Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor the world in which they were created for, I merely play with them.

Warning(s): Not a song fic. At all. Not even in the same arena as a song-fic. I just felt, and others agreed, that the title was very fitting.

The sunshine was unusually bright as it burst through the windows onto Pansy Parkinson's face. Scrunching her nose with chagrin, she buried it into the pillow and blindly reached for the duvet to pull over her aching head. She was never drinking again, she decided, whimpering pitifully and curling her legs into her body. Well, at least she would never attempt to out-drink Draco Malfoy with the concoction he dubbed Vipertooth Piss.

As another dull but heavy pound assailed her fuzzy brain, she allowed another petulant whine and gave herself over to another attempt at bliss in somnolence.

Then, strangely, she was jostled. The entire bed wobbled, old springs creaked, and a lethargic growl resounded through the bedroom. "Oh God."

Her lashes flew up and simultaneously, she threw off the duvet as she turned her attention to the voice. There, staggering sleepily towards the loo, was a tall, dark-haired wizard. Her blue eyes scored along a lean and slightly broad back that tapered to a trim waist beyond which was a very fit, a very white, bum.

Instantly her mouth fell open, her eyes widening more as a large, tanned hand reached back and quite unabashedly scratched the bum!

The action startled her from her disbelief and she shrieked. The sound tore from her throat in a crescendo, and if anyone nearby had heard, they would've thought that surely, Pansy Parkinson had been terrifically murdered.

The wizard pivoted quickly, his palms flying to cover his dangly bits as embarrassment ran pink across his skin, and although he stumbled, his eyes were large and aware. Big, vibrantly green eyes that pinned on Pansy in devastated recognition.

Her palm clasped her mouth, but not before one word escaped past. "Potter?"

It was precisely in that moment that the reality of what was happening occurred to Pansy. She became instantly aware of her surroundings.

This was not her bedroom at Ashford Park, this was not her luxurious bed (although it was sinfully comfortable). She was wearing nearly nothing, and she was suffering from a monumental katzenjammer. Also, clearly she had shagged Harry Potter.

Mortification set upon her like wildfire, humiliation burned on her skin, and shame lumped in her throat. With great despair, she covered her face with a pillow and threw herself back upon the mattress.

"Before you smother yourself and do the world a favor, Parkinson, could you tell me the whereabouts of my pants?" he asked.

With an enraged shout, she lobbed the pillow at him, sitting up, and then with a proud, upward tilt of her chin, she glared at him. It was fire and ice and anything but nice. "As if I would know!"

Then, the impudent wizard had the gall to laugh. His bare shoulders shook raucously but it was awkward and a bit maniacal. However, although she sort of liked the easy, adorable grin that had broken upon his face, she felt that his mirth was at her expense and that was something she refused to abide.

Rip-roaring anger tore through her core, and she crinkled her nose with supreme irritation. "What are you laughing at?"

He stopped short, his mouth closing to suppress further chortling, but still stretched in a smirk. "I think I'm having a nightmare."

It was unbelievable the impact those six words had upon Pansy's vanity. It was a direct blow, because albeit she had never considered it, any dream that involved her should never be considered a nightmare.

Because of her undulating wrath, her head began to ache more acutely and a deluge of nausea overcame her.

Covering her mouth, she mustered all of her will-power. She refused to be disgraced by vomiting in front of Harry Bleeding Potter.

"You're turning green, Parkinson," he acknowledged.

She ignored the concerned tone to his voice and chalked it up to her imagination. "Yes, well seeing you in your altogether really puts a girl off." It was a pitiful dig, she realized, and by his expression, he knew it too, but she felt compelled to retort in order to soothe her ego.

Harry snorted and adjusted the pillow in front of him. "If you feel that way about it, I could spend the whole day here and nude at my leisure."

The idea sent a thrilling zing up her spine and she choked on her exhale. He probably would too; after all, he'd been standing there naked as a shaved cat, exchanging words with her.

"As you so wish," she began, scooting to the edge of the bed and nearly throwing the blanket off of her. Luckily it occurred to her that something vital was missing from her person. Something that she needed in order to pass Potter to the loo, and without which, she could not leave the modesty of the duvet. Her knickers seemed to be absent.

Her mind whirled as she attempted to recollect, but it was all gone. There wasn't even the ghost of a memory from the night prior. It was quite startling not to be able to recall moments of her life. Vital moments like where her knickers had gone and how she came to shag a beast of a man whom she had previously abhorred. There was nothing for it. She felt shameful and abashed. Her mother would surely disprove of her behavior, and Pansy could only imagine the scolding she'd receive if Hyacinth ever learned of Pansy's debauchery. She'd surely never forgive her daughter.

At least though, she still wore Hyacinth's jewelry. The earrings still dangled against her neck, the bracelet still sat heavy upon her wrist, and the sparkly chain still rested on her clavicle. Yet, other than that, she was wearing nothing more than her chemise.

Slowly she set down the duvet and smoothed it over her lap. Behind her she was vaguely aware of Potter moving around his side of the room, presumably searching for his clothes. The whereabouts of her knickers concerned her greatly, not only because they were her favorite pair, but because of everything it had implied. Had she coyly slipped out of them in some gesture of seduction? Or perhaps he had ripped them from her in a torrid ravishing. The mental picture of the latter gave her a pleasant shiver and she glanced side-long at him over her shoulder.

He was still clutching the pillow cumbersomely to his groin as he bent slightly to glance under the armoire. No, Harry Potter wouldn't have ravished her. Most likely she ravished him. Yes, she liked that idea better. Primly, she straightened her spine and a preening smile cambered her mouth. It gave her a shallow sense of security that she had been in charge. That she had most likely initiated anything physical they would have shared. It wouldn't do for her psyche to believe that he had taken advantage of her during her inebriation. Besides, although he was a class-A prat, he was too much of a saint to do anything unsavory to a witch that was pissed beyond belief.

With a renewed sense of self, she squared her shoulders and slid her eyes to Harry, a prim smile upon her face. "Please do be a gentleman, Potter, and close your eyes, I need to access to the loo immediately."

He straightened his form and blinked at her, his expression etched with disbelief. "I don't see why you're shy now, Parkinson," he said bitingly whilst he gestured toward the bed. "All the evidence suggests I've already seen you naked."

Her mouth fell open.

Naked. She wasn't sure why, but out of all the words he used, that one was the trigger. It produced such enticing images that she couldn't help but give herself over to a delightful shiver. It was dizzying and scandalous.

"But all right. I'll indulge you," he conceded wryly before he quite dramatically covered his eyes with both hands.

With chagrin she wrinkled her nose. "No peeking."

He scoffed. "Oh. Yeah. Right."

Mustering the meager vestiges of her dignity, she stood, taking along the duvet and wrapping it around her like a toga.

Harry chuckled.

Affronted, a dark look passed over Pansy's face. "I said 'no peeking!'"

He shrugged nonchalantly but grinned boyishly nonetheless.

Huffing indignantly, she marched past him and realized that he was teasing her. Flirting. It felt insulting and criminal. He shouldn't feel so comfortable with this. He didn't know her that way!

Sweeping the dragging duvet aside, she closed the door and slumped against it. Sure, they had been physically intimate, but not emotionally. They weren't even friends! Nothing about their relationship warranted him the right to be cheeky with her. It puzzled her that he had the gumption to flirt with her. Of course she could recognize that he should want to flirt with her; who wouldn't? But the fact that he did surprised her.

Then it struck her. If he had the fortitude to tease her in the morning light, without any shame whatsoever, then perhaps she hadn't ravished him at all! And if she hadn't ravished him, then that meant he'd ravished her and that she had responded! She must have liked it when he tore her knickers from her in an eager, fevered rush! Merlin, have mercy! He knew that she wasn't wearing knickers!

Horror at her behavior choked her and humiliation reddened her face. Releasing the duvet, she quickly hurried to the sink and scrubbed hectically at her face.

Oh! She would never live this down. She had probably purred and begged like a two-bit tart and he would tell everybody. They would know she was fast, and she'd never be able to show her face in public again.

Then her mother would know and she'd disown Pansy and then where would she be? Out in the gutter. Where she belonged! Poor and cheap and when people would pass by, they'd point and say, "There is that Parkinson tart!" and shake their heads with pity.

Hiccoughing, she patted her face dry with the towel and looked in the mirror. Apart from the haphazard mess that her hair was in, she still looked the same. Her eyes were still blue. Her hair still nearly black and her nose still pert. There was nothing about her physically that would suggest she was capable of such harlotry.

Perhaps she could escape with her reputation intact. If she didn't act like she was disgraced, then nobody would be any wiser and she wouldn't be disgraced.

A soft knock came from the door.

"Occupied," she said.

A bemused snort was muffled through the wood. "Indeed. Actually, I thought you might need your things."

"Oh." Once again wrapping herself into a cocoon of modesty with the duvet, she let the door swing ajar and without looking at him reached for the dress, her shoes and clutch. "Thanks," she said dully before slamming the door in his face.


She dressed in a rush, pulling the garment over her hair and smoothing it out as much as possible. Then she attended to her hair, pulling out a plethora of pins, and once her hair was loose, she pulled it back and fastened it at her nape. After that, she dug through her clutch and withdrew a stick of gum that was charmed to clean her teeth.

When at last she slipped on her high heels, she finally felt a little presentable. Fortunately, she wouldn't have to fuss with the dreaded walk of shame. Being magical definitely had its perks for avoiding such travesties.

When she emerged, Harry was buttoning his shirt, his glasses returned to his face, and while his hair was messier than usual, he began to appear normal again. Less threatening in that uber-attractive way that she found him when he was nude. Although, if she was honest with herself, he was still incredibly dashing.

Lud, did she really feel that way? Oh she had to get out of this room immediately. She could no longer remain in his presence. It was doing Very Bad Things to her libido and affections. It was making her actually have affections!

Yet, she couldn't just Disapparate away. She wasn't rude or a coward and felt that he deserved, at the very least, a good riddance.

"I see you found your clothes," she murmured, eyeing his movements through hooded lids.

He glanced up at her and a small grin flickered on his mouth. "Yeah. They were all in the cupboard."

"It's an armoire," she corrected dully. More out of habit than spite.

He lifted his head then, his brilliant green eyes fixing on her, and cocked an eyebrow, his mouth thinning with a smirk that suggested he found her silly.

Blinking she looked away. "So."

He chortled. "So."

The room became suffocating, tension constricting the air between them, making it thick and cumbersome. The invisible pink elephant was pushing at them and Pansy didn't care for it at all.

"Goodbye," she nodded curtly and offered her hand for him to shake.

He looked at it like it repulsed him, his grin replaced by a frown. "That's it?"

That's It? Of course that was it. What more could he possibly want from her? He already had a piece of her pie and took a big chunk of her dignity (when he ripped her knickers from her person, surely). There was nothing more she could offer.

He winced and cleared his throat. "Look, this is all very odd to me, I don't make a habit in one-offs, and I'm not sure how it is supposed to work."

Appalled, she scoffed. "Are you insinuating that I do make such habits?"

"No! Not at all!"

"You should mind the terms you choose then. Because I am not fast! I don't just shag any wizard!"

"Of course not! I didn't mean—"

"Further more, just because I slept with you doesn't make you special or anything. In fact, I'm quite sure it makes you pitiful, because clearly, I was incredibly drunk and you took advantage of my lowered inhibitions." She crossed her arms defensively and narrowed her eyes.

Harry merely gaped at her, and then he pulled at his face with his palms, groaning in aggravation. "Jesus!" Pursing his mouth, he glared at her. "I just wanted to treat you to breakfast and see if we could sort this out amicably. Clearly I was out of line! I don't even remember how I got here, much less if I took advantage of your lowered inhibitions./i" He sort of sneered. As if he was disgusted by the very idea.

Suddenly, deep in the caverns of Pansy's heart, she felt a little bad for accusing him of doing her wrong. It would be better if they did try to piece together the prior night's events; she would really like to find out who ravished whom and how she lost her knickers. Besides, she was a bit peckish and liked to have money spent on her. "All right. Breakfast sounds good."

He stared at her, slap-jawed. "Are you sure? Are your inhibitions still low?"

She rolled her eyes and opened her clutch. "Don't be silly, Potter." She withdrew a black trench coat. "A girl needs to eat, and it is the least you could do after all you've put me through."

He chuckled and shook his head but said no more. And Pansy decided she was a bit partial to the sound of his laugh, the way his mouth slid into an easy, boyish grin, and eventually she deduced that perhaps her inhibitions toward him had never been low. Not really.

- - -

It wasn't morning, as she'd thought. It wasn't even an acceptable noon. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and Harry Potter was eating—no wolfing—down a cheeseburger, much to Pansy's revulsion. She tried not to notice, but it was so incredibly sensational that she couldn't help but peek at him from time to time. Still though, she told him she thought she was going to be sick.

He told her to eat her chips and she'd feel better, which she did, slowly, gingerly, sipping cool water in between small bites. Her cheek was rested on her palm and her eyes were glued to her plate. She was trying her damnedest to be inconspicuous. It wouldn't do to be recognized with Potter for company.

Especially since he kept staring at her. It was nerve-wracking and made her feel self-conscious. Not that she didn't like to be looked at—in fact that was one of her favorite things, being adored. Yet when Potter stared at her with those large green eyes and that bemused grin, she felt vulnerable. Like he knew all her secrets. She couldn't stand it!

Suddenly she slammed her napkin on the oak table, her eyes flashing with annoyance, her mouth popping open to tell him exactly what she thought of his looking. "Knock it off, Potter! I don't need you to make this atrocious day worse by your consistent ogling."

He blinked with surprise and the terrible git didn't even have the gumption to appear contrite. "Don't flatter yourself, Parkinson. You have a mustard smear on your chin and I was debating on whether or not to inform you."

Her eyes widened and she felt her cheeks flushed a ruddy red before she began to wipe furiously at her chin. "Is it gone?"

He chuckled and returned to his cheeseburger. "Nope."

She glared at him as she reached into her hand bag and withdrew a platinum compact mirror. When she realized he had been lying to her, she closed the compact with a resounding snap and said, "Very funny." Her words were biting and it only caused Harry to grin in achievement.

"Your vanity astounds me," he replied conversationally. "Especially after I am aware of exactly what kind of witch you are."

"You don't know anything about me!"

"Oh, but I do." And he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, a smug grin cavalier upon his face.

She knew exactly as to what he was referring to and she was livid. Wasn't he aware that there were other people dining and they were probably, most likely, dropping eaves? "A clever bloke would have chalked that … episode up to a drunken fantasy and had the gumption to forget about it. But then again, you aren't known for your wit, yeah?"

"On the contrary, you found me very charming."

"You're deluded, and I do not know what you are talking about." She sniffed with disdain, her eye brows raised in seriousness, and she flipped open her napkin and laid it across her lap.

"I don't see how. If a witch has the inclination to ravish a wizard the way you ravished me, well she should be mindful of her behavior."

Instantly she felt violated and wondered if he was a Leglimens. How else would he know her innermost thoughts? And besides, she already decided that he held the blame for everything that transpired between them. "Me ravish you? Please! I would never. A lady never ravishes. She is ravished. Which I'm pretty confident is precisely what you did. I merely took pity upon you and bestowed my mercy."

Harry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. "Hmm, I'm pretty sure that it wasn't a mercy fuck because you threw yourself at me, and if I recall, you liked it. A lot."

Discomfiture scorched through her entire body. She wasn't used to such frankness. Even Draco and Blaise weren't so bawdy. "I did not! And lose the vulgar language!"

"You did. And you have a filthy mouth too, I remember that very clearly."

"You do not."

"I do."

"Because I would never talk dirty."

"But you did. I can recite it verbatim, if you'd like a recap."

"I do not fancy a torrid insight to your wild imagination, thank you."

Harry snickered and leaned forward. "I think you enjoyed the fruits of my imagination."

"Stop it!" She looked around self-consciously. "Besides, you said you couldn't remember anything."

Harry grinned widely at her. It was mirthful and ornery. "So did you. Or were you lying?"

She gazed at him levelly. "I didn't lie. I truly don't remember anything."

He wiped his face with the napkin before disposing of it upon his plate. Propping his elbows upon the table he leaned forward. "What is the last thing you do remember?"

She took a deep breath, crossed her arms and leaned back into her chair. "Drinking shots with Draco."

"More specifically?"

She glared at him, her jaw setting with annoyance. "Would you like the memory? Then you could peruse each detail at your leisure."

He grinned. "Now, Parkinson, you know that such memories don't work in pensieves. See, the alcohol impairs the senses, makes the memories faulty."

She huffed and turned her cheek. "I remember playing that game with shots of Vipertooth Piss and a Galleon. I remember Draco and Blaise disappearing, and Granger making me help her look for them. That's all." When she returned her gaze to his, it was biting and burned through him. "Is that specific enough for you?"

"It'll do, I suppose." Pensively, he rubbed his hair. "We could ask Hermione, she never drinks much and she'd probably be—"

"No." She shook her head vehemently. "No way. Nobody can know about this."

Harry pontifically raised a brow, but said no more. Instead, he leaned back against the seatback, pursed his lips and folded his arms over his chest. Pansy did her best to ignore the way the cotton t-shirt pulled tautly, defining his well-toned biceps and pectorals.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen. Pansy recommenced the pushing of her chips through the sauce and began to feel almost normal again. However, normality is fleeting and vanished with five simple words.

"I think we should kiss."

Pansy's eyes widened immediately. She must have heard him wrong. Because he couldn't have just suggested that they swap saliva. In the day light! "Kiss?"

He nodded and his face was bright as if he just experienced a moment of Eureka! "A really thorough kiss. Nothing like a peck you'd give your grandmother."

Her cheeks were hot again. Potter must have lost his marbles. He had clearly gone around the bend and wasn't ever going to return. He would have a permanent room at St. Mungo's, no doubt. "You're nutters." She told him seriously, just in case he wasn't aware.

He laughed easily. "Look, it'll be just like any other good night kiss. And perhaps it will help us remember something and if it doesn't, well…" He shrugged. "At least we have something to remember."

"I don't know." She pulled at her collar, tugging it up in a show of modesty.

"At least for posterity," he said, grinning cheekily. "That way, when you're old and gray and you look back on this, you will at least know what it was like to kiss me."

Abruptly she stood, gasping with affront. "Your arrogance is astounding!" When he slowly rose from the table too, his eyes watching her bemusedly; it infuriated her. Harry Potter was not supposed to be so cocksure. In fact, she had always expected him to be insipid, and the fact that he wasn't, that he had the gall to suggest his kiss was worthy of remembering in her golden years, well, it threw her for a loop and made her uneasy. The worst part of it all was that she secretly wanted him to kiss her. She wasn't quite sure when that desire had inflamed, but it was there, burning with intensity. She hated herself for wanting it and she hated him for making her want it. It was a great injustice to her principles. "I refuse to dignify your statement with an answer. If you think for one moment that I will let you—"

Then he kissed her. And her mind stopped. All of her thoughts, worries, and theatrics paused themselves and hung in limbo. As if there was no where for them to go. She blinked. Caught off guard by the soft, yet firm warmth of his mouth upon hers. Instinctively, she had gone rigid in his arms and her entire being felt extrasensory. She felt Harry Potter. Breathed him. Smelt him. Was suddenly apart of him. She could not do anything but marvel at how amazingly his mouth fit against hers. It was magic.

Then he moved his mouth, and hers followed in natural synergy. It was that moment when she melted and her lashes finally fell. It was pure surrender in a jolt of her system. He was tasting her, learning her, exploring everything about her with his lascivious tongue. He was, without a doubt, ravishing her. She felt like there was nothing she could do about it; nothing she wanted to do about it. Her body moved of its own accord—her hands coming up to fist the cotton of his collar, her thigh lifting to wrap around his and pulling him closer as her tongue followed his instruction. It no longer mattered where they were, what time it was, or who was around. She wanted him. Simply.

And it was all convoluted. The way the world fell away and her inhibitions were thrown to the wind. The way her skin prickled with need and the coil in her abdomen constricted. It was a damn good kiss. So good that she tore away from him and slapped him.

Not so very hard, though.

She didn't even know why she did it. She was just losing control and she liked it too much. It wasn't fair. She should be ashamed. She should feel appalled that he had ravished her right there in the day light where prying eyes watched with interest. She was angry that he had ravished her before she had a chance to ravish him and he was standing there grinning that silly, adorable grin that made her feel weak-kneed with her palm printed red upon his cheek.

So Pansy did the only thing left to do.

She flew against him and covered his lips with hers, her hands pushed into his hair and she felt her nose askew his spectacles. And she didn't care. Sod it all. Sod her mother, her reputation and her dignity.

She would pay any price for Harry Potter's kiss, and Merlin help her, she was glad she'd shagged him.

If only she could remember…

However if his kiss was any indication, it was probably the most terrific shag of her life, and she'd probably never get to experience it again. He probably thought she was Fast. Which, to be fair, she was surely acting fast. And he would probably expect it again. Oh lud. She was a tart. The worse kind of tart too. Because she had ravished him.

She broke away, her breathing erratic.

Harry merely smiled that really adorable and easy-going grin.

"I should go," she whispered, turning her eyes downcast. She was such a fool. And now everyone would know. What would her mother say?

Immediately he frowned. "No! Let's go out! Do you want to go out?"

His question startled her and she jumped. "What? Why?" Because her mother told her that blokes never dated tarts. They only took out nice witches. And since Harry knew she wasn't a nice girl, well, it made no sense that he'd want to take her out.

"I just like you," he told her.

He seemed so genuine. As if he really meant all of it. It made her feel good. Like she preferred to feel. Adored. Wanted. Sought after.

Maybe her mother was wrong. Or maybe Harry Potter was an exception. Maybe he liked fast girls. "When?"

He shrugged. "How about right now?"

There were a lot of things that Pansy Parkinson gave full thought too. That she analyzed and fretted over to distraction. But every once in awhile, when she really wanted something, she didn't think. She just did. "All right. I'll go."


"Yes." She nodded and for the first time all day, smiled genuinely.

He took her hand and opened his mouth to speak but she held up a finger. "But don't get any ideas. I'm a good witch, Potter. And I don't put out on the first date."

He chuckled. "I would never assume as much, Parkinson."

Then casually he slung his arm around her shoulder and they toddled off down the street into the afternoon sun.

- - -

That, my friends, is the story of how Pansy Parkinson and Harry Potter came together after sharing a night of drunken, torrid, ravishing love-making.

Only, that isn't what happened at all. There was no shagging, ravishing or anything scandalous at all. In fact it was all very absurd and innocent.

You see, Draco Malfoy was very adept in Potions and hence had a knack for concocting incredibly toxic shots of liquor. Also, he had a devious streak, and with the aid of his ability to accurately bounce a Galleon off a table-top, was able to get those around him incredibly sloshed. Which amused him greatly, and made him feel marginally devious with a dash of evil.

The only problem to his plan was he didn't account for his girlfriend's temper and her bossy constitution. So when Harry Potter began serenading Pansy Parkinson (to her great flattery, in Draco's opinion), Hermione Granger ordered Draco to help the pathetic bloke to a bed. After recruiting Ron Weasley and Blaise Zabini to assist him, they headed off from the small ballroom.

Harry was more than happy to comply. Only because he was in a super good mood and just had the best time ever and everything was wonderful in his world. He had succeeded in receiving Pansy's flirtations and fancy. He hadn't realized he had wanted her until he saw her that evening, and with the aid of the alcohol, he had more courage than normal. One would have thought he had taken a dose of Felix Felicis with the way he had been behaving. Nonetheless, he was very grateful for the opportunity, and it never occurred to him that he had more or less made a fool out of himself. It didn't matter anyway because Pansy liked the adoration. A fact which everyone considered common knowledge.

The need to express his gratitude to the host overwhelmed him then and he refused to contain it any longer. "Zabini, you really know how to throw a party. Everyone was laughing and drinking. I drank a lot of your liquor."

Blaise merely smiled bemusedly and walked at a leisurely pace ahead of the other three blokes.

And because nights like this were few and far between for Dear Mr. Potter, he hoped to influence Blaise with a suggestion. "You should have parties everyday! That would be the greatest."

Draco and Ron shared a knowing look. They knew Harry would disagree with himself in the morning when his head was heavy and soberly he would become aware of his silliness. They'd been there, they'd seen that, and they were glad they weren't in that position for once.

Being so blissful in his intoxication, Harry felt strongly that it was imperative to express his affection for everyone near at that precise moment. Happiness does this to a person. It makes them have extreme emotions and when infused with alcohol, these emotions are difficult to contain.

"You know, Malfoy, I'm so glad that you are shagging Hermione now. At first, I was pretty angry, but she's a good girl and she deserves a good shagging. And, mate, listen to me—Oi" Harry caught Draco by the chin. "Listen."

"I am listening, Potter," drawled Draco, jerking his chin away and re-positioning his leverage in order to throw more of Harry's weight toward Ron.

"Yeah. She's wonderful, Hermione. And I know you are good to her because she smiles a lot now. Like she's happy or somthin'. I don't know. But she hasn't been such a harpy. So you have my permission to date her. And shag her." He patted Draco's shoulder. "I promise I won't hex you."

Draco smirked. "Good to know."

This knowledge came as a surprise to Ron. For he had no inclination whatsoever that Draco was dating Hermione and being naturally over-protective of his loved ones, it didn't sit well with him. "Wait!" He put his hands up to impeded Harry and Draco from moving along. With all the seriousness he could muster, he turned his attention to Draco. "You're dating Hermione?"

Before Draco could answer, Harry stumbled forward. "Yeah, mate. Isn't great! We weren't supposed to know though. It was top secret." Then he smiled wanly and tapped his temple. "But I figured it out."

"It isn't great, Harry." Ron said. "I mean, sure, Malfoy's all right—"

Draco glared at Ron. "Thanks."

"Remember, Ron! Remember when you said, 'Hermione is shagging someone.' That was Malfoy." Harry put his arm around Draco's shoulders and laughed heartily. "Isn't that hilarious?"

Ron Weasley was cleverer than he received credit for and in this wisdom, he realized it was moot to argue with Harry over the situation. It was mostly shock that caused him to initially object about Draco, and while he didn't think it was a great idea, he figured Hermione could do worse in bed partners.

"This way, Gentlemen. He can sleep it off in here." Blaise opened a door to a simple bedroom consisting of a queen-sized bed and an armoire. Just over the left-side of the bed was a washroom. It was ideal for over-night guests.

Harry let go of Draco and staggered into the room. "Wow! Zabini! Nice digs!"

The other three chuckled.

"C'mon Potter. Lie down," Draco ordered, gently steering Harry towards the bed where Ron was turning down the duvet for his friend.

But Harry wouldn't move and instead he took off his shirt, not even bothering with the buttons. Somehow he was spry enough to step out of his trainers simultaneously. "I hate clothes. I wish I never had to wear them ever again." He had lost his glasses with his shirt and when he started unbuttoning his trousers, Draco face-palmed and Blaise, laughing jollily, exited the room.

Ron just shook his head and focused his eyes else-where. This was common for Harry and honestly, he was surprised Harry hadn't lost his clothes earlier.

Once Harry had completely divested, he stumbled to the bed and crawled in. "Parkinson is sexy, Ron."

Draco found this particularly amusing and profitable. He couldn't wait to tell Hermione; she owed him five galleons.

"Yeah, mate. She's a fit bird these days," Ron patronized as he gathered Harry's clothes and threw them in the armoire.

"I'm going to ask her out," Harry said with great conviction.

"Good luck with that, Potter." Malfoy chuckled as he turned off the light.

"Thanks, Mate," murmured Harry and before the door had closed, he had passed out.

Meanwhile, Pansy Parkinson had to pee. Badly. And she was lost. Hermione Granger had directed her to the loo with a flippant pointing of her finger and a harried, "That way."

So now she was wondering aimlessly through the corridors of Rostifer Hills, the Zabini Estate, and desperately wished she was home at Ashford Park in her own wing where she knew good and well where the sodding restroom was. Incredibly soused or not.

And wouldn't you know, all the doors she attempted entry were locked. This was terrible and she wasn't feeling very good and she just wanted to empty her bladder and then go to sleep.

Finally, when the pain in her abdomen was nearly too unbearable, she found an unlocked door. It wasn't a lavatory, but upon investigating the room, she found one off to the left. With great flurry and fumbling, she lifted up the hem of her skirt and sat down quickly. The relief of finally peeing was great and she smiled blissfully.

Until, that is, she realized that in her hurry, she hadn't the mind to tug down her knickers appropriately.

Dropping her face into her hands, she wailed with intense frustration and humiliation. At least nobody would know about this.

All she had to do was discard the evidence. She didn't have her wand because Zabini had asked that they not bring them, so a simple Evanesco was out of the question.

So she did what any other witch in her situation would do.

She shimmied out of the knickers, grimacing, and then gingerly dropped them into the toilet. Promptly flushing them into oblivion.

Satisfied, she washed her hands and stumbled out of the washroom.

Deciding this was as good as a place as any to crash, she carefully took off her dress and hung it in the armoire before she found the bed and slipped between the sheets and duvet.

She was comfortable and safe. For now. And that was enough. Soon she drifted off, never aware that a very naked Harry Potter lay beside her.

So that's what really happened. Harry and Pansy will never, ever know.

The End.

i Note: Kate, I know you asked that Pansy walk in on Harry naked and that I didn't quite accomplish that, however, I do hope you enjoyed her waking up and seeing his naked bum even more./i