Yaxley, having taken years to track him down, Harry had wanted to personally escort him to Azkaban, as the man had managed to escape ministry clutches three times already. After depositing him in a high security cell, Harry had found himself standing in front of Amycus Carrow.

The man was lying on a low, hard bed. His legs were crossed as he thumbed through a copy of Witch Weekly. He looked so...at ease. Comfortable. And the rage that hit Harry was so hard that it was alarming. All he could think about was what Pansy had said. What this...scum...had done to her. He nearly reached through the bars and cursed the man right then. He'd settled for incinerating the Witch Weekly.

He watched Pansy pay for her items and exit the crowded shop. It was nearing Christmas and Diagon Alley was a bustle with witches and wizards scrambling to find gifts. Harry followed her outside into the snowy street. She had taken out her wand and was levitating several parcels and shopping bags, making her way toward Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Harry entered the shop behind her and wasn't surprised to find that the store was more crowded than ever. Fred and George had just launched a new product that was selling like wildfire. Harry had actually had a hand in its development and was quite pleased to see its success.

"Messenger Diaries for sale over here," called out a familiar voice. "Step right up, there's enough for everyone. The perfect holiday gift." George was manning the Diaries sections and though his face was a bit red, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

The diaries really were a brilliant new invention and Harry and Ginny had actually gotten the idea from that old diary of Tom Riddle's (though they'd never admit it to anyone but each other). When Ginny joined the Harpies, she'd had to move to Holyhead, of course, which meant she and Harry rarely found time to see each other. And then there was the match schedule which took her around the world and with Harry busy with auror training and his work with the ministry, it was becoming harder and harder for she and Harry to keep in touch. Owls were much too slow, and flooing required a fireplace, and was always a bit uncomfortable. If only there was a way to write messages to one another that they would receive instantly.

"I hate to say it," Ginny had said, "but I sort of wish we had something like Riddle's old diary. It was bloody convenient being able to chat with him all day."

"Well if Riddle could do it, why can't we?" Harry had said. And so he had enlisted Fred and George's creative minds to help. It was quite simple once they got the logistics down. As long as two people had diaries, they could write to each other.

"Like walkie-talkies," Harry had mused, though the twins had no idea what he was talking about. But Fred took it a step further and enhanced the product so that one could chat with anyone else in the world who also had a diary.

"All you have to do," he'd explained, "is write their name at the top of the page, like this." He demonstrated by writing "Ron Weasley" at the top of a random page. "And now you just..." He took out a quill and wrote Hey git, don't think I didn't see you pocket those dung bombs. You owe four sickles or I'm docking it from your pay.

From across the room Harry and Fred had watched Ron's diary chirp. He opened it, read the message and frowned. He turned and made a rude hand gesture at Fred who merely waved.

"Neat, eh?" Fred asked.

"Brilliant," said Harry.

"We're going to make a killing of it. All thanks to you and Ginny. Don't worry, you two will get your share."

"Don't be daft," Harry protested. But Fred and George were very careful accountants. They were always sure Harry got his share in his investment and despite all Harry could do to discourage this, he continued to find fat amounts of gold in his Gringotts vault, deposits marked Weasley Bros Inc.

Harry watched Pansy head straight for the Messenger Diaries. She inspected several different styles, for the twins had different cover designs for sale. There was the standard brown leather, but also an assortment of designs ranging from deep purple with silver stars to vibrant orange and red stripes.

Pansy selected a shimmering pink that came with a matching quill and Harry smirked. He remembered how Ginny had detested the pink one. She then selected an emerald green one before making her way to stand in the curling line to get to the cash register. Harry saw that the twins had hired several new faces to help in the Christmas time rush, among which he spotted Colin and Dennis Creevy. They stood at adjacent registers, each wearing a matching smile and magenta robes.

Harry followed Pansy as she exited the shop and snaked her way through the crowded street, her parcels floating along behind her. She held her head high, her narrow hips sashaying as she strode along, quite oblivious to Harry following her.

She paused outside Madam Malkin's and surveyed a robe in the window display. When she went inside, Harry took out his own messenger diary. He turned to a new page and wrote her name at the top. Pansy Parkinson.

Fancy a cup of tea?

Her response came quicker than he would've thought.

Bout time you've asked. Seeing as you've been following me all afternoon.

Harry laughed out loud.

Meet me at Rosa Lee's in ten minutes?

More like twenty. I've just found a set of robes to die for. Must try on first.

And so Harry found himself, twenty minutes later, sitting in a crowded tea shop, across from Pansy Parkinson as she sipped her tea and nibbled on a biscuit shaped like a snowman.

Her cheeks were still pink from the cold, and her lipstick left red stains on the teacup. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured, painted a bright, festive gold that matched the studs in her ears. And she looked...beautiful.

Harry couldn't help it. She did.

"So," he said. "Er, Christmas shopping?" He nodded at her parcels and bags which now floated above their table, bumping gently into neighboring parcels as other patrons levitated their purchases as well.

"Ah yes," Pansy said. "All the obligatory gifts. New quills for Mum, shiny new cauldron for Dad—one he will never use, mind you. Let's see, a new hat for Grandmum, which she will surely detest but then...she detests everything. Some sweets for the house elves...let's see, what else..."

"Who's the second diary for?"

"Oh, I'm sending that to Daphne. She and her family moved to America, didn't you know? Just before all hell broke out here. I expect they'll move back after Astoria graduates Ilvermorny, but who knows. Daphne seems quite at home there. Met an American bloke she seems quite enamored with. It's a shame really. She's the only real friend I have left." Pansy smiled wistfully and took a sip of tea to hide her sadness. But it was there. Just under all the makeup and beauty potions, Harry could see it.

Harry didn't really know Daphne Greengrass. She was in his year, but being a Slytherin and one of Pansy and Draco's lackies, he never gave her the time of day. Of what he remembered of her, she was quiet, pretty, and was often found sniggering at something mean Pansy or Draco had said about him.

"And what brings you to Diagon Alley? Christmas shopping too?" Pansy asked him politely.

Harry frowned. "Er, yes. Kind of. I—well, Christmas this year might be a bit...awkward for me, considering…."

"Ah," Pansy nodded. "Considering the She-Weasle chucked you and you spend Christmas with her family every year."

Harry nodded. "Yes, she er—owled me that she was bringing Boris home to meet the family. Puts me in a bit of a strange position."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "The twat," she muttered under her breath. And despite the fact that Harry's impulse was to defend Ginny, he couldn't help feeling a perverse thrill at hearing Pansy's disdain. Part of him agreed. Yes, Ginny was a twat. He was angry with her. And everyone else in his life seemed very eager to stay on neutral territory when it came to Harry and Ginny's breakup. And he couldn't blame them, not really. Half of his friends were related to her, for Merlin's sake. And the other half –well….they adored her. Most people did.

But not Pansy. And that was...refreshing.

He raised his teacup and cheersed her. "So I fear my Christmas this year will very much consist of me popping into the Burrow for half an hour, just enough to drop off gifts and ensure Mrs. Weasley's feelings aren't hurt, then spending the rest of the day at home with my very old, surly house-elf and a portrait of a woman who hates my very existence."

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I doubt that a dozen or more wizarding families wouldn't very much welcome the Boy Who Lived at their Christmas table."

"Yes, that's just what I want," said Harry sarcastically. "To spend Christmas dinner being toasted and saluted and asked to recount how I'd died and come back to life. That's in the real spirit of the holiday."

"Perhaps not," said Pansy. "Though might be better than spending Christmas alone."

"I suppose you have some lavish pureblood party to attend?"

Pansy sighed. "Well, yes. The Parkinsons are rather connected. Every Christmas Eve the Notts throw this large, ridiculous dinner party where we purebloods stand around together and congratulate ourselves on our numerous achievements and blessings...and until recently discuss how the muggles and muggleborns were destroying our society. But oh no, not anymore. Now it's all about integration and tolerance and creating a new world where wizards and muggles coexist peacefully. All thanks to you and Granger, really."

"Is that so?" Harry said.

"It's all very hypocritical. But at least the wine is good."

"I suppose you have some pureblooded suitor lined up to be your date to this party?"

Pansy snorted into her tea. "Are you serious, Potter? You think I have suitors? First of all, what bloody year do you think this is? And secondly… I don't suppose you read the papers do you?"

Harry gave Pansy a blank stare.

Pansy sighed. "You know Rita Skeeter might be on a tight leash when it comes to you and your posse, but unfortunately for the rest of us...we are free game. And her favorite topics are those of us who were so bold as to oppose you during the war. There's an article in the Daily Prophet every other week about me."

"About what?" Harry said, confused.

"Oh, usually some snapshot of me with an unflattering look on my face with some appalling caption like, 'Pansy Parkinson, Underground Death Eater Cult?' or 'Pansy Parkinson's Secret Pregnancy- how she sacrificed her baby to the Dark Lord!' She almost always begins the article by reminding everyone that I was the one who of course suggested we all turn on you at the battle of Hogwarts. No one wants anything to do with me, least of all romantically. Anyone seen with me in public runs the risk of being my alleged baby daddy to the child I used for some spell to bring back You-Know-Who, or some such rubbish."

"I see," Harry said slowly. He glanced around.

"Oh, don't worry," Pansy said. "There aren't any reporters here. And no one has been following me today...well except for you."

"How did you know I was following you?" Harry asked. "I thought I was being very discreet."

"Oh, you were," Pansy assured him. "You were the proper creep, don't worry. You'd make a fine serial killer. But lucky for me, I've had ample experience with predators and I've become quite adept at the tracking charm. It alerts me to anyone following me, or anyone getting too close. It only took once of being attacked by one of your many fanatics for me to realize I need to protect myself a bit better."

"The tracker charm?" Harry asked. "I've never heard of it."

"Ah, well you wouldn't would you? Learned it seventh year. Flitwick sort of took it upon himself, as did most of the other teachers, to take on teaching some more defensive spells. You know, since Defense Against the Dark Arts had ceased to exist."

"Ah," said Harry.

"It's bloody useful," Pansy went on. "Perhaps you should learn it yourself. Might save you the trouble of being harassed for autographs every few minutes."

"Perhaps you might teach it to me," Harry said before he could stop himself.

Pansy started to say something, but stopped as a blush crept over her cheeks. She buried her face in her teacup in an attempt to hide it, but Harry saw. And his heart lurched.

"So this party," Harry hedged. "At the Nott's… will there be press there?"

"Of course," said Pansy. "They never miss it. The Notts actually invite them. Pay them off to write something positive."

"And will the press be writing about you then?"

"It's likely, yes." Pansy said wearily.

"Well," said Harry, and here he started to smile. "What would they write about if you showed up with a pure blooded suitor on your arm? A certain, war hero of a certain...notoriety?"

Pansy frowned. "Potter, are you actually saying…?"

"Well, why not?" Harry asked. "You said it yourself, anything is better than being alone on Christmas. And this gives me a good excuse to duck out of the Weasleys. And of course, I still owe you for saving me from embarrassment at the last gala. Least I can do is return the favor. Imagine what the papers will say if they see we are friendly. All is forgiven, you're not a death eater, and so on."

Pansy looked down at her plate a moment. "Is it all forgiven then?" she asked quietly without looking at him.

Harry reached out and impulsively took her hand. It was warmer than he thought it would be, her fingers small and delicate. She looked up at him, her expression both surprised and hopeful. "There's nothing to forgive," Harry said softly. "The war was...hard. On everyone. I understand more now...what you were going through."

Pansy visibly swallowed and nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze back.

"So it's settled then?" Harry said lightly. "You'll take me with you to Nott's Christmas party?"

"On one condition," Pansy said, tossing her hair back.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You wear proper dress robes. Not that ghastly one from the Yule Ball. Something new. Something posh."

Harry laughed. "It's a deal."

Pansy stood in front of her full length mirror and studied her reflection. It'd been a long time since she'd dressed with such care.

Her hair was sleek and straight, and it framed her face perfectly. She wore it just as she always did, a black bob with a thick straight fringe that hovered just over her blue eyes which she had lined with kohl, a thick coat of mascara and shimmering eyeshadow. Her complexion was perfect thanks to a beauty potion she'd splurged on and her lips were berry red and matched her robes –the latest fashion – floor length with a plunging neckline that went down past her sternum. The sleeves were tight to the wrist where they flared out slightly and it was made out of a slinky new material that clung to her every curve. She'd paired it with a short gold necklace and matching gold chandelier earrings and when she moved, every bit of her seemed to sparkle. On her feet she wore a pair of simple black stilettos, her creamy white legs peaking out from a slit in the robe.

Pansy checked the clock. Potter would be arriving in just a few minutes time by floo and then from Pansy's suite they would floo to the Nott party together. She tried (and failed) to calm her fluttering heart, reminding herself repeatedly that Potter was just doing them both a favor by accompanying her to the party… but the truth was, her mind seemed determined to think of this as a proper date. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a hint of attraction to him. Okay, more than a hint. And it made no sense because he was Harry bloody Potter, and she was Pansy bloody Parkinson and she'd spent most of her life despising him. But for what? Simply because Draco hated him, and she always did what Draco said?

Well Pansy decided to put that all behind her. All was forgiven. Isn't that what Harry had said?

Pansy checked the clock again.

She had no idea what Potter would be wearing. She'd received a number of messages in her diary a few days ago that had given her cause for concern.

H: Pansy, what's the difference between white and ivory? Is ivory just a dirtier white? Why does it cost more?

H: Should I get cufflinks?

H: What are cufflinks?

H: Do they honestly expect me not to wear trousers under the robe? Is that really the latest trend?

Pansy had finally taken pity on him and responded. P: Don't let them talk you into white. Ask for a forest green blended robe, calf length with matching trousers. And yes, get cufflinks, preferably gold.

And when Potter walked through Pansy's ornate fireplace a few seconds later, Pansy was almost rendered speechless by how closely he had followed her directions.

His robe was perfectly tailored, dark green with golden embroidery. It hit him at mid-calf, just as she'd instructed, and he wore matching green trousers underneath. The robe was cut close to his shoulders and waist, accenting both his broad back and trim waistline. He looked...good. Someone had actually succeeded in taming his wild hair (Pansy suspected Sleekeasy's potion) and he wore new glasses –black rectangular frames that complimented the sharp angles of his face and jawline.

"Well don't you look dashing," she said, recovering from her momentary shock.

He smiled at her. "Likewise," he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe, lingering just a moment too long at her plunging neckline.

Pansy flushed and swallowed. "Well, shall we go then?"

"Just a moment," Harry said. "I um...well. Considering it is Christmas and all. I...got you a present."

"A present?" Pansy said.

"Yes, you know. Gift giving is sort of a Christmas tradition, isn't it? Here." He took a small poorly wrapped parcel from his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it in her hand and frowned. "I didn't get you anything," she said bluntly.

Harry laughed. "Don't feel bad just yet. You haven't even opened it."

Pansy tore at the shiny red and white paper, revealing a small black box. She opened it and nestled inside in a pillow of velvet was a small gold bracelet with a tiny emerald in the center.

"It's got a cheering charm. Just something to spread the Christmas cheer is all. No need to get weepy about it," Harry said, sounding a bit panicked.

Pansy hadn't realize that her eyes had misted over. She blinked rapidly and looked up. "Thank you," she said. She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and she immediately felt the charm's effects. Happiness bubbled in her chest and suddenly she was smiling.

"Strong," she said a little breathlessly.

Harry nodded and held up his wrist which bore a matching gold cuff. His smile was as wide as hers. "I thought we could both use a little fun tonight."

Pansy sighed happily. "You thought right."

"Well," Harry said, offering her his arm. Pansy took it and together they made their way back over to the fireplace.

"Oh wait," Pansy said. "I almost forgot." She went to her desk and picked up the invitation. It was spelled so that it allowed access to the party, which was strictly invitation only, very exclusive. Once Harry had basically invited himself, Pansy had owled the Notts to change her RSVP from one seat to two. She received a new invitation back almost immediately, that showed two guests were now allowed access to the party.

They flooed into the Nott's main foyer. It was a magnificent room. At least a dozen Christmas trees lined the walls, each decorated with silver and gold baubles, tinsel and sparkling lights. The ceiling hung with garlands and enchanted snow fell around them. They were greeted by a sweet little house elf wearing a red and green pointed hat with a matching dress and curling shoes. She looked straight out of the North Pole and every time she moved jingle bells sung from her hat and shoes.

"Right this way," she squeaked, and she led them out of the foyer, down a hallway and into the main ballroom. The Nott's manor was very large, but Pansy knew the ballroom had been magically enhanced to accommodate so many guests. It was quite crowded already. Witches and wizards mingled in a sea of colors, chatting and hugging and laughing. No one had noticed them yet, which Pansy was secretly grateful for, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

"Shall we get a drink?" Harry asked.

She nodded gratefully and pointed toward the bar positioned just to their left. Pansy ordered a glass of red wine, and Potter ordered a scotch. They were just turning away when Pansy heard her name.

"Hello cousin," It was Theodore. He leaned in and kissed Pansy on the cheek.

"Theo," Pansy nodded. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know, the same. The mastery at the department of mysteries is keeping me quite busy. My final project is due at the end of the- Potter?"

"Hello Theodore," Harry said, lightly raising his glass in greeting.

"I didn't know you'd- with Pansy?" Theo looked back and forth between the two of them as if waiting for some kind of explanation.

"Good of Pansy to invite me," Harry said. "I've been wanting to meet her family in full for ages. This seemed an opportune moment, seeing as it's Christmas and all."

"Er, yes," Theo said, eying Pansy, who merely smiled. Her cheering charm was in full effect and she was finding this entire exchange quite hilarious.

"Well… er, welcome?" Theo tried again. "This is my grandmother's house. She'll be….er….delighted that you're here."

Harry nodded gratefully and started to lead Pansy away. They left Theo standing there with his mouth agape and Pansy covered her mouth to stifle the burst of giggles that just exploded.

"This is going to be fun," Harry said softly in her ear, and Pansy's neck broke out in goosebumps. They meandered around the room, Harry's hand settled lightly on Pansy's lower back. Pansy watched people glance at her and then away, so used to avoiding her as they were. It was most comical once they realized who she was with. Their heads nearly rocketed off their necks as they did a double take.

"I didn't know Theodore Nott was your cousin," Harry said, taking a sip of scotch as they walked.

"Oh yes," Pansy nodded. "Our mothers were sisters. Both Warringtons."

"Is that so?"

"Of course. Though, poor Theo's mother died when we were very young. He was raised by his father, didn't you know? The death eater. I don't think anyone else in the world was happier than Theo was when the wanker was sent to Azkaban. I think he's secretly grateful to you for that. Ah, and Cassius is just over there. You remember Cassius?" She pointed at her other cousin who was standing just ahead of them. He wore green robes, similar to the ones Harry wore, and his golden blond hair was so carefully disheveled it was almost comical. He stood next to his date, a pretty brunette Pansy recognized as Eleanor Branstone, a muggle-born Hufflepuff several years their junior. Pansy studied Cassius. He looked as pompous and bored as ever, and she wondered if he were really interested in Eleanor, or was simply courting her to improve his family's image after the war.

"Ah, yes," Harry said. "Played Chaser for Slytherin?"

"Harry! Harry, good to see you!" Horace Slughorn seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Pansy watched as her old professor's reddened face smiled fondly and greeted Harry profusely. Slughorn was closely followed by Mr. Olivander, the wandmaker and another distant relative of Pansy's. And so for the next twenty minutes until dinner was served Harry was greeted and received and smiled and cajoled into hugs and handshakes, so much so that Pansy finally took pity on him and directed him straight to their table.

The ballroom was set up with two dozen massive round tables that seated twelve. Pansy and Harry were seated with an assortment of Pansy's cousins. Cassius and Eleanor, Theo and Tracey Davis, her two elder Parkinson cousins from her father's side of the family. Both heirs to massive fortune and had pureblood wives with 2.5 children, lived in wizarding villages and had upstanding careers at the ministry. They pointedly ignored Pansy on most occasions, but tonight they were all smiles, and "Happy Christmas" and "lovely weather we've been having" and "Oh, Harry Potter, what a pleasure!"

Dinner was delicious, of course. A six course masterpiece that left Pansy feeling comfortably full and warm. Her wine glass was never empty and she was feeling quite good by the time their plates had been cleared and the music started.

"Is that Celestina Warbeck?" Harry's voice came from her shoulder, his lips hovering just over her ear.

"Of course," Pansy said, turning toward the stage. "She sings every year."

Harry's eyes widened. "I've tried three times to get tickets to her show as a gift to Mrs. Weasley. They're always sold out instantly."

Pansy watched the aging witch in her glittering robe and her elaborately styled hair as she crooned out her classic hit, A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love. She shrugged. "I suppose I could introduce you. I'm sure if she would have known the famous Harry Potter wanted to get tickets to her show, she wouldn't refuse you a box seat."

Harry gave her a lopsided grin. "I don't suppose you'd care to dance, would you?"

Slowly couples were taking the dance floor, swaying together as Celestina switched tunes and started in on a Christmas song about the three Magi and their travels to Bethlehem.

So Pansy followed Harry out to the dance floor. The cheering charm and the wine and her full stomach were filling her with a sense of elation that she couldn't describe. It felt like a dream, swaying there in Harry's arms, his warm breath on her neck, her chest pressed lightly against his. This close, he smelled oddly like wood. Like he'd just gotten off of a broomstick.

She didn't even notice the cameras.

They danced for several more songs, and when Celestina took a break Pansy introduced her to Harry, and they chatted like old pals. Then there was more wine, and more people to meet, and house elves walking around with trays full of chocolate cauldrons spiked with fire whiskey, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the bloody minister of magic, was hugging her, for Merlin's sake and before she knew it she and Harry were standing in the doorway under a patch of mistletoe, and Harry was saying something about Nargles, and then he was kissing her.

And for a bit, she couldn't breathe. Like the oxygen had been sucked from her lungs, and lights were flashing, and people were laughing, and his lips felt like soft cushions of heat, and he tasted like whiskey and chocolate, and something else that reminded her of quidditch games at Hogwarts and she still couldn't believe that Harry Potter was kissing her, and then they were dancing again. And the cheering charm and the wine and Harry, it was all happening so fast and so strange, and so amazing and she loved it, every minute of it…

"Harry, are you mad?" Hermione slammed a copy of the Daily Prophet down on the bar table, her face a violent shade of pink, and her hair looking particularly bushy. "Pansy Parkinson?"

Harry looked down at the moving photograph of he and Pansy kissing the other night at the Christmas party. He hadn't realized that he'd sort of pinned her against the door jam, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Her hand cupped the back of his neck, and their lips moved passionately.

The memory of her lips and her body and the warmth he felt… it set his veins on fire. He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"You think this is funny, do you?" Hermione's voice had taken on that shrill tone she used to use in school when she was telling him off for copying.

"Oh come on, Hermione," Ron said from Harry's right. "He's entitled to a rebound shag. I mean, Parkinson is an interesting choice, but-"

"Harry," Hermione said, cutting off Ron. She took a deep, steadying breath. "I know you and Ginny's breakup could hardly have been easy...but...but… Pansy Parkinson? Is this really the way to get back at Ginny?"

Harry frowned. "It's not about that," he said. "Hermione look. I know you don't like her. Hell none of us did. But she's changed. She's different now. I… fancy her."

"You fancy her?" Hermione shrieked. "Need I remind you that she it was she who suggested we turn you over to Voldemort that night at Hogwarts?"

"No, you don't need to remind me," Harry said crossly.

"Need I also remind you that she tortured us for six years of school? She made up that wretched song about Ron in fifth year and during the Triwizard Tournament she made up all those lies about you to Rita Skeeter? And what about Draco? How could you like someone who was so into him, like she was?"

"Hermione, come on. None of that was that bad."

"Not that bad?" Hermione's face turned even pinker. "Don't you remember fourth year when she sneaked into my dormitory and stole all of my underwear. Yes, all of it! And I had to write home to mum and dad to send me more. And then she just handed my knickers out to all the Slytherin boys who made up disgusting stories about how they'd gotten them. And then there was that whole period during third year when she charmed a tampon to fall out of my pocket every time I raised my hand in class."

Ron snorted and Hermione rounded on him with a glare so fierce Ron nearly backed away. "Sorry!" he said. "But...period." He raised his arms in surrender.

"Yes. Period. I'd just gotten my period that year and it was mortifying! Don't you remember any of this?"

Harry looked at Ron and raised his eyebrows. Ron shrugged. The truth was, Harry didn't recall either of those things. But then, he was a bit oblivious back then. "Hermione, come on," he begged. "I said she's different now. All those things happened in school. People change."

"Oh well, in that case, I'm sure you wouldn't mind a bit if I went off and snogged Goyle. I'm sure he's changed."

Harry sighed.

Hermione was studying the Daily Prophet again. "It says here that you went to the Nott's annual Christmas Eve party with her. Harry Potter was spotted sharing a mistletoe kiss with none other than pure blood bad girl, Pansy Parkinson."

"Bad girl," Ron chuckled.

"Could this mean the two have set aside their differences in the name of a budding romance, or was this merely revenge against Potter's newly split ex-lover Ginny Weasley, chaser for the Holyhead Harpies? See page eight for more details. Oh, honestly Harry. The press is having a field day."

"Oy!" Harry said, his voice rising a bit. "I don't complain when the two of you snog each other in public and your bloody faces are all over the cover pages. Just let this be… Meet her. Get to know her better. I promise things are different now."

"Do you mean to say...you're actually going to… date her?" Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. "I've invited her to Neville's New Years Party. She's said she'll go. I expect you can speak to her then."

"Harry, you didn't," Hermione said. "Don't you think you ought to… ask Neville if it's okay if you bring her?"

"Why would he care?" Harry asked.

"Well...because!"

"Hermione just because you hated her guts in school doesn't mean everyone did."

"Don't you remember how she cast that leg lock curse at him when he was trying to ask out Susan Bones? And how she actually pushed him down the stairs in fourth year? Or how she would call him Neville the Nutless? Or… or what was the other one? Oh yes, Limpdick Longbottom. She was just awful to him."

"But how did she know he was limpdicked?" Ron asked seriously.

"Well," Hermione said smugly. "That is the question, isn't it?"

Harry frowned. He didn't really remember Pansy being that terrible. But then… Neville was always being teased, especially by the Slytherins.

"Alright," Harry conceded. "I will ask Neville. But if he says it's fine, she's coming. And you best be nice to her. There's more to her than you know, Hermione. Trust me."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and looked doubtful. "Well there's Neville now. Go on and ask him."

Harry peered across the bar and sure enough, Neville had just arrived. He donned an apron and began his work behind the bar.

Ever since Neville quit the aurors to begin his mastery in herbology, he'd been working at the Leaky Cauldron alongside his girlfriend Hannah Abbott. Hannah's uncle Tom, the Inn's notoriously peculiar innkeeper had recently retired and left the entire establishment to her. And honestly it was probably the best business decision the man ever made because under Hannah's management, the Leaky Cauldron had become a completely different place. It was warm, and comfortable and served delicious food and drinks. It's rooms were no longer drab and dark, but decorated tastefully. It's service was impeccable and it was quickly becoming a favorite destination for witches and wizards all over the country, rather than just the entrance to Diagon Alley.

And for Harry, Ron and Hermione...it was basically a home away from home. They met up there nearly daily. They all lived in London now and with all three of them working at the ministry, it was a great place to meet up. And then of course, the pub always had friendly faces.

"Hi Harry," Neville greeted as Harry settled on a bar stool.

"Hey Neville," Harry began. "I was wondering...do you have a minute to chat?"

Neville shouldered a tea towel and turned to Harry, giving him his full attention? "'Course, mate," he said. "What's up?"

"So about yours and Hannah's New Year party… I was sort of wondering if it'd be okay if I… well, if I invited Pansy Parkinson?"

Neville grinned. "Well, of course. You can invite whoever you want."

"It doesn't bother you that...well that it's Pansy? You know, since she was sort of awful to you in school?"

Neville waved his hand dismissively. "Aw, Pansy's alright. She's changed a lot since then."

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Right?" he asked. "That's what I've been saying." Neville followed Harry's gaze as he glanced toward Hermione and Ron.

Neville frowned. "Seventh year was harder on her than most people think. You three weren't there… you don't know how it was. Not really."

Harry paused and studied Neville. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Neville lowered his voice and got a bit closer. "Well, it was the Carrows of course. They liked her. I knew what Amycus was doing to her. We all sort of knew. It was...kind of obvious."

"It was?"

"Well sure. Everyone always thought she had it easy...you know because they wouldn't punish her like they did the rest of us. She was always showing up late for class and not doing her work and smarting off to the teachers...but they'd just let it all slide, right? But then Amycus would make her stay after class with him most days and... she'd get all pale and shaky. I saw her afterward a few times and well...it wasn't pretty. I tried to help her. I really did. But you know Pansy… she snarled at me, told me to leave her alone." Neville shook his head as if to rid it of the painful memories. "Like I said, people thought she had it easy, but I'd rather take the cruciatus curse any day than what Amycus had in store for her."

Harry looked down at his hands. Had he really been so blind, all this time? Was it true that everyone knew? And that no one did anything? Harry looked up at Neville. There was still a scar on his cheek, a souvenir from the seventh year Harry missed out on. No. Neville had done something. Harry thought of the DA and the room of requirement and the stories he'd heard of the students rebelling…. They'd all done something, hadn't they? And they'd won in the end. He had to remind himself of that.

"And that night..." Neville went on. "The night of the battle when she… well when she wanted to turn you over?" Neville shrugged. "I sort of felt sorry for her, you know? She was so broken by then, like a horse. But honestly, ever since the war she's been right decent. You've heard about all the philanthropies she heads, right?"

When Harry gave Neville a blank look, Neville grinned. "Oh yeah, she's the head of loads of them." He started ticking them off on his fingers. "There's the War Orphan Welfare fund...you've heard of that one I'm sure."

"Of course," said Harry. "I donate every year. Teddy gets a good amount of benefits from it."

Neville nodded. "Hannah too. Even though she's of age and all, they give her a fair amount of money… you know, because her mother was killed by those death eaters sixth year? It helped rahab this place," he gestured to the Leaky Cauldron. "But at first Hannah didn't think she should get the money, you know? She thought the money should be used on kids and stuff. She tried to send it back, but then Pansy showed up one day with a bag of galleons and right near forced Hannah to take it. And the funny part was...even though she was being typical Pansy, yelling and insulting and being a right hag...she ended up hugging Hannah. Saying she was sorry for her loss and then they were both crying. It was mad."

Harry glanced back at Hermione. She was watching them carefully.

"And then there's the St. Mungo's Fund," Neville went on. "She raises a lot of amount of money for that one too. And you can tell things have gotten better there since she started heading the foundation. The hospital's expanded a lot. And now my mum and dad get their own rooms. It's more like a flat than a hospital room. They get their own kitchen and bathroom and sitting room… Me and Gran brought in a bunch of photographs to put up and old furniture from their house that my Gran kept all these years… and while they're still… you know... They seem happier. Mum makes her own tea now and my dad's even started doing a little magic again. Nothing crazy, just sort of turning the lights on and off and summoning his shoes, that sort of thing. Kid stuff you don't need a wand for...but it's done wonders. And I think it's because he feels more at home, like his old self. And I'm truly thankful for that."

"Blimey, Neville," Harry said. "That's great."

Neville nodded. "And that's not the half of it. She's on the board for the Welfare for Magical Creatures, the Muggle-born rights committee, the Severus Snape foundation, Pureblood allies…. Probably a few more. The papers don't report about any of that though," Neville said disdainfully. "They'd rather talk about her clothes or her hair or who they think she's shagging."

"Neville," Hermione interjected. Harry hadn't noticed that she'd joined them. "I've looked into those charities and while yes, they raise a lot of money, the Parkinsons and other pureblood families keep a substantial part of the money for themselves. So while sure, they might be raising money, they work it like a business and it's really not all that philanthropic."

Neville shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. I just see what I see, that's all. But anyway, I'd be happy if Pansy came to the New Years party. Hannah will be delighted too."

"Thanks Neville," Harry said, relieved.

Pansy peered over the edge of coffee mug and watched Draco pace the room furiously.

"I saw the Prophet this morning and I just couldn't believe it," he was saying, his hand running rampant through his blond hair. "I had to come over. I just don't understand. How could you do this?"

Draco had woken Pansy up this morning by pounding frantically at her front door, frightening the hell out of one of her house elves, demanding to see Pansy at once. She'd allowed him into her suite with a roll of her eyes. She knew this was coming.

Now she sat sipping her coffee and eating her breakfast, quietly watching him rant.

"It's Potter, of all people, Pansy. Potter! What are you trying to prove?" he glared at the wall, and wouldn't directly meet her eyes. "What's he trying to prove?" Draco muttered more to himself. "It's got to be an angle. Another swipe at me. Hasn't he gotten enough? How much more can I bend and scrape to him?"

"Draco," Pansy said firmly. "I know it's hard to imagine that absolutely everything in the world doesn't revolve around you, but honestly...this has nothing to do with you at all."

"Nothing to do with me? Pansy. You're my girlfriend and Potter just up and snogs you in public!"

"Ex-girlfriend," Pansy corrected.

Draco met her eyes then. "Pansy, I- I know things haven't exactly been...warm between us lately, but I just always thought..." he shook his head and looked away, his face growing red.

"You always thought I'd be here waiting for you," she finished for him.

He glanced at her guiltily before looking away again.

Pansy sighed. To be true, she couldn't exactly blame him. She always thought they would end up together too. After everything died down, with the war and the pure blood mania and his death eater ties. Once they'd both redeemed themselves enough to be accepted by society again… they would inevitably get married. Not because they loved each other, but because they both thought no one else would have them. It was unspoken between them. He was an ex-death eater, known adversary of Harry Potter, and she was the one who sold out the Chosen One. They belonged together. And then of course, there was their history.

She'd been in love with Draco Malfoy since she was eleven years old for Merlin's sake. It wasn't something she could just forget about. He'd been her first kiss, her first...everything. They used to meet in the Slytherin common room at midnight, used to find places to steel away together. And then sixth year happened… and Draco started drawing away from her. Hiding from her. Disappearing for hours at a time, coming back sick and shaky and afraid and it was obvious what was happening, but Pansy didn't know what to do so she just ignored it all… and then came seventh year and everything changed.

Draco wouldn't touch her after that. And he hadn't since.

Sure, he'd tried. He really did. There were late night floos and trips to muggle London for dinner dates, and small, chaste goodnight kisses and weekly owls that felt more and more like correspondences between colleagues, than romantic partners.

"Draco," Pansy said softly, setting down her coffee cup. "Come here."

He seemed eager to comply, sitting directly in front of her, finally meeting her eyes. She reached across the little sitting room table and took his hands in hers. She tried not to notice that he flinched at her touch.

"Listen to me," she said. "I love you." She held tight to him as he tried to pull away. "Wait, listen," she said. "I love you. I always have and I think I always will. But… it's been over between us for years. You and I both know this. And we both deserve better. I see that now. Maybe one day you will too."

His blue eyes met hers and she saw the hurt there, the pain. Not that they were over. But that she thought him worthy of...something more. She could tell that he didn't believe her.

"But why Potter, though?" he asked. "Why him, of all people?"

Pansy smiled softly. She looked down at her wrist, at the gold bracelet she hadn't removed since the Christmas party, though the cheering charm had long since faded. "I honestly don't know," she said.

Draco studied her a moment longer. "I don't like it," he said. "If he's using you, if he hurts you, I'll-"

"Oh Draco," Pansy shook her head softly. "I can take care of myself. You know that."

Draco looked at her a bit longer his expression changing from anger to guilt, to grief. Suddenly his eyes filled. He blinked a few times and bit his lip. "Pansy," he choked out. "I should have – I should have stopped him. Carrow. All those years ago in school. I just...I just..." he bit back a sob.

"Shhhh," Pansy said, soothingly. "There was nothing you could have done. We were just children. Both of us."

Draco let out a muffled sob. He brought Pansy's hand to his lips and held it there with his eyes closed. "I wanted so long to tell you...tell you that I was sorry...that I wanted to do more, but I was afraid. I spent so much time being afraid..."

Pansy waited, watching him silently as her own tears spilled over. They'd never talked about seventh year. Not really. They'd both suffered so much and yet they were both so proud, so stubborn. They should have found comfort in one another, but instead they had pushed each other away. Maybe now they could find healing.

"Come now," she said finally, brushing away her tears and sniffing. "Have breakfast with me. We've much bigger issues to discuss."

Draco sniffed and looked up. "Is that so?" he asked, wiping roughly at his blotched face.

"Yes," Pansy said with feigned seriousness. "What in the world am I going to wear to Longbottom's New Year party?"

"Master Potter, your guest has arrived."

"Thanks Kreacher," Harry said, feeling his heart rate increase. "Er, how do I look?"

The old house elf was momentarily surprised at being asked such a question, but his face quickly turned calculating as he inspected Harry's attire. "Very...fetching, sir. Kreacher thinks young Sirius would be most pleased to see you wearing his old jacket. He was quite fond of it, if Kreacher remembers correctly. It drove my poor mistress mad."

Harry turned back to his reflection and studied himself again. He'd found the old leather motorcycle jacket in Sirius's closet (now his closet since he'd moved into Grimmauld Place and taken over Sirius's old bedroom) and immediately fell in love with it. It was well worn black leather with a broken zipper and when Harry put it on he felt almost as if Sirius were hugging him, it fit so well. He smiled at his reflection. He looked...cool.

The leather was so supple and worn it was as if he were wearing cotton. He could just picture a teenage Sirius running around London in the seventies, hopping on the back of muggle motorbikes and sneaking into pubs to listen to muggle bands. Yes, poor Walburga Black must have been beside herself.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Harry made it to his front drawing room where Pansy waited near the fireplace. She looked….well. To be honest, she looked like a glass of sparkling pink champagne.

She wore a shimmering pink dress that fit so close to her body it was as if it were a second skin. It was of modest length, down to her knees almost, and had long sleeves, but the back was completely open revealing smooth, white skin all the way down to her tailbone. On her feet she wore matching high heels, the kind that said all kinds of interesting things, and Harry sort of lost his breath at the sight of her.

She smiled at him. Her eyes were lined with kohl and shimmering pink eyeshadow to match her dress. Her ears dangled with overlarge chandelier earrings and she carried a small black clutch. She looked beautiful and elegant and sexy all at the same time.

"Hi," Harry said, dumbly.

"Hi," she answered. "Lovely home," she said gesturing to the drawing room.

Harry looked around. Grimmauld Place surely had come a long way since he'd moved in several years ago. After months of Kreacher hounding him, Harry had finally relented to the renovations the house elf had in mind. And now the house was almost unrecognizable to those who had known it when it was headquarters for the Order. It was bright and airy and decorated in the most modern and comfortable furniture. It turned out that Kreacher was quite capable of removing all the portraits and tapestries that had been permanently charmed to the walls and he proved quite adept at exterminating all the pests that had been living in the old house. He'd even moved the old portrait of Walburga into a less central location where she wouldn't be disturbed as easily. (Removing it altogether was out of the question of course, and Harry didn't even suggest it.)

Within several months, with the help of a few house elves from Hogwarts whom Kreacher had befriended in his time there, the house became nicer than anything Harry had ever dreamed of living in. The hardwood floors had been refurbished and now shined bright mahogany. The carpets had been replaced, along with the curtains and the bed linens and the ghastly old curio cabinets with all their old, scary relics. The house was massive with eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, two formal dining rooms, two parlors, and one large seating area. The kitchen, located in the basement was now warm and inviting, and was where Harry spent most of his time entertaining guests, despite the ample space upstairs.

The house was of course much too large for Harry to be living in all by himself, and for a bit Ron and Hermione had been his housemates with Ginny a nearly constant presence. But it was decided (mostly by Hermione) that she and Ron needed their own flat to "grow as a couple" as she put it, and of course with Ginny's move to Holyhead and the ultimate demise of their relationship, Harry was quite alone as of late. That didn't stop Kreacher from making sure the place was spotless with fresh flowers and abundant holiday decorations dripping from every spare corner.

Harry watched as Pansy's eyes swept the room. "Thanks," Harry managed.

"You know, I saw the expose' in Witch Weekly last year, but it honestly didn't do the house justice," Pansy said, inspecting a fuzzy white throw pillow Harry didn't even know existed. Harry winced. He'd agreed to let Witch Weekly do that wretched article because he knew it would make Kreacher happy, but the publicity it sparked was a bit overwhelming. Grimmauld Place, a street in London which had once been quite abundant with witches and wizards, had fallen out of favor in the past century with the wizarding community. The surrounding houses had been sold off to muggles who had turned them into apartment flats that were rented out cheaply to mostly unsavory people. Crime had been quite rampant in the neighborhood when Harry moved in and even he had to be careful walking home alone at night. Muggles with guns were not afraid of the Boy Who Lived.

But then the article came out and suddenly those old townhouses were being sold and its muggle inhabitants evicted as prominent witches and wizards moved in. In a matter of months, Grimmauld Place had been transformed into a popular wizarding street. Everyone wanted to be Harry Potter's neighbor. Harry had lifted most of the enchantments that kept the house hidden...the Fidelius charm, for instance, and the unplottability charm, but many protective enchantments were still in effect. Otherwise his house would be swarmed by his many...fans. He'd learned that the hard way.

"Love the jacket," Pansy was saying, gesturing to his attire.

"Love the...er," Harry said, gesturing to all of her.

Pansy laughed, a soft tinkling sound.

"I figured we could apparate to the pub, if that's alright?" Harry asked.

"Of course," said Pansy. She withdrew her wand from the tiny clutch and Harry suspected she'd enhanced its interior with the extension charm. He took her hand in his and together they apparated.

They appeared together in an alleyway just outside the Leaky Cauldron. Loud music and shouts of laughter could be heard from the pub out on the snowy street. It seemed the party was already in full swing.

Harry led Pansy inside where they were greeted by a warm rush of bodies and noise. Harry spotted familiar faces everywhere, mostly friends he'd gone to Hogwarts with. Neville and Hannah were standing together near the door, each bedecked in paper hats and plastic beads.

"Harry and Pansy!" Neville shouted when he saw them. "Welcome, welcome." He draped his long arms over both their shoulders and it was plain to see he was already quite smashed. Hannah smiled widely, her own face flushed with drink. Harry thanked them both as they fetched him and Pansy glasses of sparkling champagne.

Harry kept an eye on Pansy as they were greeted by an array of guests. He'd been quite prepared to defend her presence, but it seemed no one really cared too much that she was there. No one greeted her quite as warmly as they greeted him, of course, but no one was outright rude.

They met Dean Thomas and Susan Bones, who were currently dating... along with Seamus Finnigan and a girl Harry recognized as being in Gryffindor but a few years their junior. Then there were Parvati and Padma Patil, each wearing identical golden dresses that were so short they might as well have been knickers. Lavender Brown actually kissed Pansy on the cheek as she greeted them, her blond hair piled in an array of curls so abundant she looked a bit like a lion. Ernie McMillan was there with his muggle girlfriend and of course the Weasley twins were there, dressed alike in their dragon hide jackets, Angelina Johnson and Verity Hopkirk on each of their arms both dressed prettily in sparkling dresses enhanced with some kind of spell that kept them changing colors. The effect was quite pleasant.

Then there was Luna Lovegood, wearing a white floor length dress that somewhat resembled a wedding gown. "Daddy says it's auspicious to wear white at the new year," she explained. "It marks the purity of new beginnings." Her date was a tall American bloke whom she introduced as simply Rolf. "We met in India," Luna said. "We were both studying the mating habits of the Dukuwaqa. They are really quite fascinating creatures."

They finally met Ron and Hermione, both of whom looked well into their cups as Ron had already spilled something on his shirt and Hermione hadn't bothered to spell it away yet. Hermione looked lovely in a black velvet cold shoulder dress that fit snugly up to her throat and Ron, despite the stain, looked rather good too in a matching black velvet waistcoat and dark washed jeans.

"Harry," Hermione said brightly as they approached. "I'd been wondering when you'd get here… Oh. Hello Pansy."

Pansy smiled tightly. "Good evening Hermione. Happy New Year."

"Yes, and you," Hermione said politely, glancing at Harry. "Er… Harry, what kept you? It's nearly ten o'clock. Hagrid has already come and gone. Said he had another party to get to."

"Ah, that's a shame," said Harry, genuinely disappointed. "I'd been hoping to hear about his holiday with Madame Maxine."

Ron chuckled. "Well, mate. I 'spect you'll hear all about it soon enough. Bloody lovesick puppy, he is."

"So what kept you?" Hermione hedged again. "I thought you'd be here ages ago."

"Er, got hung up at work," Harry lied. "Paperwork, you know."

"Ah," said Hermione. "That I do. I was just telling Ronald about a new piece of legislature I'm bringing to the wizengamot. It's advocating for the equal rights of non wizard magical creatures so that they can rightfully own property. Isn't it just appalling that house elves don't have any personal possessions? Goblins and centaurs too. Not legally."

"Quite," said Harry, glancing around the room. He had already heard about this new bill Hermione had been working on nearly a dozen times and was quite keen to change the topic.

"Yes, working in the department for regulation and control of magical creatures has come with many challenges," Hermione went on pompously, "But I feel I'm really making a difference, you know? And Pansy, how is the ah...philanthropy going?"

Harry felt Pansy stiffen beside him. He prepared himself to interject but Pansy spoke before he could.

"Quite well actually," Pansy said. "It's been an exciting time of year, what with Christmas and all. We've managed to almost triple the donations made for St. Mungos and the War Orphan fund is always growing. I expect we'll raise even more in years to come. It's quite rewarding to see the funds going to good use."

"I'm sure its quite rewarding for your pocket books, as well," Hermione said with a sardonic smile.

Pansy gave a quizzical look. "My pocket books?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said with a false conspiratorial wink. "I've seen the numbers. These philanthropies you head retain nearly seventy percent of their earnings. Quite a bit considering the national number is twenty five percent on overhead."

Harry bristled and opened his mouth to intervene but again Pansy beat him to it.

"Ah, while you may have noticed we retain seventy percent, it hardly goes into the pocketbooks of the heads. If you reviewed the numbers again, and paid attention to the donors themselves, you'd see that the heads of the charities, the Parkinsons in particular, donate much more to the cause than we retain. And I think you are referring to muggle organizations when you say the national percentage, yes? The national number for muggle philanthropies is around twenty five percent spent on overhead, as you noted, but what you're forgetting Hermione, is that muggle organizations get tax breaks and incentives which unfortunately the wizarding world lacks. Therefore our organizations are forced to retain a higher sum in order to pay for staff, food, event spaces etc. Perhaps you should take that to the wizengamot for a change in legislature. It would certainly make things much easier for me."

Harry smiled at the dumbfounded look on Hermione's face as Pansy politely sipped her champagne.

"Er, Neville's been raving about the changes at St. Mungo's," Ron said quickly, glancing nervously between Pansy and Hermione. "Says his mum and dad have been doing really well in their new apartments."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Pansy said. "As chair of the financial committee I've made it a special project to ensure long time patients, especially those suffering from ailments caused by dark magic at the hands of death eaters, are given the utmost care. They are the true heroes, after all."

"And you have that much power?" Ron asked. "You can actually tell them how to spend the money."

Pansy frowned. "Well of course. Haven't you learned this by now, Weasley? The people with the money have all the power."

Ron laughed.

Hermione scowled.

And Harry took a long drink of his champagne.

Pansy had never been to a party like this. It was lively and...fun. Everyone was quite smashed, dancing and laughing and cheering at unnecessary things. People she hadn't spoken to in years were offering her shots of fire whiskey and fetching her glasses of champagne and asking her about her life.

She was one of only three former Slytherins present. There was Bridget Farley, a girl a year or so younger than Pansy in school whom Pansy had rarely spoken, and then there was her own cousin Cassius Warrington who had accompanied his girlfriend and former Hufflepuff, Eleanor Branstone.

"Happy New Year cousin!" Cassius exclaimed when he saw her. "Fancy seeing you here."

Pansy stared. He was wearing one of those horrible black top hats with Happy New Year flashing across the brim and a hot pink lei. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and he was quite sweaty. Perhaps most surprising was that he was smiling for Merlin's sake. She'd never seen him looking anything but crisp and calm and surly.

"Happy New Year Cassius," Pansy responded. "And to you too Eleanor." The girl seemed surprised that Pansy knew her name. She wore a bright pink dress that was quite tight and quite short and Cassius looked at her with such adoration that Pansy felt foolish that she'd ever thought his feelings for her were feigned.

As midnight approached, Harry pulled Pansy close to him. His hands circled her waist and he eyed her in a way that made her feel hungry and soft and warm and feminine and just...deserving of...whatever this was. And as the Weasley twins cast large golden numbers in the air counting down the seconds until midnight, Pansy couldn't even watch the firework display raining above them, her eyes didn't leave Harry's and three, two, one...midnight arrived and so did Harry's lips on hers and she just sort of melted against him just like she'd done under the mistletoe just a week ago.

Shouts and cheers surrounded them, champagne bottles popped and fireworks exploded. Confetti rained down upon them, getting stuck in Pansy's eyelashes and Harry's hair, and Merlin she didn't want the moment to end. And then the music was thumping and she and Harry were dancing and he twirled her around until she was dizzy and then she was posing for a photo with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones and Eloise Midgen, smiling like they were all best mates as Colin Creevey's camera flashed. And then she and Oliver Wood were having a lively discussion about Quidditch and Terry Boot was laughing at one of her jokes, and then she and Sue Li were comparing the best charms for levitation.

Around two in the morning the party started to die down. Harry found her near the bar, wrapped an arm around her and drew her close. He kissed her again, open and unembarrassed and she kissed him back, aware that they were surrounded by people but not caring one bit. He broke away a moment later and whispered close to her ear so that his breath sent shivers down her back.

"Come back to my place?"

They apparated together again, just outside the pub. It had begun to snow and the night felt mysterious and alive. When they arrived back at Grimmauld Place Pansy knew she ought to be cold, but Harry's presence warmed her.

"Do you-ah...want a drink?" Harry asked her when they got inside and were seated on the leather sofa in the drawing room. He seemed suddenly shy, unsure.

"Okay," she said.

Harry disappeared for a bit and returned a few moments later with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He sat down next to her and poured her a healthy dose. "Hope this is alright," Harry said. "I couldn't find the Scotch and my house elf is...erm… a bit useless at the moment." He chuckled at Pansy's confused frown. "It seems Kreacher had a little New Year party of his own. Kitchen has about five or six Hogwarts elves, passed out on butterbeer."

Pansy laughed and raised her glass to her lips. The brandy was sweet and warm. She eyed him sitting next to her, nervously fidgeting. She knew he wanted her. She'd known he wanted her the night after the Christmas party too. She remembered how he'd flooed back to her suite with her, how he'd given her a chaste kiss goodnight, wanting more, but expecting nothing. She hadn't quite been ready then. She wasn't quite sure about him, about what it meant. But now. Now, she knew.

Setting her brandy glass down on the end table, she edged toward him. His lips parted as she drew near, and he leaned into her, their lips meeting in a heated tangle of limbs and tongues and hands touching everywhere. She gasped as his lips left hers and found her neck. His mouth made a trail of kisses down her throat, to her collar bone and she hitched up her skirt so she could straddle his hips. She felt his cock pressing hard against his jeans, and she sort of ground herself against him, just once and he let out a weak whimper. His hand snaked out from behind her back and slowly crept up the hem of her skirt, tracing the line where her knickers should be. Only she wasn't wearing any knickers.

He let out a deep groan as he realized this and his grip on her tightened.

"Hold on tight," he whispered and then she was being jerked upward as he apparted them to his bedroom.

They landed lightly at the foot of his bed and Pansy's hands got busy tugging at his clothes. His leather jacket fell to the floor, followed by his shirt, then his belt. He was more muscular than she'd thought he'd be, all sinewy and lithe biceps and abdominals and back muscles that rippled and moved under her roving hands.

She grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up, and up and up until it disappeared over her head, and she stood in front of him quite naked. He stepped back for just a moment and surveyed her body drinking it in with his eyes. The room was dimly lit, just a candle or two flickered on the dresser and she felt her skin singing under his gaze.

Then he was on her, his hands gentle yet urgent as they started at her hips then slid up until they cupped her breasts, his thumb flicking once, twice, three times over her nipple. Then he went south, his right hand sliding between her legs, lightly and gently and delicately touching her clit, just enough to make her gasp out his name and lean into him.

He pushed her gently down onto the bed, lifting her until her head rested on the pillows. He trailed his lips down her mouth to her throat, between her breasts, past her stomach until he fit his mouth directly on her cunt, taking her clit between his teeth he flicked at it expertly with his tongue. He pushed her knees apart and slipped a finger into her cunt where he curled and pulsed in an antagonizing rhythm, one that made her hands go numb and her mind go blank until all she knew was his mouth and her body and she was getting so, so close.

And then his mouth made its way back up her stomach, kissing along her rib cage as his hand cupped her breast. He took a nipple in his mouth and sucked lightly as her hands fumbled for his jeans. She tugged and pulled and was panting that she needed him inside her now and then he was, so full and so firm and he let out a deep groan that was almost a growl. He began moving back and forth, slowly at first, then faster and faster and Pansy gripped the back of his neck and guided his movements with her hips.

But she wasn't getting the friction she needed so she pushed him in the chest, rolling him over so she straddled his hips. She sat above him, his cock fully sheathed inside her as she rolled her hips, balancing on her knees. Reaching for his hand, she pressed his thumb against her clit, and taking her cue he began to circle it frantically. His other hand found her breast and he rolled a nipple in between his two fingers, tugging with just enough force to finally take her over the edge. She came with a barely contained scream and she rode him hard and fast until she felt him grip her tightly, groaning as he came with her.

She sort of collapsed on top of him, her breathing ragged and fierce and somehow still wanting more. They lay side by side for a few moments, catching their breath and relishing the satiation.

"You're amazing," Harry finally said, rolling onto his side and pulling her closer to him. His fingers trailed over her lightly, making circles on her arms and chest and breasts, her skin humming under his touch. And even though it was late, and they had both just come mere moments before, they found each other joined again.

This time it was slower, less urgent. She rolled onto her stomach and went up on all fours, guiding him into her so he could take her from behind. His hands kneaded at her and his thumb pressed and massaged into her. She rocked her hips into his, feeling his cock hitting her just right. He reached around at the last moment, his fingers finding her clit just in time for her to come all over again.

...

She woke up warm, comfortably hidden under a large white duvet, her face buried in a mound of pillows. Morning light streamed into the bedroom from the window's slightly parted curtains. She rolled over and stretched. Harry slept soundly next to her, his breathing long and deep and low.

She watched him for a few minutes still in awe of what her world had become. It was just a couple of months ago that she'd found him drunk in her courtyard moaning over wretched Ginny Weasley and accusing her of being a coward.

Now she was in his bed.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty. She yawned and stretched again, her limbs feeling liquid and soft and good. Rolling over she stood up and walked naked to the adjoining bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it was rehabbed with new tile and a large vanity and a steam shower, for Merlin's sake.

After taking care of her business, Pansy studied herself in the overlarge mirror. She cringed away at the way her makeup was smeared and the way her hair was sticking up in the back. Her eyes felt crusty with sleep and she could smell herself—old sweat and liquor and smoke from the night before. She left the bathroom and tip toed back out to the bedroom. Her dress had somehow been folded neatly and placed on the dresser, along with her shoes and her clutch.

Harry's house elf must have recovered, she mused as she grabbed up her things and brought them with her back to the bathroom.

The steam shower did not disappoint and Pansy emerged feeling quite refreshed. She used her wand to dry her hair and applied some light makeup so she felt more human. Then she reached into her clutch and extracted a pair of knickers, a soft bralette, a pair of black stretch pants and a long, soft jumper.

The breakfast table near the window had been filled in her absence. That house elf of Harry's really knew his stuff, Pansy thought. Harry still slept soundly, his soft snores rumbling from the bed. Pansy helped herself to a cup of hot coffee, a buttery scone and a plate of eggs. She sat there, enjoying breakfast and watching the London street below. The window had frosted over and snow was still flurrying down.

Pansy felt warm and safe tucked away at Grimmauld Place and for the first time in a very long time, she thought that maybe everything would be okay after all.

Harry roused a bit later and joined her at the breakfast table. They chatted and talked and perused the Daily Prophet and as morning turned to afternoon they fell back to sleep, a lazy new year's nap. And when the time came for Pansy to go home, Harry kissed her before she flooed away.

She hadn't been home two seconds before she heard her messenger diary chirp.

Harry Potter: What are your plans for dinner?

Epilogue

The Daily Prophet, December 25th, 2007

Harry Potter Marries Long Time Girlfriend Pansy Parkinson in Christmas Eve Wedding of the Century.

By Rita Skeeter

Notorious auror and hero of the wizarding world, Harry Potter, married long time girlfriend Pansy Parkinson last night during a beautiful Christmas Eve ceremony that had everyone raving. The bride looked stunning in an antique, goblin made wedding gown, a family inheritance from the 14th century. It had been refined to match the bride's particular sense of style with a six foot train and a floor length veil. The dress itself contained over nine million fairy pearls, each individually and voluntarily offered to the original Euphadora Parkinson in the 14th century after she single handedly saved an entire species of fairy from muggle fairy enthusiasts.

Pansy Parkinson, successful philanthropist known for her devotion to the War Orphan Fund and St Mungo's Home for Dark Arts Ailments along with the Foundation for Lycanthropy, which she co-founded with now husband Harry Potter, commented that this was "the happiest day of her life." She certainly looked happy as she walked down the aisle of St. Uther's Cathedral with a large bouquet of winter roses and a swarm of fairies following in her steed. She was preceded by chosen bridesmaids Daphne Greengrass and Hermione Granger, the bride's two most devoted friends, each looking radiant in floor length gowns of frosted blue.

Potter wore customary black dress robes, and was accompanied by his best man Ronald Weasley and godchild Teddy Lupin, a child of eight who shocked the crowd with his red and gold hair.

The reception was privately held in the bride's family home where dinner and dancing followed.

The couple now resides in their private residence, the former Black homestead on Grimmauld Place. They kindly request that in lieu of gifts to please donate to one of their many organizations listed below.

War Orphans Fund, St. Mungo's Home for Dark Arts Ailments, Welfare for Magical Creatures, the Muggle-born Rights Committee, The Severus Snape Foundation, Pureblood Allies, The Albus Dumbledore Foundation, The Granger Home for Newly Clothed House Elves, The Remus Lupin Foundation for Lycanthropy

#harry potter #pansy parkinson #harry x pansy #hansy #christmas #holiday #new years eve #kreecher #ron weasley #hermione granger #draco mafloy #neville longbottom

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misterewrites · 4 years

Text

Welcome to The Underground (original story)

Hey everyone, E here! Still alive. haha it’s been a while. So I wanted to do this for a long time and I decided just to go for it. You know, get back into the swing of things and work on my own projects so I apologize if it’s a little off or not up to my usual work.

So I’ll let the story do the talking but basically it’s heavily inspired by dnd because screw it I might as well embrace the madness, Crypt of the Nercodancer (My favorite game) and Hollow Knight (great game)

It takes place in a vast underground kingdom in a fantasy style setting.

I hope you all enjoy it, we’ll see if I keep this up because I really did go all out on the world building and had fun and I hope you all have a great week! E out, bye!

We love you Abi. Don’t ever forget it.

“Mom?”

Abigail winced uncomfortably as the muscles in her body painfully ached.

“Why does everything pain? Why so much pain?” Abigail croaked, resisting the urge to move any further than she had to.

Abigail opened her eyes but instead of the blazing sun high above the mossy, wetlands of the Loss Swamp like she was expecting, it was a swirling darkness and towering smooth stony walls on every side.

A single ray of sunshine cut through the dark but small, leafy movement scurried to cover it, swarming the glimmer of light until it was completely engulfed in shadows once more.

“Okay that explains the cold air during summer.” Abigail whispered to herself, closing her gray eyes in preparation “One second then up you go Abi. One.”

No motion.

“I said one Abi” She scolded herself.

She bit her lip, ignoring the dull ache of her arms as she turned to one side on the cold jagged floor.

“Oh god let’s not do that again” she murmured to herself, taking a deep heavy breath to steady herself.

Abigail propped one elbow against the ground, then the other and slowly rose to her feet. The pain faded away and was replaced with an uneasy but manageable soreness she was more accustomed to working on her farm.

She could do this.

Whatever this was.

She stood to her full average height which wasn’t very tall but still better than kissing the floor. She stretched the stiffness out of her body, cracking the bones in her neck and fingers while glancing upwards.

“A cave entrance. The moss probably covered it up. And this is why invasive flora sucks.”

Abigail pursed her lips, wondering how exactly she was going to climb back up to the surface as she untangled her wet long reddish brown hair. As she was crossing a swamp, she hadn’t packed any climbing gear and who knows how deep the cave system really went.

Abigail paused her thoughts as the sound of rustling reached her ears. The scratching of fabric against leather was so oddly familiar...

Her bag!

She whipped around to the source of the noise and regretted at once as her neck muscles ached dully.

“Hey!” Abigail’s voice cracked “Oww, oww, neck. What are you doing!?”

The silhouette of the figure jumped up in surprise, shooting up to their feet, one hand raised in surrender while the other clutched a familiar dark red travel pack.

“You’re alive?” A male’s voice said with hint of confusion “That’s...that’s surprising.”

“Why?” Abigail snarled “Is that why you covered a hole with a rapid growing moss? What kind of sick trap are you running mister?”

“Moss?” The figure shook his head “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And, I checked your pulse. You were as dead as a doorknob.”

“Well obviously you didn’t do it right!”

The man shifted his weight uncomfortably “I mean it has been a while since I had to check a corpse. At least 4 years. I guess I lost my touch. I am really ashamed of myself. Seriously, I….”

Abigail tuned him out as she plucked her trusty dagger from her belt. She gripped it tightly, eyeing the shadowy figure carefully though it was hard to know where he began and the darkness of the cave ended.

“Okay.” He finished rambling “Obviously I was here to shift through a corpse’s bag and...”

“And you lost your chance!” Abigail yelled, lunging forward with murderous intent.

“Oh shit!” The figure cried out, stumbling backwards in surprise.

Abigail huffed angrily as her blade caught empty air.

“Hey!” She cried out as the person disappeared into the dark “COME BACK HERE!”

Abigail chased after him, wildly groping the thick shifting darkness, her blade scratching stone but not much else. It must’ve been seconds but to her it was an eternity when she found the soft light and a silhouette shrinking deeper into the cave.

Abigail gripped her blade tightly as she bumbled her way to the source of light, prepared for an ambush at the end of the tunnel.

She let out a battle cry, jumping around the corner hoping to catch anyone unaware.

“Wow.” She murmured softly as she took in the awe of the sight before her.

The tunnel had open up to a massive cavern: Mushrooms hung from every inch of the ceiling, gleaming with a greenish light that illuminated the cave brightly. The ground was a rolling hill with gravel, loose and uneven much like dirt. Rows of tilted and uneven stone slabs stretched out before her. Tombstones she guessed based on the faded wording and flowers scattered about.

“This is beautiful. I wonder if the mushrooms catch the moisture in the air to...FOCUS ABI!” She shook herself out of her stupor.

She caught sight of the figure retreating further and further away towards a small hut on the far side of the cavern: He wore an elegant jacket and dress pants though the embodied golden lines were faded. Slung around his back was a lute and in one hand, Abigail’s travel bag as the other flailed wildly.

“Revenge!” Abigail cried, brandishing the knife as she resumed the pursuit.

Well, tried to. She nearly lost her footing from the switch from solid stone to loose gravel. Her knife scraped against a weathered tombstone as she caught herself on it.

“Sorry about that.” She read “Lancer Dupoint. What kind of name is...”

The figure stopped just short of the door, leaning on his knees while he tried to catch his breath “Would you please stop!”

“Never!”

“Look!” the figure shouted “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were still alive. People fall down there and die all the time, it wasn’t anything personal.”

Abigail huffed “If it’s not personal, why do you still have my bag?”

The man looked confused for a moment before he glanced to the bag still in his grip.

“Oh….”

“Oh is right!” Abigail snarled, flinging her knife with all her might.

The man held up the bag to protect himself but the dagger sunk harmlessly an inch away from his face, embedding itself in the wooden door of the hut.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!” he screamed “You could’ve killed me!”

“Did I hit you!?” Abigail replied, scrunching up in fear.

“No! You got the door!”

“Holy shit I got the door?! I never hit anything before! Did it stick?”

“Did it stick? DID IT STICK!? YEAH ABOUT AN INCH FROM MY FACE!”

“Sorry! I never thought I’d make it that far. It’s like what 40 yards?”

“You are crazy lady! Who just throws knives!?”

“I’m sorry I was really mad at you!”

The man let out a crazed chuckle “Mad? don’t throw knives at all! Even when you’re mad!”

“You robbed me!” Abigail raised a finger in accusing manner.

“Not on purpose. I thought you died.”

The shouting stopped as the wooden door creaked loudly on its hinges.

“Oliver, is there a reason you are currently shouting outside my house?” an older man asked, staring curiously back and forth between the two.

Abigail walked slowly over the loose gravel underneath her foot and finally got a good look at the two strangers.

The younger, named Oliver, was maybe about 2 years older than her. He had brown eyes with black hair, a splash of freckles across his cheeks. He was lanky but not much taller with ill fitting performer’s clothes. Old, long since their prime but clearly one of an entertainer given their quality.

The older gentleman had graying hair that was once blonde with a thick beard, his blue eyes kind yet understanding. Abigail couldn’t place his age: Either was 45 or 60 though the way his body hunched and the slowness of his motions hinted at the latter. He wore a simple robe and boots clearly made of a thick material.

“Hello my dear” The older man spoke gently “I am Roland, the groundskeeper of the West End Cemetery and this” he playfully nudged the younger man “Is Oliver.”

“Hello….” Oliver mumbled uneasily.

“He helps me tend the graves for some extra coin. Not as spry as I used to be you know? And you, my dear?”

“Abigail!” she cheerfully beamed “Abigail Greenfield. I fell through a hole in the Loss Swamp and fell down here where I found that one!” Oliver whistled innocently “Was robbing me!”

“Not robbing” Oliver interrupted “Liberating a departed soul of their worldly possessions.”

Abigail expected a scolding or a disappointed scowl from Roland but none came, only a nod of agreement.

“I see. I’m sure Oliver meant no harm.”

“None whatsoever. She’s the one that came at me with a knife!”

“You were a strange man going through her things as she was passed out. You would’ve maintained the element of surprise too.”

Oliver opened his mouth to argue before he nodding in agreement “Okay fair.”

“Anyway, would you like to come in Abigail? I am sure you have many questions.”

“Nah, just one. How do I get back up to the swamp?”

Roland and Oliver shared a look.

--------------------

“I can’t leave?” Abigail repeated after them, the shock of the statement slowly settling over her, the warm tea in her hands remaining untouched.

“Afraid not my dear.” Roland patted her arm sympathetically.

“T-That can’t be right. This is a vast underground cavern system, t-there must be away back to the surface.”

Oliver gave a casual shrug “Look, I’ve lived down here my whole life. If there was a way out, I would’ve heard about it by now. Anyone who could’ve gotten out probably already did. Mages, clerics, magic folk with that kind of power. All zipped off. Wall are too smooth and steep to climb. Everyone else lives here in the Underground. Or the Fifth nations. Or dwarf land.”

“Dwarf land? Dwarves! They must have an entrance to...wait did you just say Fifth Nations? Like….”

“That’s what they named themselves, I’m just repeating it.” Oliver answered.

“Anyway” Abigail continued “The dwarves must have a way up! They do business with a capital and that’s like 100 miles away from my hometown and across from the swamp. Wait, how big is the Underground?”

“Vast.” Roland sipped his tea “I’d say 75 miles give or take but many roads twist and curl in on itself. Travel to the Dwarf kingdom will be slow at best.”

“And nonexistent at realism” Oliver chimed in “The Underground has many roads but the deepest most of them go is the second level and without armed escort, you’re probably not going to survive.”

“Second level? Like floors?”

Roland cleared his throat “Let me explain life here: The Underground is a vast alliance of city states. We’ve been around for hundreds of years, trapped down here but making the best of it. Most of the citizens are are 5th or even 7th generation of descendants of people who fell though once in a while someone from the surface comes tumbling down.”

“Like me! I was crossing the Loss swamp. I was walking over some mossy covered ground when it suddenly gave out. I guess the mossy is an invasive species not native to the swamp.” Roland gave an impressed nod. Oliver was just confused.

“Anyway” Oliver coughed “There’s 4 levels to the Underground. Most cities are built on the first level. It’s closest to any natural sunlight and water, so most creatures avoid it like the plague. There’s a road or two up on this floor but if you wanna get anywhere, you gotta travel through the second layer. It’s further down, closer to the empty void of the cave’s darkness but it was easier to carve paths through. Much more dangerous. Like more creepy crawlers and things that generally want to eat you.”

“Also bandits.” Roland added.

“Right, those fuckers. Armed escort is heavily recommended. There’s a couple of outposts that offer safe haven and patrols with the odd city or two but not much more than that.”

“And the third level?” Abigail asked curiously.

Oliver snorted “hell if I know, that’s like noooo down there. I’ve never met anyone who ever went to the third level and lived. And I am still pretty sure the fourth level is just a myth.”

“Why were you in the swamp Abigail?”

Abigail bit her lips nervously.

“You don’t have to tell us.” Roland smiled softly.

“Thank you. Umm I….I don’t know what to do now.”

“Same” Oliver rolled his eyes “I guess you live here now. West End is a small town, pretty quiet. You’ll find something here to do.”

“I want to go to the dwarf kingdom.”

Oliver rubbed his eyes tiredly “That’s nice, so you do know what you want to do. I hope you get there. It’s allllll the way on the East side of the kingdom, past the Underground and the Fifth Nation and this is a little village at the other end.”

Abigail turned to Roland, ignoring Oliver’s comment “So I take it West End isn’t gonna have a lot of travel out of here?”

The wind picked up for a moment outside and the hut groaned uneasily though Roland paid it no mind.

Roland scratched his beard thoughtfully “Well, you are right. This is a small village. Not much resources for you here. The capital, Haven’s Nest, is the next city over. You’ll have much better luck there though travel would be problematic.”

Oliver chimed in “You gotta go through a second floor path. Means you are going to need somebody who knows how to fight.”

Abigail pursed her lips, wracking her mind at possible solutions “Is there a mercenary group here?”

Oliver scratched his chin for a moment before snapping his finger “Yeah, the Swift Slivers. They’re a small group, loyal though and take fair pay but I doubt you have any….”

“My bag had at least 30 gold.”

“30 gold?” Oliver rose an eyebrow before realization hit “Wait! Surface gold?!”

“Umm.” Abigail’s eyes darted back and forth, unsure where he was going with this “Yeeeees?”

“That’s worth a fortune down here! Actually no, don’t pull that out unless you want to get robbed.”

“Right, sure.” Abigail was not sure what was going on anymore.

“Oliver.” Roland began slowly “Isn’t there a music competition you were saving up for in Haven’s Nest?”

“Yeeeeees.” Oliver narrowed his eyes suspiciously “But I still need to save up for the entry fee and paying the mercs to escort me.”

“I think you earned you pay for the month Oliver. I will cover the mercenary fee.”

“If?” Oliver rolled his eyes.

“You agree to take Abigail to the capital.”

It was harder to tell who was more opposed to the idea: The farm girl or the bard.

“Are you kidding me!? He robbed me!”

“She came at me with a knife! Even after I said I was sorry!”

“How can I trust him, he was looting my ‘corpse’!”

“She’s clearly crazy and I don’t feel safe traveling with her.”

Roland raised a hand, stopping the two arguments without a word.

“Abigail. You are new to this land. You have very little options and I can promise despite….first impressions, Oliver will not put you in danger.”

Roland turned to Oliver with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You want to go compete. This is the only way you’re going to get to the competition in time. All you have to do is take her to the capital where you were planning on going anyway. Are you really going to pass up a free ride?”

“Fine” The two huffed in unison “We’ll behave.”

“Good” Roland beamed, sliding a pouch of coins into Oliver’s hand.

Oliver glanced curiously at the older gentleman “Are you okay. Sir?”

Roland chuckled playfully “Yes quite. I just feel this is the best path forward for you both. Two people in need. A common destination. Two birds, one pouch.”

Oliver was uneasy about that answer but before he could continue with his questioning, Abigail spoke.

“Can I have my bag back?”

Oliver lost his train of his thought as he handed back the bag he had accidentally taken, glancing distastefully at his companion.

At least she was prepared for travel: Long sleeved red tunic, blue bandana to keep her hair in check and black leggings tucked into hiking boots.

Roland let out a tired yawn, rubbing at his eyes sleepily “Now, if you excuse me, I think I need to sleep.”

“But it’s the afternoon.” Oliver muttered, something about the old man’s behavior not sitting well with him. He had never taken a nap during the day.

“I am quite old Oliver and if you hurry, you may be able to start traveling today.”

He was trying to get rid of them, Oliver was sure of that at least but the why eluded him.

Abigail simply nodded “Thank you Roland, for everything.”

“Goodbye Abigail. Oliver.”

Oliver frowned but shook the hand all the same “Old man.”

--------------------

Roland waved cheerfully at the retreating figures of the unhappy pair. It wasn’t ideal and there was no guarantee that they weren’t going to kill each other but at least they were safe.

Roland took a deep, calming breath as he closed the door.

“You should’ve knocked, old friend.”

Roland turned around to find a cloaked figure sitting lazily in his chair, his golden yellow eyes peering through the shroud of his hood.

“Ello Roland. Long time.”

“Long time” Roland sighed “Tea? Milk?”

“Milk” The figure murmured with a grin “Sounds lovely.”

Roland grimaced, making his way to the kitchen to serve his uninvited guest.

“Nice house.” The figure called out, eyeing the small hut with approval “Cozy. Quiet. Isolated.”

“That’s why I picked it.” Roland answered, pouring the milk into a glass “Nice retirement plan.”

“Agreed.” The figure chuckled “Never thought you’d retire. The most powerful wizard in all the Underground. Toiling graves.”

“Well.” Roland poured a drink for himself “Not all of us want to die pursing endless hobbies.”

Roland made his way back to his guest, handing him his drink and taking a seat across from him.

“You got one ready out there?” The figure gestured to the window.

“Yeah. It’s by the gate. Very nice.”

“Perks of a gravekeeper.”

“Mhm.”

The silence was tense as they finished their drinks slowly. They stared at one another, the moment close at hand.

The figure stood up, drawing a blade hidden beneath his cloak “Would you like to take a read of your book before we start?”

Roland shook his head “I always hoped you would’ve died in this vain pursuit. I suppose I’ll have to kill you myself.”

The figure gave a toothy grin, his eyes gleaming with humor “I am blessed by my lady. You may try but I assure you I won’t be stopped.”

Roland remained silent, his finger tracing symbols in the air. Blue magical runes fill the appear before him as the figure closes the distance.

#my story #original story

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michelleleahhh · 5 years

Note

From hand promts :) "SCARS! ON! HANDS! (Tracing the scar with a fingertip, as the other stands, motionless.)"

I’m so sorry this took so long!!

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Word Count: 753

“And what about this one?” you ask, pointing to the red mark on his muscular back.

Loki peers at you over his shoulder, his green eyes half-lidded. Then, they droop down as he sits up straighter to see what you’re pointing to. He raises one eyebrow before admitting in mockery, “Thor.”

“It was not,” you argue, shoving on his cool, clammy skin. That is always his explanation.

The corner of Loki’s lip quirks up into a lopsided smirk. “You believe I would lie to you?”

“Absolutely.”

You pull the covers of the bed to your chest and fluff the blankets, taking in the lovely sight of Loki’s naked backside. He tilts his head forward then sighs. With one last deep inhale, Loki twists his naked body and crawls over you, pressing the length of himself on top of you. His pale, soft lips press against your naked shoulder.

“Smart girl,” he mumbles against your skin.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile.

The first time Loki saw you naked, which was a mere two hours ago, you were nervous about your body. Honestly, who wouldn’t be insecure in front of a God? What with his marble-like skin, bright green eyes, chiseled face, and sinewy body. He is lithe and elegant. You are human: bumbling, awkward.

But then he said, so perfectly honest, Even God’s aren’t perfect.

You asked him to prove it and he pointed an extremely faint scar just under his chin. Truthfully, you’ve never even noticed it.

So, you stood there naked inspecting it, not noticing Loki lazily inspecting you.

A heat flushes over you when you think of how open he was about his perusal.

“And this one?” You ask, pointing to the mark in the middle of his chest that’s barely visible.

Loki smiles against your skin, his cool lips softly kissing your collar bone. “Thor.”

“Lokiiii,” you drawl playfully, stressing his name, kicking the covers and shaking restlessly. “Tell me the truth.”

His face lights up, letting his finger flutter over your arms, tracing from one mark to another. You, after all, don’t have as many scars as he does. So instead he addresses your skin impurities with all the love you gave him.

Loki’s covered in them, scars, but they’re all different. Raised hooks, lines, and gashes mar his beautiful skin in intricate, unrelated patterns.

“It was,” he repeats, pressing his lips to the crook of your neck. He lifts himself up so he hovers over you. He places both of his arms just beside your head so he doesn’t crush you with his weight. Asgardians, after all, are dense sort of creatures (both with their emotions and their bodies).

“You probably stabbed him more.”

“Once or twice more.”

“Times a hundred,” you quip.

He smiles, fully, serenely at you. The kind of smile that explains everything you need to know. Love. It’s the pure type of smile that just breeds happiness and fulfillment. His eyes are pure adoration, sunlight with the emotions that swell inside you.

“Times a thousand,” he volleys back. His eyes droop when his lips press against yours.

It’s an honest, chaste kiss. Like him. Because even though Loki is undoubtedly more sexually experienced than you, having lived a thousand years before you, his emotions are infant. They’re new. And he treats them and you with such care.

He sighs and rolls over, sneaking under the covers in a far too graceful way. Then, Loki pulls you into his arms so you lay against his chest.

His hands grasp yours bringing them to his lips. And then he shuts his eyes, with your hand in his clutches.

But you aren’t tired. You don’t want to sleep just yet.

“What about this one?”

Your finger trails over the back of his hand, following the long, needle-like scar from wrist to middle knuckle.

He peeks one eye open.

When he sees what you’re pointing at, he visibly swallows. Then, he lies, “Ah, that one was a ferocious monster.”

Your returning, gurgling laughter makes the dimple on his left cheek appear, though his eyes remain vulnerable and laced with exhaustion. Without warning, you kick him. “You’re such a lying shit.”

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine, it was Thor. Why must you always bring up our sibling rivalry?” You giggle, putting your head into the crook of his neck, still high from happiness.

One day, you’ll get the answer. But tonight: “I despise you.”

He replies simply, “I am fond of you, too.”

Taglists: @fairlightswiftly, @javelinamilk, @wannabebr1t, @joyofbebbanburg, @schmidten17

#anon #thank you so much for your request #tom hiddleston #loki #loki fafictio #loki imagines #loki/reader #loki/you #reader insert #loki imagine #loki fanfic #mcu fanfic #imchelleleahhhh #drabbles #michelleleahhh #drabble #shit I write #one shot #loki x rader

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hanalwayssolo · 5 years

Text

Somewhere Between The Music and Lyrics: Ch. 2 - End

A/N: Songs featured for this last half are: Jordan Rakei’s Eye to Eye, Justin Timberlake’s Say Something, Tori Kelly’s I Was Made For Loving You.

Tagging pals! @blindedstarlight @raspberryandechinacea @gowithme @valkyrieofardyn @emmydots @hanatsuki89 @noboomoon @lazarustrashpit @animakupo @mp938368 @boo-dangy @bleucommelhiver

The primly cultivated front garden and the violet bougainvillea that crept up the walls of the house before you looks nothing like a recording studio. At least, that’s what you have assumed from all the films you’ve watched, anyway. You reread the address on your phone: 1130 Citadel Road. As far as your adequate knowledge of Downtown Insomnia is concerned—plus the guidance of Moogle Maps—you’re certainly in the right street. The numbers 1130 plastered by the metal railing clearly says you’re in the right lot, too. The only thing keeping you now from ringing the doorbell is the anxiety churning in your stomach like a raging sea. Overhead, a security camera is watching your every awkward move.

Maybe it’s not yet too late to turn back, you think.

And as soon as the thought leaves you, you hear the sound of your own voice belting out from a passing car, its windows rolled down and its speakers all the way up for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. This is the fourth time you’ve heard yourself on someone else’s radio, and it is bloody jarring to say the least.

A part of you is still reeling in from everything that has happened ever since that video got out. Who would’ve thought that the band you admired from the comfort of your earphones would suddenly appear right outside your doorstep? And have you lost your mind that you agreed to collaborate on a song with a band as popular as The Lost Boys? You still wonder how on earth they can consider someone like you after one fucking cover when, in fact, you have no formal training in music in the first place. Besides, you have already been perfectly honest with them—with Prompto, most especially, since he had been the one most eager to know more about you—regarding your background and what you do for a living. Which, frankly, had been a tricky discussion since you’re not that fond of talking about yourself without the hint of self-deprecation. But you did manage. As succinctly as you could, you told the boys that you’re simply a bumbling corporate slave by day and a struggling songwriter by night, with hopes of consistently paying your share on rent and amenities with your pesky Internet-famous friends.

Maybe this is all a mistake, you think this time.

You glance at your phone again to check the time. Or rather, you’re hoping to see a message that they have cancelled the deal. But there’s nothing on your lock screen from any of The Lost Boys except the time that beams four-thirty p.m., a couple of unopened messages from Nyx (“u go blow their minds away but call me as soon as they fuck shit up” the initial sentence says, then followed by three eggplant emojis), Libertus (“drop by @ ostium’s tonight & we’ll celebrate!”) and a missed call from Pelna. Even with your friends’ show of support, you feel like you’re still dreaming. But what if this is really just a dream? What if right now, you’re actually still—

A low voice sneaks up behind you. “Can I help you?”

Startled out of your wits, you turn around and you find a tall man in a gray coat, eyeing you with great concern. He’s carrying a bag of groceries on one arm and a handful of books on the other. There’s something awfully familiar about his stern face, his silver-shaved head and magnetic blue eyes, that you cannot quite put a finger on it yet.

“I, uh—” you hesitate for a moment, scratching your cheek— “I don’t know if I’m in the right place, but would you know if there’s a recording studio nearby?”

“You’re actually standing in front of one.” The man flashes you an amiable smile. Your cheeks begin to burn red. Then, he says, “Wait, are you here for Prompto and the boys? I heard they’re expecting someone coming over.”

You nod. “Well… yes.”

“Perfect.” He jerks his head towards the gate. “I was just about to head inside myself. Please, come in.”

The man ushers you along the gravelly path, up the staircase, and into the blue door. Inside, you are welcomed by the sight of a lovely foyer, its pristine white walls tastefully decorated with framed photos and vinyl albums. A sharp aroma of black coffee wafts through the air. It is impossibly cold.

As the man carefully unloads his things on the center table, he tells you, “They should be in the booth right now. Follow me.”

You trail behind the man down the narrow carpeted hallway. You look around and you see more framed records hanging on the wall. You recognize some of it, and it’s like taking a stroll along an impressive hall of legends: The Beatles, Jackson 5, Joy Division, Nirvana, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and a few other names that you’re certain have made it in the Billboard charts. But you notice that most of the photos on a couple of shelves are that of the five-man band The Regalia, and you remember how your mother used to play their songs on the your old stereo, all because she could not get enough of Clarus’s vocals and...

The realization hits you like a speeding freight train.

“Holy fuck.”

The crispness of your words echoes throughout the corridor that the man turns around to look at you with a confused smile on his face. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m sorry. I, um… you’re...” You sigh, trying to quell your utter disbelief. Gods, how could you have been so blind? “You’re… Clarus Amicitia.”

His smile turns into an amused grin. “I am, indeed. At your humble service.” He regards you with a brief nod. “And you’re the fellow with the lovely voice.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Gods. Did the Clarus Amicitia—living legend of the Insomnian local music scene—just call your voice lovely?

This is too much for you to handle in one day.

“Uh, well, I—um, thank you. Sir.” You smile at him, but you lower your eyes on your shoes, realizing that your words of gratitude came out in a torment. If Clarus had noticed it, he was kind enough to pretend that he didn’t.

“No need to call me sir—Clarus is fine.” He smiles again right back at you. You’re quite certain that your mother would fucking flip if she finds out about this.

As Clarus leads you to the last door at the far end of the corridor, you can already hear an indistinct melody and the swell of the bass vibrating from the room.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door. “After you.”

Entering the studio oddly feels like stepping into a different dimension. From the homely elegance of the hallways, the whole room is an air-conditioned sanctuary of hardwood floors and neatly-arranged equipment: massive speakers, rack systems, audio mixers and soundboards, and a bunch of other controls you can hardly name. A pair of acoustic guitars are tidily displayed beside a black couch. Here, strangely enough, the air is thicker with the scent of coffee.

And here, behind the glass panel and amidst all the polish is The Lost Boys, oozing a velvety riff and a soulful tune, steered by a flawless voice that belongs to none other than Prompto.

It’s the birth of a star Earlier than sunset It’s the galaxy’s water Flowing like a riverbed

You hold your breath, immediately drawn to Prompto’s honeyed melodies and the guilt of poetry in the lyrics. Of all the times you have listened to their music, you immediately notice how the rhythm departs from their signature sound. Then again, they have been known to take risks, may it be in their own songs or otherwise.

This, you realize, is their true magic. The minutes seem to have stopped ticking. Behind you, even Clarus has fallen silent.

Yes they shine bright like a million Let them bleed twice for a minute Pleasure to have met you You’re my star tonight—

The music stutters into a halt when Prompto’s gaze falls on you, his eyes meeting yours. A bright grin spreads all over his face, and he waves a hand at you, beckoning you to join them.

Clarus waves back at the boys, and rests a hand on your shoulder. “Make yourself at home. Don’t be afraid to let me know if these grown ass men cause any trouble for you. My son, most especially,” he says cheekily. “And might I just say—“ he folds his arms over his chest, his voice now employing a pensive tone— “I’ve had the pleasure of listening to your rendition of Prompto’s song. All these years, and my ears have not failed me. I know a good singer when I hear one.”

A rush of heat rises to your cheeks. “You’re far too kind to me,” you say, unable to help the smile that tugs the corners of your mouth. You spare one look and nod at Clarus as he leaves, while you awkwardly make your way inside the booth.

As soon as you step inside, Prompto greets you with a warm hug.

“Glad you made it!” he says as he pulls away. You actively ignore how good his cologne smells, or whatever scent he is wearing. “I was starting to think you changed your mind.”

“No. Actually… well, I thought about not coming here,” you admit sheepishly. “I got really nervous.”

“Hey, don’t be!” Prompto says brightly in reassurance, looping an arm around you. Okay, he really does smell nice that you can actually forgive his lack of consideration for personal space.

“And you have nothing to be nervous about,” Noctis adds, fiddling with the strap of his bass guitar.

“Did my old man scare you on your way here?” Gladio asks from behind the drums.

“Oh, no. Not at all.” A lie, kind of. But Gladio looks like he’s buying it. To be fair, Clarus didn’t exactly scare you, though scare is synonymous to intimidate—because who wouldn’t be intimidated in the presence of Clarus fucking Amicitia? “Though he did say I should be careful of you,” you say truthfully.

Prompto and Noctis erupt in a gale of laughter. Even Ignis is amused. Gladio shakes his head and with an apologetic smile, he tells you, “Please don’t mind my dad. I promise, I’m completely harmless—”

“I think your father is less concerned with your inclination to violence and more on your inclination to romancing… well, anything that moves,” Ignis chides as he returns his electric guitar on a stand, taking a seat next to the speakers.

Prompto unloops his arm around you and rests it on your shoulder as he says, “Don’t worry about this monster—I got you." At that, you feel like your heart skipped a beat. You could only wish that you're not blushing like a fool. "Though best believe he’d flirt with a lamp post if you dress it right.”

Gladio quickly shoots Prompto a threatening glare, and then he smiles at you. “Please don’t believe them.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, I guess?” You laugh, and they do, too. It’s bizarre how being around them reminds you of being around your circle of friends. You shift on your feet a little, hesitant to the comfort of their company. Then, turning to Prompto, you gingerly ask, “Um, by the way. Were you guys recording a new song earlier?”

“Oh, that?” Prompto gives you a sheepish smile. “Not really—we’re just experimenting on some of the lyrics I wrote.” His eyes widen. “Speaking of, not to put you on the spot but—” Prompto dashes to take a mic stand and sets in front of you— “I was thinking this might help you ease into… all of this.”

You glance at Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis, all three of them looking at you expectantly. You narrow your eyes at Prompto. “Are you… trying to make me sing?”

He tilts his head. “Um, yeah. What else?”

“Really? Like right now?”

“Yes, like right now.” Prompto is grinning at you. First, he smells nice and now he’s being painfully charming. “Name any song. We’d play it with you.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Any song? Seriously?”

“Yup.” Prompto laughs. “Why, you doubt we can’t play something mainstream like Rihanna? Or Queen Bey, even?”

“No, it’s not that—alright, then.” You chew on your bottom lip, and heave a long, shuddery sigh. Static rings from the microphone. You look around and out of the corner of your eye, you spot a spare guitar—in an instant you know it’s a Les Paul, gods bless your poor ass soul—sitting beside a Steinway piano. To Prompto, you say, “Can I borrow that guitar?”

He nods. “Yeah, sure.”

You take the blessed thing, equipping it as carefully as you can. You’re finding it hard to concentrate when all eyes are glued on you. Prompto, most especially. You draw a deep breath, and release your inhibitions in a loud exhale.

Then comes the crisp strum of your fingertips against the chords. The steady pace and pulse. You catch a glimpse of Prompto smiling at you, and that unmistakeable glint of recognition in his eyes. He knows the song. The rest of the boys know it, too. And as if by some form of telepathy, Gladio prepares the percussions. Ignis tunes his guitar, Noctis readies his bass. Prompto picks up another guitar to accompany you as you sing.

Everyone knows All about my direction And in my heart somewhere I wanna go there

It’s almost frightening how easily you slip into their dynamic, as if you have been a part of them for as long as can remember. You can feel yourself slowly relax, the nerves leaving your body and aptly replaced by the swelling notes. The cadence intensifies. It is when Prompto sings along with you that a jolt of electricity runs down your spine.

Everyone knows all about my transgressions Still in my heart somewhere There’s melody and harmony For you and me tonight

This, you realize, is a different kind of sorcery. His voice blends with yours so perfectly that you see Noctis and Gladio exchange wide-eyed glances. Prompto’s eyes locks on yours, and he flashes you that charming smile of his.

And all you can think to yourself is: Where have you been all my life?

Prompto knows that this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Still, he finds himself stealing away most of your days.

Not in a bad way, of course. After your first session with the band, he had insisted to accompany you home—quite a long walk, sure, but you said you were fond of walking and he wanted to spend more time with you—which somehow ended up with the both of you hanging out in your couch, exchanging playlists and punch lines and feasting on your Kenny Crow’s leftovers. Thankfully, your roommates didn’t seem to mind him being around the apartment, though he could not help but notice how they would purposely stay longer by the kitchen counter across the living room just to keep a watchful eye on you. Prompto found it equal parts endearing and frightening, but he really could not blame them. If he had someone like you, he would probably do the same thing.

Every second with you, he'd always find himself wanting another. So he treasures each day with you as it drifts onto the next, and all the nights that come along with it. With the limited time you spend with him in the studio writing and making music, he would make it a point to always walk you back to your place, if this is what it takes to be with you a little while longer. If he had to admit, apart from your insane talent, he adores your smile, and how it crinkles the corner of your eyes whenever you talk about your friends or any of your favourite things. He adores it even more when you do it on occasions he tells you a corny joke or two. He adores how your eyes brighten whenever your beautiful mind works its wonders into music. But he adores your laughter the most, how it's like a soothing melody he wants to listen to on repeat, so he tries to crack you up with an abundance of his silliness just to hear that bubbling laugh.

But he has seen you at your worst, too. If he could, he would trade all of his good days just for you to overcome your bad days. He’d write all the songs for you until his hands bleed, if need be.

Such a constellation are you to him. Who would have thought that his own song would lead him straight to you? But still, Prompto wishes he had the courage to say all these things. But as his adoration for you blossoms into something else, he lets his feelings known the only way he knows how: by letting the words leak into the page, letting it dry into a song.

Even though we may be hopeless hearts Just passing through Every bone screaming I don’t know what we should do All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

You are startled to find Prompto alone in the studio, tuning his guitar.

“Where are the others?” you ask, as if by way of greeting. You drop your things by the couch, taking a seat beside him.

“Um, they’re—they went out to buy some food! Or something,” Prompto says nervously. He avoids your eyes. Weirdly, his nervousness is making you nervous, too. “I, uh—” he takes a piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to you— “I wrote down a couple of lines to complete the chorus. You wanna give it another go?”

You unfold the piece of paper and read the lyrics.

Shit. It’s beautiful. It’s too beautiful that you cannot help but wonder to whom he wrote it for. In the weeks you have known him, you’re aware that he isn’t exactly seeing anyone. The thought of the song has been written for another person makes your heart wince.

“Wow, this is… really good, Prom,” you say as evenly as you can. “I guess whoever’s on your mind when you wrote this must be a lucky person.”

Prompto looks up at you. “Well, yeah. But I think I’m luckier ‘cause I have them by my side right now.”

A strange silence settles between the two of you. The only sound you can hear is your own heart racing in what seems to be a hundred miles per hour. You want to say something, but the words are locked somewhere down your throat.

Prompto sighs. “Look, I’d totally understand if you don’t feel the same way. I just want you to know what I feel—”

“Actually, I do feel the same way,” you say. You bite your lip to stop the smile trying to escape your lips, only to fail miserably.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Are you serious—”

“Prom, if you don’t stop talking and if you don’t start kissing me right now, I’ll hate you forever.”

In that moment, he crosses the space between the two of you, cupping your face in his hands. This time, the silence sings. Its music dances at the beat of your own heart. Prompto takes his sweet time as he presses a kiss on your forehead, traveling down to the tip of your nose, and slowly but surely, his lips finally finding yours.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv fanfiction #fanfic #ffxv #prompto argentum #older!prompto argentum #prompto x reader #older!prompto x reader #my writing #y'all bet the search engine in insomnia is called moogle

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