Pansy wonders about the absence of his parents, the consequences, how it makes him so different from her… or does it? Isn't the absence of a parent a pressing weight on his chest, and doesn't she know how that feels as well? But Pansy knows what disappoints her mother, what enrages her father. The jigsaw puzzle she is because of them, the parts of them that fit her, the sharp edges of it, the fading colors. But he doesn't. She realizes that Harry Potter has had to grow up on his own. Yes, there were friends, mentors, acquaintances, but the visceral link he had to the world was forever gone. She'd never before imagined how painful it must be to have your mother's eyes, but never see her look at him with pride or anger or even disappointment. He did grow up good, but something was inherently broken. It clogged her mind, how unfair it seemed. Here was a golden boy, full of talent and potential… and all he did when he wasn't jeopardizing his future was walk around the old coffee shops with her where his mother had been. He drove away to places she spent her holidays at when Lily was four. He took her to his father's family house, his grandparents grave, the pub where the marauders used to crash in.
Pansy wonders if they had lived, would Dumbledore be able to use him as a weapon? A knife? A wand?
Of course not. Hypothetically, if his parents had lived, he wouldn't be the Chosen One at all. It probably would've been Neville Longbottom instead. But Pansy supposes the absence of his parents made him an easy target after all. No one to look out for him. Well, not in the way Pansy thinks he ought to have been looked at. Cared for. Shielded.
Not that Pansy was ever shielded. Her own mother implored her to prove her loyalty to the Dark Lord and take the mark when she was only sixteen. And she almost did…
So why does it matter?
These are the thoughts that poison her mind. Unwarranted, idiotic thoughts . She tries to focus on his light touch on her hair. With her head perched on his knee, she lies quite comfortably on his couch, balancing a book on her chest. She focuses on the comfort. The fact that the only thing that matters is that they are both here, alive, and no war is raging, no one is going to be hurt now.
"He hated himself, you know," he says suddenly.
Pansy looks up from the book she is reading. "What?"
"Dumbledore… he had more demons that I can count."
"I know." She ponders for a moment. "Still doesn't change what I feel."
She goes back to reading, but the lines keep coming together like lines of misguided ants. She knows he's looking, but she can't imagine his expression. The sigh comes involuntarily before she lets the book fall on her chest and looks up.
He is… blank. Nothing on his face.
"What?" she asks.
"He sorta did what he had to do, Pans." He shrugs. "No one could defeat Voldemort without him."
"I know. But - but someone has to hate him for what he did to you. I know you've forgiven him. But I don't."
It has always been hard to keep her eyes steady when he looks at her. It always felt like looking at the eclipsed sun, it's burn low and lovely but still blistering. But still she does, and thank Merlin, because the tiniest sliver of smile forms in his face as she looks at him now. It lits up his eyes in all their mischievous glory. He lifts up his hand to run his thumb gently over her lips before bending down to kiss her.
"Thank you."
Pansy returns the kiss. It's silly, it's juvenile, borderline pointless . Because nothing has changed. He still has the nightmares. He still carries a choking emptiness because he never could put the blame on someone else and be a child . And Pansy realizes now the helplessness of caring, how it gives you an illusion of the right you have over the thing you - you love. Because she can't save him, can't really carry his anger, only mirror it in her own way.
Yet she can say that she does, and he can thank her for it, and they can pretend it's enough.
He keeps running his fingers through her hair. And she goes back to reading. And a giant shaped like love sits between them, unbeknownst and soft and silent.
On the anniversary of the child's death, she finds herself unable to sleep. Little thing it was, pink, inconspicuous little baby, it fit in the cradle of her hands. She had to fill out the cause and time of death, but after an hour she realized the page was filled with ugly scrawls of unintelligible writing. Harriet was kind enough to assign the work to someone else. She couldn't sleep a week after.
She cannot sleep now.
She finds herself apparating, almost by instinct to Grimmauld Place. The portraits come to life as soon as she settles in the crisp air of the house. They seem to like her better than they do Harry, although Sirius Black's mother is still a ghastly piece of work.
His voice is heavy with sleep when she slips between the covers. He scoots over to make space for her, eyes half shut. "What's wrong?"
A million things. Pansy settles on the easiest. "Can't sleep," she answers.
"Hmm." His arms coil around her body, she lets herself sink further into him, into his sleepy warmth and the scent of cigarettes and mint and the soap she bought for him. "Want to go to the house?"
It always comes as a pleasant jolt when he calls his muggle house the house. The house. Not my house. Like it's someplace they both share.
Pansy considers. It was what she initially wanted, but he is doing that thumb-rubbing atrocity that he does, on her forearm, his mouth is too close to her head so she can feel his every breath on her scalp, it still smells like mint. So unequivocally him. Pansy nuzzles her nose into his chest.
"I'm fine."
She is.The next morning, she decides to clean the ghastly house. Fix some of the messes. There is a pile of papers as big as the grandfather clock at the side of his living room. She sits at the middle of the sofa with Harry lazily sprawled over her, and points her wand at the mess, doing a quick charm to separate important papers. As the papers begin to arrange themselves by subject, she finds a letter sealed with golden wax. Unopened.
"What's this?"
Harry gives a noncommittal shrug. Pansy raises her eyebrows.
"Uh. Nothing important. House maintenance stuff."
"Why didn't you open it? It's -" She turns over the paper to look at the date. "Damn. It's a few weeks old."
"I forgot." He shrugs again. "I guess it's about the visit I missed. Nothing important."
She nods distractedly. "What type of house maintenance? What does your solicitor say about this?"
No answer. When she looks up, Harry throws her an awkward smile from his side of the sofa. She blinks.
"You - you do have a solicitor, right? Someone who manages your accounts?"
"My golds are in Gringotts… that's as safe as you can get."
"You and your friends broke into Gringotts." She pokes him on his chest.
He chuckles awkwardly. "That was a one time thing. I'm sure they've doubled up their security since then. Two dragons, probably."
"Whatever. Yes , it's safe, but how much interest are they in? How much money do you pull out every month? What are your subscription charges for these imbecilic amounts of magazines I see all over the room? Tickets to horse racing? You don't bet." She glances at the papers stumped on the useless category, Harry follows her eyes and she can hear his sigh.
"Some of the subscriptions… may have been impulsive."
Pansy rolls her eyes, she wants to pinch his nose, or kiss him. Both.
"I can't believe it. You have three houses, not mentioning that one of them is the house of Black, built and inhabited by one of the most ancient and prestigious magical families. The Potter residence. Another old group of moneybags. You probably have hundreds and thousands of gallons… and you don't have someone keeping tabs on them?" She sits up to look straightly at his stupid, pretty face. "Harry, that's how you get bankrupt."
He gives an awkward smile.
"You absolute moron." She shakes her head. "Here's what we have to do. I'm going to find you a good lawyer and we have to -" She stops suddenly, realizing how bossy she sounds. She sounds as if she has a right on his habits, how he handles things - does she? She doesn't want to presume, she doesn't want him to think -
Her thoughts are cut sharply when he coils his arm around her shoulder, and leans down to give a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
"You can do whatever you want," he mumbles. "Keep me in line so I don't end up in the streets." Another kiss. "I trust you."
Pansy ignores the ridiculous buzzing in her head. "I can't imagine how you've lived this long without getting ruinously robbed."
"Well, I haven't checked into my account in months so -"
Pansy gapes at him in scrutiny. He eyes her for a second, then another.
Then he laughs like it is the funniest thing ever.
"You moron," Pansy mumbles, resting her head on his stretched arm, feeling the vibrations of his laugh in languid content.
Pansy wasn't asleep, not really. She only tosses and turns in her very comfortable bed, with sleep escaping her like a taunting child. she moved around in her bed, eyes screwed and breath uneven mostly because of the concentration she's spending on keeping them steady. It annoys her that she cannot find a reason for her restlessness. She, the privileged child of a privileged child, stumbling her way around for god knows what.
She supposes she could blame her mother and the insipid letter she finally decided to send. Her mum, beautiful and disdainful. Like always. But then amongst the heavy disappointment she wondered about Pansy's cold. That she'd heard from Ditty that she was cutting down her work hours. Could it be something to do with her health?
Pansy purses her lips. It has always been like this, there are some unsuspecting moments of tenderness that happens between her and her mother. But there are so few these days, she doesn't always know what to do with them.
She told Harry as much when he asked about her family.
"Not many heartwarming good memories, I'm afraid," she said.
It was in her apartment. She was lying down, smoking on the side of her bed, a bad habit she picked up from him. With her head below her arm, she eyed the beige ceiling with some glassy concentration. Her other hand was carefully placed over the marble ashtray he gifted her. He sat beside her, doing research on his own training. With his specs perches perniciously on the edge of his nose, he looked downright edible. But Pansy was restraining herself until he finished his essay.
"So what? You can tell me about the bad stuff," he replied. "I tell you about mine."
She considered it. "I shouldn't really say that it was all bad."
It wasn't. She remembered Christmas, as she started talking, and porridge pudding. Her father in his study, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration as he looked over a chessboard. She remembered her first wand, a gift from her grandmother. But then there cometh the kraken. She remembered tiptoeing into her mother's closet to look for her birthday present, then being punished for not listening to her mother's order, not being obedient. She was denied of all gifts for that year. She remembers being so ashamed, little and unnecessary bundle of emotions.
"I guess… the problem is that I can't cherry pick my memories with my mother. In my head, it's all happening at the same time - she's tying my shoelaces, she's slapping me across the face. And I - I just don't know how to cope with this. I simultaneously love and hate her."
"I think I get it," he said after a while. He leaned over and kissed her temple. "But she's still your mother."
She swallowed a hot breath, nothing else to say.
"You only get one of them, you know."
"I know."
She guesses every girl has a complicated relationship with her mother. They have to. What is there more distinctly you than the woman who carried you? She supposes the world is quite different for men and women, and mothers are daughters' ultimate mirror. A smudged, aged version of her body. Every girl must wonder if she will look like her mother when she reaches that age. The wonder stretches, obviously, and one must question if they will lead the same life as well. Harry doesn't get through all these complexities. And she understands why. She understands that he covets even the tattered relationship she has with her mother.
Pansy tosses and turns in her bed. Her mother's letter doesn't just contain health inquiries. Cynthia is also inquiring about her future. Wondering for the thousandth time when Pansy will stop her aimless pandering. wondering why Draco seems to be involved with someone else. If Pansy doesn't grab him - him with his shattered arrogance and very real golds - someone else will, and how good for them. Pansy doesn't tell her that it's Hermione Granger, the lucky one he's seeing. She knows it's the first time in a long while he looks in the mirror and doesn't see the sixteen year old boy, tasked with murdering one of the most powerful wizard of the world, tasked with killing his teacher, the one who forgave him when he pointed his wand at the man, scared and shaking.
She knows - as much as she loves her oldest friend - marrying Draco Malfoy would be a terrible idea, but sleeping around with Harry Potter may be even worse. Partly because the logical aspect of the situation is precarious, at best. Mostly because of the tightness she feels in her chest at the thought of him.
Her eyes shoot open at the sudden pop. It's low, but in the dead of the night with her hypersensitive ear, it couldn't have shocked her any more if it was a howler.
Someone has apparated in her living room.
Not just someone though.
He's the only person who can come like this, unannounced.
She sighs, her palm in her head. Another sound breaks the almost perfect silence. He's tripped over something. As she gets up and puts on her robe, she wonders if the pernicious drinking has made a reappearance. She would hate that, she really would. That was probably the only part of him she didn't want to witness. The drunken stutter, the muddy eyes.
Harry Potter is standing in the middle of her drawing room when she gets down, his lips upturned in an awkward smile.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"I hope I didn't wake you." He shifts his weight on his other foot. There is a purple spot on the side of his right eye. Pansy notices that his hands twitch, purple around the knuckles, as he tries to comb his unruly hair, something he does when he is uncomfortable.
She takes a step closer and sees a smear of blood on the bruise and narrows her eyes.
"Did you fight with someone?"
He purses his lips.
"Why?" Pansy feels concerned, angry, and confused. She touches the corner of his bruised eyes, careful not to press too hard. It's not bad. But it must hurt right now.
He doesn't seem to care though. He takes her hand in his bruised one, gently plucking it from his face if she's the one who's hurt, and kisses the front of her wrist, on her pulsepoint. His lips cool and soft, Pansy would melt into him if she could ignore the obvious and newly acquainted damage in his body.
"Oh Merlin." She sighs, tugging him with her free hand. "Come on."
She takes him to the dark kitchen and places him on the chair beside the counter. He obliges quietly, still looking half asleep, swimming on the edge of consciousness. He gets out of his jacket and places it neatly on the counter as Pansy shuffles her cabinet for her first aid box. She's been adding new things to it everyday for him. Her first aid box now contains skele gro for accidental missing of minor bones, sleeping draughts, muscle relaxants… anything an auror might need in a moment's notice. He has placed himself - quite perniciously - in her life. Her bathroom now has two toothbrushes. A breathy voice replies in her mind, So does his.
She finds what she needs and turns back to find him still sitting, still somber.
She crouches in front of him, feeling the bruised skin around his eyes. It felt better than she expected. "What happened?" She asks as she steadies his face, then carefully circles her wand in an intricate movement.
He only shrugs. "A stupid guy at a bar."
"Well, the guy I'm looking at right now has a black eye and strained knuckles when he is expected on duty. Tomorrow morning ." She does the charm again, and now the dark purple has concised into pale pink, like a baby's skin. She makes a mental note to make more ointment of skin regrowth. She's almost finished the jar she's using now. Mostly on him.
"You should see the other guy." Pansy is concerned by the anger in his voice, hot and bubbling on the back of his throat.
"Merlin," she says softly. Now at his hands. "What did he do? How much worse is he ? Will you get in trouble?"
"I won't get in trouble."
Curiosity pricks at her brain, she wants to ask him again, know the whole story, know exactly if he's right about not being in trouble. Or if he somehow hit that guy for nothing serious and his terrible judgment has something to do with alcohol. Even though he doesn't look drunk. Nor is he slurring. He's still quietly looking at her working on him. Pansy restrains herself and focuses on the spell she's using on him. Not too intricate, he hasn't damaged any of his muscles, just strained them. It takes a while to get their movement back and she laces their fingers together to press on all the pressure points and asks if he felt any of them.
He does everything without question. And only speaks when she is done.
"Your hands are lovely."
She startles a bit, not really at his comment but how he says it. The pinkish skin around his eyes makes the light reflect in a different way. It's a jarring picture to her. Even though it's been so long, even though she has a toothbrush for him in her bathroom. Harry Potter at her home. At her kitchen. Telling her that her hands are lovely. It stirs something in her. Something like a sleeping giant in a flower garden. She suddenly feels like the small child that poked it.
"How much did you drink?" She doesn't mean it. He's not drunk, but she can't help it. It's her mother's letter. It's her own doubts. Silly Pansy. Silly, blabbermouth Pansy.
"I'm not drunk," he protests. Offended, hurt. Desperate? "I am not drunk," he says again, lifting up his hand and touching her face, his thumb swiping her chin. "I mean it."
She does know. But she is not the person to say these things to. She can't hold them carefully enough, they'll slip through the cracks of her fingers and fall on the floor, broken. Or maybe she'll hold onto them too tight and they'll squeeze out anyway, disfigured and bent and hollow of their meanings. She doesn't know what to do to keep the good thing. She only knows how to get away.
"Alright." She nods and gets up. She needs to get something from the cabinet, she hears herself say, he really messed up his hand this time. She needs - she needs -
But then he's there too. He got up and walked with her, leaning against the wall to see her shaking hands reach for a potion that isn't there. After a full annihilating minute, he takes her hand, tugging it so she is forced to look at him.
"I love them because - well, because they're yours, of course. But also how I feel when you touch me. When you were healing my hands you touched them at first here" - he shows the pulsepoint at his wrist. Then moving up, the joints between his fingers, the hypothenar muscles, the back of his palm. His fingers are soft. Pansy looks at him almost in bewilderment. "Then here. And here. And there. And I know it's a procedure, but other healers don't take such time. You try to reach each muscle and nerve and because you're such a good witch -" he laughs softly, cheeks blooming like roses in spring - "because your magic is so good, I feel it seeping in me, and it's warm and comforting. I feel - I know you know where it hurts. I know you can fix it." He looks at her, she only hopes she's looking back. Harry slides his other hand to her sides, plucks the empty jar she has in her hand, and places it on the cupboard. Now his hands corner her, she feels her head bumping softly against the wood.
He leans in, closing the small breathing space she had left, the space that had the outside world at her periphery. So now it's only him. He whispers, "And when you touch me other times. When we're out or alone, I feel the magic still, and it's phenomenal. There's not a part of me that doesn't feel better because you had touched or felt or had your way around. You're - phenomenal."
"Harry, I - I think - oh-" her words are cut off with a surprise pitch. He kisses one of her fingertips. Still looking at her, carefully, he kisses the other one. Pansy feels herself further backing against the wood, her heartbeat embarrassingly loud. He notices it, of course he does. He smirks this time, the classic Gryffindor smirk. Then he puts the tip of her thumb in his mouth. Pansy intakes a sharp breath. He gets the message. He rolls his lips, his tongue touching the soft bud of her thumb, and sucks.
Holy mother of god.
"H-harry?" She stutters.
"Hmm?" He focuses on her index, sucking on that. Pansy feels an electric buzz spread from her finger to her chest and navel and lower still.
This is ridiculous. She shouldn't be this turned on.
But somehow all she can think about is his tongue, how warm and soft it feels, how he's taking his time, how he always takes his time to pleasure her. Tipping over every one of her nerves to see just how much effect he has on her, making a map with memories of her response to each movement. He puts another finger in his mouth, and she thinks back to the night before, in his bed, his big, glorious bed.
Pansy doesn't think she can wait for a bed now.
Sometime along her shaky thoughts, he's taken another step forward, and now he's parting her legs with his to settle himself between her things. Her nightgown slides perniciously to the other side. She could feel the callous fabric of his jeans and the steady muscle of his thigh. She clutches his hips instinctively. He hums in approval, now turning his attention to her neck. He kisses the soft skin where her neck meets her shoulder, then dips down further, nipping the thin skin over her clavicles. He pushes the robe to the side to get better access and Pansy rolls her head to the side, letting him do whatever. She's already standing half naked in her own kitchen, pressed up against him. She feels the sharp coolness of the room on her body, the parts he's not covering. She lets out a breathy moan, impatient. He stops his movement.
"What? Want me to stop?"
It takes her a moment to register what he said, then she rolls her eyes. She could smack him. Smug bastard.
So in answer she reaches for his belt buckle, hoping she looks determined and demanding - not pleading and so so needy.
But he stops her midway, and as she looks up, confused, he kisses her, his lips hungry over hers, his tongue pushing past her lips and his hand - his hands at her breast. And now she can't think at all, she tugs at his shirt with quivering hands, by reflex, then slides her hand up to smooth over his taut stomach, all muscle and stealth. He opens her up, tastes her mouth, kisses the side of her lips when she gasps for breath as his hands grab her butt. He tugs her, and she moans in response. She's thinking of losing her robe, right there, no point in waiting to get to the bedroom when -
He tugs at her ass again. And she gets what he wants. It takes a mountain of will to push him - now leaving marks at her breast - off, slightly. He half raises his eyebrows, also panting.
"You can't carry me," she says breathily.
He rolls his eyes. "Nonsense."
"Your hands - Harry - " She squeals embarrassingly when he pulls her up, her body flush against him. She barely has time to register what's happening - between pleasure and exasperation and confusion - when he sets her on a cool, flat surface. She rolls her eyes. Her kitchen counter.
"Potter -"
"My hands are fine. You fixed it good. You always fix them good. However-" He pushes her legs apart and sets himself between them, still fully clothed, still with those burning eyes she knows so well now, "- I have a much more important issue to make a note on."
Pansy raises her eyebrows.
"It seems to me that my girlfriend isn't accustomed to hearing compliments."
"Not true."
She is acquainted with compliments. Just not honest ones, or ones that make her want to take his stupid face and kiss him, or make her want to have his children - maybe. But before she can retort, he's undoing the knots of her robe, slowly, tortuously.
"So." He pulls a knot. "I'm going to let her know exactly what I mean." He flicks the smooth ribbon to the side. Pansy takes a sharp inhale. She doubts she's ever been this turned on in her entire life.
And he's still fully clothed.
She gets up halfway, resting her weight on her elbows, very aware of her nakedness. He leans in, kissing the side of her head. She feels him inhaling a shaky breath.
"You. Smell. Glorious." He looks at her, eyes set like emeralds, like a hidden jewel in a king's vault. "Lavender."
Pansy closes her eyes. "Hmm."
He moves on to her neck. "I think you have the prettiest smile."
Still eyes closed, every little thing he does to her sends off a thousandfold sensations. She feels his tongue on her skin, soothing the places his teeth scrape against.
"Hmm." She tries to catch his head, to bring him up with her, to have him naked and ready and in her. But he resists still.
"I love -" He kisses her side of her stomach "this mark here. And -" He moves up, pushing her down, "I love you nose. You scrunch it when you're concentrating on something. And your eyes. When you're working, you have this intense look set on whatever it is in front of you, and you forget to put your guard on for once, and - you should see yourself, Parkinson. I wish you could see yourself then… and now." He leaves soft kisses on her jaws, his voice dense with lust. He inhales a deep breath and moves his head just enough to eye at her exposed chest. "Pansy, you are magnificent."
Pansy bites her lip and bites the urge to rub her legs together, already overwhelmed by the budding warmth between them. She grabs his head and pulls him down before he can protest. She kisses him, mouth open, wondering if he tastes her desperation, if he can tell exactly what his words are doing to her.
He knows, the softer of her voices hums as she feels his smile against her mouth. He pries their mouths apart with a choking moan mirroring Pansy's as he stands up straightly.
"You're not planning on some denial kink, are you?" Pansy quirks her eyebrows. "Because if you are -"
"God, no."
He bends down to sit on his knee. Pansy's eyes widen with desire as he hooks his arm over her leg.
She knows exactly what he wants to do.
His smirk should be banned, she thinks as his lips upturn. He hikes her up on the table to get better access. His palm grips her thigh as he kisses her core. Pansy shudders. Her head falls back instinctively. She can feel her lips and his tongue and every little movement they make. Harry is a relentless lover, that much she knows. And the knowledge makes it better. That it's so important to him that she feels good. Her hands form fists as he dives deeper, more determined and fuck.
There is a hitched moan lodged in her throat. The intensity of her orgasm leaves her speechless. Her legs quiver and she feels Harry joining her on the table, his face flushed Gryffindor crimson turned to her. She wants to touch him, his face, kiss him on the lips and taste herself on him. But everything is too intense, she breathes deeply as he touches her face and kisses her softly. She kisses him back before her lungs give in. And now she breathes against his lips. He lifts his hand to bury his fingers in her hair.
"I love you," he breathes the words.
Pansy's jaw tenses. There is a rigid sharpness in the air around them. There is a distinct lack of it in her lungs.
He places a kiss on her temple, as if her obvious and violent turmoil is just what he expects. "You don't have to say it back now… or ever, if you don't want to. But I love you, and I think - I think I have been in love with you for a long time now. It's pandering to not say it any longer. I love you, Parkinson. You are the best thing in my life."
Pansy wants to say something back. Something along the lines of what he's saying. Something she means, because heaven knows she feels the same way as well. But her words and the chain of her thoughts are all folding one atop another, fused by the intensity of what she feels. And the only way she can even vaguely elucidate her thoughts is by cupping her hands on his cheeks and pulling him forward for a shaky kiss. She feels his relief by the way he pulls her in.
"I love you," he says again, in between kisses. "So much."
In her head, she says it back to him.Despite the glorious distraction, Pansy sleeps badly the rest of the night. Harry wrestled with bad dreams for the better part of the night, and she wrestled with him, beside him. It is a tiring thing to see such a feisty person waste his anger on dreams. But Pansy stays, her hands held his, and it feels good to hold onto things, she decides. It feels good to fix things; and even though you cannot fix people, not really, you can love them. And isn't it terrible? And isn't it the point of it all?
Pansy hadn't put a time limit on them, but if she had, it wouldn't have been more than a few weeks. It's been months now. They're supposed to have reached their limit, him and her. Him, with his arm draped across her stomach, his nose nuzzling into the crook of her neck. She can feel the outline of his lips and his puffy, warm breaths. And she turns back to him. Her hand, the one that's not trapped under his, finds his unruly hair, and smooths it out on its own accord. He familiarized his indent on her bed, on the spare pillow. She knows his bad dreams, she knows he likes cookie dough ice cream, she knows he likes New Year's Eve more than Christmas, he drinks tea before going to bed, he owns the same plaid shirt in at least fifteen different colors, he has dimples when he smiles, he loves her, he thinks she has lovely hands, and that something worthwhile can be done with those hands.
There's a hurricane in her head, loud and madenning, and amongst the chaos, she sits at the eye of it, looking at her life as a stranger. She doesn't suppose it's going to be easy. She doesn't think she has it in her to be easy, but still, she doesn't want to outrun him. She touches his cheek, soft and sleepy and knows one thing with absolute certainty.
She does not want to let him go.
This is sort of an extra info, but I always write Pansy's chapters with two songs in mind. Run by Daughter and Daylight by Taylor Swift. I just think Pansy's character reverberates between these two feelins. The general anxiety of Run, and the eventual, light-on-her-face end-of-the-tunnel happiness of Daylight
.