The drumming uproar of the afterparty beats in Pansy's ear most unexpectedly. Not loud enough to drown everything else though. It's perhaps an echo, or the shadow of an echo. It unsettles her a bit. Since they are in the room of requirement, she expected proper discretion. And even as she keeps on kissing him, already taking off his quidditch robes and propping herself up with her elbow to have more leverage, she wonders if it's because she likes it - likes the idea of the entire world going up and about while knowing nothing regarding them. These two stupid people, twisting around in bedsheets while the Gryffindors celebrate their win against Ravenclaw in the semifinals of their Quidditch cup.

But Harry Potter has his own idea of an afterparty.

"God, I've missed you," he mumbles against her neck, one of his favorite spots to let out undue confessions, she has learnt in these few months skipping classes and her friends to find herself trapped between his mischievous smirk and brilliant eyes.

And his body, but they switch positions all the time.

"Who wouldn't?" She tries to sound confident, but damn, he sucks at her collarbone and she moans almost clumsily. Her hands shake as she tries to hastily get him out of his trousers. He helps her pull it down before they work on her. And she sits up to get out of her house robes, which was ridiculous to put it on in the first place since anyone who saw her sneak across the castle could have asked what she was doing in her full robes at that time of the night.

She couldn't really tell them that Chosen One likes to pull it off of her.

But with her state of mind, it's more of a ticking time bomb when she belts out anything idiotic like that. Because whenever any of her friends ask her just why the hell she is so distant, she wants to offer his name. The reason and the complication. As if Pansy's life lacked any of it's own, Harry Potter decided to saunter in her life in their last year at Hogwarts. And no one knows. Perfect. She worries just when she will lose her grip on the secrecy of things, something they hadn't talked about. Actually, to think about it, they hadn't talked about any of the important things she assumes people who have sex regularly talk about.

She really needs to get her priorities in order.

She pushes her fingers in his hair while her other hand rests on his neck. She pulls him down to her and melts into the warm sheets when he responds. Her skirt is only hiked up when he hooks his finger in her knickers and pulls it down just enough. By this time they're both just a bundle of nerves and hormones making their ill-advised decisions for them. Harry Potter takes his time to make bad decisions, he presses hungry, open mouthed kisses on her throat, her collarbone, her breasts and downwards before going down. So every moment is expanded tenfold for Pansy. The anticipation, the soft, lonely ache he will soothe for a while are the only things that matter right now. They make the most of this short, scrap of time. Pansy holds on to him as if she'll never have to let go.

Because she knows the drill; she has been in this place and all the other places they can go - to steal a moment or two of a dream that feels like a ticking-time bomb - to memorize the routes of her demise. It's a clockwork, cataclysmic routine of her own making. One o'clock, check her coin to see if there's a message - if there's not she'll just give her own to exert some sort of dominance. And to his credit, he almost always answers. Three o'clock, get to the hiding place. They'll have sex by four o'clock, by far the best. Even better than the anticipation, the bone-deep, embarrassing longing. Five o'clock is focused on getting out of there without anyone noticing enough to question. By six, the post coital, post cheery-dumb happiness washes down sufficiently so she can wallow in shame. Embarrassment, hopelessness and the sheer ludicrousness of her situation.

That's the worst part. The part that makes her want to stop all of it. Even the rush of seeing him smile when their eyes meet in hallways. But like an amature drug addict, like a silly rabbit, she goes back, takes the delusional happy pill in a day or two.

Then rinse and repeat and praying that one day she'll have restraint enough to call it quits.

It's hard though, because he is a diligent lover. He makes love to her with a sticky determination. Like when he plays Quidditch. Eyes set on the prize, eyes set on her as if she can be qualified as a prize. The sex is more intense after the game, she has learnt to anticipate. Harry chases after her the way he chased the grandest reward on the field. He holds her hand as if he's afraid she might fly away out of his reach. As if she's just as unpredictable and chaotic as the golden snitch.

He holds her hand now as he goes down, her knicker is entirely out of sight and kisses the inside of the thighs. Oh, Merlin . She holds her breath and glances down to find his eyes locked on hers.

"You look magnificent," he says, his breath fans on her always sensitive part and she rolls her head back on the pillow. It's worse to depart to reality when he says things like that.

"Well, get to work, then."

There's a chuckle before he obeys and there's her happy pill, the grandest delusion as he dives in, kisses and licks and pulls at all of her nerves at once. She keeps her hold on his hair and tries to think of nothing but this moment. Not before, or after when they go their separate ways and she promises herself that the next time will be the last. The song buzzing in her hair is her favorite, she thinks, even though she hasn't heard it before. He sucks on her clit and she shivers before pulling on his hand. When he looks up, she only has to roll her eyes. They've been together enough time to get the cues, and it twists her insides somewhat when he understands, like every other time and comes up to her. Kisses her on the mouth before she leads him inside her. His head falls in the crook of her neck as his hand finds the curve of her waist. He squeezes her before moving and - Merlin - the tight grip on her body falls apart and she can only barely register anything else but the rising quiver in her stomach. She wraps her leg around his to guide him in, moves up in their own rhythm and there isn't anything else, really. Her hands can barely register where to settle because she wants all of him. The neck the shoulder the back and his hands; mostly his hands. And for all his bravado, Pansy Parkinson knows just how to make him speechless. He merely chokes instead of moaning when she twists her body to make him go deeper.

"Oh wow, Pans, I - I -"

"Faster."

He obeys. And it's nothing like all the other times. It's exactly like all the other times. Everything else but what they're doing is dust and lint and insignificant. She moans his name, his first name, something she only calls him when they're like this; when she can't really say where she ended and he began.

His hold on her tightens. "I'm close."

"Me too," she barely breathes out. The world is warm, too warm. His shoulder blades are sweaty and they flex in rhythm with his thrusts. She holds on tighter.

"Pans, I think I - now - can I-?" He shudders, moaning. "Inside?"

"Yes yes." A thousand times yes. It's always the same answer and he always asks and it always sends her to the edge.

The orgasm hits her like a well-intended stupefy charm. Their bodies fall back into each other. He says something appreciative but it takes her a minute to gather her thoughts enough to reply. Even then they are catching their breaths. She feels his heart, loud and so alive on top of hers. He kisses her neck, her throat, before turning over for a sloppy, lovely kiss on her lips. She responds, of course she does. She's a putty, melting, lilting version of herself right now. And it's in these vulnerable moments that seeds of lovely heartbreak are scattered across her stupid heart. When he says stuffs such as -

"I saw the red scarf you wore to the game."

She chuckles. "I had to make so many excuses for that."

"You saw when I caught the snitch?"

"Everyone saw when you caught the snitch."

Harry makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a snort. He rolls to the side and looks on more obviously, green eyes trailing every impression of her face. He loves reading her, he loves that he is one of the few people who can. Pansy blushes helplessly.

"You were looking so pretty today, at Charms." He chuckles after a moment, fingers flitting on her cheek. She fears she is blushing even more prominently than she did before. "I wanted to take you up by the wall and snog you senseless in front of everybody."

She wonders if he speaks that way with his girlfriend.

"I didn't realize you noticed." She never presumes he notices. Least she expects, least the sting hurts when she is reminded the simple fact that they have sex in private because this is something they want to keep a secret, that he likes to keep a secret. Secret like a family curse, like unintelligible scribbles in someone's journal, like the women her father used to wander to when he got tired with her mother. Secret. Sleazy, sneaky, secret.

Pansy pretends it never bothers her.

But Golden Boy huffs. His voice is as sincere as ever, "Of course I noticed. That's all I ever do."

He flits his hand over her waist to pull her close. She looks around, sideways, upwards, anywhere else but his face that she knows is set in concentration on her. They are in the room of requirement, filled with furniture no one ever looks for, with a four poster bed in the middle just for them. But the things here change every time they come in, with the exception of the massive bed. She notices the changes in the decor of the room that morphs into anything the visitor requires. Just like Pansy Parkinson - resident mean girl of Slytherin house, proud cunt; sultry, sneaky seductress for possible suitors; meek, moldable shell of a girl for her family.

She has yet to decide what she is for Harry Potter.

She would ask, and no doubt he would answer in that careless, charming way he always answers her any inquiries. But she wonders if part of the appeal of their rendezvous is that she doesn't yet know. That she can titter around this new person she becomes. Someone who jokes without making it an insult, someone lighter, lovelier, easier.

Someone easy to fuck.

The mean cunt of Slytherin house would not have allowed Potter to slither in her life as this Pansy did. Pansy of room of requirement. Smiling and giggling Pansy. Someone Harry Potter requires, someone he likes to sleep next to. That has been a new development. They've been falling asleep beside one another for the last three times. She wouldn't mind if it turned into a daily habit.

"Hey, look at me."

Potter is inescapable most of the time. Relentless. So she does and finds just what she feared. Eyes full of admiration. His sort of green was already hard to look away from, even without the puppy-dog loveliness. And now it ripples like some chaos she wants to believe in; she's locked her gaze even before she knows.

"What?"

"I see you. All the time."

"Obviously."

"I'm being honest."

"I'm sure you are." To be honest, she'd much rather answer like she believes it. But the slippery slope she walks around this boy is already too dangerous; if she falls on the treacherous region of what she feels for him, she knows she can never get back up.

Potter rolls his eyes. "There's no winning with you, is there?"

Oh , if only he knew. She is a cracked up enigma with him, naked on this bed that belongs to neither of them, never belonged to anybody. She is the last question on an distressingly easy exam paper. Usually a puzzle that desperately jams all the fractured pieces to fit into something, she feels finally understood without cutting off scraps of herself. She might not yet know who she is for him, but one thing is certain - Harry Potter is winning over her, winning her over, all the damn time.

That six o'clock misery is hitting way earlier today.

"I've got to go," she says and attempts to get up. But Potter holds on.

"Five more minutes."

She gulps a dry breath. "No."

"Three, then." He persists. "I don't know when the next one will be. You're so distant today."

"You noticed?"

He lets her go this time, eyes narrowing. "Hey, what is this?"

"What is what?"

"This. This… friction . Why don't you trust me?"

Pansy feels her heart beat like an agitated bird. A trapped bird with clipped wings. She gets up silently. She doesn't want to have this conversation. She's been trying so hard to not have this conversation. She gets up, hands holding on to the bedsheet to cover her breasts. "I don't know what you mean."

"The fuck you don't!" He gets up as well. And she thinks, Oh, great. An argument.

"Potter, I don't -"

"And what's with this Potter bullshit ? "

She would like to know as well.

"I like it well enough, OK? It's sexy when you call me that. But someday it's got to bug me that the only time you call me Harry is when we're fucking."

"And that someday is today?"

"Yeah!"

She purses her lips. The trapped bird inside her ribcage is thrusting her wings between the bars. Few fluffs of feathers detach from its wings. It hurts her, literally, like the talons of some nefarious creature is twisting inside her. Messing up her insides. Messing up her already messed up head. And she could play coy, could pretend to analyse this creature and what it wants. But the problem is that she already knows what it wants. It wants to snog Harry Potter senseless in front of all the people at Charms. It wants to have a real, actual date with him. It wants - wants -

Answers.

Answers.

"What do you want from me exactly?"

This shuts him up for a moment. He stares at her, flushed, and she can almost see him grasping for words. Words to hurt and maim? Words to curse her with?

"I want to know why you… why do you always act like it's a game? A fucking routine stop in your daily schedule."

"Isn't it?" She blinks. "A routine stop before you go be with your girlfriend?"

His expression changes from disbelief to pure aghast.

"What else do you think this is? We fuck in secret then we pretend we don't know each other. We tell each other stuffs… like I am afraid of my father and you hate your aunt and then the next morning I see you cling to Ginny Weasley like she's the fucking gravity center of your little universe! Isn't this a game? Don't you feel like you're winning, Harry?"

"Pansy, there is nothing -"

"Because I think you're winning! You're all over me! All the time. And I can barely breathe or function because all I want to do is get myself here to be in this fucking fantasy! Do you know what it's doing to me when I'm not here? How it feels to be someone's secret? Do you have any idea how much I hate myself already? Now you want me to announce all this. To actually repeat what's going inside my head. You fucking -"

"Pansy!" He holds his hands up. The words trip over her tongue. It's only now she realizes how deeply she has been breathing. The room has gotten warmer. And there is a loud buzz in her ear not from the afterparty, not even her heart, it's pure, white embarrassment. White noise, black heart. She wants to forget all of it. All the knowing smiles, the heartfelt compliments and the shallow grave she buries herself each night. She wants to hurl up the happy pills.

But then he says, "I'm not with Ginny. Not really. I told you we were in a bad place. Open relationship… we tried, but it didn't work out well."

He did say that. But of course she didn't believe any of it.

"We both are seeing other people."

Her chest feels like a deep chasm. She tries to breathe evenly, but somehow the world shrinks on her. She thinks she ought to have known this. She thinks she ought to have figured out that Ginny Weasley is not the type of girl to wait around for someone who's fucking other people. She should've known that Ginny Weasley isn't like her.

Potter looks at her expectantly. She only shrugs. "Alright. My bad. Can I go?"

"What?"

"I have to go now. Before the others notice I'm gone." But she doubts that. She's been sneaking off on her friends - with or without the improper intention to meet Harry Potter in the Prefect's bathroom or any other rendezvous - for a long time. They don't question her anymore. She wonders if they already believe she is a lost cause, girl tangled in loose ends, mean girl finally paying for all the meanness.

It's hard to have a conversation with so many thoughts twisting and unraveling inside her mind. A landmine, her mind, a quagmire of broken reflection.

But Harry reaches out to touch her hand - his fingers hover like a secret over her arm before they glide down the well-memorized path. She looks away when his palm finally encloses hers. She thinks she hears a whizzing noise. Bird in cage. Wonders if some enclosement ironically materialized to taunt her. She wonders if she requires it.

"Pansy," Harry says softly. "Stay with me."

"I can't."

A second passes. Then two. "Not just here. Let's go out. Hogsmeade. I know a secret passage we can take."

"No."

"I don't care if anyone sees us together. Do you?"

No answer.

"I'll break up with Ginny. Officially."

"Why?"

One of these days he's going to decide the sex isn't worth the meandering. One of these days the happy pills won't wash out the image of the girl twisting the knife in her stomach just to feel something.

But it seems today is not the day. He replies, "You know why."

She would like to pretend she does. It's part of the fantasy. He is a Montague, she is a Capulet, and the whole world is a war-torn, rotting place trying to put them in their places. War-torn houses, unfair Verona. Meandering loyalty. Her father in Azkaban, her father inside the locked up closet in her dorm. It helps that he has his demons as well. A broken mirror in the trunk under his bed - the mirror will never show another set of blue eyes. But he pretends it does, pretends it still dictates his life, beating like a rotting heart under his bed.

So there are forces beyond nature to separate them, one would figure, one would imagine.

But that's a ruse as well. The war-torn place is his heart, the rot is her heart.

So she twists her hand free. Lets go of the bedsheet as she gets up. She feels the coldness of the room bite her skin when she fishes for her clothes in the messy scatter around the bed. She dresses up silently, her hands shaking with some fire she knows will drown her one day. Her chin set on determination to not show any emotion, though it doesn't matter. He knows everything anyway. He sits still, silent, unmoving sculpture of the boy of her dreams; boy who makes her want to dream. His presence feels like a ghost hovering outside the curtains of her four-poster bed. She knows she won't sleep tonight.

When she finishes, she finally allows herself to look at him. And what a sight. Eyes like a bright, tumultuous forest, skin littered with scars. A haunted painting. All she wants to do is crawl back on the bed, put over the bedsheet, pretend for a little while that she is allowed to have something like this, pretend it won't damage him further. Pretend they are terribly hopeful like Romeo and Juliet to try to steal fates from the world.

Pretend she doesn't know the ending of the play.

"I don't think we should do this anymore," she says, the air stuck in her throat feels like lead. It's hard to speak clearly, she hears her voice and can't recognise it.

Ever so slowly, he nods. She flexes her fingers instead of reaching out to smooth his unruly hair. Can they have a nice farewell? Some lovely goodbye so she can live in it's afterimage until nothing hurts?

But he says, his voice steel as well, "You are so selfish."

"I know."

"No, you don't." He looks away too, falls back on the large bed. "Go on then, get out. Get on with your fucked up life."

She turns back, her heart beating so loud it's embarrassing. The room is filled with dusty air and it doesn't matter. She's ended things that made her happy so many times before. Ended them because they're not good in the long run, ended them because a Parkinson must be logical. She tells herself Harry is too nice a guy to be caught up with her.

When she gets to the Slytherin common room, she finds the remnants of a party scattered across the room. They've been partying for the last two nights after their entry to the finals. The final round of Quidditch will be Gryffindor against Slytherin. Two houses not alike in dignity. Ancient grudge, so ancient they don't even know how it started. But still they play, still they celebrate.

The room is filled with crumpled papers and empty wine bottles. It's mostly empty of people, but still Pansy treads carefully to not make any noise. But a slight moan halts her footsteps. On the large Victorian couch, their seeker is sprawled like a vegetable, and he looks on at Pansy with half lidded eyes as he calls her.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Draco Malfoy asks drowsily. Drunk, as usual.

"Oh the usual. Purgatory."

He widens his eyes a little, not conscious enough to catch on. Instead of cross examining her, he yawns. She prays he won't remember anything when he wakes up.

But the sodding boy questions her as if in reflex. "What are you wearing? Why weren't you -"

"I'll tell you in the morning. Go to sleep."

"Hmm." He rolls his head to the side. "Good. Sleep. Forget."

Sleep. Forget. Good. Not for her. She wonders if Potter will be able to sleep. If he's still lying on the bed she left. Or if he is treading back to his common room as well. If that place is also littered with golden flakes, half-fed snacks and empty bottles of firewhisky. If the sight of the life well-lived, nights well-spent fills his chest with a desperate ache the same as her. If he wants nothing more than to spend the night with her, the way she does. She remembers the first night they spent together, a rarity. He told her about his muggle house and the curse of destiny, his favorite dessert and how some nightmares just don't end.

The thought of him twists at her heart worse than ever. So before going up to her room, she nicks a half-empty bottle of wine, thinking she will feel horrible in the morning, knowing it can't be any worse than this.