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rzzmg
Recipient:slumber
Title: Cause Célèbre
Pairing: Cormac/Pansy
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,654 words
Warnings: Puns (I won’t lie…there are a lot of them and they’re mostly bad ones that will make you slap your forehead and roll your eyes...consider yourself warned), one small homage to “Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy” (can you spot it?), poking fun at cooking and Quidditch and studying for tests and sexual organs…you get the point, I think. Just basic silliness.
Summary: Pansy’s determined to prove she can detective a case as well as any Auror, despite the fact she’s only a secretary in M.L.E. When a serial killer case comes up, she’s determined to solve it…but to do so she’ll be forced to interact with the worst killer (er, lady-killer) of them all: her ex-lover, Cormac McLaggen.
Author's Notes: Timeline is December, 2015. Thank you, Crystal, for running this fest! I have enjoyed participating very much, and greatly appreciate the extension you allowed me to complete the story!!! Evy/slumber, I hope you enjoy your fic! Happy New Year to you!
Translations of foreign words in the fic:
Cause = French for “a legal case”.
Célèbre = French for “famous”.
A “cause célèbre” is a controversial issue that gains a great deal of public attention; often associated with controversial legal cases (like serial killings, for instance).
Béchamel = A classic French white sauce made with milk, bound with a cooked flour and butter mixture called a roux, flavored with bay leaves, nutmeg and sometimes onion.
‘Meat and two veg’ = Standard British fare – some sort of meat dish and two vegetable dishes. Also, a euphemism for a man’s genitals.
The newest find marked the eleventh in a row someone had been discovered murdered after partaking of a four-course meal fit for a king.
Eleven bodies in as many months. It was a pattern.
Hell, three had been, but no one had listened to Pansy when she’d pointed that out back in early April…but what did she know, as she was ‘just a secretary’ in M.L.E. (but only because she hadn’t been able to pass the written portion of the Auror test, because it’s apparently of the utmost importance to be able to distinguish between a Bouncing Bulb and a Puffapod when capturing a curse-mad dark wizard—whatever).
Regardless of the nit-picky Ministry and its petty rules, the facts in the case were indisputable: every month so far this year, the culinary killer had struck, poisoning the sauces, coulis, gravies, and relishes of some of the finest meals the country had ever seen. The latest had contained Baneberry potion as the main ingredient (the purple tongue lolling from the victim’s mouth had been the dead give-away).
Of course, the press was having a field day. They’d even dubbed the assassin with a deliciously clever name: ‘The Cuisinier Killer’.
‒And the Auror’s office was still completely stumped. Officially, anyway. After eavesdropping in on the details of the latest incident, Pansy’s gut was telling her that her initial suspicion as to the identity of killer was dead-on, however…and that meant the name would have to be changed to the more gender-accurate version of Cuisinière. Because the murderer was obviously a woman. The lipstick mark she’d left on her dinner napkin this time around had been the dead giveaway.
What was also clear to her was that the killer was a Quidditch groupie, as she’d targeted the cream of that bachelor crop. Not that Pansy blamed the psycho hag-beast for wanting to off any of those hustlers, as they were a bunch of arrogant, narcissistic meatpies with egos the size of Ireland, but still, it seemed such a waste. She could think of at least a dozen different ways to make those men convulse that didn’t involve hemotoxin.
Oh, and obviously, the killer had professional culinary training, most likely in France or with a French chef of some note, as evidenced by the quality of her béchamel. Pansy should know, having been raised with the finest chefs in Europe assigned to her mother’s kitchen. No one in England could make a proper roux to save their lives…and apparently, all of the sauces prepared by the killer were to die for. Literally.
Combined, those three suspicions quite nicely narrowed down the pool of potentials.
Now, all she had to do was get to that ex-git of hers to warn him that he could possibly be victim number twelve before the New Years was up! He had been, after all, seen in the papers in the company of her primary suspect…
Pansy sighed as she stared up at McLaggen’s lion’s head door-knocker, feeling that familiar sinking sensation in her belly.
Did she really have to do this?
There really was only one answer that counted this time, and she knew it: yes, she did have to face down Cormac McLaggen if she wanted to prove to Potter and the rest of M.L.E. that she had what it took to be an Auror, too.
Besides, this could be her chance for closure. Two years ago, after a rather horrible fight between her and Cormac, her wounded pride had made her walk out, and for whatever reason, he’d let her go. Sheer stubbornness had kept her from running back to him in the interim, but in the secret vaults of her heart, she’d always wanted him to hunt her down and drag her kicking-and-screaming back into his arms, like a good Gryffindor was wont to do with his lady love (Potter, Weasley, and even Longbottom had all quite publicly chased after their witches, after all…was it too much to ask McLaggen show her the same bold affection?). Now, though, it seemed as if she’d let too much time slip by. As the papers had shown, he’d moved on. Perhaps it was time for her to do so as well.
Steeling her nerves, she raised her fist and knocked on the door, a Slytherin lie upon her tongue to explain away her presence upon his step. “The game’s afoot,” she murmured under her breath, slipping her mask into place for the confrontation to come.
~.~.~.~.~
He answered the door with a towel wrapped around his waist, and nothing else. His short, curly hair was dark with wet from having just hopped from the shower.
Pansy tried hard not to notice the last two years had been kind to him. Whereas she’d put a bit of pudge on her belly, he was even more rock solid than before, and where she was beginning to develop frown lines, his smile was just as dazzling now as it had been the first time she’d noticed it, with a boyish charm that was difficult to forget. Basically, he made her stomach bottom out with that familiar tug of lust.
…That was, until she noticed the pair of women’s racy knickers and matching satin bra blazing a trail from the living room towards where she knew the bedroom lay just beyond Cor’s burly shoulder, as she peered into his apartment.
She knew from the photos in the Prophet who that lingerie belonged to…
Cold anger did wonders to chill one’s arousal, didn’t it?
“Always knew you’d come knocking on my door again, baby,” he said, full of that arrogant, Gryffindor conceit that had drawn her to him initially. “Been waiting.”
Pansy rolled her eyes and pointedly nodded her chin at a disheveled Gabrielle Delacour, younger sister of that psycho Veela-beast, Flower-something or other, who had nearly killed Weasley’s oldest brother in an enraged fit of jealousy not two years prior when the man had stepped out on her (of course, Potter had done his level best to keep that bit of juicy gossip under wraps). The blonde emerged from Cor’s bedroom, looking well-mussed and hard-ridden, and wearing her lover’s worn-out Magpies jersey. His team number, 42, flashed in sparkly black letters across the faded white background.
“Obviously,” Pansy dryly commented, feeling a surge of hot jealousy flare in her mouth. Fortunately, she tamed it well, holding to her former Slytherin training with a reminder of her purpose in being at his flat today…and that did not involve her scratching the girlfriend’s eyes out. “How boring the nights must be without me around to keep you entertained, Cor.”
Cormac chuckled, and shifted so his arms stretched above his head. His fingers gripped the top of the door jamb, and he performed that masculine leaning thing that fellas are wont to do when attempting to impress a girl. His muscles bunched, twitched, and the towel dropped an inch on his hips, barely hanging on. The pompous git knew he looked good enough to lick, and he knew Pansy couldn’t help but notice that as well, which is why she went out of her way to keep her expression neutral and bored.
“To what do I owe the honour, since you’re obviously not here to grovel for forgiveness? Are you here for a quick shag, then?” he asked, eyeing her like she was a present he was dying to unwrap. “I’m always willing to accommodate you, baby.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and winked. “I even promise you’ll enjoy it as much as I will.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “I see two years hasn’t cured you of being an egotistical prick.” Her gaze shot past him to Gabrielle, who seemed wholly unconcerned with the visitor at the door as she nosily perused the contents of Cormac’s cabinets and then pulled out a few ingredients to begin cooking something that smelled heavenly. “Or your enthusiasm for groupies. Blonde and model-gorgeous. How…predictable.”
He dropped the teasing façade in a heartbeat…and aged a decade in the doing. “I’ve never had good luck with brunettes, especially ones with wild hair.” He reached out and fingered one of her short, tight curls. “You look like a pixie now, all big, blue eyes, but you’ll never tame these beauties.” He tugged gently on the curl and let go, and she could feel it relax, despite the product she’d put in it to intentionally keep the spirals tight.
“I didn’t come for this,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks heat. “I’m here on official business.”
Well, it was technically true, even if she hadn’t been actually sent here by Potter…
She pulled away from Cor’s touch, recalling all the reasons she’d come to his door in the first place, and glanced around him again, to see the Veela-beast up to her predictable shenanigans in the kitchen. The sound of a whisk beating eggs made Pansy’s stomach growl.
…Which was most likely how it began for the others. Food was comforting, and caused people to let down their guards.
“You have to come with me right now,” she whispered. “Throw on some clothes and make up an excuse. Just leave the house. Now.”
Cormac frowned, staring into her face for answers, but Pansy was careful to keep her expression neutral in case her suspect glanced her way.
With a nod, he easily agreed to her request, as if he still trusted her, despite the fact she’d been the one to break both their hearts with her leaving. “Come in?” he offered, stepping back and gripping the towel to keep it from falling to his feet.
“Cormac? Who eeze dat woman?” Gabrielle called from the kitchen, her whisk speeding up. She sounded more peeved than curious.
Uh-oh. Pansy recalled reading about the insane jealousy this woman’s older sister had shown that one time towards her lover, as the Veela within felt threatened. Gripping her wand tightly, she gave Cormac a quick look and shook her head, cuing him not to tell the truth.
“It’s just my…cousin come for a visit,” he replied, tossing Pansy an expression filled with questions. “She’s in from…er, Scotland.”
The whisk stopped and the bowl was dropped onto the counter top with little care. Gabrielle’s golden head lifted and she began sniffing the air. “I smell zee same perfume as eeze in your drawer.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder, and her normally-blue gaze was glowing red. “Zee one with zee woman’s scarf hidden under zee shirts.”
“Shit,” Pansy mumbled under her breath. “I knew I was missing a wrap!”
Cormac looked at her from the corner of his eye and shrugged. That familiar, naughty grin was back on his face. “What can I say, baby? Your smell always got me horny‒”
A bird-like screech unexpectedly erupted from Gabrielle’s mouth as she went from zero to fifty in under a second. One wall in the kitchen burst into flame as she hurtled a fiery magical ball at it with fingers twisted into talons.
The Delacour Veela had come out to play.
“Lovely,” Pansy growled. “Bird bitch is on the loose.” Grabbing hold of Cormac’s arm, she dragged him out the door and down three flights of stairs. He stumbled after her, barely keeping his towel in place. “Well, at least you won’t die from poisoning, like the rest of the lovers who’d upset her this year.”
“Wait, what?”
She tsked as they hurried towards the front exit of the building. “Honestly, you Quidditch jocks need to learn to keep it in your pants! Don’t you know by now from your team’s cheerleaders that philandering set her kind off?”
“What kind? Pans, what are you talking‒?”
Before he could finish or they could reach the door, another flaming ball exploded nearby, cutting off their escape. A raptor-ish scream echoed through the foyer as Gabrielle leaned over the third floor balcony and snarled at them.
“Holy shit!” Cormac cried, as a third fire globe was lobbed at them. They both managed to duck in the nick of time to avoid it. “She’s crazy!”
“She’s a serial killer,” Pansy pointed out. “Of course she’s crazy!”
“She’s a what?”
By then, Pansy had managed to turn at the right angle and point her wand up at the raging Veela. With a powerful force of will (and a bit of smug satisfaction), she cast a strong Stupefy at Gabrielle, knocking the witch back.
However, the spell did not render her unconscious, as Pansy had planned.
“Damn, hadn’t counted on that.”
“‒Which is why the Magical Creatures portion of the Auror test is so important,” Potter pointed out, appearing out of the smoke and flames like a saviour on high with a team of brown-cloaked Aurors flanking behind him. He grinned at her as they hurried past to tackle the perp to the floor. “Knowledge is power, they say.” With a negligent cast over his shoulder, he had the fires put out and had the smoke disbursed. “Still, nice job putting the pieces together. You led us right to her.” He glanced up as the Aurors cast enough spells to knock the wind from Gabrielle’s sails long enough to slap some magical cuffs on her. “Good instinct and sound detective skills are just as important as academics, or so I’m always telling Hermione.”
Exasperated at having her thunder stolen, Pansy resignedly huffed at him. “How long have you known?”
The Boy-Who-Conquered adjusted his glasses on his nose and shrugged. “Only a week or so. Your bored doodling in the margins of your debriefing notes for the department was quite insightful.” He smirked at her as his gaze bounced between her and Cormac. “By the way, I never knew forty-two was your favourite number.”
Her cheeks felt on fire again. “It’s not!” she hotly contested, glaring at him and Cormac both, and their matching shit-eating grins. “Anyway, am I getting a field promotion, or not, Captain? I did solve this case, after all.”
Potter stared hard at her, and for a moment, she swore he was looking into her very soul. “I think we can accommodate a new desk out on the floor,” he finally agreed.
“And dig up one of those sexy brown capes for me,” she said, daring him to defy her.
He nodded. “Monday morning, come to my office. We’ll swear you in.” He held his hand out. “Welcome to the force, Auror Parkinson.”
~.~.~.~.~
The week following “The Cuisinière Killer’s” capture was a wild and busy one.
In between supplying testimony and writing reports and learning the ropes with her new partner, “Four-Fingered” Finnigan of all people, Pansy hadn’t much time to celebrate her promotion.
…So it was that the knock on the front door of her flat on her first official evening off-roster came as something of a surprise. The visitor was even more so.
“Hey, baby, looking beautiful as always,” Cormac greeted her with that delicious smile that made her belly flip. “Thought I’d bring this back to you, since you seemed so keen on having it.” He held out the scarf she’d accidentally left at their old place two years ago when she’d moved out.
“Thank you,” she shyly replied, reaching for it.
He tugged it out of her hand, however. “Wondered if you wouldn’t mind trying it on for me…for old time’s sake.” His gaze was warm and appreciative of her, despite her casual state. “Maybe with a few less clothes on, though. Lying on satin sheets. Covered in cream.”
Okay, that was a bold, Gryffindorish gesture. She’d take it as a sign.
“Now that’s a cause I can celebrate!” Tugging his arm and pulling him into her flat, she stretched on tiptoe to reach his mouth. “How about this first time we skip the dessert part, though, and stick with the main course instead? I’ve never been much for cream, you see…but I’ll take meat and two veg any day.”
rzzmgRecipient:
slumberTitle: Cause Célèbre
Pairing: Cormac/Pansy
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,654 words
Warnings: Puns (I won’t lie…there are a lot of them and they’re mostly bad ones that will make you slap your forehead and roll your eyes...consider yourself warned), one small homage to “Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy” (can you spot it?), poking fun at cooking and Quidditch and studying for tests and sexual organs…you get the point, I think. Just basic silliness.
Summary: Pansy’s determined to prove she can detective a case as well as any Auror, despite the fact she’s only a secretary in M.L.E. When a serial killer case comes up, she’s determined to solve it…but to do so she’ll be forced to interact with the worst killer (er, lady-killer) of them all: her ex-lover, Cormac McLaggen.
Author's Notes: Timeline is December, 2015. Thank you, Crystal, for running this fest! I have enjoyed participating very much, and greatly appreciate the extension you allowed me to complete the story!!! Evy/slumber, I hope you enjoy your fic! Happy New Year to you!
Translations of foreign words in the fic:
Cause = French for “a legal case”.
Célèbre = French for “famous”.
A “cause célèbre” is a controversial issue that gains a great deal of public attention; often associated with controversial legal cases (like serial killings, for instance).
Béchamel = A classic French white sauce made with milk, bound with a cooked flour and butter mixture called a roux, flavored with bay leaves, nutmeg and sometimes onion.
‘Meat and two veg’ = Standard British fare – some sort of meat dish and two vegetable dishes. Also, a euphemism for a man’s genitals.
The newest find marked the eleventh in a row someone had been discovered murdered after partaking of a four-course meal fit for a king.
Eleven bodies in as many months. It was a pattern.
Hell, three had been, but no one had listened to Pansy when she’d pointed that out back in early April…but what did she know, as she was ‘just a secretary’ in M.L.E. (but only because she hadn’t been able to pass the written portion of the Auror test, because it’s apparently of the utmost importance to be able to distinguish between a Bouncing Bulb and a Puffapod when capturing a curse-mad dark wizard—whatever).
Regardless of the nit-picky Ministry and its petty rules, the facts in the case were indisputable: every month so far this year, the culinary killer had struck, poisoning the sauces, coulis, gravies, and relishes of some of the finest meals the country had ever seen. The latest had contained Baneberry potion as the main ingredient (the purple tongue lolling from the victim’s mouth had been the dead give-away).
Of course, the press was having a field day. They’d even dubbed the assassin with a deliciously clever name: ‘The Cuisinier Killer’.
‒And the Auror’s office was still completely stumped. Officially, anyway. After eavesdropping in on the details of the latest incident, Pansy’s gut was telling her that her initial suspicion as to the identity of killer was dead-on, however…and that meant the name would have to be changed to the more gender-accurate version of Cuisinière. Because the murderer was obviously a woman. The lipstick mark she’d left on her dinner napkin this time around had been the dead giveaway.
What was also clear to her was that the killer was a Quidditch groupie, as she’d targeted the cream of that bachelor crop. Not that Pansy blamed the psycho hag-beast for wanting to off any of those hustlers, as they were a bunch of arrogant, narcissistic meatpies with egos the size of Ireland, but still, it seemed such a waste. She could think of at least a dozen different ways to make those men convulse that didn’t involve hemotoxin.
Oh, and obviously, the killer had professional culinary training, most likely in France or with a French chef of some note, as evidenced by the quality of her béchamel. Pansy should know, having been raised with the finest chefs in Europe assigned to her mother’s kitchen. No one in England could make a proper roux to save their lives…and apparently, all of the sauces prepared by the killer were to die for. Literally.
Combined, those three suspicions quite nicely narrowed down the pool of potentials.
Now, all she had to do was get to that ex-git of hers to warn him that he could possibly be victim number twelve before the New Years was up! He had been, after all, seen in the papers in the company of her primary suspect…
Pansy sighed as she stared up at McLaggen’s lion’s head door-knocker, feeling that familiar sinking sensation in her belly.
Did she really have to do this?
There really was only one answer that counted this time, and she knew it: yes, she did have to face down Cormac McLaggen if she wanted to prove to Potter and the rest of M.L.E. that she had what it took to be an Auror, too.
Besides, this could be her chance for closure. Two years ago, after a rather horrible fight between her and Cormac, her wounded pride had made her walk out, and for whatever reason, he’d let her go. Sheer stubbornness had kept her from running back to him in the interim, but in the secret vaults of her heart, she’d always wanted him to hunt her down and drag her kicking-and-screaming back into his arms, like a good Gryffindor was wont to do with his lady love (Potter, Weasley, and even Longbottom had all quite publicly chased after their witches, after all…was it too much to ask McLaggen show her the same bold affection?). Now, though, it seemed as if she’d let too much time slip by. As the papers had shown, he’d moved on. Perhaps it was time for her to do so as well.
Steeling her nerves, she raised her fist and knocked on the door, a Slytherin lie upon her tongue to explain away her presence upon his step. “The game’s afoot,” she murmured under her breath, slipping her mask into place for the confrontation to come.
He answered the door with a towel wrapped around his waist, and nothing else. His short, curly hair was dark with wet from having just hopped from the shower.
Pansy tried hard not to notice the last two years had been kind to him. Whereas she’d put a bit of pudge on her belly, he was even more rock solid than before, and where she was beginning to develop frown lines, his smile was just as dazzling now as it had been the first time she’d noticed it, with a boyish charm that was difficult to forget. Basically, he made her stomach bottom out with that familiar tug of lust.
…That was, until she noticed the pair of women’s racy knickers and matching satin bra blazing a trail from the living room towards where she knew the bedroom lay just beyond Cor’s burly shoulder, as she peered into his apartment.
She knew from the photos in the Prophet who that lingerie belonged to…
Cold anger did wonders to chill one’s arousal, didn’t it?
“Always knew you’d come knocking on my door again, baby,” he said, full of that arrogant, Gryffindor conceit that had drawn her to him initially. “Been waiting.”
Pansy rolled her eyes and pointedly nodded her chin at a disheveled Gabrielle Delacour, younger sister of that psycho Veela-beast, Flower-something or other, who had nearly killed Weasley’s oldest brother in an enraged fit of jealousy not two years prior when the man had stepped out on her (of course, Potter had done his level best to keep that bit of juicy gossip under wraps). The blonde emerged from Cor’s bedroom, looking well-mussed and hard-ridden, and wearing her lover’s worn-out Magpies jersey. His team number, 42, flashed in sparkly black letters across the faded white background.
“Obviously,” Pansy dryly commented, feeling a surge of hot jealousy flare in her mouth. Fortunately, she tamed it well, holding to her former Slytherin training with a reminder of her purpose in being at his flat today…and that did not involve her scratching the girlfriend’s eyes out. “How boring the nights must be without me around to keep you entertained, Cor.”
Cormac chuckled, and shifted so his arms stretched above his head. His fingers gripped the top of the door jamb, and he performed that masculine leaning thing that fellas are wont to do when attempting to impress a girl. His muscles bunched, twitched, and the towel dropped an inch on his hips, barely hanging on. The pompous git knew he looked good enough to lick, and he knew Pansy couldn’t help but notice that as well, which is why she went out of her way to keep her expression neutral and bored.
“To what do I owe the honour, since you’re obviously not here to grovel for forgiveness? Are you here for a quick shag, then?” he asked, eyeing her like she was a present he was dying to unwrap. “I’m always willing to accommodate you, baby.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and winked. “I even promise you’ll enjoy it as much as I will.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “I see two years hasn’t cured you of being an egotistical prick.” Her gaze shot past him to Gabrielle, who seemed wholly unconcerned with the visitor at the door as she nosily perused the contents of Cormac’s cabinets and then pulled out a few ingredients to begin cooking something that smelled heavenly. “Or your enthusiasm for groupies. Blonde and model-gorgeous. How…predictable.”
He dropped the teasing façade in a heartbeat…and aged a decade in the doing. “I’ve never had good luck with brunettes, especially ones with wild hair.” He reached out and fingered one of her short, tight curls. “You look like a pixie now, all big, blue eyes, but you’ll never tame these beauties.” He tugged gently on the curl and let go, and she could feel it relax, despite the product she’d put in it to intentionally keep the spirals tight.
“I didn’t come for this,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks heat. “I’m here on official business.”
Well, it was technically true, even if she hadn’t been actually sent here by Potter…
She pulled away from Cor’s touch, recalling all the reasons she’d come to his door in the first place, and glanced around him again, to see the Veela-beast up to her predictable shenanigans in the kitchen. The sound of a whisk beating eggs made Pansy’s stomach growl.
…Which was most likely how it began for the others. Food was comforting, and caused people to let down their guards.
“You have to come with me right now,” she whispered. “Throw on some clothes and make up an excuse. Just leave the house. Now.”
Cormac frowned, staring into her face for answers, but Pansy was careful to keep her expression neutral in case her suspect glanced her way.
With a nod, he easily agreed to her request, as if he still trusted her, despite the fact she’d been the one to break both their hearts with her leaving. “Come in?” he offered, stepping back and gripping the towel to keep it from falling to his feet.
“Cormac? Who eeze dat woman?” Gabrielle called from the kitchen, her whisk speeding up. She sounded more peeved than curious.
Uh-oh. Pansy recalled reading about the insane jealousy this woman’s older sister had shown that one time towards her lover, as the Veela within felt threatened. Gripping her wand tightly, she gave Cormac a quick look and shook her head, cuing him not to tell the truth.
“It’s just my…cousin come for a visit,” he replied, tossing Pansy an expression filled with questions. “She’s in from…er, Scotland.”
The whisk stopped and the bowl was dropped onto the counter top with little care. Gabrielle’s golden head lifted and she began sniffing the air. “I smell zee same perfume as eeze in your drawer.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder, and her normally-blue gaze was glowing red. “Zee one with zee woman’s scarf hidden under zee shirts.”
“Shit,” Pansy mumbled under her breath. “I knew I was missing a wrap!”
Cormac looked at her from the corner of his eye and shrugged. That familiar, naughty grin was back on his face. “What can I say, baby? Your smell always got me horny‒”
A bird-like screech unexpectedly erupted from Gabrielle’s mouth as she went from zero to fifty in under a second. One wall in the kitchen burst into flame as she hurtled a fiery magical ball at it with fingers twisted into talons.
The Delacour Veela had come out to play.
“Lovely,” Pansy growled. “Bird bitch is on the loose.” Grabbing hold of Cormac’s arm, she dragged him out the door and down three flights of stairs. He stumbled after her, barely keeping his towel in place. “Well, at least you won’t die from poisoning, like the rest of the lovers who’d upset her this year.”
“Wait, what?”
She tsked as they hurried towards the front exit of the building. “Honestly, you Quidditch jocks need to learn to keep it in your pants! Don’t you know by now from your team’s cheerleaders that philandering set her kind off?”
“What kind? Pans, what are you talking‒?”
Before he could finish or they could reach the door, another flaming ball exploded nearby, cutting off their escape. A raptor-ish scream echoed through the foyer as Gabrielle leaned over the third floor balcony and snarled at them.
“Holy shit!” Cormac cried, as a third fire globe was lobbed at them. They both managed to duck in the nick of time to avoid it. “She’s crazy!”
“She’s a serial killer,” Pansy pointed out. “Of course she’s crazy!”
“She’s a what?”
By then, Pansy had managed to turn at the right angle and point her wand up at the raging Veela. With a powerful force of will (and a bit of smug satisfaction), she cast a strong Stupefy at Gabrielle, knocking the witch back.
However, the spell did not render her unconscious, as Pansy had planned.
“Damn, hadn’t counted on that.”
“‒Which is why the Magical Creatures portion of the Auror test is so important,” Potter pointed out, appearing out of the smoke and flames like a saviour on high with a team of brown-cloaked Aurors flanking behind him. He grinned at her as they hurried past to tackle the perp to the floor. “Knowledge is power, they say.” With a negligent cast over his shoulder, he had the fires put out and had the smoke disbursed. “Still, nice job putting the pieces together. You led us right to her.” He glanced up as the Aurors cast enough spells to knock the wind from Gabrielle’s sails long enough to slap some magical cuffs on her. “Good instinct and sound detective skills are just as important as academics, or so I’m always telling Hermione.”
Exasperated at having her thunder stolen, Pansy resignedly huffed at him. “How long have you known?”
The Boy-Who-Conquered adjusted his glasses on his nose and shrugged. “Only a week or so. Your bored doodling in the margins of your debriefing notes for the department was quite insightful.” He smirked at her as his gaze bounced between her and Cormac. “By the way, I never knew forty-two was your favourite number.”
Her cheeks felt on fire again. “It’s not!” she hotly contested, glaring at him and Cormac both, and their matching shit-eating grins. “Anyway, am I getting a field promotion, or not, Captain? I did solve this case, after all.”
Potter stared hard at her, and for a moment, she swore he was looking into her very soul. “I think we can accommodate a new desk out on the floor,” he finally agreed.
“And dig up one of those sexy brown capes for me,” she said, daring him to defy her.
He nodded. “Monday morning, come to my office. We’ll swear you in.” He held his hand out. “Welcome to the force, Auror Parkinson.”
The week following “The Cuisinière Killer’s” capture was a wild and busy one.
In between supplying testimony and writing reports and learning the ropes with her new partner, “Four-Fingered” Finnigan of all people, Pansy hadn’t much time to celebrate her promotion.
…So it was that the knock on the front door of her flat on her first official evening off-roster came as something of a surprise. The visitor was even more so.
“Hey, baby, looking beautiful as always,” Cormac greeted her with that delicious smile that made her belly flip. “Thought I’d bring this back to you, since you seemed so keen on having it.” He held out the scarf she’d accidentally left at their old place two years ago when she’d moved out.
“Thank you,” she shyly replied, reaching for it.
He tugged it out of her hand, however. “Wondered if you wouldn’t mind trying it on for me…for old time’s sake.” His gaze was warm and appreciative of her, despite her casual state. “Maybe with a few less clothes on, though. Lying on satin sheets. Covered in cream.”
Okay, that was a bold, Gryffindorish gesture. She’d take it as a sign.
“Now that’s a cause I can celebrate!” Tugging his arm and pulling him into her flat, she stretched on tiptoe to reach his mouth. “How about this first time we skip the dessert part, though, and stick with the main course instead? I’ve never been much for cream, you see…but I’ll take meat and two veg any day.”
