The Haunting of Malfoy Manor, Part 2
“Happy birthday, Sir,” said Harry, feeling Hermione twitch ever so slightly beside him as the Minister’s eyes slid over her, lingering just a moment too long. He was a big, florid man who liked everything lovely and intoxicating and rich, and that to excess. All told, Harry supposed he was the perfect embodiment of the ‘just fine, just fine, carry on’ stance the Ministry had adopted the moment the ashes settled.
“Thank you, dear boy. And you, lovely lady, may I beg the pleasure of a spot on your crowded dance card? Excellent,” he sailed on without pause, “have a lovely time, the both of you.”
They stepped forward, clearing the short receiving line, and moved out together into the ballroom proper.
“I could be at home, catching up on my journal reading right now,” muttered Hermione.
“But you’re not, because you love me,” said Harry, snagging glasses off a passing tray.
“Well yes,” said Hermione, “and also I find it expedient to have you in my debt now and again. Shall we dance?”
“Er, sure,” said Harry, deciding not to ask.
He could, at least, not embarrass himself on the dance floor these days. The Minister’s Protocol Head had taken him aside after the very first function he’d attended, and Harry had endured a humiliating series of lessons before he could keep his feet from tripping each other up. Hermione made it look easy, stepping neatly through the set, silver high heels flashing.
“You look very nice,” Harry said, realizing that he might not have done that yet. They’d met just up the street from the Minister’s official residence, as Hermione had no desire to accidentally run into Ron at this stage in détente negotiations.
“Thank you,” said Hermione, smiling in that way that made Harry sure she was secretly amused with him. That was all right, as long as she didn’t expect him to ask intelligent questions when she talked about work.
He crowd-watched over her shoulder, eye sliding disinterestedly over wizards in stylish dress robes and witches in colorful gowns. He saw a woman from the back, sculpted shoulders rising bare from a dark blue gown. He found himself staring at the flash of a gem in her earlobe, the smooth line of her jawbone as her head tilted to the side. And then she turned and he nearly missed a step to see Parvati here, eyes dark and luminous, a smile on her face. And then reason caught up with his senses and he realized that the dark hair was cut in a short, stylish bob, not left long and luxuriant. It was Padma, so exactly like her sister as to fool their own parents, sometimes. Of course - the Minister would hardly invite somebody . . . like her to his birthday. People would talk.
“So,” said Hermione, tapping him briskly on the forehead with her closed fan to get his attention. “I hear you’re helping Lupin out with a little problem.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “Erm, yes. A haunting, we think.”
“Oh, excellent,” said Hermione. “That will be a thorny one, won’t it?”
“Sure,” said Harry. “If you like banging your head against a problem.”
“I assume you’ve tried the obvious solutions?” said Hermione. “The classic exorcism spells, I mean. I should write to Lupin - Hironimus Chunder has a fascinating derivation of his own on the technique in Supernatural Pests and What to Do About Them.”
“Lupin’s rather out of commission at the moment,” said Harry. “His wand got snapped last week. Trying one of those, as it happens.”
“Really?” said Hermione, coming to a sudden stop. “How extraordinary. Did you see it happen? What do you think he did wrong?”
“He didn’t,” said Harry, tugging her until she started moving again. “It just . . . went wrong.” He bit down on the rest of what he was going to say, which was that he rather thought the spell had taken the piss right out of something. Or someone. Hermione was getting more scientifically minded by the day, and she would only frown at him.
“Well . . .” Hermione began, and then trailed off, blinking over Harry’s shoulder.
“What,” said Harry, starting to turn them.
“Er,” said Hermione, applying some abrupt counterrevolutionary pressure. “I was just thinking, erm, of other sources of information. Yes, I rather think if you give me a few days I can - bugger it, you great lout.”
She yielded to Harry’s greater strength, and they revolved sedately through the next steps, revealing a new set of dancers to Harry’s eye. He took a quick scan, looked again, and then away.
“Harry?” said Hermione gently, after a moment. “Harry, I’m sorry, I was supposed to warn you.”
“It’s fine,” said Harry.
“She should have said when you first asked her,” Hermione muttered fretfully. “I told her - do you want to go sit down?”
“No,” said Harry calmly. “It’s fine, Hermione.” He looked back, and this time he met Ginny’s eyes over the shoulder of her partner, a man who topped her six feet by at least a few inches. She held his gaze, appearing deeply uncomfortable, and then looked away.
“Are you sure?” asked Hermione, watching him keenly.
“Yes,” said Harry, and found a smile somewhere. “It’s not like she could spend forever swapping out with you to be my escort so I have someone to talk to at these things.”
“Hmph,” said Hermione. “It’s not like we drew straws or anything.”
“I know,” said Harry, looking down fondly at her. What would he do, he wondered suddenly, when she and Ron patched things up and she was unavailable again? “Anyway,” he said. “What were you saying?”
Hermione gave him a jaundiced look. “You only ask me to talk about research when you want to distract me.”
“That’s because it works.”
She sniffed, scowled, but apparently decided to let it go, for now. Harry huffed out a covert breath, surprised at the relatively easy escape. “Well,” she said, “there’s the Chunder. Do you know exactly what spell Lupin tried?”
“No. It involved a stinky potion, though.”
“Oh, that narrows it down,” said Hermione, who was getting better at sarcasm the older she got.
“Sorry,” said Harry. “I was just there to, er, watch.”
“And?”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “And . . . dunno. It’s not like I have laser vision or something.”
“I reckon you could,” said Hermione, diverted. “I could put together a-“
“No.”
She pouted ridiculously at him and Harry, laughing, wondered just who was distracting whom.
“I’m supposed to go over there tonight, actually,” he said. “Mal-Parvati’s, I mean. To, erm, watch. We’ve never actually seen any of it, Lupin or me, so we thought maybe I should hang about a bit and see what happens. It’ll be a week before Lupin’s new wand is ready.” That, and Lupin rather thought Harry would be the most useful right now, seeing as no one else had heard a thing when the spell shorted out.
“Can you imagine?” said Hermione, wincing. “It’s amazing how reliant we become on little sticks of wood.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, who had, on a whim, boiled the water this morning with a tap of his fingertip. He’d known he could do magic without a wand, of course - there had once been a smoking hole in the side of Malfoy Manor to prove it. But somehow, the small domesticity of the thing was more shocking. He rather suspected, if he wanted, he could put his wand away right now and never use it again.
“Anyway,” said Hermione briskly. “Say hello to Parvati for me.” She paused, considering. “You know, Harry, it might be good for you to spend more time over there.”
“I’m sorry?” said Harry, startled.
“Well,” said Hermione, in her resolute ‘I read it in a book’ voice, “in some cultures it’s traditional for a young person to, erm, contract out his or her first sexual experience. Rather a good system, if you ask me - takes care of the embarrassment and there’s a lifelong positive experience to draw on.”
“Hermione,” said Harry, in a choked undertone.
“Oh, don’t look like that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. But still, you might want to consider-“
“I’m not a virgin,” said Harry, brusquely.
Hermione stopped, blinked. She cast a reflexive look across the room to the oblivious Ginny, and Harry was uncomfortably reminded that girls had their own impenetrable lines of communication. Then she looked back at him, and Harry almost recoiled at the gentle understanding in her eyes.
“I thought so,” she said in a hush. They were somehow still moving to the music, dancing close and speaking almost into each other’s ears. “My suggestion still applies.” Her voice was trembling, ever so slightly. “It might . . . help.”
“Hermione,” he said again. Please. Stop.
She inhaled delicately, paused, and shut her lips. Their eyes met and she nodded once, in that firm way she had when she didn’t want to cry.
The dance came to a flourishing conclusion. “Excuse me,” Harry muttered, and fled. She let him go without a murmur, but he could feel her eyes on his back all across the ballroom, even out the French doors onto the terrace.
He leaned at the railing for a long time, breathing through incipient panic. It was a cool, early spring night, and he was glad for the heavy fabric of his dress robes. His hands grew cold. The house loomed at his back, blazing with lights and humming with people. They want this to be mine one day, he thought with sudden, awful clarity. Because you want a wizard like me in the center of it all, where everyone can watch. Did Dumbledore feel like this?
“Harry?”
He jumped violently, and an abandoned wineglass on the railing tumbled off to smash in the rock garden below.
“Sorry,” said Ginny hesitantly.
“It’s okay,” said Harry, starting over with the breathing again.
“No,” said Ginny, “I mean, I’m sorry.”
Bloody hell. “It’s okay,” said Harry quickly. “Really.”
“I should have told you. I knew you’d assume I was busy but I didn’t want to just write you a note and then we couldn’t schedule lunch and-“
“Ginny. Really. You don’t owe me anything.”
She was standing a full half dozen paces back from the rail, but the moon was bright and full in the sky and he could see her lip tremble. “Yeah,” she said. “I was getting that.”
Bloody fucking hell. “That’s not what I - you shouldn’t have to --. Bugger.” There was just no way, he already knew, to tell her this, to explain that he’d woken to her at his bedside, smiling hopefully, and felt . . . nothing. They’d set themselves on a collision course, timed it for the end of the war. But when it was all over they had passed like ships in the night, she on to the next great adventure and he out to sea, alone for a time. And now that he was finding his own way, now that he cared enough to try, he found her already gone, leagues ahead. She was eighteen and beautiful and a heroine of the siege - he’d known she wasn’t going to wait. It didn’t even hurt. Well, not much.
“Er,” he said, and swallowed. “Is he, I mean . . .”
“He’s studying potions under Borgin. He’s a bit older, but I like him.”
“Erm, okay,” said Harry. “Good. I’m . . . glad.”
There was a horribly awkward moment then, the silence resounding over the civilized strains of a waltz drifting from the ballroom.
“I should get back,” she said at last.
“Yes,” said Harry. “And I should go.” He didn’t know until he said it that this was his intention.
He found Hermione chatting with a few of their Auror acquaintances. She excused herself the moment Harry touched her shoulder.
“I’m going,” he said. “To Parvati’s, I mean. It’s a bit early, but I’m done here.”
“Okay,” said Hermione. “I’ll walk out with you.”
She said nothing more as they made their escape, miraculously unremarked, but she hugged him hard at the apparition point. “I love you,” she said into his shoulder, fiercely.
“I know,” said Harry. “Me, too.” He stepped back and apparated.
Tobias answered his knock in coat and tails, looking rather like the Minister’s butler taking cloaks at the ball.
“Sir,” he said, looking over his shoulder before he stepped aside. “Madam was not expecting you so soon.”
“I know,” said Harry. “My other engagement ended early and I figured . . .” He trailed off, becoming aware of a low hum of voices floating out from the drawing room. It sounded like a party, the buzz of male intonation and the descant of female laughter.
“Perhaps you would like to wait in the library,” said Tobias.”
“Er yes,” said Harry. “That would be good.” It hadn’t occurred to him, until this very moment, that Harry Potter showing up at a cathouse in the middle of normal business hours would probably land on the front page of the Prophet before he could say ‘juicy gossip.’ He diverted himself briefly with imagining an attempt to explain it to his coworkers, and found himself surprisingly amused.
Tobias deposited him in a cozy nook that Parvati had apparently adopted as her office. She’d left a scatter of parchments and ledgers on a low table. The library books themselves had apparently come with the house, and Harry paced the aisles in some bemusement, wondering what Hermione wouldn’t give to have a good rummage through the Malfoy collection.
Parvati found him on his knees at a lower shelf, watching the cover of Fire: A Journal of Dragonkeeping flame at him. She was wearing a dark red gown, full skirts just brushing the carpet and a diamond flashing in the shadow of her deeply cut neckline.
“Er, hi,” said Harry, scrambling to his feet. Her hair was pinned back from her face at the temples, and then streamed down her back, loose. It made her look a good ten years older, in the very best way.
“Good evening,” said Parvati. “You’re early.”
“Sorry. The ball was boring.”
“Well, I’d invite you in for a drink, but I imagine you wouldn’t accept.”
“It’s okay,” said Harry. “I can just wait here. Erm when do you reckon . . .”
“I should have all this evening’s clients settled within the hour,” she said. “You can entertain yourself for the duration?”
“Sure,” said Harry. “Go, erm, about your business.”
She inclined her head and swept away, skirts belling out beneath the faithfully gloved curves from hip to shoulder.
She was as good as her word, returning within three quarters of an hour, looking well pleased. “Ah,” she said, sinking into the sofa and stretching.
“Good night?” asked Harry, setting his book aside.
“We shall continue to eat,” she said dryly. “Provided, of course, nothing untoward happens.”
“I’m rather hoping it does, actually,” said Harry. “Might give us some ideas.”
“There are disturbances, and then there are disturbances,” said Parvati.
“Oh,” said Harry, laboriously working that through. “But, I mean, that’s what Tobias is for, isn’t it? To keep everyone in line?”
“He’s there to make you think so, at least,” she said dryly. “Practically, however . . .” she touched her skirts, and Harry knew suddenly that her wand lay ready just out of sight. Of course she was no fool, and not to be trifled with. She had been a part of Dumbledore’s Army, and survived the siege. “I wouldn’t mind, you know, having a ghost,” she said. “If only it were well-behaved. It makes for a proper wizarding place.”
“I know what you mean,” said Harry. “The Hogwarts ghosts were generally a good lot to have around.”
“We had a ghoul in the basement, growing up,” she said, smiling. “It used to shriek something awful during thunderstorms - I think the lightning tickled.”
“I saw your sister tonight,” Harry said. “Didn’t get a chance to speak to her, though.”
Parvati’s smile slid away, and her face took on the serene stillness of a portrait. “How did she look?”
“Nice,” said Harry, and then realizing that might not be adequate, “I mean, great. She was wearing this blue dress and she had her hair sort of down. She was with Brit Hedger, I think, on the Auror squad.”
“Ah yes, the blue Mathilde,” said Parvati, shaking her head. “I told her to stay away from those cool colors. I wonder if they’re engaged yet? He’s a good catch - he’ll go far at the Ministry.” She glanced at Harry. “We aren’t speaking these days. Or rather, she isn’t speaking to me.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “She doesn’t, erm, approve?”
“No,” said Parvati calmly. “But I never asked her to. Or my parents. Or housemates. Or friends.”
She’s lonely. Successful and stubborn, but . . . “Can I ask you something?” said Harry.
“You may.”
He swallowed. She was more than a little intimidating sitting there, hands clasped in her lap, skirts draped elegantly over her crossed knees. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you - are you doing this?”
“Don’t you know?” she said, one dark eyebrow sweeping up. “I’m good at it, and it makes me happy.”
“Oh,” said Harry, flushing. “Those are really good reasons.”
“The best, in fact,” she said, watching him, head to one side. “I have a talent, and I enjoy exercising it. Not for sex,” she added, watching his face, “though I am certainly skilled there, as well. But I can spend half an hour with a person, look at their clothes, the way they’ve done their hair, how they hold their body and speak, and I will know what they want from an encounter. I know when a man does not love his wife, when a woman is not being satisfied by her partner, when someone just needs some relief or abandon or kindness. And I send them to one of my men or women - or perhaps two - and they get what they need.” She grinned. “And then they pay me.”
“That’s . . . quite a skill,” said Harry, wondering suddenly what she saw when she looked at his wrinkled dress robes, disobedient hair, casually fisted hands.
“Do you know who taught it to me?” she asked.
“Haven’t the faintest.”
“Madam Trelawney, of course. That’s what she did, you know, only to a different end. She used to deal solitaires for us during the siege, over and over again night after night, and she’d tell us that we would live.” She smiled sadly. “It wasn’t true in all cases. But it was good to think so.”
Harry nodded. Draco had given him that, though it certainly hadn’t been his intention. “I’m going to end this,” Draco had said, leaning over him. “Malfoys do not crawl, and they do not beg. Not for him, not for anybody.” And he had vanished into the dark, Voldemort’s murder on his mind, and he had not come back.
“You’re lucky,” Harry said, impulsively. “To have found what you’re good at.”
The eyebrow rose again, a wrinkle marring her smooth forehead. “And you aren’t, special assistant to the Minister for Magic Potter?”
“No,” said Harry. “Not particularly. What did you say you were working on, there?”
“Accounts,” said Parvati, bemused. “I’m dreadful at it all, if you must know, but it must be done. The very thought of last year’s taxes makes me want to go lie down, though.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “Can I help? I’ve gotten rather good at that sort of thing,” he added, off her look. “I, erm, incorporated some of my holdings last year. It makes things easier.” Easier, in his case, being a synonym for anonymous.
Parvati made a sweeping gesture of beckoning. “By all means,” she said. “I’m frankly much better at handling Mr. Sarbane’s leather fetish.”
“Don’t tell me about it,” said Harry, scooting over to sit beside her. “Please. Now, what’s the trouble?”
The comment about continuing to eat hadn’t been entirely facetious, he discovered. True, the prices she charged left him blinking in frugal astonishment, but her employees took most of the fee straight off the top. And the overhead was frankly astounding, between the payments on the house, salaries for Tobias and a few other staff members, and all the myriad and exponential expenses of running the business. They spent the equivalent of Harry’s monthly ministry salary on wine alone - good wine, Parvati assured him with a sniff.
“I thought about a more centralized system,” she explained as Harry began tallying business expenses to be written off. “Paying out a flat rate to each employee, with small commissions for repeat clients, that sort of thing.” She shrugged, brushing long hair away from her face. “But not all jobs are equal, and I want everyone to have maximum incentives while still being allowed to pick and choose.”
“Mmm,” said Harry, who had never before considered the advantages and disadvantages of various prostitution business models. “Where’s your salary?”
“I just take what’s left at the end of every month,” she said, shrugging. “I thought I’d wait until we’re more established and stable before setting a regular figure.”
“Mmm,” said Harry again. “Have you been keeping track? You’ll have to do your personal taxes too, y’know.”
“Oh bugger,” she said with feeling, leaning over to the table. Unlike Hermione, she seemed to be one of those women who was as comfortable in a formal gown as her pajamas. The dress bared her back, Harry saw, catching glimpses of smooth skin through the fall of her hair. Her breasts were high and round, and Harry found his eyes lingering on the lush swells above her neckline.
“Do you take clients?” said Harry suddenly.
She glanced over at him, unperturbed. “Sometimes. Not often. It’s generally best for me to supervise. I’m taking fewer as the house fills.”
“I see,” said Harry, swallowing. “Erm, did you keep track of your income from that separately from your general profit?”
She blinked at him. “Did I need to?”
Harry sighed. “I can do it.”
“Grand,” said Parvati. “I will go do something I’m good at, which is fetch tea and preside over the pot with elegance and style.”
She rustled away, and Harry bent over her ledgers. She still had very girly handwriting, he noted, and a truly lackluster interest in bookkeeping.
On November tenth of last year, a man named Benjamin Thorne had paid 200 galleons to spend a night with her. Harry blinked, struck by the stark, precise metric of desire. She took strangers into her bed and her body on the acquaintance of a few minutes cocktail chatter and a stack of gold, and then she walked away, unaffected but for a scrawled notation. Or, he wondered suddenly, did she? She’d said she was good at it, and that it made her happy. Was that her secret? Not that she forgot each encounter as soon as it was over, but that she savored each like a sip of wine, enough to put telltale color in her cheeks? She loves it.
She returned with a tray of tea things and biscuits, balancing it momentarily in the crook of her arm as she turned and stepped and left her shoes on the rug. “Sugar?” she asked, silver spoon poised.
“Um sure. Just one, please.” He looked hastily down to the ledger, hissing in exasperation and scratching out the last total. He was finding it suddenly difficult to add factors of a hundred. Parvati came and leaned over him, setting cup and saucer and a few biscuits on a napkin at his elbow. Harry looked up, a thank you on his lips. The bodice of her gown was beaded, he could see now, in complex, curving patterns. Her hair had slid forward over her shoulder, and strands of it brushed against his cheek.
“Thanks,” said Harry, and reached for the tea.
“Oh for goodness sake,” said Parvati, in tones of such ringing exasperation she sounded eerily like her fourteen-year-old self at the Yule Ball. “What do I have to do, rip my clothes off?”
“Huh?” said Harry.
She huffed, stomped a bare foot soundlessly on the rug, and leaned over to kiss him. Harry froze, realized that yes, his pulse was hopping but it wasn’t actually panic, and reached for her. He got a handful of hair, which streamed distractingly over his wrists as he slid his arms around her and found the bare skin of her back. She made a pleased sound and slid right into his lap, skirts crumpling between them. One strap slid magically off her shoulder, and Harry turned his head, fascinated by the tiny, nearly invisible freckles along her collarbone. He walked his fingers down her spine and she sighed, twisting to face him fully and swinging a leg across his lap. He dropped a hand to her thigh for support, and he knew, in an incontrovertible flash, that there was no underwear beneath those smooth, silky lines.
“It makes you crazy,” she said, breaking away for a moment. “Do you want me to tell you about all the men I’ve had? There were a few women, too. Do you want to know what I let them do to me, how good it was?”
Harry made a sound into her shoulder, startling himself with the guttural yearning of it. He cupped her breast, thrilling to the peak of her nipple beneath her bodice, and then against his bare fingers when he slipped his hand inside.
“That’s it,” she crooned, guiding his head down. He could hitch her skirts up, Harry thought wildly, slide both hands up between her thighs. She would be soft and bare and mysteriously womanly in his hands. And he could pull open his dress robes and undo his trousers and just -
Glass shattered, and a shower of tea scalded the back of his neck. Parvati leapt off him, swearing like a sailor and cradling her burned arm. The teapot lay in pieces on the rug, having dashed itself to bits against the wall, as if thrown by an invisible hand.
From somewhere in the house, a woman screamed, and a man shouted in protest. Parvati scrambled with her dress, and Harry caught a glimpse of bare breasts, nipples stiff and rosy.
“I’ll be back,” she said, waving him down as he began to rise. “It’s fine. They sounded angry, not hurt. You stay here. And if you see fit to exercise some of those great wizard powers and fix this, be my guest.” She raced off, leaving her pumps abandoned on the rug.
Harry shook his head, scattering hot droplets of tea from his hair. “Am not a great wizard,” he muttered, glad no one was around to hear the sulky tone. It was a pro forma protest, anyway. “Erm, hello?” he said, glancing from the teapot to the spreading stain on the hardwood paneling. “Is anybody there?” There was no reply.
Harry sighed, shrugged, and closed his eyes. It wasn’t just easy now, it was insistent, as if something were pounding at the door of his brain, demanding entrance. So Harry let it in.
The nonexistent south wing was still blazing two years later, hot and pulsing like a slowly dying star. Harry was dazzled momentarily with the aftermath of his own magic. Voldemort’s death was there, an oily stain, and Lucius Malfoy’s, and more and more. He’d burned them alive, so hot and so fierce they’d not felt a thing. He stared a moment longer into the heart of his own rage, and then turned his back. Whatever it was throwing teapots and interrupting trysts, it wasn’t there.
The Ministry had tried, he thought, amused. They’d removed spells like layers of paint, always another beneath. The house was an extraordinary construct of centuries of Malfoys, the blood and the pride and the power bound up in spells whose casting took generations.
It wasn’t hard to find - the spell grew like a malignant tree at the center of it all, the magic of Malfoy pride and Malfoy rage. It had existed long before Perditus’s great great great whatever, Harry thought dimly, a vicious, clever, vengeful trap for the spirit of any Malfoy who dared betray his kin. Of course, he thought, bemused. The Malfoy pride was endless and overweening - it must from time to time collect in one particularly wayward specimen, who might come to think he knew better than his father. And that would never do.
So Harry plucked it like a weed. The spell shrieked, a purely inhuman sound like one of the spiders under Crouch’s Cruciatus. It writhed and spat in his hands, lashing him with backfiring whips of magic. But it was the easiest thing in the world to draw it up, rip out its ancient roots, hold it up to the light of his slowly cooling fire. He was bigger than it, stronger than seven hundred years of Malfoys combined.
And it died, crumpling into nothingness. And out of it came the shades of Malfoys past, the independent, the foolhardy, the mad. Not many, but enough. Their spirits were ragged, threadbare with confinement, and they crumbled to dust like papyrus in his fingertips.
All accept one. It lingered, casting about as if in puzzlement, strong and vital like a freshly uprooted tree, but not long so.
“That way,” said Harry, and gave it a shove.
He opened his eyes.
“Well that’s a new one,” said Parvati, hurrying back in. “Frogs. A bloody rain of bloody frogs. And indoors, more’s the -“ She stopped. “What is it?”
“Er,” said Harry, and shook his head hard. “I fixed it. And I think Draco’s awake.”
***
They were in the kitchen when Harry came in, squabbling over the difference between a flambé and an inferno.
“Excellent,” said Sirius, breaking off in mid-flow when Harry appeared in the doorway. “Dearest godson. Come tell Moony he’s being a stiff-necked old coot. We can get a new pot.”
“And ceiling,” murmured Lupin.
“Can paint it over,” said Sirius with an airy wave.
Lupin sighed. “You’re the guest, Harry, Indian or Chinese?”
“Indian,” said Sirius promptly. “What?” he added. “He’s not a guest, he’s Harry.”
“Indian, please,” said Harry. “Where’s your owl?”
“I want it spicy,” said Sirius. “I want it to take a few layers of skin off the roof of my mouth.”
“We know,” said Lupin dryly. “Do you think you can manage some tea without having to call in the Department of Magical Disasters and Catastrophes?”
“But of course,” said Sirius, with worrying confidence.
Sirius came out a few minutes later, trailed by floating mugs, just as Lupin sent the owl off. He accepted a cup, sipped, and coughed.
“That’s coffee, Padfoot,” he said. “And I don’t recall saying anything about Irish.”
“Hush,” said Sirius. “I think Harry has news.”
Lupin’s head swiveled and he eyed Harry thoughtfully. “So he does,” he said. “Harry?”
“Er,” said Harry, and took a hasty gulp. “Well, the thing is, there might be a story or two in The Prophet. About me, I mean.”
“Oh?” said Sirius, unimpressed. “You do something scandalous?”
“Yes, actually,” said Harry.
Sirius’s mug stopped halfway to his lips. “Well it’s about time!”
“I’ve quit my job at the Ministry,” Harry said in a rush.
There was a brief, deflated pause. “Well, we knew that was going to happen,” said Sirius.
“You did?”
“Naturally. You’ve been bored out of your gourd, and they were never going to come to their senses and put you through the Auror Academy.”
“Actually they offered,” said Harry, looking away. “When I turned in my letter. I said no. I, erm, don’t actually want that.”
“Oh,” said Sirius, who had never achieved his coveted full Auror status before he was imprisoned. He eyed Harry assessingly, then shrugged. “That can’t be the scandal, though. Tell us -- does it involve a paternity suit? Or a wench of ill repute? Or maybe some livestock?”
“No, yes, and no,” said Harry.
“Ah,” murmured Lupin quietly to himself, a smile curving his lips.
“I’ve taken something part time,” Harry said. “I’m keeping books for Parvati Patil. And we’re, er, dating.” He stumbled momentarily over the word, a hot flush creeping up his neck. It didn’t seem the most fitting expression for what they were doing, but he couldn’t think of any other. They made each other laugh, and when he’d screwed up his courage and sent her roses last week, she’d put them in a vase on her nightstand and thanked him with dinner in London. Maybe it was a good enough word, after all.
Sirius and Lupin were looking at each other. This was better than Ron, at least, who had gone bug-eyed and awestruck and promptly asked Harry if he had an in for discounts now. The silence was stretching out, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, something inside of him which had never outgrown the cupboard under the stairs beginning to quietly panic.
“Well,” said Sirius at last, looking back at him. “At least it’ll knock Draco Malfoy down to page 2. And, really, it’s been a while since I’ve had scurrilous lies told about me in the Prophet - we should have them to dinner, eh Moony?”
“Delighted,” said Lupin.
Grand,” said Sirius. “Bring the young lady next week, Harry.” There was an imperious tapping at the window. “Chow!” said Sirius, springing up. As he passed behind Harry his hand settled briefly at the back of his neck, squeezing warmly. Silly bugger, it seemed to say. Life’s too short. We both know that.
***
Outside the heavy drapes, dawn was just beginning to creep across the manor grounds. Harry’s body was already adjusting to the new, half-nocturnal schedule, and his brain was telling him it was time to sleep. But Parvati was sprawled beside him, sheets tangled about her legs and hair everywhere. She’d come up from the drawing room after the last client was squared away, left her gown in a puddle on the rug, and come to bed. She’d ridden him hard then, head thrown back as the sweat dripped between her breasts, one hand braced on his chest and the fingers of the other working between her own thighs. Harry had closed his eyes, unable to watch because he knew if he did he wouldn’t last. And then she’d come, hips grinding and thighs quivering, and lifted herself off him to sprawl out on her back. She’d spread her legs and pulled him close, holding him tight while he slipped inside her again and went a little mad, like he always did.
She had an arm thrown across her face, baring the soft, tender underside. Harry ran a finger down it and let his hand settle behind her shoulder. He liked to sleep like that, a hand tucked up between her thighs or spread on her belly or cradling the curve of a breast. She said he was a cuddler, which was just another thing Harry was adding to a long list of new facts about himself and rules for conducting a healthy relationship. For himself, he just thought it made waking up that much more fun.
“Mmm,” she said dreamily. “That was nice.”
“Glad to be of service,” said Harry dryly. “Feel better?”
“Much.” She stretched, pointing her toes under the sheets. “Draco Malfoy can go to hell,” she said contentedly.
“He won’t get the house,” Harry said. “It was sold, as legal as you get.” He hesitated. “And he doesn’t really want it anyway. He’s just making a scene because he likes to.”
“You sure?” Parvati asked quietly, her voice showing for the first time the fear she hadn’t let him see when the papers from Draco’s solicitor arrived.
“Oh yes,” said Harry. “I’m sure.” In point of fact, Draco never wanted to set foot in his ancestral home again. And no wonder, after being magically bound within its walls for nearly two years, with only the disintegrating shades of ancient Malfoy blood traitors to keep him company.
“Good,” she said. “Because it’s mine now, and he can’t have it, anyway.” There was a silence, and Harry thought perhaps she was going to sleep. “Do you think you’ll ever be friends?” she asked, not moving.
“No,” said Harry. “Probably not. We . . . I saved his life, or something like it, and he hates that. And somehow I still feel like I owe him.” He shut his lips on anything further, and she didn’t ask. They’d had only the one thing in common, him and Draco, and that imperfectly; Harry nursing his hate like new kindling, and Draco horrified and disgusted to see his father crawl and beg for the privilege of setting the match, all unknowing.
Harry had seen him only the once, just before he was out of the hospital. He was pale and wobbly like a new hatchling, disused muscles bending reluctantly to his commands. The interview had been stilted and rather awful, and Harry doubted either one of them cared to repeat the experience.
It was strange; he’d half-expected to miss Draco, his silent, stalwart company. But he was finding that he could say some of the things to Parvati that he would have saved for Draco, and that it was different to talk to someone who talked back.
“Mmm,” murmured Parvati. “Wonder what the Prophet will say about you today?”
“I wonder what it will say about you,” Harry retorted. “As of yesterday, you’ve enslaved me with a dark infatuation potion and I obey your every whim.” He frowned. “Or was that the other way around?”
“Mmm,” murmured Parvati again, with a different intonation entirely. “Kinda hot, don’t you think?”
Harry slid his hand down her ribs and stomach, pressed his palm flat between her legs. She was hot, still wet. She sighed, stretched, arching her back. He wanted her again, slowly this time, with his face buried in her breasts and her legs around his back. Drought to flood, he thought, laughing a little as she rolled toward him. It’d been three weeks, and he still couldn’t keep his hands off her to save his life.
He slipped a finger inside her and she arched, bearing down hard. She crooned when he pressed his face between her thighs, early morning stubble leaving marks on her tender skin. She’d taught him this the second night, in quiet, husky-voiced instruction that dissolved into sweeter sounds as he figured out what was what. Then she’d rewarded him with things that still made his eyes roll back, just to think of them.
He didn’t linger now. She lifted her hips and slipped a pillow beneath, and Harry knelt up. He watched her face avidly, going slow. She loved this, the push of his fingers or tongue or prick into her, and she loved to show it, too. There was something about that, about watching her pleasure that always got Harry in the gut and the balls and the heart. He found himself wondering more and more as time passed what she saw when she looked back at him. What did she read in the way he took his tea, in the time he spent puttering in the manor gardens, in his inexperience?
He was afraid to ask.
She sighed, pulled him down, and kissed him. “Bet the Prophet will say what a good lay you are,” she breathed into his mouth.
“God I hope not,” said Harry.
“I’ll write that dreadful, mudraking front-pager of theirs,” she said, and dug her fingers into his back. “Tell her that I love the way you fuck me.” She watched him blush and start, grinning.
“Don’t you dare,” said Harry, with some honest apprehension. He rather thought she would dare, with a shrug and a laugh.
“Hmm,” she said sweetly. “I suggest you tire me out, then.” She paused. “Or at least give it your best shot.”
“Right,” said Harry, who had a very hard time walking away from a challenge. He hugged her suddenly, pressing his face into her hair and feeling bubbles of laughter rise like Champagne. How did she know how to make him feel this way?
Maybe he would ask her after all, he thought a long, uncounted time later. He’d managed to exhaust her, though at the cost of leaving himself breathless and wrung out. He found himself watching her still face, tracing the lines that had doubtless begun carving themselves during the siege. Maybe he could ask her after all. Someday.