The lifeless warmth of her apartment engulfs her in a blink. Pansy drops her bag on the floor before stumbling to her kitchen without a pause. She flicks her wand to settle the teakettle and then waits as the cup of tea pours itself. She keeps looking at her evenly cut nails and contemplating if she has made some sort of a fool of herself.

She probably has.

It isn't an uncommon sight to find him lurking around the hospital. It is practically his second home. It isn't uncommon to find him flirting as well. He always seems to be doing that. Talking and smirking and lilting without ever settling down. After Ginny Weasley, every witch who had access to Witch Weekly was folding her cards in vain. Harry Potter just doesn't look for anything serious. Pansy hates that she knows that, but she contends herself by arguing that it is essentially national news who he dates. She's very persuasive.

So why would she run? Well, that is what she does. And also, she might've cried in front of him, or had a nervous breakdown, or kiss him again. Or all of them.

Pansy casts a calming charm on herself to ease her tremors, to ease the rush of thoughts in her head. She puts valerian root in her tea and casts a diluting charm before downing the cup. It takes about five minutes for her efforts to kick in, and then she stands up, determined to not think a single thing for the night. She passes through her small living room to her bedroom like a spirit, barely there, barely in her head, barely anywhere at all. Still in her starchy healer robe, she finds her bed in the dark and collapses on it. She runs her hand along her bed before she finds the bedspread and pulls it over her head.

Sleep comes unnaturally and immediately.

So what happened was this -

Pansy Parkinson met Harry Potter at a party. It was loud and sanctimonious and utterly utterly dreadful. They both left the place and somehow got into her hotel room. They slept together. Then morning came and they left the place together. Nothing more.

That's the short, rational version of events that Pansy tells herself in hopes of one day believing it.

The long version, however, plays on her head as she sleeps.

The memory of the night is always like a fogged up moving picture in her mind. Like a bright light she's reaching for in the misty shadow. It's all hands and lips and goddamn desperation. It's all intangibles. But what she clearly remembers is the person she was before, someone cracking at the edges, someone desperately latching onto anything familiar.

All had gone downhill for her after the war - her father in Azkaban, her family fortune disintegrating for war-time indemnification, her entire philosophy of life crumbling beneath the weight of reality. She always knew she was a bit of a bitch, she was starting to realize she was rotten and corrupted as well. It was a terrible time to make a public appearance, but her mother insisted. So she went to the celebration of the battle of Hogwarts to be the face of the Parkinsons'.

It was insipid. It was just as bad as she had feared. Her classmates looked at her as if she was something poisonous, or something distinctly uncomfortable. And granted, she was used to it, she had built a whole persona based on her sharp features that said don't you dare. But - it was one of the few times she realized that she deserved it. She deserved the suspicious eyes, the lips turned upward in a smirk at her fall.

She'd taken quite a lot of care about what she wore, and how she did her hair. Shiny black robes with a string of pearls, an heirloom that holds attention without demanding it - elegant but quiet, perfect for the occasion. But after her carefully constructed slew of self-deprecating jokes started to run out, she kept gradually feeling overdressed and naked under the bright, white chandelier.

She cursed herself for declining Draco's offer of accompanying her. Why would she want to face this herself?

So an hour into the party, when she felt another finger pointed at her back, she did what she does best. She ran.

She slipped past the guests, blood rushing to her ear and feeling her hands go clammy with sweat. She felt the cold sweat at the back of her neck as she found an inconspicuous corner and disapparated.

The cold air of the night pricked her skin uncomfortably as she materialized on the rooftop, her hair catching the icy wind. She takes a few minutes to steady her breath, still feels the hot embarrassment on her cheek. Almost didn't notice the person standing behind her.

Almost. A soft step made her shiver and she wheeled back. She noticed the glasses first, hiding his eyes in the darkness, and then the messy hair. In the dark, she couldn't tell if he was just as surprised as she. Pansy's eyes widened as she noticed the upright wand in his hands. He followed her eyes, then quickly took it down.

"What are you doing here?" Harry Potter asked gruffly.

"Same thing as you, I suppose." Pansy looked around to see if he had Granger and Weasley with him as well, and wouldn't that be fun… but as seconds passed and the only sound in the roof was the music from the band, soft and muted from the wind, she realized that he was quite alone.

He looked at her for a moment, as if he was trying to remember something. Pansy narrowed her eyes in confusion. Did he not recognize her? Granted they weren't the best of friends or nemesis - which was Draco, but still. History. She was thinking of an inconspicuous getaway when he finally lifted his other hand to his mouth, and she saw one of the wine bottles her mother had donated. She wondered if she should light up her wand and see if his eyes are bloodshot.

As if he was hearing her thoughts, he said at once, "I'm not drunk."

He didn't sound drunk. "Alright. It's your party." She paused for a moment, turning over the fact in her head that he was on the chilly rooftop, drinking. Alone. He swept his hand over his hair. "Just be careful," she said.

"My party." She thought she heard a quiet scoff. "Of course. Why are you here, Parkinson?"

Something was funny about this. About him asking this to her. Something was hilarious. The wind was exceptionally crispy. Pansy could hear the song louder. She imagined the room, air-conditioned and perfumed, with happy, half-drunk people dancing and laughing. What was she doing there? Or here on the rooftop? Or anywhere at all?

She surprised herself when she answered honestly, "It was suffocating down there."

He straightened a little. Took another sip, then offered her the bottle. "It's not suffocating here."

She wasn't sure how to answer this. She eyed the bottle. Château Lafite Rothschild. Her mother's pick. It hung in his hand loosely, carelessly. The cold air burned her eyes, the lights from the buildings surrounding theirs blinked in unison with the stars in the sky, making her shiver.

"Stay, Parkinson. Have a smoke with me."She took the bottle.

She took it and drank from it. And now they were sitting side by side on the edge of the roof, with their feet tucked beneath them. Potter wanted to hang his legs from the edge, Pansy rolled her eyes and told him to shove his Gryffindor imprudence up his butt.

He'd laughed. Maybe it was the alcohol, but Pansy thought that she'd never heard a more exultant laugh. Unconquerable. It was contagious. She was smiling too.

Definitely the alcohol.

He didn't elaborate on why he was there instead of giving speeches and cutting ribbons, or getting it on with any of the hundred girls ready for him since he'd broken things off with his girlfriend Ginny Weasley. She didn't add anything else to her reason. But she felt that they had an understanding. And if not, at least they had alcohol.

He'd brought cigarettes as well. He was smoking one as they sat side by side, blowing circles on the open air.

Pansy couldn't help but notice how tall he's gotten, or how he fitted in his height. Like every portion served its purpose. No longer the gangly boy at Hogwarts, he had broad shoulders and strong arms. He shifted more space. She supposes it's the result of the strict auror training, this new muscular body. It was somewhat disconcerting to realize that she might be attracted to him, that her eyes were definitely following his Adam's apple as he was working on his cigarette, the smoke forming a faux curtain over his face, or when he lits up his wand to light his cigarette, she notices that his eyes are a bright, stark forest green, not mossy and lifeless like hers.

Definitely the alcohol, she thought. The sky seemed endless from where they sat, and even though there was nothing to talk about, she felt calm. Before they finished the bottle, Pansy already knew that they would be having sex that night. That's just how it goes.

She even wondered what type of underwear she was wearing. She had planned to end the night with something meaningless and euphoric, but she never guessed it could be with the guy that was supposed to give a speech about the integrity of the ministry and the power of Love, with capital L.

She kept waiting for him to say something mean, or a back-handed compliment, just like the people downstairs. Something nasty to make up for all the things she had said when they were in school. She was thinking of remarks, something self-deprecating, something funny - but the attack never came. It was an almost perfectly comfortable silence.

Half an hour later, he spoke for the first time. His voice was starting to catch the cold. Chafed, but still had the usual confidence. "So, what do you do now?"

Pansy snorted, she couldn't help herself. This was so bizarre.

"I'm uh - an apprentice at Phnixies, as of now."

When he quirked an eyebrow in response, she rolled her eyes. "It's a fashion column."

She was also thinking of enrolling full time in Mungo's, but somehow that felt odd to tell him. She still felt she had to stay authentic to the Pansy he saw at school. It was a method of hers, to be the reflection of what anyone in front of her might expect. It was comforting in a way.

"Hmm." He nodded.

"And how's the auror training going?"

"It's going."

"You know, people downstairs were saying that you just might be the one to break Mad-eye Moody's record."

He scoffed. "Of course they're saying that. Don't believe them."

"I never do."

"Good." He sighed. "I er - I heard about your dad - today-"

Her voice suddenly got caught at her throat. "Don't… let's just not go there."

He pursed his lips. A second passed, and then two. The wind had calmed down a bit, and now it was breezing softly against them. Potter was wearing dark robes that looked suited for the occasion - niche and prim, it was perfectly tailored. Pansy thinks the outline is trimmed with Gryffindor scarlet, but she isn't sure in the shadow. It was better. She had already noticed far too much. The lights in the building around them were getting shut one by one. Pansy felt she was sitting in the bottom of a swimming pool, and it was slowly filling with water, water in her clothes, in her eyes, blurring her vision.

Her father was a death eater who would be serving twelve years in Azkaban. Her father taught her how to play chess and he deserved it.

All of a sudden Pansy wanted to curse and cry and maybe slap Potter for mentioning her father.

Instead she leaned forward and kissed him. She felt his breath hitch, his lips cold and wet and then sighing on top of her painted ones. She closed her eyes in relief when he kissed her back. She felt him slide closer, sneaking his hand up, up to her hair and seeping between her long, carefully styled hair. Messing it up. She let herself not care. She let her hand go up to his jaw and touch his pulse, touching the apple stuck in his throat. He tasted like rich wine and cigarettes and mints and she bit his lips and he smiled. Pansy took a sharp breath before breaking the kiss. Up close she could see that his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were too close and burning with want. She figured she must look the same.

He asked her if she was okay.

"Better," she replied. Then, "My room?"

Pansy wasn't nervous. She had become quite familiar with one night stands - the wild, frosty ones, the fast and stitching ones that would reek of alcohol and bad decisions and the ones that were sincere enough to linger for a day or two. But in the end they all disappeared as they were, a ruse, a dusty hiding cabinet from her reality. She wanted to feel the desperate need for something so harsh and biting that everything, even her anger and shame would seem thin in comparison. But the magic fades and all she had left was another name, another address and another problem she won't really solve.

They fumbled into her room with his hands already beneath her dress and she felt overwhelmed by the way he touched her. By the time they reached her bed he was out of his robe and she was out of hers. He tilted her face before leaning to her, his hand coiling around her neck to open the clasp of the necklace she wore. The earrings came off next, and she saw quietly as he put them on the dressing table. Then he kissed, with hands tongue and teeth, pulling off the rest of her clothes in the process. She remembers that he was all about pushing the button of every part of her body and taking his time and looking her in the eye and she thinks she can understand the reason. It was like looking in a mirror. Like she did when she was seventeen. The young girl hyperventilating in front of her mirror just so someone notices.

And it was comforting in a terrible way. The way his desperation matched hers. The knowledge that someone out there gets it. And undoubtedly it is a self centred idea because everyone is blown in their own way and the thing is we're all doomed, and we're all dying. So who gives a shit about her little grief? Who gives a shit that she does what she does to forget it? Harry could understand it. And it felt so odd that he understands it. Of all people. The Chosen One, the Golden Boy, the one who could and did defeat the dark lord felt small and lonely and angry like her and understands it. It scared her like a moth into a flame, like an ant with newly sprouted wings about to jump in a fancy light. It was liberating and so fucking scary.

She lowered herself onto him and felt his needy, needy eyes engulfing her. Her breath got caught into her throat and she leaned down and kissed his jaw. She found his hands and nested her own between them before she moved. And then.

And then.

In her mind, she rationalized that for all its charm and intensity, this too would have blurred into oblivion had she not woken up, only a few hours later, by his piercing scream.Like all horrible things, it started with a whimper. So low that had she not been an agitated sleeper, she wouldn't even have heard it. But she was. And she did. She opened her eyes with a sharp breath, her mind on run alert. But then the softness of the bed dissented her fear. She was supposed to be safe here, now, in a warm bed, beside -

She turned, and heard the same whimper foaming at his mouth. She tentatively touched his cheek and felt the sweat beading there.

"Potter?" Her voice came out soft and hoarse.

"Sirius-" He said through gritted teeth, still asleep.

"What?"

"Sirius Sirius - got to… stop him. Stop him - no I can't - my fault." He jerked away from her hand. "My. Fault. Sirius. SIRIUS! No!"

She saw in horror as he thrashed on the bed. His hands coiled tightly against his chest, his face contorted in pain.

"Potter?" She shoved him, hard. "Potter, it's a dream. Just a - Potter, wake up."

"SIRIUS NO - NO, YOU BITCH!"

Her hands stopped in their tracks. It took her a moment to realize that it wasn't her he was referring to. She closed her eyes, steadied herself, then clumsily took her wand from the bedside table. She knew what was happening to him. She hoped she knew about it enough to fix it.

The incantation came reflexively. She put her one hand on his cheek, steadying him. She pointed her wand with the other one, her cheeks flushed with the effort it took to give the spell her unified, undivided attention. He struggled for a while, before slowly, begrudgingly succumbing to the charm.

It felt draining to say the least. She willed her mind to pour herself into him, coaxing his conscience, almost easing herself into him. When he finally opened his eyes and watched her with plain, pure horror, she was panting. His entire body shook as he jumped up.

She backed a little, unsure of herself, of him, of everything. She saw his hand flex. Saw the restlessness in his eyes, saw them soften as he eased into his surroundings, then looked at her with something akin to wonder.

"Where did you learn to do that?" His voice sounded as if he was walking on eggshells. In some ways, he was. His eyes were wide open and his cheeks were flushed and he had this hot bright fear in his eyes that she couldn't help but leaned down to kiss him on the lips and say, "I am training to be a healer, Harry."

In hindsight, she realized that this was the first time ever she had called him by his first name. In reviewing the memory for the third time, she realized that it felt good to call him that.

There was a split second of wonder in his eyes and it passed quickly and was replaced by something so sharp that her stomach dropped.

Then they were kissing. She was almost knocked off by the force of his face on hers and then his hands were over her, all over her, and he was pulling at her bra and she put her hands on his chest and then his neck and then she is on her back, melting into the warm sheets and he was -

"You OK?" he breathed as she pushed her fingers in his hair. She wanted to say that this was very bad, that the feeling he was drowning in is only the after effect of the charm, that this could make things more complicated. But somehow she could only think about the pain, and fucking misery radiating from him and she knew that to him, in that moment, she was the only light in an ocean of darkness. And how wonderful and frightening it might feel. And he must want to latch onto this person, this phantom. And that she understands. That she feels the same.

"I'm OK," she replied. And the smile that spread over his face is something she could look at forever. When he pushed inside her, he held her hand. She could feel his hot kisses on her neck and when the intensity of her orgasm washed over her, she instinctively clutched him tighter. He stayed inside her longer than necessary. She smiled against his neck.

Afterwards, he asked her exactly what she had done to him. She explained in layman's terms how she broadened his conscience so he would have better culpability and how she enabled him to take the course of his dream. His eyes were intense. She couldn't help herself and told him that he had eyes like wildfire. Like a forest writhing against chaos. And that they were beautiful.

By the time she finished explaining, Pansy had decided what she really wanted to do.

He coiled his arms around her and held her close as they slept. She could smell his scent on her - mint and cigarettes - such as they were tangled. Pansy silently reviewed her plans for the next day.

The next day she would bail out of the fashion apprenticeship and enroll full time at St. Mungo's. The rest of her life was ahead of her, bright and clear. She could feel it on her palm, buzzing and alive. She could catch it tomorrow.

But now she would sleep.

When Pansy wakes up at dawn, she is surprised to find her pillow wet with tears. She feels a sharp pang in her chest and doesn't remember her dream.

heyy I'm new to this app and for some reason i can't reply to comments. but i just want to say i really really appreciate you reading this fic and it was the first fic i started writing after a long long hiatus and it's very dear to me and i hope you like it as well!! well, that's it.


have a good day!!