The clock in the corner of the office ticked with a sound like a dying beetle, each second a small, dry click in the overwhelming silence. It was past midnight in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the labyrinthine Ministry corridors now empty save for the occasional hushed footfall of a janitor or the soft, papery rustle of memos finally settling in their trays. Harry Potter, Head of the Auror Office, rubbed his eyes, the parchment before him blurring into a grey smear of casualty reports, logistical minutiae, and budgetary appeals. Five years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and the mountain of paperwork seemed to have grown taller, more insidious, as if fed by the very grief it documented.
His office was large, but oppressive. One wall was dominated by a map of magical Britain, dotted with pins of different colors – unresolved disturbances, Dark artefact traces, sympathizer watch-lists. Another was lined with books, not on charms or curses, but on bureaucratic law, international wizarding statutes, and psychological profiles of post-war agitators. The hero's garlands had long since wilted; now there was only the relentless, unglamorous work of stitching a torn world back together, suture by painful suture.
He was about to call it a night, the fatigue a physical weight in his bones, when the door to his office opened without a knock.
Harry's wand was in his hand instinctively, a reflex honed by years of war and its uneasy peace. The figure that slipped through was not an assassin, but it was, in its own way, just as startling.
Pansy Parkinson stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the cool blue glow of the corridor's everlasting torches. For a moment, Harry's brain refused to reconcile the image with the memory. The sneering, sharp-faced girl from Slytherin, always at Malfoy's elbow, always the first to jeer, was gone. In her place was a woman of devastating, calculated beauty. She was wrapped in a cloak of deep emerald velvet, but it was parted, revealing a dress of midnight silk that seemed to drink the light, clinging to a figure that was frankly, outrageously voluptuous. The neckline plunged, showcasing the impossible, creamy swell of DD-cup breasts that seemed to defy gravity, their curves accentuated by the exquisite, severe cut of the gown. Her hair, once a sharp black bob, was now a waterfall of silken obsidian that fell past her shoulders, framing a face still sharp-featured but softened by artful cosmetics and an expression he had never seen on her: profound, unsettling vulnerability.
"Potter," she said, her voice quieter, huskier than he remembered. It lacked its old nasal derision. "May I come in?"
He didn't lower his wand. "Parkinson. It's late. The Ministry's closed to visitors."
"I'm not a visitor," she said, stepping fully inside and letting the door whisper shut behind her. The scent of her filled the room – not the cheap perfume of their school days, but something expensive, dark: night-blooming jasmine and crushed velvet. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent."
"Urgent," Harry repeated flatly, finally lowering his wand but not setting it down. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "The last time you spoke to me urgently, you were suggesting handing me over to Voldemort to save your own skin."
She flinched as if struck, a full-body tremor that made the diamonds at her throat and ears glitter. "I have… no defense for that. None. I was a cowardly, horrible child raised by cowardly, horrible people." She took a step closer, and he could see the genuine fear in her dark eyes, a fear that went deeper than social anxiety. "But what I need now has nothing to do with the war. It's… social. And you are the only person in the world who can help me."
A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped Harry. "Social? You need my help with a party? Have you seen the stack on my desk, Parkinson? People are still missing. Families are destitute. Werewolves can't get potions. And you want advice on canapés?"
"The Silverpeal Ball," she said, the words rushing out. "It's in three days. At the Celestial Pavilion in Wiltshire. It's… it's the most important event of the season. All the old families, the new money, the international dignitaries… my parents committed me to attending with… with a certain gentleman. A foreign dignitary with… particular tastes."
"So go with him," Harry said, turning back to his parchment, a clear dismissal.
"I can't!" The panic in her voice was raw. "He's a… a collector. Of people. Especially people from 'notable' wizarding lines who are now… vulnerable. He sees my family's diminished status, our near-ruin from the war reparations, as an opening. Going with him wouldn't be attending a ball. It would be signing a contract in blood. He would own me. My parents are too terrified of him, and too greedy for the connections he dangles, to refuse."
Harry looked up, a flicker of reluctant interest piercing his irritation. "Then don't go. Tell your parents no."
"You think it's that simple?" A bitter smile touched her perfectly painted lips. "The Parkinson name is mud. Our gold is almost gone. This ball is a last, desperate bid for relevance. If I refuse, if I humiliate this man by pulling out, he will destroy what's left of us. And he'll still take me, just without the pretense of civility." She hugged herself, a gesture that pushed her breasts up, but it seemed unconscious, a move of pure distress. "But if I arrive with a date… a date so publicly esteemed, so unimpeachably heroic, that his mere presence acts as a shield… he wouldn't dare. No one would. You'd be… you'd be a ward. A guardian."
Harry stared at her. The logic was twisted pure-blood social maneuvering, but he could sense the genuine terror beneath it. He'd heard whispers of these "collectors," wealthy, powerful men from other magical communities who saw post-war Britain as a fire sale on broken aristocracy.
"And you came to me," he said slowly. "The 'filthy blood traitor' you and your friends tormented for six years. The one whose mother you called 'the Muggle-loving whore.' The one whose best friend your beloved Draco tried to torture to death. Why in the name of Merlin's saggy left—"
"Because you are Harry Potter!" she cried, her composure cracking. "You are the only one he fears! The only one whose 'no' is an absolute! And because…" she swallowed, her throat working. "Because I know what I did. I know what we were. And I am not asking for forgiveness. I am not asking as an equal. I am begging. As a supplicant."
Before he could process her words, she moved.
In one fluid, shocking motion, Pansy Parkinson sank to her knees on the polished wood floor of his office. The emerald cloak pooled around her like spilled ink. She didn't kneel gracefully; she dropped, her body folding in on itself in a posture of utter submission. Her head bowed, that magnificent cascade of black hair sweeping forward to brush the floor. Her hands, delicate and ringed, came to rest palms-up on her thighs in a gesture of total surrender.
"Please," she whispered, her voice muffled. "Please, Harry Potter. I have nothing to offer but my shame and my plea. I am at your mercy."
Harry was on his feet, his chair screeching back. He'd been begged to before – for autographs, for help, for mercy in courtrooms. But never like this. Never with this total, abject self-abnegation. The power dynamic in the room had violently shifted. He stood over her, the war hero, the bureaucrat, the man, and she was a beautiful, broken thing at his feet.
A storm of emotions warred within him: disgust at her past, a sick, unwanted thrill at the sight of his childhood tormentor so debased, a lingering anger that burned cold, and a pragmatic, Auror-trained analysis of her situation. He could say no. He should say no. Let the snakes eat their own.
He walked around his desk, stopping a few feet from her. He could see the subtle trembling in her shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of her chest against the constricting silk.
"Get up, Parkinson."
"Not until you give me your answer."
"This is pathetic. And manipulative."
"It is the only currency I have left," she said, her voice steadier now, laced with a despair that felt genuine. "My pride is ash. My family's honor is a joke. My body is a bargaining chip others wish to claim. I place what's left of my will at your feet. Use it or discard it."
He was silent for a long minute, the only sound their breathing. He thought of the reports on his desk. The orphans at Hogwarts needing new wands. The safe-houses for Muggle-born returnees that were always underfunded.
"If I do this," he said, his voice hard, "it's not a favor. It's a transaction."
Her head lifted slightly, a glimmer of hope in her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes.
"Name your price. Anything."
"A quarter."
She blinked. "A quarter?"
"A quarter of the Parkinson fortune. Not the diminished one you pretend to have. The real one. The one you've undoubtedly hidden in off-shore vaults, converted into rare artefacts, stashed in Gringotts under different names. A full, verifiable twenty-five percent of your total net worth."
She paled, the blood draining from her face. It was a brutal demand, designed to hurt, to punish. It was also, he knew, potentially survivable. Unlike her proposed fate.
"You would… ruin us," she breathed.
"I would redistribute blood money to those your kind ruined," he corrected coldly. "The survivors. The werewolf packs for Wolfsbane. The mind-healers at St. Mungo's for curse victims. The reconstruction of Muggle-born homes. Consider it an extremely late, and extremely costly, apology."
He watched the calculations flicker behind her eyes—the pure-blood Slytherin weighing survival against gold. The woman on her knees weighing slavery against penance.
"How would you even verify it?" she asked, a last, feeble resistance.
"I have access to the full audit trails of the Ministry's Reparations Commission. And my best friend is a wizard who broke into Gringotts and rode out on a dragon. We'll find it all. Try to hide a Galleon, and the deal is off, and I'll personally introduce you to your dignitary."
She closed her eyes. A single, perfect tear traced a path through her powder, falling onto the back of her hand. When she opened them, they held a terrifying emptiness, a cleared deck.
"Yes," she said, the word final as a tombstone closing over a grave. "A quarter. For your protection. For one night."
"For my *presence*," he emphasized. "I'll stand there. I'll dance if I have to. I'll be civil. But that's it. You are not my friend. You are not my date. You are a client. A very, very expensive one."
"Understood."
"Then get up."
She rose, slowly, stiffly. Her knees must have ached, but she showed no sign. She rearranged her cloak, her movements once again poised, though the submissive energy still radiated from her like heat. She was agreeing to his terms, but the act of kneeling had changed something. A line had been crossed.
"The Ball is on Saturday," she said, her voice all business now, though softer, deferential. "Black-tie formal. Robes or a dress suit. It begins at eight. I shall… I shall meet you at the entrance of the Celestial Pavilion at seven-forty-five?"
Harry gave a short, sharp nod. "I'll be there."
She hesitated, looking at him—really looking at him—for the first time since entering. The famous lightning bolt scar, the tired green eyes, the stern set of a mouth that had forgotten how to smile easily.
"Thank you," she said, and it sounded less like gratitude and more like an acknowledgement of a pact with a demon.
Then she turned and left, the scent of jasmine and velvet lingering long after the door had closed silently behind her.
Harry sank back into his chair, the fatigue returning twofold, now mingled with a churning, unsettled feeling. He had just agreed to be the shield for a woman he despised, for a price that would cripple her family. He told himself it was justice, a long-overdue tax on cruelty. But the image of her on her knees, the profound submission in her posture, the offered vulnerability of her body and spirit, wouldn't leave him. It felt less like a victory and more like he'd stepped into a very old, very dark kind of magic.
***
The Celestial Pavilion in Wiltshire was not a building so much as a captured piece of night sky. An immense, transparent dome of enchanted crystal stretched over acres of manicured gardens and sparkling fountains, the ceiling alive with a perfect, slow-wheeling replica of the summer constellations. Real, tiny moons—pale opalescent orbs—drifted lazily on invisible tracks, casting a soft, magical glow over the scene below. The air itself seemed infused with silver light and the chill, clean scent of ozone and frost, despite the warmth of the evening.
The floor was black marble, polished to such a high shine that it reflected the cosmos above, making the thousand guests seem as if they were floating in the midst of the galaxy. The women were constellations themselves in gowns of sapphire, emerald, and diamond-white, their jewels winking in tandem with the stars above. The men were dark planets in their severe black robes and tailored dress suits.
Harry arrived via a discreet Ministry Floo at 7:44, feeling like an imposter in his perfectly fitted, obsidian-black dress robes. They were a concession to tradition, but he'd refused the frills and lace some of the older wizards sported. His were clean-lined, severe, the only adornment a single, discreet silver clasp at his throat. He felt every eye upon him the moment he stepped onto the Pavilion floor. The whispers were a palpable rustle, like wind through dead leaves. *Potter. Harry Potter. What's he doing here?*
He saw her almost immediately, a dark star against the glittering backdrop. She was standing near a fountain that sprayed liquid silver, looking out at the crowd with an expression of serene poise that didn't reach her eyes. And Merlin, she was a vision.
The dress was a masterpiece of devastating artistry. It was the color of a deep-space void, a black so absolute it seemed to suck in the light around it. It was strapless, hugging the impossible fullness of her breasts before cinching in a cruel, narrow waist and flaring out over her hips. The fabric was etched with a subtle, barely-perceptible pattern that looked like a spider's web woven from starlight. Her DD-cups were showcased with breathtaking audacity, the neckline a daring parabola that seemed to defy physics, the creamy upper swells dusted with what looked like crushed diamond. The long, silken fall of her black hair was partially swept up, intricate braids pinned with onyx clips, the rest cascading down her bare back like a shadow.
As he approached, she turned. Her eyes, expertly made-up to look larger, darker, found his. There was no smile, but a slow, deep breath filled her lungs, a subtle sign of relief. She dipped into a low, formal curtsy, her head bowing. The movement was exquisitely executed, a public display of deference that sent another wave of whispers through the nearest guests.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice a cultured murmur. "Thank you for coming." The formality was a shield. Up close, he could see the tension in the line of her jaw, the faint pulse at the base of her throat.
"Parkinson," he nodded, offering his arm. It was the barest minimum of courtesy, but she took it as if it were a lifeline, her gloved fingers resting lightly on the black wool of his sleeve. Her touch was cool.
"Shall we?" she asked.
"We shall," he replied, and they moved into the throng.
The Ball was a study in surreal opulence. Ice sculptures of mythical beasts wept champagne into crystal goblets. Golden snitches, enlarged to the size of apples, zipped through the air carrying trays of minuscule, jewel-like hors d'oeuvres. A string quartet, their instruments glowing with inner light, played a complex, haunting piece from a floating dais.
And everywhere, the stares. Curiosity, admiration, resentment, fear. Harry kept his expression neutral, the Auror's mask firmly in place. Pansy walked beside him, her posture regal, but he could feel the slight tremor in her hand on his arm.
They hadn't taken ten steps before they were intercepted. A man with silvering hair and the cold, hungry eyes of a shark cut smoothly through the crowd, two severe-looking associates flanking him. He was impeccably dressed in robes of grey so dark it was almost black, embroidered with what looked like shifting, thorny vines.
"Miss Parkinson," the man said, his voice accented, smooth as oiled silk. His eyes slid over her from head to toe, a possessive, appraising glance that made Harry's skin crawl. "You look… breathtaking. A celestial body indeed." His gaze then flicked to Harry, and the polite smile didn't touch his eyes. "And you have brought a companion. How… unexpected."
"Lord Vayne," Pansy said, her curtsy shallower this time, her grip on Harry's arm tightening almost imperceptibly. "May I present Mr. Harry Potter. Harry, this is His Excellency, Lord Silas Vayne, of the Iberian Magical Concord."
Vayne extended a hand. Harry took it. The grip was firm, testing. "The vanquisher of the Dark Lord," Vayne said. "An honor I did not anticipate this evening. I was under the impression Miss Parkinson's dance card was… spoken for."
"Plans change," Harry said, his tone flat, devoid of social nicety. He held Vayne's gaze, letting the unspoken words hang: *Back off.*
A flicker of something dangerous—annoyance, calculation—passed through Vayne's eyes. He was a man used to his will being law, used to trophies falling obediently into his hands. "Indeed, they do. I had so looked forward to… becoming better acquainted with one of Britain's most historic families. The Parkinsons have such a… rich, if recently troubled, legacy."
"Their legacy is their own business," Harry said. "My business tonight is to ensure Miss Parkinson enjoys the Ball. If you'll excuse us."
It was a blunt, nearly rude dismissal. Vayne's smile froze. He looked from Harry's impassive face to Pansy's carefully blank one. He saw the unbreakable wall that was Harry Potter's public stature. To challenge him here, over this, would be a political and social miscalculation.
"But of course," Vayne said, the oil in his voice now tinged with frost. "Do enjoy the… festivities. I am certain our paths will cross again, Miss Parkinson." The threat in his words was barely veiled. With a final, lingering look at Pansy's décolletage, he and his cohorts melted back into the crowd.
Pansy let out a breath so soft it was almost a sigh. "Thank you," she whispered.
"That's what you're paying for," Harry replied quietly, steering her towards a relatively quiet alcove near a shimmering curtain of falling water that smelled of rain.
"He's not done."
"I know." They stood in silence for a moment, watching the grotesque ballet of high society. Pansy accepted a flute of champagne from a floating tray but didn't drink. Harry refused one.
"You're not enjoying your expensive purchase?" he asked, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
She turned those large, dark eyes on him. The submissive mask was back, but it was different now. It wasn't the desperate surrender of his office. It was a practiced, poised deference, a conscious lowering of herself before him.
"My enjoyment is irrelevant. My safety, thanks to you, is currently assured. That is all I require."
A waltz began, the music swelling, romantic and slow. Couples moved onto the dance floor, their steps gliding over the star-reflecting marble.
"We should dance," Harry said. It wasn't a suggestion.
A faint blush colored her cheeks.
"You don't have to—"
"It's expected. The savior and his… date. It sells the story. Makes Vayne's retreat look complete."
She nodded, setting her glass down. He led her onto the floor, his hand settling on the bare, warm skin of her back. The contact was electric. She was so soft. His other hand took hers. She moved into his hold with a natural grace, but her body was tense.
They began to move. He was a competent dancer, taught by a relentless Hermione before the Ministry's Yule Ball a few years back. Pansy, of course, was exquisite. Every step, every turn, was fluid and precise. But the real performance was in her submission. She followed his lead without the slightest resistance, her body molding to the subtle pressures of his hands. She kept her eyes downcast, her head slightly tilted, offering the line of her neck. The scent of her, the jasmine and velvet, was intoxicating at this proximity. With every turn, the lush swell of her breasts pressed lightly against his chest, a soft, persistent reminder of the physical bounty she possessed.
"You're very good at this," he murmured, his lips close to her ear.
"At dancing?"
"At this." His hand pressed slightly firmer against her back, guiding her through a turn. "The performance. The bowed head. The averted eyes. Is it all for show, Parkinson? Or did you learn to like it?"
She stumbled, a tiny misstep only he would notice. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper meant only for him, vibrating against his neck. "When the world is full of men like Vayne, who wish to dominate by force and ownership, finding one to whom you can… willingly submit… can feel like power. The choice, even a terrible one, is still a choice."
He spun her out, then pulled her back in, closer this time. Their bodies were almost flush. He could feel the heat of her through the thin silk of her dress.
"And am I that man? The one you're willingly submitting to?"
Her breath hitched. She finally looked up, meeting his gaze. Her dark eyes were pools of conflicted emotion—shame, fear, and a startling, undeniable heat. "For tonight," she breathed, "you own the room. You own the threat. You own my debt. So yes, Harry Potter. For tonight, I am yours to command. It is… the safest place I have been in a very long time."
The admission hung between them, more intimate than any carnal touch. The music swelled around them. He was hard, a purely animal response to the absolute surrender in her eyes, to the feel of her in his arms, to the raw, transactional power he held over her. And he hated that part of himself that responded, even as he used it to keep the mask in place.
The dance ended. He released her, and she took a small, shaky step back, curtsying again as the crowd applauded lightly. The spell was broken, but the tension remained, thicker now, charged.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of similar encounters. They were approached by gushing social climbers, by wary former Death Eater sympathizers offering stilted congratulations, by journalists who were swiftly deterred by Harry's glare. Through it all, Pansy played her part flawlessly. She was quiet, respectful, her hand always light on his arm, her body language screaming his ownership. She fetched him a drink when his throat was dry (he took a sip to be polite). She laughed softly at remarks that weren't funny because he gave a slight, amused nod. She was the perfect, submissive accessory, and it was driving him to a state of furious, conflicted arousal.
Finally, as the clock neared midnight and the final, lavish dessert course was being cleared by enchanted cutlery, Vayne made his move again. He appeared at Harry's elbow as Pansy was speaking with an elderly witch across the table.
"A word, Mr. Potter?" Vayne's smile was gone. "In private."
Harry excused himself and followed Vayne to a secluded balcony that overlooked the dark, star-dusted Wiltshire hills. The music was muted here.
"This little charade has been charming," Vayne began, dispensing with pretense. "But we are men of the world. I want the Parkinson girl. Her family owes me a considerable debt, one they promised to settle with her… companionship. You are obstructing a legally-binding social contract."
"There's no contract filed with the Ministry," Harry said, leaning against the cold crystal railing. "And even if there was, magical indentured servitude was outlawed two centuries ago. You're out of luck, Vayne."
Vayne's face darkened. "You think your celebrity is a shield that will last forever? I have longer reach and deeper pockets than you can imagine, boy. I can make her life a living hell. I can make her come to me, begging for the protection you so chivalrously offer for one night."
Harry straightened up, moving into Vayne's space. He wasn't as tall as the older wizard, but his presence, forged in war and hardened by loss, was immense. "Listen very carefully," Harry said, his voice low and deadly. "Pansy Parkinson is under my protection. Not just for tonight. If she, or any member of her family, suffers so much as a hint of misfortune—a misplaced investment, a social snub you orchestrate, a cursed letter—I will know it was you. And I will not come after you with lawyers or social scorn. I will come after you as an Auror. And I am not just any Auror. I am the man who hunted down the last of the Death Eaters in the forests of Albania. I am the man who walked into a nest of Acromantula to retrieve evidence. I do not give warnings twice. Do you understand?"
The sheer, brutal conviction in Harry's words cut through Vayne's oily confidence. This was not a political enemy. This was a force of nature. A killer when provoked. Vayne's jaw worked. He saw his dream trophy slipping away, but more importantly, he saw genuine, personal danger.
"This is not over, Potter."
"It is for you," Harry said. "Leave Britain by tomorrow evening. If my office gets word you're still here, I'll arrest you for attempted trafficking and have you extradited to face charges in five different countries. Now get out of my sight."
The defeat in Vayne's eyes was total. He turned and left the balcony without another word, his shoulders hunched.
Harry stayed for a moment, letting the cool night air calm the anger burning in his veins. He had just committed himself far beyond one night. He had made Pansy Parkinson his permanent problem. And a dark, undeniable part of him thrilled at it.
When he returned to the table, Pansy looked at him, a question in her eyes. He gave a single, slight nod. The color that flooded her face was one of profound, dizzying relief. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously.
Soon after, the Ball began to wind down. They left together, walking through the grand, echoing entrance hall. As they reached the Apparition point, a secluded, hedge-walled garden, she stopped him.
"What did you say to him?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"I told him the terms of our transaction had expanded. Indefinitely."
She stared at him.
"The quarter of my fortune… it was for one night."
"Consider it a down payment," Harry said, his voice rough. "The balance is your ongoing safety. And my continued… involvement."
He didn't know what he was saying, only that the lines had been irrevocably blurred. The transaction had become something else, something darker and more possessive.
Pansy understood. The submissive posture returned, but now it was infused with a shocking gratitude that bordered on devotion. She sank, not to her knees this time, but into another deep, heartfelt curtsy there on the dewy grass, under the real stars now.
"Master," she whispered, the word a silken surrender in the dark.
Harry felt the last of his resistance crumble. He didn't correct her. He reached down, his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide. He didn't kiss her. That would be a claim of a different kind. This was about acknowledgment.
"Come on," he said, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. "It's time to go home."
He offered his arm. She took it, rising, and then, with a soft *crack* that shattered the quiet night, they Disapparated together, leaving the glittering, false stars of the Silverpeal Ball far behind, bound now by a debt, a danger, and a dark, newfound understanding that had only just begun.
The world reassembled itself with a gut-wrenching twist, the opulent scents of champagne and night-blooming flowers replaced by the damp, earthy aroma of moss, old stone, and wild grass. They stood at the edge of the Parkinson estate, a place Harry had only ever seen on maps during the war, marked as a suspected but never proven sympathizer stronghold.
It was a bleak, beautiful sight under the true, unenchanted night sky. Before them lay the dark silhouette of a vast, centuries-old manor house, its many windows mostly shuttered and dark, suggesting a hollowed-out core. To their left, an ancient stand of yew trees whispered in a cold breeze. The only light came from a single, lonely lantern burning above a distant stable door and the pale wash of a crescent moon. The grandeur was still there, in the sweeping lines of the landscape, but it was a grandeur in decay, like a beautiful corpse.
The silence after the Apparition was profound, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of Pansy's dress as she steadied herself, her hand still gripping his arm. The tension that had thrummed between them all evening, a live wire of power, submission, and unacknowledged desire, now crackled in the intimate solitude.
Harry gently disentangled his arm, the formal connection severed. The act felt strangely final. The transaction, as he had brutally defined it, was complete. He had been her shield. Vayne was neutralized, at least for now. The quarter of her fortune was his to command for the survivors. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do.
"You're safe," he said, his voice sounding rougher than he intended in the quiet. He gestured towards the dark manor. "Get inside. I'll have an Auror patrol circle the grounds tonight as a precaution."
He turned to go, to find his own Apparition point away from her land, back to the sterile quiet of Grimmauld Place. The night's work was done. The confusing, unwanted arousal that had hummed in his blood all evening needed to be ignored, buried under the next day's paperwork. He took one step, then two, the dew soaking into the polished leather of his dress shoes.
"Harry."
His name on her lips, spoken without his title, without the formal 'Potter,' stopped him cold. It was a soft sound, barely more than the sigh of the wind through the yews.
He turned back. She hadn't moved towards the house. She stood exactly where he'd left her, a statue of midnight silk and shadow against the grey-green landscape. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her expression unreadable from this distance.
Then, she moved.
She crossed the space between them not with her earlier regal grace, but with a swift, decisive urgency that stole the breath from his lungs. Before he could form a question, before he could step back, she was there, her body a warm, scented presence invading his personal space.
Her hands came up, not in a pleading gesture, but to frame his face. Her gloves were gone, discarded somewhere during the Ball, and her skin was cool, her touch startlingly gentle. Her dark eyes, huge and luminous in the faint light, searched his for a fractured second, seeing the wariness, the residual anger, the tiredness he could never fully hide.
And then she kissed him.
It was not the desperate, claiming kiss he might have feared, nor the practiced, seductive kiss he might have expected from the girl she once was. It was soft. Profoundly, devastatingly soft. A brush of her lips against his, a tentative pressure that spoke of gratitude, of a surrender that was now willing on a level that transcended their brutal bargain. It was a kiss that apologized, that thanked, that offered something raw and real from the ruin of who she had been. The taste of her was champagne and night-air and something uniquely, inherently *Pansy*—a dark, bittersweet flavor.
The shock of it held him immobile for a heartbeat. Every nerve, every sense was suddenly focused on the point where her mouth met his. The confusing heat he'd fought all evening roared to life, a wildfire in his veins. His hands, which had hung at his sides, twitched with the instinct to grab her, to pull her hard against him and answer that softness with a consuming fire of his own, to finally act on the possessive claim the night had forged.
But he didn't.
He stood there, letting her kiss him, a passive recipient of this unexpected, unnegotiated payment. The part of him that was still the angry, hurt boy from Hogwarts wanted to shove her away. The part that was the weary, righteous Auror told him this compromised everything. The part that was just a man, lonely and tired of being a monument, threatened to drown in that simple, soft touch.
She broke the kiss as softly as she had initiated it, her lips lingering for a whisper against his before she pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her breath fanned his face, warm and quick. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, glistening with unshed tears that magnified the starlight.
"Thank you…" she whispered, her voice husky, thick with emotion. Not 'Master.' Not 'Mr. Potter.' "Harry."
The sound of his given name, in that voice, with her taste still on his lips, was a spell more powerful than any he'd faced.
Then, before he could react, could speak, could even process the tectonic shift her kiss had caused, she was gone.
She spun away, the skirt of her impossible dress swirling like a pool of ink stirred by a whirlwind. And she ran. She ran not with the poised steps of a pure-blood lady, but with the unvarnished, frantic speed of a startled deer, towards the darkness of her ancestral home. Her bare feet, he realized distantly, must have been touching the damp earth, the cold grass. She didn't look back. She simply vanished into the deeper shadows near the manor's side entrance, the sound of her retreat swallowed by the night.
Harry stood alone at the edge of the Parkinson estate, the ghost of her kiss burning on his mouth, the scent of jasmine and crushed velvet clinging to the air around him. The cool Wiltshire night seemed to press in, suddenly vast and empty.
He raised a hand slowly, his fingers touching his own lips as if to confirm the reality of what had just happened. The echo of her whisper—*Thank you… Harry*—replayed in his mind, drowning out the memory of the orchestra, the whispers of the crowd, Vayne's oily threats.
The transaction was over. But something had just begun. Something far more dangerous than a social contract, far more complex than a financial penalty. She had, with one soft kiss and three words, broken through the wall of 'client' and 'purchased protection.' She had made it personal.
With a grimace that was part frustration, part awe, and part sheer, undiluted arousal, Harry Potter turned on his heel. The sharp *crack* of his Disapparation split the night, a violent period to a sentence that felt anything but finished. He disappeared, leaving the deserted estate behind, but carrying the taste of Pansy Parkinson and the weight of her unspoken promise with him into the darkness.