It took him about fifteen minutes to wrestle politely through the people who wanted to talk to him and find a nice, cold spot. Cold, because the light of the party didn't reach the farthest corner of the Three Broomsticks. Cold because he preferred it that way. It was as far away as it was possible to be without excluding himself from the scene altogether. Somehow it was still too close. From time to time, like a broken record, he heard the splatter of drunk conversations that started and ended in nowhere. Saw the seedy, groping snog session going among his friends. Harry slipped further into the dark, he couldn't believe how he let Hermione convince him to come to this godforsaken party.

"Please, Harry, it'll be fun. You need to get out too."

"I'm good."

But she stood in front of him relentlessly. A tentative moment passed, then two, before she finally succumbed to reality and told him, with cheeks the color of ripe tomato, that it would be easier to be with Ron if he came too.

"The three of us, like before."

Like before. Like when they didn't know that you could live on three hours of sleep for a month straight, you could live off on beans and berries for a week. Water is an essential commodity. The person you sleep next to holds your life in their hands.

Before all this. Before they grew up too fast so the skin around them felt taut, not their shape, not something they could fit into.

When Hermione and Ron would fight but he doesn't remember them being so unbearable, so utterly ridiculous.

"What happened to you?" he asked her.

Hermione looked away. "A war? We got together too soon? Maybe we weren't supposed to get together at all." Her voice had the bossy edge to it. "Like you and Ginny."

"Ginny and I are good."

"Because you both sleep with other people."

Harry scoffs. "At least we're not tiptoeing around the castle, afraid of being in the same place."

Hermione let out a tired moan. An angry huff. Both, whatever. In his mind the conversation was as useless as studying Divination. Charting out fates and futures based on stars when your life is already determined to fuck you up. Creeping around vapid parties and endless night outs when all you have to do is move the fuck on.

He told her he would go. And when half an hour later Ron came up and made the same request, he told him the same thing.

So there he was, sitting in a corner in the Three Broomsticks, waiting for the firewhisky to kick in or kick out. Around him are people invested in the present, happy, dumb present. The post-war era. Most of them were regarded as war heroes after all. As if there are any post war, post the most sinister year of their lives. As if it's not fresh in the minds of people like yesterday, or just this moment, every moment. He saw Neville with his arms around Luna, laughing at something she had said, and Harry realized with some amount of wonder that he had never heard the guy laugh in such a boisterous way. It pissed him off for some reason.

"May I sit?"

The question broke him off from his head. He narrowed his eyes at the caller and involuntarily straightened up as he recognized her. She looked completely out of the scene, even worse than Neville Longbottom wearing confidence.

"Uhm-"

In a tight black skirt and black top, Pansy Parkinson looked as if she emerged from the shadows. When she sat beside him - without waiting for an answer - in the corner where the warmth of the pub didn't reach, she looked ready to melt back into the darkness again. He wondered afterwards if that was the purpose.

"Thanks," she said. And then. "Don't worry, I'm not here to talk to you."

"Why are you here?"

Parkinson rolled her eyes. She pointed her finger to another corner of the room. Harry followed her lead and saw, quite amusingly, that Draco Malfoy was sprawled across a divan, looking like another fool who was enjoying the night way too much. Perched on his knee was a girl in their year - Daphne Greengrass, if he wasn't mistaken.

"I'm waiting for that idiot to either drink until he's passed out or go up to the room we booked."

"Oh." Harry coughed. She had always had a sharp tongue, but he had never heard her spit her venom towards the pale prat. And, to think of it, it wasn't even spiteful, more of a disappointment, a roll of eyes and that tusk of the tongue. Not something he'd expect from Parkinson as a girlfriend.

"So you're together now?"

She snorted. "Negative."

Oh. The complexity of their relationship didn't feel like something he should explore. And anyway, it wasn't his territory to explore either. He offered her a drink to be polite and she refused.

"I might just go up to the room alone." She sighed and leaned against the seat. "What's this party even about? It's all so tiring."

I'll drink to that. Even though he doesn't understand why. He was supposed to have the prime time of his life. No Voldemort. No prophecy. Just him and how much can he drink before he passes out. Just him and the neon bright future of an Auror he'd been promised after he got out of Hogwarts. Just him and Life, like a shot of espresso. He was promised that. The light at the end of the tunnel. He told himself he'd misuse every bit of it to get his due.

But he's just so tired. He'd rather sit in the corner of this pub. He'd rather drink until he passed. Shutting his conscience off like a screw so he wouldn't have another bad dream. He'd rather not see Hermione throwing worried glances at him. He'd rather not go to the castle this night.

"What?" the girl beside him asked.

He blinked. "What?"

She tilted her head to have a better look at him and he realized that he had blurted the last part of his thoughts out loud.

"Oh." He felt warm embarrassment rise to his throat. "Nothing."

She kept looking at him. He'd never noticed her eyes before. Green, like his... not like his. Sharp and steady green. Mossy green. Like the lake behind the castle. Like -

She said something.

He blinked. Again. "What?"

"I asked if you'd like the room. Draco's not going to be of any help to me so -" She shrugged, handing him a small key. The number of the room flashed in his eyes. "Take it."

His eyes widened. Was she offering to have-

But she rolled her eyes, he realized that, once again, he blurted his thoughts.

" No , thank you." She got up. "I thought I'd go back to the castle, but I guess I'll just stay here. Get those luxury treatments I paid for."

Oh god. If he was only feeling disgruntled when the night started, he was absolutely mortified by now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"Course you didn't." She rolled her eyes. "Have a good night… or roll over and die."

And that embarrassment he was left with warmed his insides. He took another gulp of his drink. Fucking loose tongue, unraveling mind. He waited for another hour in the midst of happy people, at least people pretending to be happy. Waited for everything to die down. He couldn't for the life of him remember what the celebration was, why he was required to attend. He felt even a blithering annoyance at his own body, the flaccid bulk of muscle that couldn't stand or pose or take him to anywhere he really wanted to go. He wondered if there'd be an after-party in the common room. He'd really rather not go to the castle. He hadn't slept so well those days, even when he took the sleeping draught his healer suggested. There was always something to haunt his sleep, ready to creep up from the shadows. He wondered if it would be better in another bed. Even though he's botched up the invitation, maybe - maybe -

He made up his mind when Ron broke a jug of butterbeer in a blunder and everyone roared in laughter. His head buzzed like a distant hum as he got up and sneaked his way to the stair. In uncertainty, of course. When he thought back to that night again, he couldn't remember for the life of him what compelled him to just walk up to the room. Why didn't it occur to him that instead of surrendering to the mortifying ordeal, he could just book a room of his own? Maybe it was fate, or the dubious effect of firewhisky. Cold sweat formed in his scalp as he knocked on her door. A dim lit pathway, it felt like the sort of place where stories begin.

A small slide and the door opened with Pansy Parkinson's face peeking from on side. He wished there were more lights so he could read her expression. So he could make some sense of the pull he felt in his gut. But she stayed in the shadow, all he could see was a book in her hand, all he heard in her voice was the same edge from downstairs.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm sorry for earlier. For assuming… you know. You were trying to be nice and I-"

She pursed her lips. "Alright."

"Could I - maybe?" He felt a warmth rise to his cheeks. "I just want to sleep. In a quiet place. Just sleep. If the invitation is still valid. I mean - maybe even a couch… I don't know."

He wished there were lights so he could read her. But of course, nothing's ever how you want it. He wished he drank less so the uncharted territory would feel less precarious. But alas, he drank and he spluttered and now he stood like a moron in front of a girl with whom he'd never had a conversation that lasted for a whole minute.

They stayed in silence as if she was letting his words sink in. What they meant. What did it mean? The scene felt wrong. He was the resident war hero who seemed only alive when he was playing Quidditch. The rest of his life passed in rotting scraps of time neither utilized nor enjoyed. He wasn't supposed to be there.

And yet. He could feel the slight shiver on his shoulder and stopped the urge to look back to see if someone else was there. He knew there wasn't. If he had to describe his state of mind, he'd say that he felt like a ticking time bomb. And he wondered if stepping into Pansy Parkinson's room would be like stepping into another reality, they were so different after all. He wondered if time would slow down, maybe, or pick up the lost pace.

After forever, she stepped aside. He entered the soft lit room and almost without any other exchange, he walked to the bed in the middle, pulled off his shoes and tried to fall asleep. He mumbled his gratitude for not turning him away when Parkinson threw a duvet over him and received a soft welcome, softer than he'd ever heard her speak.

Sleep came an hour later, or perhaps a lifetime. He laid there in the room smelling of strawberries, eyes closed, and listened to her. Smoking a cigarette, ruffle of pages, something dropped, a low curse. Homely. The room felt homely.

When he woke up he found his hand entwined with hers. After maybe the fifth sleepover, she told him it was because he kept tossing and turning and would only stop when she'd hold him.So it became a routine. A slight stoppage from his mundane life. And life was mundane, so horribly, pathetically mundane.

He'd wound up in her room every other night, which she always seemed to be in. Alone. If he asked her why she was there she'd just shrug and say it was probably the same reason as him. And he'd have to stay happy with that answer since she never wanted to ask him anything. Anything besides, Would you be here tomorrow? And the day after? When?

He supposed he liked the lack of inquiry on her part. Liked that he didn't need to have a reason to be tired in that room, with her. It was a small, minimalist room with its careful furnishings. Pansy seemed to be around for a long time. enough to always have something of hers strewn around - some books on the table, her green scarf over the chair, on the bedside table her cigarettes. At first he liked the sight of her things. It looked more personal, less seedy, made him less awkward somehow. In time, he began to like the smell of it. The soft fruitiness of strawberries and the sharp smoke of her cigarettes. One night she offered him a drag. Eyes to the ceiling, he saw the edges of her on the bed like a blurry painting.

"Come on," she said, and he could practically hear her eyes roll. "Stop being a goody."

He chuckled, accepting it. "No one ever accused me of being that."

He took a careful drag and felt the sweet nicotine poison his lungs, dragging something out of him in the process.

He wondered if that was what she tasted like.It would've continued like that, Harry thinks. Pansy never seemed to be interested in him, even though they talked more. In between sleeps, losing sleeps. Even when they'd flirt, as he supposed any normal teen would do in their places, she always had a careless drawl, very Malfoy-like. It was as if she was there and distinctly not there. Harry wished he could pretend that way, pretend he didn't think about their interactions when they both go back to normalcy. Different houses, different lives.

He wished he could pretend she wasn't absolutely pretty. Pretty like a knife, he'd think. Sharp eyes and pointed cheekbones, always looking as if she had an answer to your blundering in the back of her mind. Even her hair was pointed and precise. Pansy was sharp pretty. Warning-sign pretty. But sometimes when they woke up tangled in each other and he'd have the chance to see her face without her guard on, it looked like something else entirely.

Still pretty.

But he'd never blurt those thoughts. Not when the first thing she'd do when they caught eyes in the hallway, or between classes is get out of the scenery as fast and smooth as she could. They hadn't discussed the nature of secrecy, and to what extent, but he guessed that to her, the room pretty much vanished when they weren't there.

So it would've gone on like that… except it didn't.

It was another party. And Harry felt as if he was cut and pasted on the neon scene. From some dreary edition of the prophet. They'd won the match, Harry could still feel the fluttering of the golden bird in his palm when he closed his fist. And he kept closing his fists, kept looking at the scene as if he couldn't believe he was there. Right over his head, he knew Pansy was in their room. He imagined her in the ridiculously soft nightdress she wore. Something that melted under his palm, something that made him wonder what was beneath. Just the morning before, he woke up with her head on his chest. It took him a moment to acclimate before he realized that one of his hands was right on her breasts. He froze, his head a muddy puddle from the sleep and the soft breath on his chest and the goddamn tightness in his groin.

It was even more mortifying when she woke up, eyes glassy for only a fraction of a second before she blinked and Harry cursed all the decisions that led to this moment as she wide-eyed with surprise, stared at his -

"Wanna get out?" a familiar voice breaks his chain of thoughts. Ginny had slipped next to him.

"Where?" He smiled. Ginny was still fun to be around. They were lucky to skip the awkward ex phase and jump again to friendship. With benefits, sometimes.

"Oh wherever."

That's a fine idea. He told himself he could get out with her. Ignore the tapping of his mind that takes him to Pansy and what she might be up to. If she was still hung up on the ending of the play she was reading. Get out with Ginny and take the easier road to explain. Not think about Pansy and how her breath ghosted over his lips the last time they fell asleep on each other.

So he asked, "Where do you want to go?"

But Ginny blushed. "I mean, I think I might have a date tonight. And you looked bored and I thought maybe we -"

"Sneak out at the same time so they'd think we're together?" He shrugged, only slightly dejected. "Why not? Who's your date?"

The smile crinkling in the corner of her eyes spread to her entire face as she confided that it was, as a matter of fact, Blaise Zabini.

If there was any restraint in him to not knock on Pansy's door, it evaporated with this new information. The worlds are colliding anyway, then. He let Ginny sneak out before he got up to the corridor, so familiar by that time. He could hear her walking in there, a huff, something fell again, and fully expecting the offer to blow up in his face, he knocked on her door.

An excruciating passage of time before she opens it. With - Harry felt entirely taken aback at the discovery - a smile. Smile on her face was always a sight to watch. Pansy believed in sniggering, sneering, and on rare moments when she agreed with you, she smirked.

But a smile . Oh well, it's something you have to tease out, like one of those muggle casino slots, three numbers in a row and jackpot. You have to try again and again to get the numbers right. They'd had conversations lasting for an hour before she offered a genuine smile.

The smile lit up her eyes in unexpected warmth. It almost made him calmer. She stared at him, as if settling him in her view, before telling him that she hadn't expected him.

He did.

He leaned against the doorframe for leverage, head lowered so he'd have a better look at her face. The surprised smile was gone, but it's aftereffect was another nail in his coffin.

"Isn't that your celebratory party going downstairs?"

It was.

"And you're here."

He sighed. "The thing is, Pansy, I am lonely. I… am so fucking lonely that it's embarrassing."

"And pathetic." She nodded in mock solemnity. "Really pathetic to have all that and still be - you know, lonely."

He reached out his hand to push the lock of hair out of her face. She rolled her eyes.

"And since you're lonely as well… I had a thought."

He leaned in, half expecting her to turn away, back down, some sort of rejection. But all she did was stare right at him. So there it goes, he leaned in, pushed his hand further in her hair and kissed her. He felt her take a sharp breath, felt her pull him even closer until he was already half inside the room. The room where time stopped. He was right. She did taste like the cigarettes, and even better was the soft sound in the back of her throat, even better than the growing storm in his chest.

When he pulled back, the suggestive smirk had made its appearance for the first time that night. But certainly not the last.

"That is hardly an original thought, Potter."

He chuckled. The hair in his palm felt just like the snitch he had caught hours ago.

"So what do you say?"

"What about your girlfriend?"

He shrugged. "It's cool. Ginny's enjoying a date as well. What do you say?"

She rolled her eyes. He could already see the rest of the night playing a very satisfying scene as she hooked her fingers into the collar of his shirt and pulled him all the way into the room.