In which Michael and Mal are little girls


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Pansy scowled down at her mobile. Draco had hung up on her. Oh, he would pay.

“What’s wrong, Pans?” Michael asked from his sprawl on the couch. Stuart was, as usual, passed out on the floor, and Mal was perched on the end of the coffee table, palming a big bowl of cereal.

“Draco’s been rude,” she pouted, tossing the phone on top of her purse.

Mal spooned up some cheerios. “Same old, same old, then,” he mumbled, wiping a drool of milk off his chin.

Pansy curled her lip. “For god’s sake, Mal, at least use a napkin.”

“Sorry.” He grinned at her, mouth full, and she rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’m not going to let him or your disgusting eating habits ruin my incredibly good spirits,” she said emphatically, settling down next to Michael. She’d never been so stunned in her entire life, studying the painting Harry had finished for her. He’d stripped himself bare and given her layers, and she wasn’t exactly sure how she knew that, but it’d been buried in the color, the brushstrokes, and the expression on her averted face. She could see right away that he’d been half in love with her, of course, and that certainly explained his foolish behavior. She was big enough to forgive him his fumbles.

Sighing, she snuggled into Michael’s side. “What were you boys up to last night?”

“We watched—”

“Porn,” Michael cut Mal off, shooting him a pointed look. “Lots and lots of porn.”

Pansy arched a skeptical brow. “Really,” she said dryly. She knew he was most likely lying, because she was well aware they tended to play board games when they all got together without her. Monopoly was a long-standing favorite, as was Risk, and occasionally Pictionary, and she’d once caught them playing a very, very old set of Sesame Street Memory.

“So much porn. Disgusting amounts,” Michael went on, nodding, hands waving elaborately.

“Come on, now,” Pansy chastised, smacking his thigh. “Tell the truth.” She spied the monopoly game poking out from under their overstuffed armchair, and also. She stretched out her leg and caught the end of a small box, toeing it closer with her sock-foot. Empty, it collapsed under the pressure, and Pansy switched off and bent down to grab it with her fingers.

“Don’t.” Michael snatched it out of her hands, but not before she spotted the esteemed Mr. Darcy lounging on the cover.

They were all silent for a beat.

And then Stuart let out a massive snore and Pansy cleared her throat and said, carefully, “So. I’m only upset you watched it without me.”

Michael half-heartedly protested, “We didn’t.”

“Right.” She didn’t find it weird, really, because it was Michael and Mal, and no doubt Stuart had something to do with it. And Greg. Honestly, the whole lot of them were little girls.

It was mostly endearing.

“It’s still in there, then?” she asked, grabbing the remote.

More eerie silence.

“Darcy’d just found Lydia,” Mal finally offered, ignoring Michael’s scowl, ‘cause bugger it all, he wanted to see how it ended.

He hoped it was happy.

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