Disclaimer: I do not own HP.

A/N: This story is rated Mature for a reason and does contain sexual content. You have been warned. This story is a bit pwp-ish, but I hope the characters aren't too OOC. Enjoy.

"Mrs. Malfoy"

The gothic beauty that was Malfoy Manor might have awed him if he hadn't already passed through her doors once before. Yes, Harry Potter had been here before, at a party in honor of Draco, no less. Granted, Kingsley had forced the golden boy to the Malfoy's auror badging ceremony upon threat of 'early retirement'. That particular evening had ended in a few too many shots of fire whiskey and a sloppy fist fight with his old school rival.

Working with the arrogant bloke was punishment enough—passing out on that arse in the middle of a curse didn't help my situation, though. Harry unknowingly let a low growl slip from his mouth at the thought. And I'll be damned if I ever admit to willing entering this oversized dog house again.

"Mr. Potter, do you not approve of the décor?"

The crisp statement came from the parlor entrance.

Pansy Malfoy stood there, a hand on the frame of the door way, round face cocked to one side, a frown on her red painted lips, and sultry black, lidded gaze coldly studying the wizard in the North Foyer. She took a step closer, her satin green gown moving with her like a second skin, hugging tightly to full curves, a contrast to the thin figure that the majority of young witches perspired to achieve. The woman was short, shorter than most of the ladies Harry surrounded himself with, yet, with such a demanding presence, the wizard doubted many people teased her about her height.

Harry hated to confess that she wasn't half bad. To think, I probably never would have noticed her if she hadn't hung with Malfoy. A small smile curved his lips at a memory of a very angry Hermione snapping about the rude 'pug faced' Pansy Parkinson. Not quite a pug anymore, he noted.

No, Pansy's 'squashed' nose looked only slightly upturned now that the baby fat in her cheeks had diminished somewhat. She looked rather different, like the Slytherin Princess that she portrayed in her later years at Hogwarts. In fact, one of the only things that hadn't changed was her short, black hair and long, curtaining fringe. It was an almost innocent cut for such a seductive being.

"Is there something funny, Potter," she snapped, eyes narrow.

There's that bitchy bird Hermione was talking about.

The wizard shook his head. "I thought you said to dress casually?" Harry asked, more than happy to get his mind off of Mrs. Malfoy's appearance.

Pansy arched an expertly lined brow. "Did I? I suppose I'll just have to. . . . dress down," she smirked. She gave Harry's plain gray robes and muggle under attire a quick look down before adding, "before we dine."

"Yeah," Harry muttered, shrugging off whatever the witch was finding humorous in his inquiry.

"Milly, you're dismissed. Do not disturb me for the rest of the evening," Pansy ordered the house elf that had let Harry into the manor (and whom he'd almost forgotten since). The witch turned on her heel, subtly gesturing for the wizard to follow her into the parlor.

A fire was lit at the back of the room, sending bright flame-light over the walls of the otherwise dim area. For a place made to entertain guests, it was not entirely inviting, almost eerie in its somber colors and its imposing, high-backed, throne-like chairs. One comforting aspect was a settee facing the hearth. It was on the sofa that Mrs. Malfoy took her seat.

When Harry hesitated, she frowned again. "I'm not going to bite, Potter. Sit."

Harry obeyed, glaring in her direction as he took his seat, the furniture's tight leather surface moaning resistance from his weight.

Pansy didn't speak, instead turning slightly, crossing her legs. A high slit Harry hadn't previously noticed opened with the movement, revealing a strip of milky thigh. Pansy opened her mouth to speak, paused, and began again. "Potter, do divert your attention," she said with a sneer that matched her husband's. Nevertheless, her eyes were dancing over the wizard.

"I wasn't!" Harry protested, but the witch cut him off.

"Small talk sickens me, Potter. Therefore, I will skip greetings and a discussion on the weather. As you may have suspected, I did not invite you into my home just to teach you manners or serve you a meal," she said, her haughty nose raised. "You may have noticed that my husband is not here at the moment."

Because he's off screwing my old girl, no doubt.

"But do not think that I am keeping this meeting from him. He is fully aware that you're here. And he knows why, too. The question is, do you know why I invited you to this manor, Potter?"

"No," Harry answered quickly. "Would you care to enlighten me? Frankly, I don't know any reason why you'd ask me here." Barring the affair your husband's having Ginny—no, no idea. "We're not exactly friends, Mrs. Malfoy, and I ate dinner before I left the flat. So, feel free to move straight to the point."

"My, my, we're blunt, aren't we?" Pansy replied. "That pleases me, actually. I hate formalities. Bull shit should be reserved for business, don't you agree?"

Harry blinked. "Sure. . . ." he answered slowly, somewhat surprised by the woman's tart turn. He'd always heard about Parkinson's foul mouth, but she hadn't been quite so forward since their school years.

"I do suppose I should explain a bit before I come right out and ask you. . . . I need to properly set up this proposal. Firstly, I should tell you about my marriage."

She sat up a bit straighter, a bored look in her eyes. "You should know that Draco and I married after he reformed because his family was losing wealth (partially because of his mother's untimely death and his father's imprisonment). Likewise, the Parkinson vault was at a stand still, wizarding economy beginning to, once again, favor everyone but older magical blood lines. I had been engaged to Draco since I was fifteen (don't look so surprised)—but that relationship was fake. It was for show. Since we told everyone we were together, our parents did not require contracts for arranged marriages. We were planning to break things off as soon as we were legal and able to separate our vaults. Things did not go as planned."

"You hanging off of him, all smitten—that was a lie?"

Pansy gave him a conceited brush off, continuing on. "We were friends. We had always been close, though never in a way that a conventional man and woman would deem a serious relationship. Only financial obligations, and the fact that we could stand one another, kept us from dissolving our engagement. We consummated things as a man and wife should and have worn the mask of wedded bliss since.

"However, because are not actually attracted to one another, we decided at once to seek our pleasures elsewhere. . . ."

"I don't think I should hear anymore of this," Harry interrupted.

"I am speaking. Shut your inferior mouth, Potter." She sighed, tossing her short hair to the side. "Anyhow. . . . Around a year ago, we finally took advantage of this agreement, or, at least, Draco did. He was quite successful in finding these pleasures in one Ginerva Weasley, repeatedly, as I hear."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "You know?" Then everything else the witch had just said began to sink in. "Oh. . . . .OH!"

He blushed. Damn, and everyone assumes the Malfoy couple is perfect for one another. I guess that just goes to show. . . .Wait a second! "Wh-why are you telling me this?"

"I knew you were a bit slow, Potter, but you do take your time catching up, don't you?" Pansy rolled her eyes, uncrossing her legs casually. Barely moving, she somehow managed to move closer to the wizard. "As a girl, I used to think of you, you and your stupid heroics, the way that Draco would bitch about you. . . . You were muck, stuck on our boots the whole time we were at school. And you hated the Slytherins as much as we hated you and your mudblood and muggle-loving friends—don't deny it."

"I wasn't going to," Harry snapped. "I thought you said you were going to get to the point."

Pansy raised a brow, and when she opened her mouth, her voice was low, husky. "Merlin, Potter," she breathed, "I was so pissed at you, just for living, just for taking up my air. I even chipped a tooth once, thinking about you. I hated you so much that it made me wet. . . ."

Harry's emerald eyes widened as he digested that statement. He swallowed hard. "What? What did you say?"

"It turned me on, having someone who made my face hot for no reason. I adored it. I saw your face when I laid up at my dorm at night. . . .unsatisfied."

Harry coughed, attempting to push his back further into the sofa. Is she serious? This isn't happening—this is some sort of trick. I shouldn't be listen. . . . Oh, damn.

She leaned in, a hand crossing in front of Harry, holding him down in his seat. Slowly, she lifted up a leg, slipping it between his thighs, her knee inches from his crotch. Somehow she managed to look as collected as ever.

"When I lost my virginity to Draco, I called out your name. I shouted it, at the top of my lungs: 'I hate that fucking Potter!'. And then I came, a smile on Draco's face. He thought it was cute. Funny, isn't it?"

She broke off, leaning in, her knee brushing against the layers of cloth over his stiffening member.

Oh, God, is she touching. . . She is! Oh. . . .No, this isn't right. Wrong! So Wrong!

Harry winced, but it was nothing close to pain he was feeling. He wanted to leave, to tell her that she was sick, demented, a freak, but he couldn't speak, especially when he found her hand on his chest. Her nails raked at him through his shirt as she leaned in, lips roughly pushing against him, greedy, starved. She was hungry, that much he was aware off.

Harry's jaw was aching when managed to twisted his head and get out of the kiss. "What the hell are you doing?" he said through clenched teeth.

Pansy held herself up over him, clasping the arm of the settee. "What does it look like, Potter? I hope you're as damned thick below the belt as you are upstairs. I'm trying to seduce you. Judging from the second wand you're raising, I think I'm succeeding."

"You're mad!" The accusation came out gravelly. With a breath, Harry grabbed her arm, pushing her onto the other side of the settee, off of him. "You're Malfoy's wife! I don't even like you—you're a pain in the arse."

"And doesn't that turn you on?" She was smirking, leaning back on her elbows. "That anger you have for Draco, for me. Don't you want to take it out, one thrust at a time?"

"You mental little tart! I am not sleeping with you!" Harry spat. "Why would I ever do that?"

"Oh, yes, because you're Harry Potter, the hero, the golden boy—you don't take advantage of women. You don't partake in infidelity. You're perfect."

"I didn't say that!"

"You didn't have to. I know you. I hate you. But, mostly, I want you."

Harry shook his head, attempting to stand. Pansy threw a leg over his waist, stopping him.

"Don't you see? It's perfect Potter. Draco's sleeping with your old girl. No one knows. You can't go on a damned date without a journalist following you--I bet you haven't had sex in months. But, imagine, an affair where no reporters would know, the world would be ignorant. You would be able to do whatever you wanted with me and no nasty papers would put up pictures. I could pay off anyone who tried to follow you. And who would suspect that you'd be sleeping with a rival?"

"Perfect?" Harry shook his head, but he honestly couldn't come up with a reason to resist her proposal. Because it's just wrong, damn it. "And I suppose Malfoy wouldn't mind me sleeping with his wife?"



"He's fucking a Weasley, Potter," Pansy snapped, her face flushed red. "Don't you get it? We have an arrangement. I can have whoever I want. I want you. And I will have you, Potter," she hissed, her tone threatening. "You're already mine."

"This is insane," Harry growled. "You're insane."

"You're hard."

Harry glared at the woman. She wasn't wrong.

"You get off on being angry as much as I do," Pansy said, smiling brightly, eyes burning. She stood suddenly, stepping in front of him. "But, I guess you'll never admit that. If you're too big a prat to give in, than leave. However, if you want to know what could happen, what should happen, then come upstairs. I'm the second room to the right." She turned, walking toward the parlor entrance. "You have ten minutes, Potter. I'll be waiting for you."