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Pansy scanned the dank, dirty little bar. Too short, too pretty, too blond, too many tattoos. She’d known coming here and looking for prospects was a desperate thing to do, but Pansy was a desperate woman.
Daphne walked over carrying their drinks, a dirty martini, straight up with two olives for Pansy. And a Cosmo for herself. Daphne passed her the cocktail, and Pansy took a sip. It was perfect. She wished you could order a man the way you could a martini. Yes, she was particular about what she liked, but when she asked for what she needed, she got it. And wasn’t the whole damn point?
She rested her head on the heel of her palm, and popped an olive into her mouth. It was tangy, salty, and sour. She fucking loved it.
Daphne looked at her pityingly. “You know you don’t actually have to like the bloke. The whole point is that you lied to your mum. You don’t need to legitimately find the love of your life, just someone who can fake it for a few days until after the Holidays, and then you can have a monstrous row and break up.”
It was a solid point. “Yes, but no one will believe we're together if I don’t find the man fit,” Pansy sighed.
“Sure, they will. People see what they want to see. If your mum likes him, if he’s someone she’d want you to settle down with, she’ll buy it.”
Pansy sighed. “Alright. So, what traits would my mother want in a match for me?”
“Someone responsible," Daphne replied. “Wealthy wouldn’t hurt. And of course someone Pureblood—not that we care about those kinds of things anymore, but if she had her pick.”
“That sounds about right. Also sounds boring as hell.” Pasny frowned. “I can see him now. Tall, lanky, wearing a little waistcoat and tie. Wire-rim glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Kill me now.”
Daphne began to titter into her drink and pointed toward the entrance. “Don’t look now, but I think you just conjured a man from pure desperation.”
Pansy looked where Daphne was pointing, and sure enough, in walked a man nearly identical to the one she’d described. She’d seen him before, she thought, back at Hogwarts. She wasn’t sure of his name, but she knew he was a Weasley. It was uncanny how perfectly he matched the description she’d just laid out. He was incredibly tall, but in a gangly sort of way. Walking so cautiously as if he were constantly aware of his height. He wore a burgundy waistcoat cinching in his already thin midsection, and a matching tie was knotted at his neck. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, though they sat up high on his nose, and his bright ginger hair was meticulously combed, every strand in place, despite it clearly being the end of his workday.
Pansy sighed. “Alright.”
Daphne tilted her head. “Alright, what?”
“Alright, I'll go with the Weasley. Clearly, the Universe is trying to tell me something, and I don’t fuck around when it comes to that bitch. She’s dangerous.”
“Fair,” Daphne replied, taking a sip of her Cosmo and scooting out of the booth so Pansy could stand. “Good luck!”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “As if I’ll need luck.”
She walked over to where Percy sat with a few others, who all appeared to be co-workers. They all wore suits and ties, and as she approached, she overheard talk of meetings, deadlines, and EOD. Disgusting.
“Weasey,” she said in greeting as she approached.
He blinked at her a few times, his blue eye a rather lovely shade of cerulean. “Do I know you?”
“Well, I should think so. I’m rather well known.” She flipped one glossy lock of her jet black hair over her shoulder.
“I 'm sorry. I..” He looked around the table, but most of them shrugged or shook their heads.
“For goodness' sake. I’m Pansy Parkinson. Of the Parkinsons. Only one of the most influential families in the Wizarding Society?” Nothing. “Also, you were a Prefect when I was at Hogwarts.”
“OH yes,” he nodded. “The little girl with the blunt bob and the nose—” He stopped himself, which was rather smart because if the word pug came out of his lips, Pansy wasn’t liable for the actions she would be forced to take.
“Buy me a drink,” she said, eyeing him .
A young bloke sitting next to him nodded. “She’s fit, do it, Percy."
Percy shot the young man a withering look, then stood and led Pansy over to the bar. “Ms. Parkinson, can you please tell me what this is all about so I can get back to my work function?”
Before she could speak, the barkeep walked over, and Percy put in his order. “Gin Martini, straight up, dirty, two olives. And for you?” He looked over at Pansy.
“The same, actually.”
As Percy paid, Pansy wondered just what the Universe was up to with this one.
She hopped up onto a barstool and turned to face him. “Listen, I’ll keep this brief. I need a date for the Holidays: two days, one night. Someone to come back with me to Parkinson Manor and be on my arm for the party and the dinner. And I’ve picked you.”
Percy opened his mouth to reply, but Pansy cut him off. “No, no. No need to thank me. I know you’re eternally grateful and all that. You’re very welcome. I just need you to do me a little favor and pretend we’ve been together for a while, yes? Let’s say… ten months or so? I think that’s about what I told mother.” Pansy took a small sip from her glass, savouring the perfect taste. “This really worked out splendidly in the end. I’m so pleased.”
“Why?” Percy questioned, one eyebrow raised.
“I just told you why. For the Holidays, silly.”
“No. That’s the ‘what’. I need the ‘why’. Why is Pansy Parkinson,” he scanned her body from head to toe in a way that had Pansy’s body temperature rising, “in need of a date?”
Pansy sucked on her tongue. “Oh. That. If I show up without a date, my mother will be playing matchmaker the entire time. She thinks I need to settle down. More than that, she thinks I am incapable of finding a man on my own. So, I bring a date and voila, problem solved.”
“What would I get out of this?” Percy asked, not looking nearly as excited as he should.
“You get to spend time with me, obviously.” Pansy looked him over, wondering if he was less intelligent than she’d presumed.
Percy took a sip of his drink, contemplating. “Here’s my offer: I come with you, keep your mother from trying to trap you with a man, and in return, you’ll owe me a favor.”
“Is the favor money?” she sighed. The favor is always money.”
“Nope. Nothing financial. But that’s the only stipulation I’ll let you put on this. Are you in or out, Parkinson?”
Pansy tried to follow the thread of the conversation backwards to determine when he’d taken the lead, but it was a lost cause. “I’m in.” She held one perfectly manicured hand out to him.
He took her hand firmly in his. It was large. She felt so tiny. His ocean blue eyes were locked on her as he shook her hand just once, a decisive motion.
She pulled her hand back, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just made a deal with the devil.
***
Percy looked around the grand ballroom of the Parkinson Estate. It was a disgusting display of wealth, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Years in politics ensure that. When they’d Floo’d in, Pansy had brought him through her personal Floo directly into her suite of rooms. Then she’d disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for the party. Percy had taken some time with his own appearance, putting on his formal robes, the latest style from France, his assistant had assured him when they’d been purchased for a gala in Bulgaria earlier that year. He’d combed his hair, gotten a nice close shave, and thrown on a spicy cologne. But he’d been ready far too soon. He spent the intervening time exploring her room. There wasn’t much in the way of personal effects. A few photos: Pansy as a toddler in her mother’s arms, Pansy and another Slytherin girl in about fourth year, nothing recent. He found a bar cart and helped himself to a martini before inspecting her bookshelf. She was well-read. He was pulling out a book on the History of wizarding Byzantium when she finally emerged in a cloud of steam and perfume.
Percy froze. She was fucking stunning. Her raven locks in loose curls cascading over her bare shoulders, her eyes smokey and dark-rimmed, her lips a glossy red. And the gown. It hugged her body, accentuating every dangerous curve before flaring out around her calves. “You look devastatingly lovely,” he said, once he’d finally regained the ability to speak.
She smirked. “I know.”
He looked over at her now, on his arm, smiling up at him, a convincing picture of a devoted girlfriend. But her smile dropped. “My mum.”
“Pansy, darling,” an older woman coos as she pulls Pansy into a hug. “And look at this, you brought a friend.” She turned to face him, “Hello, dear, Camilla Parkinson. No, no, don’t bother introducing yourself, it’s clear you’re one of those blood traitor Weasleys. Really, Pansy,” she shook her head and clicked her tongue.” With a tug, she pulled Pansy out of his grasp and waved over a man who looked to be the Parkinson Grandfather. “This is Lord Alestair Avery, Pansy. Isn’t he looking so well, since you saw him last?”
The man coughed into a handkerchief. “I had that surgery,” he announced proudly.
“Mother, you are not trying to set me up with a man older than Grand pa pa, while my date is right here?” Her volume was rapidly rising, and Percy could sense things were about to go very badly.
He wrapped his hand around Pansy’s arm. “Darling, I need you to take a deep breath for me.”
She looked up at him, fire burning in her eyes. “You can’t tell me—” he squeezed her arm as a gentle reminder of where they were and the eyes on them. She froze, then nodded, then took a few deep breaths as he’d asked.
“Good girl,” he cooed into her ear. “Such a good girl for me.” Pasny’s face was delightfully glazed over, and Percy turned his attention to the two others. First, Lord Avery. “Sir, I do believe we’ve crossed paths in the Wizengomot chambers before. And that lovely girl I’ve seen you with, she’s your… niece?”
The old codger coughed, his face turning red. He smacked his fist to his chest, trying to clear his airway. “Excuse me,” he wheezed, “I think I need to head home.”
Percy smiled, turning his gaze to Pansy’s mother. “And Mrs. Parkinson, may I just say, you have the most incredible daughter? Smart and funny and self-possessed? She could really have any man she’d like, and look at that, she chose me! A filthy blood traitor. Well, good night. I think I’ve had enough of this party.” He turned to Pansy, smiled seductively and said, “Time for bed, dear.”
He marched out of the ballroom with a vibrating Pansy on his arm. “You were spectacular,” she whispered.
Percy looked down at the stunning woman beside him. “Yes, well, my help comes with a price.”
Pansy frowned. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some political favor?”
Percy shook his head. “Actually, I was hoping for a date.”
Her mouth popped open in surprise, but she recovered quickly. She reached up and captured his mouth. Her lips were soft and tasted like sweet champagne. She pulled back an inch and spoke against his lips. "Deal."