Here's the steady truth of life - it goes on. Staggering, lilting, stubborn. Time has no other way to move but forward, and Pansy Parkinson cannot help moving along its way. Or maybe she is only drifting with the tide. Perhaps she has no aim. Perhaps the application letter she is writing is only a ruse for her to pretend she has a place in the world. Even so, her hand moves, the page is filled with her neat, cursive handwriting asking for a place. Asking if she can ask for a place.

I would be honoured to be accepted to work as a healer at your prestigious sanatorium.

She doesn't know exactly when this pestilential idea perched in her brain, breeding like maggots that she had to go to Greece, to start afresh, someplace so different that she wouldn't have to think about anything that had happened to her at London. She can guess how, though she'd rather not.

"I'd be better off there," she told Blaise and Draco as they'd both come to meet with her at her house. She was making dinner for the three of them after a ridiculously long time. Though, strangely, it felt as if no time had passed. She felt the same bashful discomfort that she felt the first time she told them she wanted to work at Mungo's.

And it seemed that her friends had the exact same reaction.

"What? All alone?" Draco leaned against her kitchen cabinet. He stared at her carefully, skeptic.

"Not all alone. " She tried to sound as confident as she could. But her hands shaked as she waved her wand over the sizzling steaks. "I know Harriet and -"

"She's your coworker. I meant as a friend."

"I'll manage."

"All alone?"

"It's not as if we meet every day." She shrugged. "Or even every week."

"Pans -"

"And anyway, you can visit, can't you?"

"Not often to another country and you know that. I think that's one of the reasons you're going there."

True.

"I'd rather not be psychoanalyzed right now."

He scoffed. "Do you want me book a time and -"

"It's too much," Blaise said from his chair, cutting Draco off. "You can't stay alone." He stared at her in a more considerate way.

"I'll manage. "

"Pandora. Look at me "

Pansy counted from one to five before turning to her friend.

Blaise looked better; not good, but certainly healthier. Pansy would have commended herself for her good work, commended him for showing the sort of determination he previously had only to erupt chaos in his life. But he was fixed enough to now stare at her, to comment on her chaos. And she'd rather not, rather just disappear, put an invisibility cloak over her shoulder and let everyone forget she ever existed.

Harry had an invisibility cloak. The one from the storybooks. The one that could cheat death. The thought of made her cringe. She willed herself to not show it, to look at her friends through her mask.

It didn't matter. They knew her well enough.

"We know this is about Potter," is what Blaise said.

"Fucking Potter," is what Draco spat out.

Her eyes widened at the venom in his voice, something she hadn't heared after their school days. "It's not his fault. I let him go."

Partly true. She wasn't quite sure about the sequence of events. She said they were done. Then he hurt her. Then she tried to say she loves him, but he rejected her.

But didn't he hurt her first? Didn't his confession brought about after what happened at that bar made her doubt it all? That maybe he was trying to be kind, like she knew he had the capability to be. Or that he didn't love her, but he thought someone should.

But if she hadn't been such a coward, if she had been ready for people to know about them, the guy at the bar wouldn't have said what he said in front of Harry. So that fight wouldn't have happened.

Or maybe it would've happened sooner. From someone who meant more, who could induce hurt, nor mere pestilence. She wasn't sure. Whatever she thought of felt like an immovable mountain, a stone tower, something she can't get through. But still she defended him.

"It's not his fault."

Draco didn't seem to care though. "Seems to me it is. After that stunt he pulled at the bar, I can't believe he'd fight for you longer. But that's his way, I guess. All brawn and no perseverance."

Perseverance? He had that. But he couldn't fight for something that was always pushing back, absentmindedly, foolhardily. Pansy was always looking for reasons they wouldn't work. Perhaps that's why they didn't. The thing you haunt always haunts you back.

She felt a sharp twist in her heart when she realized she was still making excuses for him. He should've come back. To hear her say she loved him. To reject her with his words and not his absence. Plain, disdainful absence. She didn't deserve that. Not after all this time.

Should he have fought for her, though?

"Doesn't matter."

Of course it did. It was the only thing that did.

Draco began to talk again, but Pansy had had enough. She took a deep breath, felt the weight of living alone already pressing down on her shoulders, and tried to talk with the same confidence she showed when she first moved out of her parents' house.

"Listen, Draco. Blaise. I've already decided. You know me better than anyone. I'm going and - and you can't stop me. But I'd really like it if you supported me on this. It would be..." It would make me feel stronger. It would make me believe this is a practical decision and not just another road I'm running to. "Easier."

The steak sizzled. She let them ponder at her with their wide, sympathetic eyes as she turned to fix the dinner. Her practiced hand worked with ease now, but she could still feel the slight tremor. She'd never been good at asking for help or confessions. But lately that's all she seems to be doing. With poor outcomes. Disastrously poor outcomes.

But there were her friends. And they didn't disappear on her. As tumultuous her life had been, they were static. Always were. That was something about old friends who shared old scars. It was the unbreakable bond minus the fear of death. So as unsure she was, she was entirely prepared when Blaise hugged her from behind, smelling of the same brand of cigar her father had gifted him once.

"You know the answer to that already, don't you?"

She felt Draco kiss the side of her head, her heart the size of an angry fist.

"Thank you."

Though it wasn't needed. It wasn't needed at all.

Draco fixed the table. Blaise sat pensively, blowing smoke rings. Pansy felt, not for the first time, enormous gratitude, big enough to fill the room, the floor, the entire universe, for their presence.

She charms the paper blank. Again. The light of the morning shines off from the parchment, reflecting on her lack of articulation.

The words don't come out right. Too immature. Too impoverished. As if she is asking something she doesn't deserve.

I would like to apply because I am passionate about your project.

She would like to help because she would like to feel important. A proof that she could make a good difference. That she isn't a death eater cunt who unfortunately grew up pretty.

I would like to help because -

She's purposeless without it. St. Mungo's wouldn't allow her in the general ward. And Harry's gone. Blaise doesn't need her. And it's a bottomless pit inside her head that grows from the absence of someone needing her.

So the healer exists because the wound exists. Because someone needs her. She feels accepted when she makes something better. Pansy wonders if she can ever exist without anyone asking for her.

I would like to help because -

She has to make up for being who she had been. She still had enough money from her inheritance that she won't have to work for the rest of her life, but the muggle family her father tortured is still at St. Mungo's.

I would like to help because -

"Can I come in?"

The quill drops from her hand. It rolls across the paper and mars it with it's thick, black ink as she turns around to address the voice she didn't recognize.

"Yes, of -"

The man at the door of her chamber is lanky and awkward. He cowers a little as if the wall is coming down for him. But Pansy notices first the brilliant red hair, the signature mark of all Weasley's.

"Weasley."

She stands up, gobsmacked almost. He stands at the door with an expression similar to hers. Her fingers flex as she tries to find a word, any word, but he reminds her of Harry and all she can think is how tightly her heart is coiling in on itself.

He comes in, lips pressed in a timid smile. He looks around for a moment before sitting on one of the few beds. A second later, she follows suit. She sits on her chair and looks at him expectantly, cursing the awkward silence and cursing whatever that's going to end it.

He starts, looking around. "This is nice. Quiet."

"Yes." Too quiet, she can barely stand it anymore.

"You work alone?"

"A house elf helps me. Peony."

He nods a little too appreciatively. "Yeah, yeah. I think I saw her here the last time I came."

"Yes."

The pond of small talk runs dry. She can literally see his brain bounce around his head in search of anything else, anything meaningless, anything that skits around the mention of Harry Potter. But then she sees him coiling in, sees the helpless sigh as he dishes out what he really came here to talk about.

"I thought it might be you," he says rather flatly, despite his still awkward expression. "But then… I dunno. At first I thought it was too much of a miracle situation."

"Right." She presses her lips in a tight line.

"But then I saw how he always found ways to come back here. Cutting his hours short. Flunking everything else."

Was he accusing her of something? His cheeks are red and Pansy wonders if Harry's debilitating trainee status fell even further because of her. Is that what he wants to say? You were a distraction and he is better off without you .

But before she can say anything, he shrugs again, shaking off the words from his shoulder as if they didn't matter. She can see them clinking on the ground.

"Not that he didn't do that anyway… but something was different. He looked better. Then I remembered how you healed him the time he… well, I realized it was you."

"Right." It was her then it wasn't her. What's the point?

"Were you the one who ended it?"

"Why don't you ask him?" And it's not just that she doesn't want to be interrogated, doesn't want to trace back the steps before the fall, rewind exactly where it went terribly wrong, but she honestly doesn't know.

Why doesn't he ask his friend? The one who'd declare he loved her and then ran away without letting her repeat it.

Ronald Weasley scoffs. "I did. He just can't talk about these stuffs ."

He doesn't know either? Or he doesn't care enough to retreat his step as well? She twisted the ring on her index. "Why do you have to know?"

He looks at her. His eyes are beautiful, she realizes for the first time in her life. Blue and clear and honest. She wonders what it's like to have him as a friend.

"He's my best friend. I can't just sit around and see him like this."

"Like what?"

"I'm sure you know."

She can imagine. She'd rather not imagine. She feels a creeping warmth cover her neck.

"I sent him a vial. For his headache."

"You should have sent him a wand to stick it up his ass."

She snorts despite herself. He straightens up a little as well, a shadow of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"I'm not here to complain, Pansy. I know how stubborn he is."

She appreciates the skip from Parkinson to Pansy. Is it just as easy for all of her schoolyard nemesis to forget the bullying and meaningless fights? Should it be easy for her as well?

" Then why are you here, Ron? What can I possibly tell you?"

"I don't - don't know either. But I get that you were good for him. And I just wanted to know why you decided to... I don't know. Wasn't it serious enough for you? Was he too much?"

Wasn't she serious enough about them? Didn't she pull out her bruised heart to help him heal his? Didn't she spend uncountable restless nights just so he could sleep without dreaming?

"I love him." It still hurt to say it aloud. The vines wrapped around her heart reach her throat and remind of the futility of truth. But still. Ronald Weasley is sincere and they share a common love for a person their life would be less complicated without. Something tells her he deserves to know it.

He smiles. "I know he loves you too."

"But I don't think he - well, he'd probably be better off without me."

"I doubt it."

"He should be with someone like your sister."

He laughs at that. "I don't think so. I remember Ginny telling me he needs a personal healer more than a girlfriend so, I don't know, but maybe you are sort of perfect for him."

Perfect. It's a miscalculating, superficial word. There's not a thing in this giant, misbegotten world that is perfect. Still it is used by people like Ron Weasley to describe a tumultuous, headfirst relationship like theirs.

"He fought a guy at a bar because he…" She stops. This isn't it. "I wasn't ready for anyone to know about -" This doesn't sound right either. She takes a small breath. Words fail her. They fall around her like useless confetti. She tries to grab hold of something. Something meaningful. Something that doesn't sound like an excuse. Something that would give back the ground beneath her feet.

"With me it's not going to be just me. It's going to be my father and my mother and my last name. I don't think it's right to expect him to carry all of that."

"The baggage is even heavier on his side, isn't it?"

"I guess so. I don't know." She closes her eyes, there is a stone replacing her useless heart. "I don't know. I can't think right now."

She hears the crunch in his boots as he stands up. Hears the hesitance in his voice. "It's alright. I didn't - didn't think you'd know anyway. I just wanted you to know whatever you think, don't presume that he doesn't want to be with you. I think he's trying this time. I really do."

"Trying what?"

"To patch up his life a little. He's trying to finish his training this time despite… you know. He really is." He sighed. "Whatever. His train leaves today. I guess he -"

A loud, crackling noise somewhere. In her head. In the room. "What?"

Ron Weasley blinks, before he sets his eyes on her surprised face and his mouth falls open. "What? You - you didn't know?"

"He's leaving?" The quill on her hand is broken in half. "Where?"

"I can't believe you didn't know! It's - it's all over the paper today."

She hasn't been reading papers for a while now, precisely to ignore this sort of news. But at this moment she mentally slaps herself.

"Where is he going?"

"Romania. For two months."

Two months. She doesn't know why she feels so heartbroken. There is a snap in the middle of her chest. They haven't met in two months. She wasn't planning on meeting him in two months. But her throat is dry. Her stomach takes a backflip. She doesn't sound like herself when a question finally forms in her mouth.

"Why? And why didn't he tell me?"

But the guy in front of her is lost for words. "A new assignment. His last. I thought you knew."

" No. " No one told her. They broke up, he hurt her, she hurt him, but someone should've told her.

She stands up, then sits down again. She thought if she was accepted in Greece she would've sent him a letter. Just so he doesn't find a glaring absence in case he reaches out for her. But of course, Harry Potter doesn't abide by mortal conduct. That even though people lose touch they shouldn't entirely break apart. That she still had her first aid box filled with potions he would need if he got into an accident.

Suddenly the pain isn't pain at all. It's sharp shooting anger.

Ron Weasley recognises it. And she can decipher the barest hint of smirk as he asks her if she would like to go meet him.

"Of course I do."

He takes her hand as they apparate. She can't disjoint her anger from the twisting knot in her stomach as they arrive at King's Cross. She hasn't been here in ages, but she doesn't have time to indulge in familiar memories as they both run along. Her heart beats like a drum as she can hear the loud gasp from people who they don't stop to apologize after they've bumped into them.

"The train should leave in - fuck." He breathes heavily. "I miscalculated."

" What ?"

"No. No no let's still go." They slide past another group of people, slowing down. "This way." She hears a gasp and she turns around to see Hannah Abbott, her old classmate, staring at her and Weasley in utter disbelief.

Her hold on his hand loosen instinctively. But he seems unfazed, ushering her to go on.

"Bye, Hannah!"

Her heart beats louder as she realizes what this looks like. What she was always afraid this might look like. She is in her healer robes. Most of her classmates don't even know she is a healer. She begins to doubt coming here. What would she tell Harry anyway? What can she possibly say to someone who probably didn't want her there?

But Ron's voice cuts through her thoughts like a jagged knife.

"There he is. Harry! HARRY!"

There he is. In dark trainee robes, ready to get on the train, ready to go away from her. He turns around and his mouth falls open at the sight of them. She slows down as they reach him, gasping for breath. She can't talk for a moment as she watches his friend punch his shoulder. He stumbles back a bit before regaining posture. He turns from his friend to her and then, quite unexpectedly, curves his lips in a small, infinitesimal smile. Tall and lean and distractingly handsome, a month ago his smile alone might have been enough to sweep her off her feet.

But the anger she felt in the chamber still has a prickling reminiscence along her brain and the relief of seeing him is quickly superseded by solid, contemptible anger. She gives him a shove, forcefully, on the chest. But he was ready for it this time, he barely moved.

Pansy's hands drop to her sides, forming fists. Her eyes prickle, she feels as though she might finally destroy her image and cry in public. For him.

"I cannot believe you didn't tell me," she seethes, each word tasting bitter in her mouth.

His eyes are blank, for a moment, then he sighs and sweeps his hand over his hair. A second passes, then two, Pansy feels the eyes of people walking by on her. On them. It is a busy place, bustling with sounds of people hurrying to be in places. They take time to stop and look at this tragedy though, this travesty she made with her own hands. Well, they both did. Pansy almost shivers with how cut open she feels.

"Did I ruin it?" Pansy finds her voice hollow. Did she ruin it? Sounds like her. Ruining good things with words she didn't really mean. "Is that it? Or did I say the right things and now you don't want anything to do with me? Even so," she stops, taking a shaky breath, "how can you not tell me? I did - we've gone through so much. I told you things I never thought I… I love you, you moron! And you didn't think I should know that you are going away? Are you really that alright with shoving me out of your life?"

He doesn't answer, instead takes a step forward. It takes effort to not take a step back. There were people watching. It was broad daylight. It… didn't matter. He's in her space in one step. He lifts his hands to touch her face, and now he's in her mind. His eyes are so green you cannot look at it without imagining a forest. His face is broken down into a hundred aching pieces, all bare. All bright and reckless and good. Something only hers.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I was… I was trying not to become a baggage. For you."

Pansy lets out a scoff. "That's not a good excuse. That's - that's quite possibly the worst excuse."

An awkward smile breaks into his face, his eyes bright and warm and beautiful. "I was never good at them, was I?"

"Fuck you, Harry." A stupid tear falls from her eyes. He swips it away with his thumb "I thought you… fuck you."

"I'm sorry," he says again. "It was so stupid. It was… but I thought I had to make something out of myself - or at least try to - before I - I meet you again."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't live without you." He narrows his eyes. "Well, maybe I can, but I don't want to. But the way we are - the way I've been to you, it wasn't fair. I didn't want to be the one you have to stay behind. Not when you can be so much more."

It doesn't make sense. "I tried to tell you I love you. You disappeared."

"I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't stay and hear that and give you space. I'm sorry. I should've gone back. I'm still learning to accommodate what I feel and what I do."

She lets that sink in. Her head swirls like soapy water down a basin. It's broad daylight. They've never been so close in broad daylight.

"What are you saying, Harry?"

"I wanted to become an auror before I asked you to be my girlfriend again." He lets out a shaky laugh. "But that was a shitty plan. I don't know how I could stay sane for two months without talking to you. The last two have been hell enough."

This guy. This senseless, reckless, endearing fool.

"But I asked Hermione and she thought you needed time as well. Though she did say -"

"You moron." She breathes out at last. "You absolute twat."

He smiles brightly. "That sounded so good in theory, though. But I didn't know Ron would - well, in hindsight I think it was expected. It was always a bit awkward talking to him about relationships."

When she doesn't answer, he says, "You don't know how happy I am to see you."

"I thought you were trying to get away from me."

He looks at her in sincere horror. "I can't believe you think that. Have you seen me? I'm empirically whipped. I'm in love with you, you brilliant idiot! The only thing that makes every day bearable is that I tell myself I'll be good enough for you. That there will be an us if I get through it."

Us. It sounds good. She thinks she could get used to the idea of that. But.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

His cheeks turn pink. "I was thinking of making a big gesture. I would've stood in front of your apartment in my auror robes. Something - something to surprise you."

"You - but what if I found someone new? What if I got into an accident and -"

"Have you found someone new?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I haven't."

He purses his lips. There's her answer. But it's all so bizzare. So much on destiny's capricious hands. How can he stay so sure? How can she love someone so frustratingly positive?

"I know we'll stay together, Parkinson. It may take a while to get our stubborn fates together, with the way things are now. But I look at you and I just know. I think you know that too. That's why you're here, right? Because you know there's an us?"

There's a you and a me and a thousand little mishaps , she thinks. There is an idea of you that was forced on you so people could get what they wanted. There's an idea of me that was created by centuries of mindless traditions and people who believed them. There is a you and a me and times when none of these matter, there are days where nothing but they do. It's a bottomless void, the losing of self, the finding. The revelation that there are some pieces of ourselves that are never going to be found, that we still have to rearrange the pieces that we have, and make do.

"There's an us," Pansy replies and feels the claw around her heart loosen a little. Knows in her bones that it's the truth. The only truth. "I don't entirely know what that means yet. But there's an us."

"Good enough for me." The smile that lights up his face is the same, brilliant one she fell for. She takes a moment to search his face, with healer eyes, with a lover's eyes. He looks healthier, happier. He continues, "And - just… one more thing. I have to tell you because I know you. If there ever comes a day - and Merlin knows I wish it does - that I don't have nightmares. Or my hands don't shake, or my scar doesn't hurt. It's still you, Pansy. You're the one I want. And contrary to what you think - I'm not an easy choice either. But you - you wonderful, brilliant witch, you choose me. Because you love me. And I know I blew it by a long shot when you tried to tell me, and I am sorry, but I promised myself that I'll be waiting when you're ready to say it again. However long it takes."

"I am ready." She breaths. "You big daft idiot. I love you, for better or worse. I'm so in love with you that it makes me crazy. And irrational. And insanely, insanely happy."

He flicks his eyebrows, smiling. She remembers the first time they kissed. A long time ago, in a place very different from this. But she knows now that for him it's the same. For him the stakes were the same from the beginning. He was brave in that way, he didn't compartmentalise wants and needs and shoulds and woulds. He reaches everything the way he always does, passionate and sure. As if there were no other way. Pansy loves that.

She loves him. And therein lies the answer to her dilemma.

She answers his question by kissing him. There is an audible gasp from the crowd, she thinks, but it is really hard to be sure when he leans in, deepening the kiss, his smile so wide she feels his teeth on her lips. Not really sensual, but very good, she decides. Her smile is wide as well, and when tries to deepen the kiss, their teeth bump. She snorts, breaking off the kiss. He looks thoroughly amused.

"This isn't what I imagined for our first public kiss."

"You imagined our first public kiss?" She really doesn't know why she is surprised. Harry Potter can be loud and vibrant and entirely, entirely, ridiculous.

"Babe." He smirks. "There's a whole goddamn list." He looks over the top of her head. When she follows his gaze, she sees Draco and Granger along with at least four Weasleys. Ron had retreated back to the pack, she hadn't even noticed. It's too far to see their expressions, but Pansy imagines at least four of the people holding looks of utter distaste, just for good measure. She turns back to Harry and gives a tentative smile. "Let's go over," she says.

His hands are now on her shoulder. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely negative," she replies, and takes his hand. He instinctively slots their fingers. She feels the familiar buzz of magic, pure, unadulterated magic, in the gaps between them.

It feels… right.

i once saw an interview of charles bukowski where, in answer to a question about his inspiration for writing, he says something alone the lines of that - that it's all he lives for. the next word. the next sentence. the next poem is what interests him. beyond that there's nothing. and i am no charles bukowski, of course, but when i first heard it i thought, "that's interesting and morbid and morbidly poetic" and shoved it in the back of my head, but writing this fic, i sort of understand it. in a better way. it was as if i was floating through life. and i am sort of always in existential crisis and have problem with attachment to reality and real people. so for me, his words rang so true that not for the first time i was entirely, entirely gobsmacked by the universal nature of literature, in whichever form it takes.

always wanted to share that with someone else. only an epilogue left. thanks for reading!!