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Pansy Parkinson hated three things above all else: Weasleys, holiday parties, and having her clothes ruined.
The Weasleys were blood traitors with the added "distinction" of being poorer than dirt, holiday parties were full of boring people trying to seem less boring, and ruined clothes were an invitation for mockery and ridicule.
Currently, Pansy was enduring the second of those trying things—a Gringotts Christmas party. She had been invited by Michael Flint, Marcus' older brother. Michael ticked every box that mattered: he was rich, he was a Pureblood, and his genes weren't completely awful, so Pansy agreed to go with him.
Unfortunately, Michael Flint was also incredibly dull. All he did was drone on about banking in the most monotonous tone—it was like being in Binns' class all over again. She couldn't get a word in edgewise, not that she even wanted to.
"Excuse me," she said sweetly, interrupting one of Michael's long-winded monologues without regret, "I need another drink."
Without waiting for his reply, she stalked off towards the bar, relishing the click-clack of her impossibly high slingback heels. On her way there, she passed several tables strewn with those gaudy Christmas crackers Dumbledore had been so fond of.
"I'll have a Unicorn Blood," she told the bartender, who nodded and began making the tequila concoction. While he worked, she idly surveyed the room. Witches and wizards mingled with varying levels of confidence and success. Her gaze lingered on a couple snogging in the corner. At least some people were enjoying themselves.
"Your drink, miss." The bartender slid a glass over on a napkin. "Enjoy."
Pansy lifted the glass in thanks before downing it in several gulps. Her mother would be appalled by her greedy sips, but she needed to feel the buzz as soon as possible. She needed to feel something other than complete, utter ennui.
"Brilliant." She retrieved a Galleon from her handbag and slapped it onto the bar. "You're providing a vital service here, barkeep."
With that, she turned away, wondering if she could think up another excuse to stay away from Michael. She was not eager to resume feigned interest in his babbling.
As she passed the tables piled with Christmas crackers, she noticed that a couple was holding one and rolled her eyes. Crackers were an unsophisticated form of entertainment—noisy, messy, and full of stupid prizes. The last time she pulled one, she received socks. Socks.
Suddenly, a loud bang erupted. Pansy let out a shriek—she wasn't the only one to do so—as thick, purple smoke from the cracker filled the room. Thin fingers made their way to her throat as she struggled to take in air. Great. She was going to suffocate in this stupid room, at this stupid party.
Out. She needed out.
Pansy stumbled in the direction of what she fervently hoped was the door, but her heel caught on something. Time seemed to slow as she fell, and the hands that had encased her throat shot out, seeking purchase. Her nails scrabbled at someone's top as her mind screamed victory—
Hope died as she continued falling and she realised, with horror, that she was pulling the other person down with her.
Scratch that. Onto her.
The air escaped from her lungs in one inelegant "oof" as her would-be saviour fell on top of her. A man, by the smell of it. He was wearing a goblin-made cologne she vaguely recognized.
"Get off of me," she spat. "Quick, before the"—she blinked as the smoke rapidly dissipated—"smoke clears."
Her jaw clenched as long red hair flooded her vision. Of all the people in the room, she had to take a tumble with a Weasley?
"Eurgh!" She tried, with little success, to roll out from under him. "Get off!"
Weasley—she couldn't remember which, and she didn't care—stood quickly after that, extending a hand to help her up. Pansy might have accepted his offer had her gaze not fallen onto her dress instead. There, right in the middle of her silk skirt, was a blotchy stain that was growing larger with each passing second. It was dark, damp, and—she sniffed—most likely beer of some sort.
A Weasley? Check. Holiday party? Check. Ruined clothes? Check.
Experiencing all three of those detestable things in less than a minute was enough to make her want to scream, but she restrained herself. She had already caused enough of a scene, judging by the whispers and pointed fingers.
As she slowly climbed to her feet, her pride in tatters, Weasley flashed her a smile that she supposed was meant to be apologetic. Coming from anyone else, it might have been charming, but Weasley was far too rugged to pull it off.
"Sorry about your dress. I didn't have a chance to put my drink down—"
Pansy held up her hand and fixed him with a steely glare. "Save it, Weasley."
"Bill," he corrected. "Bill Weasley."
"Whatever." Pansy pulled her wand from her handbag and performed a quick Tergeo before consulting her compact mirror. Her hair and makeup were a mess, but a wave of her wand made them impeccable again. "As you were," she snapped at the onlookers, who hastily scattered or turned away.
"I didn't get your name," Weasley continued, prompting Pansy to roll her eyes.
"That's because I didn't give it. And I don't intend to."
Weasley wasn't put off by her frostiness. It was almost impressive, really, the way his blue eyes continued to scan her face as if he was trying to unlock the secret to her flawless skin.
"You're that Parkinson girl, aren't you?" he asked at last. "I recognize you from the papers."
Pansy flushed. Which ones? she wanted to ask. The ones that vilified me for my actions during the final battle, or the ones that called me a heartless bitch when I refused to go to Draco's wedding?
"Well spotted." She paused, trying to decide how best to exit the conversation, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Michael standing there, his brow furrowed.
"Are you alright, Pansy? I saw you go down pretty hard." His beady eyes moved to Weasley, and he scowled. "Weasley didn't hurt you, did he?"
Pansy's lips curled upwards in a smirk. Evidently, her date didn't like Weasley much either. She could have some fun with that.
"Oh, no, he was the perfect gentleman," she said, savoring the sour look on Michael's face. Weasley shot her a questioning glance, but Michael didn't seem to notice. "He tried to catch me, actually, wasn't that sweet of him?"
She nearly laughed out loud when Michael's face began to redden. It was far too easy to wind the idiot up, and it was much more fun than listening to him prattle on about banking.
For his part, Weasley didn't correct the narrative that Pansy had spun. He merely looked back and forth between her and Michael, no doubt attempting to discern what was going on.
"Sure." A muscle twitched in Michael's jaw as he ground out the word. He nodded once in Bill's direction. "Thanks, Weasley."
"You're welcome, Flint," Weasley said lightly. "I only wish that I had been successful."
Pansy narrowed her eyes at the redhead. It seemed as though he was playing a game of his own, and she was determined to find out what it was.
"Would you like to dance, Bill?" she purred, fluttering her eyelashes for good measure. "It's the least I can do to thank you for your valiant efforts."
Weasley grinned and held out his arm. "It would be my pleasure, Pansy." He led her to the dance floor, leaving Michael sputtering behind them.
Weasley was an acceptable dancer, which was quite surprising. Pansy had expected two left feet and a terrible sense of timing, but he had neither. For the first time all evening, she was actually enjoying herself, whirling around the dance floor.
"Why didn't you tell Michael that I was lying?" she asked, allowing her companion to spin her beneath his outstretched arm.
Weasley chuckled. "Let's just say I'm not his biggest fan."
"Didn't seem like he was too fond of you either," Pansy noted.
"Nah. He's always grumbling about cleaning up the messes us Curse Breakers make." In one smooth move, Weasley dipped her, leaving her rather breathless. "That's why I asked you to dance—I wanted to rile him up. But it seems to me that you were trying to do the exact same thing, which begs the question: Why?"
"You're a Curse Breaker?" Pansy struggled to keep up with Weasley's pace now, too intent on processing what he had said. "That explains some things." Like the fang earring and long hair, and your presence at this miserable party, she added in her head.
"Yeah." Weasley continued guiding her around the dance floor with ease. "You didn't answer my question, though. Why are you avoiding your date?" He brought his head closer to hers and murmured, "Or is he your boyfriend?"
At this, Pansy missed a step and had to grab Weasley's arm to stabilize herself as she ground to a halt.
"Absolutely not. He's a cretin and a bore, and I'd sooner date you than him."
"Is that so?" Weasley lifted a single ginger brow.
Pansy could have smacked herself. Now it looked as though she was flirting with Weasley, and she most certainly wasn't. Even if the Curse Breaker thing was kind of intriguing, and even if he was kind of handsome beneath all those scars, he was still a Weasley.
And she was still at a holiday party filled with people who probably wanted nothing more than to watch her crash and burn. Well, she wasn't going to give them more ammunition to fuel their vicious rumors.
"You'd only be marginally better," she said, turning on her heel and walking away. She felt the heat of the stares that followed her, but none were as intense as the blue-eyed gaze she had just abandoned on the dance floor.
Michael attempted to grab her arm as she headed for the door. "Pansy—"
"Fuck off," she hissed, jerking out of his grasp. "I'm going home."
Outside, she took several deep, calming breaths. She would have to owl Michael later and apologize, but for now, it felt good to be alone.
"You should have used a cracker to make your escape just then." An amused voice cut into Pansy's thoughts.
She groaned. "What do you want now, Weasley? And since when are those crackers so bloody smoky anyway?"
Weasley smiled at her. "My brothers invented them. They're a Weasleys Wizard Wheezes product."
"You don't say." Pansy kept her voice flat, disinterested.
"Yeah. I suggested they supply some for the party, but I didn't realise the crackers would have such, er, drastic effects." He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Anyway, I came out here to make sure you were okay."
"How chivalrous of you."
"If I were truly chivalrous, I wouldn't be standing here thinking about kissing you," Weasley said.
Pansy was thankful she hadn't been drinking anything or she surely would have choked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Weasley stepped closer.
"I'm going home," Pansy repeated, but she couldn't stop herself from staring at his lips, wondering what they would feel like. "I don't suppose you could grab me a few of those crackers before I go, though?"
Weasley frowned but did as she asked. When he returned, she stowed two in her handbag and held the third out to him.
"Pull this with me on the count of three." At his nod, Pansy began counting. "One...two... three!"
She grabbed his tie and pulled him in for a kiss just as purple smoke surrounded them. No one would see the brief moment of intimacy—it would be their secret.
"Happy Christmas, Weasley," she whispered before Disapparating with a smile.
Maybe holiday parties and Weasleys weren't so bad after all.