#vanity ;; molten eyes and a smile made for war

[lockedwoof]

@crescentforged

 Tyler Appreciation Week ↝ Day #04: Favorite Brotp (2)

She saved my life. I almost died trying to break the sire bond. Hayley was there for me, she helped me get through it.

[wisdomsfromeast]

Part 2

Omi opened the doors which led to elegant suit with large veranda attached panels and doors made of birch wood and covered with rice paper burgundy curtains bundled aside. Far wall rested a bed with a huge canopy curtains falling. Other side had a huge closet and a vanity. Another side had long bookshelf with numerous scrolls and annals and desk adjacent with writing materials. Nightstands in both sides. Room was draped with crimson and burgundy colours and free walls were covered with tapestries gloryfiying the hundred year's war which was pretty odd. A low table was set in middle and wooden but fluffy couch near the balcony to see the scenic view of the shores of Ember Island. Yes it was the New Beach House of the Royal Family. A old lady with two robes of Red and Brown one with tight sleeve and one with flowing sleeves relaxing watching the view.

Omi prostrated in the marble floors covered with lush red carpet.

"Your Majesty Prince Mako is on the line he wishes your presence. He even asked how's your health. It's urgent he needs your help" she spoke with a small voice.

Old lady still straight and regal as if old age had no effect on her. Her hair in halfknot, straight falling to the tailbone a small ribbon bound the ends a horned gold crest hairpiece and a gold hairpin with ruby embedd keeping the knot at place. She waved her hand. The servant kneeled she turned to her slightly her eyes molten gold irises still had those blazing impact which would even pin down world's most powerful masters and benders.

"You may leave" she voice rang as command you have otherwise you know the temper of her Majesty. She bowed her head when she raised herself and try to look her majesty she was gone already. Omi knew this and it really creeped her.

A pale hand with long manicured nails picked the speaker. Mako from other side spoke "Hello! Gran" she raised the upper part to her ears near her bangs still had the same shape perfection was something Dowager Fire Lady Azula still mull with. Lower part was near the lips still painted with crimson her wrinkles and patches still had no effect on her. People of this generation when look at her wonder how she used to look at her days!!!

"Mako" Mako cringed at her voice even it was raspy but still honeyed one.

"Gran! How are you? Are you Ok? I was bit worried after what happened to Iro-"

"Mako all of the last things you have to worry about is me and my health I can't believe my sweetheart believes her Gran is like any old lady who constantly bickers that her grandsons don't take care of her." her voice raising the heartbeats of everyone.

"Gran I am so desperate these hypocrites not letting us find the culprits you are right Ba Sing Se is city of lies and vipers"

"I never get wrong my boy. My dear I was thinking to meet you I heard you are with the Avatar and with that moral Airhead monk what was his name"

"Tenzin" Mako spoke with shaky voice. Tenzin covered his face with on hand

"So sorry his child was kidnapped but what can we do trusting the Earth Kingdom too much. Poor Tenzin" she spoke in haughty tone

"Gran I need your help only you can help us. You are the only one who can persuade the Crown of Ba Sing Se to work. Please help us"

"Of course anything for my sweet little boy. You know your Grandpa Zuzu is busy feeding cubs of Druk, Feng and Qiao. Don't worry I am free" she spoke sweetly

"Zuzu" Korra snickered

"Love you Gran!" Mako with happy tone

"Isn't that the Avatar who tried to stiffle her laugh" Mako eyes widened and looked at Korra in shock. Korra mouth agape. "Anyways I will arrive at three weeks time my dear. I will come with a surprise and you know I like too surprise anyone. Have a good day my sweetheart" she literally purred " May Agni lighten your way" she cut the call.

Mako closed his eyes and kept the speaker on the holder slowly. He was thinking how the hell his Gran knows it was Korra who tried to laugh when she spoke about Grandpa Zuko.

He tried to face others. Korra was in shock, Tenzin was freaked out. Bolin can't control his excitement finally Asami with small smile she spoke

"Mako! your Grandma loves you so much. You are lucky"

Mako blushed tried to look away inwardly speaking with proud ' I am blessed to have a Grandmother like My Grandma Azula'

Short Drabble will try to extend in FF.NET

[depulsorpg]

WHATS IN YOUR FILE.

NAME: Bellatrix Black. GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cisfemale, she/her. HOUSE & YEAR: Slytherin, 7th. BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood. AFFILIATION: Death Eaters.

WHAT DO THE RUMORS SAY.

POSITIVES: Fascinating, Intuitive, Alluring. NEGATIVES: Amoral, Sadistic, Manipulative.  LOOKS LIKE: Elizabeth Gillies.

WHAT IS THE TRUE STORY.

The firstborn, and the perfect heir for her parents.

Used the Cruciatus Curse for the first time at age eleven.

She is entirely loyal to her Dark Lord, and is his lieutenant. 

Betrothed to Rodolphus from age fourteen, but has been fighting the wedding off. 

One of the most formidable duellists in the wizarding world.

SHE WAS TOLD TO GROW A SPINE AND GROW ONE DID SHE EVER —

The product of Druella Rosier and Cygnus Black, Bellatrix was nothing if not the apple of her mother’s eye, and something that produced a source of pride for her father. They say she came out; kicking and screaming into this Earth; with molten eyes and a smile made for war. Her parents demanded perfection, and so it was perfection that she would bring. She might have been the eldest child, the favoured in her father’s eyes — but that did not mean his immediate respect and love. No, she had to gain it like another. And it was under her father’s hand that she moulded to become the perfect little soldier. One that grew up to learn the art of war in lessons taught by her father. Whilst other heirs may have learnt to become the proper pureblooded child, she was taught the extra step. And whilst she may have looked like any other, beneath her charming smile and lilting words lay the beating heart of one who was made for much more. She would be the pride and joy of her family; pushing the Black name to the forefront of high society.

Yet in the midst of Bellatrix’s tutelage to become the heir that her father so demanded, she had come to adore her younger sisters; the pair that she had come to cherish and treasure. They were the one flame that she would not snuff, and they were what she sought to protect. Her father had often taught her that family came first; and that was more than apparent when it came to the eldest Black and others. If anyone dared to come near her Andie or Cissa, they knew that they would be risking the wrath of Bellatrix, the one who would swoop in to save either in their times of need. Perhaps the only things she loved in this world, but it suited her. She would become steel for them. Unbreakable, resistant to all harm, in order to be their shield. And at the end of the day, they were the only people that she would risk everything for — perhaps to even lay down her life.

HER VERTEBRAE HAS BROKEN THROUGH HER SKIN LIKE SHARP KNIVES, WINGS HAVE SPROUTED FROM HER BACKBONES —

And it was so that she learnt any spell she could uncover, developing a slight sadistic tendency when it came to inflicting pain onto other creatures. At the age of eleven, she discovered the forbidden curses in a diary of a long ago deceased Black relative, curious to see the possible ramifications and effects such curses could lay waste to on other creatures. Yet instead of asking her father about the Cruciatus curse, she decided that she would take it upon herself to discover how exactly to cast it. And one afternoon, as she cast it onto a stray bug that had landed in her room, she watched with fascination at the way it writhed and struggled beneath her command. Bellatrix had always been interested in the outcomes of certain spells, but this seemed to draw her attention, especially with the word ‘forbidden’ associated with it.

It came to be that by the time Bellatrix arrived at Hogwarts at the age of twelve, she was far more prepared than any other child. She had been taught all types of subjects under various tutors; the more sinister spells and potions one needed by her father, how to charm others into being underestimated by her mother, and she had two wands just in case the dear Headmaster decided to check their wands in case her acts were detected. She knew it was a time to further her connections; ones that she had already had since a young age from social gatherings, but it was an opportunity for her to be able to develop her own system of ‘little birds’ in able to gain the upper hand in all situations for the Black family. For so long, they had been hearing whispers of a certain Dark Lord beneath the shadows, one that sought for a new world — dominated by purebloods, and her father had commanded her to learn as much as she could.

HER TEETH HAVE GROWN INTO FANGS, SHE HAS BECOME A DEADLY DRAGON —

And do that, she certainly had. Within the first couple of years within Hogwarts, she had easily established her reign within Slytherin. They had come to fear, yet love such a creature as her; one that rewarded those who offered her information that came to be useful, punishing those who decided to irritate or disobey her commands. And through these connections did she ever learn about the Dark Lord Voldemort, one that she had been curious to uncover more details about ever since the rumours had begun. Utilising a proxy as an invitation to meet the man himself, Bellatrix found herself enamoured in a way she had never been before. Seduced by the promise of power and glory for her family; and the creation of a new world at her feet, she swore her fealty to Him, knowing that beneath his command that they would forge something beautiful.

This allegiance had suddenly changed the game for Bellatrix. She was suddenly thrust forth the ranks for the Dark Lord, as he came to see how useful she could be. With many connections forging throughout Hogwarts itself to offer new individuals in the ranks, power dripping at her fingertips and intelligence to match; she was a formidable match. And whilst others would have been jealous at the ease she had found in moving through the circles to reach the upper circle, to be placed as a Lieutenant by his side; her duelling and spell casting ability quickly disrupted their disagreements. Just like the students of Hogwarts, they came to fear and respect the young Black girl, one that had seemed to do the impossible. Yet there was just one problem that it seemed she could not remove. At the age of fourteen, Bellatrix had been betrothed to one certain Rodolphus Lestrange. Angered and irritated at the thought of being united in marriage to any individual, she had implored her Lord for any solution.

AND SHE ISN’T AFRAID TO BITE —

She had always been a faithful follower to her parents, and certainly to her Dark Lord, heeding every command. But Bellatrix couldn’t fathom nor imagine being married. And her Lord’s solution delighted Bellatrix, encouraging her to be an even more faithful servant, regardless of the consequences. With his promise to remove the impending marriage if she would help him deliver the world upon a platter, she easily agreed, knowing that this would be done within the impending next few years as their plans continued. The thought of marriage still agitates Bellatrix, and horrifies her. And if there is anything that can be done, she will do it in order to remove the betrothal. Yet one part of her is resigned to her fate, although she will never be a demure pureblooded bride like so many of her followers. She is the Lieutenant to her Dark Lord, and one of the most respected duellists in the Wizarding World. And they’re yet to see the full brunt of her capabilities.

WHAT ARE YOUR RELATIONSHIPS.

NARCISSA & ANDROMEDA: Sisters, wishes to protect. RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE: Betrothed, prefers to avoid. EMMA VANITY: Close friends since childhood. LUCIUS MALFOY: Former old flame. GRETA CATCHLOVE: Finds bemusing to torment.

[alecatmidnight]

(A Thousand Sons) Tzeentch speaks to Magnus

[Magnus has just caused irreparable damage to the golden throne. The censure fleet is on its way to Prospero] 

“All this will be ashes.” he said sadly.

“It do̲e͇ṣ̬̹̝ ͈̱̤̼n͈̫͙͍̩ot̻͔͉̥̼͚̟ have to be.” said a voice behind him.

Magnus turned, and harsh words died on his lips as he saw it was not an intruder that had spoken. He had. At least, a version of him had. The mirror hanging beside the doorway was broken, yet dozens of splinters still hung on the copper frame. In each of them, Magnus saw a shimmering reflection of his eye, one mocking, one angry, one capricious, another aloof. The eyes stared with sly amusement, each a different color, and each now regarding him with the same quizzical look.

“A mirror? Even now you appeal to my vanity.” said Magnus, dreading what this signified. 

“I told you it was the easiest trap to set,” said the reflections, their voices slippery and entwined. “Now you know the truth of it.”

“Was this always what you wanted?” asked Magnus. “To see me destroyed?”

“Destroyed? N̯̖̹e͚̘͇͔͍̮̘v͔̣̫̭͇er̭̣̪͚̮̭!” cried the reflections, as though outraged by the suggestion. “You were always to be our first choice Magus, did you know that?”

“First choice for what?”

“To bring about the eternal chaos, destruction and rebirth. The endless succession of making and unmaking that has cycled throughout time, and will continue for all eternity. Yes. You were always first, and Horus is a poor second. The eternal powers saw great potential in you, but even as we coveted your soul, you grew too strong, and caused us to look elsewhere.” The reflections smiled with paternal affection. “But I always knew you’d be ours one day. While suspicious eyes were turned upon you and your legion, we wove our corruptions elsewhere. For that, you have my thanks as the Blinded One has lit the first fire of the conflagration, though none yet see it, for what it is.”

“What are you?” asked Magnus, stepping through the doorway to renter the wreckage of his chambers. Horeforst gathered on the splintered glass and his breath misted before him. 

“You know what I am.” said his reflections. “At least you should.”

One splintered eye shifted, swirling until it became a firey snake with multi-colored eyes and wings of bright feathers. The beast he had killed beneath the mountain of Aghoru. It changed again, morphing though a succession of shimmering forms, until Magnus saw the shifting, impossibly massive form of the shadow in the Great Ocean. 

“I once named myself Choron’Zon to you, the Dweller in the Abyss, and the daemon of Dispersion, but those are meaningless labels that mortals hang upon me. Obsolete the moment they are uttered. I have existed since the beginning of time, and will exist beyond the span of this universe. Names are irrelevant to me. For I am every name, and none. In the inadequate language of your youngling species, you should call me a God.”

“You were the one who helped me save my legion.” said Magnus with a sinking heart.

“Saved? No. . . I only postponed their doom.” said the shadow. “That boon is now e̻͈̠nd̫̯̥̭̩̮̘e̝̬̟d͔̗͍̦.”

“No!” cried Magnus. “Please! Never that!”

“There is a price to pay for the time I gave your sons. You knew this when you accepted the gift of my power. Now it is time to make good on your bargain.”

“I made no bargain,” said Magnus. “Not with the likes of you.”

“ Bͤͬ̔̈ͧ̀utͨ͊ͤ ̆ͩͥ̃̀yͧ͗̽ͮ̚o̒̎ͭ͡uͮ̔͑́̓ ̎̎̃ͩ̋̍̈́d̛̈ͥi̊̂̽̚ḑ̏͋,” Laughed the eyes. “When in your despair you cried out for succor in the depths of the warp, when you begged for the means to save your sons, you flew too close to the sun, Magnus. You offered up your soul to save theirs, and that debt, is now due.”

“Then take me” declared Magnus. “Leave my legion, and allow them to serve the Emperor. They are blameless.”

“They have drunk from the same chalice as you,” said the eyes. “And why would you wish them to serve a man who betrayed you? A man who showed you unlimited power and then told you not to use it. What manner of father open the door to a world of wonder, and then orders you not to step through? This man who planned to use your flesh, to save his own from destruction?”

The images in the glass changed once more, and Magnus saw the golden throne, its mechanisms wreathed in crackling arcs of lightning. A howling, withered cadaver sat upon the throne, its once mighty flesh blackened and metastasized.

“This is to be your destiny.” said the mirror. “Bound forever to the Emperor’s soul engine, suffering unendurable agony to serve his selfish desires. Look upon this and know the truth.”

Magnus tried to look away, but the horror of the vision was impossible to ignore. “Why should I believe anything you say?” he cried. 

“You already know the truth of your doom. I have no need to embellish. Look at the Warp, and hunt for your nemesis. He and his savage dogs of war are already on their way. Trust yourself, if you do not trust me.”

Magnus closed his eye, and cast his senses into the seething currents of the Great Ocean. Its substance was agitated and roaring tides billowed with tempestuous force, all was chaos, but for a slender corridor of stillness through which Magnus felt the passage of many souls. He closed upon their life-force, and saw the form his doom would take. Magnus’s eye snapped open and anger boiled over. His hand erupted in searing white fire, the most prosaic and primal of the arts, and his chambers were filled with billowing flames, burning everything within to cinders. Wood and paper vaporized in the white heat of Magnus’s rage, and what little his despair had not destroyed his rage consumed. A column of blazing fire erupted from the sumit of his pyramid, and a rain of molten glass shards fell from the summit. All eyes on Tizca turned toward the pymarid of Photep, the plume of fire dwarfing that of the Pyrae. Only the book of Magnus remained inviolate, its pages impervious to the killing fire. Nothing was left of the mirror, its few shards bubbling in a molten pool at his feet. 

“You can destroy them,” said the fading reflections in the liquid glass. “Say the word and I will t̜̩̲̫̝̪ḙ̟̻͇͙ͅa̘̦r͓ ͍̹̤̹͚t͔̲͖͍̖h̳͖̪̘ͅͅe͕͙̖̺͙̳̣i͎͚̘͙͙̩r̬̘ ̭̠̬̹̱̯ͅv͎̦͉̲͕͔e̞͉͉͕̝s̙̯̳͍͉̟ͅs̲e͙̺ḽs ̬͉̪̲͕͎as̜̯s̜͉̼ͅu̫̺̩͔͙̝n͓d͍͕͙̖̺̖e̟̤͈͓̭r̜̣̲̩, scattering them beyond all knowledge and hope of salvation.”

“No,” said Magnus, dropping to his knees, his head in his hands. “Never.”

Magnus had no knowledge of how much time had passed when he heard the crash of his door breaking open. . .

(A Thousand Sons, by Graham McNeil)

[darknesscall-rp]

✖ full name: Evan Rosier ✖ age range: 24 ✖ preferred pronouns: He/him ✖ affiliation: Death eaters (marked) ✖ occupation: Spell inventor ✖ blood status: Pureblood ✖ former house: Slytherin

✖ checked information (x) ✖ face claim: Sean O’Pry

(recollected by Rita Skeeter. Sources can be less than reliable.)

✖ Yes he does seem like the quiet one but deep down he’s worse than all of them; the purist. He’s just as sick. ✖ Mastermind, that’s the word for him. Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.   ✖ It’s unbelievable how different he is from his sister. One of them has to be adopted or something.

His father said that Evan Rosier was born with molten eyes and a smile made for war. His mother said that Evan was the perfect heir, the perfect Pureblood son. Both of them were right. Born after years of trying to conceive, Evan was what both of his parents were waiting for. His mother doted on him, spoiling him since he was a litte kid. Everyone else said that she was a hard and cruel women, that she never smiled unless her son was around but that was not the woman Evan saw. The woman Evan saw was radiant, she never scolded him and gave into each of his whims. People said that his father was ruthless, that he never cared for anyone except his own skin but that was not the man Evan saw. The man Evan saw would play chess with him, he would teach him to be methodical and thorough. He would tell him about his days with the Dark Lord and instill in him the importance of blood purity. He would raise his son to be a warrior.

When his sister was born, that was one of the few times Evan was truly happy. Constance could make him do anything she pleased, she had him wrapped around her little finger. Evan would have it no other war. He would protect her with his life, he would make sure she got a semblance of a real childhood, one that he was mostly denied. Evan would go to war for her and it was a fact that wasn’t lost on many. Their childhood was spend together, her coming into his room any time she pleased even if it was the middle of the night and Evan would never dare say no to her. She was what tied him to his humanity, she was perhaps the only bright spot in his childhood. His father said that he had been one of the Dark Lord’s earliest supporters, Voldemort had called him a friend and that he was closer to him than most could ever hope for. It was only reasonable that Evan would grow up to follow his fathers footsteps. With his father being such an influential figure in the Wizarding World and so close to Voldemort, there really never was another option. Their affluent way of life, their manners and the people they associated with- it only ever meant one thing; the Rosiers- the other purebloods- they were better than those with Muggle bloodlines. He liked the power that came with his name. From a young age, his education began. It was not only the indoctrination of pureblood idelogies but he was also prepared for his time in school. He was prepared to perform Dark Magic spells with more ease than he could write his own name, he was prepared to be ready to fight for Voldemort.

When he was 11, his father gave him a choice. Durmstrang or Hogwarts. Even at 11, Evan was much more analytical then others of his age and decided to go for Hogwarts. The reason for this was simple enough. At Durmstrang he would be surrounded by like minded people, that much was true- but at Hogwarts he could be around those that he most despised. He could observe them, see how they thought and decide how he had to act around them. He could teach himself to tolerate them – for appearance purposes only, of course but you couldn’t truly manipulate anyone unless you knew how they thought. 

People said that Rosier never made threats, he made promises. The same could easily be said for his son. Evan prospered in Hogwarts, the hat shouted Slytherin the moment it was placed upon his head and Evan did end up making friends in the house. He was known throughout the castle, there were those who wanted to be close to him and then there were those who feared him but people knew who he was. With his friends he was brutally honest. He never minced his words and said what was on his mind. Feelings were never something he cared about and he didn’t want anyone around him who couldn’t even handle the truth. With others, his words were glass. He was able to use his tongue just as well as a weapon. He used it to deliver the most severe of wounds. He made the grades easily enough, his education at home had prepared him for it and he didn’t find most things challenging at all. This led to Evan finding pleasure and thrill in other ways, ways that involved more planning and usually more bloodshed.

After Hogwarts there was never a question about what he was going to do. He was going to do the Dark Lord, it was what he had been prepared for, what he had always wanted. He secured a job as a Spell Inventor, something that had always interested him. He proved his worth time and time again. There was an unpenetrable coldness in his smile, a seething anger in everything he did. And yet, he knew how to mould others to his bidding. He knew how to earn trust.. if only to break it. Evan Rosier was going to make sure he went far, that people remembered his name.

Constance Rosier: Little sister, would protect her with his life if needed.  Cassius Mulciber, Gaspard Wilkes: Best friends.  Regulus Black: Distant cousin, close, sees potential in him.  Emma Vanity: Used to tease at school. Sophia Wilkes: One night stand, irritates him easily. Tilden Toots: Gets along well with, finds him interesting.

[sallyjavery]

Sally Drabbles 29: Brownie Points

Pairing: Hansy

Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE

Rating: MA

Note: This was a christmas one-shot written as part of the Quills & Parchment Christmas contest Under the Mistletoe.

The prompt for this story was by LeanaM, and was as follows: 'Pansy's organising a charity Quidditch match on Boxing Day. She's trying to enlist the famous Hero Who Refused To Die to join a team of other celebs and professional Quidditch players. Harry's not keen but Pansy can be very persuasive...'

[ FFN ]

The door to Pansy's office cracked open, and Daphne's head of golden curls appeared around it.

"Hey, Pans," she sing-songed, shouldering her way in and holding out a small paper bag. "So I just happened to pass Calumnia's Cakes on the way back from the Ministry and I thought -"

Pansy gave a groan and dropped her head into her hands, drowning out the rest of Daphne's words. "He said no again, didn't he?"

Daphne paused, blinking, then quickly smiled again. "I have good news and bad news."

"Salazar's fucking balls," Pansy sighed, "Remind me why I employed you?"

"Good news!" Daphne crowed, "I bought you a brownie, and he didn't say no."

Pansy lifted her head enough to shoot her friend a glare. "What's the bad news?"

Daphne's smile faded slightly. "I was really hoping we could stop at the good news," she said, shaking the bag still held in her outstretched hand. "Brownies!"

"Daph!" Pansy yelled.

"OK," Daphne nodded, her shoulders drooping. "The bad news is that he said," and here her voice dropped to a whisper, "Over his dead body would he help out Pansy fucking Parkinson."

"Ugh, Potter is such a dick, " Pansy growled, grabbing her cloak and handbag and storming from the office, pausing only to snatch the brownies from Daphne on her way out.

Pansy had her heels up on the desk and was leafing idly through a report on sales of cursed jewellery to Muggle antique dealers when the door swung open.

"What the -" Harry grimaced, then yelled over his shoulder, "Hestia! I need you to call pest control!"

Pansy grinned as the Carrow witch appeared behind him. "It's Tuesday, sir, so I'm Flora. Why do you need pest control?" she asked, with a slight grimace. "Is it that charmed Mistletoe again?"

"No," Harry said, his nose wrinkling as he gestured towards where Pansy sat, now swinging idly back and forth in the swivel chair. "My office appears to have a different sort of infestation."

Hestia (Pansy was fairly certain it was Hestia) leaned past his elbow, giving Pansy a once-over and then a tiny smile. "I'm sorry, Auror Potter," the little witch said, "but my mother had very strict rules: 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.' Let me know if you want tea!" she added gaily, as she closed the door on the pair of them.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his already ridiculous hair. "What," he asked wearily, "the fuck are you doing in my office, Parkinson?"

"I'm here on behalf of the orphans of the Wizarding War, Potter," she said tartly, ignoring the way that he rolled his eyes. "Look," she said, falsely sweet, batting her eyelashes at him and holding up the bag that she'd taken from Daphne. "I even brought you a brownie." Harry snorted, turning away from her to shrug off his Auror robes, loosening the tie he wore underneath and unbuttoning his collar to reveal an extra couple of inches of dark five o'clock shadow. Pansy's mouth suddenly felt a little dry.

"I don't want a fucking brownie," Harry grumbled. "And I already told Daphne," he continued as he faced Pansy once more, hands on his hips as though to deliberately emphasise the way his lean torso tapered from his broad shoulders. "I don't want to be a part of some insane vanity pro-"

"It is not a vanity project!" Pansy seethed, abruptly furious. "It's a fucking quidditch match! For charity!"

"Right," Harry scoffed, "Because the fact that it presents you as a bleeding heart and the darling of the social set has nothing to do with it at all."

"For fuck's sake," Pansy snarled, pushing herself up from the chair and marching across the room to stab a finger into his chest (incidentally confirming that it was as firmly muscled as it looked under the tight cotton oxford). "It's not as though I'm asking you because I want you there. But if Harry Potter, famous seeker and biggest fucking celebrity in Wizarding Britain doesn't play, then not only do I look like a complete twat but, news flash, so do you."

Harry caught hold of her wrist, his grip firm but not bruising. He was tall enough to loom over her and Pansy felt a surprising but not at all unpleasant frisson of heat at his proximity. "What if I already have plans?" he asked. "It's Boxing Day, after all."

"Plans?" Pansy sneered. "With who? You and Ginny Ginger split up months ago, and in any case she, along with most of your stupid friends, is already playing in the match, or at least coming along to supp-"

"I might have friends that you don't know about," Harry growled, and Pansy tossed her head with frustration, finally wrenching her arm free of his grasp and gesturing expansively around the room.

"Oh yes, because you're so famed for your subtlety and discretion, Potter, I'm sure you've got loads of secret friends." She folded her arms and raised a brow, ready for his next volley.

"Yeah?" Harry said. "Allow me to remind you, Pansy, that you're famed for being the Slytherbitch who wanted to hand me over to Voldemort"

"Ooh," Pansy smirked, "Burn." She leaned towards him, "I'm also famed for my philanthropic work, which would be a lot easier to accomplish if you would stop being an arsehole and just agree to play in the bloody match!"

Harry swallowed, his gaze flicking downwards to where the swell of Pansy's breasts was pushed upwards by her still-folded arms. She nearly laughed with disbelief because surely, surely -

She realised that she was staring at his mouth, and raised her eyes to find him giving her an appraising look. "What do I get," Harry asked, his voice suddenly gruff, "If I agree to play?"

"Not going to do it out of the goodness of your heart?" Pansy pouted. "My my, Potter, where is your Christmas spirit?" she asked coyly, tossing her hair to one side in a way that she knew showed off the slender length of her neck. Harry didn't reply, but his eyes narrowed slightly, and Pansy deployed her best cat-that-got-the-cream smirk.

"I'd be grateful," she said huskily, reaching out to take hold of his tie, and sliding her fingers up the scarlet silk. When he didn't push her away Pansy smiled wider and took a step back, her bum hitting the edge of his desk. The tie stretched between them, and Harry cocked his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"How grateful?" he asked, stepping forward and planting his hands on the desk to either side of her hips. Pansy wanted to laugh at the unexpected discovery that Harry Potter had game, but she was distracted by the muscles of her lower abdomen clenching as he parted her legs with one of his.

"Oh," she said, moving her nose along the strong line of his jaw and then bringing her lips to his ear. "Very grateful indeed."

"Interesting," Harry said, skimming his fingers up her spine to hold the nape of her neck, then leaning past her to press a button on his desk. "Flora," he said, placing an ironic emphasis on the name that told Pansy he was well aware of the twins' little joke. She felt a sudden thrill of fear that Harry was going to kick her out, that she might have just made a terrible fool of herself, before he continued. "Cancel my four o'clock, would you?"

"Absolutely, Auror Potter."

Pansy could hear the smirk in Hestia's voice, but she forgot to care when Harry returned his brilliant green gaze to hers. "We were discussing the matter of gratitude," he said, his polite tone belied by the way his hand was creeping up her thigh.

"We were," Pansy agreed, offering him a prim smile that was swiftly undermined as she looped her fingers through his belt to pull him flush against her. "And I was about to say that, if you would agree to play in the match, then I'd be happy to demonstrate my gratitude."

With seeker-quickness he had tugged down the zip at the back of her dress, his lips following the falling fabric over her décolletage. Before Pansy's brain had quite caught up with the motion she felt the heat of his mouth against the cup of her bra, his tongue dragging the lace across the hard bead of her nipple with a delicious friction that had her stifling a gasp.

"Potter," she choked out, twisting her fingers in his hair and pulling his head up to glare at him. "Harry. Are you going to play or not?"

He grinned at her, his pupils dark and dilated in a way that made her insides go molten. "Why Miss Parkinson," he said pleasantly, "You know, I think I might be free after all."

Pansy's sharp laugh was cut off as he brought his mouth to hers, his lips soft but firm, as insistent as his grip on her nape, on her thigh. Pansy sighed into his mouth, deftly working his belt buckle and then the button of his trousers, slipping her hand inside his briefs to take hold of (another pleasant surprise) his hard and not-inconsiderable length.

Harry's teeth closed on her lip as she started moving her hand, and then he hummed his approval as his fingers skimmed the top of her stocking, and moved further up.

His touch grazed against her sex, and Harry broke his mouth from hers to gave her a look that was part incredulity, part delight. "You're not wearing any underwear."

Pansy shrugged. "I rarely do," she purred, staring up at him from under her lashes. He stopped laughing when she pushed him away, grabbing his tie to tug him around the desk before shoving him roughly into the chair, the buttons of his shirt opening with a flick of her fingers.

When she hitched up her skirt and climbed atop him Harry grinned again, his hands rising to cup the plump smoothness of her arse. Pansy reached into his briefs to free him completely, and with Harry's firm grip steadying her she positioned herself above him.

"Now," she said, cocking her head and smiling her most shit-eating grin, "One last time. Are you going to play on Boxing Day?"

Harry's fingers flexed around her, his thumbs pressing into her hips. "Yessss," he said, the 's' elongating into a hiss as Pansy slid herself down his length.

She gave a gasp as he thrust upwards, the head of his shaft hitting a spot that she'd previously believed was reserved only for quality time alone in her bedroom with her collection of mail-order purchases from Madame Marchbank's Wands for Wayward Witches.

"Like that?" Harry said, his teeth against her neck as he lifted her with seeming effortlessness, and Pansy moaned her agreement as his cock thrust into her again.

"I said," Harry growled, "Do - you - like - that?"

He punctuated each word with a buck of his hips, and Pansy curled her nails into the skin of his shoulders as she groaned, "Fuck, yes!"

Harry's smile was lazy, though his face was flushed as he moved his hand back to her nape, tipping her mouth towards his. "And are -" he inhaled sharply as Pansy bounced herself up and down, her back arching as he hit her G-spot again. "Are you grateful?"

"Oh!" she said, "Oh, so grateful." She opened her eyes to see him return her grin, and brought her hands to his cheeks as she pressed her lips to his, feeling the tension building and building and building and -

"Fucking - so - yes!" Pansy cried, as the coiling knot inside her snapped and euphoria danced its way across her skin. Harry held her waist as he relinquished his control to thrust urgently, his mouth on her breast as the waves of her orgasm shivered and spread, and then he gave a sharp grunt, and Pansy bent her head to kiss him as he came, licking into his mouth as he exhaled, his arms tightening around her and fingers stroking the curve of one shoulder blade.

"And to think I was under the impression," Harry murmured against her mouth after a few minutes, "that charity begins at home."

Pansy hummed thoughtfully in reply, trailing her fingers from his cheek to his jaw, and then tugging gently on his loose collar. "Depends, Potter," she said, smoothing the cotton so that her hand rested against his collarbone. "Mine or yours?"