A/N: This is my first foray into the Pots n' Pans ship. I wrote this Hansy story for The Forbidden Fruit 2018 Comp hosted by the Facebook group Beyond the Book Fanfiction Nook. This entry is a just for fun piece since I couldn't compete due to adminning responsibilities, but you know I need to get down with anything forbidden-it's mah jam! A big congrats to the comp winner-ninjafairy86 who SLAYED with her tomione story! There are a bunch of good pieces including Kitty's Choosing Destiny and Elle's sexy piece Scenes from a Seduction. Do head over to AO3 and check them out if you'd like to!

Beta Love to acidicnightmare and AkashaTheKitty!

Disclaimer: All canon characters, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter universe belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this writing.

~Art and aesthetics for this story can be found on my Pinterest - arielriddlefanfiction~

Warnings/Triggers: I'm taking liberties with these characters so there may be some OC-ness. Dub-con due to Veela charms. A darker, more possessive, bitter, and generally asshole Harry. A less confident Pansy weakened from the war. Voyeurism. Taking plenty of liberties with the Veela trope. Plenty of smut.

July 31, 1998

Need.

Raw, ardent need was what he felt when he awoke that day.

It was just as palpable and pulsating as the blood that flowed through his veins.

He was unusually hot. His skin actually burned to the touch, almost as if he had a fever. He certainly felt feverish—on fire, actually. His legs twisted rapidly in an effort to detangle themselves from the constricting sheets of his bed.

Merlin, but he was sweating profusely. For one heart-stopping moment, he worried he was still on the run, chasing a way to destroy Voldemort. But no—Harry had already faced down, and successfully vanquished, the dark wizard two months prior.

Now it was his birthday. His eighteenth, to be precise, and in just a few short months, he would return to Hogwarts for his eighth school year in place of the seventh he had missed. But the frustration he felt, the need for comfort which eluded him—it was maddening. He felt as if a part of himself were missing.

It was a silly feeling to suddenly have, especially seemingly out of nowhere. Just the night prior, he'd stayed up late with Ron and Bill drinking his godfather's old firewhisky and attempting to get used to the fact that Grimmauld Place was now his own. When he'd gone to sleep, all had been how it was supposed to be, so why did he feel so out of sorts now?

Why did he feel this burning craving so deep in his chest, that he was sure if he didn't find the source of his desire soon, he would burn to ash and ember?

It was mind-boggling.

It was pure, unadulterated lust for something— or someone— he couldn't quite make out. But it was there, just below the surface.

It was heat, so stifling he was sure it would drive him mad.

August 6, 1998

The revelation of his Veela heritage shouldn't have shocked him as much as it had.

Harry's life was never of the normal variation, but why now after he'd defeated the greatest dark wizard of his time, should he not expect some other life-changing catastrophe to contend with?

It had been Fleur who'd initially noticed the signs. Harry had stood under an ice-cold shower for an hour, before finding his way down to the kitchen and drinking glass after glass of cold water. It was a desperate attempt to assuage the feeling of sheer heat that had seemed to take over his body. She and Bill were the first ones awake after the revelry from the night prior.

She'd taken note of Harry's blackened eyes, of the new and alluring scent that clung to him—a result of his Veela charms. She'd cupped his jaw firmly and forced it open to catch a glimpse of the newly crowned fangs that had appeared overnight. Fleur knew the signs, and knew what they meant. She backed away slowly, with a heaviness to her step, taking in his slightly taller height and fuller stature.

Despite the fever that caused his mind to buzz, Harry's heart still sank in his chest when he took in her somber expression.

It was Hermione who put all the pieces together.

Bright, brilliant, Hermione— his best friend— had it sorted out rather quickly. As with every problem she tackled, she dove right in and produced research in record time. Apparently Harry's Veela heritage was a trait passed onto him through his father, who'd carried the gene dormantly. James never had to deal with the complications of being a Veela and the burdens that came with it.

Burdens like… attracting women with his Veela charms wherever he went, with seemingly no control over the appeal he'd sprouted overnight. Or turning into a monster, with animalistic urges fueling him to search for his mate, to say nothing of the desire to find and claim them as his. To deal with the heart breaking possibility that if his mate should reject him, he would worse than explode, he would die.

"Harry, it's not as bad as you might think," Hermione had tried to console him. "You can learn to control your urges. Most Veelas are successful in finding their mates, and, really, what woman would say no to you?" She had sighed, rifling her hand through his unruly locks. "Actually, there are more pros than there are cons. Once a Veela and his mate are bonded, it's said to be a connection unlike anything else. Indescribable, really. Imagine being that close with someone! It's really not so terrible."

"But it is," he'd bit out belligerently, "because I have no choice and once again it's all up to fate."

Harry had fallen into a melancholy depression then. He'd only just begun to learn how to curb his cravings. The urge to seek out random women from pubs and woo them home was strong, but underlying it all was the need to find his mate and Harry resented that desire with every fiber of his being.

As terribly selfish as it was, he'd half hoped it was Hermione. His best friend since childhood seemed so concerned about him, especially now that his mood had soured and he'd become reclusive. It wasn't like she was paying Ron much heed, though that certainly didn't stop his best chum from trying to gain her attentions. She didn't seem to spare him much of a thought romantically, as much as it saddened many an Order member who wanted to see a wedding come from the Golden Trio. Harry had hoped it was her, because he trusted her. He'd asked Fleur how he would know when he found his mate, and she'd answered him cryptically, telling Harry that he would just know. Besides, he didn't want to burden someone he cared about with the burden of 'saving the savior.'

He didn't want to burden anyone.

So as the summer winded down and his desire warred with his will for control, he considered abandoning his plan to go to Hogwarts altogether, but his friends persuaded him not to give up his dream of becoming an Auror.

He'd already given up so much, why should he give up anything else?

September 1, 1998

The train car was buzzing with conversation, as girls caught each other up on how their summer had been.

It was overcrowded, in Pansy's opinion.

If she had any guess, with so many seventh years— herself included— returning for their eighth year, Hogwarts was going to be overwhelmed with students. It might be a trifle difficult to find a secluded alcove or an abandoned classroom this year to snog some more than willing bloke, let alone to find somewhere not overflowing with people where she could enjoy a moment's peace.

Normally in times when she felt a wave of depression coming on, she would fancy a good shag to relieve the pent-up energy and stress. But even if she were in the mood, Draco was becoming rather distant as of late, and Theo appeared to be besotted with someone. However, not even the idea of scoping out the new seventh years who'd no doubt blossomed over summer could raise her spirit. For some reason, there was absolutely nothing she could do to shake the feeling of wretchedness which plagued her.

As the talk grew more animated, Pansy's ability to tune them all out deteriorated.

She didn't share in their enthusiasm. Not when her father now took up residence in Azkaban and her mother barely managed to keep hold of the manor, thanks to the Ministry freezing many of her family's assets. It was only through the sale of cherished magical artifacts that they were able to raise the funds to keep their home.

Now with her own reputation at the school solidified to that of a coward, there wasn't much she could do but stick to the comfort of the dungeons as often as she could, and stay out of the way of the conquering heroes.

"Have you seen Potter?" Tracey asked no one in particular. "The wizard is looking quite fit, isn't he?"

Pansy suppressed an eye roll. It seemed the hero allure was contagious, and not even snakes were immune to the fever.

Astoria snorted. "You're just saying that because he's everyone's favorite hero. Can't open a magazine without seeing his face. Can't open The Prophet without reading some interview or another. Everyone is jumping on that bandwagon."

"But did you see that spread he did in Playwitch?" Daphne wagged her eyebrows suggestively, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "He's not the same Potter I remember. The Golden Boy has really grown up."

Astoria laughed, brows raised in disbelief.

"No, she's right," Tracey argued. "Even since—," she faltered, "erm… the end of summer. He's grown. Not quite a boy anymore, you know? His face is more angular, hard or something. He's definitely sprouted a few inches and his shoulders are certainly wider."

Daphne nodded enthusiastically. "And his eyes - Sweet Circe - his eyes are the deepest shade of emerald green and so bloody intense I can't look head on."

"His lips are perfectly kissable," Tracey added.

"With cheekbones for days!" Daphne clutched her chest dramatically.

Astoria looked between her sister and her friend. "You two are bat-shit crazy. You think you have a chance with a Gryffindor? With the Savior of the bloody Wizarding World? That man wants nothing to do with any of us. Though I don't doubt he's been tapping his share of witches left and right," She glanced around, shrugging defensively. "You know, making up for all that lost time spent on the run… I don't know, saving everyone I suppose."

Tracey's expression turned shrewd, "You think he's hot too!"

"So what if I do?" Astoria dodged a jab from her older sister. "It's not like that changes the way things are. He's a bloody Gryffindor, for Salazar's sake. None of us have a chance with him."

"You're just afraid of a challenge." Daphne crossed her arms over her chest. The blonde turned to face Pansy. "What do you think? Has Potter become fit, or what?"

Pansy flipped her long, brown hair over her shoulder and shrugged. "Dunno," she muttered noncommittally. "Haven't seen him."

"Well, when you have, I'm sure you'll be drooling right along with the rest of us."

Astoria ignored Daphne's comment and determinedly changed the subject. "How about Draco? He's quite fit himself."

"He seems preoccupied," Tracey told her rather bluntly. "But that Weasley… now he's filled out a bit too."

Daphne and Tracey shared a giggle.

Astoria let out an outraged squeal. "I think you two just have a Gryffindor kink."

Pansy felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of her lips, but then a shudder whispered down her spine and her gaze was compelled to the door, like cobalt caught in the clutches of a powerful magnet. She stared at the gleaming wood, baffled, her mind descending into a blissful haze. A muscle clenched low in her abdomen, her sex began to ache and throb wildly.

Rendered speechless, she could only stare, acutely aware there was a presence on the other side of the door. It called to her in the most primitive of ways. Pansy was torn between jumping to her feet and ripping the door clean off its track, to crawling backwards on the seat and sealing herself to the window, as if the barrier could stave off the odd feelings stirring in her gut. The warring desires left her paralyzed in fear.

Her pupils dilated, and she watched the door as if entranced by some sort of a spell. In the back of her mind, she wondered absently if she were being bewitched, though she couldn't come up with a suitable enough answer for who would go through the trouble. All she knew was that the longer she sat staring, the larger this strange need inside her grew, as did the compulsion to go to this mysterious person who had captivated her so entirely.

When she felt the presence recede, dimly aware of them drifting away one footstep at a time, she actually whimpered at the profound loss which suddenly gripped her.

But when the presence disappeared altogether, she was left reeling from the rollercoaster of emotions she'd just endured. What in the name of Salazar was that? Even though it was gone, she could still feel it— just there— barely under the surface. It was an awareness. Something she didn't quite have before, and now it was something she couldn't forget. Whoever it was, they'd done something to her, and Pansy worried how powerless she felt about the situation.

"Time to get dressed!" Daphne slid her trunk down the seat. "We're almost at Hogwarts now."

Pansy obeyed robotically, tugging on the sleeves of her silk kimono and shrugging it off. Her eyes fell on the green Slytherin tie, a symbol she had once been so proud of. Now it represented the cowardly house, the house who had largely sided with Voldemort, the house that had refused to hide the boy who'd cast the fatal blow which won the opposing side the war.

Harry had heard their snickers.

He'd seen their saucy winks and flirtatious smiles. The newly acquired attentions directed his way would have frightened him the last time he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express. He'd been a bit preoccupied that year, hunting horcruxes with Dumbledore and learning Occlumency secretly under Snape, but he'd still have blushed and ducked under their notice.

He must have really looked different, as far as appearances went. Hermione told him he did, but it was hard to see the changes for himself. Aside from the change in stature, which was rather difficult to ignore, he'd still felt the same on the outside.

It was the inside that was a maelstrom of utter chaos.

At the end of the summer, he'd actually wanted to give himself a pat on the back at how well he was handling his urges. He wasn't letting them rule him. He still did as he wanted each day, and shoved the cravings stirred up by his inner Veela aside in pursuit of his own goals. But when he'd boarded the train with Ron and Hermione, he was hit with it again, almost as hard as he'd been hit that very first time.

That raw, all-consuming need ricocheted through his body with no warning.

He'd been used to his two best friends, accustomed to their presences. But now, thrust in the midst of so many unknown variables… he was more uncomfortable than ever. He didn't know how to react. He knew these witches walking past him, careful not to brush against them as they passed by— were not his mate. Harry wasn't sure how he knew, but he just knew. Yet even so, his cock twitched in his jeans, restless and searching for some warmth to bury itself into. The discipline he'd built against such urges was rapidly fracturing, bit by bit.

Suddenly, it was seeming like a very good idea to grab the petite seventh year Ravenclaw witch by the waist and pull her into the lavatory with him. The mischievous gleam in her eyes and the pout on her lips told him she would come more than willingly. Harry didn't know why he resisted so forcefully in the first place. Perhaps if he gave in, this need would temporarily leave him, and he could enjoy a few moments of blessed peace.

His feet had moved forward with the decision before he himself had granted his body permission, but then his steps came to a grinding, crunching halt right outside of a closed-off train compartment.

White-hot lust seared violently through him.

If he thought the reawakened cravings from before had been hard to resist, it was an exercise in sheer willpower not to shred through the door and seek out the source of his interest.

Harry knew— instantly knew— beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his mate was behind this door, merely separated by a barrier of common wood.

She was there.

He could sense her.

Her essence called to him as he knew his called to her. A vision of himself bursting through the train compartment and seeking his mate out with single-minded focus flitted across his brain. He couldn't see her, but he saw himself scooping her up in his arms and latching firmly onto her lips. His hands carried her weight easily as he snogged her senseless. Her alluring scent would assault him, waft through his nostrils and have him writhing for more of her. The fangs protruded from his gums as venom flooded his mouth just from the fantasy he conjured. His mind went hazy from lust.

She would be slight and likely petite, but he still wanted her flat—so he could crawl over her like a predator, raking his eyes over her figure and committing her form to memory.

Mine! his inner Veela demanded.

Harry agreed, he wanted to make her his own and claim her in every way possible. He wouldn't be done kissing her— not done by half— he would let his hands wander up her sides until she gasped, unwittingly giving him entry into her mouth, because he wanted to taste her. He had to. The need to twine his tongue with hers was palpable and unforgiving. He wanted to thrust it against her in a blatant imitation of sex, as his hands busied himself with the ample mounds of her chest.

His desire for her would be hot and hardened to steel against her thigh. She would arch her lovely hips up against him in a desperate attempt to feel that delicious friction. Meanwhile, his kisses would migrate to her jaw and trail a line down her neck until he found the sensitive pulse point above her jugular and sucked. He whimpered now, the venom causing his mind to cloud and making him sway where he stood. He imagined scraping his fangs against the tender and soft flesh of her neck, teasing it and lapping at the reddened skin.

She would be wearing her school skirt, it would be an easy thing to trail his hand up her thighs and find the hem of her knickers to wrench them off with a ferocity that should scare her. But she wouldn't be scared, because she would know he would always keep her safe.

He just needed to claim her.

She only needed to let him.

And then she would be safe forever.

He would hastily pull himself out of his trousers and poise his cock at her moistened entrance, neglecting to deny himself another second as he sank his fangs in her flesh and sheathed himself in her silken heat—claiming her, and marking her as his for good.

The audible groan that escaped his throat was enough to rouse him from his stupor, causing him to become all too aware of what he was doing, standing outside of a train compartment and staring intensely at the door while he imagined that. No doubt he was exerting every ounce of his Veela charm in the process, something he ought to have better control of.

Harry let out a disgusted snarl, clenched his wand in his jacket pocket, and cast a concealing charm on his tented trousers. From the sounds coming from the compartment, it was obvious the car was well-occupied. He couldn't simply burst in when he had such little rein on his control in order to ascertain who his mate was. He had to leave now before he did something truly monstrous, and so he turned his back on the door and stalked away angrily.

One thing was certain, however, his mate was a tangible person who was well within reach.

She went to Hogwarts.

September 2, 1998

Fidgety and restless, Pansy entered the Great Hall and quietly slipped between Draco and Tracey at the Slytherin table.

It had been her intention since her mother had first insisted Pansy retake her seventh year, that she keep as low a profile as possible, but she'd been distracted from that plan. A certain edginess had wheedled its way into her mind, preventing her from finding any reprieve or quiet moments from her jumbled thoughts. She was generally much more put together than this, but since her experience yesterday on the train, she could hardly focus let alone keep cool, calm, and collected like she was known for.

Something had happened, and she was at a loss for what it was.

Yesterday at the Sorting Feast, she'd felt it again. Not as strongly, but it was a gentle brushing, a slight awareness that the mysterious person who had commanded her thoughts and attentions from beyond a doorway had followed her even here, inside the sacred grounds of Hogwarts.

Pansy thought that it had to be dark magic doing this, pervading her mind. What else took over so completely? She couldn't even convince herself she imagined it, not when the feeling was still there, even just a little bit. It had gone after her, whatever it was, and she didn't know whether to be afraid or excited. Perhaps she should be excited, as she hadn't felt anything more than sorrow for an entire summer. Wasn't feeling… edgy… feeling desire… preferential to feeling empty and hollow? Surely it was, but that all depended on who that attention was directed at.

"You okay?" Draco leveled his silvery stare at her and it was hard to hide her thoughts, but she was a Slytherin after all.

"Fine." She took a drink of her pumpkin juice. "Just a little… weird being back here. We should all be starting our careers by this point or something."

"We've all been through a lot." Draco sighed and reached over to massage her scalp, a gesture that at one point would have seemed intimate, but at this point in their relationship was just affectionate. "All we've endured. The rest of the houses," he cast a wary glance, "they hate us."

"They don't hate you," she argued, leaning into his touch. "You're the brave Slytherin that threw Potter his wand right in front of, well… you know who."

"Voldemort," Draco said with finality. "And I may have done that, but it'll never erase all the bad I've done. Not in their eyes, at least."

"Maybe it will," she told him thoughtfully. "At least you aren't the girl who suggested they turn Potter over to the Death Eaters. I'll never live that down. Not in a million years."

"So you regret saying it?"

"Of course I do. And not just because we lost. No, its because I was scared, a coward like they all say I am. I'd rather save myself than fight for any cause in that moment. It's embarrassing, Draco. I hate it. I'd like to think… I don't think I would have said it now."

He pulled her to his side in a friendly hug and she gratefully tucked her head against his shoulder.

"I know you wouldn't."

Somehow, his belief in her gave her purpose—meaning she didn't have before. Draco was no Golden Boy, but he was as glorified as Slytherins went these days, what with not ousting the trio in his manor and choosing a side in front of everyone. If she cared about anyone's opinion, it was his.

It was at this angle when she saw it.

When she saw him.

At first, her instinct was to chuckle. So this is what all the fuss is about. Fuck yes, Potter had grown quite fit during the summer. Merlin, but from her vantage point he looked bloody gorgeous. Nestled in Draco's chest, she stared unabashed, feeling protected from being noticed.

Until she felt it.

That prickling sensation.

That awareness that had embedded itself deep inside her chest as if it had always been there.

Potter.

Something was different about him. Something she couldn't quite put a finger on. It was more than just his appearance. It was more than his adoring and simpering fans that bent themselves in half in order to pass him this dish or that goblet or tell him this story or that rumor—Potter appeared bored. He appeared different. Mature, somehow. It seemed to Pansy that he could see through their antics She'd always taken him for rather thick, but maybe that's what life on the run did to a person. At any rate, he was unengaged.

Pansy was quite familiar with that particular feeling.

She fancied herself somewhat of an expert, actually.

All of a sudden, Potter became interesting for more reasons than simply becoming hot over the summer. There was a hidden depth to him that she hadn't seen before—something acutely intriguing. As she allowed Draco to pet her hair and ignored Granger's impetuous glare, she puzzled over what it was that made Potter so suddenly appealing.

Then…

He did the unthinkable.

He looked at her.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. She'd stared into those eyes— Avada-green in colour— a hundred times over. It shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have affected her like it did. But somehow today was different.

Much different.

Out of nowhere, that feeling of longing… of unabashed want… swam to the surface and swallowed her whole. What was more, she was trapped in that startling green gaze of his.

Yes, even with Draco tucking her against him and Granger staring daggers , she couldn't look away.

Even as Potter's eyes changed to a hazy pool of deepened, pitless black. Her throat was swelling up and the capability to form conscious thoughts into words was rapidly fleeing her. Potter's eyes shifted so intensely, it felt like they were skewering her to her very soul. She didn't want them to pierce her there. The notion made her feel vulnerable. No one could touch Pansy there. Good Merlin, could the man please look away? It was beyond rude. Did his filthy Muggle relatives neglect teaching him that much, at least? Pansy felt immediately ashamed. Rebounding to familiar territory in order to make herself feel more comfortable in the unknown territory. But she couldn't help it—his attention was jarring.

Abruptly, she got to her feet.

Draco jerked in surprise at the sudden movement, blissfully engaged in polite conversation with someone else and content to cuddle. Pansy straightened her jumper and her skirt and— like the cowardly Slytherin she was— fled the room.

She ran from the halls and traversed up the stairs in an attempt to leave the heroic-perfectly-princely-hero behind, along with the foreign feelings he dredged up along with him. Why did he make her feel that way? She wasn't some simpering idiot like Lavender-fucking-Brown or something. Furthermore, she didn't enamor easy like Tracey, or Daphne, or even Astoria. She didn't lose her head around wizards. Why should one heated glance send her running? Had she gone barmy?

Finding herself on the fourth floor, she slunk into the shadows of an alcove, and pressed her back against a wall, screwing her eyes shut. Inadvertently, her hand flew to her chest. Her heart was pounding so hard, it was like a horde of centaurs were running at full speed down a hill, their hooves reverberating against the earth. Gods, she was bloody eighteen. Not a fanciful child who had the luxury of indulging in fairytales.

In fact, she'd never really had the luxury.

Draco had taken her innocence when she was fourteen. It was the night of the Yule Ball. She wore pink silk. Together they were clumsy and unsure, and Pansy found the act sordid and painful. The pain eventually gave way to pleasure blessedly, and then she'd always been a fan of pursuing the feeling. She attributed her fondness for fucking to Draco and her own extracurricular activities throughout fifth and sixth year. She'd certainly had enough practice.

Closing her eyes against such thoughts, she suddenly found herself a bundle of nerves and anxiousness. Pansy tangled her hands in her hair and clutched her long, straight locks, running her fingers harshly through them.

Merlin, why was she feeling like such a sap this evening? All she'd done was share a look with Potter. A maddening, confusing look, but a look just the same. She'd shared… much more intimate things than looks with other people and not been so… what was this? Frazzled? She wouldn't let him get to her. It was just his reputation, probably. Everyone trying to get a piece of Golden Boy.

"Nnn...ugh," Pansy made a squeak of surprise when her head was slammed none too gently against the stonewall of the alcove she sought refuge in. She couldn't even delight in her own snark as her head was now pounding, long fingers wrapping themselves around her throat.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Parkinson?"

His voice— that voice— that velvety baritone that did funny things to her insides. If she would have had the luxury of taking a breath, it would have hitched.

Need. White-hot and scorching, blinded her— no— it fucking assaulted her and coupled with her air supply being cut off, she was sure she saw stars. Her abdomen muscles clenched— on to nothing— because she was despairingly empty, but he was there. She could sense it. Her mystery man. The one that she'd sensed in the train compartment. The one who had been watching her. The one who seemed to be the source of this crazy, wild feeling surging in her chest. The man who seemed to have suddenly gained free rein of her emotions and drove them right down into a bloody freefall.

Fucking Salazar.

It was Harry Potter.

He was the one. The source. The mystery.

She wanted to die. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, lest he see how affected she was by him. If he didn't relinquish his grip on her throat, she would float away, and maybe then she wouldn't be the Cowardly-Girl-Who-Tried-to-Sell-Potter-Out. She'd be just another Hogwarts ghost, who kept council with Myrtle and the like because even a ghost could produce more conscious thought than she seemed capable of producing in that moment.

His fingers flexed and she took in a lungful of life-saving air. Gasping, her chest rose and her fingers flew to his hand. Merlin, his skin was hot.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He said with a snarl, as if she had him at wandpoint.

Did he not see how vulnerable she was? She was entirely at his disposal. He was the superior wizard, here. She was nothing. Wretched.

"What are you doing to me?" she rasped, and holy hormones but why did her vindictive and conniving voice have to come out so raw and needy? Why did she have to let him see how he made her feel? How she was putty in his hands, even though he was fucking choking her. Just like in fourth year with Draco, pain morphed into pleasure and Pansy couldn't differentiate between them, even when her life was at stake.

"You're doing this," he seethed, his tone heavy-laden with accusation and Gods, how she could just drown in the thickness and perfection of it.

How had she not noticed him before? What difference did three bloody months make? Merlin, but her body positively screamed for him. She'd throw herself at him, if not for the locking death grip he had her in. So much for judging her fellow Slytherin house mates. Actually, raw possessiveness surged at the thought of them. He was hers. They couldn't have him. They could get their hands on their own murderous Gryffindor.

"Sorry," she murmured pathetically just barely above a whisper because he still held her throat. Where was the imperious Ice-Queen everyone knew and feared? She cowered in front of the man who held her hostage.

He would kill her. Murder her for trying to oust him that one time and then… what was it? Bewitching him or something this time? Oh, her mother was far too optimistic for her own good and Pansy should have never agreed to back to Hogwarts. St. Mungos never would have taken her anyway.

He let her go, slowly. Her feet dangled, then scraped the ground, before seeking purchase in the solidity of the stones. He needed her standing on her own before he reached for his wand and ended her wretched life for good—that was clearly his plan.

Pansy jutted her chin defiantly. If she would die tonight, it would be with some modicum of pride. She owed that much to her father.

But then… he did something weird.

He buried his head inside the crook of her neck and caressed her with his nose, breathing in her scent with a big gust of air. His entire body shook as he exhaled the breath through his mouth and the hot air tingled across her skin. He fisted his hand through her locks and tugged her closer, pressing his mouth and nose harder, and then he did it again.

And then she did something even more odd than all of that impossible shit that couldn't really be happening, she arched her neck into his open mouth and fucking moaned, his answering groan shooting straight into her core—so wet and so awake and so ready, it was all she could do to keep from squirming.

Okay, she was squirming.

Her legs were twisting of their own volition as she fought against the sensations shooting through her sex. What the fuck was going on? Something wild and uninhibited and dangerous and erotic and...completely forbidden.

Potter was smelling her neck, and judging by the hardness she felt lightly grazing her belly that she doubted was his wand, she guessed he was getting off by it.

For some unfathomable reason. Well, besides the fact that obviously he was a pervert. Not that she minded much, because clearly so was she.

"So… ugh," a harsh moan tore from his throat, "so fucking fragrant."

Pansy whimpered, her knees buckling. To her motification, she started to slide. What was he doing to her? What type of magic was this?

He slipped a knee between her legs and then her previously languid eyes popped open, wide awake and alert. "Par-Parkin-son, oh fuck," He buried his nose in her hair. Did it really smell so good? Perhaps all those Witch Weekly articles were paying off. She'd only done her same routine. Just the typical beauty potions every Pureblood witch, ah—. Potter had pressed his knee up and in between the slopes of her thighs and Pansy forgot how to think. Was this really happening? Was he really doing this… with her?

He licked and lapped at the spot between her shoulder and her neck as if readying it… as if preparing it or something. Maybe he would bite her? Maybe he was a vampire? Maybe she didn't care. He could do whatever he wanted to her. In that moment, it felt right to let him take.

"P-Potter," his name came out like a plea, and she felt somehow silly. Potter, what? Potter, don't stop? Potter, fuck me? Potter, let me suck you? She didn't seem able to play the game she usually excelled at. She may as well be a bloody virgin for all the seducing she was doing, but he didn't much seem to care, until he abruptly drew away.

He was so fast, she became quite certain he was a vampire or some supernatural creature of the night.

"Oh, fuck." He ran a hand through raven black hair. It looked tousled, but it only made him more appealing. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes becoming green once more by the light of the flickering sconce? "I'm sorry." He truly looked apologetic, until his features hardened and he took a few steps back before daring to breathe again. "I mean, stay away from me. I mean it."

He didn't bother explaining his abrupt shift in attitude. He just turned and vanished. Pansy blinked rapidly at the empty spot from which he stood.

He was gone just as quickly as he'd come.

What was more, she was more confused than ever.

What had she allowed to happen and… was it her fault? Hooking up with Potter was forbidden! It just couldn't happen. Absolutely not. The school would hate her. The world would hate her. To say nothing of the fact they already did. Potter was off-limits, and that was the one truth she could hold onto in the madness she now found herself engulfed in.