Wow, I spent an entire day pouring myself into this because I just had to, because it came right out of me, because now I'm in love with them.

I wrote on my profile page how much wasted potential Pansy Parkinson really had as a character and how brilliant she could have been.

Well, here it is; my version of it. All I know is that I'm very attached to the story. I hope you'll like it too.

Please review and share your thoughts.

"We're just going to wing it, Potter."

It's not really an answer to his previous question. It's not a statement either, or a fact. It's just her way of informing him she's on his side. Somehow it happened, absurdly, magically.

And it's like he forgot what he wanted to find out. What's the point of asking what and how when Pansy Parkinson has just told you she doesn't have a single clue but she's going into it, head on, because she's on your side?

They're all going to wing it, because no one is prepared, but when Pansy says it, it sounds so different, so confident. Exciting even.

"That...sounds about right," he replies, looking at the handful of Slytherins she gathered in pure, unadulterated astonishment.

Sure, he can't see Malfoy, Crabbe or Goyle anywhere in sight, but who cares? There's Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Millicent Bulstrode, Thomas McGruder and Tracey Davis grinning mischievously at him.

"I don't know how you did this, but -" Harry tells her later after everyone's settled in formation (they've spread around the castle strategically).

"Actually, it was quite easy. Just told them they'd have no more Hogwarts for the next semester. And who'd want to be stuck with the parents?"

Harry almost chuckles in the midst of it all. He can feel the building shaking, but she's just so damn infectious.

Everything is just so damn infectious; they're in the middle of a war and just like in those books he's read out of curiosity, he's discovering people, real people. Enemies and foes suddenly becoming allies. It's just like in those stories.

And he feels hope for humanity and the wizarding world, because if Pansy Parkinson can be different then, well, anything is possible.

"Listen, Pansy, I don't know your motives, but I just want to say I misjudged you-"

"No, you didn't. I mean, of course, I'm brilliant, but you'd be right to assume I don't like you. I don't like your Order. Or your Gryffindor lot. I'm not really helping you. Got it?"

Harry feels he can live with that. It doesn't dampen the dizzy jolt of happiness. "Got it."

After that, they lose track of each other, but he knows the Slytherins are there, everywhere, around him, like a shadow.

No one knows about them. No one knows what they're doing. Pansy only ever told him. So these are the invisible heroes of war. These are the people who will never get their due.

In the aftershock, everyone's just staggering and blinking rapidly and there's a vast undercurrent sweeping them inside out and laughter and crying and everything in a big, bubbly, wobbly, wet mess of histrionics.

It's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, but exhausting. He sits down, lands on the stone steps and looks about him like a newborn child.

He doesn't want to see the bodies, but they keep piling up.

And among them, he spots Theodore Nott.

No one is crying over him. No one is standing there, watching his corpse in awe. No one is holding his cold, lifeless hand. He isn't considered a hero and he'll never be reflected in a pair of warm eyes.

Although, yes, he and the rest of them fought, but unlike others, he was alone; they never knew what he did; what great, big thing he did.

Tracey Davis is standing some feet away, shaking, but even she can't bring herself to go over to Theo. She's a Slytherin and Slytherins sever ties. Not because they're heartless, but because it's necessary for survival. It's what Theo would have wanted.

Then there's Blaise Zabini who just can't take it anymore and runs over and takes a Ravenclaw girl in his arms and kisses her over and over again. Because he's always had a thing for her and now it can happen. The girl, however, just looks at him shocked. She doesn't respond. He realizes he's mixed them up. This one's another Ravenclaw girl, but who cares?

As for the other brave Slytherins, they might be trapped under the ruins, or they might be here, in this very room, watching him, wondering what will happen now, counting the minutes till they have to wake up and face the facts; their parents will never see them again, not with the same eyes.

Pansy Parkinson is walking shakily, limbs disintegrating, lips sinking under her teeth, fists locked onto a white shirt and she's dragging a Petrified Draco Malfoy across the grounds. She can't Levitate him. She's lost her wand.

Harry sees her from a distance. She wipes the sweat on her forehead. She's coloured brown, red, black, blue and all the other colours he can think of.

And he can't help the rush in his bones as he gets up and runs to help her, because she's the symbol, she's what everyone expected out of this war. She's one of the great things that came out of it.

He feels so proud to be part of it, her great change.

Although, as he reaches up to her, he can see the scowl in her features, the dissatisfaction glowing along with the relief, the aristocratic nonchalance mixed with a burning relentlessness.

It's shocking how much things change and yet never do. He can't explain it. It's simultaneous.

She drops Malfoy at her feet, like a dead weight.

"He's all right. He just got a bit too excited," she tells Harry, perfectly composed.

But then, not so much anymore, because she falls right into his arms, knocked out by the effort of just being there after everything.

He's lucky to catch her in time and as his hands circle her waist he can already feel her warm blood trailing across his fingers. She's seriously injured.

He visits her in the hospital. It takes an eternity of course; between the moment she's taken away to when he finally gets to see her. She isn't his first stop, or his second, or third, but he manages to find her, at last.

It happens one Friday afternoon. He comes to visit Lavender, because Hermione insisted for some reason and he's glad to see everyone really, but he thinks the girl might be trying to force a friendship where one shouldn't be.

Sure, Pansy was a revelation, but Lavender and Hermione don't have to be.

It's Hermione, though, who tells him that she and Millicent Bulstrode are somewhere on the Fourth Floor. The dreaded Fourth Floor. The one with all the sinister implications. She tells him more out of habit, like they're back in school and she's pointing at the Slytherin table, mentioning the names fleetingly.

She doesn't know, of course. Few if any know what those six Slytherins really did, those six exceptionally brave and insane Slytherins.

That is why he has an almost visible reaction. It is remorse, maybe guilt, because no one looks on them with anything but disgust or condescending pity. Even Hermione, who was forgiving enough to befriend Lavender, can't seem to warm up to them after the war.

And who can blame her? For her, they're all in the same bunch, still. For her, they weren't even part of the war.

And it makes him feel so wretched, that he has to excuse himself and pretend to visit the Longbottoms, just to go see her.

He doesn't find her easily, but when he does, she's sitting up in her bed, an old number of The Daily Prophet spread on her lap and red quill in her hand. She's clearly focused on whatever task she's set at hand.

The expression on her face is hard to coin. It's not as domineering as it used to be, not as challenging, not as confident. But there is the bite, the smirk, the sneer, they're all there, in the hollow of her cheek, dormant. They never left.

It's very strange when she looks up, because she really wasn't expecting this. She doesn't have visitors, her parents can't be called that and Millicent is already there with her all the time, nagging her constantly because she hates hospitals, and that girl is the closest thing to a friend she has, so she can't be blamed if this feels almost unbearable.

When she decided to do what she did, she knew she had to keep it a secret. She knew from the start she wouldn't be able to stand the looks, the smiles, the congratulations, the warmth, the approval, the acceptance. She just wasn't cut out for that kind of stuff. That's why she dreaded anyone ever finding out.

Yes, the same proud and arrogant Pansy Parkinson who usually bragged about every little thing, wanted to hide her heroic actions.

There was something very funny and very sad about that.

"What are you doing here?" she blurts out more violently than she meant to. But Harry Potter is making her feel nauseous right now. Like really, really nauseous.

Harry takes in a deep breath and hopes this wasn't a mistake.

"Hi, Pansy. It's been a while."

"It's Parkinson to you. And you have no idea," she replies coldly, because she's been trapped in that room for the last four months.

"All right, sorry. Parkinson. I just thought I should come by... Hermione told me about you and Bulstrode."

"And what would she know exactly?"

Harry sighs. She's not giving in.

"Not much, I'll admit. But you can't blame her, it's not like you have told people," he answers, hoping she won't be upset by the underlying meaning. But of course she does.

"I don't think people want to know, Potter. I don't even want to know." She pauses. "I'm fine, either way, if that's your concern."

"I'm glad. Really," he says sitting down by her bedside, even if she clearly wants him to stay away. The sudden closeness makes her feel vulnerable.

She looks better now, fewer bruises and cuts, she's got colour in her cheeks. But it's still very visible; that she was pretty much unconscious for a whole month.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, untactfully.

"None of your business, I should think," she says crisply.

"Why not?"

She remains silent.

"All right, I'll just check with the mediwizards then," he replies evenly.

At the thought of that, Pansy flares up, her eyes growing brighter and she shakes her head vigorously. "You'll do no such thing. My condition is not a public matter."

Harry smiles ruefully. "Well, these days I'm pretty popular so I think I can find out, public or not."

She's almost shocked by this playful rebuttal. It's so unlike himself, it's almost...Slytherin.

"Oh? Already taking advantage of the perks? I suppose you're not a complete idiot," she jokes, but maybe she means it.

Harry smiles again. "I'm not taking advantage. I just want to make sure the people who helped me are taken care of."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Merlin. How disturbingly paternal of you."

"I wouldn't put it like that - "

"So the people who didn't help you might as well kick the bucket, then? Following your impeccable logic," she quips, smirking.

Harry is caught off guard. He almost chuckles again.

"Okay, let's say I make an arse of myself sometimes because I don't know how not to sound like an arse (at this Pansy legitimately smiles), but I really do mean it when I say I want to know you're well."

"Even though you didn't bother for four months?"

At this he winces and lowers his head in remorse.

"Would it sound horrible if I said I've been really busy?"

Pansy rolls her eyes.

"Relax, Potter. I wasn't really visiting-material until recently and even then I probably wouldn't have wanted you here. Not that I do now. We've never be friends or even casual acquaintances, so don't feel obliged to play the hero card with me."

Harry smiles in sadness.

"That's kind of a relief, actually."

"See? No use losing any sleep over it. I'm sure Granger's wondering where you are right now."

But Harry doesn't listen. "Pans - Parkinson, I know we've never been... anything. But then, that night, you showed me this side of you -"

"That you'll never see again. So no use prying. Or acting nice. All right?"

He stares at her incredulously.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but you can't deny it. You fought for us."

"And will probably regret it for the rest of my life if you keep referring to it like that."

"But you're - "

"Not in the mood for this. Listen, Potter, people do certain things in certain situations, but you don't have to judge them for it, do you?"

"Actually, I do, yeah, because actions are more relevant. And what you do defines you, no matter when or how you do it."

Pansy wants to lunge at him just to make him shut up. She's very, very nauseous.

"Good to see Dumbledore's sentimental drivel is still in circulation."

But he doesn't even flinch at the mention of his name.

"I don't care who you were before this, before what you did. I care about who you are now, okay?"

She feels her throat constricting painfully. She is not going to cry in front of him.

"Is that why you came here today? To tell me how much you care about me now?"

"Well, no, I - No. Actually, I just wanted to -" he stumbles, not knowing what to say exactly. Because he really has no idea what made him say he cares about who she is now. And he doesn't know if he would have ever come and seen her. If not for Hermione, maybe he would've never -

No, he would have. He would have remembered.

But maybe it would have been too late.

"I wanted to see how you were. And I'm glad - I'm glad I came. I have to thank Hermione for that."

(He will always remember.)

Pansy sniffs a bit, not knowing how to respond. She doesn't really know how to hurt him anymore.

"Don't you want to see Millicent too?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

Harry chuckles in relief. "Er, maybe a bit later. Frankly, she's kind of intimidating."

Pansy chortles at that. "And I'm not?"

He remembers her falling into his arms.

"Not right now."

"Oh, that's a shame," she deadpans and looks down at the newspaper again, red quill in her hand.

"What exactly are you doing?"

"Checking for misprints and spelling mistakes."

He feels a sudden fondness for her, he doesn't know why.

"Any luck?"

"Plenty. The Daily Prophet is written by a bunch of hacks."

"Yeah, it's not exactly top journalism."

Pansy yawns into her fist. "Look, if you're going to stay here longer, I'm not going to entertain you. I'm done talking."

It's so glacial and yet it burns, like a frost that leaves a warm mark on the skin. She's so infectious.

Harry nods his head. "Okay. I can live with that."

There is a pause.

"You won't come again, will you?"

Harry smirks. "You don't get off that easily."

He visits her two more times until she's released and she's just as uncivil as before, if not more so. His kindness drives her insane. The only thing preventing her from throwing the flower vase her mother brought at his head is the biting sarcasm he sometimes throws her way. It's short-lived and more playful than mean, but there are moments when he can be gently cruel and it's sort of invigorating. She thinks she might've tolerated that Harry Potter at Hogwarts.

As for Harry, he's not sure why he comes to see her a second time and a third, afterwards. It doesn't feel like an obligation, per se. He sees other people and, he hates to say this, but it's a lot more boring when he's just sitting with old mates like Terry Boot and Ernie MacMillan and they can only ever see him through a noble lens and they only ever talk about the new, bright future and that grim war they left behind.

Which isn't exactly true, because it's not behind them, unfortunately. I mean, sure, it's inevitable, they are going to keep discussing it for as long as they live and they are going to recall certain moments and relive that night over and over again, but maybe life shouldn't be wasted on that.

Maybe it's better to focus on other people.

So Pansy Parkinson is a blessed and selfish distraction. She doesn't talk about the pitiful war or that sinister, steel-rimmed future, a wide sea of opportunities. No, she takes great pleasure in avoiding both past and future.

She doesn't really help him with anything else, though. Doesn't chase the nightmares away and doesn't ease the pain. That's Ginny's job. Ginny loves him and he loves her.

She stays up with him all night talking and brushing his hair and lets him pretend he's crying on her shoulder. He tries to express his feelings physically, because he knows it's healthy to let it out, but it's mostly a show. Still, it's a comforting show. Ginny tells him about the Chamber as a counterpoint. He listens and feels sorry for her, for them both, but then he feels incredibly lightweight and happy because Merlin, they're lying in his bed, in his new flat, in those new clean, bed sheets, not a single cupboard under the stairs in sight, no loud Weasley brothers, no Tom Riddle, no tents, no dirt, no grind, no more ominous figures on the wall, just the soft light in his bedroom and her red hair sprawled across his pillow.

And they should be so content, so, so content.

They are, for the most part. They're getting a bit used to each other, a bit bored in the affectionate kind of way. It's almost a year now and they're starting to know each other a little too well, learning each other's habits a little too conscientiously and as Hogwarts fades further and further away, they shed that old skin and try out the new with some bumps along the way.

It's all very sweet and real and "Harry and Ginny", but he never tells Pansy about this, doesn't even mention it, or Ginny.

Because either she knows it, or doesn't want to know. Why would she? It's not like he's supposed to let everyone know he's in a relationship.

It does come up, eventually, the last time he visits, three months after that first time he came into her ward.

She's holding a copy of Witch Weekly, gloating like the cat that hunted down the mouse. He's sort of glad to see the old mean strike in her. Not that she wasn't mean before, but now she's really back to being mean Pansy Parkinson.

"Well, what do you know? I was wrong. You're not actually making sweet love to Ron Weasley. You're screwing his sister instead. Although, I suppose Witch Weekly could have mixed them up."

Harry is a bit shocked, a bit overwhelmed by the spitefulness, but a part of his brain registers it as humorous and he gets back on his feet and just waves it off with a joke about her reading a magazine that takes his love life seriously.

It's a bit pathetic and she sneers at him.

"I don't read this trash, but you've got to admit that Harry and Ginny - Seven Years In The Making is too tempting a title to pass."

He winces at the cover on the front page. It's a picture of him and Ginny coming out of a cinema, her arms around his hips, her head tilted back, laughing happily.

He doesn't look very comfortable in it. Probably because while it was taken, Ginny knew what was happening and she told him to just play along because it was supposed to be fun, they were supposed to have fun.

"It tracks your whirlwind romance from the first moment she saw you hopping on the train when you were eleven," Pansy droned, flipping through it, "to the moment she realized fame and average wand skill do not equate a very satisfying bedroom experience."

Again, he is thrown back by that sharp tongue of hers, licked dry, forced out of that conventional politeness he sinks himself into when he enters her room.

He wants to retaliate, more to prove that he doesn't care about these stupid things, that he's not that love struck idiot she sees on the front page. Instead he bites his lip not to snap at her and she notices and it makes her fume.

She wants a reaction, a real one. But he's holding back, being too nice as usual.

"Average wand skill?" he echoes, a shadow of a smile on his lips. "My Chocolate Frog Card begs to differ."

That was weak even for you, Potter, Pansy thinks throwing her head back on the pillow.

"Merlin, I can't wait to get out of here," she says and he's not sure whether she doesn't just want to get rid of him.

He doesn't get to visit her after that, because she's finally released and her parents whisk her away to Parkinson mansion where she can rest a little more.

She's stuck there, feeling like a plant in a pot that's already too cracked and she needs water and light and air and just maybe a new pot.

They're very protective of her now. They weren't before because before she never did anything for anyone.

Now she had almost thrown her life away, almost killed herself for good for...well, for Hogwarts and the Order and The Boy Who Lived.

So they don't trust her anymore. They don't think they can stop worrying, because she's not her selfish self anymore, not as selfish anyway and it scares them.

It scares them, because they don't understand how and why she became like this. Was she always secretly nice? They shudder because they don't think this is niceness. Throwing everything out the window is not nice. Was it just a phase? An impetuous, youthful period of contention and contradiction?

Who knows? Who really knows about Pansy Parkinson?

Thankfully she's not that sort of nice, but she's a different sort now, not their own. Not their own.

They know they can't keep her inside for too long, so they hope she'll recover slowly and that she won't lash out when they put up the barriers. They hope she won't make their life difficult. They hope she won't notice.

But she doesn't need to fully recover to make them quiver and simmer and just burst.

She introduces Malfoy to Astoria Greengrass. She throws herself into this little project with all her might. She becomes matchmaker extraordinaire, making sure her parents feel the sting; she'll never be a Malfoy, their Pansy will never be mistress of Malfoy Manor. Instead, ugly little Astoria Greengrass, who used to play with Pansy as a child, is going to take it all away from their daughter.

"He likes this and this, don't do this and that," they hear her tell Astoria, advising her on her old boyfriend's preferences.

Sure, the Malfoy name doesn't have quite the same elegant ring to it as before, but it's still something mighty, especially now that Draco Malfoy has become an Auror.

He's just got this Byronic light all around him. The repenting antihero. The villain turned good, although wait, he wasn't a villain to begin with, he was just a young man with many unresolved issues, doesn't that make it even more romantic?

"He's half in love with you already, I can tell," Pansy tells Astoria as they take long walks on her estate.

Astoria asks her if she can help with anything, if she needs anything. She is full of gratitude.

"I need to get out."

"But you just got out of the hospital."

"Exactly."

Malfoy's wedding comes and goes and Pansy is maid of honour which simply makes her parents turn red and make up some poor excuse for not attending the ceremony, because they really can't bear watching their daughter's smug expression while they sit there defeated. She will walk up the aisle but not join Draco. That's enough bitterness to last them a lifetime.

She doesn't miss them. She's so relieved and thankful they're gone for now. She almost wants to be warm and affectionate to everyone around her, but she stops and realizes she'd never pull it off because she doesn't really care about them.

Not like that anyway.

Harry Potter, for some reason, is among the guests attending. He was invited. And so was his girlfriend, Ginny Weasley.

She can't see Granger and the other Weasley anywhere though. Apparently old grudges can still have that effect on people. She doesn't know if it's on Malfoy's side or theirs, but she regrets not having them there because she could have poked fun at it.

Merlin, she must be bored if she actually wishes Granger were here to spice up the party.

And she is quite bored as she sits at the bar, playing with her drink lazily, feeling sore from dancing with Marcus Flint who suddenly realized she wasn't twelve anymore.

She sort of knew the Hogwarts crowd was coming, but it hits her hard either way.

Because none of her Slytherins are there. No Millicent (still in the hospital, after all this time, not as lucky apparently), no Tracey (she's lost her brother), no Thomas (he's lost his faith), no Blaise (he's lost his heart). Theo is gone forever (he's lost his soul). And she -

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Parkinson."

Harry Potter is suddenly standing before her and then he is sliding down next to her at the bar.

She recovers quickly.

"Potter. Looking dapper as always."

He is momentarily baffled by the compliment.

"You really think so?" he asks dumbly.

"Weasley must be wearing you down if you can't even recognize sarcasm anymore."

"Ah. Lovely to see you too, Pansy."

Oops, he forgot about Parkinson. But it's too late to take it back now. And really, it's silly how she always makes him call her by her last name. Like it means anything.

She arches her back and throws him a look only she can give him. Critical, amused, annoyed, interested and nonchalant all in one.

"So, how on Earth did Malfoy invite you?" she asks because she's really bored. And a bit curious.

"Shouldn't I be asking you the same question?"

The boldness shakes her up a bit and she tilts her head to the side, raising an eyebrow.

"You're the ex, aren't you? Must be awkward," he explained.

"Yes, but I'm sure Astoria doesn't think about me like that anymore," she quips.

He almost spits out his drink. His mistake, of course, for not specifying whose ex.

"You look well, everything holding up?" he asks, smiling hopefully. Maybe she won't shoot him down instantly. Maybe she'll accept his kindness.

She tries really hard to come up with some scornful repartee, some cynical rebuttal. She wants to rebuke him, because it's better than nothing, but she just sighs and nods absently.

"Yes, everything is fine. Everything is brilliant."

"That's not very convincing -"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, something honest? I know it's a milestone for you."

"Oh, shut up. I don't know why you want something honest from me. I don't want anything from you."

"Really? How am I only now figuring that out?" he bites back and her heart leaps a bit because yes, there it is, that spark in him, but then as soon as it comes it's gone.

"But seriously, Pansy, I know we haven't talked in ages -"

And it infuriates her. Infuriates her. How he always does this. Crawls back into his safe shell of "human kindness". It's so practiced, it's so stale. It's so cowardly.

"We haven't talked in ages?" she echoes mockingly. "Merlin, Potter, we've met at a wedding by accident. And you're suddenly accosting me with friendly questions. What are we, boarding school girlfriends?"

A bucket of cold water on his back. No, more like a bucket of smooth, sharp ice.

"Did we share tooth brushes and talk about boys? Did I play you my favourite records?"

"I don't -"

"No. That was you and your little Trio, holding hands in the sunset. Not me. So stop pretending that this is any different."

"Wow, hang on a bit, I didn't mean to upset you, Parkinson and I'm not pretending. I just wanted to keep in touch -"

"Why? Why the hell would you want that?"

He doesn't know what she wants him to say.

"You visited me in the hospital three times like the good Samaritan that you are. You're done. You can safely be an asshole now, all right? Merlin, just be an asshole already!"

So Harry listens to her. He gets up and doesn't look back. He just leaves her mid-sentence.

And it's so damn refreshing. He feels brand new.

Hell, why was he even trying so hard?

If Pansy Parkinson wants to be a bitch, let her be a bitch.

He goes back to Ginny, scoops her up in his arms and they dance for half an hour straight and he kisses her so much she almost suffocates.

He tries to recall why he even thought he might like Pansy as a person in the first place.

Oh, right. The war. She fought. Well, maybe she was right. Maybe actions don't mean that much and maybe people do things and then they forget, they're cut off, they revert to their old ways, no shame, no regrets.

He really feels much better now that he doesn't have to pretend, because he was pretending, wasn't he?

Later, it's almost five in the morning and he's walking across the lawn, trying to clear his head because he's a little tipsy, maybe almost a little drunk when he sees the clouds part and even though they're parting and technically the sun's supposed to rise, it starts raining.

He runs towards the greenhouse.

He sees her coming out on the terrace, looking out into the distance with a lost look in her eyes and a yearning he can't quite place. She's thinking of them. Those Slytherins. The ones she lost in the fire.

He can tell. He doesn't know how. But he can tell.

And in that moment, they're both thinking of the same thing.

Six months later, it's her birthday and she is sleeping with Draco Malfoy. Even though he's Astoria's, even though she created their love story. It's just a one-time indiscretion, caused by too much wine and miserable nostalgia. They leave the restaurant and go back to his place. Astoria is away with her sister, Daphne. It's not enjoyable, but it happens, like all things do, like weights that slip off heavy branches and you know they're coming down but you don't know where they'll land.

She cries for the first time as she gets dressed (he's asleep) because she's sunk so low.

Malfoy catches her as she's trying to leave and tells her to stay a bit longer, but she glares at him.

"Stay? For what? To talk? We've said and done everything we could have."

Malfoy argues that maybe they haven't solved all their issues if somehow they ended up in bed six months after his wedding.

She doesn't even have the energy to get angry. Doesn't have the energy to tell him he started it.

"You know that summer before our sixth year? You never told me anything. You didn't write, didn't visit, didn't try to contact me. And that was fine, but you received the Mark and you didn't even think of telling me. You just went ahead and did the stupidest thing in your life and then on the train you had the nerve to brag about it and tell me how much more mature you were, how Hogwarts was a waste, how you finally knew what being a man meant. Now I know you were just saving face because you desperately wanted to tell me how scared you were. And it sickens me. Everything just sickens me. About you and me."

"What-"

"Because I believed you. And I wasted so much time on that. On you."

"Pansy-"

"Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why couldn't you just tell me the truth? We could have been -"

But she breaks off angrily, almost crying again and he gets up and tries to gather her in his arms and she pushes away at first but then she relents.

They hold each other and it doesn't make things better, but they feel those weights falling in the right direction.

It's the start of something new in her life; a job at The Daily Prophet.

Yes, unbelievable, unfathomable and all the rest. She, who was their toughest critic, is joining their ranks.

It's a bit exhilarating, holding down her first job. Buying an apartment, moving to the city.

She's always liked the city best. Not for all the obvious reasons. She actually thinks it's more peaceful, safer, cleaner, quieter than the open dark fields howling into the night and the old manor groaning under the weight of her steps.

She checks herself in the mirror from time to time for the scars on her stomach. They won't heal. She's tried everything. They just don't vanish.

And one night, as she peruses the papers in her office, she notices Harry Potter's still got his scar too.

Sure, it's obsolete. Everyone's forgotten about it now that its maker is gone. Still, it's there and it probably doesn't hurt him anymore but it's a sad vestige.
You want to peel off the skin, but it's carved within you and you can't peel that deep.

He stares back from a very still and formal photograph of him and the Chief of the Auror Department, shaking hands solemnly.

Harry Potter is taking a temporary hiatus from the ranks. He wants to teach at Hogwarts for a while. It's the biggest news to hit the Ministry in three months.

He still thinks about that night sometimes.

It's strange, but out of all those moments, all those crucial moments when he'd been so close to death, he keeps going back to that one where he sees her and five other Slytherins coming out of the green sea, shaking the water off, leaving everything behind, standing firmly in front of him like they're about to take the world.

No one else, nothing else, had given him so much hope. He'd never felt so much joy. To see the House he'd almost been sorted into finally prove why he could have belonged there. To see the Slytherins rise against The Heir of Slytherin.

It had been excruciatingly beautiful.

She had been excruciatingly beautiful and he hadn't noticed it before.

Pug-faced, she used to be.

But she'd shone brighter than all the lights in Hogwarts that night.

Now, though, it's a different story. It's almost like it never happened.

Ginny doesn't talk to him at night anymore, because they're just sleeping now.

She is assigned to write a piece on the Hogwarts headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. The Transfiguration Professor never liked her and doesn't like her, still. She can't say she feels any different. But now there's a certain degree of respect between them. Maybe because they'd both been in the castle that night.

In any case, she treats Pansy very civilly and asks about her parents and is not so very distant and cold, or at least she tries to ignore that she used to be in a certain House. She tries to see her as a different person, a girl that never went to Hogwarts, a newcomer.

She appreciates the courtesy.

"I suppose you want to - to visit the castle a little bit? To see the renovations," Minerva asks in a strained voice.

"I'd like that."

She actually doesn't want to see any part of the castle. She wants to walk by the dungeons and never look back, but she's still in love with it, all of it and she hates herself for it, because she'd do anything to turn back the time and go up to her old dorm and sit on the bed and just live that life again. Maybe differently, maybe the same, but just live.

Hogwarts is that mythical place that somehow gives her actions meaning, good or bad, it's an everlasting meaning. Something of hers, who she was and what she did, will remain here, forever etched to these walls.

She almost smiles when she sees the Quidditch Field. What a beautiful, beautiful, useless game. What a beauty.

Those hoops, she can see herself flying through them and it makes her light and empty, but a good kind of light and empty.

She sits down for tea in Minerva McGonagall's old office. The old woman is still fond of it.

Harry Potter comes in unexpectedly. He wishes to talk to the headmistress.

They see each other for the first time in what is it? Three years? It can't be less than three years. It's shocking how much things change and yet never do.

Harry coughs awkwardly and shoves his hands in his pocket like an eleven year-old again and she narrows her eyes at him critically, mercilessly. Back in a train in the middle of nowhere. Little Ginny falling in love with her hero hopping on the Hogwarts Express. And here is Pansy cutting out pieces of him like he's got many to spare.

But something's changed, something's shifted.

(He will always remember.)

So Harry takes out his hand, shakes hers, smiles briefly, teasingly almost and it's a promise that maybe he's stopped pretending.

She doesn't quite smile back but she appraises him differently.

They go out for drinks in Hogsmeade because after standing there awkwardly in front of Minerva McGonagall, she finally tells him she's writing a piece on the headmistress and Minerva, relieved to have someone else deal with Pansy for a change, directs her towards him, tells her she should interview a Professor too, even a temporary one.

She's already got Flitwick, but why not Potter too?

Why the hell not?

Harry doesn't look particularly pleased, but then he's got that mocking air about him, so it does make her feel better.

"Hogsmeade hasn't changed one bit," she tells him over a very sweet Butterbeer. She should just order alcohol already, it's silly to act like a schoolgirl, but she can't help it.

"Actually, you'll be happy to hear Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop has closed down for good."

Pansy smirks. "How will the thirteen year olds recover? I suppose it's back to Filch's broom cabinet now."

Harry smiles ruefully. "Oh, is that where you dragged those unfortunate souls?"

Her smirk widens. "Well, look who decided to grow backbone."

"Oh now you think I've grown a backbone? Now that I insult your ex-boyfriends?"

"Actually you're insulting me, but it's better than treading on eggshells."

Harry looks up at her with a questioning look in his eye, but he drops it when she changes the subject.

"So, how is teaching then? Tell me all about it."

And it feels so strange, her asking him this as if they were old friends. He suddenly remembers what she told him two years ago at the wedding. You're suddenly accosting me with friendly questions.

He would like to throw that in her face, but he knows she might be asking this for her article.

He drones on as expected about there being not much to tell after all, how the students are bright, but lazy and comfortable now that there's no imminent threat hanging over their shoulder. No more DAs, that's for sure.

When he mentions Dumbledore's Army, she suddenly asks:

"Do you ever go back to the Room of Requirement?"

Harry's eyes seem more blue now than green and it gives her a chill. She wants to raise her hand and touch his forehead, because the scar is still there, obsolete.

"Not really. I try not to. I am tempted. But I don't want to mess with it. I feel I'd be disrupting it, you know? That kind of magic should be used when you actually need it. Otherwise the room just loses its purpose."

"Wise words, Potter," she remarks in all seriousness. "I suppose you've lost that charming naiveté of yours."

Harry rolls his eyes.

"It's only been three years, Parkinson. Not a lifetime. I'm still the same good Samaritan."

Ah, so he hasn't forgotten that.

"Pity. You had so much potential."

He frowns in confusion.

"To be an asshole," she continues naturally.

Ah, he almost forgot about that.

He chuckles. "Maybe it's not too late."

She places her elbows on the table and stares him down. "I don't know, some cases are hopeless."

Harry seems to dwell on that word. Hopeless. He feels the blow. Pansy's no saint. She's heard the rumours. She works in the field, after all.

Trouble in paradise apparently. He and Ginny might actually not get engaged for the third year in a row.

She jumps right into it.

"Don't feel too bad about it. I don't know why people rush into these things. I don't know why people do these things, actually. We're so young. It's - it's not the time for final decisions."

"I don't want to talk about it, Parkinson."

"Well, I do, because for a whole hour now you've been trying so hard to be witty and funny and all you really want to do is tell me how Witch Weekly can go fuck themselves."

It's so violent and so abrupt he feels the rug pulled out from underneath him and he's struggling to get back up.

As always, she's so infectious.

And he feels this undiluted guilty pleasure bursting out of his chest, because he's about to lash out, he's about to lose control and tell her how much Witch Weekly can go fuck themselves indeed, because he finally has the right audience and he's allowed to be angry, very, very angry and ungrateful and spiteful and pessimistic and just downright assholish -

He breathes out and leans back against his chair.

"Who says I'm trying? I am naturally funny and witty, aren't I?" he replies hoarsely, not looking her in the eye.

It's so fast he doesn't have time to register it, but she suddenly gets up and knocks over her Butterbeer, spilling its contents all over the table and his jeans.

"I'm going to the bathroom. You can just stay here and sulk, Potter."

Oh, no. No, no. No, no, no.

She is not allowed to leave like this. Like she's a fucking ice queen retreating into her private lair. Like he's not worth the bother. Like he's as disgusting and pathetic as that Butterbeer, dripping down his jeans.

She's the one who keeps edging him on, she's setting him up. It's a trap.

If you follow her, you're weak, he thinks. But if you don't follow her you're even weaker.

"What the hell is your problem?" he asks, banging the bathroom door open.

She's a bit impressed that he actually came after her into the ladies' room. But only mildly. He's a hot head, but not one for consistency. He'll be going back any minute now, head between his shoulders, looking as miserable as ever.

That is, when she's done with him.

"Why do you think I have the problem? You're the one bursting in here like a lunatic."

"Oh, don't give me that! Don't give me any of your crap! Not this time!"

Her eyes waver slightly, but she still thinks it's weak. It's not him. Maybe if she pushes harder.

"All right. No more crap. Straight from the source. Here's what I think. I think you're a fucking hypocrite. I think you've been so nice and kind and selfless for so long that it pisses you off that no one's bothered to be the same with you. And it's got to be a pain, saving the world and then the world just doesn't bother to save you back. Well, tough break, Potter. You should've known from the start what you were getting into. Now you can't get rid of it. It's like a shadow following you everywhere. You can't even get angry about it anymore. You're a joke and you know it."

His fist collides with the sink units with alarming speed.

She jumps in surprise.

There is a deafening echo in its wake. He is sure he broke all the fingers in his hand but he doesn't give a shit anymore.

"I'm a fucking hypocrite is that it? You have no idea what that word means! You risked everything that night and I saw you! I saw the way you were running in front of their curses! Like you couldn't wait for it to happen! You didn't give two shits if you lived or died and now you feel stupid, you want to bury it like a shameful secret and never have to think about it again, and yet you still want people to treat you differently, you still want them to see you differently, even if you won't fucking let them, you won't fucking tell them anything! You're just a big, fucking mystery, aren't you Pansy? You're just so bloody misunderstood and it's so hard cuz Harry Potter is being so nice to you instead of treating you like you deserve. Because you want to be punished, don't you? You can't accept what you did. You can't live with it. So you want me to give you hell? Fine! Fucking have it all!"

Pansy is breathing in and out raggedly and she is trying to understand it all, trying to process all the words and he's so right, so painfully right that it's not about pushing him anymore, it's serious and she doesn't want him to go on, because she's afraid she'll start screaming or crying or both. She'll scratch his eyes out, she'll crawl into his skin.

She knew he might snap, but this isn't supposed to be about her.

"Well?! Don't you have anything to say? Cat got your tongue? Go on, try and give me some other trite bullshit about my life when yours is probably falling apart as we speak!"

Pansy is reeling. She can't believe how fast this escalated. It's like a sudden punch to the stomach. What she wanted all along is finally happening. He is raw and bare. And she is breathless.

"You know why it's such a tragedy? You know why it's so sad? You were so alive that night! You were there with me and I felt all that life pulsing through you! And you were so beautiful, you were so fucking bright. Do you even remember?"

Pansy is shaking.

"Do you remember how you let go? I caught you and you just smiled at me. You were probably already unconscious, but you smiled at me, you were smiling for the first time in your entire life! Because all your life you waited for that moment! And then it happened and you just - you just let it slip through your fingers!"

Harry is sure now that he isn't only talking about her.

"I do remember," she suddenly says softly.

Harry stops for a moment, holds in a breath as sweat trickles down his forehead.

"I remember smiling. It was - It wasn't stupid. I don't feel ashamed. Well, maybe I do now. But I - I just wanted that same thing from you and you never gave it back."

Harry opens his mouth in confusion.

"You never gave it back," she repeats mournfully.

"I don't understand-"

"I bared myself to you, exposed everything I had inside and then the first time I see you again, you're playing an act, you're pretending to be Harry Potter, the Harry Potter who never knew anything about me and the Slytherins!"

"But I didn't -"

"No! Shut up! You know I'm right! I told myself I wouldn't see you anyways, you wouldn't come, because what were we? Hell, we're still nothing. But then you actually came and I was hoping that you'd reveal yourself, that you'd stop being Harry Potter. And there were moments when you were going to break through, moments when I thought that you might just be you, whoever that person was. I thought you had a little bit of Slytherin in you, a little bit of me, but you never let me see any further! You always closed up, like a fucking coward! Because you couldn't bear it, not being that living legend that they expected you to be!"

Harry is leaning against the wall for support. He's never heard it put quite like this before. No one's touched the wound with such precision.

"Now's probably the first time you're being yourself, really yourself with me, with anyone! That's what they never told you probably. That you don't have to be Harry Potter all your life because you never were that boy to begin with!"

He's in love with her. He doesn't know how. He just is. And it hurts so much and she is shining brighter than all the lights at Hogwarts.

"And I was never Pansy Parkinson, neither of us were anything before that night! But you decided it was worth continuing the charade. So I did too. I fucking carried it through. So I have a pretty good fucking idea what hypocrisy means."

Harry starts to feel the blinding pain in his hand. He bites his tongue.

He can't see her through the brightness, but she's there, she's alive, so alive.

"Just say something already!" she demands, almost afraid that she might've closed him off forever.

There is a pause. A long, heavy pause that seems to drag on forever.

Then he shrugs his shoulders and says:

"Witch Weekly can go fuck themselves."

Pansy exhales, her entire face falling apart. She bursts into a violent laugh. Shrieks laughter. Harry joins her, even more raucous.

They laugh and laugh and laugh until she thinks Witch Weekly must have exploded from all that laughter.

He is laughing and almost crying, because the pain in his hand is cutting him off and she's just so damn infectious.

It doesn't matter if he's never going to fall in love with Ginny, it doesn't matter if he doesn't like teaching as much as he thought he would, it doesn't matter that being an Auror doesn't give his life that much meaning - what matters is that she agrees that Witch Weekly can go fuck themselves.

After a moment or two, she closes the distance between them, takes out her wand and starts fixing his hand.

"That was quite a punch. Never knew you had it in you."

"Me neither," he replies and she knows he isn't talking about his fist.

Still, what if this isn't enough? What if all of this will be gone tomorrow? What if she leaves him after she's fixed his hand?

What if they return to that table, drink their Butterbeers and just say goodbye? What if this is all they needed and now that it's off their chests they can move on, be different people?

Can he do this alone? Can she?

And then he asks her what he did four years ago that night.

"So, what happens now?"

She smiles. "We're just going to wing it, Potter."

And it's unpleasant, how much he's in love with her right now, so he grabs her neck and pulls her into a kiss.

They don't know how to break it to everyone else, because they haven't really broken it to themselves. They just sit on the bed and stare at each other for hours, hoping that this will get better, day by day.

They lie awake and hold each other and it really is them; not Harry Potter or Pansy Parkinson.

No, they were both killed in a bathroom in Hogsmeade.

No, it's just them.