Secrets We Share Chapter 2.

Content Warnings: Nothing.

“Miss Parkinson.” His intense green eyes roved over her face. He had cupped her cheeks, trapping her in place and giving her no avenue to hide. Pansy could have lowered her eyes, but found herself completely unable to do so.

“Yes, sir?” Pansy asked, trembling like a leaf. It wasn’t that she was scared of him, no. His very presence always seemed to shake her to her core. She was stripped bare, with nowhere to run and nothing to hide.

His thumb swiped over her lips again, and she couldn’t help herself this time. Her tongue darted out of its own accord, gently pushing against the calloused skin of his thumb. Pansy blushed at the quiet chuckle her actions elicited.

“Sorry, sir. My lips are really dry,” she murmured as an excuse.

“Did you eat something before you came over for your detention?”

Pansy shook her head, knowing better than to lie. She could lie to the world as easily as she breathed, but to him, she was an open book. On the rare occasions she had thought of lying or actually gone through with one, her body had betrayed her within seconds. His quiet disappointment every time he caught her in a lie was too much for her to bear. So she forged ahead with the truth, even though she knew that would upset him as well.

Everything about me is a bloody disappointment.

She clung to his shoulders for dear life when he leaned forward to grab the water bottle from his desk. He unscrewed the cap, giving it to her to hold before wordlessly pressing the open mouth of the bottle against her lips. She closed her eyes, knowing she’d hyperventilate if she allowed herself to think about the situation she was currently in. She felt his hand on her back, gently pushing her forward. “I-” She didn’t finish the sentence. Could she have taken a sip on her own? Absolutely. Did she want to do that?

Hell no.

She parted her lips, knowing he had tilted the bottle when water sloshed out of its opening and into her mouth. She tried to drink it all, gulping as fast as she could, but the flow was too fast and most of it spilled down from her mouth and onto her robes. He paused the minute he felt her choke and splutter, pulling the bottle away. She tried to stop it but couldn’t, coughing out the last of the water directly onto him, leaving them both drenched.

Her eyes flew wide open in horror as she realized what had happened. She stared at him, dumbstruck, unable to overcome her horror to come up with what would be an entirely inadequate apology.

I really am a big bloody disappointment.

She slowly willed herself to look up at him, utterly confused by the smile on his face. He was supposed to be upset, angry even. If she’d made a mistake like this with Draco, she could have looked forward to an hour-long lecture and a week of being ignored.

Harry freaking Potter, the boy with a supposedly massive ego and terrible attitude was smiling.

“I guess that’s what I get for trying to pretend I know what I’m doing while trying this for the first time,” he said with a quiet chuckle, his emerald eyes sparkling playfully.

“You’re… not upset? I’m sorry, I’ll clean the cloak for you,” Pansy finally whispered, utterly confused by his behavior. “You can increase my punishment for this,” she added, hoping it was enough to mollify his anger. Not that he looked angry.

He’s obviously hiding it till my punishment, he has to be enraged.

After all, she had basically spat on him, and he had shrugged it off with a chuckle. Harry Potter was a very confusing person.

“I’m not going to punish you for my mistake, Miss Parkinson,” Harry said, gently pushing her off his lap. She reluctantly got to her feet, holding out the cap of the bottle for him. He’d need it back before he dismissed her.

“Y-your mistake?” Pansy stammered, his words finally registering. “I spat on you.”

“Some people are quite into that, you know,” he teased. He got to his feet, pulling his cloak over his head. Pansy tried her best not to stare at the brief glimpse of his firm stomach she was treated to when his shirt rode up with his cloak. “Besides, you didn’t spit on me. You coughed up some water after I basically tried to drown you in it. You’re drenched, I’m drenched, I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

Pansy nodded, unsure how that constituted a fair trade. He had tried to take care of her and she had allowed him to proceed without objecting, only to then ruin his cloak. In her mind, it was her fault but she was unwilling to ruin the good humor he found himself in, so she kept her opinion to herself.

“Miss Parkinson?” He had grasped her chin with his hand, and she watched with wide eyes as he shifted to stand in front of her, his lips moving toward hers. She stood in place, frozen in shock as he kissed her, his tongue darting out and swiping against her chapped lips. “Now we’re even,” he whispered as he pulled away, a thin trickle of drool still connecting their lips.

She was dead. She had died when Milicent had tackled her that morning, and this was heaven. That was the only rational explanation for everything that was happening. Pansy Parkinson gave her heart to men who did not love her back. First Zabini, then Draco, and finally… Harry Potter. They used her, then tossed her out like she was trash. That was what she had expected with Harry. She had presumed he’d use her as his plaything till he got bored or found someone more suitable.

She had been preparing herself for heartbreak, not a kiss.

“Pansy?” Another shock. He never called her by her first name. It was either ‘Pansy Parkinson’, or simply, ‘Miss Parkinson’.

“Mhm?” She blinked a couple of times, blushing when she realized that she was still standing in the same position, her lips slightly puckered. She straightened her neck, slowly turning towards him.

His cheeks were a faint pink as well, and she watched in confusion as the expression on his face shifted to one of discomfort. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- I just thought… It won’t happen again.”

Oh. Oh.

He thought she didn’t want to be kissed.

“What if I… want it to happen again?” Pansy asked softly, finally ducking her head. She let her hair fall forward to hide her face, although she wasn’t sure what good it would do in concealing her excitement and terror. Not when her heart was beating loud enough for him and half the school to hear.

“Then, Miss Parkinson.” She timidly wrapped her fingers around his hand when she felt him grasp one of hers. “We shall discuss this matter further after your punishment.”

“Yes sir.” She felt him tug on her hand, pulling her around the desk. Her punishment would seemingly not be in his office, which she thought was odd.

Nothing about tonight is normal.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” He paused, his hand already on the handle of the door.

“Can I please take off my cloak? The corridors are chilly, and I don’t want to catch a cold.”

“Of course.” He let her hand go with a squeeze. She quickly pulled her cloak over her head, neatly folding it and draping it over the arm of his chair next to his cloak. “Uhm, you can… If you want-” She had closed the distance between their hands but made no effort to take his, letting him decide if that was something that was allowed.

She had no idea what the rules of their relationship were. She didn’t even know if they had a relationship. She’d ask him, one day. When she was feeling particularly brave or was sufficiently drunk.

Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to be happy.

She grinned when he took her hand and winked, pulling her out into the quiet hallway. She followed him silently as he led her through the castle, only pausing when they crossed the atrium and reached the staircase leading to the castle’s basement and dungeons.

“Where are we going?” she asked, keeping her voice quiet to attract as little attention to them as possible.

“The kitchens. You have to eat something.” The worry on his face and conviction in his voice was bloody endearing. Pansy found herself nodding, and they resumed their journey to the painting of the fruit bowl that concealed the entrance to the kitchens. She watched as he tickled the pear, before twisting the handle that appeared.

“This is probably the third time in my life I’ve come here,” she whispered, climbing through the hole once the painting had swung on its hinges to reveal the hidden door.

“I come here every bloody week,” Harry replied with a chuckle, waving and greeting all the house elves that flocked to them. “Between Hermione needing company for her late-night coffee visits and Ron making me do midnight snack runs, I’m a frequent visitor.”

Is there anyone in this castle that doesn’t like him?

Well, she could think of one person, but he didn’t count. The realization had come five years too late, but she finally understood that all the man did was take. He had taken her heart, used Harry’s kindness, and abused his mother’s love without expressing a single iota of regret and gratitude. She watched as he greeted a house-elf called Kreacher, who bowed low and then turned, studying her with beady eyes.

“What would Master and Master’s Mistress like to eat tonight?”

“Kreacher, this is Miss Parkinson. I want you to treat her with the same respect you give me, Hermione, and Ron, even if she were to come to the kitchens alone.”

“Parkinson. Parkinson,” Kreacher mumbled, turning around and beckoning them to follow him. “I has heard the name before. A good choice for a mate, Master Harry. Much better than the redheaded harridan,” he murmured as he clicked his fingers, arranging a pair of stools next to the roaring fireplace.

“Kreacher,” Harry said warningly, even though Pansy was inclined to agree with the wizened house elf. Ginny Weasley was a bloody harridan, and thoroughly undeserving of Harry Potter.

As if I’m any better.

Perhaps she wasn’t, she reminded the voice in her head. But she could be. She would be. She’d learn.

“Yes, yes.” The house elf waved off the mild scolding. “Kreacher shouldn’t insult master’s friends.” He added something under his breath, but Pansy couldn’t quite catch what he’d said. If Harry had understood, he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he helped her on one of the stools, before sitting on the other one himself. Pansy gently scooted the wooden stool closer to the fireplace. The water had spilled down her cloak and soaked her blouse, and she was more than glad for the warmth provided by the fire. She wasn’t a creature well-suited for cold, which made winter months in her dormitory under the lake more than a little miserable.

“Sorry about that,” Harry said softly, pointing to her chest.

She looked down, blushing harder when she realized that her thin, wet, white blouse now clung to her skin, the outline of the lacy black bra she had picked for her detention with him clearly visible. “It’s alright,” she mumbled, her cheeks burning.

“What do you want to eat?” Harry asked, watching Kreacher trot over to them with a plate that had a kettle and two mugs. The house elf set it down on the small table between them, picked up the kettle, and poured the hot tea into the two mugs on the plate.

“A salad?” A good pureblood lady watched her weight. That was what she had been taught since she was ten. On their very first date, Draco slapped her hand when she had ordered fries and reminded her that she needed to eat healthy if she was going to look good on his arm. Except, in their world, eating healthy meant starving oneself. It was all she knew anymore.

“Salad?” She watched him pick up his mug, sipping the tea with a content sigh. She was ignoring her mug, preferring instead to twiddle her thumbs. It wasn’t black tea. It had milk and sugar. She wasn’t allowed more than one cup of it, and she’d already had one with her breakfast.

“Uhm-” She looked up at his eyes and the small, genuine smile on his face. He wasn’t judging her for her choice. She could eat what she wanted. Draco was the one who had told her what she could and could not eat. He controlled what she ate, what she wore, and who her friends were. Harry simply wanted her to eat so she wasn’t hungry anymore. “And a PB&J?” she added meekly.

If I can’t live without someone’s rules and control, I’m going to follow the one who actually cares about me.

The old rules, her old world, and most importantly, her old relationships were dead and buried. And she intended to make sure they stayed that way.

“A salad and a PB&J it is.” He turned to ask Kreacher to fix their meal. She forced herself to keep her eyes on him as she picked up her cup, taking a small but determined sip. She liked milky tea, and she bloody well was going to enjoy a cup of it with Harry. The thought of it felt… liberating.

Their late-night meal was a quiet affair. Harry had asked the elves to fix them both PB&Js in addition to her salad. They both ate their sandwiches in the warmth of the fire, enjoying the quiet and each other's companionship. She waited for him to get up first, following his lead in climbing to her feet and brushing off the crumbs from her blouse and skirt. She had expected them to make the trek back to his office so she could finish her detention before being dismissed for the night. It was only his quiet order to Kreacher to go to her dorms and bring her trunk to his own bedroom that reminded her that she wasn’t going back to her dorms that night, or for that matter, for the rest of the week.

The rather lewd scenarios her brain was cooking up were all squashed when Harry asked Kreacher to add a bed next to his in the room when the house-elf deposited the trunk. Kreacher bowed, then apparated away with a crack of his fingers. She was going to sleep in his room, not with him. She had to remind herself there was a vast difference between the two.

“Are you sure the Head Girl won’t mind?”

“Hermione is on rounds tonight. She won’t be around in the dorms.” Pansy couldn’t help but notice his answer dodged what Hermione would think when she eventually found out that she was sleeping in his room. She didn’t push him. Her desire to maintain and further their newfound intimacy and escape the cold bed in her own dorms far outweighed her dislike and fear of the other woman.

“Are we going back to the office first?”

“No, straight to my dorms,” Harry answered, helping her climb through the hole in the wall. The painting swung shut behind them, concealing the entrance to the kitchens once more.

“My detention?”

“You’ll serve it there.”

“Okay,” she whispered, slipping her hand into his.

Notes:

Any guesses as to what 'Detention' will be? A hint: It won't be much of a punishment for Miss Parkinson. Lol.