Title: Dream a Little Dream
Author: Jinni (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Disclaimer: All things AtS belong to Joss Whedon, et al. All things HP belong to JK Rowling, et al.
“Take it off.”
Not the first time she had heard that phrase before, Pansy thought with a mental smirk. Though, she had to admit it was the first she had ever heard it with that much menace…and from the man that stood in front of her.
”Take what off, freak?”
In the sleeve of her robe, she toyed with her wand, fingertips caressing the tip, ever ready to have it drawn and leveled at him should he do one single thing to irritate her any further than he already had. This was the third time –today- that he had gotten this close to her. In no way did she want to ponder how many times she had caught him staring at her in the last week, as well. In fact, since shortly after his arrival at the school, Connor Angel had done nothing but watch her like a hawk.
It was unnerving to say the least, though it was somewhat interesting to see just what she could do to make him turn away, quit watching. Easiest of all, of course, was just to raise her eyes to his, to catch him in the act, so to speak.
That was hardly amusing, however. Not very Slytherin in the least.
So she had begun to do other things.
Like put her finger in her nose. Yes, that one had caused him to choke rather nastily and turn away the other day, right there in the Great Hall. Oh, she had not really stuck her finger up her nose. That type of behavior was completely unbecoming in a lady.
And she most definitely was a lady. Evil. Bitchy. But always a lady. Her mother had pounded that into her head, sometimes literally, since the moment she was old enough to understand. Even now, with the old witch and the man that called himself her father safely within the walls of Azkaban, she adhered to that most basic of tenets.
“You’ve bewitched me. Potter said so.”
Pansy covered her snort of amusement with a cough. Potter had told this poor, misguided sort-of-Muggle that she had bewitched him?
She tilted her head, peering around Connor to cock an eyebrow at Potter. Yes, the smug bastard looked right pleased with himself. Pansy curled her lip into a sneer, which he returned with a blown kiss. Odd that they had come so far, so quickly.
Then again, the prat saving her life had something to do with it, she supposed. She could have stayed on, playing the role of one of his arch-enemies, true, but it had become so tiring. Best that she had a good excuse, like owing him her life, to behave decently toward him rather than just deciding to do it for herself out of thin air.
“What kind of bewitchment am I supposed to have put on you?” she asked with a sigh, turning her attention back to Connor. Potter would be sorry he did this. She’d sic that First Year Hufflepuff that had been drooling at his heels on him. Yes, that was what she’d do.
Just as soon as she figured out what it was that she was reported to have done to Connor. It obviously wasn’t anything too awful, as neither his father nor any of their group of do-gooding friends had come over to shake their fingers and look down their noses at her.
“I…dreamt of you.”
“You…dreamt… of me?” Pansy choked out the words. “And I’m to blame for this…?”
“That’s what Potter said.”
He had definitely lost her somewhere in that explanation…else, perhaps he just wasn’t explaining right to begin with. Most likely that was the case, as she refused to believe she was too dim to understand something as simple as how his dreams had a single thing to do with her.
“Potter said you made me dream…those things… about you,” he growled, eyes flashing darkly.
My, my, she thought archly. The Muggle had teeth. Growling and snarling. How very… primal. It made something in her stomach get quivery. She hid a subtle perusal of his body behind her lowered lashes, pretending to ponder his statement.
He was certainly built like a hippogriff, near as she could tell. Well-muscled legs, encased in those Muggle jeans that some of the students sometimes wore, looked as though they were full of that kind of power that she’d always dreamed of. Draco had been a wonderful lover, in a fumbling adolescent kind of way, but he was stringy. Connor didn’t look stringy in the least.
“And what went on in those… dreams?” she murmured, continuing her steady upward sweep of her eyes. Oh yes, that looked promising. Her eyes stopped on his front-side, just above his legs, and she found herself licking her lips. The jeans were far, far too tight to hide what the Creator had given him.
“You know what they’re about! Stop playing this game with me.”
She sighed, abandoning her full-frontal ocular assault. “I haven’t begun to play games with you… yet. Would you like to play games? How about tie up the Sort-of-Muggle?”
The odd boy blushed!
“No. No games.”
And stammering, too. How… interesting. Pansy leaned back to get a better look at him.
Right there. Almost in her face.
He was quite ‘up’ for a little activity.
The thought of being tied up obviously didn’t upset him in the least.
Funny that – the idea of tying him up didn’t upset her, either.
She hid a smirk. This had possibilities. Judging by the size of what his trousers hid – quite large possibilities.
“Fine, then, Connor – right? Let’s go back to my dorms and I’ll get that nasty curse right off of you.”
“Why your dorm?” he asked, somewhat suspiciously.
Good for him, Pansy thought, her opinion of him rising somewhat. Never trust one’s enemy. Then again, she didn’t expect they’d be enemies much longer. No, not enemies at all.
If only she could figure out what it was that he had been dreaming about.
“She didn’t make me dream.”
Harry hid a smile, looking up at Connor with as much innocence as he could muster. He wondered how annoyed Pans was with him for sending Connor to her. It had just been too perfect, when the other boy mentioned the dreams he’d been having about the Slytherin princess. Dreams of a not-so-innocent nature that seemed to perturb Connor something awful. Knowing Pans, she’d found it all quite amusing.
“No,” Connor confirmed what Harry had already known with a shake of his head.
Harry’s eyes were drawn down to the spot that Connor was absently rubbing at. A pink spot on his wrist that matched the one on the other wrist that was just barely showing under the sleeve of Connor’s shirt. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think that those were rope marks of some sort.
“But she made them come true,” the American laughed wickedly, flopping down in a chair.
Right then – rope marks, indeed.