"I'm sorry, Miss Parkinson, but I just don't understand what it is you want me to do."

Pansy sighed and inwardly lamented not wearing something more revealing. Her black, cowl-neck, batwing, 100% cashmere knit dress was very cozy and very expensive, but could not really be described as sexy. And that was a shame, because despite his boring tie and neatly-combed hair, this official seemed like he might have been… susceptible.

"Adjunct Weasley," she began, leaning forward and glancing at the nameplate on his desk. "Percy –"

He stiffened slightly. She leaned back.

"Adjunct Weasley," she amended. "As you have already noted, this request falls firmly within the purview of the Department for Muggle Relations. And, as you have also astutely pointed out, all of my paperwork is entirely in order. So why, Adjunct Weasley, do you suppose that I am in your office?"

He pursed his lips. "Because they didn't give you what you wanted, I imagine."

She inclined her head. "Very good. Go on."

"If you could refrain from patronising me, Miss Parkinson, I may feel more inclined to be helpful," he said drily.

"So you admit that you can help me?" Pansy leaned forward again, narrowing her eyes.

"I doubt it, to be honest." He shrugged. "As part of the Minister's cabinet, I'm a political attaché – I don't approve or deny thingsthe way the departmental administrators do. I schedule the Minister's meetings, talk to the press, advise him on policy and filter requests from people trying to get his attention. People like you. But in any case, our political priorities have been fixed since the start of the year, and a mentorship-slash-scholarship programme for new Hogwarts graduates in muggle businesses may have merit in theory, but it doesn't align with anything on our list. And, as a result, my job description forbids me from putting it on the Minister's agenda."

She saw her opening. "Ah, but I don't want to be on his agenda," she purred. "I want to be on yours."

She gave him her most predatory grin, shifting her chair back minutely so that when she crossed her legs he was sure to see the few centimetres of thigh the movement revealed.

Sure enough, he tracked the motion with his eyes – but then he seemed to shake himself.

"I remember you from school, you know," he said.

Pansy blinked.

"You wouldn't remember me, of course. I was a few years older, and nowhere near as memorable as my brothers," he allowed himself a rueful smile, "but you were part of Malfoy's circle, and I always kept an eye on him, especially once I was made Prefect. You cried, once, when you broke a nail in detention. I thought you were a brat."

She shrugged awkwardly. "Quite a few people did."

"You never struck me as caring about magic-muggle relations, to be blunt." He coughed, his mouth quirking slightly upwards. "And you never would have struck me as the type to flirt with a Weasley, no matter what you thought you could get from it."

Caught by surprise, she snorted a laugh and Adjunct Weasley smiled. "So I'm sure, seeing as you seem to think I'm a valuable contact, that you'll forgive my curiosity as to why on earth you care now."

Point made, he raised his eyebrows, waiting for her reaction. Pansy took the opportunity to study him, mentally comparing the man in front of her with the expectations she'd had when she'd learned the Adjunct to the Minister was a Weasley.

He was tall, narrowly built, but the perfect tailoring of his grey suit suggested that he was lean rather than skinny beneath it. He had the trademark red hair and freckles, of course, but his hair was short and the blue eyes behind his almost hipster-cool glasses were sharp. She'd come to this meeting expecting to argue, expecting to plead her change of heart and even cry if necessary. The Weasleys, in her experience, were smug, self-righteous and hot-tempered, but probably good enough to be won over if she spoke convincingly. This Weasley was serious, and reasonable, and – for some unfathomable reason – made her want to be honest with him, even if the honest story was objectively far less persuasive than the heartfelt confession she'd had planned.

Maybe it was just that he'd remembered her as something other than the bitch who'd tried to sell Potter out during the last battle. The picture he'd painted still wasn't exactly positive, but… it was better than that.

"After the war, those of us who were on the wrong side but too young to go to Azkaban were sentenced to spend five years in the muggle world. No magic. No contact with magic. Did you know that?"

He shook his head.

"Most people don't. They think we just ran away, I suppose. Anyway. Draco went to Oxford. Theo worked for a bank. Blaise went to Milan and… you know, I'm still not sure what he actually did there? High-end prostitution, or drug dealing, or contract killing probably," Weasley made a choking noise, which she ignored, "he always did like the idea of organised crime. Anyway. I got a job in a boutique in Kensington. Was promoted to Assistant Manager within the year. Fashions are different, but ugly is ugly in any culture, you know?"

"Um… sure?"

"I learnt a lot, honestly. Enough to change my mind on a few key things. I wouldn't say I enjoyed it, exactly, but it was… educational."

"And now, what?" He frowned at her. "You want to share this life-changing experience with all the other sheltered young purebloods?"

"Not at all." She grinned. "My five years are up, and I don't plan on ever living in the muggle world again. I've rented a shopfront on Diagon and I want to open my own boutique within the year. I've got the funds to do it, but my name's still mud - this is about publicity."

"You want to be Pansy Parkinson, patron of that pioneering muggle-magical exchange scheme," he supplied, "instead of Pansy Parkinson, the girl who tried to sell out Harry Potter."

"Yes."

"Hmm." He steepled his fingers, studying her over the top. Pansy fought the urge to fidget. There was something deeply unsettling – even attractive, but no she wasn't going to let herself think that – about a perceptive Weasley. Especially one in such a well-tailored suit. She glanced at his shoes. Cognac leather brogues – conservative, but clearly expensive, and a perfect colour match for his belt. Shit. "Why don't we discuss this further over a drink?"

"I – what?" Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "Are you asking me out?"

"Of course not," he said matter-of-factly, looking down and shuffling the papers on his desk in a businesslike way that didn't entirely hide his smile. "But it's standard practice for matters of – ah – sensitive political patronage to be discussed out of office. Optics, you know. If an attractive young woman spends too long at my desk, people might think I'm being unduly influenced."

"Whereas going for a drink with a lobbyist is somehow so much more appropriate?"

"Ah," he said holding up a finger. "An official meeting with a suggestive undercurrent is far more suspicious than a date with a political undercurrent. Don't you think?"

"So we… pretend to go on a date, while actually discussing my proposal? Is that the game?"

"I couldn't presume to guess at the preferred conversational topics of my drinking partner, but I imagine that projects of potential interest to the Minister could certainly feature, yes."

"My dear Adjunct Weasley," Pansy said, "I do believe you should have been in Slytherin."

"Please," he answered, rising to open the door for her. "If we're going on a date, I think it's only fair you call me Percy."

And then, to her unending shock, he winked.