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Summary
“I’m not your friend. I’m not your fiancé,” he pouts. “I’m your—”
“A favour,” she reminds him. “An idiotic one at that. The witches you could have,” she sighs. “The Prophet will crucify me for taking you off the market. I’m mad you’re doing this, and I’m the one benefiting from it.”
“A favour?” he mimics, rolling the word around his mouth.
“A favourable arrangement,” she amends. “I get access to my full inheritance, you get a witch who will look the other way. You’ll have every freedom. Think of the witches that will throw themselves at you, and your wife won’t say a damned thing. Not many wizards in the whole of Britain can say that.”
OR
Pansy and Harry enter into a marriage of convenience and never catch feelings-oh wait.