Heel clinks unevenly on the stone flooring as her leg bounces in anxiety.
Rita Skeeter is reviewing an article she had been up half the night writing— interviews on the lives of Death Eaters after the war.
"I want more—," Skeeter drones, peppermint clacks on her teeth as she speaks, "It needs to be more. Much, much more— deeper," she mock-grasps the air, folding her hand into a fist for emphasis on her words.
The rooms falls silent as her nervous leg stills, she clears her throat, "Not to be— rude, Ms. Skeeter, but I'm unsure of what else you want from me."
"Oh— I want you to break his heart, darling," she says over the rim of her rhinestoned glasses, "I want you to rip him to shreds," she tosses the stack of parchment across the surface of her desk, "Now that? That will make an article worth reading."
She's lain stomach down on the silk of his duvet, feet crossed in the air behind her.
There's a fashion magazine spread open to the centerfold in front of her as she uses her wand to color her nails a bright crimson.
After the war—Pansy has...taken up the role of the good girl.
Collared shirts buttoned all the way up to her neck.
Cross necklace dangles around the covered expanse of her collar bones.
He's honestly shocked she's painting her nails that risqué shade of red— even if it is all a facade.
Supposes it's the only way to win the hearts of the student body after being such a proper bitch all of those years.
Because on the inside—she's still the same Pansy Parkinson.
And her next words only solidify this thought.
"Oh. My. Fuck."
She jumps from her laying position to one on her knees, "Come here—Come here!"
She uses her hand to aggressively coax him, flapping it to-and-fro, slicing through the air.
He grunts. Snaps the book open in his lap closed, and makes his way over to the very excited looking Pansy, who is now using her index finger to jab at one of the smooth pages of the Gilded Quill.
She twist the fingers of her free hand through the collar of his shirt, tainting the cloth with red nail polish; pulls him closer to the small typeset the magazine uses— his eyes are met with an article written by Hermione Granger— the Wizarding World's Sweetheart.
"Little Miss Perfect has written an article on her Virtue!" Pansy squeals into his ear.
He shakes away from her grasp, "What does that have to do with anything?"
"She's written how she's saving it for marriage. How precious it is! Look!" She lifts the magazine to his face, the cold pages brush his nose, "Guess the Weasley bloke didn't get in her knickers after all!"
He backs away, rips the magazine from Pansy's grasp, "I'm still lost, Pans." He says, still scanning the Granger girl's words for an answer to Pansy's riddle.
"Such a blithering idiot," she says, scooting closer on the bed toward where he now sits, "It means— this year doesn't have to be such a bore after all."
And both of their mouths tug upward into a smirk.
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